I wrote the following poems during high school back when I thought Emma (see Nov. 8 and 10) was perfect, through discovering she was not, and wishing she could see me as clearly as I did her. I will post my new poems soon.
It was that red sky in the Appalachians
Burning the stretch of healthy trees—
so easily forgettable.
It was your eyes, icy pools of water—
converting to ugliness.
—my mind forgets everything beautiful.
"A Trip Back from Music"
I am a writer but you don’t read my poems
they are not close enough to your melodies
the lyrics are too lonely, naked, and dry
can’t you see how I make the words wobble
with vibrato, how I make sentences progress
like chords and how people dance under the
influence of the themes, cry with the climaxes?
You have missed the connection
out of O’Hare
but fail to see you can
still catch the Wolverine
all the way back to me
in Ann Arbor tonight
"A Trip to the Heart and We’re Both Coming Back in Coffins"
I devour you like ice cream.
I break the ice-shield around our Oldsmobile
chip at the windows, in negative degrees
no gloves, no hat, breaking plastic, big breaths,
red, raw, pry door open, out on the ice-roads,
slide towards incoming traffic, park at the store
to buy you ice cream.
I prey on you, swallow you whole, for my satisfaction,
but not my nourishment.
"When I Am Tired My Mind Works Better"
because I understand better
that I don’t understand anything at all.
Like when I stumble through endless
responsibilities that make meaning
and put to death the peace of a
There is no perfect balance of
energy or sliced up pie-chart time.
And I wonder why my girlfriend
doesn’t cry when I talk about sad things
but the girl who won’t let me touch her does.
I am talking to you.
My words splatter
cough up dark red
my throat constricts.
I breathe and say:
I had a bad day.
I was alone and selfish and
I don’t think
I’ve ever had joy in my life.
Why can’t I tell you these things,
without you thinking they have
everything to do with you?