I am a page torn but not easily removed from the journal you didn’t keep. I’m a face in the crowd you can’t look at but recognize with your eyes closed. I’m the book you bought, thought you’d devour, never read. I’m the last word you wish to utter. I’m that regret.
Archive for February, 2010
Tiny Changes at the Last Minute
Posted: February 27, 2010 by Arambler in Night PoemsTags: accidents, graffiti, Poetry, train
Accidents no longer mistakes. Nothing about buildings or fences, not another bridge, a scrap of graffiti rides out on the 11:45 train. Her net is small, her heart large. She just wants to take a closer look then let you go.
Set Up for Reverie
Posted: February 26, 2010 by Arambler in Night PoemsTags: catatonic, day dream, full moon, Poetry, trap door
A hinge creaks, the trap door swings opens. She passes through. It’s these details. They weigh on her. She’s not catatonic—she just can’t complete her day dream. She needs to fill in all the blanks. Where? What begins in a coffee bar on Hennepin moves to a Linden Hills basement to a truck parked on [...]
Spillway
Posted: February 25, 2010 by Arambler in Afternoon PoemsTags: caterers, ice sculpture, on the rocks, smashed
Scotch on the rocks—the ice sculpture would have lived on for months up here. Someone decided it was time to get smashed under this loading dock where caterers lock down.
Into the Lens
Posted: February 24, 2010 by Arambler in Morning PoemsTags: daydream, plagiarize, Poetry, smirk
A waking smirk paints her face young. Her daydreams have become pages from old journals ripped out, restacked, sewn back together in an order she believes would have sustained such animation. Plagiarizing is alright as long as she doesn’t plagiarize herself. But it’s too much work to steal from others. That look is for no [...]
Peel Away
Posted: February 23, 2010 by Arambler in Afternoon PoemsTags: layer, plain, Poetry, skin, straightaway
She lives in a land of layers/she wants to break free from cumulative strength. Why can’t her own skin be enough? Pulling them apart, flattening them with an old press, she wants plains and straightaways to be enough poetry to land on.
Weathering Rock
Posted: February 22, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Georgia red clay, Poetry, rabbit hole, regret
To fall down the rabbit hole of regret is to roll in Georgia red clay mud without remembering it was once dirt. It will be again. To sidestep and walk quickly by is to begin to accept rain without pretending you can predict the depth of its source.
Not a Thief/A Thief
Posted: February 21, 2010 by Arambler in Afternoon PoemsTags: lyric, Poetry, repurposed, stuffed bear
A tiny stuffed brown bear in the snow in the city, she rescues it because even inanimate ones need shelter. Or, because she can’t erase the concrete image of careless disregard, active rejection. She wants to build a story from repurposed pieces of lives she’ll never know. She’s willing to make it up. She accepts [...]
Long Player
Posted: February 20, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Athens GA, LP, Murmur trestle, Poetry
Cover the Murmur railroad trestle in snow, it is still going to be there. Look up my sleeves—nothing hidden but a dusting of time on my forearm, a ring of vinyl never played around my wrist. That I like the old photographs printed and mounted over song is a symptom not the disease, and one [...]
aka (Day 2,649)
Posted: February 18, 2010 by Arambler in Day PoemsTags: caption, confident blues guitar, Poetry, subtitle
She thinks she hears a confident blues guitar play across the alley. Or, she may have just read a caption to a movie— it’s come down to subtitling her own language again.
