My thighs have turned a bloodless white. A dry heaving wind Marilyn Monroes my dress. A tiny globe exposed, I walk inside city limits—checking, checking, checking those boundaries I installed with bare feet and the promise of late July rain. A voice bellows and gusts from the bottom of my back pack. I won’t reach [...]
Archive for the ‘Overnight Poems’ Category
Vitamin E
Posted: July 27, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Poetry, solitude, Marilyn Monroe, thighs, dry heaving, city limits
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Fear Is a Four Letter Word—And So What
Posted: July 25, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Poetry, fear, scars, Nash rambler, perfection, gods
Someone drove a Nash rambler into my heart. See these burn scars. I’m knitting them into poems fast as I can. Fear is a cross-stitch I’m still learning how to work into a pattern. Perfection is for the gods.
On the Remake
Posted: July 24, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: T.S. Eliot, Robinson Jeffers, "Summer Holiday", trash chute, recycle, peaches, iron age
“Then nothing will remain of the iron age And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem Stuck in the world’s thought, splinters of glass In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain . . .” —Robinson Jeffers, from “Summer Holiday” I can find the trash chute without falling [...]
You, Conduit
Posted: July 17, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: atheist, guardian angel, human, lonely, loner, Poetry, root cellar
To pretend to be an atheist and still believe in guardian angels is this house where I live with blinds closed tight. To profess to live in solitude by choice while scars of loneliness tattoo my legs, my soul, is to give loners a bad name, is to let myself down root cellar stairs into [...]
Soft Rime
Posted: July 12, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Poetry, artificial tears, faucet, pride, filter
I resort to artificial tears when unexpected wind dries up my view. When I reach that confluence where I must drop it, so I can heal, I’ll be ready to swallow easy. My eyes will no longer resemble the backside of my tongue. The weeping didn’t last. Even briefer than the heart on heightened alert. [...]
No Ginger
Posted: July 6, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Poetry, disease, Jack Kerouac, blush, Book of Blues, Desolation Blues, motion sickness
“I stand on my head on Desolation Peak And see that the world is hanging Into an ocean of endless space.” —Jack Kerouac, from the 1st Chorus of “Desolation Blues” (Book of Blues) Prone to motion sickness, I’ve looked for adjustments. How to encounter the rolls and curves without losing myself when I have a [...]
Distance Avails Not *
Posted: July 3, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: Brooklyn Bridge, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Emily Dickinson, letter writing, Poetry, Walt Whitman
I like to correspond with the dead: Tell Emily what it’s like to be a woman alone in a room in the 21st. Ask Walt what he thinks of the Brooklyn Bridge 127 years after the fact. The fact is I can write to anyone. I could even choose to write a letter to you [...]
Tinderbox
Posted: June 30, 2010 by Arambler in Overnight PoemsTags: amphitheater, Book of Blues, guitar pick moon, Jack Kerouac, Poetry, San Francisco Blues, singe
Kerouac sees punks in his 20th chorus— all those who would fit on a page of a breast pocket notebook. Leftover ones dancing on the head of a pin, I’ll get over this disdain. I’ll listen again when amphitheaters begin to accommodate sleeping drunks. I was one when the longing for nothing I knew singed [...]
