Day Poems

I Think / I Believe / I Am

/ Arambler / 5 Comments

I think I am touched
by patterns in the dirt.
I believe I am a dirt eater.
I am New England dirt.

I think I am touched
by the way you think.
I believe I can touch you
with the soft side
of a thought.
I am only touching
your skin in a dream
I had four years ago.

I think I am the alphabet
recited backwards
underwater. I believe
I am underwater
hoping to stop fearing my words
will rust. I am a rusted inner hull
of a houseboat tethered to a dock
in the 79th Street Boat Basin.

I believe I am a map
of New York City
drawn with lipstick.
I think I am being memorized
in my sleep. I am all the dreams
I can’t remember when I wake.

I believe I am a sad cedar
in a ghost forest waiting
for someone to make me laugh.
I think I am saltwater
that has kissed too many Midwestern rivers.
I am a freshly dug canal on an island
that turns out to be the kneecap
of a giant soaking in his tub.

I think I am still moving too fast
down a gravel road
in a speeding car. I believe I am
one little scar
beneath my left eyebrow,
another faded on my right cheek.
I am a station wagon way-back
harboring two restless spies.

I think I am a memory
of two guys named Matt mooning us
from a Rabbit as it raced down a boulevard
of beer and 20-year-old bravado.
I believe I am a rabbit
in an otter’s body.
I am really just a fish
with arms and breasts.

I think I am unlicensed.
I believe I am unlicensed.
I am unlicensed
to do anything but this.

I think I believe I am
you. We
are all
a little bit touched.

Hey Virginia

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Get this:
Chloe still likes Olivia
Chloe loves Olivia.

Chloe proposed to Olivia
right there
in the laboratory.

Chloe and Olivia
are getting married.

Everyone’s invited.
Come back, come back,
Virginia, just for this one day.

En Route

/ Arambler / 4 Comments

“Musicians and night-club proprietors lead complicated lives; it’s advisable to check in advance to confirm engagements.”
—The New Yorker

There’s a poem in there
somewhere if

I can just unbuckle
all the belts

wrapped around
our faulty limbs
and hearts. I think

of death and dying
to be born
when I read

exquisite poems. I do
die a little
when I read yours

is another way
of saying

there’s sex
going on
between those lines.

Evacuate

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Pounding on a door
down the hall
to wake up. Then yours. Gas leak.

It’s cold outside
for May. But it’s May.
Neighbors pass

the wine bottle. You accept
the young woman’s blanket
to cover your legs. All clear.

Everyone can go
back inside. Try to sleep
for three hours. Give up. Watch

a solitary figure
walk through
a skyway overhead

on the way
to the train to the plane—

Minneapolis/Saint Paul to
Hartford/Springfield.
No funerals this time.

My poem “The Take No Heroes Hotel” is part of the “Unforeseen Poetry and Art” exhibition at Gallery One TractorWorks

/ Arambler / 2 Comments

For more information, check out the A-List listing in this week’s City Pages.

Postcard UNFORESEEN V7

Postcard UNFORESEEN V7_2

A New Layer

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Discovered in Earth’s mantle. What
would it take to leave

the troposphere
for the stratosphere
for the mesosphere? All the way
to the thermosphere. What

about the pauses between? What
do I really know

about my own epidermis,
dermis, hypodermis? What
if I discovered a hidden layer

in there? Would you come
looking for me there?

March

/ Arambler / 4 Comments

Looking past the ice
on the pond, she decides
facts get in the way.
She could fast forward

to spring
with the right attitude.
She’s more afraid of prose
poetry than formal verse

or 140-character chants.
She walks the perforated

line between
with a hot beverage
in her hand and shouts:
Be refreshed.

[Untitled]

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

I wrote a song
for you
that has no title
I wrote a title
for me
that has no poem

slightly surreal

could be a park after
dark don’t go
inside the theater
has been closed
longer than the lifespan
of most dolphins

or meerkats
ever so slightly

surreal could be a weather condition
like ice
what’s the difference

between freezing
rain and hail
between a swarm

of locusts and helicopters
or bees

rising up
to get their revenge

Cones and Rods

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

How many moons—no—
how many movies—no—
how many planetariums—no—wait—
how many drinks

does it take
to adjust to the dark?
Eyes open or shut.