Day Poems

No Past

/ Arambler / 2 Comments

“One must be receptive, receptive to the image at the moment it appears.”
—Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

In moments like these
I do what I do
best—steal.

I see your collage
of sea glass clad the curve
of a clam shell

and raise you a cloth bag
laden with leaves, light
fixtures, planks from bleachers, a pale

pink mannequin
arm, the final words
he whispered before

he left the café at dusk. I see straight

through our trial
to time to be served.

Popo is short
for poor poet
as much as it is
for the police.

Yearbook: A Found Poem

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“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best

between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her

even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick

in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg

drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long

for the artless construction
of your face.

This Is My Apology to the World

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Force of habit that I keep talking
to him even if he has not responded

in more than a quarter century. Dead
for nearly a decade. Sorry

for this latest obsession
and the way I write around it

in circles, never piercing
the heart so I can move on.

This isn’t an amends. I see no curve

in the road, no opportunity to make a U-turn. No desire. No plea

for forgiveness. A status update—
nothing more.

Is There Internet Where You Are?

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Yes, I do this thing to live
life twice.
To get a second chance
to say
the right thing, glance
at you
from the right angle,
take charge
when you hesitate,
lean back
in silence when it’s your turn.

I’ll learn to accept all these
little deaths
when you show me how in the next
revision.

What Flavor Preoccupation

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Always a bit of gravel
or tar stuck to the bottom
of my shoe. Seldom
anyone watching
when I knock it off.

Haven’t studied a piece
of sculpture in over a month.
Longer for a painting
on a wall or dance performance
on some specific site.

I’m using
pretzel formation
to collect images
to keep from losing
my mind—you are gone.

How long do I wallow
in your death?
It was so long ago,
your kisses tasted
like smoke, not mine.

Not Necrophilia

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No more the Police’s “Don’t Stand
So Close to Me.” This AA Bondy song, “Mercy
Wheel,” will be our new
our song. Your obituary

says to donate to the American
Heart Association in lieu of flowers—but
you loved them.
Is it because you died

of a broken heart?
Is the reference to the American
Lung Association because the loss
left you unable to breathe?

Past lovers are just that—
in the past. To make love

in a Victorian novel does not require
removing clothes. Consummation
and closure are two different things
you forgot to explain—and now you’re gone.

The Face I Can’t Erase

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I’ve wanted to take back
so much more than

the night.
Not in the mood

for making up
prayers. Mnemonic

games go only so far. Silent
letters tickle ankles,

stretch walks beyond midnight
mile markers. This is personal—

trombones kill
the recitation calm.

Odonata

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Take another day, flip
through pages desperately
seeking a poetic

heliport to land on—damselfly
become aware of what’s precious
turf the way no insect

could. Become the contradiction
you’ve dreamed of
embodying all your life. Chuckle

over the claw
foot tub in the middle
of a bedroom in a rundown apartment

in the middle

of last night’s dream. Just that—the criticism
was a mirage. Plans
to plant a garden inside the porcelain

basin no longer necessary. Nothing’s
real anymore, so do it today—do it now.