Sep. 30th, 2008

wellownedbkup: (balletslave)
September 5, 2008


my two strong arms

it's chronic
this ache that she gets when she moves
or stands
or breathes
it's tragic that they never listened
always the same story of
too fat
lose weight
you'll live.
it's tragic cause she
used to be fun. didn't
cry all the time like there's no hope and no light.

she says she's sorry
has tears in her eyes
while she laughs at
my too-strong arms that lift
my two strong arms that carry
that shoulder her worries until
she says she's
sorry

it's chronic and it vacillates from
too much
to impossible
unbearably agonizing with every shift in a
too-narrow chair.
and she cries out until
my too-strong arms
my two strong arms are useless to her

it's tragic that she
hurts herself more when she
sits too long
doesn't call
when she thinks she's helping me by not relying on me

and my two strong arms are helpless
and my too-strong arms are useless
and it's tragic that it's chronic
that it could've been prevented
and it's pain that's never-ending
and my two strong arms are useless against it.
wellownedbkup: (genius)
9/9/08

Honesty, in Hindsight

I do not know who you are.
I have never understood the language of love.
From my window across the street, I watch her lovers come and go.
Her embarrassed teenage daughter slumps
before stealing in through bedroom windows.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.

I made you stare through the arch of a window.
Who else has that going for them?
Frosted eye shadow, bangs like birds' nests.
I had grown tired of hanging around
standing in your winter coat, but I don't know you.
You think it's a secret, but it never was.

Not enough light to read your face by.
In a quiet corner with downcast eyes.
Lucky me, I have become hardened, like a doll fashioned from scars.



each line comes from a separate poem. if you'd like to know which, there will be a primer added later on.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
9/22/08
Three Dong Opera

Cataracts of woven basket hats spill forth into the ring,
hungry for a glimpse of Saigon's Nightly Sideshow.
See the man who can play a trombone with his toes!
The bearded woman, the snake handler and the albino.

The need to attend is like a fever, a virus they can't shake,
soothed only by cheap won-ton soup in sawdust air.
They crowd the stage, curving themselves amoeba-like,
to forget their woes during Saigon’s Freak Night Fair.

These hollow men, with greedy mouths, raise up such a clamor
from splintering rows of their broom handle seats;
The callused and paper-cut hands of working men
applaud the grotesque, the acrobatic feats.

In porcelain counterpoint, the albino stops all action on the floor,
jangles coins in the kitty, and calls out a hopeful question.
But there only comes the broken shuffling of feet
to hear such an importunate monetary suggestion.


underlined words were the word bank to be used for this poem. a dong is Vietnam's currency.
wellownedbkup: (tape)
9/25/08
(Ode) Windup Doll )

9/30/08
Throwaway Ode )

for in class exercise, we brought in an object we could lend away for a weekend. into the box it went, after writing an ode about our object. so i said goodbye to my little windup Ariel and Prince dancing toy and said hello to Jake Snider's picture, from which the other ode is created.



9/29/08
Ode on the curve of his back )

for reference:
spinal dip in a sinusoidal line
latissimus dorsi meeting erector spinae

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