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Lisa
18 May 2010 @ 09:14 pm
Here's the deal: You
take care of me,
I'll take care of you.
The body's a car
Whatever's-not-the-car,
that's the driver.
Or the car's an animal,
the driver a zookeeper.
The animal's a ditch,
the zookeeper a wheelbarrow.
A wheelbarrow bringing
tobacco, whiskey
& even love because,
well, just because.
 
 
Lisa
20 April 2010 @ 10:30 am
Taking Stock



I have a collection here of all the things

I’m not doing.

I wrote them out on paper,

in my shaking script and laid them at your feet.

I’m not walking out of rooms fast enough

I’m not making the right phone calls at the right time.

I’m not taking the right pills.



I’m not holding the sky up or sleeping well at night.

I’m not as far along as I should be. I’m not sure what the date is.

I’m not drinking the right wine or the right tea. I’m not choosing the right life.

I’m not keeping track of time. I’m not staying together.



The list is getting longer

Longer in fact than the days

that pass from promise to promise

like lily pads I’m leaping to and still missing.



And I’m not sure how many apologies

to hand out, folded into little origami swans,

to outstretched hands and shaking heads.



I am snipping off little tiny pieces of me,

to float down the river toward your house

but there isn’t enough left. I’ve used up all my fingertips.

And there aren’t enough poems for that matter,

or presents, or apologies to undo this feeling.

I’ve taken stock and yet again, come up lacking.



You are all just little words that slip out,

that taste iron and rusted,

the only taste left,

and I’m thinking that these days,

there isn’t a quiet pause long enough,

an island deserted enough, a night restful enough,

for me to keep getting up and doing this all over again.



So I’m going to fold up these little papers,

these lists of not doing,

and eat them one by one, till they line my throat,

till my veins are brittle and my blood is inked.

Till it’s quiet enough for me to just be still. Just this once.



Found here
 
 
Lisa
07 April 2010 @ 02:03 pm
After Years
Ted Kooser

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.
 
 
Lisa
06 April 2010 @ 03:49 pm
Things my son should know after I've died
by Brian Trimboli

I was young once. I dug holes
near a canal and almost drowned.
I filled notebooks with words
as carefully as a hunter loads his shotgun.
I had a father also, and I came second to an addiction.
I spent a summer swallowing seeds
and nothing ever grew in my stomach.
Every woman I kissed,
I kissed as if I loved her.
My left and right hands were rivals.
After I hit puberty, I was kicked out of my parents’ house
at least twice a year. No matter when you receive this
there was music playing now.
Your grandfather isn’t
my father. I chose to do something with my life
that I knew I could fail at.
I spent my whole life walking
and hid such colorful wings.
 
 
Lisa
11 February 2010 @ 12:58 pm
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
 
 
 
Lisa
04 February 2010 @ 01:03 pm
Robinson Recalls His First Year of Marriage
 
 
Current Mood: morosemorose
 
 
Lisa
21 January 2010 @ 12:27 pm
The Blue Boat
Kathleen Jamie

How late the daylight edges
toward the northern night
as though journeying
in a blue boat, gilded in mussel shell

with, slung from its mast, a lantern
like our old idea of the soul
 
 
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
Current Music: Sena Ryder--Truth
 
 
Lisa
20 January 2010 @ 01:15 pm
"If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."
— Marilyn Monroe
 
 
Current Mood: okayokay
 
 
Lisa
27 October 2009 @ 10:37 am
Generation

We know the story.

She turns
back to find her trail
devoured by birds.

The years; the
undergrowth

-Rae Armantrout
 
 
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
 
 
Lisa
06 July 2009 @ 05:04 pm


And, the talking kitten!
 
 
Current Mood: hothot