On my 31st birthday,
Tom, Marinda, and I
leave our nicknames behind
and climb on to a roof
at MIT. Look out --
there is Boston,
so close, a river's breadth
away. The night is breezy
and hazy but still
clear enough to count the stars.
Marinda points out the Big
Dipper as Tom flops down
and looks up. Feet dangling
off the roof, I talk about plans
for the summer. We are
peaceful together, sober
for now, and reflective.
Later we will sing our way
through abandoned hallways
but at this moment, all I can do
is think that this is a moment
to capture. This is a moment
to keep close to the skin.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Love Story (poem)
What she meant to say
was, "I don't love you anymore."
But what she actually said
was, "I don't want your tomato."
Such a simple shift in how
they eat a meal together
and he knows immediately
something consequential looms.
This is the way love hides
until it is found, dead and rotting,
by a jogger in the morning,
with a rotten tomato
shoved deep in its throat.
was, "I don't love you anymore."
But what she actually said
was, "I don't want your tomato."
Such a simple shift in how
they eat a meal together
and he knows immediately
something consequential looms.
This is the way love hides
until it is found, dead and rotting,
by a jogger in the morning,
with a rotten tomato
shoved deep in its throat.
Put Aside (poetry)
I’m beginning to believe
I am crazy, that I’ve gone there,
that you are actually right.
I must have done something
to provoke this side of you:
angry, violent eyes, a voice raised
in furious decibels. You are
passive, always have been.
Overeager to avoid a fight.
You are a talker, not a screamer,
a peacemaker, not an aggressor,
but I have seen you transformed
of late. Oh god. It is terrifying.
You say again and again --
you are doing, you are being, you are,
and I don’t think I am doing,
I am being, I am --
but I must be. I don’t know
what else would push you
so close to the edge
only a devil unstabled
like me would
put aside for you.
I am crazy, that I’ve gone there,
that you are actually right.
I must have done something
to provoke this side of you:
angry, violent eyes, a voice raised
in furious decibels. You are
passive, always have been.
Overeager to avoid a fight.
You are a talker, not a screamer,
a peacemaker, not an aggressor,
but I have seen you transformed
of late. Oh god. It is terrifying.
You say again and again --
you are doing, you are being, you are,
and I don’t think I am doing,
I am being, I am --
but I must be. I don’t know
what else would push you
so close to the edge
only a devil unstabled
like me would
put aside for you.
Letter to Marinda (poem)
Oh, Marinda --
There are so many things
you can learn in a letter
written with spontaneity:
Here is a story I wish to convey.
Here is the stream of side notes,
sometimes scribbled
in the margins. There are words
no one can decipher.
There are depths to the prose
no one can comprehend.
But write it out anyway
and let the pages be shared
with that intimate audience.
Blank sheets of paper, prepare
to be filled and filled
with love --
There are so many things
you can learn in a letter
written with spontaneity:
Here is a story I wish to convey.
Here is the stream of side notes,
sometimes scribbled
in the margins. There are words
no one can decipher.
There are depths to the prose
no one can comprehend.
But write it out anyway
and let the pages be shared
with that intimate audience.
Blank sheets of paper, prepare
to be filled and filled
with love --
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