found Bob Marcacci

I was really excited today after reading a poem from Bob Marcacci's series Alphabliss or Non-Nursery Rhymes to find http://www.logolalia.com/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz/archives/cat_alphabliss_or_nonnursery_rhymes_by_bob_marcacci.html
that I can actually read the series online. Though the glare of the computer sometimes makes my eyes water (especially when I wear my glasses), just by reading the poems for the letters R and S, I am intrigued enough to go through all 26.

first two poems for class

my erasure poem. took two pages from Paradise Lost and erased words to create this. emulation after reading Radi Os by Ronald Johnson.

this was a free poem for class



Insert limb here

I followed the finger tips
of genetic calloused uvula’s
penny hammered exoskeletons
who’s face has been licked in
to the only lampshade
by clairvoyant filaments

she is


eyelashes askew, a manhandled mantle carrying gelatin postcards of yesterday’s face

her clavicle tastes of recess
and milkweed
Or of christmas
the cumin in the molar cavity

but dave or donny or M
of my aunt’s hand is on
the small of my back
which is lost (reward is offered)

My back is broad.
brought.
And carries the indigenous children

Until the Dresden cells march
To the enlarged optic
And I curl into empty milk
men.

wish list for no particular reason

item 1

someone to make me or provide me with a bird cage to make one of these lamps

item 2

these flock pillowcases from anthropologie

item 3

this doodle sketch tapestry from urban outfitters for my bed

completion

i just made the final change on my first two assignments for the advanced poetry writing class. Adam read them both, helped edit one, and wholeheartedly approved the other one which really made me excited about turning it in.

i will post both of them on here tomorrow after I turn them in class.

finishing Radi Os by Ronald Johnson. between reading that and Hush Sessions by Kristi Maxwell, i am on a poetry high and the nice thing is there is no coming down or end in sight thanks to the variety of poetry books i will be reading for this class.

in session

had my first advanced poetry writing class today. am really excited/nervous/shakey about it. i can't wait to start writing more again, and hopefully produce some decent stuff. I hope to post it on here as I go along as well.

Riley

My dog, Riley, is sick. I am a wreck over it. His energy has dropped significantly and it makes me horribly upset. My family believes he is probably on his last leg because he is 13. I am not ready for that.

I am keeping busy, even if from the outside I seem to be doing nothing. Today I let it slip. Today I fell victim to idleness and now can't crawl out of the tears washing me into the floor. I am weary of the word lonely and the taste it leaves on my tongue. I just want to find the someone who is supposed to be found or just find a way out. I am tired.

the constant brain ache makes it near to impossible to think, let alone write. I keep praying for a good night's sleep and it keeps evading me. The nerves have set in about the approaching homecoming. I cannot wait to see my family, but my jaw locks when I think about everything else. Why I am returning to a city that I am no longer invested in, that I no longer care for, and that no longer cares if I am there?


I stand at your funeral
though you are fading
in a pub three blocks away
the hairs I found on my pillow
and the letter i wrote for you
lay in the hole at my feet
i pray of you to stop
your following me
I can't stand the haunt
and when the worms
eat at my fingertips
maybe then I will
remember the movements

we sat on the plastic bench and miniature yous crawl from my eyelash follicles. they sketch your favorite Picasso on my exposed back. but because your ear is in your pocket, you forget the chalk applause. eleven blue recycled years and you curtain me with your arms and whisper to the trees let's call it a life.

kiss me one more time
lie about the storm
the winds rips the skin
as your fingers stroke my hair
you push me into the eye
and i am swallowed up
the hurt crawls around my ankles
biting teeth bone
i laugh and salt chokes
my voice creaks like the stairs
to your lashes

my eyes cry tiny winged rubber bands
breaking against ice walls
i lift my arms
and the trees twist from between my ribs
the owls whisper 'yesterday's street'
and i slide inside your mouth
and sketch on enamel

lost thoughts of dinner

when i awoke your dust outline
had faded to a pale chartreuse
i slithered down the bed post
carrying your conscience
in my cleavage
your mouth falls open
jaw tweaked to the left
leaking out verses
and sonnets and tomorrows
i lick each word
tasting like black coffee
and dry southwestern air
you drag your mandible
into the loom
weaving the hair you
cut from head
into the oriental rug
of promised pasts
my scalp bleeds into
your pant leg
like a long-faced rose
but when the stitches
are cut from the eyelids
the table of cold skinned fins
and the tiniest dress
are in the mirror
facing today

when i was luna

i am the moon
and you didn't mind the craters
you and buffalo women
used cowboy skills
to wrap the rope
round my waist
you would let me pull you
i would lead you
through the tall grasses
and funeral processions
past outstretched children
and broken feathered concrete
you thought things
and felt more
but then you remembered
i was the moon
going dark
and you couldn't stand
the acid reflux
that came with the dark side
and the drugs didn't help
so you let go of the twine
and i am lost in the sky
like the poodle shaped balloon
that the clown made brown
and no one likes brown

and my shadow
was just her size
she slide right into
the silhouette
and so will the next one
but none of their boots
will call your name
on hardwood
like mine

my eyes cry truth
in all lowercase
i catch the t's in a jar
and drop in a light match
they glow
and melt
and roll
like lightening bugs
drowning
in mercury

you read my body like a map
finding the quickest route
to Albuquerque
coconut cookies taste
like your mouth
dripping with blood
my teeth leave tattoos
on your lips
peel the aluminum
from under the dermal
he put it there
for radio signals
he wanted to hear
the opera but he
can't speak italian
but you are gone
and the zipper
won't lock me
in your bag
because your eyes
stuck to the ceiling
blink
disapprovingly

chasing your tread marks

you chase the rooster in circles. clutching tail feathers and coughing out meal worms. i beg you to stop. 'the fire is too tight' i tell you because you told fire he could hold me. my mouth hangs crooked as you chirp at me with squared fingers. i can't make my lips upturn. my jaw is loose at the seams and now the screwdriver is stuck behind my wisdom teeth. when i bite down there is a clicking in my right ear. you used to find it endearing, but now you just want me fixed. the sex has become photographs with coffee stains that you tuck under my books to be forgotten. i never wanted to be missed. i only asked to sleep on your breastbone and to ride in cars and sing together. but the windows wont move and you left me in the garage.

i open my mouth and lift my tongue to hide you inside. you will have to sit to the left of the banjo and my dad's sweater, they were there first. i promise not to cough too hard so not to muss up your pompadour. i ask A to hold the hot sauce. i know how it makes you sneeze. in the mornings i will let you sit against my incisors to watch traffic against the breakfast colored sun. everyone will tell me i need to come to terms, i can't hide you forever, a mouth is not a suitable place to keep you; but their panda faces will blur into the glass of warm milk i drink before i hand you the night quilt. please don't try to crawl out through the gap in my teeth. i would miss that full mouth feeling.

I answered the yellow phone because it was calling out tomorrow. The static sounded like a song about trees that I sang at 5th grade graduation. So T and I decided to go for a picnic. I opened the basket and found a handful of my hair and three slices of pound cake. T smiles to show the tiny shrimp that sleeps in his cheeks and cleans his molars. The orange one is named Raul, but never call him it to his face. The yellow phone used to be black before I discovered T's plan to leave. T loves pound cake. And the color yellow.

the begging is ugly
and you can't stand the look
of ice cream for breakfast
but when sleep is under
light dusted blinds
no one makes you eggs.

and no one will take
you west to build
bungalows of bone
and forgotten teeth
where sand blows
over the welcome mat
and the sun dies
behind stones named
after watermelon

and no one will open
your throat too wide
to teach you to scream
to let out all of the ugly
creatures that are digging
burrows into your throat
like hairless badgers
and mohawked mud-puppies

and no one will read
or reread words
written by your cigarette
stained hands of old
and used up
dried and withered
but full of juice
it is worth the squeeze

and no one will watch
to see you spit out
a rhombus or isosceles
when it is that night
that you've shoved a match
in your ear and can't stop
creating and mating
licking his wounds yellow
until bye bye bird eyes
like my swallowed raven
dead behind bars
irreplaceable

because no one will catch
3 singing lovebirds
from the christmas eye spy
to place in the aorta
because the pumping
is irrelevant to you now
and mostly because you
is me

and i cannot write letters
with no surname
expecting them to be recieved

and i cannot bruise kneecaps
by atoning for hours
on interstates

and i cannot take the drive
for future years
down yellow dotted black
because there is now room
next to the bronze tea kettle
to keep me warm
but the burner is not my home
i cannot simmer alone

and though i cannot,
i would make speech bubbles
filled with tiny dreams
and force them in ears
lifting the gray matter
like a helium garden
until the parade is escaped
and you and me and i and
his and hers and she and
him and us and we and them
are having tea under sheets
with four legs like tentacles
crawling and entangled to two hips

but you won't ask
and are already gone
my feet are chained
to this circumstance
and i cannot reach
the revolving door
that you are now erasing

only leaving a mail box
and a small library
with a collection of fines
and my shattered fingernails