May 3, 2009

Half

When I woke up this morning,
it was a half day. The curtains
half-drawn let half the sun
fill half my bed with light.

The half-slab of bacon I cooked
on half an iron skillet filled
half the kitchen with smoke
and half the alarm went singing.

I walked into my office carrying
only half of the papers I needed: not
forgetting some, but carefully cutting
them down into equal portions.

By the time noon rolled around,
I had finished half my work
and was looking forward to half
a sandwich I had half-hidden in my drawer.

Eating with the right side of
my mouth on the left side of
a nearby bench, I saw a
whole person walk past.

And when they smiled, it was not
the half-smile I give, but
a whole, tooth-heavy grin,

and I, half-heartedly, smiled back,
knowing that only I knew it was half.

May 2, 2009

If one day we should meet
and you should fail to recognize me,

I will break your arm,
ensuring you'll not forget again.

May 1, 2009

I awoke last night
in a brilliant peace
and walked, bare-footed,
into the hot night air.

The stars, who have
always been for the poor,
spun around my outstretched
hand, and grabbing one,
I fell to my knees.

My unopened hand, still
an arm's length above my head,
a trembling fist, opened
like hibiscus,

and for a moment, I
held both the sky and earth
at once.

April 30, 2009

You bit my lip
while kissing and
I, none the wiser,
bit back, but baby,
if I had known
you were devouring me,
I would have run.

April 29, 2009

They're building a house at the corner of Fairview and Old Jersey,
a great and terrible house that will surely swallow up the kitsch
and courage of the crumbling Historic District.

I hope that when people pass it on their way to football games
or the ghost of the MSC, they'll refuse to admire its gabled windows
and easy wrap-around porch.

I hope instead they close their eyes and remember the first professors
who lived there, in those twisting and colorless shacks, now gone.

I hope they walk past it with a certain arrogance, knowing what the builders
do not, that their home will never be at home here, that their children
will not be family, that their mobile home money can only buy a house.

April 28, 2009

While walking last night,
I found a small book of matches.

The front design was fading,
and the matches were worn.

Nonetheless, I slipped one through
the bent book hoping it would ignite.

Predictably, the match didn't light
and I continued my pilgrimage in the dark,

heavy with the thought that if I wait,
I too will be rendered useless,

A wordless book and the sulfur I still smell.

April 27, 2009

Drunk girls, I've decided
have the same appeal
as parking lot carnivals.

What, with their squeaky
merry-go-rounds and poorly
constructed Ferris wheels.

And I, having paid my
admission, assume that
the bright lights and
cotton candy are for me,

that where there is
laughter and balloon animals
there is a certain peace,

but I, like many drunk men
have never stayed long enough
to see the carnival end,
to see the carnival workers
with their long faces and leather hands,
picking up the crumbling party,
welding, screwing, gluing it together,
hoping it holds so that no one gets hurt.