Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Dickinson - I am not

The good lord did not see fit to make me a writer, but that hasn't stopped me from rambling on. There's a danger to having a blog, but at the same time- its a good way to humble yourself and not get so caught up in whatever image you're trying to project at the moment. The proof is all there- what kind of person you were, who you are and what you'll probably become. To my horror and delight, I reviewed my older entries and present the proof of what a lousy, goofball writer I was (am). Keep it humble, keep it real.

And I drove past the wetlands

all frozen over,
with waves of brown grass stretching their arms upward
as though to say,
" Try and hold me down with your cold hands
and I'll show you the true force of nature!"

In a Town Outside of Las Vegas

Stretch your arms across the dirt
and take a deep breath-
"You know what that smell is?"
Suzanne cracks a smile
and spits watermelon seeds
through her two front teeth.
"That's something we used to know"
She throws her hips to the side
and stretches her limbs
claws out
eyes closed.
Ah, regret becomes a fantasy
as she leans in close
"Don't be afraid now, honey".


She's a Confederate Mama
with a tweety bird tattoo.
She keeps her deer meat in the freezer
and she once punched a hole
right through her pawpaw's liquor cabinet.

Time's Cradle

Rhonda May sits in her sandbox
digging up objects that
should probably be forgotten.
A dead mouse, a cat turd,
a boxcar, a doll's head,
keys to a Pontiac grand am-
teal blue and dented on one side-,
a whale shaped cup, birthday candles,
ballet slippers and candy wrappers,
the alternate ending to Old Yeller,
five original poems by Jessica Clark
(destroy them! quick!)
River Phoenix's ghost,
Pride and Regret,
the road to Atlantis,
a greasy spoon
and Santa's bells.
Rhonda May contemplates her sandbox
and wonders why it isn't an ocean.

In Place of Peach Ice Cream

We walked the path that leads to the bus station
and we stopped to pick green apples off the tree.
A storm had come through the night before,
knocking blueberries out of their mother's arms
and the dust turned black beneath our feet
as we crushed them where they lay.

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