Poetry Scribblings

Around Christmas, my mother died. Around Christmas, I want to write a poem about how my mother died...

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 08:59:00 -0800

Around Christmas, my mother died.
Around Christmas, I want to write a poem about how my mother died around Christmas.
Around Christmas, I start to write a poem about how my mother died around Christmas.
Around Christmas, I realize I can’t write a poem about my mother dying around Christmas.
Around Christmas, I fucking hate Christmas.

Roadtrip: Moab, Utah

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 08:51:39 -0800

A dusty plot with a paint chipped picnic table:
our one-night home. Sitting on a rock,
I stab hotdogs and marshmellows for charring.
Somehow, this is roughing it.

In the fire pit, flickering red canyons
warm my hands.

None of the five hundred and twenty one photographs
seized this grand moment.

Praise for: You amuse me.

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 08:47:27 -0800

jayarrarr:

I say I’m a writer,
And this may be true —
But my words have no light,
My dear, without you.

Your love breathes verses
Whole into my soul
Sure and swift
as cold wind
in my lungs.

And I am alive.

Without you, dear,
I am, I fear —
Just another girl
with a pen,
a scrap of paper,

And an untethered dream
That threatens to blow away.

snort

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 17:44:22 -0800

*snort*

You talk a lot about self-actualization, you self-actualized boy But step out of your...

Mon, 05 Dec 2011 02:23:06 -0800

You talk a lot about self-actualization, you self-actualized boy
But step out of your self-portrait, your glow, your shadow and see

Gazing upon the focal point while I admire the frame, the edge
The canvas cramped and busting to explode in a million colors that paint and brush

Is the painting a real person or a painting of a picture of a person?

Enough of the finished product, let me see the raw and muddled idea,
muck around in them
And possibly I will let you see the emotions behind the words
before they neatly form the page

The world is wrong: to love is not to give. To love is to renounce. Renunciation is freedom.

Mon, 05 Dec 2011 00:42:08 -0800

The world is wrong: to love is not to give.
To love is to renounce. Renunciation is freedom.

E. coli topo I (the first discovery)- View on blog to see the correct formatting!

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 21:55:00 -0800

Topoisomerase, solving
that winding problem of DNA
due to the intertwined nature of its
double helical structure. Text-
books need to be more
jocular. Or perhaps melancholy.
Something so integral to life needs to
be, well, something. But something so small,
so scientific, often gets overlooked. Why
worry about the
                             building blocks of life
when we can write
                                                        about a girl crying in a corner,
marvel at a photograph of mountains
                                                           (things we could never miss).
Besides, topoisomerase
isn’t a pretty word.

I asked people to give me words to include in a poem, and I got “topoisomerase,” “melancholy,” and “jocular.” It was really difficult to do. What words should I include in my next poem?

Praise for: There are things I cannot hold

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 12:13:31 -0800

justanothermemphisgirl:

there are things
i cannot hold—

a snowflake in summer

scorpions

contrails

my breath
(when i’m running)

my ears
(when i’m crawling)

a lover’s gaze
across miles of hurt

my children’s hands
when they are old

these are things
i cannot hold

Winter Haiku

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 12:04:56 -0800

Winter in LA
is nothing. Paper snowflakes
dot concrete jungles.

Praise for:

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 11:16:16 -0800

whoartgos:

every conversation is a transaction.
our numbers have been in steady
decline. i examine her figures and
beg her to stimulate my economy.

Why do I miss something I never had? Blindlooking up to the sun, feeling warmth in darkness.

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 11:06:59 -0800

Why do I miss something
I never had? Blind
looking up to the sun, feeling warmth
in darkness.

I wish you were closer than a finger on a map. Once again, the oil and water have split; is it time...

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 02:01:42 -0800

I wish you were closer than a finger on a map. Once again,
the oil and water have split; is it time to stop shaking?
You have eaten the apple down to its core—but (and
there’s always a but) I have saved the seeds. How we fall
in love, a rope to catch us.

To be with you I have to swallow myself Bones caving in, a cloud of dust settling on top of rubble....

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 02:01:07 -0800

To be with you
I have to swallow myself
Bones caving in, a cloud of dust
settling on top of rubble.
We call it

friendship. Pick up a jagged
bone, gnaw on it for a while.

I am running out of words for you. It’s been six months since I saw you. When there’s no more life,...

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 02:00:29 -0800

I am running
out of words
for you.

It’s been six
months since
I saw you.

When there’s
no more life,
every mem-

ory is a story.
Every moment
is a poem.

One word

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 01:59:02 -0800

Here’s a game I’m trying to play. I’ll write a poem once I have enough responses. What word would you like me to use in a poem?

Goodbye

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 01:59:00 -0800

Today I watched your feet seep into cement, leaving footprints which will be there until roots crack the rock in half

or rain pools and puddles—time chipping away the evidence of your whereabouts.

The Dreaded Conjunction

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 01:31:00 -0800

There is always a but, and it’s usually lingering
right after the words I love you.

I wish you’d choose, either the words before or after—

no more dreaded conjunctions.

you're very pretty

Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:13:55 -0800

Thank you. :)

thank you for the follow :))

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 22:37:34 -0800

You’re welcome!