I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
who haven’t quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
of birds I’ve talked to all of my life, the dogs
that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
— jim harrison, i believe
DONE. JUNIOR YEAR. poems can happen more!
May 12, 2013 at 12:27am
my bibliography for this 10-page research paper is almost three full pages long. the proudest thing i’ve written all semester. not the paper, but the bibliography. of course.
the first week of may
your flowers by the door are wilting and
you’re the craziest person but he’s crazy too
i do homework backwards while
the cat stains my shirt with her fur
do we hear each other crying in the shower?
put your hands in my mouth so they’ll feel better
i can’t remember your face or your voice but i smell you
and it’s freaking me out man
so i told you what you wanted to hear
i found a bottle cap on the floor,
counter, windowsill, bookshelf, bathtub;
all the cool guys live on coffee and cigarettes
and you keep a skinny waist
so you can feel it more.
honey, money doesn’t mean saying you’re broke
then buying a mixed 6-pack at the bottle shop.
it hurts me not just because it hurts you but
it’s hard living with someone so strong
yet not strong enough to face problems without a drink.
breakups happen to everyone. it hurts me just as much as it hurts you.
all along now & i don’t know why
i flash back to symbols like in math class (we counted the m&m’s,
a strange addiction) & we’ve graduated to nothing more
than tears in our eyes, and dude
i’m crying for you but i don’t want to. no no no,
our situations are packed with us like a smell -
you wreak havok on my happies
and you melted my sunny day.
i only lost faith in poems because my sister told me i was awkard
Or because i got caught in a hot shower worrying about the amount of
time it would take to dry myself. we are very, very
young (i can only talk in full sentences) and we think
that’s how chemistry works. but yet i’m writing on behalf of matt
who means to end things with some girl named anna
(their shoes were tied too tight)
but he’s never spilt his milk before in his entire life so i did it for him;
i’m writing on behalf of my roommates and their insistinces,
the color of my happies,
our wrinkly faces in the morning;
i’m writing on behalf of the hours that run the world,
because none of them were ours after all;
i burnt the pudding and i’m sorry, either
everything’s important or nothing’s important at all
this year has already passed (the paint from your nails)
nd i still don’t have a flannel; it’s too warm now -
like the stove we made the switch and
everybody’s ready but here i am pulling taffy
On a dry morning, living in (what my roommate calls
Little Bursts of Ecstacy
(Existing’s tricky: but to live’s a gift.)
— e.e cummings. (via s-emi-colon)
April 29, 2013 at 7:50pm
poem for a best friend
i like your company and your socks,
your ukulele and your hair during that summer
when you first gave up shampoo and all
we did was play frisbee with the guys,
and i miss them but not the way i miss you.