Math Class

The only clock in his house is a wristwatch, from 1954
slides glasses down to give it a look
delivers the time
with a supressed smile
and surreptitious eyes;

So now the objective and the subjective are at war:
a perpendicular path
a convergance
then a teetering on the fulcrum of nebulous truths
pried from grasping minds.

Because everyone has their secrets to keep
and everyone has their unstoppable opinions
and everyone has their dearest wishes
clutched tightly to their chests
overlapping circles shaded red, shaded blue
and me
in the section's intersection
getting a C- in geometry.

************************************************************

is this overly esoteric? i of course understand it perfectly, but the rest of you may not. also, this is from over a month ago, i just now found it and decided to post. so to all my friends, nothing is wrong; don't worry about things, tara and erin.

4:43 PM - 21 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Two love poems - don’t look at me like that, they’re both short.

had to get all the sappy stuff out...still working through my backlog (the rest is not this precious, i swear) which i am trickling out due to slackerness and a fine sense of consideration for all my beloved readers.

Fall

I have previously been unwilling to acknowledge
how all our peices touch
with perfect symmetry;

but then your lips
linger
on my fingertips,
and I tumble over this waterfall of sighs
into the deep pool below.

Love Poem

How do I write a love poem
that is not cliche
and not sappy
but still says that we are a matched set
adored by its lucky collectors

How do I write about
the way we move
together
without overused metaphor
comparing us to fingers entwining, perhaps
or maybe a hand into a glove

How do I write
what has been said uncountable times before
in a new way
denying Ecclesiastes and its solar declarations

How do I do this
besides saying
obviously
simply
I love you

10:54 PM - 26 Comments - 47 Kudos - Add Comment

2 poems from my poem backlog

My Neighborhood

Pawn shop
liquor store
pawn shop
hollow-eyed building, dark;

Passed out drunk
feet and legs in the street, sprawling
arms flung wide
crucified by
opression
depression
repression
regret

This a block from my house.

(I don't know what to call this)

Welcome to this post-modern experience:
Where children play with roadkill of unknown origin, poked with sticks;
Where we sink knives
in the back of wonder
in the name of reason
and call it progress;
And where we each have become our own nation,
floating;
Welcome to my post-modern experience.
At least we don't have AIDS
Or, at least most of us don't.  

***************************

these poems might be too heavy handed? any thoughts? i like the kinda harsh emo-ness of them, but this is not my usual thing, so i wanted opinions.

12:29 PM - 15 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

A Miracle

(a miracle is the term in the jam-band community for a free ticket, given by a stranger, into a show.)

He handed me a ticket and I handed him a kiss,
this nameless Hermes in a base-ball cap;
I performed the ancient dance of gratitude:
bouncing around,
screaming about my good-fortune;
then, plunging into the cool darkness of the lobby,
smiles on every face, hugs and this happy catechism -
You got in, sister!
Yes, I did;
offered puffs of smoke and beers
from stangers, from family;
everything a blooming lotus in the hands of gods,
even when stepping barefeet
on something hard, creates a stone bruise
to be found upon waking;
after the show,
the spilling of the congregation
deafened, pie-eyed and stumbling
into dark rivers of street and parking lot
glad, glad tidings of one thousand after-parties
gospel heard by many
but I
filled to the brim already
find my way home to a soft bed,
the last blessing of a day
that was a gift from above.

(copyright 2008 Kathryn Erlinger)

10:58 AM - 28 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

Infatuation (poetry? prose? Even I don’t know!)

Just before I plunge in
I take a deep breath,
right through my mouth.
Late-summer air;
it has that salty-organic smell of the sea
and far off, someone is smoking a cigarette;
I can smell it high and thin across the lake.
And then my head cuts through the water;
I dive deep.
 
By the time I reach the apex of my arc of descent,
that once sweet breath
has started to tingle in a slightly uncomfortable way;
and by the time I am halfway back up
it has started to burn in earnest.
A foot from the surface
that hateful gasp of air
has become a torture to go on with
and the thought of a new breath,
sweet and unbelievably distant,
is all that sustains me
so that by the time my head breaks the water,
all I can think is
now this,
this is true love.

9:36 AM - 32 Comments - 60 Kudos - Add Comment

two mean poems

i don't really feel this pissed anymore, but these poems turned out well and i want to see what you all think. at least i got this from the situation.

Biographical Sketch of a Trainwreck

Go ahead,
wrap those thousand text messages
around your eyes a little tighter
and maybe you'll stop seeing what you lack;

Go ahead,
whitewash your walls
with the labels off vodka bottles
and call it a step in the right direction;

And quite an effort it was, too;

A grainy photocopy
of a man seven inches shorter
but twice your stature;
Called "love" by dint of the holes you filled;
And like communism and certain positions in the karma sutra,
are an idea
best left on paper.

Go Team Self-Destruction!

You said
"You'll be good for me"
personality as currency
wondering about the exchange rate

You said
"I don't feel much anymore"
a lightbulb left on too long
and thus,
burned out

And me,
standing in the international "no" symbol of you've made of your eyes
chained to the rocks
waiting for Perseus

So now this has become
a headlong rush
to that mutual pre-emptive strike.
And the trading of blame can now commence.
You're not worth my tears, I say to myself.
But I've never been a good listener.

4:17 PM - 23 Comments - 42 Kudos - Add Comment

Flower Arrangement

I have labeled you in a manner
carefully crafted
to be a bullet-proof vest.
This was achieved, in part,
by the tiny bruises written on my neck
with ink from the mouth of a boy a decade younger
And by that saboteur's dress
that I always wear
when calling past lovers
(just so you know,
I made a mask of your picture
I slip it over the face of other men in the dark)

I have watched in my dreams
as your eyes have grown
both dim and bright;
then, waking,
I listen for a while
to the slow birth of birds
remembering their own existence
until I recite to my bedposts
all your charming flaws;

but
When my head has become a heavy flower;
my neck its weak stem, bowing;
I see the stupid transparency
of this exercise in futility.

6:06 PM - 33 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment

the Contrast (about the real worst poet in CT)

She has a little silver case to hold her business cards in.
and by business
I mean this thing that none of us
will every make and real money on,
and by card i refer to what,
for her,
is undoubtably crisp
and white
and expensive
and what for me is colorful
and slightly bent
and gotten for only the price of shipping on the internet.

Their one common trait,
aside form such considerations
as paper weight and standard sizing,
is a label
that declares our dedication
to this thing
that none of us
will ever make any real money on,
anyway.

(critique is always welcome. i don't care what you say, just tell me the truth. every critique i have ever gotten has helped me in some way, so please be honest!)

7:32 AM - 17 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Carnival

Damaged men,
step right this way;
through the turnstile of my smile.
Hand me your ticket,
I'll tear it in two.
We can both take half.

Please keep hands and eyes
on me for the duration of the ride;
and then,
when you're through,
you'll be off to the next attraction.

4:46 PM - 23 Comments - 39 Kudos - Add Comment

pen tip

If you were here,

we'd lay across my bed, diagonal;

I'd suck the hurt off the tips of your fingers;

but instead

I will follow a trail of imaginary kisses

(if wishes were horses, we'd have a full stable)

and look for myself

at the point of your pen.

5:55 PM - 28 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment