monuments
_
_
My mind clutches a phrase, rubbing it raw in its sweaty fist. I'm awake now and realize that this nugget-- "ColdMartin Locksheen"--is merely an unappetizing and useless amalgam of NPR, Pandora, and Jezebel.com.
Odd the way this mind grabs the surprise appearance of Coldplay, a.k.a. Chris Martin, on the Phoenix station on Pandora, news of tech giant Lockheed Martin's U.S. Army contract, and Charlie (son of Martin) Sheen(anigans) to produce some Palin-esque puffery.
Although this is the closest I've come to deciphering how a poem happens--starting out with a phrase that surely expands through all the hours of rote existence.
_
These dreams are like demons
Where ice breeds fibrous
Before you were born
You were an ocean.
Here, everyone is moving
Their apologies like smoke
Still under the new road
An older one flows.
_
Is to dream
of one blade of sea
on the far
side of a sandbox
Is to think skin
is no boundary
to waves
volatile as time
Is to plant
footprints and undress
prophecies too
delicate to translate
Big A: I was going to look at Haitian protest posters to design an introductory diagnostic for the postcolonial course.
Me: Ohh… (wishing I had thought of it first)
And I got my wish, because Big A seems to have some awesome pedagogical ideas--but only in *my* dreams :).
_
You help us all into the box.
It is shaped like a coffin.
We are to leave for Mars.
They say
That Earth will be uninhabitable.
We are to lie inside
this box,
that is like a coffin,
for three days.
It takes that long to get to Mars.
For five hours I try
to teach the children
to say,“uninhabitable.”
Their mouths fail to shape this noisy word.
I think about the
impossibility
of keeping
the two-year-old quiet
or still.
Three days.
I think of the improbability
of saving the child with Asthma.
I say,
I’ll stay
here on earth with our children.
Underneath sacrifice,
Artifice.
The anxious place
of silence
in my deep
and small space.
In a dream
I took
(my husband)
(to)
your apartment
looking for
proof
of
(a different) life
all the pictures
you had
were of your brother
But you’d saved
(a colony of chittering mice
for) me
_
Well, you've always been good at crushing on elderly intellectuals.
1) Drama in the morning! Nu and Max discovered some grey, eyeless, blobby newborns by the picnic table on their morning walk. We googled to ...