dee-double-you - Hello Poetry

you dream about the one that will **** you-- an accident on I-70 with the windows down, cigarette hanging from your fingers; blown rubber on the blacktop where you danced under an eclipse and drank three olives from my lips.

0

Sep 19, 2018

Sep 19, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC

dee-double-you

mile marker

you dream about the one that will **** you-- an accident on I-70 with the windows down, cigarette hanging from your fingers; blown rubber on the blacktop where you danced under an eclipse and drank three olives from my lips.

9

I don't write as much or read as much as I did in between classes and on busses or under the bed at three a.m. with light from those glow-in-the-dark spoons out of cereal boxes. I forgot what it's like to say i love you to family and friends and they forgot, too, around the time dad stopped smoking and we lost the house to a gambling addiction -- they don't know I know. I missed the class on making decisions and holding my ground and learning to love myself in that way that the important people love me. I wasted time on drugs and empty wants, promises-- ruined parts of me I see on bookshelves and in B flats on sheet music. I sleep, I dream; I tread softly, and I steal the words better suited to someone else but I missed the class on expression, too. Students and bosses and ones I met for a moment on the street laugh and it's always at me, even when it's not; even when I hide in plain sight, shoulders hunched, head down, reciting Yeats or Siken under my breath like some mantra of people with bigger, more painful, beautiful pasts.

0

Sep 3, 2013

Sep 3, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC

dee-double-you

Perditus inter tempus

I don't write as much or read as much as I did in between classes and on busses or under the bed at three a.m. with light from those glow-in-the-dark spoons out of cereal boxes. I forgot what it's like to say i love you to family and friends and they forgot, too, around the time dad stopped smoking and we lost the house to a gambling addiction -- they don't know I know. I missed the class on making decisions and holding my ground and learning to love myself in that way that the important people love me. I wasted time on drugs and empty wants, promises-- ruined parts of me I see on bookshelves and in B flats on sheet music. I sleep, I dream; I tread softly, and I steal the words better suited to someone else but I missed the class on expression, too. Students and bosses and ones I met for a moment on the street laugh and it's always at me, even when it's not; even when I hide in plain sight, shoulders hunched, head down, reciting Yeats or Siken under my breath like some mantra of people with bigger, more painful, beautiful pasts.

41

there's some dream that sits upon you in the dark of day when the hateful snark and snap of bird song drags you through the gutter to the places you saw in the sea; when gusting floating reaping the minds of those you admire in the night but hate in the city streets; you knew them once in yourself but lost it somewhere amongst the all.

0

Apr 29, 2013

Apr 29, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC

dee-double-you

the all

there's some dream that sits upon you in the dark of day when the hateful snark and snap of bird song drags you through the gutter to the places you saw in the sea; when gusting floating reaping the minds of those you admire in the night but hate in the city streets; you knew them once in yourself but lost it somewhere amongst the all.

20

we made home-made bread yesterday, with tomatoes the size of softballs, in the kitchen where you watched the sun rise like dough; ambling along morning in the company of the past— mischief buried in our bones— while you harvested memories and string beans between rows of clover. you watched us and we watched you behind the window, behind the sink— *what kind of trouble will you, we, get into today?*

0

Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC

dee-double-you

hilda

we made home-made bread yesterday, with tomatoes the size of softballs, in the kitchen where you watched the sun rise like dough; ambling along morning in the company of the past— mischief buried in our bones— while you harvested memories and string beans between rows of clover. you watched us and we watched you behind the window, behind the sink— *what kind of trouble will you, we, get into today?*

18

they’re walking through the wall, to the parlor where it rains in mid-summer; where you never patched the holes. after the spring when you promised to rebuild the wall between the garden— posies and marigolds— and the girls’ crib. they’re somewhere between where the bed lay— sideways, where we were together, but always alone— and the bookshelf collected dust on Atlas’s shoulders. they make tracks in the ash where mom’s old cedar chest held heirlooms and your father’s armchair— rickety thing. they’re somewhere— not here— between the mailbox without a home and us without hope.

0

Jan 29, 2013

Jan 29, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC

dee-double-you

stitched the patches

they’re walking through the wall, to the parlor where it rains in mid-summer; where you never patched the holes. after the spring when you promised to rebuild the wall between the garden— posies and marigolds— and the girls’ crib. they’re somewhere between where the bed lay— sideways, where we were together, but always alone— and the bookshelf collected dust on Atlas’s shoulders. they make tracks in the ash where mom’s old cedar chest held heirlooms and your father’s armchair— rickety thing. they’re somewhere— not here— between the mailbox without a home and us without hope.

27