erik-ervin - Hello Poetry

I heard birds chirping this morning. I wondered if birds conduct sonnets to other birds in their little bird languages. Maybe there is a bird tongue considered "French" of bird tongues. All romance and delight and cheese and devoid of home. They speak soft when chirping of flights South and loud of thawing North. Are they dissatisfied? Does flight seem like walking? On the bus I hear chatter. The workday not over. Wake up get back to work. If you pause remember you are a failure. If you invest, call it working. Unless it is French, do not pronounce anything that is not English correctly. Condemn those who make mistakes at what you do not know how to do. Say it is easy. Say you could do it better. Don't try. Fly South for the winter. Eat cheese by the fire. Pay a thousand dollars to hunt pheasants in an enclosure. Give your son a hundred dollars. Tell him to take her "somewhere nice." Kick him out when he takes him "somewhere nice." Watch people swoon at your feet; hate you; want to be you. Hate people who want nothing you offer to give them. Act as if the offer is a debt. Give gifts and ask for a return on your investment. Are your hands soft? Are your wings weak? Is there anything else you need

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Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 7:23 PM UTC

French Bird Cheese

I heard birds chirping this morning. I wondered if birds conduct sonnets to other birds in their little bird languages. Maybe there is a bird tongue considered "French" of bird tongues. All romance and delight and cheese and devoid of home. They speak soft when chirping of flights South and loud of thawing North. Are they dissatisfied? Does flight seem like walking? On the bus I hear chatter. The workday not over. Wake up get back to work. If you pause remember you are a failure. If you invest, call it working. Unless it is French, do not pronounce anything that is not English correctly. Condemn those who make mistakes at what you do not know how to do. Say it is easy. Say you could do it better. Don't try. Fly South for the winter. Eat cheese by the fire. Pay a thousand dollars to hunt pheasants in an enclosure. Give your son a hundred dollars. Tell him to take her "somewhere nice." Kick him out when he takes him "somewhere nice." Watch people swoon at your feet; hate you; want to be you. Hate people who want nothing you offer to give them. Act as if the offer is a debt. Give gifts and ask for a return on your investment. Are your hands soft? Are your wings weak? Is there anything else you need

28

There is nowhere you would rather be. You cannot sleep. Blame the coffee. Lay there. Her stomach rises and falls Close your eyes remember the waves you first learned to love how they washed up and down your four year old body. She rolls to you, murmurs something you cannot make out, you ask what was said it is the same muffled whisper touch her arm kiss her shoulder she comes closer. You recall this honest twisting of lips forgot how easily it came Close your eyes that first touch of a basketball the excitement flowing through legs dribbling your way forward Open your eyes find hers gazing upon you she awoke to snoring says she’ll be in the next room Blame the cigarettes she asks to be awoken when you do hear her in the hall in the bathroom going into the next room close your eyes

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Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 5:50 PM UTC

Untitled

There is nowhere you would rather be. You cannot sleep. Blame the coffee. Lay there. Her stomach rises and falls Close your eyes remember the waves you first learned to love how they washed up and down your four year old body. She rolls to you, murmurs something you cannot make out, you ask what was said it is the same muffled whisper touch her arm kiss her shoulder she comes closer. You recall this honest twisting of lips forgot how easily it came Close your eyes that first touch of a basketball the excitement flowing through legs dribbling your way forward Open your eyes find hers gazing upon you she awoke to snoring says she’ll be in the next room Blame the cigarettes she asks to be awoken when you do hear her in the hall in the bathroom going into the next room close your eyes

31

A dark hallway at the end a door with light underneath. Better men say Open it. Better men, better inside. Worse men say Wait, but open it. Inside find axes and crows. Everything a way to strip bare. Better men leave them in sight. Worse place them away. Morning leaves no light to claim. Sorrow comes, disappointment after a farewell of arms. Soldiers lost in a cause reach for weapons not there. They run, bare-fisted, unsure if a path of survival. They chase sorrow into night. Some come upon forest, become muffled from sight. Others reach lake, creating in its depths. Many run into prairie, where all is empty. Better men say *Run before morning. Safer to flee under dimness of stars.* Worse men say Wait until sunshine. In dawn's hands strip what remains to nothing. Worse men feel they are not worse men. Better men say I am worse man.

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Oct 26, 2012

Oct 26, 2012 at 6:47 AM UTC

A Stripping of Doors

A dark hallway at the end a door with light underneath. Better men say Open it. Better men, better inside. Worse men say Wait, but open it. Inside find axes and crows. Everything a way to strip bare. Better men leave them in sight. Worse place them away. Morning leaves no light to claim. Sorrow comes, disappointment after a farewell of arms. Soldiers lost in a cause reach for weapons not there. They run, bare-fisted, unsure if a path of survival. They chase sorrow into night. Some come upon forest, become muffled from sight. Others reach lake, creating in its depths. Many run into prairie, where all is empty. Better men say *Run before morning. Safer to flee under dimness of stars.* Worse men say Wait until sunshine. In dawn's hands strip what remains to nothing. Worse men feel they are not worse men. Better men say I am worse man.

22

For Sam Cook and Michael Lee While standing at Marshall and 140th the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights, simply asking to be looked for. When I still elementary, I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth and I'd count: one two three Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light. The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights and like the first discovery of light switches and I'm reaching out so far. Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity, of normal, of what I can always find: Mistakes and wounds and trying to hold on Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs. Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities. We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn, but we could care less about what their burning and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed, But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say: *A man can be killed and forgotten, but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world* So I think as I stand at that intersection watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster my hair is at attention and I can feel the race. For a second, everything slows down. The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it and the lightning illuminates the sky I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path and for a second, I have something. I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker the lightning fades away and the boom comes in. And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th I realize, that all I have is all I'll ever claim to know

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Oct 21, 2012

Oct 21, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC

Streetlights

For Sam Cook and Michael Lee While standing at Marshall and 140th the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights, simply asking to be looked for. When I still elementary, I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth and I'd count: one two three Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light. The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights and like the first discovery of light switches and I'm reaching out so far. Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity, of normal, of what I can always find: Mistakes and wounds and trying to hold on Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs. Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities. We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn, but we could care less about what their burning and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed, But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say: *A man can be killed and forgotten, but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world* So I think as I stand at that intersection watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster my hair is at attention and I can feel the race. For a second, everything slows down. The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it and the lightning illuminates the sky I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path and for a second, I have something. I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker the lightning fades away and the boom comes in. And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th I realize, that all I have is all I'll ever claim to know

54

Wet newspapers strewn in the yard fire burning in dry season marshmallows in dirt glistening starlight reflections in hose-water glass cut feet soil gripping hands soldiers that do not wish to be called soldiers cigarette butts in grass ash everywhere

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Oct 10, 2012

Oct 10, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC

October

Wet newspapers strewn in the yard fire burning in dry season marshmallows in dirt glistening starlight reflections in hose-water glass cut feet soil gripping hands soldiers that do not wish to be called soldiers cigarette butts in grass ash everywhere

10

Your smile says your load is large. when alone Your room feels like a crater parties feel ****** Questions regard beer **** or cigarettes No one wants to know How you are Just chug and run This is slow dance In the darkness of night I feel how your eyes wished for naught on an unknown number of stars When asked if you still believe. You say: *yes, The only way I sleep Is knowing I've asked nothing For something* In the yard I see they ask for nothing we wish for everything don't expect the granting of anything Nothing comes of it Yet, we cast wishes at the sky Not knowing where to aim I imagine this is why people pray Wishes are mobile, Portable, two quarters in my pocket My sister and I Throw them off the balcony Into the grass of campus We make it our wishing well; night sky Neither of our wishes come true It seems the wish casts back our chances In the morning I toss dozens of quarters Into the grass on my way to school Nothing will ever last as long as I keep wishing I remember how you told me *if the sun cannot make you calm when it has risen before you have maybe if you rise first You may be able to catch the dew as it collects on flowers Maybe this will let you breathe easy lighten your load keep you from wishing on Stars That owe you nothing*

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Sep 21, 2012

Sep 21, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC

Wishing on Blades of Grass

Your smile says your load is large. when alone Your room feels like a crater parties feel ****** Questions regard beer **** or cigarettes No one wants to know How you are Just chug and run This is slow dance In the darkness of night I feel how your eyes wished for naught on an unknown number of stars When asked if you still believe. You say: *yes, The only way I sleep Is knowing I've asked nothing For something* In the yard I see they ask for nothing we wish for everything don't expect the granting of anything Nothing comes of it Yet, we cast wishes at the sky Not knowing where to aim I imagine this is why people pray Wishes are mobile, Portable, two quarters in my pocket My sister and I Throw them off the balcony Into the grass of campus We make it our wishing well; night sky Neither of our wishes come true It seems the wish casts back our chances In the morning I toss dozens of quarters Into the grass on my way to school Nothing will ever last as long as I keep wishing I remember how you told me *if the sun cannot make you calm when it has risen before you have maybe if you rise first You may be able to catch the dew as it collects on flowers Maybe this will let you breathe easy lighten your load keep you from wishing on Stars That owe you nothing*

54

I don’t like how hot cold empty reminiscent final full starting this morning is too easy hard open up an old book it is never the same she- this is full and empty I cannot find the in-between just darting to and from gluttonous and starving I once found the in-between held it closer than she holds hair I straddle quest I straddle settled the only time we find the answers is when we empty bottles empty is just the other side of full we crack bottles over tombstones they shatter not full nor empty I am trying not to mourn destruction birth smiles cigarettes kisses teardrops I don’t want to capture just earn not full nor empty just be I don’t like how the last time we kissed we were not cataclysm nor inertia I am trying to get back to her without asking her to find me not knowing how full our contents might be later I know we’re empty, pretending we are sailboats filling out linens with as much misery as we can calling it moving forward in the corner of this body of water I feel the breeze run through my hair her fingers used to run through my hair When the breeze comes I tie the jib so I might reach somewhere else. When I reach somewhere else it is not different from what had been left.

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Sep 19, 2012

Sep 19, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC

The In-Between

I don’t like how hot cold empty reminiscent final full starting this morning is too easy hard open up an old book it is never the same she- this is full and empty I cannot find the in-between just darting to and from gluttonous and starving I once found the in-between held it closer than she holds hair I straddle quest I straddle settled the only time we find the answers is when we empty bottles empty is just the other side of full we crack bottles over tombstones they shatter not full nor empty I am trying not to mourn destruction birth smiles cigarettes kisses teardrops I don’t want to capture just earn not full nor empty just be I don’t like how the last time we kissed we were not cataclysm nor inertia I am trying to get back to her without asking her to find me not knowing how full our contents might be later I know we’re empty, pretending we are sailboats filling out linens with as much misery as we can calling it moving forward in the corner of this body of water I feel the breeze run through my hair her fingers used to run through my hair When the breeze comes I tie the jib so I might reach somewhere else. When I reach somewhere else it is not different from what had been left.

60

We were born screaming hounds roaring from the belly of midcontinental lakes. We would grow by learning to bury ourselves beneath the brush of Midwest forest. The leaves are more sibling than brothers. Can you hear them? They are ruffling through the darkness, They have nothing to teach you. You light a fire from the brush You hear only the death of family - Can you hear me? We never believed we could birth such darkness. In the event of calamity We will call this a forest fire/ an arson/ an accident waiting to happen - Can you hear me? I have been waiting for this to shatter for us to again fold inwards on ourselves Begging each other to find a way to stop the burning above us We will bark into the darkness towards all we had made Hoping for it to enter the fire/ to burn away/ to forgive us. We never meant to burn everything that made us. We got lost amongst the lighting of matches. We didn't think we needed to put them out, We thought we could just be With paws dug into the dirt we will seek to unmask what lit this flame if somewhere in the dark we had kept our creator around If it saw anything beneficial in our pyre Would it learn to forget us, to regret sending us roaring into the forest only seeking to consume all it had to offer. We didn't think we would do so this way With all our plunder becoming tinder around us Hoping we might make it

0

Jul 30, 2012

Jul 30, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC

Untitled

We were born screaming hounds roaring from the belly of midcontinental lakes. We would grow by learning to bury ourselves beneath the brush of Midwest forest. The leaves are more sibling than brothers. Can you hear them? They are ruffling through the darkness, They have nothing to teach you. You light a fire from the brush You hear only the death of family - Can you hear me? We never believed we could birth such darkness. In the event of calamity We will call this a forest fire/ an arson/ an accident waiting to happen - Can you hear me? I have been waiting for this to shatter for us to again fold inwards on ourselves Begging each other to find a way to stop the burning above us We will bark into the darkness towards all we had made Hoping for it to enter the fire/ to burn away/ to forgive us. We never meant to burn everything that made us. We got lost amongst the lighting of matches. We didn't think we needed to put them out, We thought we could just be With paws dug into the dirt we will seek to unmask what lit this flame if somewhere in the dark we had kept our creator around If it saw anything beneficial in our pyre Would it learn to forget us, to regret sending us roaring into the forest only seeking to consume all it had to offer. We didn't think we would do so this way With all our plunder becoming tinder around us Hoping we might make it

38

When you approached me, I was smoking a cigarette listening to Macklemore outside my favorite coffeeshop in the rainy city You said something, but I didn't hear you, so I removed my headphones as you asked "Could you help a veteran out by giving him a cigarette?" I said yes, asked you where you had fought you told me Saigon "Oh yeah? Vietnam." you looked at me dressed in a coat that was a color of blue not found in nature face of canyons and told me "We got those ******* good. We did. We got those ******* good. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." and you walked away. I was stuck in a trance of What the **** was that and yeah, we did get them but I don't know if I'd lay down Agent Orange and call it "good" Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare and try to tie it next to butterflies and welfare checks I don't know what you think is good But me? I can't find any other words for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties in a war that should never have been fought Than sad and wrong I wonder how many Vietnamese women gave birth to half American babies That they never wanted that didn't even desire to participate in the act of child making I wonder how many Loved their children anyway how many were honest with them how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue that should never exist in nature But then again neither should the bombs children are still unearthing in the North and South of Vietnam I want to know how many of their parents learned that American is another word for a ************ How many of these parents grew up telling their children never trust an American until you know where his gun is pointed because he's always got it pointing somewhere I want to know If you would understand where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city is on a map if you had never fought there Would you be on the streets of Portland alone asking a college kid who was not alive when you fought in Southeast Asia for a cigarette I wonder where are you going? How many people did you **** how many are you sorry for killing? and then I realize I really don't want to know.

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Mar 19, 2012

Mar 19, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC

To the Veteran That Needed a Cigarette and Got One

When you approached me, I was smoking a cigarette listening to Macklemore outside my favorite coffeeshop in the rainy city You said something, but I didn't hear you, so I removed my headphones as you asked "Could you help a veteran out by giving him a cigarette?" I said yes, asked you where you had fought you told me Saigon "Oh yeah? Vietnam." you looked at me dressed in a coat that was a color of blue not found in nature face of canyons and told me "We got those ******* good. We did. We got those ******* good. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." and you walked away. I was stuck in a trance of What the **** was that and yeah, we did get them but I don't know if I'd lay down Agent Orange and call it "good" Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare and try to tie it next to butterflies and welfare checks I don't know what you think is good But me? I can't find any other words for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties in a war that should never have been fought Than sad and wrong I wonder how many Vietnamese women gave birth to half American babies That they never wanted that didn't even desire to participate in the act of child making I wonder how many Loved their children anyway how many were honest with them how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue that should never exist in nature But then again neither should the bombs children are still unearthing in the North and South of Vietnam I want to know how many of their parents learned that American is another word for a ************ How many of these parents grew up telling their children never trust an American until you know where his gun is pointed because he's always got it pointing somewhere I want to know If you would understand where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city is on a map if you had never fought there Would you be on the streets of Portland alone asking a college kid who was not alive when you fought in Southeast Asia for a cigarette I wonder where are you going? How many people did you **** how many are you sorry for killing? and then I realize I really don't want to know.

83

The moments spent acting like you’re making love to a person are the most blinding of them all. Turn us into ashen cocktails of white and blue from the flames of setting stars. Those nights you become whitecaps on oceans, she is sunset orange, and only one of two wants to be there - that is why you are always churning. Each time you whisper “I love you,” before her irises set behind eyelids you will slowly realize you have been an actor and this play has not been paying you. You will one day quit pretending, let this star exhale its own mortality, begin finding the smiles you overlooked while she flared above you; When your waters calm, you may find a new star to whisper to, but this time without scripts; this time Honestly.

0

Mar 19, 2012

Mar 19, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC

A Star and an Ocean

The moments spent acting like you’re making love to a person are the most blinding of them all. Turn us into ashen cocktails of white and blue from the flames of setting stars. Those nights you become whitecaps on oceans, she is sunset orange, and only one of two wants to be there - that is why you are always churning. Each time you whisper “I love you,” before her irises set behind eyelids you will slowly realize you have been an actor and this play has not been paying you. You will one day quit pretending, let this star exhale its own mortality, begin finding the smiles you overlooked while she flared above you; When your waters calm, you may find a new star to whisper to, but this time without scripts; this time Honestly.

20