erithvert
I am not much for talking about myself in any obvious sort of way. But I have a family, a career, I am extremely busy but despite all of those wonderful things all I ever want to do is write. I write on corners of napkins, my arms and legs, legs of tables- not really but you get my point.
“ I feel like I lost my keys,
Though I have not, of course.
The feeling is rather similar though.
I have lost my keys
And now nothing is important.
My engagement, my car
I know they are somewhere.
You look around madly,
You want to rip everything apart
But it won’t help.
Anxiety, disappointment, loss. Anger.
The keys were here but now they are not.
They are gone.
He is gone."
Clouse takes a sip of water.
"Scratch that. It is more personal than keys.
It is your childhood home; a dimming house
You are there but everyone else, your family
They are at Disney World.
At first you wonder-
Are they coming back?
But you know, yes you know
They are never coming back.
And it does not get better over time
Oh why would it?
No. No, of course not. Why would it?
If anything, you lose yourself in the game you play.
You remember, you forget-
What is worse,
The remembering or the forgetting?
I will tell you that is what wanting actually is.”
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
There is something about them
Isn’t there?
There is love and tension at the same time
Harnessed and so vulnerable,
Like wings, like music.
There are so many things
That can bury,
That can bruise you
But not them.
In fact it is like they never touch you
Even when your hands are touching them.
Something so soft it can only be held
But never hold.
But they are never really there,
Are they?
Even when you have it with you
It’s only a replica, a reincarnation
Like wings, like music.
And it too will die soon,
Cause only death can hurt it.
And then it shall be gone forever.
Except for its fragments,
That harnessed what we loved about it so much.
Those pieces live ignored,
The colored open shell-
Splatters in landfills,
No one thinks about that,
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
At the moment
when all I knew was turned
into a dragon
and I fell hopeless
in the field of thorns
I felt as if I was an Italian mother
waving goodbye to her eldest son,
or that woman who mailed letters for seventeen years
to "the boy with the leather jacket".
What could I say?
To think of all these years
leading up to a few
brief, compact moments.
To think of the moments
like small cherry blossoms
fallen into a small pool of water
left as soggy drifters
clinging to one and other.
It was an awful sadness
him leaving me-
two images floated into
my line of focus:
Rodin's statue, The Kiss;
and that amazing end of a book
when the boy
with the brown leather jacket
did show up,
with those bags filled
with the letters
and announced that he
had arrived.
I might admit
that I have dreamed of this moment,
and thought that I would
climb in my car
puff a cigarette
with red, silly lips
and drive off with my hair
flying all over the place.
But no one could see themselves clearly
turning into one of those fossil collections
balanced on strings
with the small square blocks
saying this was a dinosaur
once long ago.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
There were two doorways,
And two door frames, two doors,
Two handles, etc.
You were in one doorway,
I the other, you understand.
And we were looking at each other
Close at first but the doorways
Moved away and we were both
Transporting to different worlds,
Different journeys, traveling alone
And we did not want to be.
I went to a beach and washed up on the sand.
Still in my doorway, it was the early nineties.
People were wearing neon colors with large hair,
Laughing, still thin and pretty.
But you went to the future
And came back angry; afraid.
I tried to understand, what you saw
But you would not have it.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Is it normal
For the sky to be pale orange,
And the wind to blow
So roughly
As to shake my car?
All I knew was I was meeting my sister,
The whole day had been strange
People from my past
Were popping up like it was three years ago.
And I recall this scent
That I couldn't help but smell and smell,
Like perhaps there were flowers
In everyone's pockets.
I had been telling a story
That I never finished;
I forgot who I was talking to.
I forgot that I had gotten a traffic ticket,
And it was the day everyone was supposed
To set their clocks back.
My sister was waiting,
And it was so windy that
Everyone was swaying
Like trees,
That was when we saw each other.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Glass dishes, tinted blue,
Oh them, oh you.
Sweetly, round and small spoons,
for coffee stirring,
during my breakfast alone
in front of the television.
Clear glass mug,
half full of green tea
sits waiting, embarrassed on the table
till it turns cold,
and for what meaning
could this be for?
This desire to not do anything,
fell out of the shower
and soaked my whole body.
A day off of work
not used but spent waiting
for the day to just be over with.
Long grocery store walks
long bedroom stares,
and patrols for a single thing
needing cleaning.
this is not how I envisioned
the days of me taking care of myself.
At home, gone from home,
always in some form of
not being completely anywhere.
Sweaty glasses,
cold, half eaten dinners
stare at me in anger.
Soft towels hanging
on metal towel holders.
Alone in the bathroom
waiting to be appreciated.
I recognize with them,
rub my hand across their front.
Empty laundry basket,
Empty change jar, tip jar.
Some reason to spend all my money
on food I do not need, nor want.
Oh them, oh you, Oh me.
What have we become?
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC