holly-salvatore - Hello Poetry

Aren't you a medicine man? Aren't your lungs full of blue smoke and jars of dust that your mother collected in Idaho? Are you confident in the permeability of memory? Confident in your snake oil cures? I think I know you I think I've been waiting for you patiently sipping my beer and humming "golden slippers" I think the best thing about home is that there are almost no poisonous plants here and the bees rarely sting me You sang the second verse of "Home on the Range," the verse that nobody knows And I couldn't breathe thinking about what my life would have been if it hadn't been this narrow I went ahead and bought the miracle elixir

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Dec 1, 2015

Dec 1, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC

Range

Aren't you a medicine man? Aren't your lungs full of blue smoke and jars of dust that your mother collected in Idaho? Are you confident in the permeability of memory? Confident in your snake oil cures? I think I know you I think I've been waiting for you patiently sipping my beer and humming "golden slippers" I think the best thing about home is that there are almost no poisonous plants here and the bees rarely sting me You sang the second verse of "Home on the Range," the verse that nobody knows And I couldn't breathe thinking about what my life would have been if it hadn't been this narrow I went ahead and bought the miracle elixir

12

You see sod busted up by a long, sepia-toned farmer. He is pushing a plow that belongs in a museum of the prairie. You feel as if this is happening to you. To your insides, I mean. You feel a squirming pancreas, and a dancing spleen. You feel a change coming and you are happy about feeling, about movement, agriculture. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window and realize that you have grown to be 10 feet tall. You are looking down on the corn; at eye-level with the barn. You imagine your father, the farmer, would be very proud of the tree you have become, and the windbreak you afford his fields.

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Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC

Shelterbelt

You see sod busted up by a long, sepia-toned farmer. He is pushing a plow that belongs in a museum of the prairie. You feel as if this is happening to you. To your insides, I mean. You feel a squirming pancreas, and a dancing spleen. You feel a change coming and you are happy about feeling, about movement, agriculture. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window and realize that you have grown to be 10 feet tall. You are looking down on the corn; at eye-level with the barn. You imagine your father, the farmer, would be very proud of the tree you have become, and the windbreak you afford his fields.

1

25 and broad shouldered the sun hits his eyes 23 and half naked, my chest, the top of our heads The ocean throws boats off the edge of the world the horizon stretches longways, a hammock In the water eyes open, his grin, luminescent, In the water eyes closed, the taste of salt, the quiet way the waves go on and on

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Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC

Love Poem #3

25 and broad shouldered the sun hits his eyes 23 and half naked, my chest, the top of our heads The ocean throws boats off the edge of the world the horizon stretches longways, a hammock In the water eyes open, his grin, luminescent, In the water eyes closed, the taste of salt, the quiet way the waves go on and on

13

:AQUARIUS:SEPTEMBER: Last month you saw Marilyn Monroe riding sidesaddle on a bicycle. Her cream colored skirt billowing as she passed you by. You noticed she had aged. She was gray and lined but still beautiful. Last week you saw Tupac walking to work. He clocked in a few minutes early and kept his head down. During the lunch break he talked to you about settling down and starting a family. He used the word "suburb" and you almost gagged. Yesterday you adopted a dog who had been hit by a car. You gave her a name and a yard and a bed and grain free kibble. She's fine now. She doesn't even seem to notice her stitches. She sits on the porch and barks at squirrels while you fold clean clothes. Today you realize you have learned to raise the dead. But only so they don't remember themselves. Only so they have no recollection of who they were before. Only so their lives are blank boards. You are afraid of your newfound powers, but with Mars in your house you will learn some control. "Don't bring back your mother," you repeat like a mantra. You won't feel restraint until the 21st.

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Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC

Horoscope

:AQUARIUS:SEPTEMBER: Last month you saw Marilyn Monroe riding sidesaddle on a bicycle. Her cream colored skirt billowing as she passed you by. You noticed she had aged. She was gray and lined but still beautiful. Last week you saw Tupac walking to work. He clocked in a few minutes early and kept his head down. During the lunch break he talked to you about settling down and starting a family. He used the word "suburb" and you almost gagged. Yesterday you adopted a dog who had been hit by a car. You gave her a name and a yard and a bed and grain free kibble. She's fine now. She doesn't even seem to notice her stitches. She sits on the porch and barks at squirrels while you fold clean clothes. Today you realize you have learned to raise the dead. But only so they don't remember themselves. Only so they have no recollection of who they were before. Only so their lives are blank boards. You are afraid of your newfound powers, but with Mars in your house you will learn some control. "Don't bring back your mother," you repeat like a mantra. You won't feel restraint until the 21st.

8

Relax. Breathe into it. You're a hill. You're an immovable object. You are shaking this whole world just by being in it. Breathe into it. You are going home now. Like a forest full of birds.

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Aug 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC

When You're Running Up a Mountain and You Feel Like Stopping

Relax. Breathe into it. You're a hill. You're an immovable object. You are shaking this whole world just by being in it. Breathe into it. You are going home now. Like a forest full of birds.

7

We talked about ghosts at work There are slaves in the attic Where the floorboards creak We have seen glasses and plates break, untouched, Our house was built on Southern ground in 1861 We talked about premonitions There were brothers dead in train crashes Where the steam boiled and metal buckled And sisters finding body parts in their sleep When I dream I see my mother Are you real? I ask I can't be asleep again Just more so now... She takes my hand with cold soft fingers she smells like her hand cream her eyes make little 'm' bird wing creases her face is smiling the way it always has she does not bother with mascara she sits bright and hunched in tallness Are you real? I ask I'm real. She says I wonder if tonight I'll dream of slaves The floorboards creaking Or of brothers And their hands thrown in train crashes Landing under metal somewhere In the woods nearby Of wholeness, Whatever being haunted means I am scared that nothing I do makes a difference I am scared I feel all of history pounding in my head I am happy to see her even being less real, sleeping **even if she is more so now**

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Aug 18, 2014

Aug 18, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC

Ghosts

We talked about ghosts at work There are slaves in the attic Where the floorboards creak We have seen glasses and plates break, untouched, Our house was built on Southern ground in 1861 We talked about premonitions There were brothers dead in train crashes Where the steam boiled and metal buckled And sisters finding body parts in their sleep When I dream I see my mother Are you real? I ask I can't be asleep again Just more so now... She takes my hand with cold soft fingers she smells like her hand cream her eyes make little 'm' bird wing creases her face is smiling the way it always has she does not bother with mascara she sits bright and hunched in tallness Are you real? I ask I'm real. She says I wonder if tonight I'll dream of slaves The floorboards creaking Or of brothers And their hands thrown in train crashes Landing under metal somewhere In the woods nearby Of wholeness, Whatever being haunted means I am scared that nothing I do makes a difference I am scared I feel all of history pounding in my head I am happy to see her even being less real, sleeping **even if she is more so now**

34

*On horseback, they chase you, But you are light and you are gaining distance. On horseback, they chase you, and you laugh along with the hoof beats. Your smile catches sun, and you have never been scared of bullets.* I wanted to remember your smell Even after we stopped having Anything to talk about I wanted to remember how your Skin shivered, warm and desperate Even deep into my dreams There was a day when you rode on my Handlebars and we moved like Water through canyons There was a day when we traced Each other's shadows as big as Gallows in the dust I keep having this dream of the spring of 1887: I go out to bring the cattle in, but they are all dead. Frozen to death. And floating down thawing rivers. I keep having this dream of Bolivia: we are cornered after robbing a payroll and I am glad you are not with us. The last thing I remember is your smile catching sun

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Aug 1, 2014

Aug 1, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC

Butch and Etta

*On horseback, they chase you, But you are light and you are gaining distance. On horseback, they chase you, and you laugh along with the hoof beats. Your smile catches sun, and you have never been scared of bullets.* I wanted to remember your smell Even after we stopped having Anything to talk about I wanted to remember how your Skin shivered, warm and desperate Even deep into my dreams There was a day when you rode on my Handlebars and we moved like Water through canyons There was a day when we traced Each other's shadows as big as Gallows in the dust I keep having this dream of the spring of 1887: I go out to bring the cattle in, but they are all dead. Frozen to death. And floating down thawing rivers. I keep having this dream of Bolivia: we are cornered after robbing a payroll and I am glad you are not with us. The last thing I remember is your smile catching sun

17

Oceans, mountains, stars, crickets, storms, the moon, sunburns, so you would feel my love Rocks, trees, an east wind, honey bees, skin, so you would feel my love All you have is fear, and I am sorry for you All I have are empty hands, and when I try to lay still, I find I can't stop vibrating We are what we have always been

0

Jul 31, 2014

Jul 31, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC

This is the last I will write about you

Oceans, mountains, stars, crickets, storms, the moon, sunburns, so you would feel my love Rocks, trees, an east wind, honey bees, skin, so you would feel my love All you have is fear, and I am sorry for you All I have are empty hands, and when I try to lay still, I find I can't stop vibrating We are what we have always been

11

She has the softest paws, like a leopard. Bodies of ash, bodies of carbon, bodies like hills of coal. She has the softest paws, the softest eyes. His brain full of holes and cold and gray. His brain full of holes, like the sky before rain. She has the softest eyes, like a mother. You felt dying like living, and you didn't know words for it. Felt dying like winter. She has the softest eyes, the color of my father's. Caramel. Ghosts made of strong wills. Ghosts made of leftovers. Ghosts unwilling to leave, confused without their bodies. Only collections of memories, and walking through things they shouldn't be. She has the softest eyes, even closed. She has the softest paws, running while she sleeps. Blood and rhythm. Hearts and bones. Humans are things with opaque meanings. Humans are things afraid of losing beats. She has the softest paws. For holding.

0

Jul 31, 2014

Jul 31, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC

Talking to My Dog About Death

She has the softest paws, like a leopard. Bodies of ash, bodies of carbon, bodies like hills of coal. She has the softest paws, the softest eyes. His brain full of holes and cold and gray. His brain full of holes, like the sky before rain. She has the softest eyes, like a mother. You felt dying like living, and you didn't know words for it. Felt dying like winter. She has the softest eyes, the color of my father's. Caramel. Ghosts made of strong wills. Ghosts made of leftovers. Ghosts unwilling to leave, confused without their bodies. Only collections of memories, and walking through things they shouldn't be. She has the softest eyes, even closed. She has the softest paws, running while she sleeps. Blood and rhythm. Hearts and bones. Humans are things with opaque meanings. Humans are things afraid of losing beats. She has the softest paws. For holding.

12

Let us both pretend we can tame each other. Let us both pretend we're not mountains, but people who fit quietly inside houses Let us both pretend that our water runs slow and thick like blood, instead of unchecked and tenebrous as oceans Let us both pretend we take tea like humans in the afternoons we are not deer, and we are not running, we are not hawks, and we've never felt the squirm of rodents in our claws we've never felt the lift of a sudden wind Let us both pretend we can tame each other with nothing more than our will That we're not lightning, or tall trees, or echoes in canyons older than time *We are storms and we are breaking somewhere over to the West*

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Jul 24, 2014

Jul 24, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC

Tame

Let us both pretend we can tame each other. Let us both pretend we're not mountains, but people who fit quietly inside houses Let us both pretend that our water runs slow and thick like blood, instead of unchecked and tenebrous as oceans Let us both pretend we take tea like humans in the afternoons we are not deer, and we are not running, we are not hawks, and we've never felt the squirm of rodents in our claws we've never felt the lift of a sudden wind Let us both pretend we can tame each other with nothing more than our will That we're not lightning, or tall trees, or echoes in canyons older than time *We are storms and we are breaking somewhere over to the West*

19