madelin - Hello Poetry

I shaved my head the dead protein I suffered small talk to stripe and style and now it shines just like the rest of theirs, the scalps of would-be conquistadors, made into saggy stocking caps. I tattooed my neck with a dotted line and 'cut here' in cheerful Comic Sans. They kept the bottom part. I took my extra bits and slid them across the table in case someone needed them. They slid them back-- but my left kidney won Best in Show And my right lung was an honorable mention. I sewed the ribbons to my chest.

0

Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC

wait a second I forgot something

I shaved my head the dead protein I suffered small talk to stripe and style and now it shines just like the rest of theirs, the scalps of would-be conquistadors, made into saggy stocking caps. I tattooed my neck with a dotted line and 'cut here' in cheerful Comic Sans. They kept the bottom part. I took my extra bits and slid them across the table in case someone needed them. They slid them back-- but my left kidney won Best in Show And my right lung was an honorable mention. I sewed the ribbons to my chest.

16

We sit under the raspberry tree On the deck behind coffee-purist haven. The sky is grey and the coffee is black And the raspberries bouncing off our heads Alternate between new green and blush pink. Blush like the cheeks of two people who held hands once in middle school And meet again as 'adults' with cars and college credits. The chubby boy from music class went punk in a hurry and smokes. The loudmouth girl with a bowl cut read far too many books and fidgets. Our paths diverged through no fault of our own -- Only to touch back briefly when the snow melted each year. Yet there we sit in the raspberries and in the promise of yet more rain, And fill the gaps in our lives with stories Of times between summers -- Heartbreak, hobbies, tattoos, awkward kisses -- And there's one of those too, at the end. A long-time coming, heart-stopped second between strangers and best friends.

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Jun 23, 2013

Jun 23, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC

Catching up

We sit under the raspberry tree On the deck behind coffee-purist haven. The sky is grey and the coffee is black And the raspberries bouncing off our heads Alternate between new green and blush pink. Blush like the cheeks of two people who held hands once in middle school And meet again as 'adults' with cars and college credits. The chubby boy from music class went punk in a hurry and smokes. The loudmouth girl with a bowl cut read far too many books and fidgets. Our paths diverged through no fault of our own -- Only to touch back briefly when the snow melted each year. Yet there we sit in the raspberries and in the promise of yet more rain, And fill the gaps in our lives with stories Of times between summers -- Heartbreak, hobbies, tattoos, awkward kisses -- And there's one of those too, at the end. A long-time coming, heart-stopped second between strangers and best friends.

17

The poet sits across the table in the dimness Toying with cigarettes, fingers, thoughts Of a pair of collarbones like bumps in the road, Reminders to slow down. The poet falls in love three separate times in an hour, Imagining more collarbones, eyelashes, lips That suddenly ask if he’d like to order anything, No room. No, he’s full head to heels of unspoken words. The poet sips his water and we try to make him laugh because we are teenagers in a sports bar at three in the afternoon on a Friday and we just want him to be ******* happy, God **** it to hell.

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Jun 23, 2013

Jun 23, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC

The Great Hipster Poet of the Prairie

The poet sits across the table in the dimness Toying with cigarettes, fingers, thoughts Of a pair of collarbones like bumps in the road, Reminders to slow down. The poet falls in love three separate times in an hour, Imagining more collarbones, eyelashes, lips That suddenly ask if he’d like to order anything, No room. No, he’s full head to heels of unspoken words. The poet sips his water and we try to make him laugh because we are teenagers in a sports bar at three in the afternoon on a Friday and we just want him to be ******* happy, God **** it to hell.

9

You told me you loved me yesterday but I understand if something changed. I'm wearing the perfume in the gold bottle today instead of the one in the blue and I curled my hair -- but you always liked it like that, so maybe I'm wrong -- perhaps you still love me.

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May 10, 2013

May 10, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC

Hopeful

You told me you loved me yesterday but I understand if something changed. I'm wearing the perfume in the gold bottle today instead of the one in the blue and I curled my hair -- but you always liked it like that, so maybe I'm wrong -- perhaps you still love me.

7

Maybe you work for one and he's finally retiring ten or twelve years after he should have And you give him a card with boats or mountains or geese on it, And you tell him thank you for being patient and for hiring you, And he just nods and reminds you to submit your time sheet so you get paid for the month, And you see the card propped up on his desk in his office when you leave. Maybe your older brother is one and he found a lighter in your bathroom And he tosses it onto your lap while you're reading and just stares at you, And his jaw is a little off centered because he's trying not to grind his teeth, And he says, "I don't want to see this **** again," And you know he smokes sometimes but you nod and give it back to him, hands shaking. Maybe your dad is one and it's your senior prom, And you're wearing a dress he paid for posing on the stairs so your mom can take pictures, And your sisters are talking about your hair and your flowers, And your mom says you look beautiful and looks at your dad, And he's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, And he takes his hat off and puts it back on and blinks a lot and nods, And his eyes are a little red, And so are yours.

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May 1, 2013

May 1, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC

Midwestern Men

Maybe you work for one and he's finally retiring ten or twelve years after he should have And you give him a card with boats or mountains or geese on it, And you tell him thank you for being patient and for hiring you, And he just nods and reminds you to submit your time sheet so you get paid for the month, And you see the card propped up on his desk in his office when you leave. Maybe your older brother is one and he found a lighter in your bathroom And he tosses it onto your lap while you're reading and just stares at you, And his jaw is a little off centered because he's trying not to grind his teeth, And he says, "I don't want to see this **** again," And you know he smokes sometimes but you nod and give it back to him, hands shaking. Maybe your dad is one and it's your senior prom, And you're wearing a dress he paid for posing on the stairs so your mom can take pictures, And your sisters are talking about your hair and your flowers, And your mom says you look beautiful and looks at your dad, And he's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, And he takes his hat off and puts it back on and blinks a lot and nods, And his eyes are a little red, And so are yours.

18

We are quotation marks and your arms are so warm.

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Apr 16, 2013

Apr 16, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC

Bedtime (10w)

We are quotation marks and your arms are so warm.

2

What? It's okay. Are you okay? I'm okay. Why didn't you say anything? I just wanted it to be okay. Is it? It is, now. I'm trying. I'm sorry. Me too. Can you hand me the paint can? We missed a spot.

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Apr 1, 2013

Apr 1, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC

I told my sister what happened in August

What? It's okay. Are you okay? I'm okay. Why didn't you say anything? I just wanted it to be okay. Is it? It is, now. I'm trying. I'm sorry. Me too. Can you hand me the paint can? We missed a spot.

10

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter. I'm probably not fighting it. It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade. Second, keep my death off the internet. Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions. Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long. Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot. You are not to allow this. A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving. Not permitted at the funeral: Gerber daisies poetry blue jeans any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.") Encouraged at the funeral: Hugs - everyone must hug lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?) And make sure they bury me in the blue dress. Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring, make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building, or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade, or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason. Remember me as I was.

0

Mar 28, 2013

Mar 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC

For when I get hit by a car in the Target parking lot and die

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter. I'm probably not fighting it. It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade. Second, keep my death off the internet. Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions. Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long. Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot. You are not to allow this. A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving. Not permitted at the funeral: Gerber daisies poetry blue jeans any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.") Encouraged at the funeral: Hugs - everyone must hug lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?) And make sure they bury me in the blue dress. Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring, make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building, or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade, or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason. Remember me as I was.

23

Somewhere has my name on it, maybe everywhere does. Like little strips of paper, fortunes from folded cookies. Master Plan let them go in a gust of Great Plains wind. I cannot hope to collect every single individual piece part place bit back. I cannot live unless I try.

0

Mar 27, 2013

Mar 27, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC

limitless vectors

Somewhere has my name on it, maybe everywhere does. Like little strips of paper, fortunes from folded cookies. Master Plan let them go in a gust of Great Plains wind. I cannot hope to collect every single individual piece part place bit back. I cannot live unless I try.

12

there are too many love poems. there are too many poems about how there are too many love poems, but we will continue to write them because there is nothing quite so difficult to explain without poetry. we will continue to use words like gentle forever eyes promising soft caresses aching awake holding heart soul body there are too many love poems and we will continue to write them because we have too many words to write too many love poems.

0

Mar 22, 2013

Mar 22, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC

about poems about love

there are too many love poems. there are too many poems about how there are too many love poems, but we will continue to write them because there is nothing quite so difficult to explain without poetry. we will continue to use words like gentle forever eyes promising soft caresses aching awake holding heart soul body there are too many love poems and we will continue to write them because we have too many words to write too many love poems.

17