"incriments" poems
Seventy-nine days ago I walked home in early
September wearing a smell
of you.
You said once, while massaging my back,
tense and fickle, but folding
under your hands;
“We're all off *** It's a matter of increments.”
Today, moving back and forth in this building
It's rough-cut stone walls a consolation,
I think, borderline obsessively,
You don't know what to do
with a woman like me,
do you?
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:00 PM UTC
The introduction to poetry class,
English 106
at Oregon State is alright.
I might have liked
one
or two
of the things we read,
but all in all
it was just another english class
which shyed away from anything
that broke traditional form,
and only elaborated the folly of existence:
a belief that
a subjective object
could be
an objective subject.
Oh well,
it was a good way
to waste away
for four summer weeks
in hour and 50 minute
incriments
while i waited
for my life to mean something.
So i guess that
over
all
i can't complain about it
because at least the class
and i
were both worthless
and we could share that
together.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC