"thumbtacked" poems
white wisps
of bird
linger leisurely
before me,
until they're shot
by the fan
out the window.
there is no curtain rod
but a pillow case
thumbtacked
in place.
the window opens upwards,
held ajar by a jar
of dehydrated
algae.
we spin around the center
and the center spins back.
everything
revolving
round
everything.
another bird is born
and floats gingerly
around with
newborn
curiosity,
riding
the fan wind
round the world.
if an egg hatches
under a lampshade
a volcano is born.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC
Yeah, I'm fixed like a
pair of glasses haphazardly
stitched together with Scotch tape.
Fixed like a pothole
with a traffic cone placed
over-top, consistently treating the
symptoms and never treating
the cause.
And fixed like a hole
in the drywall
with a poster thumtacked
crookedly in place.
Fixed like your face
in front of a camera
and fixed like your face in
front of
me.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:55 AM UTC
It’s that my bedroom walls
Are two cupped hands, clammy
And cradling, how it feels inside
Of a sliced fish, pink sometimes
Too, like the gums lining eyes
Under a Spring sun
But they’re painted green,
The green of spotty mold florets
And planks with split ends
Shine like ironed dyed auburn hair
Molded in a cheap wax,
That never melts,
Though the desk lamp cheaply
Spotlights the thumbtacked
Rubric by the impotent light switch
And makes the doorknob warm
By association, it’s nice and still
So that I stay in here, developing
Absorbing phrases like “the
Activation of relational defenses”
Or ornamental gems from
The despondent Russian savants,
Even things that may be useless
(How to Clean Everything is turned,
binding back, bristles out, beneath
Popular Card Games, and I don’t
Own a deck of cards) that I still
Open and snack on in times
Of disorientation, and to go out
Would crumple the whole, delicate
Cocoon, the paper cloister, the
Draft that wafts around my hard and
Numb toes would escape
And I’d dry up like a defunct worm
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Oh bulletin board,
you are an ever-growing hoard
of memories no one else will remember.
Positioned so carefully in December
so the moon can illuminate you
through my sorry window in blue
on nights when I require tormenting.
You love to evoke my lamenting
about how I seemed to overlook
an important aspect that shook,
about how those on my wall
would never be able to recall
any thoughts of me at all
thumbtacked on their wall.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC