Yankee Pride

spending my third night sleepless in the south. i need to be up in a couple hours for work, if you can believe it, but it seems i'd rather write instead of resting. go figure.

Yankee Pride

the log cabin behind me lies in the contagious quiet
that apparently all of carolina catches in the hour
and a half before midnight on a thursday, while i sit
smoking cigarettes beneath the star-streaked southern sky,
counting the constellations the north-east keeps suppressed
with layer upon layer of cloud cover and smog. years of city life
acts like a vaccine against such sleepiness. i plan
to catch up on my unconsciousness in the car.
this morning we made a wrong turn on the way
to work, because i was tired, so we wound up
driving down the dirt roads of your past.
i think that Puddin' Swamp is an absurd name for
a place to call your home, but you reminisce fondly
about bridge-fishing, the good eating that lurks
unsuspected beneath the highway. i doubt that
i could dwell in peace for long among the chickens
and the corn. your mother makes us sleep in separate
rooms when we visit her, so you shout your affection
across the hallway, but the bed i am assigned to still reeks
strongly of your absence. i fantasize idly about holding
the 80 dollar pillow beneath the bathroom sink in mimicry
of your shower-soaked hair, though i am at a loss for how
to recreate the smell of your shampoo. the moths dance
crackling across the light fixture, daddy longlegs creep
ominously about the wooden floor; i miss brooklyn,
and burgers, and condiments i can vaguely identify,
(i am so sick of chicken sandwiches and the special sauce)
but most of all i miss the way my mattress creaks contented
and sags beneath its familiar double burden.

seasonal

this sounded great at the time and i'm gonna leave it at that =D



there is a season for everything,
specific like clementines in spring,
and oranges grow all year round, but
they aren't half as sweet, you don't
have to wait for them, spring
is the season of lovers, popping out
of the wet ground like mushrooms,
for this reason, odd numbered clusters
of fungi always make me sad, make me think
about traveling, plane tickets and bus fares, i
want to be somewhere before i figure out
how to find it, my roots were made for moving,
they wear size 11 shoes though they don't
make dress clothes that fit me,
yet

Scrambled Eggs

This piece is much less slam-esque than what I've been writing recently, possibly because I wrote it around 4 am. I didn't realize how much I missed early morning poetry. Let me know what you think.


Scrambled Eggs

i keep a bottle of st brendan's next to the bed
and take a sip before i go to sleep
crawling beneath the comforter into
the space your body has warmed for me
your skin mixes against mine until
even our toes are tangled
i am glad that i didn't get out of the car
that i ground frustration beneath my feet
rather than letting it build in my belly

you are well equipped with what
we call a woman's weapons:
tears and a tapering waistline
over soft hips and a razor wit
sharpened on sarcasm
and the saddest smile
i loathe your arsenal; i love it
laugh as you cross your swords
beneath my chin, i grin at the thought
that you would cut me, my candle
built of hot wax and a spitfire wick
you push back the night with
the dances of your tongue.

in the morning, you make scrambled
eggs, the way i taught you to
salt and pepper, onion and ham
you do not burn the bottoms,
place it on a white plate without
a garnish; it isn't necessary
i tell you, time and again-
you never listen, you are
so stubborn that my stomach
rumbles at the thought.
i do not think i could've slept
if i hadn't seen you safely home.