Old Poetry...

I typed up some handwritten poems yesterday as a way to keep busy and not let my mind sit by itself. It hasn't been doing so well on its own lately. Believe it or not, some of those poems stood up surprisingly well to aging. I only came across one or two that made me scratch my head and one that I couldn't even figure out what it was about. Cryptic, indeed.

This one was especially funny to me, because I don't recall writing it.

Poem After Too Much Wine



Set me free to be

the one who fails spectacularly

Who drinks too much

and says fuck you

or come over so I can.



Let me free to be

the one who crashes willingly,

to throw off the veneer

of perfection saddled

and be a great big mess.



To let my outside

Match my inside

Just for once.

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So, yeah...lots of fun. Anywho, I've got a lot going on today, so I don't have time to sit around on the computer. I'm at work until 6, and then I go straight to dinner with friends, and then it's straight to United Campus Ministry for the first service of the year. It will be nice seeing people I haven't seen since before Christmas. And what better way to make an impression than in bank attire? I'm going to be itching to get out of that tie...
Out

The Horror...

Here's a poem I wrote this morning. I'm not sure where it came from. Can you pick the horror (ish) movie titles out of it?

The Horror

I know what you did last summer, he'll say.
And I'll scream and run to my panic room.
It will be 28 days from hell
And he'll scream, too.
We'll stay up, like night of the living dead,
My jaws tiring from talking it out.
It will be the omen I've been looking for
With the eye that's full of twilight.
And I'll know it's the end of days.

I think there's 12 in there. I don't know why I wrote this...it's so lame.

Out

Poem About Death...

I'm sort of ready to sweep them under the rug
Followed by the Mexican Hat Dance
Or a tantrum.
Old people.
Croaking, shaking, too trusting, too paranoid.
Just so I don't have to think about it anymore.

Today I was told I was losing my job.
A dead canary in the mine.
I should be running out screaming
But all I do is sit here
Waiting for it.

I can't imagine this struggle going on
For sixty more years.
Living through decades of pain
Only to be hated by some spiky-haired kid
Who used to work at the bank.

Out

A Poem After Ironing...

I'd like to say there are no wrinkles in Heaven,
But even St. Peter can't exorcise a crease.
No, no.
The robe of an angel or saint rising from knelt prayer
Will be just as wrinkled as if they'd done it on a
New Jersey turnpike.
No; there are still wrinkles in Heaven.
It's just that there, nobody cares.

Out

Christmas Morning...

This morning I was working out and reading poetry between sets. Billy Collins. My favorite poet.

When I went to take a shower and turned on my shower radio, the Diane Rehm show was on NPR. And as luck would have it (thank you, whomever is in charge of my luck up there), she was talking about poetry. Billy Collins was on her show. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning!

Out

This Monday Morning...

This Monday morning I rise
after sleeping until nine--from nine--
fold the southwestern print blanket
brown and tan and orange and blue--
my comfort--
fold the plaid blanket
and the white sheets with their blue stripes,
stop to play the blanket game with the cat,
and fold the futon into a couch once more.
I replace the displaced bicycles
feed the cat
go through my workout
relieve myself
and all of this before dressing.
I read Billy Collins poetry in my underpants
and then
I sit to write a poem
about this Monday morning.

And Tomorrow...

Every night the same dance,
removing things from pockets--
Burt's Bees and Kleenex--
belt clinking, pants off,
setting aside the same undershirt
for tomorrow
while you put it all away in
the basket, rumpled.
Then underpants.
We meet in the hallway, honest.
And forget it all in the shower's steam
as we rinse today from our skin
in favor of sleep
And tomorrow.

-----

Out

My Favorite Wine Buddy...

Merlot, Riesling, Moscato.
In a tumbler, a wine glass--
The vessel doesn't matter
And neither does the wine,
It's the company.
Isn't that what drinking is about?
Company? Camaraderie? Connversation?
A warmth from inside,
Whether heart or drink,
That lasts past the hurt?

My favorite wine buddy,
And there are several
From which to choose,
Is my mother.

That is, until she falls asleep.

Out

I Wish...

I've been thinking about my brother a lot lately...



At least three times a day I wish I could send him a text message, a terrible song lyric by Skee-Lo or some other crappy R&B singer from the 90s...

Iraq feels further away than it ever has before.  The last time he was there, I never had a cell phone, so I couldn't just fire off a text and wait for a laugh.  I had to write letters and wait a month for a phone call. 

I wrote this poem because I was disillusioned the night before he left from his last visit:

Shooting

This horror floated ashore from the sea of memory,
a corpse that looked too familiar to ignore
too much like myself.
It was only drunk talk on a Saturday night
guys shooting pool
shooting the breeze.
(But my own brother--
builder of snowbank forts
screamer of obscenities
bestower of bruises
the same man who stood up for me--
crossed a line.
"There is nothing"
he says
"like pulling the trigger and watching the guy fall down.")
shooting my image of my only brother.
He is never coming back.
---------------

My image of him was blown.  Completely.  And yet, all I can think about is how much I'd like him to sing "I Wish."  I wish I were a little bit taller; I wish I was a baller.  I wish I had a girl who looked good I would call her.  I wish I had a rabbit in a hat and a bat....

Out

Poem for a Friend...

Domestic Dispute

I recognize this--
this willful ignorance
deaf to counsel
blind to future
dumb for lack of support.
We don't keep our disapproval secret,
instead telling you with words
with absence
that we think you are marrying the wrong man.
And you reply with that which you think is Truth:
you Love him.
We just resolve to be there when he's gone
swallowing told-you-so's
like the lies you told about bruises past.

-----

Out

Another One...

I was riding my bike up towards the apartment and I saw a girl who looked very familiar. I drew a blank. Then I wrote this poem.

Lost

That strike on the slab of memory,
four more compressions even though I know
it won't come back to me--
a breath.
Nothing.
What the hell was her name?!
------------

Out

Friday

Light drizzle, concrete sky,
And a mood to match.
Welcome to Friday.


Out

Pancakes...

I wrote this poem a few weeks ago while Robb was out buying more eggs.

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Pancakes

I broke the only egg this morning,
our pancakes seeping from cracked shell
into kitchen rug.

The night before, you'd asked me
why I don't like to cook.
I hate feeling like a failure--
especially before I even begin.

------------

Out

After...

It's really hard for me to get back in to blogging when I've had the content of my blog decided for the last three weeks. Thanks to everyone who stuck it out with me. I see most of you deserted. Or maybe you just didn't have anything to say.

Was it too much?

I've been writing poetry lately. I've also been a little depressed for no reason, but that tends to happen to me around the 20th of the month. It's my time...and yes, guys have cycles.

Uninspired, unmotivated.

Mostly unhappy with my job, honestly. I almost got fired last Saturday...stupid story that doesn't bear repeating. But I've decided just to fall in line, be a robot, and invest as little as I can into my job until I find something else. They want me to be a robot? They'll get what they want.

And after I agree with them to avoid conflict I get a fortune cookie that says, "Avoid agreeing with someone only to avoid conflict." No lie.

Even the cookie thinks I'm wrong. Fuck. My. Life.

I wrote this poem when I gave up:

Five Star Language

It hurts to change--
that fundamental switch somewhere inside,
below your heart, perhaps,
or buried in grey matter,
the giving up of a fight you vowed to win,
the letting go of clenched fists
that lead to an unfurling of petals from bulb
shoot from seed
cliche from lips...
the only way we'll ever grow.

Out

I don't know if anyone has been observant enough to notice that I've been silent on this issue for the most part, but I figured it was a good time to break the silence. I don't really talk about my dad...for personal reasons. We don't speak, he and I. I haven't actually seen him in...maybe five years...I dunno. It's been a while.

Anyway, I wrote a poem today.

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Father's Day

You always were the funniest man I knew,
hat backward
arms flapping at dinner
never afraid to tell a dirty joke
to your adoring fans:
children.

Long drives waiting for
"a flash across the sky"
Flash Gordon's ghost will never die
Your taste in music disseminated.

Last night a woman I'd just met told me
I should take my comedy
on the road.
As hard as I try
to be nothing like you
I fail.

Just like you expected me to.

Happy Father's Day.

------------------

Out

Going Out...

I feel like going out.
Like putting up my hair,
shaving,
dressing cutely,
getting into trouble.

So
I put on my sexy underwear
and stay in.

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...Out

Snippets on Tuesday...

I've been writing snippets of poetry, things that aren't quite fully realized but that need to be recorded.

Things like this:

And when she comes to it,
She'll know it's the end.
No bells; no party.
Just a quiet slipping between the sheets.

I've felt the vague urge to write poetry lately, like there is someting pushing its way up from my subconscious like a whale beneath a frozen ocean. And as far as this metaphor goes, I'm sitting on top going, "Whoa...it feels a litle rumbly..." And then not being able to express it any more creatively than that.

I think it's there. I just have to prime the pump. It's been so long.

And they're all about her. All my snippets, about some random girl (perhaps the girl in the green dress--or was it a coat--that sometimes come through my peripheral imagination?). My muse? I don't know. All I do know is that she's gotten on a bus and had all eyes on her for a second. Some, longer. And she walks.

Anywho...labor pains.

Out

Poetry...

Look at that title. I know that word turns people off. I'm sure there were people who say that on their subscriptions list and blazed right on past, glad to not get bogged down in choppy lines they think they won't understand in the end.

Well...there's something in me that is drawn to that word. I love poetry in nature and in conversation, in prose and music and fate. And illustration: A long time ago, probably at least five years, I was in Union Station under the streets of Chicago, and I spied this guy:



The first things I noticed were his glasses and the back of his neck...both kind of sexy. And then I saw he was writing. Even sexier. There was a small column of writing along the left margin of the page, and I couldn't describe how badly I wanted to see what it was. Poetry. An insight into what was going on in his mind. Words. Raw and unexplained. And I wanted them.

I still look at this photo and lament the fact that I can't recall what it was the page said--that I never will know what it looked like when it was finished.

The sexiest thing anyone ever did for me was write a poem about me. They read it to me over the phone. I can't recall what it said, but I remember the feeling. And I'll probably never see a copy of it. But that's how poetry works. It's a feeling that settles in your bones, something that stitches you into the fabric of the universe for a moment and makes your head nod in time to the pulsing of the stars. Yes.

Today, this poem was posted on this blog. It resonated with me, so I made a copy. I certainly hope you can give it a moment of your time. Nod with me.

Meditation on Ruin

by Jay Hopler

It's not the lost lover that brings us to ruin, or the barroom brawl,
or the con game gone bad, or the beating
Taken in the alleyway. But the lost car keys,
The broken shoelace,
The overcharge at the gas pump
Which we broach without comment — these are the things that
eat away at life, these constant vibrations
In the web of the unremarkable.

The death of a father — the death of the mother —
The sudden loss shocks the living flesh alive! But the broken
pair of glasses,
The tear in the trousers,
These begin an ache behind the eyes.
And it's this ache to which we will ourselves
Oblivious. We are oblivious. Then, one morning—there's a
crack in the water glass —we wake to find ourselves undone.

-----------------

It's poetry.

Out

Soap Box...

The prophets died today,
God's word forever stuck
to swollen tongues and blistered lips.

I bought a megaphone.


Out

Please, Don't Sit There...

I wrote this poem for my writer's group this week. I guess it's a reaction to the feelings I am having over some people in my life that I wish didn't mean so much to me.

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Please, Don't Sit There

I've dethroned enough people to see this coming,
This "kiss my feet" mentality.
That look you give me that says it all:
"You owe me everything."

And yet.

I've once again left that seat unguarded,
Even fluffed the cushion for you.
I'm not strong enough to oust another king.
So please, don't sit there.

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Viewtiful_Justin...Out