Yeah, all I can do is write. That’s all I’ve been doing lately, and thinking about things. Oh, my life, it’s so strange sometimes. You know what’s weird, and seems to happen to me a lot? People mysteriously disappear off the radar. People I genuinely want to talk to, they just… stop. I try my best, I really do! Oh, people, help me out! I need to take more photos or something. I need to intern for The Poetry Project. I went there for a reading last night. In fact, I went to two poetry readings and a poetry class yesterday, it was exhausting.
The reading the TPP was amazing. Professor North read, which was awesome. I never realized how close he actually is to all of these New York School poets… I mean, I know he is one of them, but they really are all very close! They all write poems to and about each other, it’s really remarkable. I wish I was part of a circle like that, or I hope to be someday… I need to befriend more writers. North actually introduced Danny and I to Tony Towle, and then Robert Hershon even wandered up and introduced himself! I was excited, to say the least. I mean, I really admire these people!
Anyways, here’s some poems I’ve written lately.
She doesn’t know.
I take a step off the train and the rain glazes my face. “I’ll see you over winter break, right?” says Val as she waves good-bye. walking away to work. TDBank North is where she works. It’s small, and I’m sure only my Grandparents ever go there. A white SUV rolls up, it’s my Mom. I open the door and shed my bags into the car; my shoulder throbs and I sit, sighing. My Mom’s sunglasses are too big for her face, like her eyes are too big for her face. I smile and she sees recognition; I feel amusement. “What are you wearing! You look like you walked out of a Woody Allen movie!” Thomas giggles and Kevin kicks the back of my seat. I’m wearing a red sweatshirt and my new glasses; I guess this looks shocking to her? “Thanks Mom, I’ll take that as a compliment.” I do like Woody Allen movies. Little does she know how true her statement is. (Little does she know about my life!)
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Tuesday
Fat globes of rain roll around in the air
and polish my face. I can feel them pouring
off my nose and my hair sticks clumsily to
my forehead. Wet strands around my neck; I should
have worn a scarf.
“We look like wet dogs, or worse!” I teeter
over a black puddle; Danny steps in it. “Why
did we take the long way?” He’s grinning, it
was his idea, he knows.
A cab rushes by, and there is a girl
walking beside me. The water cascades
around her.
She is dripping, we are sopping.
It’s raining.
-
Poems remember for me
Instead of keeping a diary (no one does anymore) I keep poems.
Poems in my brain begging for recognition in words, they’re
an obscure imitation of the truth, the faces, places, in words
to a certain extent. I put my brain on the page, the bare page. Bare words.
It’s just a jumble of memories to me.
-
cheers–
