Category: Poetry (page 1 of 2)

The Taxidermy of Sacagawea

Some words disappear into history like the buffalo: her name for home, her name

her chatter weaving through the grasses and the hides
the way my friend screamed when i scraped my knee in her driveway

If only she’d kept a diary; not this one on display
made in her wake, nor the one made by the two men she led
she’ll remain undocumented, remains unoccupied story unknowable
only the consequences of her choices disrupt these days

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We Cannot Be Fed Lies, or Alternatively: California

The soup from the sky
filled the boats, the streets, the homes.

The people, at first, were first
to rejoice. Cracked hands flexed

bowlssoupsoupsoupsoupsoup—supping,
upping up every drop. Mouths, open in little ozones,

gulped down the soupdrops; people bought the soupdrops;
eyes ears callouses made ridges

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Stanford

I.

I was twenty years old
when I saw her dance like a flickering candle.
I was a lanky pock-marked chlorine-bleached bad haircut.
And she was a beauty,
in a sloshy sort of party way.
It wasn’t holy. She was too drunk-
I was drunk too.

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On Heaviness and Frivolity

The drink throws me
back into myself from
deep paradises, out
of temporality into knowledge
I know now what it hides—
the poisoned geographies
the promises, the dead
oh, the dead, who within
consumption take action—
I know now that I am moving ahead
but through what I couldn’t say
a length of rope, a coil of sinew
peels of grapefruit, strange Continue reading

Leaving San Luis Obispo

i wanted to hear the ragged
miyazaki engine hum
through a rusted-out windpipe,
but we drove up here in a lexus
with working windows and an intact radio.
instead, we listened

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A Ghost

the voices coming
through the floorboards
tell you there is no
underlying rationality and
you know this to be true.

you open doors and
closets to find the darkness
but whenever you do light
cannot help but flood
in.
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The Cold Cat Call of the Sugarplum Tree

hum hum chirps the spider, hum ho hee

his cold cat call to the sugarplum tree

web spinning, heart singing, eight-legged grin

hum ho hum he chides, happy as sin

 

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“dear leo abbe”

Author’s Note: At the beginning of Fall semester, I heard about this upperclassman who writes a lot of poetry. One night after reading his publication “pretty like kids” I said to myself, “You know what would be meta? Writing a poem about a poet.”

Thus, in the words of Genesis 1:7: “And it was so.”

 

leo, his name is. was. the sigil of the sahara comes

whisper-quiet through ink-grass. not a roar: this is no

battle for territory, these words he’s vomited out into

the atmosphere. at least not against the rest of us.

he’s fighting for himself, perhaps.

 

i don’t feel like acknowledging the struggle curtailed

behind carefully crafted witticisms so i stick to the surface

too afraid of running aground on the reef.

( “stay where it’s pretty or your own scars will rub loose.” )

a shitty philosophy, but at least it’s mine.

the only lion in the room is also mine – a pride in collective apathy.

leo’s words are mine as well. but he already knew that.

Keep Booze Out of Bob's

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he’s a poet, after all.

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