NaPoWriMo Day Whatever. I have clearly failed to make this regular.
NaPoWriMo 2015, Day 2.
All traumas rearrange themselves
into a familiar shape. Like on T.V.,
when a swarm of locusts come together
to form a giant fist, and the madman
scientist watches from his headquarters,
cackling, though you can’t help
but be amused. It seems comical,
to think all this—the dim light,
the chipped paint, the paroxysm
of bliss I summoned from your mouth
with mine—can be washed down,
like a bitter vitamin. The other term
for this is processing, or, to break down
into a form that can be easily deemed
palatable. I think that fits also. Observe
the act up close, prove to yourself
that you can stomach it. This is
what you do. This is what happens.
NaPoWriMo Day 01. Alright then.
The view from here is a strange one.
Far-off places don’t appear bigger, their images
aren’t incredible enough to be privileged
by the trick of perspective. But their colors
are brighter, almost neon. Rose-colored
lenses are what I want for these eyes,
peeled back too long on the watch
for spies and intruders, but instead,
I have you. I’m still getting the hang
of extravagant love, as if it were a dance
my body had forgotten, though I know
it should be as easy as sitting
on a swingset. The cranes
from the construction site
cast their long shadows over us,
and I know things will be fine.
Not always, but usually.
I like someone! I like someone a lot, hooray!
I don’t know where else I can say this with this much enthusiasm. Not Twitter, not TinyLetter, certainly not Facebook. But I feel so good for so many reasons. For a long time, all I wanted to do was hook up. It feels great, getting to know someone without the main motivation of getting in their pants. I wanna get to know this person, I wanna be good to them, I wanna take them to high peaks and look at either the moon or city lights. It feels good, welling up with this cliche brand of happiness. I don’t even feel the need to write a poem. I don’t feel the need to embellish this experience with writing.
Dear person I am deeply interested in, I’m probably going to write you a long letter here, on the off-chance you see it. Right now I’m not sure what passes as acceptable or weird behavior with you. But yeah. I hope you see this, and I hope, some time soon, you get around to feeling the same feeling with me as I do with you.
And I didn’t know how
it was supposed to sound
until I heard it: a muffled bang,
the sound of a firework’s explosion,
softened as it passed through
the glass of our hotel window.
I remember the sharpness of it, as stark
as the sound of a needle shimmying
into the groove of a spinning record,
making tiny bumps against the vinyl walls,
delicately settled by a hand unknowable,
or at least, unknowable to the machine,
the whole player merely a vessel of sound.
And every January 1st, without fail,
a light drizzle visits whatever city we’re in
to wash away the smoke, the ashes,
put out stubborn fires. And I’m sure
the beginning of the rain’s arrival
was supposed to sound like a slow build-up,
a small wave of white noise
surging towards clarity.
But I slept through it.