Tag: poetry

We can sit and stare at each other for hoursand have nothing to say. We can walk, hand in hand, for miles,but she won't make love to me. We can tell each other of feelings of love —hers are lodged in the past;mine live in the present and the future. We can be together,and I … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “I Love my Baby, My Baby Don’t Love Me… R. Johnson”, v.2

Rain. A lamppost. White canvas shoes, damp. Genesis — a thin, useless hymn in my ears. People pass like practiced ghosts. She says she cannot love me. I fold that sentence into my palm; it is cold. The street exhales and erases itself. I learn the end too late.

Rain on the lamppost.White canvas shoes, damp. Genesis in my ear—noise that keeps me still. People pass.She says she can’t love me.Maybe.Why don’t I know?

Rain slices past the lamppost at nightand chills the toes of my white canvas shoes. Genesis moans from the earphones—an origin-song that only shows me my silence. Faces drift past—their small lamps bobbing toward nothing— She says she cannot love me.Perhaps I am already alone. Why was I never warned?

Rain runs past the lamppost at nightand lands, apologetic, on my white canvas shoes. Genesis hums in my earphones—a low machine-thrum that vibrates my skulland does nothing for my mood. People pass me by, one after another,on their busy errands to nowhere that matters. She says she still can’t love me.Maybe she’s lying.Maybe life will … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Don’t Fall in Love, v.2

I hold the chocolate-chip as if a coin from some dead altar, its crust a thin, papery epidermis scored with fossil chips. They glitter like teeth, embers trapped in crystallized sugar; beneath that shell a warm cavity yawns, brown sugar and molasses conspiring there in clandestine whisper, a soft counsel of heat. I might rend … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Cookie in the Icebox, v.3 (a.k.a. My Relationship with a Cookie, v.6)

I hold the cookie like a coin pried from a grave. Its skin is paper; chips sit like fossil teeth. They glint — dull embers in brittle sugar. Beneath: a warm hollow where molasses whispers. One bite would split it open, spill its secret. Violence buries; devouring is a small grave. I nibble instead, ceremonial, … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Cookie in the Icebox, v.2 (a.k.a. My Relationship with a Cookie, v.5)

Note: I've gone in a darker directions and found some different takes... more to follow after... I hold the chocolate-chip cookie like a coin from a grave —its crust a dry, papery skin, scored with tiny fossil chips.They glitter as if with teeth, dull embers caught in brittle sugar.Beneath that shell I imagine a warm, … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – My Relationship with a Cookie, v.4 – Retitled -> The Cookie in the Icebox

I study this chocolate-chip thing on the plate, its surface a brittle grammar with chips of gold. You can see only a few bright truths at first — crumb constellations clinging to the shell. What the inside must hold: slow heat, brown sugar hymns, a small dark architecture of salt and memory. If I tear … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – My Relationship with a Cookie, v.3