All Thumbs and Unopposable

Secret Names

Thu, 16 May 2013 08:42:53 -0400

I have a secret name, you know.

I know that it is a secret, because

even when I tell it to people,

they don’t believe me,

or else they laugh and say

it’s strange, and anyway,

they never use it.

It’s mine, and it echoes in my head

in someone else’s voice

(always, always in that voice,

because I clung to it,

and ran it through the ridges

of my mind, until it formed a groove,

like bony shoulders and long,

skinny arms around me.

Now I practice it every day,

for fear of letting it slip away.

It hasn’t gone yet.

It’s outlasted everything else.)

He has a secret name, too.

His is a funny thing, because

we found it after he died.

It came whispering into our minds

in poems and in pieces and

was

him.

We use it amongst ourselves.

It starts with an X, or else a Z,

and it is part of a name that he

abandoned, or else never used,

like his grandfather before him.

Lean close.

I’ll whisper it to you.

Wheeeeeeee, Oof!

Fri, 10 May 2013 13:44:50 -0400

Wheeeeeeeee, Oof!
That’s the sound I made
Tumbling down into another decade.

Wheeeeeeeee, Oof!
That’s the sound that came
From the next ones who tumbled down the same.

They landed on top of
The ones who fell before.
We landed on the lot of
Those already on the floor.

The conveyor belt rolls on
And more are falling now.
There’s no way you can hold on,
Just shout on the way down.

Wheeeeeeeee, Oof!

Balance

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 11:41:30 -0400

There is a balance to be struck,

and I am often struck by the balance:

it crashes down on my shoulders,

(wide, wide, look at the size of

her back, they said), and I am

Atlas. Stand tall, they say,

stand taller, and smile,

and the world pushes down on me.

We strike the balance,

and the balance strikes,

and we are pushed down,

down down to the ground

(stand tall, stand taller)

and the clock strikes

at the same time

and the weight of time

is heavier still than the world

that already rested

on my shoulders.

Substance

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 22:07:01 -0400

I am the wind.
I am the wind
and people walk through me.
They don’t even have
to lean forward.
(I have leaned forward
on days when I was not
the wind. Now I howl,
and I howl, and I howl,
but I keep no one awake
but myself.)
People step outside,
and I ruffle their hair,
or toy with their skirts
just for a moment.
Sometimes I blow a little dust
into their eyes.
That bothers them,
and they wipe it away,
and walk through me again.

What can I say?

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 21:32:45 -0500

Here’s a funny little poem about something that happened to me the other day:

“What the fuck!”

This would make a terrible epitaph,

I think to myself, and then

shout it again, and again.

The car honks,

insistently.

I suppose the horn is not

the most insistent thing

about it. The way that it

swerves around

pedestrians as they

scatter, the way it

speeds up as it approaches

me—still cursing, still running,

heart

throat—is far more

convincing

than the horn.

I think that I am the only one shouting,

but I’m not really listening

to anything but the sound

of my own voice, and that goddamn

honking. I reach the other side—

that’s what I was crossing to get to,

after all—and turn.

License and registration,

please (though I could only

get the former).

Women on the street staring,

pushing their carriages, more

shocked

by my language than by the car

that just made every effort

to kill me (and them, too, so

why aren’t they swearing,

for fuck’s sake?)

Man shaking his head,

only one looking me

in the eye:

“He was coming for us,

hein?” he says, and I say

“Jesus Christ Almighty,”

cultural Christian,

when my life’s not on the line.

That would make a terrible epitaph, too.

“What the fuck,” I say again,

flipping open a notebook

to get the number out of my

mind and into something

a bit more reliable.

“What the fuck.”

Crescent Moon

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:20:01 -0500

“I like your chin.”
That’s what I wanted to say to the girl on the bus.
I thought better of it, though. I thought it might not
go over as well as
“I like your earrings”
or
“I like your scarf”
or the silence we usually hope for
on the bus.
Her face was like the crescent moon,
and her chin was long and pointed
and her mouth as she got up,
two stops before mine,
was long and pointed, like her chin.
She smiled and her mouth
was like the crescent moon,
but sideways, and I liked that, too,
and I could see
warmth and life on the inside,
and I wondered what noise it would make
if she spoke.
Voice of the crescent moon.

I am thin now, too, thin like the crescent moon,
or as close as I will get (I hope).
If I arched my back and stood on my toes
and reached my arms high, high
into the night sky,
I think you would see what I mean.

Fohnkrankheit

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 11:29:26 -0500

Woosh, thump, thud said the wind.
Jesus, I said, I get the point.
The wind didn’t believe me, though,
and it screamed at me all night long.
I lay awake, and sang and rhymed
and wondered what I
had ever done to it. (The wind has
never liked me—when I lived in
the place before, it would break
my sleep with strange dreams,
on the nights when it let me sleep
at all. That place was never really home,
though bits of home were there.)
The wind is still wailing,
and I don’t know if it’s melting the snow,
like it did in the place that isn’t home,
or if here it does something else:
maybe it freezes things or brings
the rain, or maybe it does nothing
at all but break my sleep and bring
strange dreams (and yes, you were
all in them, and no you weren’t yourselves,
and I have the sense not to be annoyed
with you for things that I or the wind
made you do in my head, though I
haven’t the sense for much else)
I will put on pants and leave this room
and go for a swim and pay my rent
and pretend that the wind isn’t doing
what it always does. It whispers
and it echoes and the power of it,
or else the pressure (barometric, I’m told),
makes me feel so small.

The Flood

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 19:58:43 -0500

The flood reminds me of home:
not my home, not any home I have now,
but the one I had,
before it broke (and can’t be fixed,
and they never made a patch or a stitch
that could sew back together what
they
took
from
me.
Us. I’m being selfish.)
But that was home.
Where I started to
figure it out
really, they way most people do
so much sooner, and the way
I wouldn’t and haven’t still.
At lunch we would
run from shop to shop and laugh
and laugh and laugh, and
I
fit.
I didn’t have the sharp edges,
or the bits that warped in the heat
or cold
or whatever that was.
It burnt, anyway.
And in the Spring, the rain came down,
and the snow melted, and the streets
ran
like rivers, so fast we were
swept away, laughing all the time,
and we would run
with/through/into them, like children.
(We were)
The flood is like that,
I suppose.

Winter Chill

Wed, 23 Jan 2013 11:22:38 -0500

Feet and hands are blocks of ice,
tips turning white,
and butter, left on the counter for hours,
does not soften.
I turn up the heat and crouch next to it,
waiting for a blast of warmth.
When it comes, it is
unsatisfying.
Come and curl up next to me.
I have no warmth to share, but you
seem to have more than enough
for two.
My breath mists in the air.
Let me tuck my hands under your arms
and press my face to your chest
and lie still until I thaw.

Click.

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 18:57:46 -0500

Click. Click. Click.
No students today.
Click. Click. Click.
One hour to go.
Click. Click. Click.
Good god, will
somebody
please post
something
fascinating
on Facebook
or on Reuters
or anywhere
at all that I will
see it.
Click. Click. Click.
This cold
has rendered me
incapable of
meaningful
action.
Click. Click. Click.

The Cold

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 13:57:32 -0500

This cold is just bad enough
to keep me from being remotely
productive,
but not bad enough to keep me
comfortable, at home, in bed.
Mom. Mom.
I would like some more soup,
if it is not too much trouble,
given that you live
several
thousand
kilometres
away.

Winter Storm

Sun, 20 Jan 2013 13:13:00 -0500

I was, I must admit,
caught by surprise
this morning, when,
only moments after
the sun slipped away
behind the clouds
(or so I assume—it got
darker,
anyway, but I was
making my tea
and not
looking out the window)
but at any rate,
only moments after
that sudden darkness,
a great rattle and clang
set my fire escape
ringing and dancing.
At first, I thought that
my upstairs neighbours
had
dropped
something
out the window, or else
had jumped
from
their
balcony
(a bad idea, since
the building is not
high enough to kill
you, but only just
to hurt you),
but when I looked
out the window
at the dark streets
and the bright snow,
I realized it was
nothing of the sort.
Rumble again, thunder.
The stairs quiver,
and so do I.

Distractions

Sat, 19 Jan 2013 14:15:37 -0500

I have been a bit
distracted.
I know this, because
I keep causing myself
tiny, but hilarious
injuries.
(They’re not hilarious
at the time, being
painful,
and embarrassing,
and resulting,
for the most part,
in hissed obscenities
and bloodloss
but in retrospect,
given about five
minutes to think,
I generally can’t help
but giggle).
Yesterday morning,
while slicing
a roll
for breakfast,
I sliced too deep,
and the knife
took a chunk
from my hand.
So, this morning,
doubly cautious,
I picked up the knife
and the roll
and I did it again,
only deeper.
Tomorrow
I will be triply cautious.
Let’s hope I don’t lose a thumb.

Thaw

Fri, 18 Jan 2013 11:30:00 -0500

I was (more than)
ready for it to be Spring.
That’s why I left my apartment
without my gloves or my hat or
anything else that might make me
look like a sensible, well-prepared
individual. The sun was shining,
and it had been so warm for so
long (at least three days),
even though it snowed
yesterday, big flakes
drifting down with wide
spaces between them that
melted when they touched
my face
my hands
my hair
the sidewalk
and anything else they could reach
in the False Spring (which is the
name of a silly film I made
with friends
this summer, which is gone).
But today the sun was lying,
and my hair froze when I came out
and in a few minutes, I’ll walk home
and it will freeze
and then thaw
like it’s Spring.

Mumble

Thu, 17 Jan 2013 14:01:00 -0500

Does anyone else ever get
the feel of a word
stuck in their mouth?
Not the meaning of it
(meanings being the
strange and shifting
things they are)
but the sound.
The writhing, moving
round or sharp
tingling sound of it,
so it rolls around
your tongue and
traces its way up
your throat
and if it ever had
meaning
(whatever that is)
it’s gone now
and all that’s
left is
the murmuring sound
you make
as you mutter it
to yourself.

Red Door

Thu, 17 Jan 2013 00:06:59 -0500

There is a door in the wall

across from me.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

But then, I haven’t been here

that often

yet.

It’s red, or burgundy,

or a reddish brown (they say

that women are better at

distinguishing colours,

that we have more names

for them, but I have never

had the confidence to stand

behind such subtle delineations

in a thing that doesn’t even

exist in the real world,

whatever that is).

There is no window in the door.

It probably leads outside,

or else to a storage room,

or else to the sort of world

that I was always searching for

as a child,

digging through closets,

stepping through every archway,

standing in the middle

of fairy circles in the woods

and in back yards and

closing my eyes

and spreading my hands

and reaching out

to something new.

I was always disappointed

(Though I would not have told you)

to open my eyes

and find myself still

in the world.

But I will tell you a secret.

One Of These Days

I will step through.

And you will look up.

And I will be

gone.

Look at the red door.

I stretch up on my toes.

And spread my arms wide.

And fall.

Old Woman

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 14:17:16 -0500

Look, everybody, more poems:

The woman was tall

And elegant

And old.

Her hair was drawn back

Softly, silver grey.

How did this happen?

She asked.

I am old.

I am old and I am ugly.

When I look

In the mirror

I don’t see me.

My mother took her hand.

I don’t know you

She said

But I see beauty.

The woman pressed her hand

And thanked her.

My mother looks in the mirror.

I am old

She says

I am old and I am ugly.

I know you,

I say

And I see beauty.

Ritual and Repetition

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 17:13:23 -0500

Here, universe: have another poem.

Ritual and repetition.
My aunt painted it.
Two herons, each reflecting
the other. Their eyes meet.
Their beaks taper and swell,
indistinguishable,
and the setting sun
sets their wings aflame.
I know the reeds in the painting.
They are on fire, too.
Not in her picture. In my
memory. Burning torches
on an icy lake that I will not
fall through this time.
My brother was a painter,
too, and I am not. The
world that I see will not fit
in my hands, and I remember
the burn of the water,
but cannot sketch it for you.
Besides. That was far away
and a long time after
the herons
with their shared and
blending beak.

Super-awesome outside decor on the Plateau (if it hadn’t...

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 11:59:09 -0500

Super-awesome outside decor on the Plateau (if it hadn’t been so late at night, I would have played something. Mary had a little lamb, to be specific. That’s all I can play.)

Things that Worry Me! Episode one: Legumes. If anybody has any...

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 09:04:02 -0400

Things that Worry Me! Episode one: Legumes. If anybody has any suggestions for the pronunciation, message me with them! Or if you have any other worries, let me know about them and I will worry about them too!