you smell

with one brain cell
covered in hair gel
you smell
like a jail cell.

forget the oil well.
you can't tell
if you feel well
unless you raise hell
before the school bell.

THANKS RHYMING DICTIONARY!

---

in the event of an actual emergency

the first time my skin turned inside out
i was six
and you were dead.

he must have talked to you
he must have said:
she is my daughter,
I will take care.
I will sell our house,
we will move here.

he must have said:
I give you my word,
I will make it okay.
permission for you
to fall away.

the next time my skin turned inside out
it was three weeks later
and he was dead.

routine visit, nothing serious,
discharged tomorrow.
one dose, two dose, cardiac arrest.
"a terrible mistake" / "these things happen."

my skin never fit right after.
no feeling when he took me
turned promises into warnings:
'don't tell.'
didn't he know
I had no words for this?

missing language for something missing.
I will spend my life finding words.

pieces cut away
innocence removed like a tumor.
hope festers
eyes drink pain
skin on fire.

aware, we are not broken.
alive, we mend eachother,
darn souls like socks
writing seams together
before they disappear
for good.

---

missing

Not the cards
crafted by stubby kindergarten
thumbs, shamrocks and elves
remember the day
get well soon!
and see you monday

Not the bus ride home,
Not the brown paper sack
of St. Patrick's Day cheer
clenched like treasure in
one hand, the
star of the show
I take them
home to my sick father

Not the climb up the stairs
heels whisking
two steps at a time.

Not the "I have something for him,"
met on the top step to keep
me from the bedroom
can't reach the door to push it open.

Not the slow walk to my room
wondering
what?

Not the talk on my bed
Jesus God in Heaven
Not the no crying, the knowing.

Not the Edge of Night slicing
mid-day silence as I pick my fingers,
think about where they have taken "him."

None of that, no.

It is something less, the absence of,
the wrinkles in crisp bedsheets
missing his form,
the tautness of the groove
that hugged us there
"What's on tv?"

It is the first time I see the open
bedroom
so-stark-sun remembering,
caresses the antique poster bed
windows lifted to sanitize,
and the March wind
reminds me I am alive.
He is not.

It is the empty bed.


...

recipe

warms you doesn't it,
nerves tingling
places you can't
reach
your
lies stretch
so far up.

venom sweet
tip of tongue
strychnine in
a muffin tin,
perfect desert
crumbs line
your mouth like
dimestore lipstick.

bake me a cake
just as fast as you can
cool it on the window sil
before the sun licks
the frosted foothills.

sudden exposure,
your finest creases
are still etched
in the linen that slips away.

no home

no home no home to go home to
stuffed bear
where
miles and miles far
don't send me away
the first time they
send me, i wonder
who will take care of me?

go home no home
write my way through
find ground
that doesn't make me quake
take me away
don't take me
who will take care of me?

faceless ghosts burn
my face
fire for
fingers
running through me
too hot to stand
can't get out of my
own skin.

stop!

is there an ending, another beginning?
the seconds unbearable,
waiting.

What Are You Doing April 20th?

It's a friday. You must be free. If not, get free.

Come by allied ALL DAY, where I'll be writing original poetry and prose, realtime, in memory of my father, who died of pancreatic cancer in his 30s.

Your job? HELP ME RAISE $500 for PANCAN!

Sponsor me in The First Annual BLOG POETRY FEST for PANCAN here on allied.

All funds go to the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network (PANCAN), an advocacy group for patients and families dealing with pancreatic cancer. The event is set up through FirstGiving in conjunction with PanCan to raise awareness and funds for continued research, education, and advocacy.

More information will be coming soon, but in the mean time, inspire me and save the date.

...

oppen heart

from wood s lot - see also: George Oppen poems at the Poetry Foundation
visual - try here.

-----

Psalm
by George Oppen

Veritas sequitur ...

In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down—
That they are there!

                             Their eyes
Effortless, the soft lips
Nuzzle and the alien small teeth
Tear at the grass

                             The roots of it
Dangle from their mouths
Scattering earth in the strange woods.
They who are there.

                             Their paths
Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them
Hang in the distances
Of sun

                             The small nouns
Crying faith
In this in which the wild deer
Startle, and stare out.

Google Tries the Eminent Domain Trick on Polish Poets

What would marek do?

The Guardian reports that Polish Poets are being hounded by Google's law dogs because they own the GMAIL.PL domain. The AP story says that the "Grupa Mlodych Artystow i Literatow," or Group of Young Artists and Writers -- told AFP that Google had turned to the country's IT and telecommunications tribunal to try to stop them using the Web site address www.gmail.pl. Profy points out the Irony of Google attempting to squash a website by a group of Warsaw-based Poets. Who better to stand up to the Google behemoth. The pen is mightier than the buck, after all.

Google has launched legal action once again, this time against a group of Polish Poets! How's that for coming down hard on the little guy? In the press release Google is evidently trying to get the money hungry, robber baron poets to give up their Internet domain name gmail.pl.

I used Google's language tools to try to translate one of the poems at GMAIL.PL into English, but the closest they had was the Russian Beta--no-go. So I used Poltran.com and got a little closer to translating this one:

..."That really, you do not exist because by no means ordinariness is mismatch for which (who) only yet. does not happens moment: ordinariness daily, ordinariness such happens usual me, repeatable full same words, gestures of same time of meals and hours of work. Daily, ordinariness of I warm coat habituation (acclimatization) otula, I can be hidden in which (who) and I can imitate, that does not have I. Daily, probably, otherwise, there was for day before yesterday so today be, does not have ordinariness, nothing does not happens by turns. Moment is ( when all my bank notes have entered to your property when all my plates (discs) become your favorite when all my temples have been earned by you splądrowane. Moment is when old photos wyblakły when old letters (lists) have burned when old phone numbers have lost relevance be become needless moment panic when you stand before I such usual and moment from appearance (pretence) in which (who) daily nothing even not say only pull down established order event time is ordinariness places and ) maybe however, only ...a?

Okay, not a perfect translation, but you can see that it really is poetry. potentially GOOD poetry.

I'm with the Poets on this one. Google should have offered to buy the domain, paid the price for their oversight, and gone on. There is no "Eminent Domain" law on the Net. There are a lot of lawyers and even more brand paranoia though. Which means the end result is often the same.

Little Guy - 0.

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