Tag Archives: writing

Lies in Your Eyeliner

Damn it, I’m the guy in shades,
and I will not have this masquerade,
these costumes and red lipstick,
these ladders of night.

This mattress brings no rest,
only steam from the radiator
that lives in my mind, fills
every moment with its heat.

Oh, no. You stamp my visa
again and again: DENIED.
Oh, no, you keep me here,
in a hallway of violins.

You deceive me; I wonder if
there are lies in your eyeliner,
lines of your story that you keep
inside your hat. I keep my lines

to myself, behind these bars.
I can’t hurt you; don’t be afraid.
Give me back my switchblade—
I want to show you my visions.

 

 

Inspired by Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” requested by my friend Malissa. Do you have a request? Let me know in the comments!

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All Right for a Girl (after “Brand New Key,” by Melanie)

I roll around the world,
the lonely round world,
and I sing in a different key.
I jolt awake and see that  
I’ve been skating all night,
trying to reach your door.
My bicycle rides without me
sometimes. You’ll find it
under your window
one morning, when I am
least myself, and most,
when I am not driving,
but walking, not singing,
only talking—
talking to myself
about you, or how
everyone says
I’m doing all right,
for a girl.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Also, I’ve started a month-long series in which I’ll write a poem based on a different  song each day. (Here’s the one that inspired today’s poem.) If you have a request (any style, any song, any artist), please let me know in the comments. Thanks!

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Town Shoes (after Jimi Hendrix’s 12 String Blues)

Gonna buy this town
a new pair of town shoes;

then it can walk around
while I take the train.

Gonna take this town apart;
gonna put it in my pocket.

My pocket has a hole in it;
it matches my heart.

Oh, little girl, I’m scared.
I’m scared to do it again,

I’m scared to be on film,
I’m scared to be big—

but now I can’t, no,
I can’t stay small.

 

 

This poem kicks off a month in which I’ll write at least one poem a day, and each based on a specific song. I’m not going to post all of them, but I thought I should start things off by sharing this first one. It’s based on a recommendation from John Allen Richter that I listen to Jimi Hendrix for inspiration. I enjoyed this low-key Hendrix song and was struck by how humble he is here, considering that he was a musical genius.

It took me a while to figure out if I was basing the poem on the performance, the artist, the lyrics, or what, and to get over being spooked by the idea that I had to somehow do the song or the artist justice. I think that was first-time jitters, and also, ekphrasis is not my strong suit.

Anyway … John has also suggested this one, which I think will be fun. I am taking requests, if you haven’t already heard. If there’s a song you think I should base a poem on in some way this month, please let me know in the comments. Thanks!

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I’m Taking Requests: A Month of Poems Based on Songs

After a recent flurry of submissions, which resulted in poems forthcoming here, here, and here (but still no chapbook), I’ve decided I need to have another month where all I do is write. Theme months were fun in January (persona poems mainly about fracking) and March (knotty thoughts about religion), so I thought I’d try another one for September.

The most recent poem I posted here included a line from Alice Cooper. Fellow poet blogger John Allen Richter suggested I listen to more Alice Cooper, or some Jimi Hendrix. I’m taking him up on that and will expand the idea from there: I’ll spend all of September writing poems based on particular songs.

Some, I might have some associations with already. Others might have certain lyrics that might spark something. For others, it might be the sound or the overall feeling that generates the idea. But each day, I’ll write a poem that is based in some way on a song.

Also, I’m taking requests.

In the comments, please name one song you’d like me to write about. This one and this one have already been requested, but other than that, I’m open to any song, any style. It just has to be a specific artist and/or song, and fairly readily available. I’ll write them in the order I get them, and I won’t turn any down until I reach a yet-to-be-determined cut-off point (maybe 60 maximum).

I’m not going to post the entire month’s worth, but I’ll blog each Tuesday as usual. If you would like to see the whole series or your song’s poem in particular, let me know and we’ll work something out. (I’m trying to avoid “previously publishing” all of them here, lest any of them turn out to be submittably good.) 

So … The request line is now open!

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Precise Increments of Actual Fact

Let’s not be arbitrary about this,
our memories of wooden decks, nesting yellow jackets.

Don’t forget what you always wanted:
this empty sore, this ravenous ache.

All is forgiven, and on its way to being forgotten;
a little more memory goes down the shower drain each day.

Sometimes mine sings as it leaves me:
No more Mr. Nice Guy. No more Mr. Cleeeeeeeean …

Someday, we might all erupt somehow—
but probably not today.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

 

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Open Link Eve

I’m taking this one off.
I have too many bees in the head.
A beard of bees. Bread and cheese?
I’d love a sandwich, thanks.

Too many cows, and I cannot
churn butter, not with all these
flies in the ointment, a whole
continent of lies; they buzz

the same as truths, only louder.
Louder, you say? I suppose
I could yell, but when I’m yellow
like this, and underwater,

I’m not sure it matters much. Yello?
Yello? Now I am at the last payphone
on Earth, with a fistful  of quarters
and nothing left to say.

 

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

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San Francisco Unseen

Don’t talk to me about the automatons—

Laughing Sally at the Musée Mécanique,
how she cackled and seemed to whisper
my name as small, cracked bells chimed

over an artificial bay where robotic sea lions
(with convincing stench) formed my initials
while decommissioned battleships, perfect
scale models, kept watch. Even now, doll-size

Beats stagger outside false City Lights,
and Chinatown, that phantom diorama,

rises, falls, breathes real fog.

 

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

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Pictures of Our Potato Bugs

I can provide pictures if interested.
But why would you want to see
pictures of our potato bugs, the ones
that congregate in the mossy drip
under our air conditioner, the ones
that my son calls Tater Pals, or
Tater Tots if they’re small? He and I
go out in the morning to our front gate
to pick up our newspaper and greet
the day—and the potato bugs. He is
often barefoot, wincing over hard
little fruits from a certain tree.
We say they’re nuts; we’re wrong
about this, too. Just like, of course,
the potato bugs, which are actually
sow bugs or pill bugs or roly polies.
But one day we called them
potato bugs, and thus they remain
potato bugs, and an entire
architecture of words has been
built around them, tiny scaffolds
to protect small, gray cousins
of lobsters, not even bugs at all.

 

 

Be sure to check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets every Tuesday p.m.

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Let Me

 

Let me be your friend who
keeps you in touch with

pop music.

Let it now be known that
I do not hate

pop music.

I know I should call it
inane and corporate,

pop music.

But in any car,
it’s all I want,

pop music.

How about your car?
Will your radio play

pop music?

Let me hop in,
let me turn it up loud,

roll my windows down and cruise
oo la la, that’s what I like
you’re the one I want
I know you want it
I love it

pop music.

 

 

 

Is it Tuesday p.m.? Check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

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