Found Poetry

These three poems are comprised of words or groups of words I found in NY Times articles. The words are still in the same order as they were in the article, they have simply been pulled out of that context and molded into my artsy little Frankensteinian poems. The titles are the exact titles of the articles the words were taken from. Enjoy.


Hungarian Fave at 92nd Street Y

Among the Hungarian-born pianists,
offer a lecture,
appear focused on the music:

solo violin on
short-lived shows
never die.

Seasons weren't entirely
current.


Mostly Mozart to Feature John Adams

Briefly compose Mozart;
"A Flowering" feature.

Rose will perform
works created in collaboration-

Alice found a group of strangers
in January;
resurrected first;
survivor turned psychoanalyst.

The need for additional
heart function.


Viewing Journalism as a Work of Art

Shepard of "Hope":
no one has disputed the sale
by a fine Mr.

That day was in Darfur;
the news the he searched to find,
sleuthing in the "Fresh Air."

He lasted what seemed like...
He had never made the connection.

After

This bed is cold and empty.
Once cradled by Egyptian cotton -
high thread counts -
I am now overwhelmed
by yards of burlap -
100 twine count.

Pretending pillows are bodies -
a poor reconstruction of you -
restless nights result
in sore joints protesting
the embracing of thin air.

I fall asleep rigid,
determined to be independent
in the solidarity of sleep.
Volition fades with consciousness;
my body softens,
molding to the imaginary shape
of you.

While my body aches,
my mind licks it's lips and
rubs it's hands together;
for the next few hours,
memories of you are mine
to devour.

Mind sacrifices body
for the passing feeling of
your warmth
pressed against mine.

The Trilogy

So these three poems were written over two years ago in response to a therapist-type figure in my life telling me to write about my earliest memory of my mother. "Rose" came from that initial prompt, "Rosalita" from a following prompt which told me to "fight back", and "Joe" came from the final prompt which is harder to explain. Enjoy my seventeen-year-old mind recreating my four-year-old mind!

.........................

"Rose"

A door slams, a drawer slams;
everything slams

No, no, no,
she's mad again.

The bathroom door explodes.
She's naked, her hair is EVERYWHERE.
I'm still peeing.
I pray she doesn't see me:

Get small, get small, get small...

She sees me peeing,
looks me over;
looks at my muddy shoes;
looks at my muddy feet.
“Dammit Rose!”

It wasn't me, It wasn't me.
I promise, I promise.
Please, stop yelling...

“Don't just sit there!
Say something, Rose!”
The front door closes:
Daddy's home.

Save me, save me.

He opens the bathroom door;
sees naked mom;
sees me;
sees the mud.
“What's up?”

She hates me.
Help me.

“Rose tracked in mud!”
Chin scratching...
“Looks like the dog's feet.”

You see? You see?
It wasn't me...

Daddy leaves,
everything changes:
her hair goes smooth,
her nakedness isn't scary anymore.
She falls over me,
holds me close.
“Oh baby, I'm so sorry.”

I didn't do it, I didn't do it.
See? See?

“It wasn't your fault,
I'm so sorry.”

I'm sorry too.
See? See?

“It's all better now see?
Mommy's not mad.”

Everything's okay, everything's okay.
She loves me, she loves me.
Right? Right?



"Rosalita"

A door slams, a drawer slams;
everything slams.

Not this again.

The door explodes.
I feel her seething anger.
She is naked,
a stark-white pillar.

Get out! Get out!
You don't belong here!

She turns on me,
eyes flaring.
Her hair pulls away from her face,
tangled and thick;
It's afraid of her,
like me...
“Look what you've done!”

I've done NOTHING.
You don't belong here!

She recoils;
her first strike
missed it's mark.
She is disoriented.

You have no power here!
Your pain is not
my fault!
You don't belong here!

She circles around me;
my position is weak,
but I fight back.
The game has changed
for both of us.

“I cleaned this bathroom
all day, Rose!
How could you do this?”

I didn't! I didn't! I didn't!
This isn't my fault!
I didn't ask to be here,
you did! Get out!
You don't belong here!

My words are harsh,
they graze her heart.
She flinches,
recoils again.
“How dare you?”

You don't belong here...

Anger pours off of her;
steamy, sticky, wet.
I choke.
She lets go, retracts her claws.

I have a place here.
Let me breathe.
You don't belong here.

She becomes soft,
pulls away.
The sea rolls out of her eyes;
epic pain.
I want to fix her.

Don't hurt.
You don't belong here...


"Joe"

A door slams, a drawer slams;
everything slams.

“Hey there, how goes it?”

Too much, too much.
What did I do?
Why can't she stop?

“It's okay, it's okay.
I'm here,
I'm here for you.”

But she's crazy, she hates me.
Too much, too much.
I can't see,
I don't understand.

“Look at me.
I'm here,
I'm here for you.
Just look.”

No, no.
She's here, she's here.
Too much, too much.
I can't handle her;
she's EVERYWHERE...

“No.
She's barely there at all.
Look at me. I'm here,
I'm here for you.
Let go.
Let me help you.
Just look.”

Where are you?
She's too loud, too much.
I can't see, I can't see.
Help, help.

Just let go,
I'm right here.
I can help you.
I'm here,
I'm here for you.”

But where? Where?
I can't see.
She's here, she's here.

Stop looking for me;
I'm just here.
Let go,
I'll catch you.
I'm here for you.

Okay.

So you see...

I have just created this here blog. Thus there are quite a few posts for April 6th. I suppose I'm just trying to give it some bulk, but perhaps it would have been smarter of me to have held back, posting one every other day or so in order to seem more productive... In any case, below are some recent (as in the last few months) poems. More will come at some point.

I'm totally speaking to no one right now. Ugh...

On Evan M Collins

Let me try connecting the dots
(disembodied, free-floating thoughts):

Losing my fingers in sandy
curls;
My knotted knuckles penetrate
the scalp they're scratching;
I tickle your brain
from the inside.

I love these lines; proof
that you used to smile.
Make them deeper. Cut
through the disillusioned catatonic misery.
Kisses like scalpels;
make them deeper.

That warmth – a bottom lip, tongue,
who know or cares –
dragged along my neck,
nipple,
naval,
thigh;
roll me around inside your mouth
like sweet atoms of warm honey.

Faces buried in chests;
bitter truths muffled by breasts and body hair.
You liked who you were before. I
couldn't let myself say
how much I liked who you were in that moment;
is the you I love, the you
you hate?
Ears pressed against chests
hear simultaneous heart-breaks.

Untitled No. 2

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
TWICE removed from danger.

Twisted ropes of rain-soaked hair,
clinging to the slip
clinging to the body.
The shedding of dead skin
is made impossible by persistent moisture.

Squelching, burping mud oozes between
pink toes; caked to
calves,
knees,
thighs,
a lacy hem.
The proof of her journey
clings to her, desperate
to see the end of her world.

Nipples and pubic hair naked to the
WORLD; innocence
made vulgar by Nature,
mother of us all, the
ultimate manipulator. We
are all forced to give away our most precious gifts.

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
SECOND to last stop.

From sky to body, body to earth, earth to
Oblivion;
the path taken by infinite drops of
rain: “follow me.”

“Follow me, follow me, follow me,”
they scream; she hears
them and tries not
to LISTEN. The difference is
vital.

No one has ever been so tempted by insanity, as
when they feel the earth's
mucousy discharge
slowly swallowing them whole;
flight is always desired by those
earth-bound and gagged.

She stands, tiny and frail, on the
grassy hill overlooking the precipice;
TWO and three-quarter yards from
self destruction.

Red-rimmed,
starry blue eyes,
stitched to white skin with black lashes;
truly, she is living the American Coma.

The slurping, strangled cry of
Mother Nature losing ground;
the prisoner of war, unfit
for survival,
ESCAPING.
She follows the rain.

Tired of being the voyeur,
never the bride, she
pursues her own ecstasy.
Over the edge, out of the mud, falling through
the freedom of the endless unknown.

Tiny and frail, she follows the rain.

For Michael Dean Krouse

I sat, knitting and watching tv,
the usual past time of people
like me;
people with too many hands
on other people's time:
meddlesome old bitties.

Things get boring,
everyone that could have
hooked up
already has,
and the writers are deciding who to
kill off;
that is when I think of
you. You,
with your mouth hanging open,
drool on the pillow,
deep,
peaceful,
breathing;
I like to believe this isn't the only time you're happy.

I think of futures beyond
the futures we can
picture
for ourselves now;
the ones where reality actually exists.
With furrowed brows, we
try to pay the rent,
and you tell me, "No.
You can't tear out the carpets
and paint the bedroom floor
to look like a
dissected elephant."
I grumble
and settle for painting the bathroom
purple.

We can never decide
what to do on Fridays.
"Oh my god! Just pick,
already!"
So we stay in,
watch movies,
have too much sex, and
smoke real cigarettes;
wonderful, bleary-eyed,
jelly-kneed, lazy-grinning
Friday nights.

You roll your eyes,
when I eat to much
ice cream and
complain about my stomach ache later.
I roll my eyes,
when you can never
say what you mean right
away.

We argue
about getting married in
a church
or in a field.
I try to compromise:
"We can just stick a crucifix
somewhere nearby -
people will get the
idea."
"Baby,
you're crazy."

I think of futures beyond
the futures we can
picture,
and I always see me
with you.