kitschy

wait for me at the end of the world. no more
television, no more telephone. no more typing.
no more gasoline. just dust. just my hair blowing.
wait for me with good night tugs and whiskey
glances. wait for me with a kiss. wait for me
with two hands to hold. wait for me with a
quartz for luck. a dove. when the highway
is backed up with the cars. the mermaids stopped
singing. the cowboys left the pasture without horses.
wait for me, with a single flower. the last tulip. wait
for me so i don’t have to go alone. wait for me at
the end of the world.

A woman pouring her opposites,
“After all there are happy things in life too.
Why do you show only the dark side?”
“I could not answer this. But I know—
in the beginning my impulse to know
the working life
had little to do with
pity or sympathy.
I simply felt
that the life of the workers was beautiful.”

She said, “I am groping in the dark.”

- Muriel Rukeyser

In the beginning,
everyone looked like faded crystals.
Dusty brown rose covered cheeks,
gossamer lips, celestial tongues.
Everyone was a lover.

Head wounds grew flowers,
the sky sighed in purple
and ribs were just pure quartz.
(They never broke, just bruised
a bit now and then).

Language was a fluid thing,
just vibrating vocal chords.
There was no need call out,
spread the gossamer and
open the tongues.

The universe is waiting
for a second invitation.

April, and the last of the plum blossoms
scatters on the black grass
before dawn. The sycamore, the lime,
the struck pine inhale
the first pale hints of sky.
An iron day,
I think, yet it will come
dazzling, the light
rise from the belly of leaves and pour
burning from the cups
of poppies.
The mockingbird squawks
from his perch, fidgets,
and settles back. The snail, awake
for good, trembles from his shell
and sets sail for China. My hand dances
in the memory of a million vanished stars.

A man has every place to lay his head.

- Philip Levine

The ice age is here:
I sit burning cigarettes,
burning my brain.
A micro-Tibet,
deadly, frivolous, complete,
blinds the four panes.
Veils of dumb air
unwind like bandages
from my lips
half-parted, steady as the mouths
of antique statues.

- Adrienne Rich

I tell you, Chickadee
I am afraid of people
who cannot cry
Tears left unshed
turn to poison
in the ducts
Ask the next soldier you see
enjoying a massacre
if this is not so.

People who do not cry
are victims
of soul mutilation
paid for in Marlboros
and trucks.

Resist.

Violence does not work
except for the man
who pays your salary
Who knows
if you could still weep
you would not take the job.

- Alice Walker

Please excuse the pun, though, I just can’t help myself. It’s no secret that I’m a writer - I am always working on a piece. While editing my poetry chapbook collection, I’ve been procrastinating with window shopping for new writing tools.

1. May Books, Initial S, $12
2. The Stud 2GB USB, $39.99
3. Crush by Richard Siken, $11.56 (this is an amazing poetry collection everyone needs to read)
4. Fred Flare Predict-A-Pen, $10
5. Hello Kitty Ball Point Pen, $4.95