Saturday, September 17, 2011

On A Saturday Night Before I Leave My House

Where do you stay?

When all the ticket buyers buying tickets say
I'm gonna go ahead and go. One is more
a destination person. One more like go ahead.
And go. Like say a wheel
or a wing I remember
getting carried away.

The one who does laundry meets the one who does dishes.
Who gets down with your demands,
who's short pennies for wishes.

One with too many choices meets the one who wants more.
Who drains the fuel from jets,
who knows what time is for.

How long do you stay?
One stays away. One stays behind.

I am trying to buy property:
it's a-guy-walks-into-a-house kinda joke.
Some even more real estate,
a jughead believer, I somehow build broke.

With a death grip she comes
down hard with a spike.
Time lived is the sum
of days that I "Like."

HAMMER a way

Shiny rims rolling under such chronic keep-on-truckers:
just jump, get off, or fall.
Drawn back, swing stilted like a stay-at-home sucker
punch potholes in the dry wall.

Where you go won't say where you stay;
I pound the hammer for punching stakes in.
Name a certain place along the way,
live there & wait for leaves to rake in.

That pickaxe you jacked,
I want it back to break ground.
Swing it hard to make place,
call it home, stay in town.


formal_poet said...

glad to see your still writing, need some poetry scene connects in the city again: hearings, readings, writing meets. How'd your friday event go? I was at Incubus in Atlanta.

I like how you closed the piece in the last four lined stanza, simplicity in statement, rhyme, and thought.

Jeremy James Foxtrot Thompson said...

Thanks for reading / commenting. Friday's event was one of the most successful yet. I'm very pleased. There'll be more.

I'm certainly not the most prolific writer these days. I crack out an average of 1 a month. & that's a pace I'm content with. This particular piece of writing is more complicated than my usual language. It reaches back to my undergrad years at UCSB when I was obsessed with Emily Dickinson & Delta Blues. Slant, slang & busted Hymn Meter. This has a forced kind of functionality to it. I think I'm also inclined toward appreciating those last four lines the most. It's a moment of clarity which comes after a series of mashed up clunky metered enjambments and seemingly anarcho-algorithmic rhymes. A work under pressure, written well before any Wordsworthian contemplative afterthought is to be had.

Although I've had some poetry related excursions here and there, I have to admit that I've never really managed to pursue the various readings & other writing related activities about town. That may change in the near future. I'm interested in developing a more performative series, not limited to poets, or even to writers for that matter. A multi-media affair. I've only just begun to toss the idea around. At some point, we should chat over a drink and talk shop.


Anonymous said...

very cute poem

mr backpack said...

the restaurant called to see if i found my backpack


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