Introductory Metaphor

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The Living Room

a pair of hand made socks
knit with cheap, colorful yarn
the mittens not quite the same size
a vase about to topple on my table
as the cats race-chase through the house
chirping and trilling at each other
their joy for grey days and wet food.
a couch full of hangars and clothes I need to put away
lit dramatically by the window
pillows that have been laid upon so lovingly they're flat.
a painting by my sister
and At-at in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears
and a skull whose brain has been replaced
with a number of dice.

Carrie is taking a creative writing class in school this semester, and I’m blatantly stealing her assignment prompts for my own use. In this case, the assignment was to write a poem introducing oneself to the class via a metaphor. I am a mess. A total disaster area of love and happiness, but a mess nonetheless. I particularly relate to the ceramic skull in which we keep our gaming dice.

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birdhouse (Thanksgiving 2014)

birdhouse

the conversational rustle
of 50 cent newspapers
the quiet landscape waits
squirrels find us irrelevant
an inconvenience

elevate elevate elevate

the rarified mind of a scavenger

the way he walks is a mood
the mystery of modern appliance
it is impossible to be with you
words must not escape me

the family apologist
the broken hearted nihilist
the jovial atheist
the good one

a lake of conversation in the morning
a spill of coffee
confusion about dishes
the briefest appearance of a monk

the companionship of strangers
the deep and hollow rumble
the sweet cruelty of those who don’t lie

edit
memories become Truth
stories become Identity
quietly quietly

I do not know my place
the comfort of running water
and soap
everyone has to do the dishes

we have everything we ever wished for
we have learned not to wish so much

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thirsty as the ocean

thirsty as the ocean
all undrinkable
hungry as time
all-consuming
impossible.
a tower on sand
lets the world
wash out beneath her
still stands.
late summer sunburn
slow song sipping on
dreams that only make you
never wanna wake up

 

~~~~just a leftover summer poem~~~~

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The only useful thing I have to say about racism.

 

don't shoot

Jesus in the garden
prayed. Begged
for his life.
Because we cannot take back our cruelty, we make him king.
Hold him up.
Hold up the shreds of his garments.
We feel so stupid now.

We didn’t know he was God
until we saw him bleed.
And now we make each other bleed.
We say, you are not god.
That is not god lying dead in the street.
That was not god begging for his life.
How do you know?

How do you know he won’t
come back with black skin
wearing a hoodie or just,
you know, walking through
your neighborhood on a
beautiful day?
How do you know three days from now you won’t
remember his face?

140818-michael-brown-graduation-jms-2128_e9443531d58b213656488e4ce6d17a4f 2

 

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