the anti-poet.

 

 

 

Relationships break. I'm not afraid.

Rivers run and run till dry.

 

The moon makes cheese. Yes,

the same cheese that nightfall

 

scrolls down to find you covered

in the lexis of pastrami.

 

Birds, especially the wild ones,

look like everything, other than the

 

paste of pastel they fly to.

Never mind pastures, they don't

belong in this discussion.

 

Photos are the same as switchboards where

the circuits are interconncted by patch cords.

 

Similes, after the repecharge, are always perfect

as expressions of approval.

 

I'm alergic to the wind.

I go to a church that my cat won't attend.

What's wrong with him?

 

Some mornings I can see the Jesus in his

frangrance. Some evenings his demons

 

and I can't share the same room. Colorstay

lipstick stays on forever. Your lips won't wash off.

 

Grandma scents the air with sweet cakes with a

high fat content. We pray together for a long life.

 

I use to put Vaseline on my daughters face

because that was the only moisturizer we knew.

 

Many days I walked to school with my face

shiny like the hard pressed leather of the Taliban.

 

Tradition is punishing us.

Tongues should never touch.

 

I am writing this from the grave, pasteurized

by a lifetime of

exposure.

Reviews

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

This is exceedlingly poetic, lyrical and post-modern in a contemporary sense. It's an integration of many things, and I'm starting to recognize your signature style. It's wonderfully easy to read. high props!

[caesarkreshen]

GK Chesterton said, "Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese." He is rolling in his grave.

[Corset]

I'm alergic to the wind.
I go to a church that my cat won't attend.
What's wrong with him?

Some mornings I can see the Jesus in his
frangrance. Some evenings his demons

and I can't share the same room. Colorstay
lipstick stays on forever. Your lips won't wash off.

Grandma scents the air with sweet cakes with a
high fat content. We pray together for a long life.


I died and went to say hello to my parents and grandparents in this , they say to tell you hello and that Revlon is calling, what they have to say will hopefully work like aromatherapy and our backs will withstand the pressure of mistaken identities and you will smile at me anyway.

dana dear, first of all I love your juxtaposition here, with natural elemental aspects mixed with foodies. That is truly amazing. Your reflecting eye, and observation of simple life things are amazing... you put them together into a whole.
You nailed it on the head, with this write my friend. What an amazing poet and free thinker, and visualizer you're. :)

- Elisa

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this isn't poetry , this isn't poetry, this isn't....wait...yes it is ....maybe the harder i try not to write it...that is exactly what comes out.

i love this..especially "tradition is punishing us/ tongues should never touch"

and the last stanza is haunting...emily dickinson's apostrophe used here..

writing from the grave. i like the irony of grandma and the sweet cakes..and the praying for a long life...

life is just a bunch of irony.

great poem. i always enjoy reading you...you are very good and inspiring with your eccentrically creative, wistfully vibrant mind.

[Emily B]

variation on a theme? it is good, subtle, true, honest, everything that poetry should be. I could come back to these words a thousand times. I love how your voice resonates.