A Semi-found Poem Told Backward

A Semi-found Poem Told Backward

I was desperate for a connection
So I thumbed through a book of selected
poems by Wakoski
covering 1962 through 1987.
I started at the back
and only looked at the years
at the ends of the poems.
I wanted one from my year of birth.
That’s the only one I wanted to read today.
It took me to the very first poem,
the title poem,
to find my year.

If I lived in the same city as you,
I wound try to convince you to hang out with me in dark bars where musicians play for crowds of cowards and f**k ups alike.

We became pseudofriends and immediately started telling each other our secrets.
We skipped the stuff that generally propels a friendship forward.
Can we only go back from here?
And your most recent messages asked me about my family,
so I told you just the basics,
like I would have told a stranger.

I’mma try to start back at the beginning...

No,

You carefully cut your thoughts into cubes like I do apples, and I hope we don’t split up over creative differences.

Remember when I missed your call? I do not.

Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Voice message
Smiley face with heart eyes
Voice message
Wow face
Voice message
Voice message
Laughing face
Voice message
Laughing face

I’m losing interest
Or patience

“Sometimes I don’t always tell the whole truth but I never lie.”

You read my poetry.
And make me feel less un-important.
You’d make a decent psychic.

DUDE...
Goodnight.
yeah let me see.

Gotta stay palatable to the mainstream.
Not like anyone else.
Like Ironman (except your armor is guilt and your suit runs on adderall).

I like you.
You’re interesting.

Fish emoji.
Holy mackerel.
I too wonder why your dog died in your dream.
And I loved it when you told me all the things that funny could mean.
And when you showed me all the never used punctuation marks.
Oh f**k this.
Focus on voice only.
Quietly important.
Careful.
Home run.

There’s a party outside...
Don’t make me come out there...
They’re gone...
Everyone is having sex...
(Because it’s my poem for you and I knew you’d like that)

I’m losing interest
Or patience

Play ball. And take home all the trophies. And pay no mind to the missing clover and the elusive serpent. The tennis ball never stood a chance. You knew that already.
Holy mackerel... you saved that girl’s f*****g life and that’s what you want to do!
You knew that already.

Emerald Ice is a poem about sex.
Or death.
Or pesto.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i find this fascinating...reminds me in a way of Emily Dickinson...who has been said to have had fantasies of relationships with poets she admired.
You give us so much imagination here...even to the voice mail....and losing interest or patience.
we were friends, why have you abandoned me...blaming the poet the speaker hasn't really met.
a poem about pesto sounds delicious...but only if it can be shared by two.
j.

[Jennifer Patino]

Ooh, I really like this form. You've penned a fine prose poem. Confessional, honest, & captivating.
"You carefully cut your thoughts into cubes like I do apples, and I hope we don’t split up over creative differences." -- Love this line! Excellent write!

[Chris]

...Or dessert.

This touches behind my eyes and the thoughts also flow.

[Rhayne]

I find it hard to comment----but I do like the line "Sometimes I don't always tell the whole truth but I never lie".