other peoples poetry, poetry

The Queen Of Old Orchard Beach, Maine

every summer, she comes here
between tours
the emo kids mixing in
perfectly with the baby
boomers
she rests on the beach, with a
shadow of a ferris wheel
in the background

every summer, she comes
just when the lobster boats
are holding sway, far off into the
ocean, barely visible

she’ll take off her top
and the sun will make love
to her body

she always wears wayfarers,
though the shopkeepers say
her blue eyes pierce like
swords

I have been brave enough to
walk over to her a few times,
and say” hello,”
once, pretending my beach
ball went over by
mistake

she just smiled in that way
people who are affluent do,

it was like a miracle!

on her right leg,
were the names of her
nieces and nephews, she
says

an older couple sitting not
far from us, says
the government should do
a better job of guarding its
borders

brunette hair covers her face,
like a shaggy dog;
she brushes it back

I react as if
I’ve seen an epiphany

she asks me who’s better
Miles Davis or John Coltrane?

I don’t immediately answer

i’m transfixed by the
tattoo on her right arm
the one of the French flag
with the term under it that reads

Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite

a poem for Liz by Erren Geraud Kelly/ November 20, 2015

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iphone notes

iPhone notes, July 28-Aug 3

//

Stuff to get on vinyl:

Jolie holland- catalpa

Beck- one foot in the grave

Some mother fucking Garth Brooks

//

Girl music:

Joanna newsom- Swansea, gallop, this side of the blue

Jolie holland- damn shame, roll my blues away, old fashioned morphine

Angel Olsen- safe in the womb?

Jessica Pratt- bushel Hyde

Cocorosie- terrible Angels / housewife/ werewolf

Josephine foster- all I wanted was the moon

Nico- I’ll be your mirror

Maybe make a playlist in the morning?

//

That hair:

Yellow

Brown

Red

They scurry off

To beds unmade

But contained.

 

It all

Spills out but

I adore the smell

Of their morning

breath any how.

//

Dye hair blacker

Price out ghost tattoo

Stop being an idiot

//

I feel so naked and vulnerable around you

It makes me sick

To my

Stomach.

Puke

(barfe).

//

//

write out a stand-up bit with LT

//

Nut butter

and coffee

and Avocado

and Kombucha

and salad

and chicken

and Tea

//

9405503699300111772994

//

What would make me feel good:

eating better things,

not using social media,

writing things out longhand,

leaning back a little bit,

looking for job or committing to grad school, which one?

//

Look up:

Wild belle / major laser – be together

//

Why does it smell like an asshole in my car?

//

I just blew my caloric load on trail mix

I lost my whole dinner to M&Ms and raisins

while I was driving

Burroughs swatting my hand away from his bag

on the freeway.

why am I a child?

Somebody tell me.

and why do I care?

Somebody else tell me.

//

Beck- a western harvest field by moonlight

–> lampshade

//

//

Get guitar back

Find Guitar lessons!!!

Sign B up for soccer asap

//

A list of things that taste good:

1. Cold chicken noodle soup out of OR still in a can

2. Coffee with too much cream

3. KOMBUCHA in all varieties

4. Upside down cake in all varieties

5. Avocados

6. Guacamole

7. Margaritas with pineapple juice instead of the mix

8. The kisses of someone who ate the aforementioned items

9. Cold chicken in general

10. vegetable broth

11. Green juice, when it tastes like grass

12. Pennies

13. Nutella

14. Altoids

15. Bacon

16. Bacon and avocado mashed together into a big glory pile

17. Blueberries

18. Cold tortillas out of the fridge but I try not to do this too often, I have a tendency to go over board

19. Peanut Butter

20. Cashew butter

21. Almond butter

22. Coconut butter

23. All the butters
//

//

“I am

determined to

bump into some

other similar bundle

of molecules

residing

this side of heaven.”

//

Say too much

Say too little

Say too much

Say too little

Say too much

Say too little

Say too much

Say too little

and on and on

it goes.

//

Therapist:

What do you want

Uphold boundaries

Don’t judge myself r now

(Or ever? Impossible)

How I am feeling/acting makes sense

(But is it OK, I mean serial killer’s actions make sense in certain respects right?)

If I could wave a magic wand what would my relationship with X look like right now

(“A year from now ….”. “No not a year from now, now”.)

Balance

(“I know nothing about balance. It’s not a possibility for me for any length of time”. “Well we should talk about that.”)

//

Job hunt

Write things

CLEAN UR CAR you disgusting freak

Standard
poetry

faith (question mark)

I sit,
I remember,
I think about
when I read Kierkegaard
a few hot July’s
ago.

I sit,
I remember,
I think about
his
thoughts on
faith.

About it being spontaneous.
A leap into nothing.
A mental event
without cause–
free–
ultimately
pointing towards the
supernatural.

I FEEL like that exists
somehow,
I FEEL like I wait for those
moments,
unbound by
causation,
the will,
clumsy
intention.

I wonder, is faith a feeling (question mark)*, **
Does that even make sense to say out loud (question mark)*

I don’t really think so.

But:
I feel like my body KNOWS
that such freedom exists,
on some primordial level,
even though my head rejects
even
the
thought
of
it.

(It made me sea sick,
at the time,
to think about such a thing.

It makes me sea sick now,
but for
different reasons.)

*the question mark is comically broken on my computer so for the duration this will have to do.
** I need to change this, it doesn’t make sense in the context of what I said, I need to think about it for a while tho.

Standard
poetry

a ride I took

He hands me a helmet. It’s red, it sparkles. “My head is big,” I say. He hands me another helmet. “This one fits even me,” he says. “It should fit your big head”. This one is black.

I try to put it on. It doesn’t go on smoothly. He has to help me.
He hands me gloves. They are too big. They make me feel delicate.

He fastens my helmet.
I feel like a child. I like feeling like a child,
for a moment.

He gets on. He tells me to get on. To not put my feet on the exhaust.
“It will melt your shoes,” he says.
I try my best to not melt my shoes.

I get on. I am nervous.
He likes that I am nervous.
I can tell.

It’s all
heart throbs
and sweat,
and nerves
and
near-death flashes
of
primordial panic
until we pass the hondas,
the food trucks,
the city heat.

The people in our way
become old news,
past tense,
and I feel isolated and
unknown.

Blissfully unreachable.

I watch the ocean
I see pelicans
they fly low
caressing
glassy wave tops.

I see a ferris wheel
I see men and women
driving Priuses
having conversations,
arguing,
texting in heavy traffic.

“Let’s keep going,” he says.

He asks me: “are you up for it?”

I nod. I grin. I forget how to speak.

–today is crushing my soul
in comparison–


Standard
poetry

crying in yoga

I like the color of blood
she says
he agrees
eyes big
like eggs

I like the way your voice sounds
It feels like hands on my body
caresses
promises
fleeting
pressure

They like the color of blood
“because it’s crimson”
“because it’s alive”
I cried in yoga today
because I felt asleep

–those drops of life,
eggs ready to hatch–

Blood
red
re-
birth

Standard
poetry

fresh meat

I iced my knee with
frozen meat
today

Legs up
elevated
on the couch

Watching YouTube videos
on “runners knee”
on “facial massage”
on sixties French pop music

She paused her tutorial
she leaned back in her chair
she sighed,
she said to me, her viewer:
“I’m watching all these butterflies… that are sitting on my lavender… outside my window”

(gentle laughter, joy, peace)

I pause and
lean back
and look out my
window

I see no butterflies
I smell no lavender
I hear no laughter
I feel no joy

My meat is thawing out now
I CAN see it
I CAN feel it

My body cries out
my body contains me
my body shows restraint

My body tells me
I need fresh
meat.

Standard