December 11, 2015

Io sono all'angolo , tra il qui e là...




Io sono all'angolo , tra il qui e là

(this poem takes place mostly, 
in faded yellow photograph 1977)

I skimmed the asphalt once 
skinny plastic skateboard 
hot day, summer vacation 
rode shirt off, hit a rock 
and my body was flung forward 
downward, skidding across 
a chewed up road 
up close and personal 
friends thought Mercurochrome 
liberally applied would get 
all the spit bits of road stung
out of my chest, I had inherited 
by gravity birth, a notebook sized scab...

I spent most 
of my summer break 
that year picking 
the little pieces of myself 
I was trying to memorize 
as another moment 
needing, getting through...

the slow warm amniotic
peroxide tweezer bath 
my mother gave me
that night when she told me
I wasn't 
a good skateboarder 
but did I enjoy 
showing off 
seemed as if 
it was meant 
to hurt in some 
arcane divinity 
bubbling up 
later on in my life 
as another part 
of the poem...


----------------------------



this is poem district interior 37-I8U2
full of pieces, creases 
and what loose ends 
I can catch to words

god wants to be a red Rumi poem...me, well I am the 
opium of murdered dogs...taking to task, your reaps by 
way of paper chalice and hurry...there is a slurry of curb 
scum and particulates held up in the increasingly 
humid air, mixing to perfection as I speak...

poem says, tare the skin, muscle, fat and bones...what is 

left is pound foolery and penny payment due...memory, 
after all, is a fickle mistress that fits me...



----------------------------


"...memory is 
shaping pleasures
and pains too, I suppose 
for a price 
we will assign
to have certainties..."

the kinds 
of failures, scars 
and residues 
we've left behind 
these might be the things 
we have to ease into 
to know the places we go 
when what we want 
to be no more than 
trying sometimes 
not to remember 
the old shoes 
our ghosts wear

EJR ©

2 comments:

  1. "in faded yellow photograph 1977" The perfect time/setting.

    "I had inherited
    by gravity birth, a notebook sized scab" Brilliant poetry right here.

    "picking
    the little pieces of myself
    I was trying to memorize" This takes me back to some very vivid memories of trying to decide who to be, which "pieces of myself to memorize" and which ones to uninvite to the party.

    "the slow warm amniotic
    peroxide tweezer bath
    my mother gave me" Chilling description, but as I tell my children, sometimes a parent has to cause pain to heal (particularly when it comes to peroxide and tweezers).

    "seemed as if
    it was meant
    to hurt in some
    arcane divinity
    bubbling up
    later on in my life
    as another part
    of the poem..." This is good for me to read, being that I'm a mother of 4. Can't forget how much accidental damage can be done to a child's psyche. :(

    "trying sometimes
    not to remember
    the old shoes
    our ghosts wear" Closing lines should always leave us with some clever twist or a bit of a haunting, and you did that perfectly.

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    Replies
    1. Humbled and grateful, having you leave such a lucid commentary...and while that bath did have its painful moments...I sure was glad to have my Mom being patient enough to pick out all of the tiny rubble from my entirely road-rash-ed chest...thank you...

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