poetryandstrangers

be already) you would

be distinct because

the context is different as

well as the expectations. Think

when they called Jackie Chan

the new Bruce Lee or John Mayer

wanted to be Hendrix. (I

know, but still.)

It doesn’t matter. I’m in love.

I convinced myself of this

weighty fact in this shop

while staring at the restroom door.

This will be my finest love

because I am not in love

with anyone, just in love.

it seems like only universal secrets

thrill me anymore and also

a girl two chairs down is reading

a paperback about G-d and LSD and

I am understandably jealous.

There are at least 8 reasons

I will never be my favorite

person, not the least of which

is that he is someone else and died

before I was born, but even if

you were to be the same in every way

as someone else (you could

“Stroom” feels

like a verb, doesn’t it, 

maybe in a Scandinavian language

that might still have a Romance 

influence such that “to stroom again”

would be “re-stroom”

instead of kin

to “wiederstroom”

or something. 

Context:

I am in a coffee shop

wishing I’d brought

a book on ghosts or demonology 

or sacred language since

This Space is for Writing
To pin this poem to the page
like one example of a beetle
with a thousand variants
to stop its skitter.
A last draft hollowed and devoid
or everything but shell and beauty,
lucky thing. Preserved somewhat forever,
useful until the end of days.
I would buy my lovers ISBNs
if it mattered,
which is usually to say
if it were something I could do.

There were days when the smell
of the river would lift
your eyes, even
with the sun’s hand
pulling your neck like one brother
pulling another’s head to his.
Call from the bank and hear
the water meekly teach itself
your language and your voice,
but rivers never carry on
a legacy for long.

3 Poems About Han Solo

Man and bear thing tread
the naked face, the hungry moon —
this is what wookie means.

Poem #1
Don’t look for me on facebook
I have an account that boasts
photos, links to long-dead
websites, music taken
down by court order or not
available in your area,
to listservs neglected
into nothing, not-renewed
domains, left to relapse
into place savers or porn.
As the internet cools to zero K
even the pop-ups will drop and fade
never to have spring again.
But that is my facebook page, my
myspace, my flickr.
Don’t dig up an empty coffin, you won’t find me there.

Intentional poems sent to strangers selected at random on purpose. And they’ll be right here. As soon as the scanner starts working.