Riding Alone on a Road – Sept. 2010

Depression is a seatbelt
pressure-strapped to chest
and stomach,

closing lungs,
restricting movement.
A hideous thing. It is

a blanket of frozen air
dully smacking face
and feeling.

Depression
is a prime number,
indivisible, alone.

Depression is a red light,
stalwart defender
of crossroads.

And as the
car careens across
the trafficked intersection,

depression is the vacuum
left when driver flies
through windshield.

The Creative Flurry

Over the past few weeks, when I should have been studying or doing other important-type things, I have been writing some poems and rethinking ideas for short stories and novels. I find that poems are faster to write (obviously) and thus easier to fit into my schedule. Anyway, I have posted many of my recent poems. Some are relatively finished. Others need some more work. Hope you enjoy!

Vaya Con Dios

I squished a caterpillar
in the middle of the road
yesterday. It was slinking
along, tending to itself,

an inch away from the lines
in the middle of the road.
An inch away from freedom.
I saw it too late to stop.

Turns Out Victoria Can’t Really Keep A Secret

She is a girl –
peeling back moderation
in skinfolds, twists
and locks of gently
curling hair,
an overabundance of flesh
and so little fabric.

She is no woman.
She is no icon of revolution,
sexual
or otherwise.

A femme fatale
caught in the tightening recesses
of her own
feminine fatalism, flaunting flesh
with no regard for self.
This is not a freedom-rite.
She bares herself half-willingly
in order to be seen
in order to be bared
and born
– half willfully –
in the minds of others.

It is a postmodern un-clothing
of identity, a de-construction
of self and value
– finding worth not in
what is                   (but rather)
what is projected            (and thus)
what is not.

She is a swirl of tainted prejudices.
She is a ghost. She is a slave.
She is a girl.

She is a victim.

Drunken Night-Owl

We were staring
at some art together,
this stranger and I.

He pointed to some birds
in the painted trees and said:
Man, owls
are like
really significant
in South American shamanism.

I said:
Oh.
and he walked away.