the empty envelope


“ENVELOPE (noun)
The coffin of a document; the scabbard of a bill; the husk of a remittance; the bed-gown of a love-letter.”
-Ambrose Bierce


Two Snails

Two snails joined me
for my morning coffee.
We discussed the weather,
the sudden rain fall, lost love.
I told them about what it feels
like to need to smoke a cigarette
every morning.
“At least,” they both said,
“you don’t leave a trail
wherever you’re going.”

Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s an absence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.
—Mark Strand, from The Art Of Poetry (via notebookings)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)

6 a.m.

The first rain

of April sticks

to the cement

like a disease.
I wonder if it’s
raining at the 

beach. You’re 

probably not

asleep but I 

can feel you

dreaming 

of me.

Happy birthday to my dearest poet friend, thoughtslikehawks. The whole world is celebrating for you today. …well, I am at least :)

Unborn (a haiku)

Pink bows and tiny 

barrettes. Please don’t tell me what
her name will be yet.

He asked, “What makes a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.
—Charles Bukowski  (via sherlokided)

(Source: wordsthat-speak)

Confessions On Friday Morning

Confession:
I haven’t quit smoking.
Confession:
Im eight weeks along.

The swell of my belly
grows like a lion
in a petting zoo.
Beneath my thin skin
its mane begins to
uncurl.
How beautiful it is
on this gray rainy
morning
to hide such a
mistake
from you.

This Is What It Feels Like To Smoke Alone (a haiku)

The sky feels empty
today. I inhale, wonder
if you’ve quit smoking.

Untitled for Bill

Last night the moon
was as high as a fever
and I hadn’t slept in days.
Take me back to mid-November
when we shared cigarettes
and day-dreamed about
robbing that Circle-K.
Your towel is still hanging
in the bathroom like an
empty noose,
and the dishes from your last
meal are still collecting
dust in the sink.
How else can I tell you
that these last four months
have passed by like a hurricane?
Would it help if I told you
last night I laid in bed
and touched the empty
space between my thighs?
This bedroom grows
heavier with nostalgia
every time you say goodbye.

It is probably always disastrous not to be a poet.

Thoughts From The Waiting Room

This year is not a leap year.
I haven’t written a decent poem
since July. Your lips tasted
like cigarettes and oranges
when they first touched mine
last night.

This Week (a haiku)

Life fed me spoonfuls
I couldn’t swallow. Thank god
it is Saturday.

This Is Not A Poem

I found the letter
you didn’t finish;
it was addressed
to me. I wonder
what you were
going to say. It’s
12:24 in the morning.
The neighbor’s dog
is barking. Sometimes
the darkness scares me.
You’ve only been gone
two days.

The very reason I write is so that I might not sleepwalk through my entire life.

I have poems inside me that just won’t come out.