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| Wednesday, February 14th, 2007 | | 3:39 pm |
| | Sunday, January 21st, 2007 | | 1:40 am |
Comma
It rained last night while you slept, a comma between my aching hip and early morning tv infomercials, a continuance of lukewarm German beer and crowded doorways to peach juice and shouldered messenger bags. Winter fell in drizzled sheets while I lay in perfect punctuation-- | | Friday, January 5th, 2007 | | 5:32 pm |
Taraxacum
In the cemetery last January we walked among the stones and read the names and dates to each other, uncovering Laramie’s history death by death, while granite marbled clouds covered the sky, blanketing the sun like dirt now quilts you beneath patches of seasons— snow and ice, cottonwoods and rye— and you laughed when I carefully picked a frozen dandelion head from the ground and cradled it in my mitten while we drove towards the plateau and listened to Johnny Cash on the radio. | | Thursday, October 12th, 2006 | | 12:29 am |
ENVS 345
A bird does not sing because it has an answer.
It sings because it has a song.for Adam He walks in one morning cradling a dead Magnolia Warbler and explains to the class that “three more were killed by the glass wall.” Did God do the same in July, nonchalantly explain ecology to Michael , holding gently in his palm a boy, barely twenty, and state that “another one was stabbed by the kitchen wall.” | | Sunday, October 1st, 2006 | | 6:32 pm |
One Year Anniversary
Under the magnolia branches and over the worm holes, in that medium of grass, tips erased by the mowers, face down, lying, I realized that you are thirteen hundred miles away and seven feet below and if I were to lie on top of the grass in the little cemetary under Wyoming's ice dome, all I would hear would be the beating of my own heart against the grass and the ground and the worm holes and then, finally, the cement encasing you and the cherry wood and the brass and then no more. Current Mood:  melancholy | | Sunday, September 17th, 2006 | | 1:00 pm |
A Southern Party--Emory Style
[A drunken note, dedicated to Peter] I want to sketch you out of the drunken plastic cups littering the wooden deck rail wailing for companionship amongst the blurred night sky-- new moon time. | | Wednesday, August 9th, 2006 | | 1:35 pm |
Mexico
Saturday night weaves us together like the tapestry draped over our limbs— the coarse fibers hatched and crosshatched into tradition, black and white— and we are the old woman hunched over her wooden loom in a village far south, we are the chickens in her courtyard and the children chasing them, we are the dust swirling around the red rock desert and the sky that will not rain, we are the joy of each new birth and the wailing at the cemetery, we are Mary, mother of God and the girls in white dresses at their Quinceaneras and the boys who will take them during the night, and we are the owl in the saguaro, clenching the mouse between it’s talons, hoo hoo ing at Orion marching across the zenith. Current Mood:  listless | | Tuesday, July 18th, 2006 | | 11:37 am |
To everyone: I love you. Life is more fragile than I ever understood before now. I love you, I love you, I love you. I did love you at one time, Adam. Adam Robert Towler: May 11, 1986-July 16, 2006 | | Friday, July 14th, 2006 | | 11:57 pm |
Pleiades
Three black specks on my left big toe reflect, inversely, three sisters hovering about, attempting to discover the other four’s secrets. Here, at my desk, however, Merope, Electra, and Maia whisper about the night all seven danced across the sky in perfect harmony to the cacophony of bullfrogs shrieking in the May mist. And would I snip the stars out of the fabric lining the universe and sew them into your left breast pocket. Current Mood: listless | | Tuesday, June 13th, 2006 | | 1:14 pm |
Rosary
I prayed the rosary on my fingers, counting each decade by with ragged nails chewed while driving autumnal mountain roads winding toward your death-- Our Father who artI prayed the rosary on my fingers while you curled like parchment thrown into a fire, fetal reversion, growing smaller and smaller, a comma shrinking inside the shell of your existence-- blessed is the fruit
of thy womb-- I prayed the rosary on my fingers, alone in the urine stained air. Alone I prayed the rosary on my fingers stumbling over unfamiliar poetry and creed, attempting to snatch a piece of God’s robe passing us by. I prayed, a last attempt-- now and at the hour
of our death-- to comprehend why the tomb was full, stone unrolled-- Lazarus unwoken-- why the blue October sky rendered no flash-- curtain not halved-- why the lamb would lie unsacrificed for one full month: purgatory is hell enough. I prayed the rosary on my fingers until all mysteries were revealed to you, until Glory be to the Fatherwas the final whispered Amen. Current Mood:  cold | | Sunday, June 11th, 2006 | | 5:21 pm |
Oranges
I cannot separate you from the peel tossed hastily out the car window or from the diffused Cabbagetown dawn filtering through the loft after an all-nighter of stale coffee and production schedules. And the weight of your restless arm tossed against the backs of my knees after thirty-six hours of sleepless filming was as poignant as the night we fused like the carpels of the flower into one fruit. Current Mood:  contemplative | | Saturday, November 12th, 2005 | | 1:06 pm |
An Athens Club
Let the rhythm move you. He pulls my hips towards him, possessively, suavely, as a request: Please dance. I am hot and the small, shadow-riddled club pulsates to the badump-bump of the music. His face is close to mine. Dance. I am assaulted by the noise, the alcohol, the frenzied motions of dancers. No. No. No. I ache as I look at them, so lost in their pleasure, so lost in their life. I can’t. I’m sorry. Don’t touch me, don’t kiss me. Once again, I am sober Innocence clinging to history, the place where the Electric Slide is fun. | | Sunday, October 16th, 2005 | | 12:00 am |
Goodbye, again
In memory of William Gearing, Sr. The last time I saw you walk, You were collapsing on the deck, Unable to stand without your wife's supporting arms. I watched, helpless because you Did not even recognize my face, Confusion was etched in your Gray eyes, seeking and trying to Understand who I was and why I Said "hi." Andrew saw me want to weep. Last June was so different than before. I remember how you used to Ride your motorcyle, chasing us As we drove back to Atlanta. I remember your grizzly face Nuzzling mine goodnight. I remember your strong hand Holding me up as we hopped Across river rock to reach the waterfall Hidden on your property. I remember you teaching me about Mountain laurel and black bears and Showing me where the tallest trees grew. I remember late nights of dark beer and Trivial Pursuit until one a.m. I remember you loving me, loving your Dogs, loving your mountain. Life hurt you, so you hurt too many others. Your wife may never forgive you, God knows your son never did. With me you showed compassion, you Forgave when they refused. In June I saw the ghost of you, Tomorrow you haunt once more. Tonight I say goodbye, again, For last June I saw this end. Current Mood:  depressed | | Friday, October 14th, 2005 | | 3:06 pm |
Chucks
Two pairs of Chucks Stare blandly up at us: One pair brown, the other black, Each with stitching hitching cloth. Two shoes times two, the Square of our youth. I wore a pair one decade ago, Sign of my mother’s destitute purse. Purple canvas, white thread, shiny star: I loved those shoes and played them gray. Children at recess disdained those those two, Nike was the rich kids’ use. I loved those shoes. Ten years later, I look at you, I look at our shoes. Two pairs of Chucks, Four All-Stars declaring our indifference to Designer pumps, expensive boots. Once again I own independence, uniqueness, poorness. And you? I will slip my hand into yours While I stare at our shoes, and I will remember you and, years from now, The shoes of our youth. Current Mood:  grateful | | Thursday, October 6th, 2005 | | 10:40 pm |
Nihilist Lover
I watch you. I stare into your green amber eyes, the globes that map the contours of your soul. Perhaps they hold a barren land of nomadic searching or a vibrant canopy of vines and rain. Either one, you have a soul. As I search, memorize the lines, the life, I am a vampire, the one escaped from dusky Transylvania. While you offer me the treasures of your bazaar, I seemingly innocently partake, when, in reality, I can only be the pilfering tourist, the one who leaves the sacred in shambles, the one who snatches memories with a polaroid and leaves you with the inevitably unfulfilling promise to return one day. Current Mood: melancholy | | Sunday, September 25th, 2005 | | 9:38 pm |
The Beach
Indescribable dreams coming true I HAVE AN IDEA! Screams through the blue existence of the sea Does this thing inflate? Like whoa it does such Oh my gawd Waltzing Matilda marshmallows munched and crackers crunched violently and smudged across the driftwood so sublime or rather Israeli hip hop driving hours across 16 and singing big bears The Game of endless charm, don't fall, don't laugh or else you will push Jes into water bobbing bread, sharks, foam, tennis ball whacked four am gazing at stars and creating new constellations throwing fears away wrestling tents, blowing a fire awake (no success), dirty feet it's about time you woke up the chicken and Fiji Did I say I love you all yet? Pictures at: http://homepage.mac.com/jmgearing/PhotoAlbum1.html Current Mood:  giddy | | Monday, August 29th, 2005 | | 7:21 pm |
one a.m. cicadas
cicadas grate unsymphonic rattle like grandmothers shake shrivled fingers at wayward daughters. one a.m. humidity sing your heart out. Current Mood: crazy | | Sunday, August 21st, 2005 | | 11:13 pm |
Your kind
What is it about people Who call and say "I'm on my way." So I wait fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, forty-five, an hour. Still I see no face. Why do you promise what you refuse to fulfill? It is some courtesy of acting as a friend, a lover? And why the HELL do I surround myself with you? Am I such a sick person to attract your kind? Is it a disease? Anyone here have a cure? I am tired of hot humid empty nights, Of afternoons of rearranging my schedule for You-- The you who never graces the frame of my view. How many times will I receive the call, hours late, "Oh, I forgot" or "Something else came up" ? All right, sure, OK, no big deal, I'll always reply, For I am the forgiving kind. Right? Jess will be fine, she's always so flex, What a chum, what a pal, what a friend. You're right, I am that friend who always waits, Who drives an extra hour in rush hour To calm you when your boyfriend dumped you or to laugh with you when you got that raise. I'll always be, count on me, I'll always be. Current Mood:  aggravated | | Sunday, August 14th, 2005 | | 11:43 pm |
Forgive
“Repentance must go with forgiveness.” That’s what a small church sign preached to the side of a dusty two-laned street. Some sort of Baptist brand. Before that week I’d never known so many kinds existed: free will, regular, missionary, free will missionary, the ubiquitous First, whatever distinguishing word they could weild as their own. Ironic how conformists still yearn for individuality. But, repent and then forgive? Who invented that creed? Christ died on a splintered, rough hewn, torture tree so that I could see those words off a South Georgia street? Are you telling me that for you to forgive I must repent? GOD IS LOVE. Love is forgiving. What if I cannot repent because I have done no wrong? Will you not still forgive and then accept, because how can you accept me for me unless I am forgiven of that crime you invented, the one that’s made me “unclean?” My only crime, in your eyes, is that I have opened mine and seen more than you would ever want me to see. Oh, you had me at birth, but you’ve lost me. I used to whisper about homosexuals, as to say they’re not worthy of normality. But now I’ve marched and cheered at PRIDE, supporting my brothers, my sisters, recongnizing their right to be human. Did they repent to you? No. But I forgave and thus accepted. Yet you had me and you lost me. I used to argue that war was good. Now I write to give voice to my best friend who was shipped out last month. She’s in Iraq simply because college wasn’t an option. Instead of reading Tolstoy or Dickens or Faulkner she’s loading bombs into planes that will explode on more teenagers' heads. No books for them either. So I sing with my poet’s voice and weep for what I once said. I won’t repent of crying out for thousands of lost lives. I don’t expect your forgiveness and then acceptance. You had me and you lost me. I was such a promising child, the perfect parrot to preach your polished lies. But really, that sign wasn’t a lie. Millions believe it, live it, teach it -- it’s just anothe way of life. Can I condemn that? If I do, then I am just like you, blindly ignorant to other views. What an intolerant hipocrite I’d then be. Will you forgive me? You had me and you lost me. I’m not turning back. But for that wrong, that immeasurable sin, Will you forgive and then accept? Current Mood:  drained | | Monday, August 8th, 2005 | | 10:20 am |
College as I know it
I didn’t ask for this, This empty, gnawing fear of Never getting near to anything Worthy of calling accomplishment. I didn’t ask to see all my Dreams vanish as soon as they are Realized with signed loan papers and A new refrigerator for my room. I didn’t ask to watch the one Thing I’d wanted all my life: College: To slip through my fingers like Sand as the seashore, the kind a Child plays with the build a castle, Dreaming, however foolishly, that it will Stand through the night to guard the crabs in Slumber. But it’s always gone the next Day. I didn’t ask for complete security, a Blanket to cover me and protect me from the Storms, I just wanted a backup, you know, the Promises parents are supposed to keep like “I’ll provide for you, I’ll be here.” I did ask for one thing: a place to study, A bed to sleep in, a normal college Experience—the kind every middle class Kid normally can achieve. I did ask for you to keep your promise, The one you made at the alter five years ago, Saying “I will never do to you what your father Did; you will be my own.” Remember that promise? It’s been broken ten times over. I did ask for you, for a degree, for Normalcy—futile request, stupid Plea— Current Mood:  anxious |
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