In Virginia, 2010
your flag not a flag
just guns lynching history
not a confederacy
dunces and bigots drink tea?
Micah Zevin 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Another American Tanka: First Weekend: Poem#8 AprilisPoetryMonth poem a day
First Weekend
on the dry town beach
suitcases of wine and cheese
no honeymoon sleep
in flames at bed and breakfast
acting like no one else
by Micah Zevin 2010
on the dry town beach
suitcases of wine and cheese
no honeymoon sleep
in flames at bed and breakfast
acting like no one else
by Micah Zevin 2010
A Kind of American Tanka: April is Poetry Month #7
Honking Horns at Midnight
wearing big snow boots
new years in new york city
i kissed your lips hard
under tents next to old men
you asked my desire...
by Micah Zevin 2010
wearing big snow boots
new years in new york city
i kissed your lips hard
under tents next to old men
you asked my desire...
by Micah Zevin 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Brought into Question (or Negative Balance) Poem #6 April is Poetry Month Project
Brought Into Question
When you crawl out of my pockets
And shrivel up, green autumn leaves
In my sweaty palms, I remember the
Spring just began its ascent into our
Consciousness.
You have become blunted, dulled after
Too much use in the field, shredded to
Tiny bits as I suffer from days grinding
Beat box where explanations are heard
And often misunderstood
As if they were guitar feedback noise
Thrashed into already overstuffed eardrums
Popped as you sink into amplifiers
Transform into treble, bass and gain
And think about what separates the minus sign
From the plus sign, and what it means
To go over and under and back again,
Your own personal Dow Jones crash landing,
Barely a penny held between forefinger and thumb
Used to strum
For once shiny copper, silver luminescence thrown
Into your hat as you hum a melody and
Gather them into your coffers, whether damaged
By stain of dirt, gum and grime or mailed to a
Collector who cares little for sentiment,
How you’d be lost in my wallet if I didn’t
Pull you out of your white paper trap
Of receipts, business cards and stamps
And into the light where you will soon
Vanish again…
by Micah Zevin 2010
When you crawl out of my pockets
And shrivel up, green autumn leaves
In my sweaty palms, I remember the
Spring just began its ascent into our
Consciousness.
You have become blunted, dulled after
Too much use in the field, shredded to
Tiny bits as I suffer from days grinding
Beat box where explanations are heard
And often misunderstood
As if they were guitar feedback noise
Thrashed into already overstuffed eardrums
Popped as you sink into amplifiers
Transform into treble, bass and gain
And think about what separates the minus sign
From the plus sign, and what it means
To go over and under and back again,
Your own personal Dow Jones crash landing,
Barely a penny held between forefinger and thumb
Used to strum
For once shiny copper, silver luminescence thrown
Into your hat as you hum a melody and
Gather them into your coffers, whether damaged
By stain of dirt, gum and grime or mailed to a
Collector who cares little for sentiment,
How you’d be lost in my wallet if I didn’t
Pull you out of your white paper trap
Of receipts, business cards and stamps
And into the light where you will soon
Vanish again…
by Micah Zevin 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Kill or be Killed: A theoretical exercise...Poem #5 April is Poetry Month on the Spot Project.
Murder for Dummies...
If I pelt you with stones
do you not lye unconscious
and helpless on the pavement
in the mall parking lot. If
I tie you to cash registers
and blindfold you so you
cannot identify me or see
where I traveled can you not
still nudge red alarm buttons
with knee caps? If I shoot
you between the eyes, in the
head, in the gut, and display
of toy robots knocks me to
the ground and buries me
until the cops arrive to
take me away, aren't you
still dead? If I order you to take
off your clothes so I can wear
them and appear to be an employee
will anyone notice you are missing
and save you from further trauma
or humiliation at my villainous
hands. If the answer to any or all
is yes, you could be my next victim.
by Micah Zevin 2010
If I pelt you with stones
do you not lye unconscious
and helpless on the pavement
in the mall parking lot. If
I tie you to cash registers
and blindfold you so you
cannot identify me or see
where I traveled can you not
still nudge red alarm buttons
with knee caps? If I shoot
you between the eyes, in the
head, in the gut, and display
of toy robots knocks me to
the ground and buries me
until the cops arrive to
take me away, aren't you
still dead? If I order you to take
off your clothes so I can wear
them and appear to be an employee
will anyone notice you are missing
and save you from further trauma
or humiliation at my villainous
hands. If the answer to any or all
is yes, you could be my next victim.
by Micah Zevin 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
TMI: (Too Much Information) April is Poetry month on the spot poetry #4
TMI (Too Much Information)
No, I don't want to see your tattoo
south of your brassiers border which
is a picture of George Bush with the
tongue of a snake where if you move
your junk the 'right way' the tongue
moves. No, I don't want to know about
how you use welfare checks to by lessons
on how to be Japanese, where you wear
kimonos and drink vats of saki you ordered
off the internet. No, I don't want know
about it every time a celebrity has multiple
affairs or how you have every sensational
headline taped to your ceiling so they will
be in your dreams. And definitely I don't
want to know about your crush on the local
homeless man who spends all day on his laptop
writing you love letters and smells like
rotten bannana peels. Lastly, I don't need
to hear about or visualize your sexual exploits
from your motorcycle days of yore or that all
of your six husbands wore your underwear on
their heads while playing the fiddle. Please,
please, please I am not being uptight! You are
not my wife, friend, lover. Tell your stories
to someone else who will care to listen, as
entertaining as they are, they are much more
than I will ever care to learn
about anyone...
by Micah Zevin 2010
No, I don't want to see your tattoo
south of your brassiers border which
is a picture of George Bush with the
tongue of a snake where if you move
your junk the 'right way' the tongue
moves. No, I don't want to know about
how you use welfare checks to by lessons
on how to be Japanese, where you wear
kimonos and drink vats of saki you ordered
off the internet. No, I don't want know
about it every time a celebrity has multiple
affairs or how you have every sensational
headline taped to your ceiling so they will
be in your dreams. And definitely I don't
want to know about your crush on the local
homeless man who spends all day on his laptop
writing you love letters and smells like
rotten bannana peels. Lastly, I don't need
to hear about or visualize your sexual exploits
from your motorcycle days of yore or that all
of your six husbands wore your underwear on
their heads while playing the fiddle. Please,
please, please I am not being uptight! You are
not my wife, friend, lover. Tell your stories
to someone else who will care to listen, as
entertaining as they are, they are much more
than I will ever care to learn
about anyone...
by Micah Zevin 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
April is Poetry month on the spot poetry project #3
On Vacation: Poem #3
I gasped as I ran
down neverending stairs
because I was going to miss
my flight and be stranded
at one of those fast food
restaurants that charged
you so much because they
knew you had no choice
and would have to pick
one of them.
But I was stubborn and
waiting for the woman
with the tussled hair
to call my name. I would
no more empty my pockets
and be broke due to such
travesties of consumption.
I would rather starve,
wake up later bloated
set to open my dam into
the sea. Why is life so
petty and incomprehensible
it would slight me and try
to erase dreams or bury them
under a succession of ten pound
sand bag eyes until I could not
breathe, or reach out to punch
off the alarm clock in an early
morning frenzy of irritability.
I did not want to live out of
my suitcase indefinitely or even
for a moment, yet I was tired
of pointing the insane masses
to the right terminal.
As they rambled on, I would offer
barely a phrase, except for
a sheepish smile and a grunt into
the sullied air. I was infected by the
presence of strangers and would be
for some time after...
by Micah Zevin 2010
I gasped as I ran
down neverending stairs
because I was going to miss
my flight and be stranded
at one of those fast food
restaurants that charged
you so much because they
knew you had no choice
and would have to pick
one of them.
But I was stubborn and
waiting for the woman
with the tussled hair
to call my name. I would
no more empty my pockets
and be broke due to such
travesties of consumption.
I would rather starve,
wake up later bloated
set to open my dam into
the sea. Why is life so
petty and incomprehensible
it would slight me and try
to erase dreams or bury them
under a succession of ten pound
sand bag eyes until I could not
breathe, or reach out to punch
off the alarm clock in an early
morning frenzy of irritability.
I did not want to live out of
my suitcase indefinitely or even
for a moment, yet I was tired
of pointing the insane masses
to the right terminal.
As they rambled on, I would offer
barely a phrase, except for
a sheepish smile and a grunt into
the sullied air. I was infected by the
presence of strangers and would be
for some time after...
by Micah Zevin 2010
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