Monthly Archives: February 2014

On Size and Truth

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1.

in her dream last night

she looks inside a dusty chamber

with walls echoing

not yealding

she wants to be her mirror reflection so badly

but her voice just comes back

again

and again

through that glass and coated silver.

then she hurries through the water

the antichamber and the sand

scurrying out, out, out of

the cliffs

and the rockface.

That image is only a small glimpse.

mother asked: is it like looking at a pinhole of a sweater?”

“of a blanket” I said.

( well, It’s hard to say

when you stare into absolving water and dust.)

Its funny you mention

size:

i was once predestined to marry

a man I had never met.

he told my mother fresh sweet lies

about his past

the sad fate it was to me, her precious little girl. (sweet little good girl)

mother asked “how many lies did he make? a dozen?”

“a thousand” I say.

(well, it’s hard to remember,

they seemed so real).

It’s funny you mention

truth:

2.

I had this itch to see you last night

when the white Pickett fences in Iowa take on a bluish sort of hue in the

fading light

and the birds and trees stoop down to trees–

I wanted it,

I wanted to see all of you–

when i stopped

and i realized

you were just about

as convincing to me

as the lies i told myself to sleep.

(for how could i be sure when the little holes seemed so precious?

when i loved the thought of you, not you? )

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

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Talking To the Mirror/A Boy without a face

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The girl paces her bedroom. The sunlight from the picture window hits her bed, and the light is soft and hazy. She is daydreaming, and she wishes somebody would call her. That’s the idea, call him now, perhaps he’s there..no, well, he’s always so selfish, why bother? What a nice boy to talk to I always get a kick out of that voice that manner you know he’s always been after you, don’t you? Not the way he’s ben so distant, always in such a hurry to go. No, the bedroom is pink like bubblegum, look at the ceiling, look at the window, the larkspur, the mocking bird, the jay, the bluejay, the pine, cone firs, the brisling branches meeting her eye, she will spy-the phone is waiting, expect nothing, not the voice, not that manner, he will not be there, don’t expect a thing, but- is, a jolt- that voice, that manner, you know he’s always been after you, hasn’t he? He’s on the other line.

And he says hello.

Me: I like you

Him: I know

Me: you bastard!

Him: *smirks*

M: you know I love you

H: *stares awkwardly, unsure of what to make of my statement*

M: I do.

H: I know

(pause)

M: so, why haven’t you said hi lately?

H: they took away my phone, and, as you know, I have a bit of short-term memory loss

M: no you don’t, you’re just lazy dear

H: the two go hand in hand actually.

M: mm hmm. So are you going to call me?

H: no.

M: I hate you

H: no you don’t

M: no, you’re right, I don’t.

H: *smiles*

M: I really do love you

H: so you say

M: You’re talking, you’re always talking. Why do we always have to talk?

H: because we enjoy having meaningful conversations and discussing prevalent topics in our current society.

M: stop using such big words, they don’t fit you.

H: yes, they do

M: no they don’t.

H: so anyway, how is your life going?

M: I don’t know, it’s been hectic, and I mostly need some sleep. I slept twelve hours yesterday, it was epic.

H: *laughs* you silly girl, you.

M: (trying to ask questions) and how is your life dear?

H: Well, my family is being stupid, and I hate them. I also have to finish this project for science later. I have to go in like two minutes.

M: why?

H: because I’m going to get picked up really soon.

M: (sadly) okay, fine. Well, I’l miss you…

H: I’ll miss you too.

M: Goodbye dear.

H: Bye.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Tenuous;

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she knows she is a secret

and the many worlds that hide her remain silent

she is the unawares,

the tracked divine

I am yours and you are mine

and you with your little

unabashed talks

the ways you talk to me

is unnerving

the only thing I regret is not saying

hello

enough.

x x x x x 

I am shouting that the only thing in this World that I have left

is the thing that I wish I couldn’t lose.

but you are one hot mess,

and besides you are less

than what I had hoped for

in a boy.

your chest is just a rock

of breast

and the lakes swim by our heads saying

his heart has always been dead.

escape while you can

while you are still alive.

go on girl,

you can swim with the tide.

go on,

go on,

you’re still alive.

no

sing the song,

and be alive.

his hands know nothing

he seems vaguely sad

but how could you tell

on that misplaced expression?

you want to lie with me

on fine stemmed grass

breaking

ateeming

bending

coarse.

a trip to the otherworld

would tell me that

your eyes are vacant

because they see everything

and i would be a surprise,

because mine

do not.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry