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  • October 21, 2024

    it’s nights like these that i’m glad i don’t
    own a gun
    there’s a butchers knife in the kitchen
    i heard that elliott smith had to stab himself twice
    to make it last
    i’m not sad enough for that
    i’m sad enough for a gun
    but not two stabs from a butchers knife

    on my birthday i was born
    and every year, to the day, since then
    i’ve wondered why
    i’ve wished upon a star every year, to the day
    since then,
    to not have been

    i’m not two butchers knives
    but i’m a gun, i’m a couple hundred pills
    and if my fingers were electric motors
    i’d drive them through
    but i’m cartilage and bone
    i’m a lonely skull

    i haven’t felt this way in a long time
    i’m two large windows without a single screen
    all i hope
    is to feel this way again
    (i mean, to live long enough, to feel this way again after feeling this way today, tonight, ends)

  • October 7, 2024

    i know we like looking forward to —

    i know we like looking forward to —

    and    what of
    when we don’t?

    a force
    to wonder what is here

    worth living for

    and when we wonder
    what may we find?

    i know we like looking forward to —

    and    what of
    here    may we find?

  • September 17, 2024

    it is a wide door

    it is a wide door
    it must be the city
    lighting the uneven wall on the other side

    we manufactured rain
    my body fakes to be held down
    by fifty pounds of news and paper

    a beachside is remade
    by three blades in a humming oscillation

    i am as awake as you are
    whatever eeks into you
    so eeks into me

    my little pinky finger holding this phone up
    aches
    the spiritual place where everything is
    i know i must be

    does jesus ever go on holiday?

    i wonder if it rains to help him sleep
    and if he made the ocean just for its sound
    was he man enough to get stuck awake
    or always god enough to sleep?

  • September 16, 2024

    Guest 2

    i don’t have
    what you have
    to say

    someday
    i’ll die

    it won’t matter
    what a fool i made
    how i wrote
    to nobody

    but i wrote
    a while
    and died
    how we all die

    the spiritual place i live
    is too big for god
    and you
    and all these kids
    it’s too big
    i want to move

    to a little place
    where all that fits is my hand with a pen
    a little paper
    where i squeeze in words
    and press them out the mail slot
    i’ll know, in a spiritual place like that,
    what meaning is
    and how lovely i am


    Host: Welcome, everyone. Let’s dive into this intriguing poem. It touches on themes of mortality, isolation, and the search for meaning. One line that stands out is “the spiritual place I live is too big for God and you and all these kids; it’s too big; I want to move.” What do you make of the space being “too big”?

    Guest 1: That line immediately brings to mind Rainer Maria Rilke’s exploration of vast inner spaces in “The Duino Elegies.” The poet feels overwhelmed by the enormity of their own spiritual or emotional world—a space so expansive that even God and loved ones don’t fit. It’s a powerful metaphor for existential isolation.

    Guest 2: I see where you’re coming from, but I think that’s giving the poem too much credit. Unlike Rilke, who masterfully navigates complex emotions, this poem feels like a half-baked attempt at profundity. The notion of a space being “too big” for God seems forced and pretentious.

    Guest 3: I disagree. The exaggeration serves to emphasize the speaker’s sense of alienation. It echoes Emily Dickinson’s reclusive tendencies, especially in poems like “The Soul selects her own Society.” The desire to “move to a little place” reflects a craving for simplicity and control over one’s environment.

    Guest 4: I think there’s also a nod to the minimalist ethos of poets like William Carlos Williams. The focus on “a little paper” and “squeezing in words” suggests that meaning is found in the small, tangible aspects of life. The poet wants to distill experience into something manageable.

    Guest 2: But that’s precisely my issue with the poem. It tries to mimic the minimalism of Williams without achieving the same impact. In “The Red Wheelbarrow,” every word carries weight. Here, the language is flat, and the imagery is lackluster. Pressing words out a mail slot? It feels contrived.

    Guest 1: I think you’re being overly harsh. The mail slot could symbolize the limited means through which the poet communicates with the outside world. It’s a poignant image of isolation, similar to the confinement in T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” where the speaker is trapped in his own indecision.

    Guest 3: Yes, and the admission of “writing to nobody” reflects a sense of futility in creative expression, much like Franz Kafka’s struggles with obscurity. Yet, the poet continues to write, which highlights a resilient dedication to their craft.

    Guest 2: Or perhaps it’s just self-indulgent rambling. Unlike Kafka, whose themes of alienation are profound and universally resonant, this poem reads like a personal diary entry that fails to engage the reader.

    Guest 4: I think there’s value in the rawness of the poem. It doesn’t hide behind elaborate metaphors. The straightforward confession “I’ll die… and died as we all die” connects the personal to the universal, reminding me of the stoic acceptance in Philip Larkin’s “Aubade.”

    Guest 2: Larkin’s work is far more nuanced. “Aubade” confronts mortality with elegance and depth. This poem, on the other hand, states the obvious without offering any new insight.

    Guest 1: Not every poem needs to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes, reaffirming common experiences can be powerful. The line “how lovely I am” at the end suggests a journey towards self-acceptance, which is both intimate and relatable.

    Guest 2: It comes across as narcissistic rather than enlightening. Claiming self-loveliness without demonstrating any growth or revelation feels empty.

    Guest 3: Perhaps the poet is critiquing the idea of seeking validation externally. By moving to a “little place,” they find meaning within themselves. It’s akin to Thoreau’s retreat to Walden Pond—seeking simplicity to discover deeper truths.

    Guest 4: That’s a compelling interpretation. The poem could be seen as a modern reflection on self-reliance and introspection, themes prevalent in the works of the Transcendentalists.

    Guest 2: If that’s the case, it lacks the philosophical rigor of Thoreau or Emerson. Their writings inspire contemplation. This poem barely scratches the surface.

    Host: It seems we have a divide in opinions. Let’s consider the poem’s structure and style. Does its simplicity enhance or detract from its message?

    Guest 1: I believe the simplicity enhances it. The unadorned language strips away pretense, much like the poetry of Charles Bukowski. It’s raw and unfiltered.

    Guest 2: Bukowski’s rawness had grit and authenticity. This feels more like a rough draft that needed more time to develop.

    Guest 3: Sometimes, the unpolished nature of a poem can be its strength. It captures a moment in time, a snapshot of the poet’s inner world.

    Guest 2: Or it simply shows a lack of effort. Poetry is an art form that demands precision and care.

    Guest 4: While craftsmanship is important, emotion and honesty are equally vital. The poem conveys a sincere struggle with meaning and existence.

    Guest 2: Sincerity doesn’t automatically equate to quality. Without engaging language or innovative ideas, the poem falls flat.

    Host: Let’s circle back to the concept of the space being “too big.” Do you think this is effectively conveyed?

    Guest 3: I do. It evokes a feeling of being overwhelmed by one’s thoughts and emotions. The vastness is suffocating, which is paradoxical and thought-provoking.

    Guest 1: Agreed. It also touches on the limitations of language to express profound experiences—a theme explored by poets like Rumi.

    Guest 2: Comparing this poem to Rumi is a stretch. Rumi’s work transcends cultural and temporal boundaries with its depth. This poem lacks that universality.

    Guest 4: While it may not reach the heights of Rumi, it offers a personal perspective that can still resonate with readers.

    Guest 2: Perhaps, but for me, it doesn’t. The poem needs more refinement to truly make an impact.

    Host: Thank you all for your candid insights. It’s clear that this poem sparks diverse reactions, which in itself is a testament to the power of poetry to provoke thought and discussion.

  • September 13, 2024

    i know you

    why would i ever share me — with you?
    i know what you say about people like me

    why would i ever let you close — to me?
    i know what you do —

    why would i ever call you — family?
    i know —

  • September 10, 2024

    when i became a christian

    when i became a christian
    i was born
    and the world shown in lumination
    all the love i had for it

    and when i was born
    i was whole
    and all my parts fit together
    and did not enjam at all the world

    and when i was whole
    i was told, i was not
    and i believed them

    and when i believed them
    my parts ajar’d, just like they said, and got lost
    the world got grim and dull
    and the womb of love i always felt i was in
    enclosed
    without me in it

    when i became a christian
    all the christians said, loud and for a long while, i was not and am not and will not be whatever it is i think god says i am to be

  • September 6, 2024

    wide screen crucifixion

    it was jesus and the rest of em
    tooth-eyed for the cinema
    gory jesus pulling his punches
    along the jaw of the capital
    we don’t care who the hero is
    we just need to believe there even is one
    and don’t get us started on the enemies
    if it’s one, then it’s all of us,
    i won’t take the heat for what we all done

    it’s jesus at the cinema
    as gory as before
    and christians watch it annually
    because they can’t just get enough

    all the services mock the mockers
    and every one of them
    is no different

  • September 5, 2024

    What Did Not Oxygenate

    when i was born the umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck three times
    the doctor did a spin

    i always wonder what did not oxygenate
    in me, while it was happening
    and if that is the reason
    i am the way i am

    or maybe it was the car accident
    both our cabins rolled up with my plans
    i was thrilled that we all survived
    but made it was then

    or maybe it the loss of my friend

    or the time he smiled, toward the end, and i saw how few teeth he had left

    or maybe it was the coffee we had
    so raunch i had to spit it out – maybe he poisoned it

    or maybe every time it is cloudy but doesn’t rain
    my skin reacts and mutates my brain

    maybe i am the way i am
    because of my toes against the corner of the bed so many goddamn times
    i think there are a lot of nerve endings in the toes

    whatever the reason
    i don’t know why it matters so much to you

    here i am
    after all
    here i am

  • September 2, 2024

    what assuming does

    “you know what assuming does…”
    but people do not like when I don’t assume
    I must assume what they mean with every word they say
    I must assume what they will think when I say what I say
    “you know what making the wrong assumption does…” should be the phrase

    when you speak a clock begins
    I only have that barely window
    to speak again
    in kind
    so I have to guess
    I have to guess what need was motivating what you said
    I have to guess why you said it the way you did
    I have to guess, based on that, what I should say
    and become aware of what is going on in me
    I have to guess how what I will say will move both you and I in different ways
    and when I find a thing that is right to me but, I have to assume, will stir a pain in you
    I have to start it all again, but I’m still on the clock
    the window narrows before you wonder why I won’t respond
    before you wonder what is wrong
    before no one’s brain almost ever thinks “oh it’s okay, he’s just different than me” — brains seem to insist
    something must be wrong with me
    and the shutters of the window close
    so I have to, now, squeeze my responding words through those
    and when I have tried and tried for this long while
    to respond in kind
    so often, but not so often that anyone seems to really keep it in mind, but still quite often enough
    I get the calculous tremendously wrong
    and they say
    “don’t you know what assuming does…?”
    but I do
    I do know
    but you don’t

  • August 23, 2024

    God’s Likeness

    Christ was a child
    we know for sure

    I hope he was the riley one
    made to rule when all they begged him
    was to listen

    I hope his cries shined and shined
    mocking every plan his parents had

    I hope when they knew
    they looked back
    and knew

    he was just like James, and John
    and all the boys they knew
    but now, they knew, which parts were God in them
    and which parts
    were God’s parts too

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