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Rilke, at the Gym

For here there is no place that does not see you… - Archaic Torso of Apollo

From the parking lot, you can see the metal letters, and their large, Apollonian font. It is a demand, cloaked as a suggestion— CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

I’ve passed whole hours here without eye contact or conversation. The best gyms are like hospitals: cold, pristine, and full of people you quietly, darkly hope are worse off than you.

Locked to a machine, I pass forty minutes as quickly as I can, shifting my gaze among the flat screens—Football, Fox News, Top Chef. the automated whirr of elliptical & stair-master pulses with the rhythm of sneaker and treadmill.

I’ve had the same routine for years. Three or four walls here are mirrors. The fourth is a window, looking at the highway. The fluorescence hits all three mirrors at the corners, and I catch my reflection’s shadow against the window, bobbing up and down to the pace of political commentary and knife-work.

Everyone here has small headphones tucked in their ears. We’re a un- unified secret service of self- improvement.

In the sauna, the man across from me hums with each exhalation; the dry wood smells of sweat and ripening fruit. In the golden heat of oak and coals, the small bulb beads light on our shoulders, noting each defect.

On the way out, I notice the large circular mirrors & security cameras at the front desk, hanging under the judgment of the metal letters. I think of the headless statue, the marble sheen now shaped in the letters overlooking the parking lot. I think of the sea of bodies reflected in the dark window, and see that historic standard of shoulder, muscle, and mass dim into the expanding night.

#poetry #poems #rilke #change your life #archaic torso of apollo #writing

Departure

At lunch, the bar is playing The Ronettes. The room is half empty and sectioned by sunlight, the dirty cement floor spared the scrutiny of the corner booth. By now you are airborn, en route, somewhere between SFO and Frankfurt - I am at the window with a soda-bitters and turkey sandwich I've snuck into the bar, the speakers cracking Be My Baby. In five minutes, I'll cross the street and return to the basement warehouse with its wood lining and foreign scents. For now, I have the amber tinted glass and percussive fade of be mine, be mine...

#poetry #The Ronettes #writing #song poems #bunk bar

Risotto

I can tell you, the telling gets old…

First, check your list: three shallots, peeled, two cloves garlic, cup and a half of chicken stock, worry about rice later. Focus dicing then mincing and organizing heaps— are they all square? Good, grease the pot .

first I tried to avoid it, easier to push your arm away than shake you from sleep, easier not to mention your advances.

medium-high heat, simmer until clear spread 1 cup of rice stir heat stock

it’s arrogant, I’d say, to assume so much. You knew every girl I loved, bore my incessant swooning

stir

latching to a song

add threads of saffron to the stock, wait until the rice tans

I should have been clear,

add broth

I tried distance— it is easy to avoid your arms when they’re in a different time zone

one ladel at a time.

I tried forgetting— how when we first met you told about your last boyfriend.

remember to stir,

But you expected certainty.

if you want, add wine.

I tried being sorry, concealing my happiness after each date—you asked me not to talk about it, to apologize subtly, for my sexuality, through inside jokes, regarding stacks, something unspoken held in our walking

the stock should be empty by now,

We were close, I know. I wanted it to work, for silence and a few months distance to make things clear,

starch lines should circle the pot add cheese,

I never thought of you that way.

when ready

I can’t deny what you did for me, how often I still catch myself mirroring you

taste

I never thought you would accuse me so earnestly—sitting next to me on your couch, insisting our friendship was something more—

think of this as a base

I thought it would be different. add what you want I’d say it’s my fault, and it is. I left, for now. be creative

I didn’t want it to end like this believe me.

I can tell you, I can wait

make something new.

#poems #poetry #recipe poems #risotto #things I might delete soon #writing #things I wrote over a year ago #sierra demulder

Against Rothko

after Robert Hass

In the life we lead together every paradise is borrowed, six-month lease, movies unwatched— so little we need to own. In our constant motion, we are shored and soundless as glass buoys, waiting out the ceremony of our red-pale skin: oysters on the bay, sun-wet and infrequent in our attention to detail. At night, after hours listening to Sam Cooke and Wagner, we imagine our Ipods as dusty records, speak through clumsy gesture—we are not dancers in Matisse, our hands unlinked against our skin, we are not even figures in Goya. No, we are intruders in Rothko, the painted over pair, noting shades of red against our skin, mahogany dusted under our nails. Unseen against the primed canvas, we are free to move in any meter—our waltz reserved for the background colors, attentive to our footwork. Apollonian in our reserve, ravenous in our longing to break through the red wash, black laquer, we move from couch to kitchen, lips pursed, feet pointed inward. Our whispering begs response, to pulse against our fabric, press our knees together, and dance in the steam of simmering tomatoes.

Because it has taken you three months to reply, I will write your letters for you. Your pen is missing, but if I am careful, I can simulate your hand, alter the pigment to match your Waterman-blue, arc the top of each L, and trail the tail of your indulgent g.

#mark rothko #poetry #robert hass #writing #attention to detail #ceremony #longing we say

A Fragment from Your 22nd Birthday

we need the opportunity to dance with really exquisite strangers. - Matthew Dickman

The kitchen is watching us. drinkless yet clumsy you linger toward me, turn your fingers over mine, elbows lingering— good, now follow…

We can leave the keg for a moment. Look at me, I’m the only guy in a button-down shirt, I’m dancing, I’m sober. Listen to my arms. You’re full of vodka and chutzpah—

you’re laughing, you’re barely following. We’re dancing to Boyz ii Men, I’m sorry this isn’t Django, we have enough hooch and talent, we can swing to any song,

If I complimented your dancing, smile at your shaking legs, then we wouldn’t have to stop exchange pleasantries, and nervously ask for your number or return to the party.

The kitchen is quieting down, we’ll have to find another audience, you’ll turn again, we’ll lace arms, and let the music and crowd fade with the lesser sounds.

#revisions #poetry #dance poems #writing #matthew dickman

Delusions on Asking the DJ to Play "THE WEEKND"

CALL ME BOGIE— I’m gin-soaked and genuine. Grab my sleeve (it’s gabardine)

we’re gilded and unashamed in the barlight—leaning against my shoulder you’re balanced, Bacallish

toying your straw like a cigarette, with a glance I’ll brush

my fingers against it and, blocking the NO SMOKING sign, you'll exhale

stage haze, wrapping your fingers in mine, we’ll both squint

until we see black & white, our outfits beg underscoring, leit-motif

against the clinks of glass. We’ll twist in each others quiet borrowed words,

incorrigible in our desire to emulate Gershwin, we’re unimpressed by the

other dancers and their stage, and cadre of calloused gawkers, offering single bills— we’re in a gin-joint,

not a strip club, dear. I’ll walk to the DJ, mumble incoherently,

hand him a bill, slyly drop the dollar near his feet.

When the song comes we’ll pass understated turns, bend subtly

to the final measure. You’ll say this is the beginning of a beautiful

conceit, the aisle of cigarette butts is our tarmac, we’ll always

have HOUSE OF BALLOONS. We’ll leave the dancers masked in fog, and let the credits roll.

#poetry #play it again sam #humphrey bogart #neurotic poem #writing #broadside

Seven Moments at the Gym (with Music)

- 45.00min (Things)

Its been three days since I’ve washed this shirt, four for the shorts If I’m lucky no one will notice its the only thing I wear here.

- 39.30min (Tithe)

don’t waste good music, you’re not even sweating yet (I’m sore. I haven’t slept.) don’t make eye contact, just breathe.

- 32.00min (Swim Until You Can’t See Land)

Laura’s here, now If I’m lucky she’ll run next to me and we’ll complain about our sex lives and the football players

- 30.00min (Laura)

“I’m sore. I haven’t slept with anyone in months. It’s been three days since I saw her last— should I call—?” Laura adjusts her headphones and smiles

- 25.15min (Sing Me Spanish Techno)

If I’m lucky, in twenty minutes I will have burned six hundred calories, which will almost account for the chili fries at Renners last night— I’ve given up on repenting for the beer.

- 12.39min (Pathetic)

the girl in the Batman shirt is here again— don’t make eye contact, just breathe. Focus on sweating less—will she notice I’m listening to Blink 182?

- 8.23min (The Bleeding Heart Show)

I want this song to play at my funeral—is that weird? that, if I’m lucky, the movement from this life to the next will have such underscoring, and will feel not unlike this— dancing, just barely, at the end of a run.

#poetry #writing #list poems #fitness writing #neurotic #music #poem #running poem #yes i still listen to blink 182 in the gym

Late lunch, news of the London bombing comes, On the shoulder of Highway 101

Katie stands, thumbs her front tire and reaches for the pump. The last hill wore us down to limping mechanics, peddling as if each turn implied a break, or hint of plateau.

From the shoulder, the highway sound twitches, its pavement vibrations rattling through the grease on my socks.

Pete returns from the overlook. There has been an attack on London, he slides his phone into the front of his saddlebag and gestures for his sandwich. Fixing my back gear, I imagine England as the fog on the Astoria Bridge, and tightened my chain. With little pause we packed our bikes and continued.

At the edge of Crescent City, we wandered through Safeway, our sunburnt ears braised by the latest news—two bombers, or maybe three, hit Hammersmith station and the Piccadilly line.

That night, unpacked and sprawled around the campsite, we opened every tent flap, letting the traffic whirr and BBC static settle. Tomorrow our bikes will break, again, and we’ll stop north of Eureka for lunch. We have sixty miles ahead of us, palms slick with grease, focused only on the shoulder width and rush of logging trucks heading south.

#poetry #writing #poems about biking #Highway 101 #London #Oregon Coast #2010 #camping

Ferry

Across the bay a lantern hangs from a cedar branch,

the wire (like the dock) frayed.

At sunrise, I pass eight hours hulling

across the lake leaving opaque tracks

At night the pike pulse

their glassy eyes slanted toward the lantern

and I— furled and sun-worn

—stare, know, unlike the pike,

that soon, the wire will snap.

#poetry #writing #lake poem #imagism #pike #upstate new york poems

An Audible Account of Making Soup

What we heard in the kitchen with our palms curved on blanched tomatoes was not limited to Buddy Holly.

The window was half closed, the air needling our forearms into constant motion.

The record stopped and you tuned the radio, brushing the dial through AM static

If we had any words, beyond the instructional, left to us, you would say ‘the brain dedicates

a lot of resources to hearing.’ and I, turning from the stove, would add that the Universe

resonates at b-flat, fifty-two octaves below middle-C. but we are caught in the

inaudible, and, if you are right, our brains are too focused on hearing to respond.

#poetry #writing #food poems #cooking #the pitch of the universe #sound poems

Illinois Reparatory Theatre, Summer Stock production of 'Waiting for Godot', Opening Night, Backstage, Boy waits for his cue.

Lisa asks me how much time we have left and Kathryn barks FIFTEEN TO CALL, her voice breaking through the stage left door. Mr. Godot will…uh…—shit, what’s my line? I’m pacing through the green room, peeking on-stage, the lights from the audience are still on…just, wait.

Kathryn is still watching me, To wait, To sleep no more, she jokes, turning left Toward the dressing room, the scent of stage Make-up powdered in the thin corridor. CALL IN TEN, she repeats, I’m going over lines passing between the bathroom and door.

Kathryn’s in the booth now, the stage right door propped open, I have at least another minute. I wait until the door closes, and trying not to forget my line. The night will pass as any other, nothing left for correction, I say to myself, or reason to call home, rambling how I was never meant for the stage.

Soon, I imagine, I will stage some fantastic outdoor production, will-call full with two-hour wait, no tickets left, the audience filing in line…

If only I could remember my first line. Lisa is onstage, now, I’m left alone near at the door. I wait until my call.

the green call light triggers, my line in my head, wait, which side of the stage do I enter on, which door? From behind the tree, or on the left?

I can’t wait, it’s call. stage left, I know my line backstage, I move toward the door.

#poetry #writing #sestina #formal poetry #writing #waiting for godot #theatre #impatience

Conversation with an MRI while listening to Coleman Hawkins

If I’m kind to the receptionist, slight flirt, nice words, then maybe you’ll be nice. I’m sorry you have to see me in a paper drape, clothes folded in the dressing room locker, it’s the first time I haven’t worn my watch in weeks. The nurse tells me you’ll take about thirty minutes, twenty if I’m still. She asks what music I want, and fitting the plastic headphones I opt for generic jazz, head caged and eyes blank against the inside of the machine. I hope you could hear the music, I like to think this is the same as an interview. That you’re as nervous as I am. I want to tell you, it’s really nothing big. I’ve been nauseous this last year. Sometimes I can’t hear out of my left ear and my vision blurs,

but it doesn’t last long, I’m just looking for confirmation. I know that I’m just neurotic and watched too many Woody Allen films when I was a child. I’m moving my toes again, the nurse says it will be another ten minutes.

I’m sorry you have to watch me dance.

I hope you’re listening.

#poetry #writing #Coleman Hawkins #MRI #neuroticism #magical realism #shame #health care

g's waltz

you were always one for open doors, hours past midnight, cold coffee arranged on the floor. I would try to make a point of stopping by, weighed by cycles of florescent light and my iron teapot. when we could, I would sit in the center of your room and, under faint bulbs we would talk, and I would sit, for hours, watching your fingers trace the gray carpet.

#poetry #writing #elegy #fragment #fall 2010 #what i wrote before scotland

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