Arriving somewhere

Woke up on the train she had
Writing in black marker up her arm, she realized,
Pulling back her sleeve, head slumped
The sun was rising so she must be
Somewhere

There was someone else in the car
Or wasn’t there? That person was not
Looking at her
And she was looking at her arm
A time and a place

Memory like a basset hound
Sad and soft and
Utterly unhelpful
What a rager last night was, what
Great thirst

She got off at the next stop, onto a
Wooden platform, bleak
Not busy, it was Sunday and she picked a
Quarter up from the floor for
The payphone

Oh right, there was a number there on her arm
Next to the time and place
And, being somewhere and
Awake and not in too bad of shape,
She called it.

No answer. No more quarters.
She heads down the stairs,
Gets a street-level headache,
There the people are.
Here she is.

A hanging yellow banner reminds her
There was a man in a bird suit
Last night
There were
Punchbowls and piñatas

She finds a park somewhere
Inside the here, and a bench
She sits to let her stomach settle,
To let her head ache,
Naps for some time.

Light is lower and grayer when
She wakes and it is
Chillier
And she wonders if she is expected
To be

Somewhere- the place on her arm
Right.
She isn’t sure but thinks,
Has an inclination it is
That way

And off she goes, trot trot
Swinging her pony tail
Wading through noise and traffic
Coming to a large metal doorway behind which is
Thump thump thump

Not sure of the time,
If it is indeed the time on her arm
But anyway she has made it
Arrived at
The place

Where am I?
Where was I? and how
Did this get on my arm?
Are things she
Could ask

She thinks for a moment,
As she walks inside,
About searching for answers
Then remembers
She is Miss Thing

And whatever it is
Will likely not start until she gets there
So
She jumps into the crowd, says
Hello hello hello!

Any

I occasionally mistype my name, spelling Any, and oftentimes will pause before correction. Because for a moment, I am Anyone, someone who I always am and you always are too.  Whose voice is a mystery, like conversations blowing in on the wind. I want to know what the voices say, let my name be a vehicle for Any to hide beneath and speak out of, like a medium of sorts. Any is hiding in there all the time, anyway.

It feels like, until I hit backspace, there is so much possibility and then I erase and it’s just me (but it is just me, and you, and all Amy’s and Really,

It’s just a name and a word.
A rock splashing in the water, for thoughts to spiral off of just like
Anything else
One could say

Sounds

feel free to submit more to me for this list!

The crickets and the cicadas make those noises before a storm.

The sound of a symphony warming up.

The subwoofer on the best of songs, a sound you can feel in your toes and resonant in your memories.

When somebody involuntarily or unconsciously exhales around you, slow and deep, like hearing a smile. Nothing beats that sound.

Thunder in the distance
Thunder right above you

All your friends laughing at once

The clink of ice cubes in the bottom of your glass, then the filling up.

The stupid noise of a gchat message when you are tired and alone. Someone saying hello.

The drone of a needle during a tattooing. Like meditation, like eyes closed and feeling and not thinking about it.

The sound of a great party or show from the outside, just before you step in the door, waiting in line in anticipation (craning your neck so you couldn't even point out the bouncer's face later, as you hand him your ticket, ID, absently).

The sound of “you can go”, “you are dismissed”, and your own footsteps echoing down the hall as you walk away, leaving the others behind, gradually gaining speed until you skip out into the sunlight and the sounds of outside suddenly hit you and it's wind and traffic and voices and freedom!

The ocean. Enough said.

Playgrounds shrieking at children (it sounds like plastic slides slipping and creaking metal at the top of the swings and the splash of feet hitting mulch underneath it all).

“The sound of your ____ (sic) firing up and idling after working on it for a while.” - DC

When one ear is on the mattress and you can hear the muted thud-thud-thud of footsteps on the level below you, like they are crawling up the walls and the ceiling into your head and, simultaneously, your other ear can hear the voice the footsteps belong to and the clatter of plates and drawers and shelves and you know they go together but they are detached and distinct and you fall asleep listening to one thing in two ways.

The Progression

Poems circa 2008

Swamp

muddy waters
reach up a hand
pull me in
swim the dim

when I walked a million hazy bubbles
bursting a million flickers of
smuggy orange oil
lit the air like firefly demise
like falling tea lights
dusk filtered through a swamp

and following the river reedy
moss-laced
I came to the shallows
reached in a hand
and pulled you out of
muddy waters

Endless Paint

Let’s stay in our rigid rows

They are tighter and more constricting than you believe

Though I think you might can be

As free as you imagine

Restriction correlates to willingness to fight

Factoring in (to get all mathy, and it's not true anyway you know)

Ability to find peace (These are not truths)

Inner peace, (it's a) cop out:  is that all you get, that little world in your head, lost in your head as if the middle of your brain was a black hole, quicksand going on infinite or indefinite? Insolent or insatiable?

How can your mind breath?

How don’t you suffocate without that world slipping out ever

In little pieces from your eye sockets

Ears

Nose mouth pores

Sometimes you can get so hungry to throw it all up

The hunger of pacing

The hunger of hot sticky nights where the air hangs and sweat covers everything and there is nowhere to go because it is laaaaattttteeeeee and

Everyone is sleeping.

Why is everyone sleeping,

When you are hungry.

If only you were

(Dreams hanging like a cloud

Over your steady breathing in and out unconscious (to the rest of us) in the dark shadows)

Thought doing acrobatics and ballets

Constant motion-

There- that’s the peace:

A wide open field that is also a canvas large and lovely

And- spread out for you-

Endless paint.