An assignment using Joel Brower's technique in his book called Centuries. 100 word poems with one word titles.
Airhead
I see the words but not the rhyme. I see the trees but not the birds. I see the shot of Jack Daniels that needs a drink. I book class to fill my head like a Kool-Aid pitcher to come out with just more words. No sense or nonsense, I just can’t find it. More words to whisper, more words, too acid. Burn in my page and take a sip of little knowledge. I caress words like a bar of soap. I finger them like donut holes- twirl them around inside my head and still come out with no meaning.
Sugar
Tori kept saying bring her some sugar. So I searched in my loud sun, hiding behind sunglasses and roll downs. I looked where mornings slammed into buildings and evenings slammed into homes. Cool moon blue wakes rolled out of indoor blizzard storms. Bring it to her she said, bring sugar. Black pianos pound large stages with a far little lady in a long red haired wig and a monster mouth. She shooed people out of front row when they were too superior to bring her her sugar. She kills waitresses you know and eats pancakes, only with sugar of course.
Economy
The language, so fragile, so old, so new to babies. Each word precise or meaning of many. So many to learn, like larkspur- sounds like a bird. I hear you, I see you, I just don’t know you. I will soon forget you. Eat a plum cake, it’s soft and you don’t have to speak. Trees kids climb in backyards, giggling, falling, breaking. Tie her up, play the help help game and feel like a prince for a minute. Chalk streets. Ride in the lines. Over and over we were so poor we couldn’t even pay attention. Kids never know.
Perfection
Doom chips away for the diamonds: waving, handouts, rocks. Roll so fast down the hard bumpy staircase- bumping elbows, bumping knees. Land on pillows, land on twine, land on trees. A book, a love, an ear. Fate sees some possible perfection. Like a lighthouse that twirls so fast yet demands the ships in from the fog. Minds roll slow, waking for days, for hours now. Simmering pots of master potentials. At the bar, I need a drink to stop the think. Bartender, “To start- one stout, one upside down pineapple cake drink – and please- give me a cigarette, quickly, please.”
America
Red and green with Christmas. Red and yellow were the Indians. Red and blood in Iraq. You don’t know what is covered in someone else’s skin. We walked in a daze when the night was cool and quiet. We thought we were right. We thought we were safe with our shopping bags puffing at our sides. We pulled out our blankets. We pulled out our pillows. We laid on the sticks and leaves and stared at the stars. Stars always have stories to tell. They are not always pretty. When we woke we read white poetry under the blue sky.
