Poems

I'm swimming in happiness reading Salinger. Leah sent me, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" and "Seymour: an Introduction." I simply love the way he sees and treats life. He didn't seem uniquely happy (Seymour or Buddy, really) but was one of the truest poets I've ever read... in the most real sense of the term: he saw life in a poetic way. I think a poet probably must simply be one... and then jot something down every so often. I think that's why Mr. Holt told me that my most powerful form of writing was my "crazy note." Stream-of-consciousness is where art happens. We must practice and set up the parameters for expression, but one doesn't "learn" art as if it were a routine or habitable framework. The true artist glides and moves with fluidity and adaptibility, observing the minutae of life. Those who are skilled at expression are not, by default, artists; those who have an artistic soul may live lives of constant frustration for their ineptitude at expression. The artist truly engages - at the most basic level - in self-expression, because it is the fabric of being that equips someone to create.

Jimmy took this photo of Becca at the school.

Here are some recent poems. The first is not good but expressive, at least, of my current state of mind.

The Need to Live

I want to wrap my tongue

Around tumbling lyrics

And push air through my lungs

To belt out a strong note

I need to run sand through my fingers

And let rocks cut and graze my toes

Snuggle my face against an unshaven beard

Fall into pillowy and moist lips

I need to squeeze and pull weights

To punch and jump and kick in front of a mirror

I feel like twirling a baby, until I'm dizzy

And we both fall down onto scratchy carpet

To lay on a cold leather couch

And realize life is too exciting to sleep...

But to exhausting to not lie motionless

Sometimes

Sometimes I just need to live

Fully present in this body

And be kinistetic.

Worship in the temple.

The lady

With a dainty toe

And a calming hand

She glides on... presently.

I Sat

I sat while the bird flew

And tried to fly after him

Ruining the moment of flight.

I waited while you walked away

And tried to walk after you

And missed the gait.

I stood still while the ant worked

And tried to work with him

Ruining the industry of his work.

I meddled when I'd rather not

I halted where I shouldn't have stopped

And all this in the end

Is nothing less than pretending

I have more answers than I do.

I don't often know what to do.

And I'm sure that you feel that about me too.

Gust

The legs cross, one, two

While the toe fidgets mercilessly

Inciting unwanted action.

I don't claim to be much of a poet... but here are my attempts to see poetic dimensions in life. The last one is about Jimmy sitting beside me at Sbux.