lovaliss's Diaryland Diary

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poems

I just wrote an entry an hour ago, but I wanted to post some poems my little brother rescued from my crashed computer.

--Most of them are about a year old.

Six Dollars & Ninety-seven Cents

You gave me the black fan we bought for $6.97 on display,
The hand-made sticker price tag is still attached and scrawled by a bored and
work forced Wal-Mart employee.
On those summer nights we�d position the six-ninety-seven fan
just so,
Re-circulated air blowing on our bodies
laced together
like an old favorite pair of Converse sneakers.
Laying in love all night
untouchable,
Except for the glow of your computer screen
and the six-ninety-seven fan blowing
around and over
our familiar bodies.
Humidity.
Sweat.
July.
Now it�s January and the six-ninety-seven fan is riding in my trunk,
Dusty and frozen.
Can you believe the clich�?
It jaunts and falls with every speed bump I ignore,
Jarred in its place�
a pile of black plastic memories and that $6.97 sticker
for an extra stab in the stomach.
Damn the six dollar and ninety-seven cent fan.

--I wrote this next one while watching a pair of sister's at beauty school one day.

Sister

She must look in the mirror and recognize she is the less beautiful one,
the sister that people shift past after laying eyes on the first
because they�re embarrassed they noticed and thought,
�Oh, she�s the un-pretty one.�
So they smile pretentiously and try not to take note
of the gathered flesh thicker on her hips,
Or the little bulge sagging from her jaw bone,
And the dark, dull hair
that will always be second place to the sun-shine.
And all the pictures
And all the phone calls
And all the tears and secluded sniffles
in that dark place inside her mind
where she cowers to her sister�s beauty.
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--Another poem

The drinking fountain is crying,
emitting a pitiful attempt,
Lips move close enough to breath of life,
Lips locked in the passion of the moment,
Lips parted to launch accurate and punctual missiles,
Lips that cluck and coo at babies new life,
Lips touching and tasting food over
a wedding dinner,
a first-date dinner,
a funeral dinner,
a last supper of chicken and potatoes
that we never saw coming�
All these things briefly connect through
the stream of water,
Infusing the cold metal with a longing for life,
And gone as quickly as it came
to leave a trickle of tears spilling over in a
drip-drip sort of way,
The drinking fountain is crying.

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I know they are thinking,
�Is she or isn�t she a virgin?�
Even in spite of all their good intentions
and trained smiles with non-wandering thoughts
that only speculate on places and images
the author�s body must have once lied.
And the author reads undaunted
because truth is truth and what was
will always remain what it is
to the dismay of an obsessed If-Only-I-Had-professional
such as myself.

12:08 a.m. - 2005-05-30

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