Photocopies and Staples
© 2003 by Martin Grider
All rights reserved.
Mpls. MN, 55408
http://livingtech.net/
contents:
poem courier
dance in spring
singing a brief anthem to wordsex
Hindenbursting
difference of parts
Laura, grumbling
They have their tricks and I have mine.
abstruse or not abstruse
agate clouds
ephemeral
a sleep poem
i AM yelling.
low growling rhythm
Typeface Untitled
today a timebomb
summer shower
poem courier
text is not interactive
reading is linear
a word per thought
too fast for conscious-
ness to follow
a path through wordiness
not seeing the letters
for the words
not seeing meaning
for the letters
dance in spring
we're shoo-bop-ing in the morning
on my futon, lazy as spring leaves
uncovered patches of skin
like the ground outside
she stands up after,
"there's almost no snow left."
like she's feeling sory for it.
like melting is like dying
and we melt or die,
lazy like snow running into the gutters
she doesn't have time to shower,
and will smell
like me.
singing a brief anthem to wordsex
syllables as actions
words asphyxiate on paragraphs
paragraphs smother in novels
seeing the vowel-forest for the trees
syntax is reflex
semantics, the poetry-killer
drown linguistically, drown
Hindenbursting
We are zeppelin.
Exploding clouds painted
helium red and yellow,
spark-colors at sunset.
I'm hanging from parachute clouds
by hail handrails,
slippery raindrop ropes.
I've taken a bottle of the explosion with me
to the park by our apartment, cloudbursting.
Grass is tickling the back of my neck,
dirty imperfect patches
evolve slowly to mud; and for the moment
even insects are too stunned or wet to move.
I try not to squint at the assault
and to enjoy the perspective
of each individual shooting star of water.
Ultimately, failing.
The tails of each drop point to the earth's center.
Simultaneously pointing at me,
painting me the center of the universe.
Each spatter on my cheek suggests
I am an integral part
of a giant equation.
This span of time, the length of my life,
could not exist without me.
We are too small or I am too big, and
dirty cloth and metal bones are screaming,
falling in oily flame.
I am hot, despite the rain.
difference of parts
Dan came over last week
and admitted he couldn't remember
the simple mathematical procedure of division.
While Nate ridiculed him,
I realized that some specifics
were fuzzy in my mind too.
Fuzzy like last night,
when you wanted me to clean
and I just wanted to relax.
This simple procedure --
picking things up and
putting them someplace else --
was a headache, a fuzzy hole
in my happiness.
And the whole night we were divided.
You slept without touching me.
I woke to your absence.
"What?" you said.
I left for work.
It's the part about remainders I don't remember.
When you've got the numbers stacking downward,
I know there's some subtraction involved...
And what is a remainder anyway?
Just some arbitrary number left over,
left out of the real answer.
And in the car, I imagined all the things I left out,
unsaid apologies and explanations.
Now I figure,
as long as the numbers come out even
we'll be fine.
Laura, grumbling
your fingers fondle my scalp
as I imagine you would delicately
handle sushi, squishing
first in your hands
then in your belly
full like a carnival
of noodles, or salad
with head-ringing crutons
sprinkled on top in a bowl
you bought at Target for
our new house on 29th
we painted grey and red
in your room, the one that would
fit your tall bed
where
you are trying to sleep
and I am writing
this keeping you
awake
They have their tricks and I have mine.
I can make myself float
by staring into light bulbs,
so they use fluorescents.
When I breathe the open air
I too am open, and my mind
floats into cloud-scapes--
so they don't use windows you can open,
and the air is forced to us,
cold, through pipes and vents.
But secretly I drink a glass of water
and even though it could taste better,
it is cool and wet in my throat
and I am on an ocean
floating on my back in a wooden raft.
I can smell the seagulls who land at my feet
and my hair is floating in a pool around me.
The boat lurches softly as the keel
scrapes onto a sandy beach.
abstruse or not abstruse
in the sand
a pebble bigger than an eye
that is a brain
in the brain
an eye bigger than a shut-tight eye
that is a word
in a word
an idea bigger than a word
that is an ostrich
agate clouds
Seasons change like agates smoothing
You could never notice something so slow
But from day to day the burnt umber clouds settle later in the sky
Like stones on the horizon
Slowly wearing away to smoothness
In the sun's relentless stream
ephemeral
--adv. lasting only one day, or only a short time.
Some insects live like falling stars--
tides of tiny lives that ebb and flow.
A second is the sound of breaking glass.
A billion atoms reside in a grain of sand.
Our lives too, like the shooting star,
our breath shallow next to the fog horn's gasp.
I am an insect.
Sticking to these walls,
my eyes see thousands of facets;
my brain can only process them all at once.
And see your face in amber,
crystallized like sugar--you're sweet.
Your smile fleeting, like a bullet's wings,
sharp and sinister.
Your eyes are the falling of the falling star;
a sadness shines them opal.
We are hurling toward the heat of atmosphere,
burning into ourselves--the selves we'll become;
and we are so, so tiny.
a sleep poem
here we are, floating in our beds
night descends, we hover at the edges of insanity,
mind's turmoil takes center stage, sleep begins
we breath without thinking about it, we
toss and turn, without thinking about it, our eyelids flutter,
iris imprints like ants under a napkin --
and we're thinking alright, we're creating a universe
under a napkin
somehow, at night, a heaviness sets in,
the weight of day, your shoulders, your forehead, your temples
everything is slower, lazy, your reflexes betray you
here we are floating
morning, a depression, as you
realize you didn't get enough sleep
you weren't crazy enough
i AM yelling.
you can't see me
flailing emotive words
floundering in political spittle
perturbed by right-wing flies on MY wall
because I'm pretending Twain was right
I'll appear less ignorant in silence
you know I avoid confrontation?
I'm an independent-opinion-armada,
rusting in a placid bay of political-agoraphobia.
but i AM yelling
a megaphone in a soundproof balloon
and some-particularly-frustrating-day...
pop!
low growling rhythm
sunset is cosmopolitan
a girl screams in the street
our feet are sore, tired
weeks are packaged time
it's a soup, this existence
beefy, hearty--desperate
the way I tie my shoelaces
dictates our relationship
it's our butterfly in china
the price of tea is a farce
money is the great lie
a bootstrap that holds us together
still, while we're resting
we whiz around the sun, and fast
tiny buckets, holding water
I am the dog that growls,
behind the fence, too lazy to get up
too lazy, even, to bark
a girl screams in the street
I look out the window for it,
then go back to playing my games
Typeface Untitled
Fixed width fonts
friendly like ant
forms; square and
regularly ordered
quarantine words.
Knife-thin stripe
infections; words
stiletto wrapping
as air-thin hair.
Seventeen-carrot-
characters, small
canisters contain
large ideas. Your
tiny typeface all
spread butterball
down bread pages.
---
Character akimbo,
standing betwixed
ems of rock-solid
pizel-perfect gun
steel spaces. Wry
keepers of style.
Organized into as
little or as many
soldier's columns
as your ASCII art
heart so desires.
In this interface
infinity resides.
today a timebomb
we've fallen into disrepair
our gears and doo-hickeys all limp and broken
our rules and dice and scorecards lost
each shell of gunpowder-stuffed conversation,
each TNT wrapped stick of satisfaction,
each plastic-explosive-smile
...set to blow.
today a timebomb
tomorrow, ashes and cinders
tomorrow, rubble and debris
tomorrow, desolation, desperation, destruction,
tomorrow a radioactive wasteland
inhabited by mutants and sterile impotent infants
clinging to the scorched and mutilated carcasses of their would-be parents
today a timebomb
ticking in unfinished sentences
ticking in unsatisfied bedsheets
ticking in uncooperative and ungrateful and unrequited conversations
tomorrow we'll both have lost the war
sitting at home in our homelands
wistfully drinking beers on the front porch
wishing we were back in the "good old days"
when we knew who the bad guys were
when we could shoot to kill
when we could napalm-dance our way out of any situation
today a timebomb
tonight an exploding heart
summer shower
next door, long distance
summer kills in little deaths
heat is murder
ring tones like rhinestones
playing touch phone tag
long after bedtime
undercover siren singing
"Let it ring once,
I'll call you right back."
conversations like cyclones
weeks cradling handsets
pressing flesh to plastic
loving dial tones
playing a music of discovery
then,
waiting, like melting butter
"ok, I love you."
a rain, see you next fall
sky like plaster and sandpaper
cigarette colored clouds
ash on the horizon
our tepid voices
halting and faltering
halt and fault
stammer our goodbyes
all is not resolved
I hear a pin drop,
raindrop, teardrop
it was the last call.
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