tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26156853356141554782024-03-13T13:10:27.363-04:00Andrew in the RyeAndrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-78697037549461776982010-09-13T20:10:00.002-04:002010-09-13T20:12:48.122-04:00Whenever the Spirit Moves (Two Poems)Drowning in the Baptismal<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I baptize you…</span><br /><br />I saw nothing<br />in the rich baptismal,<br />with the pastor’s rough<br />right hand over<br />my 15-year-old face—<br />his fingers extended<br />like giant bratwurst.<br />The water swirled<br />beneath my weight,<br />tickling and tugging<br />at every corridor of my body,<br />rising up around me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">in the name of the Father…</span><br /><br />I felt my lungs constrict<br />and my head<br />Clunk against the porcelain bottom.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />and of the Son…</span><br /><br />There was no glory,<br />no dove to twitter<br />and spiral down<br />like a divine church bulletin.<br />No great light to sever<br />the ceiling, to dangle<br />the harp of David.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">and of the Holy Ghost…</span><br /><br />And in the blasted cinema<br />of noise and applause<br />I remembered being small,<br />sitting in the pew,<br />following the complex grains<br />of wood and seeing airplanes<br />and warships and rockets<br />in their strained lines and knots,<br />with a Pentecostal preacher<br />pounding the pulpit two times.<br />Two times for the second commandment. <br />Two times to stress ‘in vain.’<br /><br /><br />Two Boys<br /><br /><br />In the gravel parking lot<br />of Christian Fellowship Church,<br />Benton, KY, one wee boy stands,<br /><br />shuddering to lift a crate. He props<br />it up with a piece of pipe he found<br />bobbing out of the creek.<br /><br />To the pipe he knots a ragged yellow rope<br />and ties the rope to his wrist. I’m setting a trap<br />for God, he says.<br /><br />Meanwhile, in a cardboard shanty in Acuña, Mexico,<br />a gaunt boy is napping. A strong gale<br />comes knocking, and he is buried<br /><br />beneath plywood and mud, held captive<br />by the spell of a jealous God.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-56204739161376578142010-09-13T20:09:00.001-04:002010-09-13T20:09:57.810-04:004th of JulyGhosts on Independence Day<br /><br /><br />The Queen Anne's Lace,<br />the white heat bees<br />and the weeping flowers—<br /> these we are partial to.<br /><br />And they spread over the heavens<br />like you spread over her the night before,<br />soft in your sweat,<br /> in an act not of love,<br />but of paying tribute.<br /><br />It was another decision<br />in a long line of decisions—<br /><br />strings tied around each finger,<br />forming webs that fray<br />and slip off silently while we sleep.<br /> They grow stronger amidst our neglect<br /> and come to explode<br /> before us tonight.<br /><br /> But it is their remains—<br /> the hovering octopus ghosts<br /> you call them<br /> —that cling to us. <br /><br />They drift in the sky,<br />concealing themselves<br /> behind the curtain of night,<br />illuminated only by<br />new pyrotechnic tongues<br />honoring the forgotten.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-88219903589398188092010-09-13T18:10:00.005-04:002010-09-13T20:09:19.334-04:00GrandmotherPreparing for the Death of My Grandmother (Never Enough)<br /><br /><br />Blackbelly moan of the night<br />train lurching into town<br />stirs me out of sleep; some mile-off<br />coal-burning beast infecting my dreams.<br /><br />I sit up and look out my open window; <br />the steam rolls off the asphalt,<br /> the night air pours in,<br />smell of rain and fresh lightning.<br /><br />I don't want to think of her gone,<br />what her brittle body will look like in satin,<br />the stench of formaldehyde replacing<br />the stench of death; I don't want to think of it, but I do.<br /><br />I walk to the kitchen.<br /> Flipping the switch, the florescence shudders<br />to life she is waiting for morning dialysis; losing<br />teeth, glasses, losing her mind, all in the ruffles<br />of her bedding and hospital gown.<br /> <br />I pull from a jug of a water until my stomach swells and twinges. <br /> What is one night becomes several. <br />What is one death becomes many imagined.<br />Months shuffle past like the turning of cards<br /><br />until that fresh Sunday morning in March,<br />when the sun breaks through my sleep<br />and the telephone rings.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-64570264584828712152010-08-30T19:37:00.001-04:002010-08-30T19:40:40.922-04:00What Runs Out Makes RoomWhat Runs Out Makes Room<br /><br /><br />Let there be light<br />to read by, to sing by, to flicker<br />at our sides, to illuminate all the shapes<br />our faces make after the sun goes<br />down. Let there be sound,<br /><br />but not as much as before.<br />May we hear the rooster's throaty crow<br />in the city and wake--may it peel<br />back the scales from our eyes<br />and leave us honest with our own electricity.<br /><br />Free from combustion and scalding tar<br />let us face tomorrow like sunflowers unfolding.<br />Let our calloused feet walk down new roads,<br />learning the blood and flesh of our city,<br />the fibers that define our breath.<br /><br />Let the air clear and the cancer fade.<br />May our sweat be holy, o Lord,<br />when the oil is gone.<br />If Eden is our memory, will it remember us?<br /><br />With heaven as the soil we stand on,<br />its mouth open to our dirty hands, we will plant<br />the seed of this family and that<br />to split with our family and yours--the abundance<br />for which heaven has no other name.<br /><br /><br /><br />This is going to be published in the <a href="http://beerhorstplanb.wordpress.com/">Plan B</a> zine.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-6758870035467598672010-08-25T20:40:00.003-04:002010-08-25T21:10:29.215-04:00Working On (When the Oil Is Gone)Let there be light<br />to read by, to sing by, to flicker <br />at our sides, to illuminate all the shapes<br />our faces make after the sun goes<br />down. Let there be sound,<br /><br />but not as much as before.<br />May we hear the rooster's throaty crow<br />in the city and wake--may it peel<br />back the scales from our eyes<br />and leave us with only our electricity.<br /><br />Let the air clear and the cancer fade.<br /><br />May our sweat be holy, oh Lord,<br />when the oil is gone.<br />If Eden is our memory, will it remember us?<br /><br />With heaven as the soil we stand on,<br />the tilled, damp earth, ready<br />to dirty our hands while we plant the seed<br />of this family and that to split with our family<br />and yours--the abundance for which heaven<br />has no other name.<br /><br />May what runs out only make room.<br />Let us stink well with all the earth.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-71348342776879793772009-09-03T22:36:00.003-04:002009-09-03T22:40:35.828-04:00Revision of very old poemtracing<br /><br /><br />some and day<br />when skin meets skin,<br />and no small light between<br /><br />and rattled off<br />reasons for blood,<br />heat, friction<br /><br />or unraveled threads<br />of hair and quilted<br />together our awake life,<br /><br />and ghostly wind,<br />chlorine on the tongue—<br />when do we lose ourselves?Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-28126509215491567392009-07-28T23:06:00.000-04:002009-07-28T23:07:16.627-04:00Climb OutI drank half a gallon of sweet tea. I looked out my blurry window at the concrete sky. I tried to sing but my throat merely shuddered. My harmonica took my breath away. I looked for a pen and found none. I got lost in my own hallway. I segregated my confidences from my uncertainties. No longer will they mingle. I read lamentations. I missed that soft and bruised little heart. Missed it so much I downed a pint of something Irish, then two sleeping pills. The night is a foggy extension of my own skin. I wish to be out levitating in the night so cool and wet and thickly dark. Some industrialized Walt Whitman caricature, hovering over this amphetamine city, clasping my hands together at the glory of all common pains—the shopping carts corralled under the overpass, chain-link fences peeled up from the ground, a payphone being stuffed with quarters by a bronze woman with split bottom lip. There are wedding parties out there, maids clad in neon, groomsmen like beaming marquees, all for the newlywed. They gather by the river. The Mexicans with poles and buckets full of worms, the kids with Detroit Tigers in their spokes, geese squabbling over Wonderbread, they gather by the river. I can see them from my window, if I stretch, just a bit.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-25618701807389060292009-07-27T00:15:00.000-04:002009-07-27T00:16:17.404-04:00Smother everything in the name of poetryGrey Kitten<br /><br /><br />Smoke off <br />the blown out candle <br />—a grey kitten <br /><br />at the edge of my desk,<br />floating quietly away<br />from the acrid smell of old flame,<br /><br />past bottles,<br />burrowing into laundry,<br />hiding from hyperbole.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-52432565174481963532009-07-20T01:09:00.001-04:002009-07-20T01:09:49.596-04:00CreationOn the First Day,<br />She laid down and parted Her hair.<br /><br />The Second She painted <br />rock and mud and rubbed it on her forehead.<br /><br />The Third Day She pulled a green chord<br />from Her throat, filled the air with jasmine.<br /><br />On the Fourth, She plucked out each<br />of Her burning eyes, flung them away in fury.<br /><br />She formed you from beneath Her left thumbnail<br />on the Fifth Day, wet and soft.<br /><br />The Sixth, She blew life into the ear <br />of the wind, and finally opened her fists.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-37729932163107790182009-06-20T01:42:00.003-04:002009-06-20T12:34:25.132-04:00YouthSomething I'm working on:<br /><br />Youth of Michigan Summer<br /><br /><br />Tall blemished youth, <br />unshaken, but slouching <br />down the valleys of age, <br />casting shadows like clockwork<br />on the passing day—<br />beware of easy apathy,<br />stop looking down your nose at Pall Mall Blues,<br />throw out your opera and pick up a kazoo—<br />And hum three thousand miles<br />of shoreline, hum <br />like quiet Detrois<br />in overgrown wild-lace,<br />hum the language <br />of euchre, hum <br />for Motown-Soul-No-More.<br /><br />Mouth open in Hoffmaster, <br />howl with the coyotes,<br />tall blemished youth, sound thrown<br />like a ribbon from your throat,<br />ignore Ionia St. bar crawl<br />like it were leprous—<br />but don't ignore the lepers,<br />pariah fringe slab sleepers.<br /><br />Tall blemished youth, <br />c-lo grip knuckles,<br />burning away <br />the sweet incense of $uccess,<br />supping on Spinach Pie, <br />searching for the vinyl <br />heart of Sunday morning<br />—cherry-pick your way West, <br />open your heart to Rainer Maria <br />Rodents, throw Hemingway out the window <br />and read the sky—Clouds rolling <br />like laughing immigrants, <br />clouds sometimes blankets, <br />old family quilts, <br />clouds of rain for earthworms <br />and apple trees,<br />clouds rarely not at all.<br /><br />Run your hands in the dirt, <br />form a world of reflection,<br />for the solstice passes,<br />the sun's gaze diminishes,<br />and with it, the world <br />you've run through becomes<br />something old again.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-73954992769233829112009-06-10T00:08:00.001-04:002009-06-10T00:08:53.748-04:00Singwhen you cannot sing<br /><br /><br />when you cannot sing loud, sing<br />laced with tender notes.<br />make soft your everything.<br /><br />when you cannot cry out, cry<br />wholly from your bones.<br />make soft your everything.<br /><br />and fill your oven with eggplant parmesan, lay<br />the afghans across the sofa, for peace will come <br />walking slow out of the morning veils,<br />toward your creaking voice, hungry and shivering.<br /><br />when you cannot dream, sleep<br />heavily spread over the humming night.<br />flicker your eyes again.<br /><br />when you cannot run, walk<br />honest with a face made for the day.<br />flicker your eyes again.<br /><br /> and sprinkle cloves in with the cookies—you<br /> uncorked refugee—scribble a joy on your wrist<br /> for the humdrum march of tomorrow, turn off the lights,<br /> undress, learn the tune of your skin.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-90796049171395556762009-06-09T01:12:00.001-04:002009-06-09T01:12:48.339-04:00GhostsTwo Glowing Ghosts (in a World So Tall)<br /><br /><br />Oh I glowed with you tonight, <br />rode a little hum song, <br />flickering pinprick song<br />of the rippled stratus sky,<br /><br />song of joy from the daily mudly bravery <br />of rolling from bed and taking<br />root in the stark breath of morning.<br /><br />We whispered this little hum song<br />to the laughing river, we peeled back <br />lichens and found faded scars—<br />the names of love.<br /><br />And when we heard the drawling night train,<br />we laid on our soft bellies, smeared <br />in blue twilight, parted the leaves of grass, <br />ears to the sod—<br /><br />two glowing ghosts<br />with clattering heartbeat<br />moving down the line.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-79929998395743061362009-05-30T00:06:00.000-04:002009-05-30T00:07:05.253-04:00PoemFidgeting Spirits<br /><br /><br />We holding halos to the sun<br /> to see if they cast shadows. <br />Unsure but not alone, we gnats<br /> of the soulfood kitchen.<br />We bicycles chattering in the wind,<br /> noses combing date-filled pastries,<br /> same noses like rudders in neon musk.<br />Potlucking afternoons, we sons and daughters,<br /> up to our eyes in watermelon rinds.<br />We 3 cups 4 cups 5 cups coffee,<br /> lighting May rollies in bed.<br />Windows flung wide, bussing the day,<br /> open-eyed, love-handled, calling<br /> like birds to the immortal sky.<br />We saplings lifting our shaky fists,<br /> petitioning rain's amen.<br />Slivering the light while we can,<br /> stepping out into dusk, listening<br /> for the reverb of dreams.<br />We soft hallelujahs at the riverside,<br /> tangled in our old tadpole skin.<br />Itching to ride our thumbs, stare down<br /> that dozing pink flame—<br /> <br /> We pillars of salt at the city line.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-31951769008494040022009-05-21T18:41:00.002-04:002009-05-21T18:45:04.744-04:00So today I had a nice napI usually don't post about what I do with my days here, but I think this is relevant. I took a nap today. I don't take many naps. I had a dream today during this nap, and when I woke up, I decided I wanted to write it down. So I formed a little story based on what I dreamt. Some of it is embellished/fabricated, but for the most part, the gist of the dream's there.<br /><br />dream: There was a blonde little boy who had fits and bad dreams. At night he would be haunted by the last image that he saw before sleep, so he got into the habit of focusing on a picture of his favorite friendly duck. <br /><br />But tonight, when the duck angel came to guide his dream, it spoke to him and said “You must escape your dreams on your own.” He adjusted his monocle, opened up a book sitting on the nightstand and climbed in, never to be heard from again. The boy's face flushed with fear. His dream turned empty and black and felt himself fall. His vision started to curl and blur into something new and next he was standing in the street of a giant city. <br /><br />It was nighttime, so everything glowed like copper with the color of the streetlight. Just then a towering mustachioed man in overalls, bigger than anything else in the city, formed a ball of fire in his mouth. His eyes were small, straight black circles. His hair, black as his eyes, curled out from a tight red cap. All the boy could do was run as fireballs pummeled down skyscrapers. Before the boy knew it, there was another mustachioed giant, and a looming voice in the sky reciting some phrase in an unknown language over and over as each building tumbled. <br /><br />Eventually the boy made it out of town, but not without the two giants following him. He ran with all his might through a sage-green field, fireballs lighting things up not too far from him. His chest heaved and his lungs burned. His little scrambling legs carried him to a cliff, where the ground just cut off into nothingness below. The giant brothers came closer and closer, mouths full of fire. The little boy had no choice but to jump. Fright filled his little bones. He closed his eyes, balled his fists, and leapt from the cliffside. <br /><br />Falling, he kept his eyes closed, he whimpered a bit. Earlier that day the boy's father had told his grandma over the phone that the boy had been diagnosed with epilepsy. Epilepsy. Epilepsy. The word rang out over and over, was spelled in the sky above him in magically glowing script. He had no idea what it meant. <br /><br />A small speck in the blackness beneath grew and grew and he realized he was falling straight for a meadow, his velocity ever-increasing. He tried to scream, but all of the air was shoved back into his throat, so he started to flail, as much he could. A blur of white suddenly swept in front of him and he hit it, or rather, it caught him. This blur of white was what looked to be an albino flying moose, with eyes pink, but strong.<br /><br />The little boy held on strongly to moose's long hair as he galloped across the sky. Opening it's mouth, the moose began to sing a long continuous note that turned into another note, than another. A slow, continuous song that parted all of the fog from the boy's dream. The peered over the moose's shoulder and down below him he could see men and women with wondrous faces, wearing peculiar clothes, and playing even more peculiar instruments, joining into the moose's song, making it their own.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-88934412256932801672009-05-21T10:06:00.001-04:002009-05-21T10:07:27.161-04:00Little SongOh I shine with you tonight<br />in these woods, breaths riding<br />everlasting song, flickering<br />song of celestial expanse,<br />satellites sailing across the sky,<br />song of rest from daily mudly bravery.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-15025162493646691452009-04-20T00:52:00.004-04:002009-04-20T00:59:27.105-04:00"Show a little faith there's magic in the night."Let's go, the sky is getting dark. Let's go <br />like streaks of lightning through fields <br />of Meadow Foxtail. Let's wrap our freckled <br />arms around Cassiopeia, let's greet her with a kiss. <br /><br />Let's run to the Dancing Lawn, uncurl our fists <br />to the sky, yell until our throats crest, shrill, <br />push against the clouds. Let's tear the old skin from our backs. <br />Come on darling, let's cut out and meet Bruce <br /><br />on Thunder Road, don't bother with your shoes. <br />Or let's clutch the 12:15 freight to Detroit<br /> —the old <span style="font-style:italic;">Paris of America</span>—<br />where any golden green's shriveled away by now.<br /><br />Come on, I want to strike a match on my bare,<br />calloused heel and light you up and down<br />each block. Let's go—with no care <span style="font-style:italic;">where</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">how</span><br />or <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span>—the sky is getting dark.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-69811189151323610372009-04-12T02:32:00.000-04:002009-04-12T02:33:33.430-04:00Charred HamburgerSteven<br /><br /><br />Is this the naked best of you?<br />The craned arch in the foot, continually<br />denying gravity―the ghostly webs that stretch <br />from body to body, only seen in a fountaining<br />silhouette, rippling from your arms <br />like the rings of a tree. The only prejudice <br />is the truth you have written in your senses―<br />the tugging gut, last night's melody whimpered low―<br />the way back to clattering your teeth <br />in dandelion greens, to your hand-claps for the naked <br />best moon, the way of the unkempt, frilled intimacy―<br />these veins stretch out like the countless roots <br />of wild fig trees, clutching firmly in the rutty ground. <br /> But here in the raisin-sun mornings like this one <br /> where you sling your song to the streetlamp and leave it,<br /> and swagger your derelict tongue to the road―<br /> you are merely black hair and smoke.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-86018928395563441442009-04-12T02:30:00.001-04:002009-04-12T02:30:24.406-04:00Thou Shalt Not Mix FibersIndian Summer Prayer, 2008<br /><br /><br />Dear Lord, you are weightless<br />in the morning fog, you dropped<br />your shadow and called it good.<br /><br />Thank you for your shifting moods,<br />reaching behind yourself, coaxing<br /><br />Forgive me—I want to feel your<br />hand smearing the lamb on my forehead—<br />for all of the masturbation, intellectual or otherwise;<br /><br />Please don't confuse my nerves<br />with vibrato as I fumble through the dresser<br />drawers where Mom and Dad used to tuck me<br />in for the night, asleep on a mattress<br />of polyester and wool.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-48006057827032745342009-04-12T02:23:00.000-04:002009-04-12T02:26:50.711-04:00I am sorryYoung Woman with Epilepsy, I Am Sorry<br /><br /><br />You are out in the ether. Your head thumps <br />the hospital pillow, your arms across the hospital tray. <br />Dust rises like snow in reverse. Dust:<br />all the pieces that have flaked away.<br /><br />In the past the doctors would have consulted spirits<br />would have smeared goat's blood over your forehead.<br />Now they've brought you here to the fluorescent,<br />sterile room, laid you in this pneumatic bed,<br /><br />pinned diodes to your temples—to observe you sweat <br />and shiver and moan, to watch you set fire to your spirit, <br />and eventually climb out.<br />But as they monitor you, you are out searching<br /><br />in your tremor, full of the same vigor that makes thunder<br />open its throat, you are out there, passing through pools <br />of white light and white heat. <br />If only you could know how electric you are.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-25906480956213218462009-04-05T23:24:00.005-04:002009-04-12T02:23:14.728-04:00A Menthol Winter Passover/Hem and HawTwo poems tonight. The first is an edit on an old piece of writing I stumbled upon and the next is something I just finished.<br /><br />A Menthol Winter Passover [The typeset/formatting is different on this poem on the page, and Blogger doesn't like it, so it's all aligned wrong.]<br /><br /><br />My accordion body<br /> shivers from bed to bathtub,<br />slipping into the water's ebbing topography,<br /> reciting good graces to cold enamel, and under<br /> the steaming water I am<br /> grateful for every sleepy nerve<br />coaxed and flickering<br /> to life<br /> like a struck match.<br /><br /><br />Hem and Haw<br /><br /><br />From fog comes land, shape and shadow.<br />The croaking night births each morning ray,<br />some mother's little lambs full of romp, <br /><br />the stratus pearling across the sky.<br />From rot so cross and scattered rise<br />dandelion clocks, small winged seeds of dream.<br /><br />And the egret's plumage hides on the crook of her neck <br />waiting for its time to curl into a snowy bouquet.<br />All these ounces of joy are to be stuffed in the cracks<br /><br />of the windowless schoolyard wall and left to sprout, <br />in between the slats of the soup kitchen floor to pillow and bloom.<br />There is no doubt one of us must sow them there.<br /><br />And as for the moon, and its scoffing mouths all filled <br />with pull, rest your head head on my shoulder, darling,<br />watch as dawn crosses the windowsill.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-60732206565169810902009-04-03T00:11:00.002-04:002009-04-03T00:12:11.660-04:00AWP Intro AwardSooooo, guess what? My poem "Archipelago" just won an AWP Intro Award. And they misspelled my name. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.awpwriter.org/contests/intro01.htm">http://www.awpwriter.org/contests/intro01.htm</a>Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-53306881438527604772009-03-29T22:46:00.001-04:002009-03-30T00:04:27.839-04:00SacrificesSacrifices<br /><br /><br />It was at the fishing hole a worm <br />squeezed my knuckle. It was September, <br />I was 6 and toeheaded. The leaves in the trees <br /><br />turned red and shook at the concrete sky. <br />Fully aware of the life wriggling<br />around my finger—if I am honest, I will tell you I sobbed<br /><br />lightly when I pinched it in half, <br />threaded the hook through its wormy body. <br />And as if in an act of bitter defiance, <br /><br />I flung the line with vigor. <br />My bobber rippled the water's surface, <br />a fluorescent twig in the mucky pondwater. <br /><br />I had not yet learned of twelve-bar blues, <br />gasoline, an empty tummy. I only knew two things:<br />my bike and my fishing pole. <br /><br />But I only knew with training wheels. <br />I only knew to yank and reel <br />when the bobber plopped down beneath the water. <br /><br />And when I cranked up that shimmering silver fish<br />out of the pond it sent tiny quakes <br />into my pale wobbly thin arms. I could only look at it,<br /><br />the red flesh under its gills, shock <br />filling its gaping body. I lowered it to the dirt, <br />watching it flail and pad against the earth.<br /><br />My teeth clenched tight. If I am honest,<br />I will tell you I knew it was dying<br />in all this air. I waited for it to settle down,<br /><br />afraid of its stark fight for life, and as it began to rest,<br />I looked down on the fish, its mouth moving<br />like it searched for words that could never<br /><br />be spoken. I imagined the frequencies humming<br />around in my blonde head. And then there was quiet.<br />I whipped my fishing pole and freed the lure<br /><br />from the cheek. The lure flew above and behind me, <br />got caught in the hair of our willow tree. I struggled with it, <br />but the willow was persistent, so I laid the pole at her feet, <br /><br />picked up the still, oily fish and flung <br />it into the water, watching silently <br />from the grass for it to come alive.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-21724009617154345722009-03-29T16:10:00.003-04:002009-03-29T16:53:26.035-04:00TodayI drank half a gallon of sweet tea. I looked out my blurry window at the concrete sky. I tried to sing but my throat merely shuddered. My harmonica took my breath away. I looked for a pen and found none. I got lost in my own hallway. I segregated my confidences from my uncertainties. No longer will they mingle. I read lamentations. I missed that soft and bruised little heart.<br /><br />More to come, later.<br /><br />http://myspace.com/theroostercrow<br />That's some music of mine.<br /><br />I'm leaving the house now to see the beautiful Michelle and leave my filthy dreams behind in my bedsheets.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-54214824939096214792009-02-28T21:18:00.001-05:002009-02-28T21:18:56.778-05:00Doe BonesDoe bones, <br />how you budge in your sleep, <br /><br />your anxious ghosts<br />stirring in your mind,<br /><br />your tendons constrict and release,<br />sudden, small flinching.<br /><br />And you sigh, a pinkish moan, <br />as if a horsehair drawn <br /><br />across your throat. <br />In tender dark, streaks <br /><br />of halogen laying<br />across the blankets, <br /><br />I will pull you tighter,<br />twin stars orbiting, <br /><br />and creak a tale in your ear. <br />Let the words cascade and blur <br /><br />into whatever machine<br />makes sleep—may your quick breath<br /><br />soften and as I whisper <br />through these clouds<br /><br />of your jasmine hair, <br />may the casual <br /><br />movements of our bodies become <br />the melody of your dreams.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2615685335614155478.post-74085702449326628802009-02-25T02:11:00.002-05:002009-02-25T02:12:17.284-05:00Sonnet 2Sonnet 2<br /><br /><br />I wish to fill this white earth day with song,--<br />rising from bed with a mouth full of alphabet soup,<br />placing letters in the air with my tongue;<br />I will watch every plan turn to soot<br />when my toes press the winter-bitten carpet<br />& my throat will crack on regardless<br />of how the tracks on the ground below fade like jet<br />contrails; & I slip back into dreaminess----<br />But around around around goes the prickly sugar<br />outside my blindless window; spit & wound<br />in its dance, so unaware of time & nerves<br />only existing as a descending heavenly neighbor<br />caught up in its own weight & sound--<br />I pray I learn to curl my voice to its curves.Andrew in the Ryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04267568699035524877noreply@blogger.com0