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sandra cisneros

Why I Didn’t

Of course.
I was going to, you know.
Or maybe you didn’t.

Already my mouth gone soft
when you kissed me good night
and let me go.

But instead of love
there was only an old sleeping bag
you tossed at me and three
flea bites on my belly
the next morning.
You didn’t know that,
did you?

I didn’t think so.

Nor your name I stole
and took with me
all the way from San Antonio
to Puerto Escondido.

And today when I waited
for your pickup to appear,
I’ll be right back, and left me there
on your porch full of suitcases and
crates and saws and cedar,

I went into your room
and lay down on your bed
just to see if it’d suit me.
The sheets were cool
and a fine talc of dust lay everywhere
the way some men who live alone
are used to living.

Oh I’m scared all right
Haven’t you noticed, I’m
only shy when I like a man.
And to tell the truth
I’m not sure love is worth
the risk of losing friendship.

It would’ve been easy.
I could’ve claimed
I was afraid of the dark.
I am, you know. Afraid I mean.

But there was that plane
to catch the next morning.
And you had to go to work.

Besides, I was sleepy.
And love, that fish too old to get away,
will be there the next morning. And if not,
there are other mornings, other fish.

-Sandra Cisneros

Oh love you’re so crazy…

-Cara

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Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac

Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

On the Road, Jack Keroac

See.

— Cara Reynolds

Sandra Cisneros

Sandra Cisneros

I found this book, ‘Loose Woman‘, by Sandra Cisneros when I was searching for something good to read in the Strand the other night and I think she is way fresh! I read, ‘Woman Hollering Creek: And Other Stories‘ by her, but that was like 1000 years ago and didn’t realize it till I wrote this entry. Life…

Love Poem For The Non-Believer

Because I miss

you   I run my hand

along the flat of my thigh

curve of the hip

mango of the ass   Imagine

it your hand across

the thrum of ribs

arpeggio of the breasts

collarbones you adore

that I don’t

 

My neck is thin

You could cup

it with one hand

Yank the life from me

if you wanted

 

I’ve cut my hair

You can’t tug

my hair anymore

A jet of black

through the fingers now

 

Your hands cool

along the jaw

skin of the eyelids

nape of the neck

soft as a mouth

 

And when we open like apple

split each other in half and

have seen the heart

of the heart

of the heart   that part

you don’t   I don’t

show anyone   the part

we want to reel

 

back as soon as it

is suddenly unreeled like silk

flag or the prayer call

of a Mohammed   we won’t

have a word for this except

perhaps   religion

 

– Sandra Cisneros

A friend at work gave me this poem today.  She thought I would like it and I did.

-Cara

microsoft-word-paperclip1

Paper Clip Guy

Yesterday I fell out of a dream and onto my floor.
My god…I thought…I really need to vacuum.

You know that little guy?
That looks like a paper clip and always pops up on your computer to politely offer his assistance in reformatting word documents and does little dances and shit when you ignore him for long enough?
Well who is he?
And does he just help you format word articles…or does he also do some vacuuming on the side?

I ate an omelet for breakfast and it reminded me of all of the omelets I’ve eaten in the past and then it reminded me of all the omelets I’ll eat in the future and then it reminded me of the future and that is always scary.
I’ll be eating omelets forever at this rate and Jesus…that’s a lot of fucking omelets.

Which means that’s a whole lot of eggs.
Which means that’s a whole lot of chickens
Which have to be raised by a whole lot of farmers.
A whole lot of farmers raising a whole lot of chickens to make a whole lot of eggs to feed a whole lot of people who…like me…have a special affect for omelets.
Especially in the morning.

Me? I’m just another consumer of omelets made with eggs made by chickens raised by people who make money so they too can eat omelets for breakfast now and forever.

When you think about that.
It seems that I’m that little guy…that looks like a paper clip…politely offering assistance in omelet consuming and perhaps on the side.
A little vacuuming.

-Michelle Kaye

What happen to all the poets? I remember growing up reading, loving, and writing stream of conscious poetry that went on forever. I would go to hear poets read, speak, connect…There are not really any modern, media saturated stories about the famous, righteous poets, like Adrienne Rich, Audre Lourde, Dorothy Allison, e.e. cummings, or Alice Walker around. If there is any media they are not talking about their poetry. Nobody wants to be America’s Next Top Poet…or am I just running around in the wrong circles these days…

I’ve decided to publish a poem I like using this blog sometimes. It may inspire me, you, or somebody to write…you never know…

muriel rukeyser

Muriel Rukeyser

Here is a poem by Muriel Rukeyser entitled, Looking at Each Other, I really think is powerful. Words with depth that I connect too. That’s what I miss…and meeting others who connect as well. It is powerful.

Looking at Each Other

Yes, we were looking at each other

Yes, we knew each other very well

Yes, we had made love with each other many times

Yes, we had heard music together

Yes, we had gone to the sea together

Yes, we had cooked and eaten together

Yes, we had laughed often day and night

Yes, we fought violence and knew violence

Yes, we hated the inner and outer oppression

Yes, that day we were looking at each other

Yes, we saw the sunlight pouring down

Yes, the corner of the table was between us

Yes, our eyes saw each other’s eyes

Yes, our mouths saw each other’s mouths

Yes, our breasts saw each other’s breasts

Yes, our bodies entire saw each other

Yes, it was beginning in each

Yes, it threw waves across our lives

Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong

Yes, the beating became very delicate

Yes, the calling              the arousal

Yes, the arriving              the coming

Yes, there it was for both entire

Yes, we were looking at each other

Muriel Rukeyser   1978

What happen to our revolution?

-Cara

Emily Dickinson

When I was a kid living at home still, maybe 14 or so, I read an Emily Dickinson poem in one of my mom’s books. I liked the poem I guess, but it was strange at the same time. I read a few others and connected to them, but didn’t really understand what she was saying at the time. I guess I liked the idea of Dickinson held up in some room, staring out her window, writing, a recluse…

This poem (also known as number 465 in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson) so far has always been my favorite.

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For the last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –

I received a book of her poems as a gift years later. I have read it many times, written in it, underlined, and lived with it. I get the poems more and more as I get older. Emily Dickinson is one of the few people that keeps poetry alive in me. That is why she is today’s heroine.

Happy Tuesday.

-Cara

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