Long, Hard Rain
Now will there be cat poems??
There have always been
cat poems They were cat poems
before I knew about it All along,
such large and small cats
inside my poetry, behaving AND NOT
EVEN ONCE did they disturb me
They kept to themselves
during the time it took
for me to…
cat poem found a home at 30 x Lace : )
happy national poetry month
3:05 pm • 12 April 2014 • 33 notes
Do you ever have nightmares when you’re awake?
Like say you are, for instance stuck in an elevator with the parents from 7th Heaven.
The other lady, a civilian, just got off at her floor teetering a little
on account of her upside-down- lightbulb-pregnancy-shape
then all of a sudden BAM ! BAM ! BAM !
There were waterguns under their jackets? What on earth??
Now they’re saying what you said right back after
They’re using their faces to make the fart sound
and other stuff like that.
I SURRENDER! you say. I SHOULDN’T HAVE. I WAS DRUNK, OKAY?
NO-CAN-DO the dad goes, passing off his watergun to gesture to you in a stern, moral kind of way, like ‘son this is for your own good.’ meanwhile, the mom is Fucking Letting You Have It, supersoakers in both hands, some of the fire raining back on herself so you can see her very hard nipples through the lightish colored paisley shirt, yelling Drunk is no excuse!!!! but looking like Lara Croft or something, Jesus, and now you’re stuttering, can’t say anything, can’t even think really until this second when you all of a sudden recognize, making this quiet retard face away from your body obviously not seeing it but you can remember, first from the time on the bus and when you couldn’t say all through Jean asking over and over what was wrong after. She was so mad! But there were other times too, with movies, and even once by the pool or with J, stealing a watermelon from outside the flower store which was weird. It was sleeting too. and just then at the same time you notice your dumb arousal you yell “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL MOM!!”
7:52 pm • 11 April 2014 • 12 notes
Jack Mankiewicz: A Poem Written While Watching the Chargers Play the Broncos
I left your flowers at the bowling alley.
I was very drunk.
An indian man who was bowling
alone, like me,
stared as if he was looking at a solar eclipse,
shielding his eyes and squinting
as I burned the edges of your tulips
with a lighter, and then plucked the petals off
and began eating them one by one.
So I guess I didn’t leave your flowers
at the bowling alley. I actually
ate them at the bowling alley.
7:04 pm • 2 April 2014 • 22 notes
"1906" on Everyday Genius
This is a poem from my forthcoming book. The book is about, or erm, working with/talking to the life and work of Mark Rothko. The book is a poetry book.
2:56 pm • 20 March 2014 • 11 notes
The Write Stuff: Lucy Tiven on Courage and Keeping People Connected
Evan Karp interviewed me and recorded me reading some poems. I had just been drenched in a downpour and was wearing a pricey dress I misguidedly bought after an interview for a shmaltzy art gallery job I ended up not getting. This is all to say: here is an interview with a vaguely destitute and incompetent person pretending to be an adult of some kind.
7:58 pm • 6 March 2014 • 14 notes
four poems on the scrambler
they’re a little achey-breakey but hey i guess i’m just that kinda gal
9:35 pm • 18 February 2014 • 22 notes
three new poems on metazen
on valentines day these poems of mine got published though later i blacked out at a tiki bar. you can decide how the wins/losses add up.
5:32 pm • 16 February 2014 • 18 notes
I remember that I did not always know authors were ordinary people living ordinary lives, and that an ordinary life was an obscure life, if we can extend the meaning of obscure to mean covered up by dailiness, glorious dailiness, shameful dailiness, dailiness that is difficult to figure out, that is not always clear until a long time afterward. Obscure: not readily noticed, easily understood, or clearly expressed. Which is a pretty good definition of life.
I remember, I remember the house where I was born.
I remember driving by the hospital where I was born and glancing at it—I was in a car going sixty miles an hour—and feeling a fleeting twinge of specialness after which I had no choice but to let it go and get over it, at sixty miles an hour.
I remember I was a child, and when I grew up I was a poet. It all happened at sixty miles an hour and on days when the clock stopped and all of humanity fit into a little chapel, into a pinecone, a shot of ouzo, a snail’s shell, a piece of soggy rye on the pavement.
— Mary Ruefle
9:22 pm • 7 January 2014 • 6 notes