a man walking his dog
looks at me
the time of his passage
he is a young man, clearly preposterous wrinkles in his brow
when I say, “Hi,”
he passes with no acknowledgement
we rub together on the subway
cricket’s music of sweat and jackets
people on the street are more lonely than where I’m from
we greet each other
with no bubbles to pop
there is no chance meeting in cars
we stay further apart in a room
but this is not your private space
Posted in Blog
Tagged JOETRY, park, poetry
A woman’s face in a pile of leaves
a symbolic cut stump
I think of axes and men singing
I think of sailing and I am holding ropes
freezing, wet with salt, I combat nature with my bare body
not being coddled/enclosed by machines
machines have destroyed our best culture
a pigeon lands
on top of another
i found myself in the state
that adulthood cries to recapture
young and dumb and confident
that perfect punk i thought i was
when i was seventeen
and everything in the world
belonged to me
[make no mistake, this is about making yourself / after being sick all week…maybe it was the cold medicine…our office oddly crowded with bodies all day…then they left, and i turned to put music on…later it struck me, that’s when that feeling began. perfectly summed up by the universe, later…at the shopping center bathroom, I turned to leave the stall…and there on the floor, a perfect magic safety pin…the exact size I used to pin through my shirt…right above my nipple…when I was that perfect punk, unawares]
My kitchen is someone else’s.
My bed is someone else’s.
My clothes rack is someone else’s.
I cannot cook because of you
There is a hole in my wall to the outside, where it’s 1 degree Fahrenheit, that I cannot plug.
There is a funny smell in this room of someone else’s belongings that I cannot place.
I want to rent a room.
I want to rent a room in Japan.
I want to buy a house.
It’s just flowing out of me, these days. Let’s see here:
i sit all day in this apartment we used to share
shitting, hurting myself
wondering when my
goddamn boxes will finally fill
the side of the closet that was yours
so i ran into
or rather, noticed across the street
the same old man yelling at the same tree.
he has his fans, the old man
clothes falling off him
he attracts them like flies
things too well put together
ready to fall apart out of their tight little boxes
everyone feels the pull to comment; they all want to own him in some way
i want to own him in some way, his wrinkles
neither of these poems have anything directly to do with anything happening in my life right now; or maybe they have *everything* to do
©2007 joseph walter lindsey
My face reflects the hopes and dreams of my ancestors
so I dye my hair and shave it funny
and wear the same clothes until
I have to fix them with safety pins
my face still reflects the hopes and dreams of my ancestors.
I ran into a man on the street
with one lens taped to his face
over his eye
I assume his frames
(as always, everything © 2007 Joseph Walter Lindsey)
I look at the map
on our shower curtain
and think of all the places
I’ll never have been
If I drown in the tub
Instead of looking for a job
I read a book of poetry
then I hunted another rat
(both of the above poems are © 2007 Joseph Walter Lindsey)