A bit of pink bubble gum Sticking to the chin Of a small young child Never without a grin Is a remaining reminder Of the bubble, so spherical, Stretched so thin It was almost clearical.
I wake up groggy feeling soggy I stay in bed I have a pounding in my head If you think I’m going to school You’re a fool.
I have fallen through a hole in the flag.
I. I have fallen through a hole in the flag. I HAVE FALLEN THROUGH A HOLE IN THE FLAG. Down The rabbit hole The manhole The pothole Up through the blowhole Through the hole in the wall where my brick should be Sliding down the straw, into the half empty glass—sorry that’s the kind of person I am— of milk Standing inside the door, arms pressed against either side of the bronze keyhole Thrown between the gears of the clock (by my count I’11 be crushed in 4 seconds: I 2 3, 3 and 1/2) I fell between the seat cushions of her Andy Warhol red couch, Behind the desk. I have fallen. Dusky dancers in a red Velvet theater, where artists Propagate their lust for life And claim their hour as the house lights Dim. Soft. cold, children whisper amongst themselves, Pointing. A flashlight catches an open mouth, Wide-eyed, and held by the arm, he is escorted out The white light/white heat/white flame/white noise Makes itself known. Our heads Touch as we peer into the infinite plane in front of Us, trying to make out words, Preferably in English. At night, when the air is still, The nonsensical babbling, Is heard. Your breathing soft. Your jaw relaxed, your thoughts Broken Up. There was only one set of ear plugs Left, so I sit up watching your face as it contorts, In passion, anxiety, fear; You’ll have to tell me in the morning. II. I have fallen through a hole in the flag. I’ve been shoved down stairs- the green stairs, I’ve been caught awake, and what’s worse, watching. I’ve been caught by your hand, Your eye, and your look. There is a difference. Apparently I’ve caught your anger. I’ve been caught by the teacher (she found my note I wrote in paint. although she couldn’t read it because it had smudged) I’ve been caught by the mirror and I’ve seen my brow Low and scrunched, the way my mother use to do. I don’t know what it means, but I know I’m getting old, Too young they tell me. I’ve been caught by my blinking electric clock and its red Flashing numerals, 3:47 AM, AM, AM, AM, When it’s too hot to do anything but listen.
PS: the magic page that will always jump you to the latest poem is "http://www.saintannsny.org/depart/computer/poems.html"