sort of a reversion to how i used to sound. not much like what i've been working on lately, but the voice went back to fit a subject from long ago i guess.

written in the shadow of two old poems by cory and corey, and a prompt from a friend. guess all three reminded me of one thing. I had a cockatiel growing up.

Ricky, because I held out for so long

It's christmas, in the house where I grew up
but I sleep in the guest room now,
I don't unpack my bags, I stay up most of the night,
go downstairs to get a snack,
maybe a bite of my sister's
(or mom's, they both shared the cooking) fresh-baked gingerbread,
but rounding the corner, I expect what is not there--

It's been years since then, when my dad came out to the driveway
when he heard his car coming home from lacrosse practice, I was sweating still,
in the driveway, when he came outside. His voice shook and choked faintly
on some dry corpuscula a bit like when something more serious had happened.
It was so worrying I was almost relieved to find out you had died-
that it was you we were burying. That's the amazing thing
about how tenderly he told me.
He hated birds. "FLYING RAT!"
or some other faux hardnosed
bull shit everytime you squawked
or tweeted or twerked or whistled or whatever else you did
and even falling asleep with birds out the window every warm day since then
it's so hard to hear those sounds now
because you didn't belong here,
they are nothing like you, the hawk that would watch you through the window,
fuck him. The robins that hop in the grass, fuck them too,
the cardinal, the sparrows, the bluejay, the chickadees,
hummingbirds, they can all go to hell.
I never had a pet before (for obvious reasons) and probably never will get another--
I barely can take care of myself and I don't like to clean up after anybody
but yours truly, King Nobody the Unnoticeable, going to get a snack,
thinking none of this at first, and then all of it,
late december, barefoot on woodfloor,
the most silent 7 people in one house could sound,
snow-blue light from the yard momentarily enough to see 21-and-a-half years by,
after, with inverse effect, I hesitate
before turning the light on in the kitchen,
trying not to wake you up.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Last edited by jiminizzle at Aug 29, 2013,
corey's poem still makes me cry. this poem was worth it for the title and last three lines alone. the middle was definitely shakey and much more direct than your normal style. that ending though, perfect.
there were a lot of phrases in this poem that i truly loved, the pacing and the flow of them was really great. i guess i could agree that the middle is shaky but not that shaky; it would perhaps be better read aloud is all.