Jocelyn Zoe

Posted on Jun 20, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

She does all things right
But even if she didn’t,
the mat would still welcome her to yoga—
stretching,
fainting
beneath her form—
dizzy—
many days, forlorn.
But each touch of her hand
And bend of knee—
Each curl of a toe
brings him back a little more.

She does nothing wrong
But even if she did,
wrong would suddenly be right.
You’d see,
Religions would rewrite
their texts—
Day renamed Night.
Starting at her topmost feature
they’d start down
assigning letters to all her
fleshy parts
Ending at the ground.

And they’d write a song of passion, mirth.
A song commemorating
her happy birth.
A song of Summer and Spring
And Autumn.
Of those they’d sing.
But of Winter too.
For there’d be days when she’d feel sad.. ):
days, forlorn.
But if in those times, she reads this,
I hope it
brings her back a little more.

Happy Birthday to Me

Posted on Jun 10, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

Happy Birthday to me.
It takes just a second on waking to remember.
It’s June but it feels like December.
I roll from my bed,
spin to my feet,
stand and walk to the window
to see if anything’s changed.
Little things—
the grass is a bit longer, but not so much from yesterday.
The fence, it’s weathered,
but it’s been weathering forever.
And the street, its pavement that looked so new,
just one year ago,
now is cracked in its length—
And its full breadth—
its edges, at places, caving into the ditches.
This all reminds me of something.
Ah, but why try and remember?
It’s June but it feels like December.

My father once said,
you’ve a long way to go,
when referencing some age he’d held
like a job
at some firm,
with floor after floor rising into the clouds.
Before he climbed one floor too high,
And I never saw him again.

From this window, the sun’s rolling in,
and the breeze,
summer air,
its smells strip every care.
It’s been doing this for men
like my Dad and I,
for millions of years.

Just feet down our road
there’s a lake, carved deep in the soil
by masses of ice, which I’m positive
fanned out to the very place where I stand
Slowly cutting the world that I see,
left, right,
every feature in sight,
into being.

I imagine myself in a lawn chair,
sitting atop it,
riding this ice like a madman,
as it creeps inch by inch
Forging new reality
for the next generation of riders.

The glass

Posted on Jun 1, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The glass slides shut
And I see gold rims on your shoes
And —No Talking— in your eyes
While your ankles
are at angles
that most men would sell their souls for
And your knees,
they’re too friendly to each other for my liking.
I could eat you.
The glass slides again and you leave
without a look
And I file you away under
“fuck”
Later.
When we’re home and we don’t talk about it
Since our breath will talk enough
And your knees will talk in different ways.

When the rain comes

Posted on May 25, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

I love it when the rain comes down
and washes away
all those feelings I had
And makes me say
things I don’t say on sunny days.
I see shadow,
grays.
with your name on my lips
I sleep the day away

I love it when the rain comes down
and carries me off
to a place of my childhood,
a place caught
in my happiest memories
that now feel like
dream.
how close they are
But how far they seem

The girl in the stone

Posted on Feb 1, 2013 in Poetry, Writing

The girl in the stone
has no seam

I’m back

Posted on Jan 3, 2013 in Poetry, Writing

In technical terms,
every moment of my life is now.

So I’m back holding my Slinky at Christmas,
With Stretch Armstrong nearby
And my chemistry set.
Phenolphthalein.
I can see the odd looks
as I say it to the neighbor kids.
Phenolphthalein
Phenolphthalein
Try it, you’ll feel smart.

I’m back to reading every ad
in the back of Popular Science,
so carefully, as if it were a textbook.

I’m back to the apartment complex swimming pool.
There’s Mary Whitehead,
She’s twisting the water from my towel.
Her friend helps.

I’m back to lighting the dumpster on fire
with my brother Matt,
burning the rubber off my sneakers.

I’m back with my sister Peggy.
She’s throwing her clothes out
her bedroom window again.
Littering the lawn.

I’m back with my brother Jimmy,
and his so perfect breath.
Officer Bruno is chasing him
up the railroad tracks during school.

I’m back in my father’s deli in Delaware.
I’m steaming a sub roll in the back.

I’m back driving my Chevy Camaro.
Delana is at my window.

I’m back in Johnson City with Jim
prank calling my future wife Christine.
She’s putting on nail polish,
The making of a metaphor
I’ll never live down.

I’m back with my Mom.
She’s negotiating a price on a van,
with Italian charm and skill,
to a price so low,
you’d not believe it.

I’m back with my Dad.
He’s trapped me in a room
while he tells me of God.
I won’t hurt his feelings by leaving.
I won’t.

I’m back in the mall.
Misty’s howling from her pet store cage,
turning us around to save her,
to save us.

I’m back with my daughter Jess,
And her funny face
And her cat, Nichol, with steps up the wall.

I’m back with my daughter Laura,
with Daisy on her shoulder.
She’s baaa’ing like a sheep
in her sisters ear
in the car
And she’s skating circles around us all
on her rollerblades.

I’m so glad that I’m back,
but I wonder why I was ever fooled
to believe I ever left
all those moments.
I’m so glad that I’m back.

Tarry (v2)

Posted on Oct 24, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed,
ankles,
sundress—
irrelevant as the lack of the
sun—

The bend of your knee,
thigh, then
thigh,
form versus function,
sky—

The leaf has dropped

Posted on Jul 29, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

The leaf has dropped
too many times.
The second hand charges to its next iteration.
The dead horse has been beaten to dust.
Let us break the clay pot,
God-mimicker,
and name it a boy.

Tarry

Posted on Apr 29, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed—ankles—sundress—irrelevant as the lack of the sun. The bend of your knees, thigh, then thigh, form vs function, sky—

ward—As my heartbeats skip, as the ladder shakes—you tarry—I overtake

you—I am inside.

My name, my name, never in vain—

—tempt me, love me, for heaven’s sake, speed my breath from above me.

The cooking makes me cry

Posted on Feb 27, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

My hands run up your slender stalks—
my eyes and heart go further.
Are we so different anymore—
my nails, their marks—
the earth.
The other day, I felt my knees,
they woke and hinged too wide.
I wore your clothes,
you fixed my hair.
Your cooking makes me cry.