Inspiration
Of late, my work has focused on the loss of tactility in our everyday experience as urban people. There is a great distance between the physical world and our conceptual engagement of it. Food is not recognizable from it's original state, music is downloaded and "face time" means screen to screen communication. This poetry longs for a recovery of our proximity to real presences and states.
One aspect of this exploration involves the use of typewriters. I find that the visceral nature of typing on these machines inspires an appreciation for each word and intimates a rhythm that would never be perceived otherwise. Many of these poems begin on the subway and then get banged out on my Olympia Report Deluxe Electric. I truly hope you will enjoy engaging with Tactility.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Gypsies
Your hand on my leg
Feels like a sack of grain.
I'm full of skillet fixins,
lukewarm coffee
and the orange juice
I should have avoided.
It always makes me anxious.
Their voices quivered
over breakfast
and sang
over dinner last night.
A shakespearean profusion
of Island tales
and dining room gossip. Touching.
But I do not want
to be touched
without greed,
without desire.
Your hand on my leg feels like
A sleeping child.
Weighty and adhesive.
It's for you.
It's something you need.
So I oblige it.
I could've broken my wrist
jumping over the balcony like that,
In slow motion.
In that moment, I too was old and forgetful.
I'm sweating a little in my jeans underneath the place
your hand is resting,
on my leg.
If only you could need me a little
less than I fear you do.
If only we could be like two gypsies,
companions for a journey
without end.