My Own Ode Things

Inspired by Neruda's work I am staring with this one but it has many phases of editing to go through before it is usable (for what I don't know). This is the unedited first draft. I'll repost it as I go.


I like rubber on the bottoms of shoes
and the way they flatten
with much walking
and the feel of keychains
interlinking rings
and the way the light reflects
yellows and silvers
the jingling in the pocket.
Yes, and... cotton
the sheet of lost fibres in the lint-trap
still warm and the layers
of black loads and blue and white
and sometimes
light blue
building up like layers of a tree
telling the history of laundry
Dull pencils fascinate me
and the way lead is liquid across paper
when I rub it with my index finger
for no reason, just to have an image
for the word "smear"
and how it traps in the print-lines
of my fingers
I like the beads of water
that escape the glass when you drink
even when you are careful
and neat
that end up on your chin and collar
and as circles in wooden furniture
that won't come out.

I like callouses,
the writer's callous
the guitar player's callous
the callous a hammer makes
And stains,
yes... stains... the tough ones
like ketchup and blood
and grass and dirt
or even the ones that
bleach eats
but they were still there,
because I remember them
and the bleach was mine.

That dried spot of coffee on the morning paper,
the fray on the bottom cuff of old jeans
that trails in the rain.
I like the warmth
of the pumpkin dent
that impression on a cushioned chair
after someone has been there awhile
comfortably...
I like the fold-lines in books, tiny folds in the top corners,
little flags
and the underlines and the highlight lines
and the miniscule tears in bindings
faded titles and old publishing dates.
I like nail-clippings
and hair-clippings at the barber
I like scars that are dark and deep
and the soft rose of the line
the sun draws noses and cheeks
and sun-burnt lips too
that
are swollen and sensitive
to kissing.

Yes.
We make our mark on this world
and I like to notice it
and be reminded that we are here
and enduring
These are
the signs of use
and of work
and pleasure
continually renewed
the little left-behinds of humanity.

Delugeional

Deadly deluge swamps Northeast - Weather - MSNBC.com

Drenched

As I was standing this morning at 8:05AM on the Winthrop bus-stop in the rain with my little grey octagon heaven floating above me while I held it up on a silver scepter as though I were God and were allowing it to rain everywhere except on me,
as I noticed the rainwater creeping up my pant-leg like water up a thirsty plant-stem toward my calves and later toward my kneecaps,
as my white shoes turned grey cream,
as I watched the street puddles grow and the cars cut them with their wheels and the waves fly up on both sides like the Red Sea,
as the world passed by in indifference, in their cars, on their feet, under their plaid, pink, blue, spotted and striped umbrellas,
as I stood there, by myself, under my arcylic sky, the edges a little torn and drops trickling dissonantly from the tips of the metal skeleton frame, I thought:

what a perfectly wonderful metaphor for my life.