--To Penelope

Dear Penelope,
Sometimes, when the air is gray and feathery
and my heart is peacock blue
from time to time i look in space
and try and talk to you.

Oh Penelope,
My impatience reaches the nth degree
yet nothing occurs
and i am planted among the firs
listlessly roaming my mind
to find a reason of some kind.

How did you do it Penelope?
such faith seems an impossibility
how could you wait so long?
your will as stout as a mammoth throng
your hope an ever present moon
on the dark nights when the ravens croon.

Penelope,
I truly feel that you listen to me,
i can nearly see you now
with brown honey curls and a fair brow
dressed in a light marigold gown
the image of our tongue's every lovely noun.

Oh Penelope,
That you were alive and well, to be
sitting calmly next to me
with a candle in your fair white hand
and across your front a daisy band
with your wise gray eyes glistening,
sitting by my side, listening.

-Pamplemousse

Abraham

four eyes

hey there four eyes
hiding behind your lens of lies
when i look at you it seems
the light reflects off the glass's reams
and i see just white reflection
you are impervious to my detection.

hey there four eyes
behind your lens you seem so shy
it makes me wonder why you hide
and if your glasses are a dam for the tide.
does that glass get steamy and wet?
do your eyelashes hit the screen, twitching as they fret?

hey there four eyes
stop hiding from yourself.

i know those glasses serve as a screen


between you and the mirror.

-Pamplemousse

The fifty-seven thousandth time...

Once, I said I was sorry
and vowed never to say it again. 
All the other times,
it was

"Six times, I said I was sorry
and vowed..."

because as soon as

"The final time, I said I..."

I die. 

Now,
I don't want to be dead
sorry. 


-Citron

bland smoothie

am i old-fashioned to think

that sitting in circles talking about our feelings
with complete strangers and expressing false concern
admiration, trepidation
encouragement
and holding hands and swaying
and forming blending machine friendships,

ingredients:
throw two people together unlike in taste
force them to mix and interact at high intensity
for a batting of a lash
and then
pour them out, into a tall skinny glass
and see that they are stereotypical liquid
together and of the same viscosity
then drink it up. because it will last at most a beat of a heart.

am i old-fashioned to think this pointless
a tiresome waste of time?

i do not pour the contents of my heart into a great glass bowl
and pass it around the table.
i keep the mixture to myself.

-Pamplemousse

the Declaration of Independence

drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
clickclickclick
hisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss



-Citron

typical bus ride

i use playing cards as bookmarks
reading about the yams
in the heart of Nigeria
and the men are tall and brutal
and the women are strong and wise
the spirits dwell
the children play
the elders sing

and then i look up,
a fleeting moment of glass reflection
but no, it is glass perception
a man disappearing into a door
into the wardrobe he goes

i wonder...

-Pamplemousse

retrospect of sugary diets- I ate that?

The young men leave, they say, to hitchike in France
because they want the old world, and what better place to find it?
cathedrals are old, so they go.

Curls, and a ten-cent anthology
and the icing.  You like the icing
and so you eat it sitting in a desk

and nobody tells the men why the world is new
and nobody uses the desk
work around it, curls.

that's all I can bear, and so
I will never bake bread.
This is a note return-adressed refrigerator;
hello.  Passing by you,
I cannot read your mind on sidewalks.

Which is what's so hard about the old world
because I would like to shout
cathedrals are no longer in style
hitchiking is dangerous
for a woman like me.


-Citron

karma

have you ever thought....


that maybe karma is a person?
a wickedly clever imp,
green as Medusa's serpent hair,
with wise and daring eyes
that watch

everything unfold.

he is the catalyst of revenge
but not revenge birthed from human mind
but the revenge of the very universe itself.

invisible to human eyes, he creeps and stalks
hiding in the crevices of the room
waiting for the opportunity
to strike
to claim the cosmos' redemption
to be the servant of revenge for everything

perhaps that is why any bad thing happens
the mischievous elf of mayhem
no one is perfect
no action goes unnoticed
he is watching at all times...

but then again.
what if karma,
is nothing but a mental trick
a seed planted in the mind
an excuse, a reason
a psychological mechanism to blame the universe.
but not yourself.

the poor universe, a perfect scapegoat.

so watch out, whether by accident, mentally or magically
if you commit any sin, whether purposefully, or not.

the little olive dwarf...
might just crawl out of your ear
and pay you a visit.


-Pamplemousse

[Camus Haiku]

Yanek's poems were
bombs. Je suis un "Juste" aussi-
my bombs are poems.


-Citron

ghost

do you even see that im here?
i feel, to you, i am transparent
does my hair fall clear
do my toes curl translucent?
i am right here always
i haven't escaped the blaze
but instead i stay
and watch you pray.

-Pamplemousse

the extension cord

It seems kind of silly for the plasticed power line
to go again,
from in to out,
from trees to soil
to upwell oil
to smoke and current
to house, defer it
back to the air
to blow the last few leaves
off the driveway.



-Citron

stranger in row 820.9-847.4

to the boy in the library:
hello. you may have wondered why
i could barely reach just shy
of the shelf that held The Language of Shakespeare
i will tell you, i realized it was not as near
as it pretended to be, it's smile was a leer
it told me come, reach for that star
reach and reach your nails as far
as possible, and i will descend for you
alas, i did not have a clue
that it would Ascend out of my grasp
and make me reach reach reach and gasp
because i felt my ribs elasticizing
my breath heaving and breathalizing
and yes, right as i reached the summital climax
i jus swiftly heard the tic tacs tic tacs
of your converse on the library floor
just coming out the bathroom door
frozen in space, im afraid you heard me groan
vertically sprawled across the books that drone
and snore and creak when they sleep.
yes you seemed a bit of a creep,
because after an embarrassed lapse where i calmly sat
studiously burrowing like a little bookrat
i saw you pass again, on the other side
yes i saw you, it can't be denied.

so, strange college student
maybe your nose is bent
or maybe you have an extra toe
or an ear that doesn't show.

but if Mistress Serendipity wishes that we meet another time
i hope i am not bending down, to look upon a fallen dime

-Pamplemousse

What do you mean?

This evening’s sky refrained from blazing,
and illuminately pulled away instead.
I forgot to pack lunch,
and the orange the sweatered boy holds to me
does not catch me on fire
but smells waxy wet and like the grocery store
even here on the desert mountain
When I pop the slice pods with my molars,
the fruit is neon sweet to the sand’s beige. 
The tiger is a jungle flower
and a traffic signal
and dripping paint on a black rug.
You asked me why I didn’t know how
about the leaves on the mountain.
I don’t respond;
Orange is a complicated emotion.


-Citron

moonbeam

sitting in the ratty gray front seat
suff'ring from the blazing heat
i propped my elbow on the rest
and watched the hills i love the best
no
not the ones on the other side of the glass.

the ones far far away
overlooking a humble bay
maybe one among them is much fatter
the others gaunt and skinny mounts
the tops don't crest but they are flatter
than the tone of the flatteur's flounts

is this cove real?
of course not.

but i think of it,
and not the starved dry grass
that is smashed on the mounds of dirt
by the persistent glares of the sun.
framed and surrounded by

                                                   barren telephone poles.

-Pamplemousse

I think my calculus notes were already a poem.

-Citron

a riddle

what changes color
from passionate purple to bulbous black?
what changes texture
from warm soft fur, to slithering granite?
what is powerful beyond belief
painful beyond relief
and acts as a saint and a thief?
sanctifying and robbing a helpless soul?
what changes with each dawn
metamorphs and blooms and dies
what causes an ache
so that it is difficult to breathe
but yet still causes an elation
that also takes one's breath away...
a kite that soars among cirrus
a cockroach that scurries under lava rock

this is a kaleidoscope
an endless maze of illusions
a labyrinth difficult to escape


-pamplemousse

twist

-Citron

defenseless hercules

stress is a many headed hydra
that seethes and snaps its truculent jaws
it causes not just one problem
but a plethora of issues that make ones life a hell of snakes

-Pamplemousse

Road, Night Jog (haiku)

black snake after me.
running towards the streetlamp 'till
shaaadow's under foot. 


-Citron

tension

i can not stand the suspense

the tension anxiety and i

don't know if i should or...

if i possibly shouldn't 

it's all my fault

but no one will know

is that right?

when emotions run away

logic is thrown to the cockroaches

-Pamplemousse

Dusky

Some sky is blue
the sun left
around the edge yellowed
like the spines of books
you will touch eventually
but the author only ever did
on dusty library shelves
pink like his love
is seeping out
at dusk.


-Citron

Photos of lies

His eyes frozen in time
Never to blink again
Captured by a moment of film
An uncomfortable smile
Makes him seem so goofy and unnatural
I wonder what he's like
What long and forlorn paths he's ventured

Without probing photos there
To give him false identity


-Pamplemousse

Gumption

(for Zoé)



let's be crazy
do the sunlight dance
and paint over all the white faces
in the church
and laugh as we calculate
and sing as we titrate
let's be crazy
and do that art thing.


-Citron

The Eden of My Eardrums

you know those songs that never get old?
you know those songs everyone hates...but you?

those songs are the tears of the butterflies
the pure blood of the iroquois
those words are the storm on the mountain
the salt of the ocean
the blades in the grass
the red of bloodshot eyes.
the euphoria of a heart beat.

those songs are the Eden of my eardrums.

-Pamplemousse

Shoes

I walk a lot.

More oft than not
I wear shoes on
both of my feet.

On Sundays I wear nice black ones. 
My cool schoolshoes are sweet.

When I'm in rushing hurry
I slip on mom's old pink Crocs,
and if I were to choose my shoes
I'd wear sandals and socks.

At home uncovered toes you greet:
I'm happiest in my bare feet.


-Citron

el amor cruel

Love is a sunset that glitters in bright jewelled power
but menaces the sky with each passing hour.

They do not speak, merely glower into foreign thoughts
business like conversation their speech river draughts.

Their rotten hair, gray but not yet white and dead,
covers the orb where thoughts of the other have fled.

Her glowing eyes confess her unfortunate devotion
to the man who of her existence, has absolutely no notion.

The ripe pomegranate, unnoticed, has fallen from the tree,
no one realizes that only the worms see the absentee.

His poor flabby heart has been over-juiced with wrenching spite
he can barely see her eyes when she sneers from her pompous height.

Everyone knows that those lovely, shells from the sand
are hollow and all too soon become bland.

Through her uncleaned lenses she comes across a horror appalling
the sight of a shattered fantasy that sets her very insides crawling.

Love is a sunset that glitters in bright jewelled power

but menaces the sky with each passing hour.

-Pamplemousse

The castle in the sky will never fade
Though love's light blossoms turn to thick dirt
I will never cease to think of that place in my dreams.
The stories that my father told me I shall not forget.
Even as a callous bruised old maid
I will close my tired old eyes
And remember sitting on my father's lap
My head resting on his warm rhythmic chest
Listening to the tales of that beautiful fortress among the clouds
I will never reach the castle but at times
On the darkest of nights I will see it twinkling down at me.

-Pamplemousse

Love and stuff

Strummmmmm
Ahem.  This next one is a
Strummmmmm
kind of cheesy love song.  I call it a grilled cheese sandwhich
Strummmmmm
song, ahem, because its cheesy and hot and a little burnt too.
well, really, I like two types of songs
pluckpluckpluckpluck
the deep, intellectual ones, and this kind. 
Strummmmmm
aHHem. but I guess that's all the songs
iSsnTtRitUMMMMM
Glide
Strummm Strummm pluckpluckpluck
Strummm Strummm pluckpluckpluck


-Citron

lady in the black and white

E vergreen star, why must you scorn my sweet concern?
Dead is my heart, frozen in the winter of your scoffing turn.
I ndigo angel on your balcony in the castle in the sky
T ry to fathom the deep moonbeams shooting from my heart.
H eliotrope rose that has crumbled, in one scorching cry,
L ike the pillars of the temples in the apocalypse of dawn,
I can not see your pupils, consumed in the flames
E arly on, when you were young, in the springtime of the lawn
S alty weeds had not yet grown o'er the cripples and the lames.
I nstead of dancing I turned to grieving
N one of that worked so I settled on leaving.
R eading the haphazard notes you slipped to me
E ntreating my mind under our tree
"Do not forget me, my dear, it is meant to be."

-Pamplemousse

I was side walking, sunset to my left and I saw (a haiku)

Black man had the right-
-of-way.  Stayed still.  Who moves first?
A motionless crash.


-Citron

procrastination

procrastination, the drug of all students
undetectable and invisible
but incredibly destructive
addictive as any mary jane

the drugs i succumb to most easily
facebook
sudoku
facebook
boggle
facebook

the drugs of a lonely, nosy nerd...

that has not started the project due tomorrow.


-Pamplemousse

Editing (a haiku)

When I edit the
poem from yesterday it
shines dialectic.


-Citron

...a bad morning

crying in the shower 

is the safest, most alone feeling in the world

the water surrounds you, it is beating on your body

applying pressure

the roaring noise of the water is all you hear.

and floods leak from your eyes

torrents of salty bitterness

of acrid anger

submerse your being into

a bubble of liquid

clear and burning hot

steaming the mirrors

every pore seems to open and release

small rivulets.

i feel pressure upon my chest

unbearable

and then a release.

but i do not feel any better.

the pressure returns.

i still weep, my cries silenced by the crashing on the shower curtains

and i still remain vulnerable, invisible

i become the water.

a pointless torrent of hot angry tears.


-Pamplemousse

The Printed Fan

It's probably only worth a nickel and a half of ink paper and wood
and less before it was printed.  It traveled miles and miles to end up
hosting a film of dust
above my desk. 

I bought a beautiful tea set today at an attic sale
and need that space. 

I got it at a concert with my best friend- for PR they were handing them out
simple black and white design, logo
and space to sign.
Dark, wet air,
hot, beer smells
the fan did come in handy that day.  It was a good invention and extremely effective.
But it is no longer effective. 

I don't listen to the band anymore and the memory is not as beautiful
as the white teacup with the blue flowers
that I bought today
for a nickel and a half. 

(Tea sets are no longer effective either, remember)

This is all well you say but the space can be shared!
I'm sorry you misunderstand.
The teacup is not competition
but a catalyst. 

That is why we need beautiful things.


-Citron

night before the dance

the dress lies casually against the chair,
casually and effortlessly,
but very carefully arranged, to cause no wrinkles,
no night before the dance misfortunes.

the shoes are strewn across the floor,
they do not match perfectly,
but in the dark and fluorescent of the blinking lights
they will be perfect.

she stares blankly ahead, thinking forward
forward 24 hours...
what will they entail?


-Pamplemousse

Methotrexate

Mom's sleeve was pushed up. 
"Move perpendicular to my arm,
pull back.  If there is blood,
take the needle out and try again.
If there isn't, press the plunger slowly
but not too slowly."
I could hurt her very badly. 

The first time,
I went too fast
and when I took the needle out of her arm
a drop of the green gold colored suff
dripped out as well. 
"That one syringe is $6000 of chemo.  Don't waste any."

Sometimes,
the first try is the only one that matters. 

This is good practice for the meaningful things
is the normal refrain,
on songs less spontaneous
and on experiments that can be repeated.

I refuse for the drop
that didn't even enter her
to be all I have of these days. 



-Citron

the block of marble, overlooked

My child, you are a marble block.
A pure and frozen rock.
I, with my tools in my hands
will make a Venus out of you.
A Grecian statue of delicacy.
I will make your eyes shine through the pearly surface
with a chisel held gently in my hand
I will carefully chip away as in caresses,
I will take you far, you will not recognize your cumbersome self.
You will be a romantic model, a goddess of stony ice.

But I will not sculpt hastily or chisel roughly.
One false stroke and my creation falls

                        to dust among the dirt.


-Pamplemousse

Letter to the Grass

(for Aoife)

I was mowed as well yesterday. 
Only in the most desperately grasslike circumstances would I ask these
     words in all of their grassness,
circumstances like "decapitated" and "similar." 

What do you want from me?

I have never attacked the green race as a whole
(being unusually tall, I once denied one of your ranks access to the sun,
     actually, for a day.
soles die fast.  Are you blank and still enough to ripple like a pond,
hitting the edge and back
from that?)

Can I blame jealousy? 
Have you never felt the sun as it hit you? Am I just too tall?
Is it a problem because I am easily larger and more virile
and I flower?  My spores float on the wind- yours grasp and wrangle
     in the soil.

Can I blame myself?
The deciders, they like you better. But my seeds cannot grow to BE
     grass height...
they are not easily stunted.  Weeds are weeds for a reason
and your stalks can not heighten to disguise the offender!
You don't have it in you! 

I cannot imagine a relationship
more suited to mutual hopelessness.

I tower
and you squint.
I bend through the middle
and your tips ripple in droves.

I cannot blame the grass for my misfortunes.

Blades are the fate of the dandelion. 


-Citron

a drastic offering

the tears of the sun i wear around my neck
in a thin chain that sparkles in sadness


-Pamplemousse

Old and Sans

Worry because you are not real.
Only this thought is real
like a vegetable in a chocolate factory.
You will not be real tomorrow.
You will live on chocolate for the rest of your life
until you decide you would rather die of starvation.

These are the things I worry about.


-Citron

they say

they say that disorganization shows the mind of a genius.
they say that blood is a sign of victory.
they say that bad looks are the marks of a beautiful heart.
i must say
that "they"
has a point among the rounded hills of hypocrisy.


-Pamplemousse

force and FORCE

there are two kinds of FoRcEs
that would make me write this poem.

the first is FORCE.
it is not a push.
it is a radiation.
it knocks me dead,
drains the poem from my corpse
with a syringe in my side
and, once that is safely bottled away,
revives me with smelling salts (usually the poem itself,
and pride, or the sudden desire to eat
because I haven't eaten in hours...
I was dead, remember)
I wake up to a pain in my side,
and unwittingly call it the regular kind of hunger.

The second FoRcE
is just plain force.
because i want someone to read it
because i need the cash
because there are consequences if i dont comply
because i, because i.
it is like a stainless steel spoon
scraping the moss at the bottom of my soul
up through my throat
mouthful by mouthful
i spit it out
shivering and gagging
and say- that
that is a POEM.

it's not
even if i bottle it up nicely
and write the label
in all caps.


-Citron