Dead white man remembered
Visions of times gone by
Poking and prodding with fine silver picks through the
    Melting, moldering mush behind his eyes
Can we see through those foggy marbles with all of our
    Methods, our science, our modernism
His intertextuality, his sexuality,
    His ménage à trois of passions, fallacies, and regrets?

I have decided to post the poetry I have been working on lately.

I am taking a creative writing studio class, and also starting a similar program aimed at teen with the WF Library. THUS, I have a lot of new stuff and decided that I ought to share some of it. Here goes:

p.s. These are mostly rough drafts that I am not completely happy with, feel free to comment

O'Hara I Am Not

It is 5:18 and I am floating near the end of class
So far Pollack has painted,
Lady Day has died,
And I have finished a can of Squirt which reminds me

Of a dusty ’66 Ford truck without seatbelts
Unsuccessfully spitting sunflower seeds out the window
On the way to the lumbar yard on scratchy unnatural upholstery
And I notice the rust on my hands after I slam the door.

Hardly anyone speaks up in class, yet as soon as it is over
No one can hear because all speak at the same time
The tiled floor and and molded tin ceiling
Reflecting the voices, turning them into noise
Broken sentences flying about hitting me in the head
As I try to hide, entrenched behind my laptop,
Barricading myself from the shrapnel of those statements.

The truck was sold long ago
And with it went my childhood
It was a rainy Saturday afternoon when my innocence
Drove away in the hands of a man I had met only once before
And would never see again.
I hope he treats it well, but inside I know he won’t

The classroom has now emptied and all that is left are
Flickering fluorescent lights
The hum of electronics left on, forgotten in the corner
And me
Still hiding

Wondering where the truck is now,
Maybe I could buy it back.