I’ve written ten poems in twenty minutes for thirty days in a row. That means I’ve written three hundred poems. It seems impossible. Points to anyone who’s read them all.
10 Poems in 20 Minutes
To find a place to sit
Answer to no one
Rock in a chair
Feel less constant guilt
When he or she is goodmooded
Waiting for the anger to return
Because the happy makes the mad worse
I know it’s there waiting
She said how are you
For just a second I thought
Maybe she cared
Duty to ask
She was the envy of the other housewives
Not because she had no husband
But because his sorry-death money
Meant she didn’t have to work
I use to yell at myself
When I change my mind
When I sit and stare
When I don’t know
Not good enough
It’s all going to go like this
Forever I’ll be waiting for next
And these same fears will stick with me
Problems now, issues later
I’m never going to resolve
I’d like to exchange my fears and hopes for someone else’s cards
Just to try them out
See if their hand gives me more peace of mind
If I had my confidence now
When I sat down at the new lunch table
I would have sauntered
Not sat with my plastic bag
Threadbare doesn’t make sense to you
Until you’ve felt it on your skin
Then the wind
That damn stupid dog
She can’t stand to eat now
Her paw curls under
Broken neurons or whatever
Bone and brain cancer maybe
She’s doped up
She cried on the floor of the kitchen in front of her food
Stop watching me wait for her to die
I dip my hand in my head. Pull up a memory.
It’s a good one, I remember.
Grandpa convinced me that watermelon seeds would grow in my belly.
I got so nervous, but no one would tell me truth, they just laughed.
And I was still so careful to avoid the black pellets, in case.
The tablecloth was blue and stained, my bowl with the heart and dot print.
I remember all the times I’ve pulleyed this one to the surface.
Each time with a grim sort of smile.
First realizing he was teasing.
Next figuring out many people tease children.
Then seeing I was pretty little.
Hearing the myth about seeds growing many times.
Knowing in class that seeds don’t grow in bellies, acid.
Understanding that teasing, for him, showed caring.
As if the memory is less important than all the times I’ve remembered it.
I follow my thoughts, grow with my stomach size.