a poem: butter on bread
(something i’ve never liked)
seeing as you're my best friend in this moment
you're like the hummingbird outside my kitchen window -
i'll confess something to you tonight,
here! come close, i'll whisper as follows:
>>i have amorous feelings toward doubt.
henceforth: what should i do,
about the unfolded laundry hanging
in my sopping bathroom?
when will i fix the drain?
when will i begin to like butter?
a walnut is a little brain!
i saw the moon’s nail in the sky -
and a man, walking like an ape.
Good night
Your skin
is
a beautiful place
to sleep in
facts
months, are:
implicit intimacies.
underestimated –
by the 28th of september i had learned
how many days it contained.
we all agree September exists.
as much as Money or Sports or Lawns –
there is nothing to deny here.
Minnesota smell
Damp wool coat,
Thawing in a warm room
hope
She looked at me
So expectantly -
as if I were
the bus.
pointless
No point in convincing you
That circles fit in
Rectangles: that
Rectangles fit in
Circles:
That a point may be one
Aspect, belonging to
a Length.
No point.
I know for myself.
hello friend:
how do you handle your loneliness?
does the key to it rest in stars?
can their channeled light unlock the bolt?
a question: what’s its texture?
is it thick like honey or stringy like a squash?
how do you soup it up?
or does it pour all over you! (funny!)
friend: does your loneliness look like mine?
do you think we could walk together,
in whichever form we acquire?
do you dare to dance?
or dare to hover?
will you risk the option,
- shall we look at the stars together?
dear, friend: my beloved -
each day i’ll move a stone for you.
beloved: each day i promise
i’ll be happy.
friend: tell me, shall we set aside
our loneliness as we take the space
to hold each other’s hands?
berlin black
I.
Berlin:
I’m biking back
In Berlin Black
With my backpack, on my track.
Two wheels on the pavement
Under a licorice sky.
Berlin Black: when the Spree gets violent,
With its thickness like tar.
Berlin Black: where the predators
come out to share the road,
Jackals of the night.
I think of you in Berlin Black.
Of your picture, something grotesque.
I learned from you Monopoli is a city in southern Italy.
I learned about more parts down south, too.
Back to the scene:
Berlin Black.
The sky has an absence of attitude,
It leaves impressions on the river,
The river takes its color
and makes it rumble -
It shakes it like maracas:
The jingle jangle of black.
Berlin Black: these nights the Spree spreads its legs,
Black licorice being pulled,
The spree - glossy latex - smacking back high-five
to the jarring cackling moon.
II.
On these restless nights, I find myself -
- Undisciplined.
I may end up somewhere - I didn’t
Set out to be. -
Me: in Berlin Black,
With my backpack,
Off my track,
With a Lamborghini riding past.
The man driving the Lamborghini:
He’s wearing his sunglasses in the dark,
He’s lighting his cigarette,
And filling the cabin with smoke.
He’s driving straight down to Checkpoint Charlie.
Revving up the engine,
He passes the sacks of sand with abandon.
Lamborghini winks at the blonde soldier sign.
Tells him: hey.
Berlin Black:
When the spree gets darker than wet tar,
When my legs make perfect os,
When my legs hold a secret between them.
When the sleek black cars come off of their streets
And slink like leopards
Down Mitte’s passageways with me.
I think of you in Berlin Black,
Of your picture, something grotesque.
You taught me Rome was a place of luxury.
You told me Rome made you fear, made you frail.
Back to the scene:
Berlin Black.
Me and my backpack,
With a BMW riding past
III.
On these restless nights you might find yourself undisciplined.
You might end up somewhere,
You didn’t set out to be.
Me and the man’s accordion music:
Concrete audience,
Bookshelf applause.
The racing BMWs are louder than his Bach,
The man’s machismo is wider than my hips-
The river’s black is giving back
The sky’s absence with attitude:
Come at me. I’ll eat you whole.
It’s my secret that I go out at night
and dance with the predators.
I do it on my bicycle,
And I don’t talk to anyone about it.
I dance with the predators against a neutral backdrop.
Prada sans patrons.
Gucci con no one.
I think of you in Berlin Black,
Of your picture, something grotesque.
You told me my body was something to be ashamed of.
It reminded you of how you were bullied.
I think of you as I pedal under a starless sky.
I thank you for being so wrong.
Berlin black:
Me: with my backpack,
On my track,
With an Audi riding past.
I think of you in Berlin Black.
My legs make perfect os.
The spree shakes the jingle jangle of black.
All photos and texts copyright Elly Jarvis
