poems?

so i think that the handful of you people who read this crazy mess have figured out that i get really bored at work. and boredom is pretty good for the imagination, but i havent decided if its any good for poetry. ive always been quite fond of the the victorians like tennyson and poe, the romantics like shelley, byron and wordsworth and the free verse of william carlos williams. despite my affinity for reading poetry i suck at writing it. and yet i try it anyway. and today, outside of staring at emiline goulsby, i have crapped out a few lines. my goal was to write a poem each time i hit the ‘scan’ button on the scanner (i got a summer job as a digital archivist, if you didnt know). i didnt want to think too much about what i was writing (and it shows), so its all sort of automatic and unedited.

so now that i’ve dispensed the self deprecating caveats, here’s what ive come up with between the past 5 or 6 documents ive scanned. i really have no idea why i am sharing these.

I

thumbs too much
or yours
yellow, brown
downtown
going that way
toujours
held high
sang low
this and such.

and then

towers over there
bird perched
not for long.
sing its song
like at church
but i cant
for i have
nothing to wear.

———————————

II

trees rustling
in the wind-
a long road under
secadian song
over an ancient rhythm-
chirping
ess you vee
drives by

———————————

III

tail pipe spittin game
going on
after a drinking rage-
its gas guzzlin
feet poundin
flower petal to the metal
tail lights shine
all the way home
where my heart is.

———————————

IV

4:28pm-
a chill-
a shiver-
a shout-
yawn.

———————————

V

sunny day-
far away-
in that direction-
long road-

a long distance
with resistance-
designs to go on
those maps-

to sunsets
and mooncrests,
but dispositions
like this

come and go
and you know
well that all of these
things change.

———————————-

VI

blue glow and waves of white-
a wash of subdued sound-
a scream from down below
on the street-

i am sitting up,
looking from a window
with blinds barely open
to keep out the heat.

then they are parted
and a look is given
to whence the scream came.
there is no repeat,

only an echo.
the look becomes a stare,
the street a memory,
a time machine my seat-

and its all rolling back-
the pavement to dirt
and the place i sit
pulled down brick by brick.

so i hover above
and the town transforms,
85 years go by
with the clock’s single tick.

the trees get smaller
and get big again.
all time in reverse.
and so i pick

a place in the distance
that hasnt changed at all.
my ears are ringing,
and playing a trick-

the echo is growing,
and i find its coming from that umoving place
where the sun sits in the clouds
and screams in an awful heat.