Haven’t I stood here long enough

Cocooned in muffling snow, I stood at the intersection while the patient, robotic voice of a man spoke to me alone, the space of a heartbeat between each

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Before the words Walk Sign Is On… came from the traffic light post, judging the flow of traffic and interpreting the signs, I sprinted across the stream, fording seven lanes in record time.

3/18/13 Christine Vyrnon

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A poem I wrote on the bus last time we got this much snow, a month ago, originally posted to USER, my Tumblr notebook.  Public transit is good for writing poems. It forces you to get to the point.

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Little Ones*

globe detailarid
hollow arians
trying to recall
what our elders said
about being new and small
as we look into brown eyes of refugees

Cradling our lattes we mentally note
the blond haired man
with the afro-ed girl
pat us on the back
see, how far we’ve come
good job
Little One

to celebrate the human race
we eat baklava with brie
and mention the middle east
then eat wild rice with curried spam
celebration festival we live in
these great
united states

Aren’t we cultured
aren’t we great
we don’t sleep at
Super 8’s

}}}}}}}}

after talking to the blond man, I find out that he is an artist, his girl is a poet,
after talking to the afro-ed girl, I find out that she is a woman, her man is her lover
after talking to the lover, I find out that he is proud of his girl, his girl thinks he walks too slow
after talking to the fast walker, I find out that she is a woman, that he thinks she is most beautiful in shades of grey
after talking to the shade of grey, again, I find out that grey would rather be purple, that it is easy mixing some colors

but look at that woman of sorts, that woman of means, that woman of money
how she mixes her baklava with brie, how can she know, how can she think…, how can she?

I try to explain and the man says, I notice the confusion, I feel the confusion, but my girl is beautiful and beauty among mundane worlds can not be put aside easily
so i am at his side, she says

and we were hoping you still carry the freerange chickensalad

he asks, smoke-free joint I suppose

I’m afraid so, I say, as if……………

what do i know
lost in the translation

*This poem is  from an early 2000 journal, possibly pre-9/11… exact date to be rediscovered.  I transcribed it to my computer in the mid 2000s and having been toying with it ever since.  It needs more fiddling around, but this is what I have, so far. 

Ames Library of South Asia

Ames Library of South Asia

derelict lyrics:reed llik: Poem originally posted to teandoranges blog in 2009

Sunday, March 1, 2009

derelict lyrics:reed llik

One of my goals
1. to live in an insignificant and pointless town
where people never pull the shades
and double breasted bankers are shot in cold blood
by horses on foot

One of my goals
1. to form a jam band of infinite eternal songs
and the die hard fans who breed in the open air
sacrifice their young to corporate headquarters
guaranteeing future record sales
in my old age

One of my goals
1. to sing battered lyrics
over the loudspeakers of factory outlet lingerie stores
in order to inappropriately interrupt at inopportune moments
the decisions of female warriors seeking asylum
from the persecution of natural lighting

One of my goals
1. to write a psychedelic book
detailing the shocking mendacity of my life thinly veiled in non-fiction
from which Oprah Winfrey will decode
the meaning of the universe
with the help of a scissors and a mouthful of apricot jam

One of my goals
1. to kiss the beautifulone on the corners of his lips
causing him to sink into the underground current of
mourning dove and killdeer birdsongs sung backwards
as we wait for a solar powered subway during a total eclipse

christine vyrnon © 2009

The story and drafts behind this poem date back to 2001, a story which will unfurl as this blog progresses.  I also expect that I will find glitches in the poem itself as I revisit it… again.