tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47974839368130624942011-07-08T03:41:57.147-05:00DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.comBlogger221100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-70317694765005107732010-02-24T11:40:00.002-06:002010-02-24T11:56:30.196-06:007. Can you connect the dots that led you to this decision?<div><br /></div><div>in a linear</div><div>one two way</div><div>there is a gush</div><div>and a wale</div><div>setting forth to embrace</div><div>all this world has to offer</div><div>my vocal chords</div><div>calling out to</div><div>challenge the universe</div><div>to a 87 year duel</div><div><br /></div><div>suffering is not</div><div>the only way</div><div>exhaustion sure</div><div>we live, of course</div><div>and living is hard work</div><div>but asking you why</div><div>lets me peer in your soul</div><div><br /></div><div>somehow</div><div>my reflected shoulders</div><div>rounded, muscled and strong</div><div>serve my memory</div><div>for fighting</div><div>making bathing in beauty</div><div>this world of extreme poles</div><div>into creating a challenge</div><div>for questioning </div><div>that difference that makes</div><div>us, well, not so different</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-7031769476500510773?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-37945001371104470402010-02-23T12:28:00.002-06:002010-02-23T12:45:20.495-06:006. What made it stupid?<div><br /></div><div>bad choices,</div><div>ones that shiver</div><div>memory</div><div>scratch your skin</div><div>like army issue blankets</div><div>&amp; smell of that certain gauzy light</div><div>they rush &amp; slam </div><div><br /></div><div>street lights</div><div><div>flash erasers on blurred eyelids</div><div>finding</div><div>vodka </div><div>bubbling </div><div>&amp; manage to drive </div><div>25 miles</div><div>down an interstate</div><div>for bad sex</div><div>a pack of camels</div><div>tests &amp; frayed logic </div></div><div><br /></div><div>danger lust</div><div>lives with you </div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-3794500137110447040?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-3785191619964082632010-02-22T15:09:00.002-06:002010-02-22T16:27:18.766-06:004. What is the dumbest idea you have ever had?<div><br /></div><div>dry skin</div><div>cracky, crusty, coke filled nostrils</div><div>lovely words </div><div>and motel sixes</div><div>I never went so fast while filled with liquor</div><div>whole numbness</div><div>filled with superficial secrets </div><div>that darkness</div><div>sweeps like ink and fills in my shame</div><div><br /></div><div>Felicia, in lusty bravado</div><div>only </div><div>once regretting</div><div>a morning wake up call</div><div>my fist is clenched </div><div>with remembering</div><div>it opens </div><div>when I want to forget</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-378519161996408263?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-74523386056064914872010-02-12T12:55:00.003-06:002010-02-12T13:22:44.251-06:00What made it great in your mind?<div><br /></div><div>silver linings are part of my</div><div>pockets.</div><div><br /></div><div>difference makes</div><div>me, well, different.</div><div><br /></div><div>but able to see that</div><div>air you breath</div><div>is mine,</div><div>the same</div><div>with hazy nitrogen</div><div>attached to its oxygen</div><div><br /></div><div>that ground </div><div>we share pitters</div><div>the earth beat, nitrogen,</div><div>that i can feel and </div><div>bring you to.</div><div><br /></div><div>difference makes me,</div><div>well,</div><div>different.</div><div><br /></div><div>green leaves pushing carbon</div><div>through hard tar</div><div>resilient</div><div><br /></div><div>molecules make difference</div><div>somehow, not so different.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-7452338605606491487?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-41303356590186818202010-02-11T12:53:00.002-06:002010-02-11T13:06:50.586-06:003. What was the best idea you ever had?<div><br /></div><div>marching to silence</div><div>flying in water</div><div>embracing emptiness</div><div>following </div><div>invisible footsteps</div><div>that </div><div>genius</div><div>of the i don't cares</div><div>transformed</div><div>to I'm listening</div><div>to what do you think?</div><div>to arriving solo </div><div><br /></div><div>backwards</div><div>and one beat</div><div>ends</div><div>my brown, pink, blue, black</div><div>imagination</div><div>ties ends of empty</div><div>to beginnings </div><div>to tear spun strings</div><div>to energized echos</div><div><br /></div><div>One clear moment of difference</div><div>melding into me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-4130335659018681820?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-91583544598205468752010-02-10T10:17:00.003-06:002010-02-10T10:29:22.498-06:002. Was anyone there to appreciate it?<div><br /></div><div>one snail</div><div>two worms</div><div>a one eyed dog named susan</div><div>and a toothy cat named lou</div><div><br /></div><div>crashing from the living room</div><div>unearthed a beast</div><div>awoken from a wine sleep</div><div>waving a wand of nicotine</div><div><br /></div><div>baby, baby, baby</div><div>vines can't grow in the shade</div><div>but my, you are a silly one</div><div>a funny little girl</div><div><br /></div><div>come sit</div><div>let's talk</div><div>about how</div><div>things grow</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-9158354459820546875?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-40948680480294655372010-02-09T11:34:00.002-06:002010-02-09T11:40:30.482-06:00For work I am reading Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit. Something I whole heartedly recommend. She has a list of 33 questions that are created to help one get to know their creative compass. <div><br /></div><div>I will take on one for the next 33 days. <div><br /></div><div>Number 1: What was the first creative moment you remember?</div><div><br /></div><div>Planting seeds</div><div>spit on my plate</div><div>juicy red and </div><div>flowing</div><div>my chin sticky</div><div>with summertime</div><div><br /></div><div>those back porch steps</div><div>would trellis vines</div><div>sure, sure</div><div>the six year old mind</div><div>saw a fertile crescent </div><div>that patch</div><div>broken glass, rusty nails</div><div>and scratched in</div><div>watermelon seeds</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-4094868048029465537?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-19403722606729994402010-02-02T16:42:00.001-06:002010-02-02T16:43:50.780-06:0097.2, 97.5, 97.63<div>human incubator of change</div><div>98.6, 98.8, 99</div><div>hot flashing moods </div><div>puce, ecru, magenta, blue</div><div>counting down, too</div><div>that perfect peak</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-1940372260672999440?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-89451156428660621832009-11-10T19:04:00.001-06:002009-11-10T19:04:47.260-06:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">Tired of waiting<br />shaking<br />square in the doesn't matter<br /><br />black, woman, gay<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; "><br />I am feelin' Malcolm X, today.<br /><br />F*ck the legal system<br />Conservatives and evangelicals.<br />I am ready for a revolution.<br />people being equal.<br /><br />Don't even get me started<br />on ALL the those groups we have sited<br />still underrepresented,<br />taken advantage of<br />silenced.<br /><br />Today<br />I am tired,angry,<br />and a little bit crazy.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-8945115642866062183?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-4347344460382118402009-09-01T17:25:00.005-05:002009-09-02T16:14:18.218-05:00ringing with a slow build<div>my cell phone</div><div>blinks the name of my sister</div><div>BREANNA</div><div>blinking and I wonder</div><div>what a 1 am call has to do with safety</div><div><br /></div><div>Breanna</div><div>19 years of gorgeous</div><div>some less of independence</div><div>wishing that college tuition grew on trees</div><div><br /></div><div>fighting loss of confidence<br /></div><div>in teenagers</div><div>bent on development</div><div>demanding the changing of circumstances</div><div>marching boldly</div><div>to middle class debt and white collar jobs</div><div><br /></div><div>you robbed me, not you Breanna</div><div>but the collective you of all the isms</div><div>the you, I owe 80,000 </div><div>working in administration </div><div>to pay for my keys</div><div><br /></div><div>making art in my "off-time"</div><div><br /></div><div>excuse me when I sniffle, just a bit</div><div>and sound hollow </div><div>in my response</div><div>remembering my own hustle</div><div>into middle class debt</div><div>and cheek biting</div><div>burying the isms deep </div><div>so as not to effect my push </div><div><br /></div><div>sister, 1 am calls </div><div>speak of a different safety</div><div>to clamor into what you want</div><div>the fear of losing grip</div><div>on a dream, </div><div>built on other peoples money</div><div>that fear is real</div><div><br /></div><div>and realer still, the reality</div><div>achievement does not make it go away-- </div><div>subside</div><div>they are just different isms</div><div>clenching our ribs</div><div>squeezing life</div><div>and demanding </div><div>weekly, monthly, yearly sub-prime payments</div><div><br /></div><div>that building buzz </div><div>reminding</div><div>you work to get</div><div>where is not always the destination</div><div>it is the work, the fear, the knotty clench</div><div>making forward steps the necessity</div><div>those dollars burnable</div><div>those isms just part of the check list</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /><div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-434734446038211840?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-48938350392672006382009-08-26T16:31:00.006-05:002009-09-02T16:14:45.533-05:00travels<div>miles in a lifetime</div><div>upon miles in a day or week or dream</div><div>finding lost bits of memory </div><div>sandwiched between </div><div>this face, that body, a smell</div><div>making for a broken thread </div><div>was there clarity</div><div>in that picture</div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> where to go</div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> who had the key</div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> how to make it work </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> better</div><div>or nostalgia in the smallest <br /></div><div>action</div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> fingers swiftly weaving </div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> sounds of crashing, clanging </div><div>  <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> pot holes dug</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> curiosity</div><div>constantly homesick for a feeling</div><div>unattached</div><div>bobble heads </div><div>unhinged<br /></div><div>inside that image</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-4893835039267200638?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-50719866618852405312009-08-24T11:57:00.004-05:002009-09-02T16:15:12.973-05:00In a question<div>you unveil the baggage</div><div>of your past.</div><div>Slipping into </div><div>former selves</div><div>lives caste in shadow</div><div>Why. Do. You - Think.</div><div>That?</div><div><br /></div><div>In a question  you</div><div>arrive at danger</div><div>you pilgrim forward</div><div>seeking new incarnations</div><div>changing your senses.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a question</div><div>you deliver</div><div>present concentration</div><div>contemplating</div><div>the whole</div><div>of what is</div><div>in front of you.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a question you answer</div><div>your past</div><div>your present</div><div>your future</div><div>you.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-5071986661885240531?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-71197419947297206782009-08-19T11:49:00.005-05:002009-09-02T16:15:37.045-05:00It has been a scary long time since I wrote a poem. I am not entirely sure if it is the brain drain of summer or a fixation on french fashion, moving furniture around in my house, or a need to turn off in anticipation for the next school year. <div><br /></div><div>But yesterday I found myself smelling images.<div><br /></div><div>Michael <div><br /></div><div>days slip through my fingers</div><div>droplets of sand </div><div>wearing castles</div><div><br /></div><div>i woke</div><div>discovering grey and lines and creaking bones</div><div>that yellow house is brown </div><div>the foundation raising with each bellow</div><div><br /></div><div>trees are tall, tall</div><div>and grass crunches </div><div>while I whirl</div><div>blow a bubble</div><div>and snatch a star</div><div><br /></div><div>making music is different now<br /></div><div>walking softly</div><div>yelling at things that cross our paths, quickly</div><div>melodies web across the continent</div><div>connecting to a million and one</div><div>hold your hands, open </div><div><br /></div><div>breathe, be love, begin</div><div>catch that hour</div><div>build</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-7119741994729720678?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-66222604980088260262009-07-16T13:57:00.003-05:002009-07-16T14:04:13.797-05:00It has been a full week since my last submission, for some reason my brain is refusing to think in poems. Its not that I am not feeling moments but rather, I have been immersed in my own deep and cavernous brain, over thinking just about everything that happens to me. <div><br /></div><div>Today, during my coaching session, I heard a quote that joged my cortex for just a minute "the only thing you will not like about life, is that it is too short." said by a 102 year old man to a new born baby.<div><br /></div><div>With all the time my brain spends picking apart the smallest details, like dust bunnies, parking laws, the increase in the price of milk, and dogs peeing in my vegetable garden, I wonder if maybe I am missing the point to life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I think, </div><div>maybe, I will live</div><div>and let my brain</div><div>have itself.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-6622260498008826026?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-30342622128099439832009-07-09T09:34:00.003-05:002009-07-09T13:01:58.298-05:00thursday mornings,<div>people still smell</div><div>like soap</div><div>and freshly dried hair</div><div>clothes are pressed</div><div>as we bump</div><div>against another, walls, and sliding glass doors</div><div><br /></div><div>pre-recorded bells chime</div><div>"ding"</div><div>Fullerton</div><div>"ding"</div><div>Clark &amp; Division</div><div>"ding"</div><div>Sunshine streaming in the window</div><div>"ding"</div><div>Madrid</div><div><br /></div><div>looking up</div><div>realizing</div><div>bumps take me to dreams</div><div>the fresh morning smell</div><div>has molded</div><div>my brain</div><div>to think of far off</div><div>places</div><div>How to get to LA?</div><div>What jumpsuits look</div><div>best</div><div>with tan skin?</div><div><br /></div><div>"ding"</div><div>Harrison</div><div><br /></div><div>picking my pencils</div><div>and morning fantasy</div><div>I walk</div><div>slowly</div><div>to my gray</div><div>office</div><div>cubicle</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-3034262212809943983?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-73969261176844713912009-07-02T12:33:00.003-05:002009-07-02T12:46:37.409-05:00the first broccoli<div>i knew</div><div>formed hearty and green</div><div>in humboldt</div><div>with tiny yellow flowers</div><div>peeking from</div><div>its firm leaves</div><div><br /></div><div>it snapped</div><div>in raised beds</div><div>home to </div><div>a cat named mingus</div><div>city rats</div><div>an earthworm or two</div><div><br /></div><div>until that time</div><div>i did not know</div><div>how perfect, a taste </div><div>it held</div><div>sweet and bitter</div><div>concurrent</div><div><br /></div><div>that summer, sharing earth </div><div>with my neighbors</div><div>i grew</div><div>the need</div><div>to know</div><div>my food</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-7396926117684471391?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-2422959975917338982009-07-01T15:31:00.005-05:002009-07-01T16:48:31.803-05:00<div>just yesterday<br /></div><div>while i walked</div><div>from shower to dresser</div><div>your glasses slipped</div><div>to the tip</div><div>of your nose</div><div>and your eyebrows struggled</div><div>coughing and rustling</div><div>the page of your paper</div><div>blowing that single hair</div><div>out of your eyes</div><div><br /></div><div>daily, your lashes flutter</div><div>while my back is to you</div><div>quickly turning</div><div>i can make out</div><div>a hook in the side</div><div>of your mouth</div><div><br /></div><div>funny, i think</div><div>you struggle so</div><div>concealing arousal</div><div>as you are my wife</div><div>and in being so</div><div>have no need</div><div><br /></div><div>creating tension</div><div>soft and loose</div><div>lidded</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-242295997591733898?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-34537102823168944702009-06-29T11:12:00.000-05:002009-07-01T15:43:58.178-05:00She projects<div>people carted away</div><div>bloodied</div><div>by sneering police</div><div>and right wing boots</div><div>re-living Stone Wall</div><div><br /></div><div>How surprising, then, for</div><div>my sister, my aunt</div><div>that mother and I</div><div>are not alone</div><div>our partners and we</div><div>hold hands</div><div>not met with shaking fists</div><div><br /></div><div>She sees the world </div><div>through</div><div>rigid jaw and tense shoulders</div><div>unthinkable </div><div>a pastor may march</div><div>with homo</div><div>believing one equals another</div><div><br /></div><div>How surprising change</div><div>revelations in human spirit</div><div>belong to others, too</div><div>and evolution</div><div>disrupts stagnant</div><div>history</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-3453710282316894470?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-17244055652481456582009-06-26T18:19:00.000-05:002009-06-26T18:26:43.833-05:00yoga scrubs my hips<br /><div>blood flows easy, quick, and free</div><div>dancing to follow</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-1724405565248145658?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-47066885823379736172009-06-25T10:07:00.000-05:002009-06-25T10:13:36.993-05:00<div><br /></div>There is no need<div>to prepare weather</div><div>anecdotes</div><div>when calling,</div><div>your absence is not personal.</div><div><br /></div><div>That highway </div><div>leads to me </div><div>and away</div><div>when necessary.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no need</div><div>to hush discomfort,</div><div>we are older now</div><div>speaking time</div><div>is what comes.</div><div><br /></div><div>That road</div><div>is steep;</div><div>I could not judge you</div><div>on reflection.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no need </div><div>to fumble</div><div>with straight-lines shoes,</div><div>the smell of bleach,</div><div>or ringing in your ears.</div><div><br /></div><div>That path </div><div>is for ones</div><div>that never medicated</div><div>you are better,</div><div><br /></div><div>now.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no need</div><div>to fear</div><div>my hand will easily</div><div>find yours</div><div>upon return.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-4706688582337973617?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-34612422511002920652009-06-24T14:53:00.000-05:002009-06-24T14:57:58.121-05:00making lists:<div><br /><div>why change...</div><div>one:babies</div><div>two:enlightenment</div><div>three:fashion</div><div>four:respect</div><div>five:overpopulation</div><div>six:rising cost of food</div><div>seven:bathing suits</div><div>eight:loving you</div><div><br /></div><div>nine:tired</div><div>ten:all the time</div><div>on the train</div><div>in the car</div><div>on the couch </div><div>mid-sentence, while speaking</div><div><br /></div><div>change</div><div>perfect</div><div>sleepy, listless, repetitive, counting, typing, hacking, staring</div><div>change </div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-3461242251100292065?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4797483936813062494.post-72088490705761854662009-06-23T15:19:00.000-05:002009-06-23T15:24:13.245-05:00quick harsh fingers close around <div>my throat</div><div>choking little air puffs</div><div>squeezing what is left of my breath</div><div><br /></div><div>the air is inky black</div><div>that color that looks perfect</div><div>on wedding dresses</div><div>and in funeral marches</div><div><br /></div><div>i inhale quickly</div><div>tasting dank earth and wet pavement</div><div>my chest heaves </div><div>i stumble</div><div><br /></div><div>water molecules and pollen</div><div>invade my body</div><div>again, summer in Chicago</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4797483936813062494-7208849070576185466?l=diajoyce-poemaday.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>DiaJoycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184431448509701098noreply@blogger.com2