1. 00:32 14th Sep 2014

    Notes: 5

    Tags: poem

    TOO YOUNG TO BE YOUNG

    By the time daylight’s amusement in our lives has run dry,

    and the clouds put their masks back on, I am left with only this,

    the neon glow of bar signs. And even they won’t let me inside.

    Silly bartender, my curfew belongs to the sunrise splintering

    through the shrinkwrapped fog preserving every wakeful cemetery

    in this sleeping city. Tell me, have you read the headstones lately?

     

    Life spans shorter than the width of my arms. Balloons, babydolls.

    Sorrow tied to a string and tugged away to where buds never open,

    and summer fevers on and on. Have you ever watched it die? I am

    too young to be young, and too old to not know this. Once, an older

    boy reclined in the front seat of his car said for the two years it would

    take my body to turn like leaves from girl to woman, he would wait.

     

    But I was not a train that year, too idle for motion sickness. Rather

    a yellow apple far enough up the tree to rot without being noticed.

     

     
  2. ON BREAKING SOMEONE’S HEART

    Walking to a coffee shop where I’ve never been,
    where the faces have yet to accuse me of sainthood,
    the wind works against the shortness of my dress. 
    A jacket that doesn’t belong to my father, my lover,
    or even myself, but may be the only warmth left
    in this town of eavesdropping buildings and bridges.
    The barista pours me chamomile and kindness, 
    though I could have sworn I ordered a coffin. I wrap
    my hands around the mug, still shaking and with dirt
    in the nails, I force a smile, and decide to make do. 

     
  3. 15:03 20th Aug 2014

    Notes: 4

    Reblogged from poetrynightdotorg

    Plays: 0

    poetrynightdotorg:

    8-18-14

    Mark Luther Anderson is our current Warfel Fellow & all-around nice-guy; he blew us kisses that flew through the air & hit us like wrenches. Tool up, & enjoy!

    Feature - Mark Luther Anderson

    Please send any corrections to the spelling of names to podcast@poetrynight.org

    Directed: Tiffany Geaudreau

    Produced: Boris D. Schleinkofer

    Hey Poets! Want to hear yourself on the podcast? Your chances will be greatly improved if you will but STEP TO THE MIC—it’s there for you, it is indeed your friend.

    For a complete archive of all podcast episodes, visit podcast.poetrynight.org. Comments, criticisms and trolls to podcast@poetrynight.org Podcast © 2014 poetrynight

    All poems © Mark Luther Anderson

    HEY, look at this awesome poet!

     
  4. For Mark (30/30)

    April is laying down to die somewhere
    far from our home, under the suspended 
    tears of a weeping willow and I wish
    I could remember how to mourn. 
    The past has always had a hold on me. 
    Whispers of every door I didn’t check
    behind swing open like my eyelids
    on the restless nights when you’re away. 
    I will unlock every gate I have for you
    if you promise to dismantle this house. 
    Tear all of these fears from its attic
    hairline, its floorboard that constantly
    creak under the footsteps of my skeletons. 
    Come home. I get nervous without you. 
    Like a child waiting in line for a roller coaster
    she can’t quite see the top of, searching
    her pockets for that good luck charm
    she forgot to bring. I don’t ever want to step
    onto this ride without you, love. April
    is laying down to die and we both know
    her storms were always out of place
    in our ears. But I keep begging this telephone 
    to sprout into a stethoscope so I can listen
    to your heart beating along the freeway
    thousands of miles from mine. Love, tilt my
    chin from the rearview mirror to the open 
    road. Let everything shrink behind us. 

     
  5. hometown helium blood (29/30)

    Today I want to ride on the back
    of a stranger’s motorcycle through
    a country I’ve never seen before. 
    Feel the colors blurring as we pass, 
    turning inside out with every block. 
    I want to clutch the leather-fitted
    sides of a faceless body. Knock over
    skyscrapers with my eight inch
    stiletto heels. I want to climb
    up the hood of a moving taxi or sit
    in the back of an empty bar and wait
    to be swallowed. Sometimes, this
    pulse is too heavy. It weighs my wrists
    down ‘til they drag like hollow branches. 
    Other times it’s too light: lifts me up
    from my feet like a latex balloon. But it’s
    never the right size. This town is weary. 
    The lights in its lamps are hanging 
    themselves every dawn. When I want
    to scream, it tells me to whisper. Soothes
    my hair while it keeps tearing out 
    by the roots. Its streets empty too early.
    Its locks deadbolt. It crawls with its toes
    curled into a sprint. I worry this world
    is too small and too sharp: that it will cut
    me loose before I’m ready, before I’ve
    learned how to occupy every one
    of its orbits. I want to live somewhere 
    that never sleeps. But is always 
    blinking itself awake again. 

     

     
  6. his heart is a jellyfish sometimes (28/30)

    Before I met him, I believed
    I was afraid of travel: of touching
    down in every city in the world
    and flying back as empty-handed
    as I’d left, tired and sapped
    for ideas. Last August, we spent
    a week in a hotel room with 
    three other people in Cambridge, 
    Massachusetts, our love not yet
    known to each other. And one
    morning, when I was supposed
    to wake him up to go running, 
    light came in through the window
    facing the river and I knew
    I couldn’t bring myself to close
    that space between the freckles 
    across his cheekbones, ending
    the dream I would one day 
    live inside of. I understand now
    I was never afraid of leaving
    home, but rather of never
    being able to find it.  

     
  7. Anonymous said: your words inspire me!

    And those four inspired me! :) Thank you, my anonymous-friend. 

     
  8. only fever (27/30)

    Last night 
    she showed us
    the room

    with the furnace
    where they take
    the bodies once

    all light has left
    the curtains
    of their eyelids

    and she shut
    the door to the
    cadaver table

    when we noticed
    the baby clothes
    but I saw enough:

    the small hat
    and shirt, our slow
    procession of heat. 

     
  9. imissyouimissyouimissyouimissyou (26/30)

    When he took me to his house
    for the first time, we made a kettle
    of tea in the kitchen, even though

    it was the middle of the night. 
    Sprocket barked. The cats were
    rightfully apprehensive. Upstairs

    in his room, we sat side by side
    on the edge of his bed and I studied
    the walls, everything off-kilter

    on purpose: newspaper articles, 
    photographs, his diploma. Its messiness 
    matched his hair: those alluring brown

    curls that could never sit still. Sweaters
    with diamonds down the front, 
    stacks and stacks and stacks of books. 

    And when he laughed, the skin below
    his eyes and around his mouth caved in
    slightly, forming dimples as soft as

    the divots in his bamboo wallpaper. 
    So, I like you, he said. So, I like you, too,
    I said, even though I had been madly

    in love with him for almost a year. 
    He sighed. Well, that was easy. Now
    what? 
    I leaned over to put my mug

    on his table. He did the same. Then, 
    our faces nearly touching, I noticed
    a small dark speck swimming in the ocean

    of his right eye. I secretly hoped I was 
    the first one to have discovered this
    before, wrapping an arm around his waist

    to pull him down over me. 

     
  10. not enough (25/30)

    This morning I drove past a car accident
    on the way to school: smoke still coming up
    from the two engine claws torn apart from
    their kiss so fast they called it a mistake. 
    And I slowed way down to see if anyone 
    was crying, what shapes the twisted metal
    was making. Sometimes I worry the vertigo
    of staring at one crash while walking toward
    another will catch up to me. I am always
    floating to doors on the ends of long hallways
    turning round and round like corkscrews
    in front of me. And the therapist asks me why
    I don’t kill myself and I tell her about the love
    but not the fear, because I don’t know which
    is stronger anymore. And she nods, asks
    how I’m sleeping. I wake up an hour before
    my alarm goes off, turn over to face the wall. 
    I climb the stairs and look out over the sink
    past the petals of withering flowers given to me
    on Valentine’s Day and think about tiny insects
    crawling across the leaves. Not enough, I say.