Ambulance to 6082 St. Augustine Rd.

There, lying on the plate, in a
puddle of red sauce, was spaghetti.
Tangled and maimed, it rolled over,
called out for help--I looked it over;
no one's eyes moved from their own
dish. I poked it with my fork, 
watched in shock as the sauce 
flowed from her forearm, just like noodles
on the stained sidewalk.
She rolled over again, announced that
she had defecated herself and
went back to pouring out sauce.
The tomatoes tasted of ground beef and refuse.

The lights began to flash, the
uniformed men scooped up the pasta,
taped the perimeter around my plate,
asked me a few questions--looking for
some sort of recipe, I suppose; I felt sick
and asked to be excused.



ED


This poem actually holds a lot of value to me. I wrote this immediately after I saw a woman who had been stabbed. It was late, and I was on my way home from class and I saw this lady collapse on the side of the road, so I stopped to help. She had stab wounds on her forearm and her side and was bleeding profusely on the pavement. I called an ambulance and told the police exactly what I had seen. 


Needless to say the event was traumatic. We live in a world where we truly are desensitized to violence, thanks to the media. This was my first experience with someone THAT wounded and it really rattled my morale knowing that another human being was the cause. Now, chances are this woman was up to no good. She may have been stabbed for a number of reasons including drugs and/or prostitution; nonetheless, it's no excuse to stab someone. It should NEVER come to that.


It's funny that we think we are a civilized species, smarter than all the "beasts," but oh, how primitive we truly are. We all have a little animal in us I reckon.

For Sylvia Plath

I crane my neck and,
awkwardly I gawk at this heap
of shiny, plastic accomplishments.


I squint to read little etched
epitaphs -- inscriptions caked with
dust; every letter, the space
between tiles, stuffed with grout.


Illegible from such a distance, I
advance and run my finger along the
antiquated verbage -- kid pitch 2001,
defensive player of the year, 2009,
even that archaic creative writing plaque.
I touch the brittle pieces with my 
old, bony hands and hear the whispers
of yesterday and slowly I slip
back in time --
"That kind sure has potential--"
"Let's just hope he doesn't screw it up."
"It's a full scholarship for him; you're 
set for life!"


And then I'm back, as if I were Smeagol,
sitting atop my mound of mire, mouthing
away about some old ring I once had,
while behind me success rots away
in a mass grave.


ED

The Looking Glass

Shards of a hoary glass,
broken, lie at my feet.
The once elegant vanity tumbled
to the ground, shattering
the visage of every caller
she knew. Each old pair
of eyes cast across her face
smashed on the cheap carpet,
oh so far below. The sharpness
of each point, of every new
corner, catches my eyes, and
where they lie, reach up and slice
through my cornea, as far back as
my retina and into my frontal lobe.
I fall to pieces and hit the
floor, scattered about the room,
broken, lying at my feet.


ED

Bus Stop

Today

I missed the bus.

Every morning at three past eight I

sit on the bench, see the woman

eating her red delicious,

read my newspaper and drink my

coffee -- no cream, two sugars.

At 8:06 the giant transporter

creeps to a stop, hissing and yelping

like a worn-out wildebeast, and

it opens its mouth and we

climb into its belly, sit on its organs --

except

today

I missed the bus.

The fates, snipping at my strings,

tugged my coffee and my marionette arms

dousing my neatly pressed trousers

with java -- khaki to coffee. I went

back to change, threw on some

slacks and was at the stop. 8:07

so

today

I missed the bus.

And I watched it pull away

and I began running after, trying

to make up lost time and

gain ground on the

rolling wildebeast.

and a quarter mile later, you know

what?

I caught the bus.


ED

Imagination

So, occasionally I'll do some thinking; recently I have been exploring the idea of imagination. It really makes me unhappy that we live in a society where our minds and our imaginations are not exercised. There will be no more great advances in society until people decide to learn for themselves, rather than be taught. If you look back on history, any sort of "scientific" revelation has simply been someone who saw things a little bit differently and wasn't afraid to say it. It takes a special kind of person to think through the BS fed to us by whoever is in charge. Newton must have had a fantastic imagination to come up with his three laws. Firstly, he had to come up with names for all of the principles he discovered and working definitions so as to describe them to his peers and associates. The same is true for visionaries like Henry Ford. One day he sat down and said that he was going to build a metal device that would cart people around. I can only IMAGINE some of the looks he got when describing his plans; and that is a true shame. It's gotten to the point where people are ashamed of guessing wrong in the game of trial and error. People are too afraid to err, so that they won't even try. It upsets me that people mocked BP for attempting to use golf balls to clog the oil spill. So it didn't work, big deal. At least they tried something.

In school, we are taught facts, but no one is taught to learn -- to explore the world outside and make discoveries individually. I'll leave you with this: how many facts would there be if no one had taken the time to sit down and imagine this knowledge? Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it sparked fire and invented the wheel. Bend the paradigm.

ED

Insomnia

It’s 2:01

and I’m afraid

to fall headlong into

sleep because

you might waltz

into my dream,

like the most beautiful

Krueger ever to exist;

and when I stir

you will be gone

and I will be alone

again.

ED

Introduction

I like to write poetry. But what good is writing something if no one will ever read it? This blog is my outlet for sharing my poems until I can get more of them published. Follow the blog and you can help me through this experience and witness my growth as a writer and maybe help me get my name out there. You can't be the poet laureate by keeping your poems folded up in a drawer in your desk!

ED