So many of you are writing poems on your lunch break and emailing them to me. I was getting flak from some people that poetry is so, like, 1850. But there appears to be a greater need for it than even I realized.
Speaking of flak, last night I found this out for a leisurely stroll on my bedroom wall:
I couldn’t kill this particular Flak because I had just biked back from seeing Once and hence was filled with gut melancholia and a sappy need to preserve love, and the natural extension of love, All Living Things. I Kafka-ed my Flak as a Brooklyn busker falling for an underage Czech bug next-door. I get this way after movies. The first time it happened I was five. My parents had taken me to see ET and I was profoundly affected. I sat underneath the rose bush in our backyard for hours, silently weeping and staring into space. When it grew dark and I wouldn’t come in my Dad had to carry me.
But today is a new day and I’m slightly less obsessed with this and there’s a Flak behind my bookcase and for all I know, an entire Flak family. Boss gifted me a Beta this afternoon and Betas are aggressive, so maybe it will learn to lure Flak and eat them.
The Beta spent the entire morning wedged into a corner of Boss tank. He’s being replaced by younger fish with better temperments. It’s not readily obvious, but he was forced into a corner by bags of angelfish and guppies suspended over his head like Bouncy Castles. That just might be my version of Hell, and should I choose to rewrite No Exit , it would involve people much prettier and kinder than me hovering in baggies on the celing of a glass room I can never leave.
Here are two lunch poems for Tuesday, July 17th.
This one is by a Rebecca who also works in PR:
Ten minutes for poetry
Reminds me of when words were for love
And I had dreams of writing
Books, Poems, Journals for my entire life
Now it’s a career
I have boxes filled with newspapers and magazine clips
I send out press releases every day
My phrases on a hundred websites
So many fucking words
They now feel like the enemy
And a sad one from Brandon. We’ve all been here:
I don’t know why you can’t love me.
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
I’m great. Don’t you know how great I am?
You will never meet someone like me again.
I’m sure of it.
I would have done anything for you.
I have so much love in my heart just waiting to be shared
Why don’t you want to take it?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Trust me, someday you’ll be falling asleep,
in the arms of someone else,
in some far off land,
and I’ll pop into your head.
You’ll wonder why you didn’t allow yourself to love me.
And maybe you’ll call, or maybe you won’t
Maybe I’ll get a myspace message from you,
But you will miss me. And you will always think of me.
And then you’ll be asking yourself,
“What the fuck is wrong with me”
Keep the poems coming. And thanks for continuing to support and visit Trybecca. I’m interested in writing a lunch poem as advice, so if any of you have a question and need guidance (dispensed in iambs), please email LunchPoemProject@gmail.com