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CUTTING ROOM FLOOR

/pOEm/   XXII

/pOEm/ XXII

***

a cognac to enhance the flavor of the night, 

straight up with a borrowed fountain pen 

and a napkin on the side. 

thus the meanderings of thought and fantasy,

a kisskisskiss, 

from a disappearing vagary

......where the three come to mind.

forgive these wandering eyes, two at a time.

[Romans 650]

***

/UPdates & Process/   II

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/UPdates & Process/ II

This poem was written a few years ago when I was at The Drake Hotel in Chicago after my grandfather passed away. I spent a few days writing the eulogy for his funeral. Later, it found a second home in my novel, Wednesday Night Meeting, with some alterations to align with the character named Roosevelt, a poet and graffiti artist.

***

feet firmly in the sand, alone I stand.

the breeze off Lake Michigan turns bold wind,

hair thrashing side to side, 

clothes wrinkled like the old waves,

squinting out at dusk and over this goliath.

a thrown and skipped stone leaves quick footsteps, 

subsiding without notice, strength is restored.

feet firmly in the sand, alone I stand.

 

shivering just fine in the cold, together we hold.

the breeze off Lake Michigan turns bold wind,

hair thrashing side to side, 

clothes wrinkled like the old waves,

squinting out at dusk and over this goliath.

a thrown and skipped stone leaves quick footsteps, 

subsiding with some notice, strength is restored.

shivering just fine in the cold, together we hold.

***

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/pOEm/   XVII

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/pOEm/ XVII

***

'78 Roosevelt drops in the pay phone

for one extra moment...

voice and silver jangles cease,

a dial tone is no atonement.

***

A note on process: The character named Elgin Lee Roosevelt had a few other names before I settled on it. This poem, written back in 2011, was the inspiration. I was born in 1978 and he is the character with which I most identify. The poem is about a young boy wanting his father to come home with no excuses. As an adult I'm very forgiving, but time isn't.

 

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/pOEm/   XVI

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/pOEm/ XVI

***

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....crOwn.she..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....with.many...xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....prAises.of...xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....___we___...xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....she.deserves.them.....

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....mOre........xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

..xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx....than.He.....xXxXxXx....xXxXxXx..

***

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/UPdates & Process/   I

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/UPdates & Process/ I

My novel is "finished," but I'm on my last read-through I'm still making small alterations. Here are two poems I changed this morning. They were originally on the cutting room floor, but I've put them back in. Both are written by Roosevelt, a graffiti artist/poet in NYC.

The Original Haiku:

Skyscrapers in sight—

lush life—the Big Apple's ripe

for another bite.

***

The New (in italics):

the skyline invites

the night—the big apple’s ripe

for another bite.

***

The Original:

fluorescent beats color the pages,

lifestyle stories so quaint.

empty spray cans from drunken stages,

solid lines, but hollow paint.

***

The New (in italics):

Fluorescent fictions color my pages,

the sincere truth so faint.

Empty spray cans from drunken stages,

solid lines, but hollow paint.

***

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/pOEm/   XIII

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/pOEm/ XIII

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escaping to paint the emptiness of the edge—

coming in waves, gazing over the ledge.

a cosmic explosion of rhythm, lust, and hope— 

the simple trinity of the ways to cope.

***

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/pOEm/   XII

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/pOEm/ XII

***

These moments

have been too scripted to let breathe.

It's time to change,

because everything is where it should be.

***

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/pOEm/   VIII

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/pOEm/ VIII

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stirring alone, 

and alone is simply fine.

I've been left out in the cold

in a storm of my own design.

***

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/pOEm/   VI

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/pOEm/ VI

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the ghosts of Mingus

still pimp the orchestrator's prose—

with swift baton action,

the trumpet rose to kiss the violin’s nose.

***

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/pOEm/   V

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/pOEm/ V

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trying to prove myself to both of us—

that I will not fall flat.

I want to be everything to you—

and even more than that.

***

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/pOEm/   IV

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/pOEm/ IV

***

her cheek to my shoulder,

dark hair velcroed to my stubble,

she's pulled the comforter, 

 so I've slept mostly uncovered.

 

the earth's rotation continues,

after a precious all-nighter,

the sun peaks through the blinds, 

our bodies are shadow-lined.

 

[ante meridiem]

.

 

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/Haiku/   V

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/Haiku/ V

***

Coltrane's sounds abound...

rounded notes once lost, now found

jazz up, the beat down.

***

This haiku was left out of the novel and found on the cutting room floor. This section of the blog will feature content that was part of the creative process. Some of the posts will have ideas and poems that were hard to cut (like this one) -- and some will be terrible and embarrassing. They're all from the same well of inspiration.

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/pOEm/   III

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/pOEm/ III

***

styled philosophies are spread

with bleeding spray cans

by soulful keepers of the throne

and the three-starred crowns...

minds flipped and remixed

by illuminated verbs and nouns.

***

This poem was left out of the novel and found on the cutting room floor. This section of the blog will feature content that was part of the creative process. Some of the posts will have ideas and poems that were hard to cut (like this one) -- and some will be terrible and embarrassing. They're all from the same well of inspiration.

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/Haiku/   II

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/Haiku/ II

***

I am you more than

you are me -- we’re the seas more

than the seas are we.

***

This haiku was left out of the novel and found on the cutting room floor. This section of the blog will feature content that was part of the creative process. Some of the posts will have ideas and poems that were hard to cut (like this one) -- and some will be terrible and embarrassing. They're all from the same well of inspiration.

(Photo Credit: The Palmer Family, West Meadow Beach 1978)

 

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/pOEm/   I

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/pOEm/ I

This poem was left out of the novel and found on the cutting room floor. This section of the blog will feature content that was part of the creative process. Some of the posts will have ideas and poems that were hard to cut (like this one) -- and some will be terrible and embarrassing. They're all from the same well of inspiration.

***

when I'm gone,

just look to the frigid moon,

and feel the warmth

of my gaze..

knowing we have shared

the same upward stares..

mere moments apart.

these are connections of the heart.

***

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