From the trees comes the sap…

January 11th, 2010 → 1 Comment

I started writing a monologue about faking love, based on some facebook input to my question, “At what point do we fear the same human intimacy we want/crave? And, why will we settle for faked love?”

And next thing I know, I’m like cutting text and hitting the tab key all up in here and suddenly I had the first poem I’ve written in years.

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry here which I don’t do too often. When I’m stuck on words I like reading them shilled down to their essence.

I am still pretty creatively constipated though. Right now, I’m at the place, where this script is now just labor. I know what needs to be in it. I just need to buckle in and go go go.

I’m not sure where my creative process is taking me. But it’s taking me somewhere crazy introspective and this play has yet to get done already.

In the meantime, enjoy a rare dose of Walt Whitman Wongster!


Like buying a New York City umbrella during an unsuspected storm.
I didn’t have time to test it.
Just open it
above me, and have
faith it would work
until I made my way home.
(You were there and I was wet.)

We imagine doing this in the most imaginable honest way imagined but
our eyes still turn away as our arms stretch open for each other.
(This is how people get hit by cars. Because they don’t look where they’re going.)

I still hold with me
this last moment of you tangled here under four layers of bedsheets
that flipped their original order
during our earthquake.
Like a geologist got drunk then diagrammed the earth from its crust to core
from memory.
(sense of order so we too lost all when motioned like love in we were)
(order of sense lost like we were in love when we motioned too like)

I made my bed before you came by, as if I had always been a neat one.
With each pat and swipe, I erased
the previous guests like a hotel maid.
I stretched the sheets so tight it was as if my bed had never so much as been seen before.
I wanted us to leave
an imprint on this canvas together.
I wanted you to leave
feeling like we penned a masterpiece together.
I wanted you to leave
believing you were a wunderkind.
I wanted you to leave.
I didn’t want you
to leave.
(But rather than risk hating your writing, I just assume not read it.)

Say we are driving a rented BMW convertible on the freeway.
(Put it on the charge card. I will figure out how to pay it off later. )
My ponytail goes
undone and the split ends of my hair
scrape, whip, and stick to
my face. My contact lenses
go dry on my eyeballs.
I’ll blink until my eyes secrete natural tears
so I can see the road ahead without squinting.
(So my eyes don’t scratch themselves blind in the fury of speed.)
That’s why people love convertibles.
You grab that much more sky by convertible than by foot.
(Though, with the sky, you can’t take it with you. Plus, it grabs you.)
And, I will scream to you from the passenger seat how
this windy ride, where we cannot even hear
each other, where my palms press but cannot hold
those almost new black leather seats, where
you may hear me and then
forget sooner than I will, but
I will scream dry eyes, messy hair and all:

This is the best ride ever. The most fun I’ve had in my entire life.

Category: MacDowell, Walt Whitman Wongster

One response to “From the trees comes the sap…”

  1. soapie says:

    when you have the heater on, it can dry out the room. can you ask the staff for a humidifier or help you to get one? that really helps me during these cold winters.

    i like your pink hat.

    there's a season for sarcasm, and a season for sappy love poems. i've never seen your performance art, but i like your writing thus far. =)

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