She and Future

have you ever imagined a future
with me, she asks.      oh, shit, says my internal
warning system, she wants to talk about
us, about where we are in our growing
relationship, this little thing of ours:
is this a fling, an affair,     she’s about
to ask,     or is there something real between
us.          can short term not be real?      I want to
ask, but self-preservation contraindicates
a glib response, and after all, I am
quite ambivalent in this matter, and
aside from that, quite rebellious any time
cornered.          and suddenly the future
opens, we are swallowed into tomorrow.

David M Pitchford
2 Dec 2011

Quatorzain 444

I’m here to write you a poem, Liza,
but my keyboard today is a practical
instrument, and begs to be used for something
more pragmatic; it wants to search the web
for security, for the roots of long-term
employment, a steady income, research
little pink houses and a workaday
stability to offer you. and my heart
begs similar concessions. Liza, what
am I to do? roses cost dollars brought
by honest labor, and honest though these
labors of love . . . who’s to be my patron—
Liza, I’m walking away into my life
knowing destiny holds some answer for this.

David M Pitchford
28 Nov 2011

Mister Nice Guy

so when’s the last time being a nice guy
got you anything in this world, she asks.
thinking about it, I’m curious to find
I never consider whether being
nice works — I am who I am. being me
is the one job in this crazy world I know
I’m qualified through and through to do. so
the question remains, and what to answer.

not being nice, though, always got me heartburn
and a tension headache; going on long
enough, led me to migraines and an ulcer
scare bad enough to permanently alter
my diet. in the end, it gets me what
I want out of life . . . peace with who I am.

David M Pitchford
23 Nov 2011

Change

it’s coming, the quiet before the storm
but what is it we should anticipate:
a mere change of sky drifted over in clouds
and menaced by forks of lightning, cowed
by thunders and fierce winds . . . or something more
metaphorical, more complicated
abstract, human and miraculous, whether
for good or ill or merely for different.

optimism is a peculiar lust
for improvement, driven by faith stubborn
as rooted oaks in fertile soil, desirous
of leaves and grass and summer’s plenty, green
and burgeoning, full of eternity
and hope even in the face of hindrance.

David M Pitchford
22 Nov 2011

Galahad Trips to Tennessee

break me out,     she said.     I will love you,     she
swore.     her letters always brief and to the point.
halfway to  indy from here, barreling
down  i-74 east, my first tire
blew out, shreds of tire across the highway
like feathers from a murdered crow.     changing
the flat took an hour because my car trunk
is full of books and  .  .  .  distracted . . . later,

south-turning onto sixty-five, tank full
and a good station tuned on the radio,
miles melting behind me to distant gone
memory,     rain to clear blue sky turning
to optimism when the second tire blew
and when I got to her house—already gone . . .

David M Pitchford
6 Nov 2011

War Stories #17

where in the world is our place? billy asked
me once. folks like us, the ones run over
by life and this curious world, where do
we fit in? I recall shoving a mescal
bottle at him and telling him to drink
from the teat of earthen kindness, just to
shut him up. nothing like deep water to
kill a good buzz. but then, sometimes questions
like that—under the right influence, or
perhaps the wrong—they pull you in like some
addiction centered in the mind itself,
that’s a drug you can’t buy on any street.
hasn’t stopped me looking at any rate,
always this search for island of misfits . . .

David M Pitchford
22 Oct 2011

New Ambitions

1000 Poems

So yesterday I was out walking
around town thinking of whatever
came to mind. It took a while for me
to get out of a highly (deeply?) negative
headspace, me being in the redzone
on self-esteem. I tried to convince myself
of several things, but eventually it just
turned into a pondering of how many poems
I’ve written. I have lost or destroyed many.
So, instead of trying to count my poems, which
seemed a dry and tedious task of little reward,
I decided instead to begin on a journey
of a thousand poems and see whence it takes me.

Slow start so far – only a few verses today so far.
The rules are pretty simple:

1. write 1000 poems
2. blog one a day – whichever, doesn’t matter
3. quality is not a consideration IN THE LEAST!
4. this is strictly about production (like in NaNoWriMo)
5. stay focused!!!!!!!!
6. save EVERYTHING
7. plan a reward/celebration

start writing . . . GO

these childish scrawls that blacken
these pages’ white purity
what’s more, in ink, they seem
errant strokes: chisel ‘gainst stone
scripture defiled by error

and I feed you all unwilling, Titivillus!
surely by now these words
have sealed for eternity
my condo in Tartarus . . .

David M Pitchford
11 Sept 2011

you I now

Life Beyond

I am the quickening you have so long awaited
your mind, your heart, your fragile flesh
I am the knowing tension that builds
within your belly, within your mind,
toward crescendo, toward creation,
reaching beyond this moment, beyond

what was thought life, and toward what you will
think once life reaffirms—life teaches us—
feel now your own for this is my purpose:
to reveal yourself to you, to feel with you
what you are to fullness beyond then, beyond
now transcending past to create with you
your present, now and in the future.
We are the life beyond the you, I, now.

2 July 2010