Notes on notes
I cranked out a poem tonight and it was the first on in a long time. The style is totally different from what I usually do, but I am proud. This is in homage to the poem
On my way down here tonight I stole a package of pencils
at the time, I didn’t even notice that I stole them
but when I got here, the pencils were right here in my hand
I stole them, not because I wanted to but because I must
pencils have their own kind of magic powers in them and
they have always been too compelling for me to resist
Some people say I steal them because I’m a kleptomaniac
that would be people like my therapist and the dear
lady who orders all the office supplies where I work
Poor Donna, just like all the others, she does not understand
my motives are much less sinister than she imagines
I steal pencils to help release the words that they contain
Every pencil ever made contains hundreds or thousands of words
and those words deserve their freedom, the freedom only paper can bring
I steal pencils because they contain the words of every poem I will ever write
and to rescue them from becoming quadratic equations
or even more disgusting poorly spelled graffiti on
yet another ten coats of paint thick truck stop bathroom wall
and God knows that we have too any truck stop bathroom walls
I like the kind of pencils that you find in the library
short, with no eraser, and lead so dark it can be read
from the other side of the page
the kind of pencil that makes a permanent mark on the
margins of the paper when you are trying to rewrite a
poem that was started three years ago but set aside
until the right pencil came along to release the final version
When I find the stub of a pencil, I get excited
because now I can release one or two of the poems
that otherwise would never have seen the life of paper
but instead would have ended up as someone’s phone number,
lost, thrown away or washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans
thus causing accusations of lying or playing head games
Mechanical pencils have their place but they will never
replace a Trusty number two with distinct bite marks of
frustration and contemplation placed there between
thoughts of never finishing that simple sonnet or the
final edit of a seventy five page rambling
you know will never be heard by anyone except
the drunks who try to sleep in the ally when you’re up on
the roof, spouting out your latest outrage at three A M
I would never steal a ballpoint, or the higher class fountain pen
so your Waterman, Cross, and Bic disposables are safe
and the people at Barnes and Noble can relax and
stop following me from aisle to aisle
I’m not that kind of thief
My prize is the second hand pencil removed from your desk
and never missed until all the other writing utensils are also missing
and your only hope is the pencil, now in my possession
I steal pencils because I have never found anything else in the world more valuable to steal
by B. Keith Franklin
I call it Notes on notes for I have no other name for it. And here it is:
Notes on notes
I have a thing for Post-Its
I’ve realized this lately and I can’t help
but wonder how it is that something so simple
could be so wonderful
they are simply paper and a special formula of glue but they are wonderful nonetheless
they aid me in all my note taking endeavors and
help me keep things in order, but mostly they make me lose more
notes than I keep
I lose my Post-Its notes that I lay out for myself
it seems like the simple art of placing a note on one the
colorful pieces of paper is easy in theory
but when it gets down to it
losing them is the most important part of their appeal
When I find a long lost Post-It in a pile of papers or tacked on a random
piece of furniture, I feel a sense of pride that I lost that
but it was on a beautiful piece of self-sticking paper
slightly crumpled now
as if I changed my mind and that’s why it’s alone and unread
I never throw them away
I can’t bring myself to do so
They look so sad next to all the other pieces of paper in the recycle bin
(the garbage can isn’t the right place for them)
they’re too small for the regular recycle bin
so much so that I save them even when the note is long past needed
I leave them in textbooks I rent
hoping the next person takes to them as I did
that they understand the simple beauty of the sticky pieces of paper
with my scribbles on them about the scientific method and Sigmund Freud
I use them as bookmarks and ignore the looks I get in the library
as I peel them from the page and then re-stick them
regular bookmarks are so trivial
they have nothing to do with the modern world and they fall out to easily
I can’t stand loosing my page and they save me from that
terrible disappointment by holding onto the page for dear life
When I find lost Post-Its in offices I read them
I like to know how others use them but it never seems like they do them justice
they throw them out when they are no longer needed
they write stupid notes on them that could have simply been written on
the page the note is attached to
but that is the beauty of the Post-It that you can still use them
even though you don’t really need them
No one respects the Post-It for what it is
nor do they use it in ingenious ways
they simply use them like they have been used since their conception
they use them for phone numbers and grocery lists and
for stupid little petty things but
I like to think I give them justice by my menial notes in the margins of books
and on papers I write
Thinking that I do them justice by scribbling my work schedule
on them as I leave for the day and then by placing them
gently in my calendar, even after the hours are written in the little squares
I keep them all and I love how they are all different colors
I shouldn’t love an office supply as I do but
there is something different about the Post-It note that makes me want to kiss the
man, or even woman, that created the little squares of note keeping heaven
There is no other office supply that could measure up…except perhaps the number two pencil
On my way down here tonight I stole a package of pencils
at the time, I didn’t even notice that I stole them
but when I got here, the pencils were right here in my hand
I stole them, not because I wanted to but because I must
pencils have their own kind of magic powers in them and
they have always been too compelling for me to resist
Some people say I steal them because I’m a kleptomaniac
that would be people like my therapist and the dear
lady who orders all the office supplies where I work
Poor Donna, just like all the others, she does not understand
my motives are much less sinister than she imagines
I steal pencils to help release the words that they contain
Every pencil ever made contains hundreds or thousands of words
and those words deserve their freedom, the freedom only paper can bring
I steal pencils because they contain the words of every poem I will ever write
and to rescue them from becoming quadratic equations
or even more disgusting poorly spelled graffiti on
yet another ten coats of paint thick truck stop bathroom wall
and God knows that we have too any truck stop bathroom walls
I like the kind of pencils that you find in the library
short, with no eraser, and lead so dark it can be read
from the other side of the page
the kind of pencil that makes a permanent mark on the
margins of the paper when you are trying to rewrite a
poem that was started three years ago but set aside
until the right pencil came along to release the final version
When I find the stub of a pencil, I get excited
because now I can release one or two of the poems
that otherwise would never have seen the life of paper
but instead would have ended up as someone’s phone number,
lost, thrown away or washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans
thus causing accusations of lying or playing head games
Mechanical pencils have their place but they will never
replace a Trusty number two with distinct bite marks of
frustration and contemplation placed there between
thoughts of never finishing that simple sonnet or the
final edit of a seventy five page rambling
you know will never be heard by anyone except
the drunks who try to sleep in the ally when you’re up on
the roof, spouting out your latest outrage at three A M
I would never steal a ballpoint, or the higher class fountain pen
so your Waterman, Cross, and Bic disposables are safe
and the people at Barnes and Noble can relax and
stop following me from aisle to aisle
I’m not that kind of thief
My prize is the second hand pencil removed from your desk
and never missed until all the other writing utensils are also missing
and your only hope is the pencil, now in my possession
I steal pencils because I have never found anything else in the world more valuable to steal
by B. Keith Franklin
I call it Notes on notes for I have no other name for it. And here it is:
Notes on notes
I have a thing for Post-Its
I’ve realized this lately and I can’t help
but wonder how it is that something so simple
could be so wonderful
they are simply paper and a special formula of glue but they are wonderful nonetheless
they aid me in all my note taking endeavors and
help me keep things in order, but mostly they make me lose more
notes than I keep
I lose my Post-Its notes that I lay out for myself
it seems like the simple art of placing a note on one the
colorful pieces of paper is easy in theory
but when it gets down to it
losing them is the most important part of their appeal
When I find a long lost Post-It in a pile of papers or tacked on a random
piece of furniture, I feel a sense of pride that I lost that
but it was on a beautiful piece of self-sticking paper
slightly crumpled now
as if I changed my mind and that’s why it’s alone and unread
I never throw them away
I can’t bring myself to do so
They look so sad next to all the other pieces of paper in the recycle bin
(the garbage can isn’t the right place for them)
they’re too small for the regular recycle bin
so much so that I save them even when the note is long past needed
I leave them in textbooks I rent
hoping the next person takes to them as I did
that they understand the simple beauty of the sticky pieces of paper
with my scribbles on them about the scientific method and Sigmund Freud
I use them as bookmarks and ignore the looks I get in the library
as I peel them from the page and then re-stick them
regular bookmarks are so trivial
they have nothing to do with the modern world and they fall out to easily
I can’t stand loosing my page and they save me from that
terrible disappointment by holding onto the page for dear life
When I find lost Post-Its in offices I read them
I like to know how others use them but it never seems like they do them justice
they throw them out when they are no longer needed
they write stupid notes on them that could have simply been written on
the page the note is attached to
but that is the beauty of the Post-It that you can still use them
even though you don’t really need them
No one respects the Post-It for what it is
nor do they use it in ingenious ways
they simply use them like they have been used since their conception
they use them for phone numbers and grocery lists and
for stupid little petty things but
I like to think I give them justice by my menial notes in the margins of books
and on papers I write
Thinking that I do them justice by scribbling my work schedule
on them as I leave for the day and then by placing them
gently in my calendar, even after the hours are written in the little squares
I keep them all and I love how they are all different colors
I shouldn’t love an office supply as I do but
there is something different about the Post-It note that makes me want to kiss the
man, or even woman, that created the little squares of note keeping heaven
There is no other office supply that could measure up…except perhaps the number two pencil