KICK ASS SESTINA!
Fast-as-a-barracuda sound-
the cats topple records and my dream
(the one where Jeff Goldblum tells me his secrets)
shatters. There is nothing in this space
of my head except careful
patterns of light,
which move conveyor belt-like, to a pool of light
in front of the window. Without sound,
four feline eyes lock onto me. My dream-
fresh hair and blurry eyes hold no secrets:
I am annoyed. Seriously, cats, your space
is not on top of my TV or bookshelf. Be careful.
In this careful
morning, pear-colored light
wipes over the dew and my sound-
filled brain tries to see things as in dreams
but my sleep-drowned eyes can’t see secrets
in corners and carpet, only spiders in spaces
I wish they wouldn’t inhabit: the space
between my careful
lamp and the light-
blue rafters. The ceiling is not as sound
as I’d like and a family of squirrels made their dream
home above my DVDs… the secret’s
out cats! You’re not my secret
alarm clocks but listeners of the squirrel-filled space!
I could have woken carefully,
gradually, with light
and not the violent sounds
of Zeppelin and Donovan records ruining my dream.
Thanks, cats. Your sparkling eyes and dream-
destroying mischief is not your secret
anymore: ours. Like the elephant family-sized space
we must share until my carefully
earned money can make us light
enough to travel over sound
into dream. Too many secrets, though, weigh us
down and as careful as we plan, perhaps sound is not
the way to go, but with light as in space.
(note: if you feel like critiquing go ahead. but i'm just posting it here in case it gets lost in my e-mail. i totally wrote this in a half an hour for a stupid, stupid class that makes me write sestinas. i hope my prof. likes the title!)
the cats topple records and my dream
(the one where Jeff Goldblum tells me his secrets)
shatters. There is nothing in this space
of my head except careful
patterns of light,
which move conveyor belt-like, to a pool of light
in front of the window. Without sound,
four feline eyes lock onto me. My dream-
fresh hair and blurry eyes hold no secrets:
I am annoyed. Seriously, cats, your space
is not on top of my TV or bookshelf. Be careful.
In this careful
morning, pear-colored light
wipes over the dew and my sound-
filled brain tries to see things as in dreams
but my sleep-drowned eyes can’t see secrets
in corners and carpet, only spiders in spaces
I wish they wouldn’t inhabit: the space
between my careful
lamp and the light-
blue rafters. The ceiling is not as sound
as I’d like and a family of squirrels made their dream
home above my DVDs… the secret’s
out cats! You’re not my secret
alarm clocks but listeners of the squirrel-filled space!
I could have woken carefully,
gradually, with light
and not the violent sounds
of Zeppelin and Donovan records ruining my dream.
Thanks, cats. Your sparkling eyes and dream-
destroying mischief is not your secret
anymore: ours. Like the elephant family-sized space
we must share until my carefully
earned money can make us light
enough to travel over sound
into dream. Too many secrets, though, weigh us
down and as careful as we plan, perhaps sound is not
the way to go, but with light as in space.
(note: if you feel like critiquing go ahead. but i'm just posting it here in case it gets lost in my e-mail. i totally wrote this in a half an hour for a stupid, stupid class that makes me write sestinas. i hope my prof. likes the title!)