Poems

From Running Diaries

iv.
From the moment I wake, I make
a mess of it, whatever it is. Stop short
or become too predictable,
open my mouth unaware what

comes in goes out. I’m excited
about the move yet shot through
with remorse so my feet barely touch
the path we’ve laid out with nothing

more than words, nothing less—
an intention botched.
To end there. But no, we’ll
continue, on. Had thought to.

Condensed down, possessing
possessive—Had to. Just that.

v.
I don’t know what else to say.
The end of a long argument.
The sentiment pathetic, the body
worn out from knowing.

As if one had gotten too close
to a flower. Forced it to get
too big. And then all at once released
back into our bodies, swaying back
and forth from our eyes. Felt now as

too heavy, we think—and the minute
we think we die.

From Apology in a Complex Mirror

It’s the most honest thing
I could think to say. But
somehow as I said it
it changed. What did you say.

The clock hand’s swoop of
golf on green. What
did you say? The ball
rolls tantalizingly close

to the hole. We all lean
forward to see if it
drops. Grandfather
gives up the ghost.

They

Then they threw back their heads and laughed
clouds. Nimbostratus. Low-lying
off the coast as they watched. How far?
one asked. How far? another
answered. Hell we rushed for
300 yards and still lost.

David Hadbawnik is a poet and performer currently living with his wife in Buffalo, NY. Recent publications include the books Translations From Creeley (Sardines, 2008), Ovid in Exile (Interbirth, 2007), and SF Spleen (Skanky Possum, 2006); essays in Jacket and Chicago Review; and poems in Damn the Caesars, Little Red Leaves, and Exquisite Corpse. He is the editor and publisher of Habenicht Press and the journal kadar koli. He began studying towards his PhD in poetics at SUNY Buffalo in fall 2008.


More poems at:
http://www.corpse.org/content/view/212/32/.