Nobody in the books

As if I have enough attention (or time but who has that) to give to one blog, which is destined to be neglected for another long period of time, if not right after Dash finally comes sliding out into the world, due date was today now yesterday, then shortly thereafter, last week I went and produced a spin-off, Nobody in the books. It's nothing, really, but a gathering of links to online poems, but it has meant that much of whatever "free" computer time I have (of course, things in real life, hmm, are never quite stated that way, I'm supposed to be one of the adults in the household after all) has been spent, and will be spent assuming it's there to be spent, surfing through back issues and such. I'm not sure there's any point to it. I used to do stuff like this, photocopying or typing up poems, and collecting them in binders, but that fell wayside years ago. I suppose this is a kind of reconnecting with that impulse. It's times like this... who? what? huh? Shit.

I hate that "the sound of one hand clapping" has become a cliche. Because this is it.

The poem in her bed pulling her stuffed animals toward her
The poem is out of the crib and into the twin
The poem needs the animals to sleep
The poem does not fear dreams the poem is afraid of
The poem pulls the covers up to her nose
The poem is mandatory at a certain point of the night
The poem is the sleep more than the sleeper
The sleeper cannot be separated for the poem is a siamese twin
The poem steps off a short yellow bus with the help of the driver
The poem does not fear the driver only the drive
The poem walks into the arms of its mother
Snaps out of its dream for the poem cannot walk
The poem is helped into the wheelchair
The poem's mother smiles to the driver and steps behind the chair
The poem's mother will push
The poem up the ramp through the brown brown row of public housing
The poem sleeps above my computer nook
The poem keeps me typing
The poem is the severed limbs of Little Bear
The poem bleeds when you scratch it
The puppet called Monster dances on the limbs of Little Bear
The poem can't control the puppet
The driver of the bus has driven the animals into darkness
The computer nook palpitates with a palpable starkness
The poem delivers the words on a slate gray vibration ruffling under the yellow walls
The poem opens and disappears
The poem beats the head of Little Bear against the bathroom wall
The poem is not potty trained
The poem breathes deeply hugging her stuffed animals
The poem rolls to the floor
Wakes and cries and mommy and daddy rush to her surprise
The poem needs to be soothed and told Tomorrow will be a good day