type slowly.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 26, 2009

There was an old woman from Spain

Whose snatch only moistened in rain

Her husband tried lube

But the rube lost the tube

So his wife took a piss on his cane.

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A blog.

Posted in Uncategorized by Lara Crombie on November 24, 2009

Just noticed that I have a tendency to end poems by rhyming. Why… I don’t know. Maybe I should stop resisting the urge to write limericks.

Edited winter goals:

1. Write limericks

2. Read celebrity autobiographies

3. Eat new fruits

PaD – Day…who cares.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 24, 2009

lanes.

Stepped on glass tonight, around 9 near 25th, between lyrics, past trash; yelled at nothing in the distance, felt close, fell aside, dreamt Sinatra, “touché,” he crooned; walked soulless or soleless, on pointed bits of wit, towards trappings, like romantic rendezvous; ate poems, drank poems, left poems for poems, pulled glass from bones, old beats linger, refuse good homes.

memories

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 24, 2009

I remember when you said “everyone dies alone,” with the conviction of an adjudicator delivering his own verdict.  I said “stop that” but really meant “stop that.”  You rolled to one side while I silently compiled a hundred ways of hurting your feelings.  It was Thanksgiving morning and I was in bed with Troy Dyer, except my version smelled like a dirty shirt turned inside out.

I remember your disappointment because I shared it, only you were disappointed by life and I was disappointed by you.  Too many late nights on Hennepin, riding up front with jokes instead of what I really wanted to ask, which was why don’t you just… (but the gist of the just was never wholly defined, and so I hugged your neck and imagined my arms as a giant noose.  Perhaps your last words would be “everyone dies alone”).

memories.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 17, 2009

I remember holding $5 in change, trying to decide how to spend it:  laundry or dinner.  I chose lager.  As I paid in neat piles of quarters, the man behind the counter gave me a wink and a sad smile, like “hey honey, been there done that.”  I felt strangely compelled to share my entire life story.  But I didn’t; instead I thanked him (for what?  Selling me one bottle of beer or confirming my suspicion that nobody is consistently well-adjusted?).  As I was leaving I noticed that the customer behind me also had a single-serving beer, and a small bag of pistachios.  For one brief moment I felt relatively well-adjusted.

Confession:

Posted in curiosities, sad triumphs by Lara Crombie on November 13, 2009

I’m attracted to Rick Springfield circa 1981.

our definitions aren’t compatible.

Posted in curiosities, words by Lara Crombie on November 13, 2009

Drinking wine and feeling fine, this fucking poem is going to rhyme.

Now that I got that out of my system:

the end n. (nd): A girl is free before she falls. She falls to be free,

because the distance winked and said you’ll never make it.

things that go bump.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 12, 2009

Trees fall over on purpose. You read about a man trapped under one for days. When they found him he was missing half his leg. The picture showed his face pink, relieved and something else, not fear but unsettled. Later he tells his wife he thinks the tree fell for a purpose. He’s sorry. He finds God. You point out that really, God found him. As we’re eating and

having one of those wide eyed contests, see who can look interested the longest, you argue that humans are viruses without borders. I say Earth self-medicates and would you please pass the peas. Heavy rain falls outside, our Chinet rattles. We knew a Noah once who collected toy boats. Nevermind the irony, he drowned last summer, so

at his funeral I made a boat procession and sat amongst his little cousins. Sadness smells like leather cooking in the sun or accidental fermentation or even wilted roses. Only, wrong story. If a man falls in the forest does he make a sound. I worry during dinner because my stomach’s full.  To be fulfilled stops wondering.

PaD – let’s just call it “day 10”

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 10, 2009

Another flash poem (under 10 minutes).

noir.

Sweet things honey // ride black bender

frankly mister
crank your fist or

alley cat yawn // christ less chorus

Light it, motive // talk it, chances

modern flirts want
shy advances

PaD – Day…whatever.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 9, 2009

I’m trying something different here. The following poem was written in exactly 10 minutes*, with no pre-planning or post-editing. Enjoy.

 

lapse.

last days past bye

to summer tease

now early moon and

city fumes

protean denim working

shoes

that hit the walks and

bring Good News

say lady get your fix.

 

*Yes it rhymes. When I’m cramped for time I rhyme, do you mind?