tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-94521032011-11-12T16:53:03.178-06:00c. petersonc. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.comBlogger861100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-30007924482312013602011-11-12T15:45:00.001-06:002011-11-12T15:47:50.693-06:00

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c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-3185557274708246502011-11-12T15:34:00.001-06:002011-11-12T15:39:41.733-06:00

written 12-3-2004 a long way i imagined the city falling down there isn't a word for what we do sometimes they call it sleepwalking my dog sniffs at things that aren't there i imagine my life is a movie today i thought about adventure like a search for the happiest man what would he say when i met him i hope he would make me smile  revised 11-12-2011 falling down <!-

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-5768673308615775652011-08-17T12:50:00.003-05:002011-08-17T13:05:46.835-05:00

"for a moment there, i thought we were in trouble" i corrected him it’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid i said, looking over my shoulder seeing cowboys loading guns on the tv an army, the State, takes aim i went back to questions was that before he accused me of trying to trap him in a lie? i am sure it must have felt less like an assessment more like home

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-8910620327701316772010-12-05T09:50:00.003-06:002010-12-05T09:59:12.591-06:00

from where i siton this blank horizonas simple as a one-line drawingit seems i could be stillcould be that buoy anchoredan ocean day so void of movementthere is only the intersectof water and skyand then i notice-not a sea bird or fish jumpbut a lone ship on it's journeysadness at the passage of time

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-39098877617848280412009-10-11T11:40:00.001-05:002009-10-11T11:42:52.559-05:00

there was just enoughnatural lightcoming from the sourcea peering over the horizontiny brilliant sliver of pie chartto make it to the small windowand through that rectangleto rouse me from dreams of harvestthere’s no way to knowif my eye lids fluttered upon openingor if they snapped up and stayed fixed upon itit stood stillpresenting itself to memotionlessalmost like a nervous childwaiting for a

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-3421046007834847332009-10-06T11:21:00.002-05:002009-10-06T11:25:19.114-05:00

the last job i had,one where i went everydayor enough days in a row to feel like i went everyday,was not so bad.the best times were when i would wakein the darkwalk behind the house to the old garage.haul my bike out and pedal throughmorning drizzle.grey light appearing at the edgesand the puddles still catching street lights.i would be the first through the doors.everything was gleamingtipped up

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-21506898872232153522009-08-04T15:25:00.002-05:002009-08-04T15:28:24.468-05:00

today at midmorningthe two dogs barked alerting me to the two menstriding up to knock on the front doorgood morning gentlemen, i greeted themand their serious suitsdo you believe all religions grant access to heaventhey said. and one could tell where they were goingthis conversation had on my doorstepenough to be familiari don’t know, i answeredi don’t have a lot of answerswhen it comes to faith

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-31911112612926154382009-05-23T12:01:00.004-05:002011-08-18T09:58:35.420-05:00

there is some kind of content that comes from a morning spent sitting on a deck with the dog laying at one’s feet tongue lolling as we overlook the quickly growing plants supervising the sunshine we have noted the cardinal pair as they land in the lilac it’s sprinkled with an arc spraying from the rhythmic contraption at the end of the hose they puff up their red feathers rub through the

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-44937999178635359082009-04-30T12:40:00.001-05:002009-04-30T12:42:16.704-05:00

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c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-37034834199664527722009-04-27T16:20:00.003-05:002009-04-28T21:21:25.664-05:00

the other eveningwe had one of those quiet husband-and-wife scenesthe two of us sitting up in bedwith our backs against the wallat the end of a long daywe might have been talking about our mothersor if we could take that next vacationthe window was between usat the head of the bedand abruptly the sash started to shudderthe pane within its stilelow and long, then stop and repeatat a different

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-3775225199431464432009-04-19T14:28:00.001-05:002009-04-19T14:31:39.306-05:00

her hand was on my hipthis morningwhen i awokeit was the type of morning whereneither of us had to spring up from bedit was not yet the weather whereone hand is too hot, too sweaty to touchher hand seemed to tell mewith a little whisper in my sleeping earthat this is how it is to bethe two of us togetherit said, i was as needed as sleep

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-64840997983693167842009-04-17T19:42:00.003-05:002009-04-17T19:55:30.698-05:00

when writtenand posted somewherein the digital worldthe alternating h and ado nothing to convey mirthand the joy of laughterit is more like two rapid coughsor the sound madewhen someone unsuspectingis struck squarely in the gutby an errant objectair rushes upthe wind is knocked out

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-32154092238182937232009-04-17T18:48:00.002-05:002009-04-17T18:55:28.684-05:00

suddenly,winter’s slow declineis hastened by our legislative bodiesby a collective act of pressing a few buttonsturning a dial just a hairbefore bed or in the morning to catch upthe afternoon extendsshooting up like a child’s growthafter some time awaysped up like a video in fast forwardthe light lingers and its presenceis offputting, leaving one with the feelingof something forgottenof wool

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-57710681260993952652009-04-07T13:45:00.003-05:002009-04-17T19:16:13.349-05:00

i mean no disrespectwhen i sayyou were wrong about the blue hydrangeasinstead, nearby, early spring light fallsin bright shapes of squares on my thick library tablethere are quiet sounds surrounding methe rainfall click of keyboard strokessoft voices speaking somalibeeps of borrowed materials and their being checked outthis carnegie library keeps out the louder city beyondit is a mixing in

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-74966298440033735552009-04-03T00:10:00.002-05:002009-04-03T00:17:06.333-05:00

this poem is just like the last onethe words that end this poem will be differentthe end will be the samei picture books on a bookshelfwith the spines facing awayfrom this angle the pages may be blanki picture eyes following this lineand then stopping herei imagine this is a good place to stopfor anyone reading this aloudsomeone will choose nowto look awaysome will not chooseit is a shameit

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-20080164859701013192009-02-20T18:44:00.003-06:002009-02-20T21:20:04.055-06:00

it was hard to see through the snow fallingbut i'm sure that i saw it as i stared hard into spaceto the grey horizon, to the melt and freeze again winterhas it been following me these last few days?when i walk the dog on sidewalks gritty with salt and sandat the gym humping my way up invisible hillschecking the paper's new stories: jobs lost; failure; frightit must have been there all those years

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-84909607230046443382008-12-31T01:14:00.002-06:002008-12-31T01:39:43.961-06:00

for all the timesyou have wanderedinto a place so lonelyyou have wonderedhow many have wandered in herein search of a drinklike you havethis is the place thoughin that hard to find partof downtownwhere you wind upto have the last beer of the nightthis is the place whereif you listento what is going on aroundyou might hear the storiesof a guitar playersinging like it's just another tuesday

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-77133128193109117752008-11-09T00:01:00.003-06:002008-11-09T00:24:18.227-06:00

of all the things that have passedsince the last poemit might be bestto start with the mentionof the house falling in on itselfor something like that.there are cracks where the front porch attachesand the room where i sithas a floor which bowlsthe floor tips me back in my chairto look up past the screenthe painting on the wallof the boat sailing awayriding the wavessailing into the distancei

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-56123234359008319132008-07-05T23:01:00.003-05:002011-11-12T16:21:55.132-06:00

not sure if it will ever be completely normal to stand at the foot of the bed or next to the head with it's 30 degrees looking to the people who look up sometimes in so much pain or confusion whatever they are going through in the hospital looking to the people who walk in and out who approach the bed like its an island hovering like quiet helicopters ready to drop a rope is there anything else

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-22381410784355831392008-06-13T13:21:00.002-05:002008-06-13T13:35:03.720-05:00

it starts with little rows of greentiny stems pushing upthrough dark earthif you look away for awhileand back they seem to have grownfrom this much will comein the morningsi like to kneel downnotice the changessee the shapes of the leavessome like feathers or spadesthese little plants are standingout there in stormslit up by lightningand stomped by fat rain dropsthey reach out on sunny daysrace

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-55114869271435531852008-01-10T16:41:00.000-06:002008-01-10T17:02:59.651-06:00

last night i stood in the darktwo thin blades my foundationi stood on water in solid formwhite. black. silver. clear as glass.balance takes timeas i move carefullya tiny line is left behindthis is my path on icei can look down and watch these feetthey take turnscutting into and sliding over all the imperfectionsthe frozen pond jagged, hard and smoothskating at night with city lights above meagain

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-2178239035104803872008-01-06T10:31:00.000-06:002008-01-06T10:38:27.199-06:00

as i siti hear a winter birdand wishi did not first take itas the mechanical squeakof something brokenrather as a living noiseas singing to start the day

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-74229663237684666392007-12-17T13:42:00.001-06:002011-11-12T16:31:15.365-06:00

i am not my thoughts i am not this thin one letter word these thoughts are something of me as snowflakes filling the night sky are something of the earth i am my eyes taking in this light changing into all that surrounds me i am my visions of the shadows of the tree falling across the road i am the sounds in my chest and gut am the beat, the pounding the resonance, the whoosh of breath i am

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-56923871808338576922007-12-08T20:27:00.000-06:002007-12-08T21:11:26.688-06:00

in the nondescript three story buildinggrey and shining glassi put in my timethe clock showed it passingone hour of recountinga process of exposingmy mental and emotional insufficienciesthis is my intro againthis is diving into my own deep endswimming a crawl badlysputtering and chokingto get to the side to hang onwho is this strangerwith the name on the doorin this forgettable officethe one i

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-37967107805061410232007-11-07T14:23:00.000-06:002007-11-07T15:51:42.966-06:00

i must have something hereamidst my thrown away startsleft like abandoned toysthe shine lost to shadowthere must be a story or twoworth sharingrather than images of thingssinking in around methe future seems over hills to steep to climbwhat about what i learnstanding over bedsmoving tubes protrudingfrom abdomens as spiders' legshooked to low continuous suctionwhat about these peopleand not their

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-69049432096261959562007-11-01T22:06:00.000-05:002007-11-01T22:57:26.596-05:00

colors of morningweighing heavy horizonanchored by naked black treesbranches reaching like bronchithe hills and the fences can't hide itit inches as apparitionyou could think of this as forwardyou could think of this as beginningthis is direction, some saythis is nothing some saycall it colors, lightas if it brings newnesseverything all here before

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-71676077861279047152007-06-21T12:52:00.002-05:002008-11-09T01:03:23.038-06:00

referred to as companionwhere i worki sat with the old manon monday afternoonshe would sit in chairor lay at angles no less than 30i would have book on laphe, eyes shutthere was the optionof watching the sun setquietly it passedonly interruptedby small signs of discomfortanother blanket, a chillor the toilet, sir?yes, he'd sayonce, with effortfrom bothhim with his troubled airwayand blue eyes

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1383428446167600692007-06-21T12:52:00.001-05:002007-12-17T14:52:41.957-06:00

referred to as companionwhere i worki sat with the old manon monday afternoonshe would sit in chairor lay at angles no less than 30i would have book on laphe, eyes shutthere was the optionof watching the sun setquietly it passedonly interruptedby small signs of discomfortanother blanket, a chillor the toilet, sir?yes, he'd sayonce, with effortfrom bothhim, with his troubled airway(blue eyes

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-36930567973339217332007-04-23T19:25:00.000-05:002007-04-23T19:57:30.413-05:00

i want to be sitting on a fencein need of mendingwhere there's space enoughto wonderthe use of the fenceand lookingi want to be looking outon land without hope of captureby any poetof its subtle beautyand facing a breezethat lifts hair from the neckreminds of lack of urgencyfor anythingwhen taking in life this wayi want this to go onfor some timewith sun going behind cloudsover and overmaking

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-64762486769193174682007-04-20T15:52:00.000-05:002007-04-20T16:24:55.042-05:00

if i could keepon a shelfin beautiful little bottlesthe things i've feltover my lifetimei mightthey'd line upbe neatly containedeach a different tintfrom a unique timethey'd all be therethe wedding, during vowssaying i love you in the coldunder the moonseeing mountains rise upfor the first timein front of mei'd keep them alleven the stronglyunpleasantthe ones that cause shuddersand the empty

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-80263470099851803472007-04-06T19:30:00.000-05:002007-04-24T14:38:38.659-05:00

the pipes will drone todayfor the death of jesusit's called good fridayas a childit was a taste of sorrowhumanity's brutalitythorns and woodnails and bloodspears and vinegarwaiting for destructionnowfurther from iti know its not just bible versethere's a good fridaysomewhere everydayin our world

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-58698525617583915702007-03-31T11:36:00.000-05:002007-04-24T14:36:31.970-05:00

there are lots of momentsin my life these daysthat happen behind the curtainor doorbehind the right of privacythese are moments i take withafter i've walked over the invisibleline of the floorafter i've washed my handswhile whispering the abc'si think about these sentimentsafter i've transformedfrom my role back into meappreciating stepping from the showerand drying offon my ownsometimes i think

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-65266999027335257672007-03-27T16:45:00.000-05:002007-03-27T17:02:19.960-05:00

sensationthe word's been broughtto mean big thingsimages of crowdsstanding on tip toesof something to be knownfar and widesensationfirst day of springwhere sun hits skinand the notionof energy is now feltthe sun moves through youleaving excited cellsin it's wakesensationfeeling her presenceso stronglybreath is like the beatof minute wingsa million times overon my lower lipsensationcrane your

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1689872335369769432007-03-23T14:54:00.000-05:002007-03-23T14:54:31.394-05:00

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-65573914650127500762007-03-23T14:50:00.000-05:002007-03-23T14:50:55.178-05:00

i wish there was roommore room or timein this worldfor the type of joythat is findinga small, fire red hairin a black beardcolor catching lightamongst dark

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-54913578201762182692007-03-15T11:27:00.000-05:002007-03-15T11:27:30.772-05:00

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1875105777924217792007-03-14T10:35:00.000-05:002007-03-14T10:35:16.560-05:00

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-35826559129621366322007-03-13T09:18:00.000-05:002007-03-14T10:18:39.045-05:00

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-60969465348167372292007-03-12T13:27:00.000-05:002007-03-14T10:17:54.916-05:00

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1166642921139879742006-12-20T12:47:00.000-06:002006-12-20T13:28:42.383-06:00

again i sit downhave for once perhapsgiven up the importanceknowing this will not save meit's not life or deathnot the cause or release of sadnessi'm not sitting downand struggling to hold an identityone that at timeswas held togetherwith writingback then i'd say to myselfthough i knew nothingthat at least i put it all downit was as if i were stuggling in the surfmy soaked body tossed in white

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1130389510472147642005-10-26T23:49:00.002-05:002008-11-09T00:56:46.792-06:00

if all i amis highly organized bits and specksminuscule globs of mattermixed with waterpassing chemicals all over the placedividing till i'm new againnerve cells with electricityzipping back and forthcaused by stimulusreal or imaginedand if all i amhas taken the kind of timeto be what it isthat i cannot even graspin my highly organized brainwhat has caused this feelingsomething like poisonto be

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1129174246328700222005-10-12T21:59:00.000-05:002005-10-12T22:32:32.140-05:00

the storm was nothingi could write aboutand i've given up writingabout it breaking up darknessand driving back nighti've given up turning storms to wordsit was her that was everythingit was her in the lightbreaking through windowssome hours after midnightit was her whose breathon the back of my neckblocked out the stormit was her and all of herthat night coming back to mei have given up writing

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1128896416103779062005-10-09T16:25:00.000-05:002005-10-09T17:20:16.146-05:00

the smile on my faceis owing to one thingit's a smile akinto my most innocent joysseeing sunshine strikefirst thing upon wakingfrom dark to lightwatching waterform and hold a waverecede a moment laterthis smile seems widerone which we shareas we sway togetherdancing back and forthin a way as simpleas water and light

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1128893130731055662005-10-09T16:17:00.001-05:002008-11-09T00:59:38.531-06:00

sometimes we did this little dancethis is a statementi'm likely to makein my reflective old agewhen dancing lightlyis a thing of nostalgiawhen my old bodywill remember our young bodiesmoving smoothly across the floorsometimes we did this little danceit's in the recent pastwe know we'll always be dancing partnersthough as of yet out fingers emptydance partnersdoing our little dance

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1127962682746282232005-09-28T21:57:00.000-05:002005-09-29T18:01:18.270-05:00

after the destruction of the citypolls show that 70 percentof people have a greater faith in godwhat is most interestingis the other 30their response didn't make the headlineswasn't mentioned at allopen ended it may bethat there was no change for someor some doubted a little morewhat is curious to meis the stories of peoplewho through the stormdecided against godthis flood did not wipe outthe

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1127920230718610552005-09-27T09:27:00.000-05:002005-09-30T11:47:07.546-05:00

it's morning againand there's music in my heada mixture of what i heardthrough the hours of last nightbob dylan is whisperingthrough my earswith no assurance but his voicei hear his namesaid with accentsbob dropping like stonesinto water making plunkshis name falls his songs sailaway into the rest of my dayi think sibelius is in there stillmoving in my head like whispsof smoke, finding places

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1122621927382931992005-07-29T02:18:00.000-05:002005-07-29T02:25:27.386-05:00

i toasted from the cheap martini glassto the woman i loveand i didn't stop therein my drunken missingi toasted everyone who love herice cubes clinkedand the chill of the nightwhen we decidedto make each other our worldblew in my hair againi smiled widelike i did when she hugged meremembering how we walkedarm in arm over the mississippion a stone bridgepromising to keepthe love we had as kidsand

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1121742607221447732005-07-18T21:30:00.000-05:002005-07-18T22:10:07.226-05:00

i admit that some time agotrying to save the worldwas something i gave upit was my only goalfor quite some timei grew up believing itlaid in my bed at nighta seven year old boyswearing off the evils of the worldin effort to free it from the peoplewho didn't understandlike i didsometimes i thinkit was fear that drove meto think i was going to diebefore eighteenso that i didn't have to livein a

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1115310437577353932005-07-16T11:00:00.000-05:002005-07-18T22:12:25.380-05:00

dandylions have poked up their golden headsthey're vibrant freckles in green yardshearty enough to grow in cracks in sidewalksi notice in my six block stroll to the bus stopwatching the season change to anotherin only six blocks i have the time to wonderif this spring is differentor if it's always been like this, i take what i can geti don't mean it quite like it might soundlike an opportunistic

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1115308747187032312005-05-05T10:07:00.000-05:002005-10-09T16:16:21.636-05:00

this should be a term paperone that discusses health care in americathat offers evidence of our leaningstoward personal responsibilityand integrates the ideaof inequality between classthis should be a term paperof no longer that six pageswhich will be given a letterstanding for a numberthat's added to a point totalthen adjusted for class averageconverted back to a numberrecorded on my

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1112403269770580452005-04-01T18:06:00.000-06:002005-04-03T10:44:26.260-05:00

before i thought of religioni thought of these thingshow the river had risenfilled up the flood plain;sun shone off water in one spotrest of the pond still icea dull delicate grey;how my dog hides his bonein the corner of the living roomcarefully sweeping his noseas if he were covering itwith invisible dirtbefore i heard the reportsof the pope's imminant deathin the backgroundslow chanting in

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1112400373684278152005-03-31T17:56:00.000-06:002005-04-01T18:54:57.456-06:00

the worldis at my fingertipsthese nerve laden digitsfeel the tiniest prickor smooth surfaceon a table topthe tips that in a minutegrow numbwhen it's coldthere are dayswhen fingers wiggleseeking out the worldand others whenmy figertips get tiredand want to runfar away; live alonemaybe in a cavedo the basicsclean under the nailpush back cuticletrace a groovein the cold stone floor

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1111549373658031312005-03-22T21:30:00.000-06:002005-03-22T21:50:10.103-06:00

i am standingbehind a skinny treeout here in the openmy body pokes outtree too smallto hide mei read the newsfrom around the globewhile sitting at a screenadjusting my postureblinking and squintingat the same storykilled---school-------boy----gunsdeadi hide in headlinessticking out from behindwonder if i can be seenbut not caringsometimes i want to be foundand pickan easy place to hide

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1129506003408879802005-03-22T18:36:00.000-06:002005-10-16T18:40:03.416-05:00

i am standingbehind a skinny treeonly thing on the horizonmy body pokes outexposed and in the openi read the newsfrom around the globeseeing the same storyadjusting my posturesitting at the screenblinking and squintingkilling spreeschoolboydeadi hide in headlinesskicking out from behindwonder if i can be seebut not caringsometimes i want to be foundand pickan easy place to hide

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1110572090072665952005-03-11T13:37:00.000-06:002005-03-11T14:16:23.286-06:00

phobiasare some latin wordor maybe greektranslated to meana fear of xwhen i take a momentto think about the feelingof standing near of cliff,finding a scorpion in my boot,ants covering my flesh,there is a sensationbut i wouldn't call it fearfear is a driving forcea fight or flightor collapseknowing you can runas far as it takesbreak through anythinglash out unwittinglyor that ashen face

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1110297967570909732005-03-08T09:53:00.000-06:002005-03-08T11:29:56.263-06:00

i shuffled inlike usualclosed the stall doorpulled down my pantsfelt the chillon my bumand heard something funnythere was the quiet pausingof phone conversationfrom the only other stallin the restroommy hell in a handbasketold man crankykicked in my thoughtsi stopped and listenedto insignificant mutteringsthought about jokesi could play by makingload and echoing noisesi just sat smilingdoing my

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1110235093468664342005-03-07T16:04:00.000-06:002005-03-07T16:38:13.473-06:00

its hard to write a new love poembut here's anotherjust like all the restwe're at this tiny beachshe and ican't rememberif its sunny, but it's way too coldto swimwhat i'm doing issifting through sandfinding little pebblessmaller and smallerwith each onei put it in the palmand pointsaying, what about this oneshe nods, or somethingand then i flick the tiny stonethe size of lentil, a grapenut, a

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1110148055352204762005-03-06T15:36:00.000-06:002007-11-01T22:00:49.092-05:00

it must have beensometime in the middle of the nightstuck somewhere inbetweenhours of the talkingthat can be done in the middle of the nightand probably passonate kisseswhere whether eyes were openor closed you saw the same thingyour love, up close, loving you tooit must have beena little aprehensivebecause no one's ever askedlike that, to know what i'm thinkingand so i told my lovehow my mind

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1109548728972646782005-02-28T17:14:00.001-06:002009-12-05T11:31:56.122-06:00

this one's jelous of rock songsof songs turned up loudin teenages rooms with doors shutwhere the drums match beatwith hearts pounding in the thickof learning what the world's aboutrock songs that fill in when we don'tknow what quite to saywish this was the song i listened tofor two hours laying in a heapon my closet floorhaving thrown the phoneto let my highschool girlfriend choosewether to hang

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1109536538812236022005-02-27T14:00:00.000-06:002005-02-27T14:49:30.876-06:00

it took awhileto shake off dreamsthat i must have zoned out throughso that they never happenedit took awhileto find my eyes in their hollow cavitiesand rub them into actionit's the kind of daywhere i want to wakewith someone singing a songjust for melater, standingi wondered if the mushrooms i was slicingwere too old to eatif the eggs i cracked were badi cooked them up with confidenceadding them

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1107032965819321942005-01-30T14:44:00.000-06:002005-01-29T15:09:25.820-06:00

it was just some comment concerning a little anecdote uttered by someone in the back of class who i want to call an academic or something equally pretensious ...when i donate my body to science how would i make sure that it was of some use- making sure it got used for science not some art piece... and in my head i groaned immediately blocking out the little chuckle at the end like some people

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1107031263918817932005-01-29T14:01:00.000-06:002005-01-29T14:41:03.916-06:00

i make up these stories in my head sometimes when i'm walking along inspecting the ice on the sidewalk things that i think could happen a beat up sedan something in the engine out of tune and the driver not seeing not looking not thinking coming down the alley too fast to stop until my dog is under its stupid wheel i'm at my most eliquent still holding the leash saying, you just killed my dog

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1107028858187691742005-01-28T13:38:00.000-06:002005-02-27T14:48:44.673-06:00

i once had a jobwhere there was a great lackof bullshittingit was no perfect oasiswasn't other wordly or evenall that romanticand that's not to say people triedsomehow it's in our naturethese daysall these kids would comeget sent out to the desertat any time of the yearsometimes in the middle of the nightand me and anotherwould walk out to some kidsome kid who'd pushed things a little to farwith

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1106842501488319062005-01-27T10:00:00.000-06:002005-01-27T10:16:04.040-06:00

there are times when i'm afraid to write because i either know or don't what will rise to the surface writing is my shake up what is buoyant prevails this comes to mind- on the bus with many people are silent and squeezed in trying not to step on toes what's most amazing is the eyes that everyone tries to avoid i don't think it's shyness when you're sad all it can take is eyes meeting yours like

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1106693404007987352005-01-25T16:24:00.000-06:002005-01-25T16:50:04.006-06:00

days are like this sometimes when you get home and sit you can't remember the mood when you left it might be too much to know that you left the house happy ready to face anything and returned not wanting to leave until you're dragged out long after you're dead days can get this way where you find yourself writing poems where you die then rot and i wonder back and forth is it just me and my

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1106291580637523672005-01-21T01:40:00.000-06:002005-05-05T12:08:35.563-05:00

some of you may see this like a movielike pictures and the flicker and the cutsyou've already missed the previewssee exits signs hang in the darksome others may hear the voice of a storythat old kind that was told aloudlike a teller of tales around the firethere's the pauses, and the bursts in wordswith the sing song , the lulling, the voicesthe action, the endsome of you may see this as a

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1106289470927465032005-01-21T01:23:00.000-06:002005-01-21T00:37:50.926-06:00

the kind of week i've had somehow feels like scratching not the satisfying nails finding an itch or sickening nails on a blackboard my week was not the kind of scratch you'd hear from inside kitchen cupboards or moving behind the walls not the scratching of the needles in a cat's paw as they rip through your delicate skin this week had the feeling of holding a sweat smelling coin firmly in two

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1105488163325348162005-01-11T17:45:00.000-06:002005-01-11T18:02:43.326-06:00

i'm not sure how long we stayed it was after one in the morning and the light in the sky had a timeless dreamy quality running and sliding on the ice a lake with new cover snow seeing the dog chase my brother then me and we ran yelling catching ourselves numerous times from crashing on our asses we're adults and we're playing up past our bedtime i'm not sure how long it was enough to later fall

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1105403583837854092005-01-10T18:07:00.000-06:002005-01-10T18:33:03.836-06:00

even as i sit and write sometimes it strikes me as the most absurd thing perhaps most pretensious thing i could do for a moment i might pause run a list in my head i could read make a snack take a walk tug of war with my dog call a friend on the phone play the guitar plant a garden take a nap go to the bank get a job surf the net watch tv make a list buy a new sponge for the sink then i stop

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1105402068840372662005-01-09T17:23:00.000-06:002005-01-29T15:10:27.960-06:00

in the descending blue gray darkness of an endless winter sky snowflakes crowd around streetlamps hovering in bold golden light sidewalks soft with the snowfall as it lines every detail of the world shadows glide on an icy pond melting crystals, tickles as they melt this is the romance of winter of the memories, of childhood in the north it's both as true and as false as a lost love sometimes

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1104954692265812232005-01-05T13:31:00.000-06:002011-11-12T14:50:24.254-06:00

hearing what i heard i wanted to push on my temples in some way lessening pressure people were discussing disaster and how religion explains it i couldn't help but feel sick hearing all those lives lost explained away as a test that waves of water were pushed by some god that it signaled some evil was some sign there seems to me no easier way to explain my lack of faith

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1104513974829170492004-12-31T10:30:00.000-06:002004-12-31T11:26:14.830-06:00

sometime in the night i almost cried but didn't it startled her but not much in my head the whole world hid soundlessly jumping under covers it wanted to be where i was wanted it's heart to bound and race pumping blood mixed with love high like that last sip of wine dizzy like spinning under water in my head the whole world loved her as much as me, so that all at once it gave a great big sigh

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1104193300035698372004-12-27T18:13:00.000-06:002011-11-12T14:52:10.252-06:00

though it's hard i can see them running to the beaches to pick up fish left when water retreated before returning in walls these children were part of those swept to sea on a day when waves brought death to many there are horrors i cannot see but those children running to beaches to pick up fish i see them perhaps smiling with curious joy

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1103692273087007992004-12-21T22:50:00.000-06:002004-12-21T23:11:13.086-06:00

a squeeze box and a penny whistle made music on my front step with the windchill whipping negatives two friends played with christmas spirit they present a plate of cookies and to another's house they went a squeeze box and a penny whistle are not the common symbols of christmas the symbols i've never liked much i like old men with white beards a bit cranky and the red always seems too rosy what

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1103601938540442842004-12-20T21:37:00.000-06:002011-11-12T14:53:32.807-06:00

john kerry has disappeared from my life he and george were such a presence earlier this year both were always on my tv and i saw their names on posters all over the city all those people are gone except george of course i guess they've gone to make the world a better place well, the u.s.a. at least they've gone now to focus on the issues fulfill promises at the capitols i guess

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1103520652602700812004-12-19T23:24:00.000-06:002004-12-20T13:00:04.866-06:00

i used to live outside for long stretches of life but i guessed the other day at what time the sun comes up the time when it get's dark i haven't stared at the stars after waking from a dream for so long, it seems like so long the last time i saw an animal was then, when i paused to watch it, cautiously in my presence all this before i moved to the city to live inside be concerned about other

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1103405653612749972004-12-18T15:11:00.000-06:002004-12-18T15:34:13.613-06:00

been reading blogs now that i have one when i started writing these words zapping them to the web for any computer savy stranger to see i only could poke fun at the name sounding like the name of a b-movie monster blog, a particularly gross sounding fart a code word in some silly club b.l.o.g. - boys love oogling girls how could you make something sound sillier it turns out a good name is not

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1103404073891603862004-12-17T14:08:00.000-06:002005-01-29T15:10:53.270-06:00

it was hard to tell myself bacteria was behind this keeping me lying down curled up and groaning it felt like my stomach was trying to wring itself dry i kept saying it's only microscopic organisms that were somewhere in that burrito that just aren't jiving with me i kept saying that this can't go on forever somebody's got to win me or that bacteria and i believe that everytime i groaned it was

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102896864835088122004-12-12T18:13:00.000-06:002004-12-18T15:11:20.216-06:00

it's hard to think back to betrayal and that's what i'll call it for now already told the graphic detail just betrayal for now perhaps it's more universal this way and i wonder how many see humanity in judas it's hard to get back into my head change can turn into stangers back then did i believe it was only about intention i didn't mean to hurt anyone looking back it's hard to

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102525774628247932004-12-10T10:57:00.000-06:002011-11-12T14:58:08.010-06:00

there's this guy who grabs a chair from somewhere and drags it out to the sidewalk he wears knock-off cheap leather pants on his skinny somewhat grisled frame he stands on the chair and performs horribly average instrumentals i wonder if he notices the students who give no notice or give their indirect sidelong glances he seems not to and plays on today i saw him again playing in a

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102657207446073782004-12-09T22:57:00.000-06:002011-11-12T15:00:50.780-06:00

tonight i'm thinking about two things one is the people in the city people that are familiar strangers the other is passenger pigeons i'm not sure how they relate yet but i guess we'll see perhaps there's comfort in both these people that are passing by and the species of extinct bird these are the people on the bus who i pretend not to notice refraining from asking questions unless

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102546770616618342004-12-08T16:27:00.000-06:002004-12-08T16:59:30.616-06:00

my dog ate poison he doesn't seem daunted it's just me it takes a few moments after walking throught the door to notice the chewed bottle bike chain cleaner never smelled so strong he'd never really eat this, i thought but like a canine alcoholic i could smell it on his breath then there is the anger it's like the anger at a government hard to know who to blame i wanted to kick the dog or kick

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102484354206717372004-12-07T23:31:00.000-06:002004-12-08T00:01:48.453-06:00

(wrote this last spring after a trip to jolly england and just happened upon it again) upon my return my first return where correct documentation {in the form of passport} was needed upon my entrance the homeland the united states this is what i declared: 1 queen elizabeth postcard 1 english bobby postcard 1 english breakfast postcard total value: $1.50 there are less

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102356577821981762004-12-06T11:41:00.000-06:002004-12-06T12:09:37.820-06:00

close your eyes now open them and close them again what if everything changed and what if this is the way it is i'm not so sure it's not think of all you might feel in a day and tomorrow you may feel it i picked up the phone and felt death read a letter and thought about babies closed my eyes and floated down a river i heard a story while rocking in a chair about christmas eve alone and someone

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102201212930519002004-12-04T16:23:00.000-06:002004-12-04T17:00:12.930-06:00

maybe it was something i made up like my dream last night about teeth but i swear there was something some excitement about trains i think i want to believe some glory about the conductor and his engine with a heavy industrial chugging clacking it's way across the landscape about people wearing fancy hats standing on a platform glancing turning and looking and listening all this in the train, i

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9452103.post-1102117231366862352004-12-03T17:29:00.000-06:002011-11-12T15:33:52.001-06:00

i guess this is what i do to write. i find myself in front of a computer with this school thing going on. that's my excuse for using the internet and a blog. what a dumb name. it sounds like 50's b-movie monster. but i want to write and perhaps this will be fun. today dec. three today i read about darwin i gasped when i saw war again they say that theory means something different in

c. petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12916695788275678551noreply@blogger.com1