Poems for Omega

6 Jul 2014

Once, a friend of mine made an online post, asking his comrades what was in their pockets. Nine years and nearly two months later, he asked that question again. These were my responses. 


17 May 2005

I don’t have pockets but I got a purse 
and a headful of runaway riddles and verse
so my patchy blue rucksack contains its own vibe,
and a crochet tam with some bells inside, 
a wallet made of hemp, three beads made of clay, 
an old plane ticket of LB's that I can't throw away, 
seashells from Cozumel that fell out of my hair, 
a glass pipe named Zebulon Tuesday Squared, 
a few bowls, two doses, some bindis and henna, 
"The Invisible Landscape" by Terence McKenna, 
an anthology of poems about a girl named Elizabeth, 
tucked inside a book she gave me called "The Tao of Physics," 
countless attempts to paint her with words,
my heart's not in my pocket, I think it’s in hers, 
but there's some looseleaf interpretations of my dreams, 
and a pouch to hold all of my juju and things, 
like sand from Big Sur and some of Yellowstone's pebble-rocks 
and a piece of white coral from one of Craig's dreadlocks, 
a pair of huge fuzzy green retro shades, 
embroidery needles and silkscreen glaze, 
a pocketful of relics that complete me somehow, 
that's what I got in my satchel right now 


6 July 2014

For the sake of tradition, this list ought to rhyme
Like its sister did once upon a long ago time 
Right now my homestead and all of my things 
Can fit in my suitcase alongside my dreams
Just a single blue case that matches my eyes
Well, that and a backpack that used to be white 

I’ve got a passport and a map of Kathmandu, 
A diary so strange that it has to be true, 
A ticket to South Africa, another one to Qatar, 
A tube of sunscreen and a bottle of water,
An antique key to the door of my loft,
Jungle-grade mosquito juice to keep the bugs off,

An ipod full of my favorite tunes,
A rainbow umbrella for the summer monsoon,
Adaptors for every kind of plug on this earth,
A sketchbook full of ruminations, ramblings, and verse,
Sandals still caked with Chinese dirt,
Olive green cargo pants and two Nepali skirts, 

A sweater and some blouses as delicate as vapor,
A lovely piece of hand-painted artisan paper,
A novel called “Fieldwork” about a Thai mystery
Copies of my lengthy vaccination history,
A steripen, some Xanax and malaria tabs,
A list of nice guys that drive Kathmandu cabs,

A few thousand rupees, leftover yuan, 
A small bag of makeup I rarely put on, 
A kyanite pendant I found in Australia,
Envelopes and letter-writing paraphernalia, 
A moonstone Jordan gave me on the day she got married,
The little pouch of bindis I’ve always carried,

My wedding ring, a camera, and the usual toiletries,
A box of masala tea that’s good enough for royalty,
A phone and a piece of stained glass from my Gale,
Cigarettes, a lighter, and a piece of unsent mail,
A note that my mom snuck into my pack 
And three pens: one blue, one silver, one black,

A pair of cheap flip flops for mucky hostel showers, 
A laptop upon which to while away hours,
A jump rope, a clothesline, some laundry soap,
A heartful of love and a headful of hope 
Few are the possessions of a wayfaring girl
But she has adventure, she has the whole world

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