Carol Camp
Meanwhile, Human
The Hidden Now
#0k
While We Wait For Sunrise
Poetry
Lifelog
About
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life happened
on the other side of that door
as i crushed canaries
with my fists,
slowly plucked feathers
off their limp bodies,
built majestic wings
in the dead of night —
cherry liqueur
and super glue.
did life not happen
to other people?
newly grown kids
serenading eternity,
dying hyperbolically to know
what lives in their chest
and bends their smiles.
other people
in dimly lit bars,
wine bottles in ice
buckets, gold dangling on earlobes,
a minute that stretches
my whole hour.
on the other side of that door
there were forests of rubber,
the eternal worming its way to the clouds, saying:
to be alive
or die trying.
Old Glitter (turin, july 2023)
it is the calm
after the storm
that terrifies me
the most.
a silence that barely fits
within the confines
of my room,
its walls stretching out
and giving in.
the restless trembling of my foot
as my mind thumbs through
a vast catalogue of had-you-done's
and zeros in
on the next sovereign thought.
what will we make of life
today?
(the ugly clock —
the looking at the ugly clock,
at the old books,
at my bruising skin —
the immobility of it all.)
today we will
feel.
the way we did when
the distant honks of
a passing car
stirred us awake
and our eyes met mom’s
in the rearview mirror.
when we sprinted
to the communal pool
holding brand new polly pockets
and invincibility
in our chest.
when the sun made our hair
a lighter shade of gold
and was infinite
for a day.
the way we did
when stars aligned
for the perfect plan
or showed the way
to the unexpected one.
today we will
feel.
(empty,
ungrateful,
immobile.)
so what will we make of life
when no eyes in rearview mirrors
or pools or suns
or deterministic alignments of stars
hold our hand with stronger grip
than the heavy longing
for something more?
when time swallows the remains
of every abandoned plan,
and persists the way a scent does
in a newly empty home?
it is the calm
after the storm.
I Who No Longer Am (são paulo, october 2021)
oh to think of them —
unknown as the sense
of having dreamt
upon awaking —
who sing into lullabies
words i have stapled to my skin.
they i don't know who
too drink too much —
pen in hand,
the newest screen —
in search of the right — this — feeling.
i do think
of hands feeling bumps on these walls —
perhaps smaller now.
of children swinging against autumn winds
by the kitchen window —
perhaps another wood?
i who no longer am —
think of you.
Too Much Of The World Outside (los angeles, february 2020)
there is too much of the world outside. too many pebbles to be picked up, too many pebbles to be picked up and put in my pocket or too many pebbles to be thrown into the lake never to be seen again. there is too much water in the lake, too many drops of water in the lake, drops of water that come and go, and go, and go, and they have all gone by the time I get to see any of it. there is too much emptiness between the lake and my house, between 2002 Chevrolets and bakers on their way to work, too much emptiness under our heads and above them. there are far too many faces to be seen and thought about, too many faces to one day remember unknowingly, too many faces to regret looking away from when the light turns green. there are too many streets that I have walked on when the sky was darker or my shoes heavier or the air a little colder, there are more streets still that I have never seen, and even if I could see them all, I could never truly see any of them. there is too much of the world outside, so I close my windows and stay in.
Triangle Eternal (los angeles, march 2019)
go ahead and kiss her.
marry her, if you must.
let her mimic your every move
masterfully,
and let her consume you:
heart first — indolent red meat
then brain, yes,
the cerebrum — a burnt-out bulb
over the kitchen sink.
the black hole of all things.
stygian butter knife, the humdrum
quiet
pierced by the grand droplet —
heroic specimen.
the tiles live, the table immaculately constant —
but your frozen fingers around the mug,
and your glimmering eyes
melting by the doorway.
she and I, we had a pact:
the wingless angel, Lethe’s catapult —
to the stilly thing,
she promised,
the stilly thing at last.
Just watch the clock.
I obeyed — her servant,
her slave —
but time split and from it you arose,
carrying the sun,
my Atlas.
amaranth envy, triangle eternal —
go ahead and kiss her,
but know that she wants me, too.