Twitter Poems – I Swear I Thought of This First

twitter-bird-calloutA couple of Marches ago, I was teaching capital P Poetry, figuring out the appropriate use of social media for a person of my generation and hair color, and I decided that I’d try to tweet a poem a day. A couple of days later, The New York Times runs an article on Twitter poems as the American haiku, or something like that.

This month, the New York Public Library is running a contest on Twitter poems. And, of course, you’re reading this ’cause I done tweeted it @ you. So herewith I recycle some of my twitter poems, in the hopes that they will awe you into hero-worship, and inspire you to be like Mike.

You were absent today. I was where I was, but you weren’t there. And no note can make a difference.

Underground are buried cables & bulbs; they light groundhog tunnels while we await spring’s yellow tulipping, its purple crocusing.

It’s still March. I watch the clock, walk to the lake, touch the rock, skim the stone and never break the surface.

The poem isn’t here. I worry: is it standing alone on a platform, peering down the tracks, waiting in vain for the poem train?

Elvis died at 42; my father, 38; both with that Vitalis sheen on jet black hair. And I should apologize for letting my hair go gray?

Pablo Neruda’s on my brain, practicing juxtapositions: your watery sunshine, your slippery truths, you me me you

I can make my hair darker, my teeth whiter, my skin bronzer. Soon, I won’t recognize my self.

Saturday, 2pm, I think, Twitter poem! Sunday, 7am, in the NY Times, I read Twitter poems. Is every thought thought elsewhere first?

It’s still March. I watch the clock, walk to the lake, touch the rock, skim the stone and never break the surface.

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