First Edition: Punctured Poetry

Original poem by Kim Addonizio:

What Was

The streets fill with cabs and limos,
with the happy laughter of the very drunk;
the benches in Washington Square Park,
briefly occupied by lovers, have been reclaimed

by men who stretch out coughing under the Chronicle.
We’re sitting on the cold slab
of a cathedral step, and to keep myself
from kissing you I stare at the cartoony

blue neon face of a moose, set over the eponymous
restaurant, and decide on self-pity
as the best solution to this knot
of complicated feelings. So much, my love,

for love; our years together recede,
taillights in the fog that’s settled in. I breathe
your familiar smell—Tuscany Per Uomo,
Camel Lights, the sweet reek of alcohol—and keep

from looking at your face, knowing
I’m still a sucker for beauty. Nearby, a man decants
a few notes from his tenor sax, honking his way
through a tune meant to be melancholy. Soon

I’ll drive home alone, weeping and raging,
the radio twisted high as I can stand it—
or else I’ll lean toward you, and tell you
any lie I think will bring you back.

And if you’re reading this, it’s been years
since then, and everything’s too late
the way it always is in songs like this,
the way it always is.



Punctured Poem Version:

Is What?

The streets fill with cabs and winos,
With the happy laughter of the very drunk;
the benches in Times Square
briefly occupied by pigeons, have been reclaimed

by homeless men who stretch out snoring under the New York Times.
We’re sitting on a cold slab
of sidewalk, and to keep myself
from punching you I stare at the cartoony

nose of the Geico Duck, set on the big screen
T.V., and decide on self-loathing
as the best solution for listening to your
inane ramblings. So much, my love,

for Chinese. Our years together fade,
barge lights in the fog that’s settled in. I breathe
your pungent smell—Onion and Garlic,
Marlboro, the sweet reek of Bud Light—and keep

from looking at your pocked face,
knowing I’m still a sucker for odd symmetry. Nearby, a penniless man attempts
a few notes from his trumpet, honking his way
through a tune meant to be lively. Soon

I’ll drive home alone, shaking with rage,
my iPod blaring high as I can stand it—
or else I’ll call you on your cell, and tell you
any lie I can think of to get rid of you.

And if you’re reading this, it’s been years
since then, and you’re still not
getting the hint in poems like this,
the way it never was.


By the way, Kim Addonizio is a living poet if you didn’t already know. Please check her out in the book-stores or your library sometime.
Thank you for checking out this new feature. As always, Wednesdays are still open to submissions from readers. You can even try your hand at Punctured Poems, just e-mail me at poethoundblogspotATyahooDOTcom.

*Don’t forget! Join the Donors Choose Challenge and help raise money for education! Go to the little “x” box where a picture should be on the right hand side titled “Donors Choose Challenge.” If you’re wondering why I haven’t donated it is because I’ve recently had some financial setbacks and I’m living off macaroni and cheese and bologna sandwiches. I intend to donate by the end of the month, and of course the end of October is when the contest ends. Please donate, it’s for an incredible cause.

I’ll see you tomorrow for another Open Submissions…