Eva Moe

Tag: stream of consciousness

  • 7/21/25 streams of consciousness

    There were poems I meant to write this week and sentences too afraid to call me back and so I folded them into a sock and put em in a drawer with the rest of the clean laundry.

    Apartment I
    As put away as it can be before you come over with your batteries and open lung. We are recording the river or the birds and will watch as we both guess the meaning of bulrush and if it’s as hard to pass through as the tongue makes it sound. We will watch for the sound, watch for the bird wings and ask if they’ve seen this in their ancestry before – to know something in their baths if they saw what it means to be stuck on land making our feet sick first.

    I put the sweater back, bright green I fold it the way a bird folds a puddle. I can only trace your reflection in the water and pretend I am the water too. You have a bow with no need for arrows, you let them all loose. The four of them italicized in mud. Clean.

    Apartment II
    It’s taking everybody’s toothpicks to keep me standing. Tetherball on a plate, dinner plate next to the coffee and my cold feet up on the window, I’m sliding towards the city. Wished for a birthday further away – it is a surge of water my nose isn’t ready for in the summer with the hose and artificial rainbows and wet grass stuck to ankles and the old tear in my leg tugged taught as a bowstring you aren’t supposed to pull back without an arrow. I am a habit bad for its mechanism.

    There is a day of the week with time in it somewhere, hidden inventory hidden treasure hidden day entirely fabled – a rider with a cloak and satin brown horse could come do these dishes and hunt for the nuts I buried last winter. You could come find the red paint and leather string and yellow yarn and tell me what to keep. If there was only someone as present as next week who could tell me what to keep.

  • Overlaps – what I’m making lately

    Ever since I bought rubber stamps, I’ve been making more of these “overlap” things. They mimic the repetition of stamps with the imperfection of handwriting. I don’t know if they’re poems or a disjointed journaling technique, but I’m working with them to express how words appear in my mind as I say them. It might be the most accurate style of stream-of-consciousness writing for me. Typing it out makes it sound like I’m screaming in my head at all times, which is not the case. Promise. 

    I LOVED KYOTO KYOTO KYOTO I LOVED KYOTO I LOVED KYOTO
    EVEN POWERLINES POWERLINES
    EVEN POWERLINES CAN BE A JEWELRY NECKLACE
    AT THE NECK THROAT OF GREEN GREEN MOUNTAINS MOUNTAINS
    DRINK BY THE KAMO RIVER KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA
    I WAS GONNA SAY I WAS JUST GONNA SAY THAT IF YOU GO DOWN BY
    IF YOU GO AND FIRST YOU GOTTA GO AND GET A BEER
    YOU CAN GET SELTZER TOO GET A SELTZER OR A JUICE
    THEY ALSO HAVE HOT DRINKS HOT DRINKS ONCE WE GOT HOT CHOCOLATE HOT CHOCOLATE
    I DON'T LIKE THE WORD THROAT HERE OR ANYWHERE IT'S TOO SHARP IT'S TOO SHARP AND THE GREEN MOUNTAINS ARE SOFT LIKE A POLAROID POLAROID POLAROID POLAROID

  • A.E. Housman notebook poem

    It’s been a while since I wrote here and I’ll tell you why. JOBS. Two of them.

    This is newly written, and like my earlier stream of consciousness poem, I took a whole page and threw out some words.

    here’s a legible version:

    I to my perils
    came not like A.E. Housman
    clad in armor by stars benign.
    I swam to them in my PJs
    water logged, hair kinked
    and trouble was a bonfire.
    I was the mosquito and the jet was my blood meal.
    Whoever shaved before 8th grade wished too hard for time to pass
    and passing is the great curse and gift of prickly knees.
    I dragged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
    to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
    I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
    or mad money and me, the poet,
    the victim of my own desires.
    If I was a better friend, the last line
    would have been my own design.