Split Poems samples:

Go to Split Poems interview:
Go to Split Poems contents:

Peter Poems:

Jenn Poems:

    Blueberry Wine I

    Blueberry Wine II


Peter Poems:

the words come in the bath
the paper is wet
and ink running
like blood
like me

She has killed a father
but never a husband (yet)
He sitting in the tub
as if he is waiting
shot in the head from behind

each man wants to love Jezebel
on a morphine landscape
caring not then to be damned
I have no words for this
she climbs higher
she falls lower
he falls lower still
he is the only junkie in Heaven

there is a revolution in our souls
we do not want to be human
we do not want to speak
we want to understand
the magic in those books
we want to pray and die
we want to eat and live
and never die

she is of scarlet
and ebony hangs from her head
naked at the desk she writes
and asks me if I'm all right
she walks and her hair fans just so
she touches me and fades
is she dead or I?

1. nutrition landscapes, the junkie and his needle
2. words and books, reading just so
3. dead in a bath tub - bullet to the back of the head
4. waiting - waiting - waiting for loss or answers
5. the warden wanders Watanabe

then.. as mysteriously as it had... it was....

my job here                              eat
is to listen                                 drink
keep quiet                                sleep
keep the pencils sharp               pray
white slave in Taiwan                 luck

pull the muscles sharp                run
drag down                                 walk
explore corner mirrors                learn
shifty eyes bulging arms               talk
rip it up                                       study
tear it across                               travel
beat is pounding                          grow
heart is pulsing hammering           breed
shatter yourself                            foster
try to live                                     bleed
beat eat sleep                              vanquish
di(vorc)e                                     die

India the sun setting (I. the sun setting)
A girl praying at my feet for money
Never discouraged - who will buy her
Take her home as a souvenir
I feel so empty this Christmas
We travelers are all urchins
Drinkin' our whiskey on the sand
A place where saying "I want sex on the beach"
doesn't mean ordering a stupid drink
Strolling along, hearing couples
Start to yell out in excruciating pain
As sand starts gumming up the moving parts
Alone all the time
Thinking all the time,
'bout language and perception
truth and reality
Poetry and words forming and dissolving
The day the words, the urchins
Watching me write something strange
A millionth of reality, what we see smell hear taste feel
Even light might have substance
I only believe in what I can see and hear
The most thoughtless words ever uttered
And the sun is going down.

You may guess
Why is the sky blue?
Is it because "the atmosphere of an orb our size
refracts the rays of a yellow sun to blue
instead of the other six colors of the visible spectrum?"
Or is it "magic?"
One in ten speculations may be correct
Or even if it's a hundred
One may still be correct
but one is certainly one
Knowledge from nothing
What are your hundred guesses?

Stupid people say
Hate is not the opposite of love
The opposite of love is no love
The opposite of light is no light
No light is dark
No love is hate
Love is no hate
My thinking may come too late
But my food is early.

Jenn Poems:


Blueberry Wine I

Route One

neon lack
halogen lack
coastal black

night water
is darker
than sky

and we
are knocking
down these
pine miles
in a rented
forest green
Mustang with New York
like we were
back on I-45
back on I-10
thorugh San Antonio

        but not quite

son of a bitch
some bitch

the cork in this bottle
of blueberry wine
has broken on
the Swiss Army knife

so we'll sieve the stuff
through our teeth
like sea-water

soon seen
with a money-back guarantee
on the hump-back experience
(can't put anyhting over on a couple of Trinity gals)

and this wine...
a Goulsboro vintage
this year... hell, this week
should be blueberry sweet
blueberry pie liquefied
and we get
we get
we get
                by no sulfides

rolling through Wiscasset

we get

I'll keep you posted
on the mystery of
Maine blueberry wine
and why
it just flat-out sucks

I'll sort that out
this winter

some local phenomena
take sub-zero temperatures
to understand

and here

and here

every January
can explain
every Summer

New England
            bright yarn

This state
can sort it's own
I've seen

underneath snow
in patterns
that don't
make sense
until Spring

there is time where there
are fireplaces

and truth where there
are small fires

And now you're going back to Houston
with all the random artist men
    and they are failing you
            bruising you

and one might fail me yet

but now that you've seen this                here
been in this                                           here
been centered by this                            here

you'll know that they fail
simply because they have not seen        here

alone in their splattered studios
they know they are missing
the visions that might break them
through to beauty
a few of the better ones might hear it in another sea
and know that the edges of their souls
have been singed by the wind from Cadillac Mountain
and these ashen curls are moving into their hearts

but it stops                                            here
it is North
and they are not                                    here
where you have just been

But you can start telling them
from the curb otuside the Houston
baggage claim

that Marsden Hartley's
hills are purple
            simple, they are
and Winslow Homer's light is patient
            the sea has taught it to be
and the Wyeth's
fine inked wire lined                            solitude

is real
is terrible
is sharp
is soft
is needed
is joyful

because yo have walked right through it
stood in the center of it

Blueberry Wine II

    Blueberry wine
is a sour mystery to me
but the men here
another matter to explain
they are
    at deepest core
most impressed
    by past impression

they project against
    superior background

Maine has worked
on them well

has carried the past
through in their veins

men born smelling snow
in late Summer

swaddled to squint
in facing cold
January wind

as Texas narrows a man's eyes
with sharp sun and mirages
on concrete

these men here
still see what lies
beneath the turnpike
know exactly
what they are
driving on

to know them


in the early dawn
to the wooden house
where that man
was living
the first time he
had a woman

stand on        that landing
                    that porch
at the doorknob
of his mother's house

turn              full around

to see the view
he saw then

here    it would be sea
here    it would be wood

look up to see the very same piece of sky
at same time of day
in same season

that framed the outline
of the first girl he loved
at the first mment he knew htis
at the door of his mother's house

remember that view
know that benchmark

make that backgrond
your canvas forever

wear the colors
that can carry his memories

                until they collide
                        in you alone

that sea
that wood

            into the lines
            of your face

Go to Split Poems interview:
Go to Split Poems contents:

Return to Home Page:
Return to Caveat Emptor Press contents page:
Return to Caveat Emptor Press overview page:

email: Peter Höflich
"Peter Poems" copyright Peter Hoflich, 2000
"Jenn Poems" including "Blueberry Wine I" and "Blueberry Wine II" copyright Jennifer Boudreaux, 2000