the poetry that matters

Whitney Eden

Whitney Eden recently graduated from the Evergreen State College, with a Bachelor of Arts. Her poetry has appeared in BlazeVOX. She’ll be pursing a MFA in New York next year and currently lives in Key West, FL.

rose garden

descending “ous”es,

            exploring self in world of objects.

I’m surprised by ethereal ephemeral

            touching on day day tax paying


Means abusing end,

            get hooked.

So, the compromise.

But then also the void between

            buildings and if we get to see thru,

            the innate dodging,


            groups of 8 or more,

            tables with only 1 person,

            seeing the same person 3x

                        in 5 blocks,

            speed and its ability to transform


internal space between, never to

            get out light of day           

            dreams of swimming


            that man who stares at my

            ass while driving by and running

            into small talk dispersed by           


I read more philosophy here.

Dream/fear isolationist sitting,

            can’t get back inside of head when performing,

            try socially acceptable touches.


déjà vu 

need space

familial has way of chaos

            (1+1= 2, but is that really what

            you want? we need to find a

drugstore with a certain lotion and

who can forget her shellfish allergy)

so cover ears,

            listen to fans,

            notice internal rhyme scheme,

            notice external gee-faw, gee-faw

            at 8th grade level

dream of clean ashtrays,

            brand new old typewriters,

            fingers tapping at front,

                        watching with beer and cigarette

                        that tastes like the sea (truly)

expansive span,

contrasting tall cement structures,

finding self in between and

            wondering place.

though alienation came from

            strip malls,

it comes from families.




ripple placid

touch matte,

            clinging to log.

I see memories in topography.

Destiny flashes across landscape,

            internal myopic immediate.

I’ll just do it myself.

Text (be)comes home,

            so take all sense,


I think of cats,

think of walking steadily, brisk,

think of stain holes on skirt,

think of the unbearableness of


          (with another).


            if patterns break like you wish

            or shorter into unlikelihood.

5 years:

            I can now see the tops of buildings and

            my relationship inside of them.



Your friend with the white shirt

Love not common,

            abstraction of billowy frowns

(people that sit in their rooms all           


            like a cot or a bed roll)

I see lofts,

            tall windows,



(why not?)

so, it just got too real,

            toe jam,


            coffee breath

no more,

            thinking rather than doing.

doing bores.

guessing about the space between

physical contact

            (brings lack of guesswork)

I work at those abstractions,

            pillowy walls of assumptions,

            palpitating fun.

A little off kilter,

            but desired

Guess one’s left sticking to

            postmodernism or sketching

            (neon installations).




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