On Pedagogy and Doubts - Rewrite
My hands are cold; I press them to my face
And stare at the brilliant pages
I read something about pedagogy
And it means nothing.
I pause to look at these hands, clasped under my chin.
These are stranger’s hands
Too smooth and white and prim
These don’t belong to me.
The whorls in my fingertips are always black.
Charcoal, conte, and tempura settle in like old friends
Plaster chunks and kerosene,
Newspaper print and pastel dust my palms.
I miss the dirt under my nails
From digging pinecones out of the mulch,
I miss the telltale smear of ink that lingers
On the middle finger of my right hand after the pen is gone.
I am afraid that without paint, my fingers
Will fail to create meaning
And in all this education
I’m absorbing less than ever.
I want to create universes and microcosms,
I need to share my knowledge
To leave my brushstrokes on this page—
I want to live with ink in my fingerprints.
Inside the Glass Rewrite
Today I saw how brilliant the world outside was
Each leaf of each tree more dazzling
Than a drop of gold
Each river pebble, clear like wind
But that was on the other side of the glass.
There was rain when I woke up
But I know nothing of it now;
Inside the concrete walls of the elementary school.
On the other side of the glass
Autumn is falling
A bulb flickers over head
Its fluorescence giving out
The fourth graders are cutting paper designs
Heads cast down over dutiful fingers
Carefully they peel away the colors
I watch them and wonder
If they feel trapped like me:
Ready to run from these concrete stalls
To gasp at the fierceness of the wind on my cheek
That what is worth learning.
An hour passes—students’ shoes squeak on the tiles
As they line up. Their whispers loud in the airless room
Teachers urge them to be quiet,
This is the task at hand:
To learn to exist beneath layers of glass.
Soon I will be a teacher, not a student
And I will hold the authority of concrete in my hands.
I whisper to myself, afraid
That I will be monotone and joyless
When the schools have had their fill.
By the time I emerge, it will be evening
A dusk, drab cool of winter
The students hurry onto buses
Bundled in nylon and down jackets
Encased in metal and rubber.
I drive my car through the wet cold world
On the other side of the glass
I wonder what the leaves are thinking
As they tremble down to earth.
.
Doors Rewrite
My door always sticks
As the wood swells on humid days
At the first touch of snowy weather
And summer thunderstorms.
Some doors are welcoming
With honey-warm light
Shining from partially lidded windows
Round knobs and easy steps.
These doors greet me with open arms
Paint peels from the lintel
But I step inside without hesitation
Knowing mom & dad are waiting
There are doors I wait outside—a stranger’s door
I wait and listen for the thud of footsteps
Wondering when he will answer
Wondering what face he’ll wear
Some doors swing too easily
And I stumble into the light
Not ready to go home and leave
The soft familiarity of friendship.
In the morning the doors are heavy
Making me strain my shoulders
To catch their cold metal and glass
And keep them from closing their jaws.
Some are locked, and without the key
I pace back and forth—
I bang my fists on hollow wood
While empty windows reflect my face
But some doors, like mine, just stick—
I don’t know whether I want to be here or there
Am I going or staying—
I need a little push:
Then I’m out, through the door,
Into the world.
Another Place II
The first of November:
It’s cold in my room.
Today the blue sheets are bluer in the windy light
Tangled around our feet they’re hiding.
Get under the covers, I say
And we pull them up around our faces
Like two cocoons hiding in a fog of change.
I breathe into his shoulder, like
This is the only source of warmth in a bare world—
This is some other place.
I know the wind that whispers around the windows
Is the same wind that bites my cheeks.
I listen to the whisper of breath
Soft, like wind in frozen pine trees.
Time to leave, I say to the hum of his heart
But here I am, in my blue cocoon—
If I leave the comfort of his breath on my cheek
I don’t know where I will go from here.
The Safer Thing
I feel trapped today. It’s all wait, wait, wait.
I wait for the words to come;
To spring from my throat like a marvelous well.
I wait for the boy to explain
Why I need to feel so lonely
When we’re together.
The boy says, “How are you doing?”
And I say, “I’m ok.”
That must be the answer—so
We sit side by side
And think about everything and nothing.
I reach out to touch him—as though
My fingertips could form some connection,
As though through his eyes I could see past and present—capture
What he thinks in this instant.
He shrugs me off
And he is silent, as though everything
That needs to be said is already there
Hovering in my abandoned fingertips
Last night, we argued about what food to order.
What a safe thing to fight about, I think—
But it wasn’t safe when he hid behind his glowering eyes
And said, “You’re allowed to be silent and I’m not?”
Maybe the words felt bitter on his tongue.
I need to believe in my silence when I hurry home
With tears behind my eyes.
I doubt whether words are safety—is
Silence not a safer thing?
If I don’t say anything he won’t know
How small, how vulnerable I feel
When my fingertips touch nothing.
Here, in my silence, I am safe.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Indecision
Some days it seems
They’re all waiting for me to make a decision.
Speak—or be silent.
Are you in or are you out?
I’m afraid the answer will never come.
I love indecision.
If I make a choice, I might have to stick with it.
Stick with (some) one.
That’s commitment
And I don’t do that [word]
Because Mom & Dad
Fight in June, and July, and September
With footsteps heavy on the stairs
And slamming doors like claps of thunder
I’ve never seen them kiss.
They danced once,
At my best friend’s wedding
And I cried because
I’ve never seen them look so happy.
I’m still waiting to find out
If indecision is better
Than commitment.
They’re all waiting for me to make a decision.
Speak—or be silent.
Are you in or are you out?
I’m afraid the answer will never come.
I love indecision.
If I make a choice, I might have to stick with it.
Stick with (some) one.
That’s commitment
And I don’t do that [word]
Because Mom & Dad
Fight in June, and July, and September
With footsteps heavy on the stairs
And slamming doors like claps of thunder
I’ve never seen them kiss.
They danced once,
At my best friend’s wedding
And I cried because
I’ve never seen them look so happy.
I’m still waiting to find out
If indecision is better
Than commitment.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I want you to want me
I could roam around this skin
for weeks
and never find anyone there.
I want someone to crawl in
and let their eyes say
"I understand."
Inside my crushed eyelids
I want to see--
a response of rumpled caresses
I don't want the cold of winter
to reach my spine, hips, and knees
I want someone there
pressed against my back.
It could be you, (I thought
foolishly, sometimes.)
I wish i could feel
more strongly than this.
I want to whisper in your ear
something
that smacks of the soul
but i cannot.
i don't know you, at all.
I beg: Listen, listen
I need to be known.
You breathe only &
My whispered wish
fell on silent ears.
for weeks
and never find anyone there.
I want someone to crawl in
and let their eyes say
"I understand."
Inside my crushed eyelids
I want to see--
a response of rumpled caresses
I don't want the cold of winter
to reach my spine, hips, and knees
I want someone there
pressed against my back.
It could be you, (I thought
foolishly, sometimes.)
I wish i could feel
more strongly than this.
I want to whisper in your ear
something
that smacks of the soul
but i cannot.
i don't know you, at all.
I beg: Listen, listen
I need to be known.
You breathe only &
My whispered wish
fell on silent ears.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
september september
Transformations of September
September, like a river
A swift-dripping slip of silver
A stealthy dewdrop
Dying in the sun
September, a chill of dusk
On the slowly fading green,
Lost in the myriad of orange and umber
That makes me question tomorrow’s color.
September, and I’m a year older
With brighter eyes to capture
The days around me;
Changing like a dream.
It was September that once
Welcomed me to the world
Eager to go, I couldn’t wait
For November’s sweet embrace
The first September, I saw goldenrod
And migrating geese in the sky,
And I waited in my incubator
For my lungs to learn to breathe.
There are Septembers I’ve cherished
And some I’ve grown to fear
As winter pulls up the covers
And the leaves lie down to bed.
September tastes of eagerness.
A breath of the future
That spawns the whispers of adulthood
And shivers of the unknown.
And soon as I write this
September too will fade
Like a little frozen stream
Stands still in the cold.
On Pedagogy and Doubts
It’s a Saturday, and I’m trying catch up
Keeping my eyes off the window, I read
Hoping to learn
How to be a teacher.
I have all the essentials:
A book on my lap, pushed down to my knees
To make room for the amber-eyed tabby cat
Asleep and purring hard.
I like to test myself with worries
And weigh them against the benefits
Of reading and thinking at all—
I have to admit I’m afraid.
Afraid the paint on my fingers
Will fail to create meaning
And in all this education
I’m absorbing less than ever.
My eyes blur the words on the page,
As a liquid line of neon
Covers the thick curves of letters
As though to prove their worth.
This is book learning
Metacognition—these authentic goals
But I just write and read
And it never becomes real.
I don’t even want to breathe
Without permission
I never learned to think
Critically
Differentiation,
Cognitive objectives
Splayed, flailing across
The pages of these textbooks.
Transform, transform
I say, “This vocabulary means nothing.”
And my doubts, like heavy curtains
Whisper: I don’t want to be a teacher
I feel my own learned helplessness
My stereotypes, crawling over me like ants
How can I teach without believing this—
Pegagogy?
I just want to be an expert
An artist, with paint in the creases of my hands
I just want to share—knowledge
My transformations.
September, like a river
A swift-dripping slip of silver
A stealthy dewdrop
Dying in the sun
September, a chill of dusk
On the slowly fading green,
Lost in the myriad of orange and umber
That makes me question tomorrow’s color.
September, and I’m a year older
With brighter eyes to capture
The days around me;
Changing like a dream.
It was September that once
Welcomed me to the world
Eager to go, I couldn’t wait
For November’s sweet embrace
The first September, I saw goldenrod
And migrating geese in the sky,
And I waited in my incubator
For my lungs to learn to breathe.
There are Septembers I’ve cherished
And some I’ve grown to fear
As winter pulls up the covers
And the leaves lie down to bed.
September tastes of eagerness.
A breath of the future
That spawns the whispers of adulthood
And shivers of the unknown.
And soon as I write this
September too will fade
Like a little frozen stream
Stands still in the cold.
On Pedagogy and Doubts
It’s a Saturday, and I’m trying catch up
Keeping my eyes off the window, I read
Hoping to learn
How to be a teacher.
I have all the essentials:
A book on my lap, pushed down to my knees
To make room for the amber-eyed tabby cat
Asleep and purring hard.
I like to test myself with worries
And weigh them against the benefits
Of reading and thinking at all—
I have to admit I’m afraid.
Afraid the paint on my fingers
Will fail to create meaning
And in all this education
I’m absorbing less than ever.
My eyes blur the words on the page,
As a liquid line of neon
Covers the thick curves of letters
As though to prove their worth.
This is book learning
Metacognition—these authentic goals
But I just write and read
And it never becomes real.
I don’t even want to breathe
Without permission
I never learned to think
Critically
Differentiation,
Cognitive objectives
Splayed, flailing across
The pages of these textbooks.
Transform, transform
I say, “This vocabulary means nothing.”
And my doubts, like heavy curtains
Whisper: I don’t want to be a teacher
I feel my own learned helplessness
My stereotypes, crawling over me like ants
How can I teach without believing this—
Pegagogy?
I just want to be an expert
An artist, with paint in the creases of my hands
I just want to share—knowledge
My transformations.
i love dirt, pt 1 & 2
Decomposition
Gritty against my teeth /
I feel the earth.
It shifts beneath my palms,
Leaving the imprint
Of each blade of grass.
A prickly stem scratches my arm,
Hot and alive,
Like some strange insect.
It struggles against my fingers;
It bends toward the sun.
Blade of grass – she
Grew up out of this crumbly earth,
Like me, a slender weed
Eager to grow tall and pleasing,
Swift and straight and sweet.
I brush aside the leaves
And reach through to find
A chicken bone, whiter than a pebble:
Once discarded from the table
It still bears the marks of my teeth.
How carefree we suppose it was
“It must be so easy
To be only a child”
Yet everything was so heavy and new --
Reality so rarely glimpsed.
I can show you a picture, now:
Here is my little farm (Quaint and Peaceful),
Where Dad grew broccoli and cabbages
All with the taste of rocks
Clinging to my molars.
I knew everything then
All so difficult to explain.
But I held the proof in my bloodstream
That decomposition creates life
And growing, still I decompose.
I was an only child /
Playing in the dirt.
Now it is so easy to tell you
How simple and serene
It must have been – it must have seemed.
DIRT pt. 1
This is the dirt I gathered
The dirt I bought at Agway
And sprinkled across my floor
Filling flower pots
And hoping the seeds would grow.
This is the dirt on my palms
Dirt that doesn’t even smell
It’s missing that froggy scent,
As green as the grass
Hiding in roadside ditches.
This dirt is so synthetic
A uniform brown—not umber, not sienna
A dry, dead crumble, it is easily scattered
Dispersed by the wind
Our approximation of the earth:
Only acceptable when packaged.
Eating Dirt
Rocks are everywhere
That’s why they call it the endless mountains
Dad says.
We’re under the sun
Grasping the crabgrass that weaves
Along the rows of green beans.
The mailman’s tires kick up dust
His passage rumbles across the rock shelf
It’s 3pm.
We move to the tomato plants
Their soft-skins warm from the sun
Prickly stems graze my arms.
Among the pebbles I find buttons, bones, .22 shells
These make good whistles
When held to chapped lips.
Under my fingernails brown ribbons
Burrow their way into my bloodstream
Endless mountains’ dirt
Gritty against my teeth /
I feel the earth.
It shifts beneath my palms,
Leaving the imprint
Of each blade of grass.
A prickly stem scratches my arm,
Hot and alive,
Like some strange insect.
It struggles against my fingers;
It bends toward the sun.
Blade of grass – she
Grew up out of this crumbly earth,
Like me, a slender weed
Eager to grow tall and pleasing,
Swift and straight and sweet.
I brush aside the leaves
And reach through to find
A chicken bone, whiter than a pebble:
Once discarded from the table
It still bears the marks of my teeth.
How carefree we suppose it was
“It must be so easy
To be only a child”
Yet everything was so heavy and new --
Reality so rarely glimpsed.
I can show you a picture, now:
Here is my little farm (Quaint and Peaceful),
Where Dad grew broccoli and cabbages
All with the taste of rocks
Clinging to my molars.
I knew everything then
All so difficult to explain.
But I held the proof in my bloodstream
That decomposition creates life
And growing, still I decompose.
I was an only child /
Playing in the dirt.
Now it is so easy to tell you
How simple and serene
It must have been – it must have seemed.
DIRT pt. 1
This is the dirt I gathered
The dirt I bought at Agway
And sprinkled across my floor
Filling flower pots
And hoping the seeds would grow.
This is the dirt on my palms
Dirt that doesn’t even smell
It’s missing that froggy scent,
As green as the grass
Hiding in roadside ditches.
This dirt is so synthetic
A uniform brown—not umber, not sienna
A dry, dead crumble, it is easily scattered
Dispersed by the wind
Our approximation of the earth:
Only acceptable when packaged.
Eating Dirt
Rocks are everywhere
That’s why they call it the endless mountains
Dad says.
We’re under the sun
Grasping the crabgrass that weaves
Along the rows of green beans.
The mailman’s tires kick up dust
His passage rumbles across the rock shelf
It’s 3pm.
We move to the tomato plants
Their soft-skins warm from the sun
Prickly stems graze my arms.
Among the pebbles I find buttons, bones, .22 shells
These make good whistles
When held to chapped lips.
Under my fingernails brown ribbons
Burrow their way into my bloodstream
Endless mountains’ dirt
Monday, August 10, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
hard cider & old chinese food
april 15, 2009
i am disappointed
the darkness has left you alone
and all you can say to me is
i like you
the duck is silent, waiting
her clutch is settled by the brick wall
and i pass by unknowing, intoxicated
by the sun that kisses my face.
i have a secret: i'm not like you
i listen to your blue collar riddles and i say i know but that is a lie. i can't help lying. because yould spit in my face if i told you that it is also your mind that makes you poor, i can see it in your eyes and smell it on your breath and hear it in the way you hate life. working at burgerking for three years will do that to anyone. i've felt it and let it hold me down, but not for long.?
april 20
i hate the thought of having to move, to see people and speak their sordid language. after all, we are supremely alone in the world. i want to get away to a place where all the people are strangers and my actions count for nothing toward tomorrow.
let me lie down in the cool rain and let them pretend to be tears across my cheek: that is their only solace, falling, dying. i will gladly give them this moment to speak for me of the past and the future: night lies behind and beyond, the gray of rain and despair.
april 22
i squeal loudly, your hand in my face. there is no danger here and yet the thought of you so close disgusts me. your words, carnivorous, take me by the throat.
april 23
the arrogance of empire
the first leaves are sprouting and i can alreay smell the green (of lzazy summer when the cicadas hum in the trees and i am too hot and tired to venture outside)
daffodil are you an individual or a number like me?
blackbirds warn me that i am not welcome here : run back to your sanitary classroom, girl
when i was a child i ate little golden ants, just to feel them burn on my tongue
april 25
today i saw a fiery cardinal calling from the top of a tall tree. elusive bird pledging fidelity to the world.
time to see what's become of me: shadows and sorcery.
july 4
the willow trees have the strongest backs
i lie on their bending branches
down by the river running.
if i play this character long enough
she will wake and run among the lilies and cattails
oblivious of the waking world
july 30
it took me a long time to feel like myself again: moody and preoccupied with my own thoughts, reading all day, eating little, exploring the world by myself. i forgot how much i dislike people. they are fascinating really, and i am miserable without them, but i still dislike encountering them when i'm unprepared. especially those i know. especially those who are (or worse, think they are) doing something useful and kind and marvelous and strategic with their lives. i have become one of the faceless masses. i am not content to do anything resembling work, and pine when i think what i could be accomplishing. the deep conversations i longed to encounter when i came to college have come and gone, and i sat openmouthed, dumb. i have no opinions, or imaginings, or beliefs.
i am disappointed
the darkness has left you alone
and all you can say to me is
i like you
the duck is silent, waiting
her clutch is settled by the brick wall
and i pass by unknowing, intoxicated
by the sun that kisses my face.
i have a secret: i'm not like you
i listen to your blue collar riddles and i say i know but that is a lie. i can't help lying. because yould spit in my face if i told you that it is also your mind that makes you poor, i can see it in your eyes and smell it on your breath and hear it in the way you hate life. working at burgerking for three years will do that to anyone. i've felt it and let it hold me down, but not for long.?
april 20
i hate the thought of having to move, to see people and speak their sordid language. after all, we are supremely alone in the world. i want to get away to a place where all the people are strangers and my actions count for nothing toward tomorrow.
let me lie down in the cool rain and let them pretend to be tears across my cheek: that is their only solace, falling, dying. i will gladly give them this moment to speak for me of the past and the future: night lies behind and beyond, the gray of rain and despair.
april 22
i squeal loudly, your hand in my face. there is no danger here and yet the thought of you so close disgusts me. your words, carnivorous, take me by the throat.
april 23
the arrogance of empire
the first leaves are sprouting and i can alreay smell the green (of lzazy summer when the cicadas hum in the trees and i am too hot and tired to venture outside)
daffodil are you an individual or a number like me?
blackbirds warn me that i am not welcome here : run back to your sanitary classroom, girl
when i was a child i ate little golden ants, just to feel them burn on my tongue
april 25
today i saw a fiery cardinal calling from the top of a tall tree. elusive bird pledging fidelity to the world.
time to see what's become of me: shadows and sorcery.
july 4
the willow trees have the strongest backs
i lie on their bending branches
down by the river running.
if i play this character long enough
she will wake and run among the lilies and cattails
oblivious of the waking world
july 30
it took me a long time to feel like myself again: moody and preoccupied with my own thoughts, reading all day, eating little, exploring the world by myself. i forgot how much i dislike people. they are fascinating really, and i am miserable without them, but i still dislike encountering them when i'm unprepared. especially those i know. especially those who are (or worse, think they are) doing something useful and kind and marvelous and strategic with their lives. i have become one of the faceless masses. i am not content to do anything resembling work, and pine when i think what i could be accomplishing. the deep conversations i longed to encounter when i came to college have come and gone, and i sat openmouthed, dumb. i have no opinions, or imaginings, or beliefs.
licking a pine cone.
today,i saw two locusts, one black and one red. they sat together on the cement of the sidewalk and moved their hind legs, first one, then the other. they touched antennae, and continued the dance.
Today, on my way home from the pool, under gathering thunderclouds, a boy walks past me. He doesn't look at me. I wonder why, but I am content not to know. The sun is heavy on my face as i cross the asphalt and head toward the pond. I touch the tip of my bleached hair to my tongue to test the potency of the chlorine. I stop, about to cross the road--I can't help myself. Under a pine tree i pick up a pine cone that lay nestled in reddish needles. I press it to my face and smell nothing. It is a hard-edged cone, not one of the ones that are easily crushed in a fist. I put my tongue one one of the hard brown nubs. I cautiously feel the spaces in between with my tongue, test the shoots with my teeth.
I think I'm going crazy: teething. Wet with saliva, the pine cone smells deep, rainy. I put half of the pinecone in my mouth as i cross the road, sucking it like an oversized pacifier. I don't care who sees me. I want to see everything, smell, feel and taste every bit of the world.
I'll never write as gritty, offensive words as Palahnuik, or be as crazy as Plath. I can't capture the soul of solitude in a blade of grass like Dickinson. I realize I haven't been looking for real people to be my soulmates. I don't go where they are: i stay in my house, in the woods, on pathways where i am least likely to encounter anyone. And then i feel alone. I crunch the tip of the pine cone between my front teeth--spit woody bits onto the grass.
Passing the first row of townhouses, I smell the thick musky scent of the mulch they laid down today. It's July 30th, and people are moving out. I don't want any of them to interrupt my solitude. And two days of reading and solitude feels like a decade. I pass a friend, getting into a parked car. "Hey, how are you?" I say. "Hi. I'm ok, you?" I think she's crying. I walk on, homeward.
Perhaps I'll go downtown, get out of the house. But probably not. I'm afraid I might find something like intimacy there.
Today, on my way home from the pool, under gathering thunderclouds, a boy walks past me. He doesn't look at me. I wonder why, but I am content not to know. The sun is heavy on my face as i cross the asphalt and head toward the pond. I touch the tip of my bleached hair to my tongue to test the potency of the chlorine. I stop, about to cross the road--I can't help myself. Under a pine tree i pick up a pine cone that lay nestled in reddish needles. I press it to my face and smell nothing. It is a hard-edged cone, not one of the ones that are easily crushed in a fist. I put my tongue one one of the hard brown nubs. I cautiously feel the spaces in between with my tongue, test the shoots with my teeth.
I think I'm going crazy: teething. Wet with saliva, the pine cone smells deep, rainy. I put half of the pinecone in my mouth as i cross the road, sucking it like an oversized pacifier. I don't care who sees me. I want to see everything, smell, feel and taste every bit of the world.
I'll never write as gritty, offensive words as Palahnuik, or be as crazy as Plath. I can't capture the soul of solitude in a blade of grass like Dickinson. I realize I haven't been looking for real people to be my soulmates. I don't go where they are: i stay in my house, in the woods, on pathways where i am least likely to encounter anyone. And then i feel alone. I crunch the tip of the pine cone between my front teeth--spit woody bits onto the grass.
Passing the first row of townhouses, I smell the thick musky scent of the mulch they laid down today. It's July 30th, and people are moving out. I don't want any of them to interrupt my solitude. And two days of reading and solitude feels like a decade. I pass a friend, getting into a parked car. "Hey, how are you?" I say. "Hi. I'm ok, you?" I think she's crying. I walk on, homeward.
Perhaps I'll go downtown, get out of the house. But probably not. I'm afraid I might find something like intimacy there.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
an offering to the god of doubt
you have something concrete to teach them.
And I, what do I have?
no gas to go anywhere
and no imagination
no cash for an adventure
and no desire for things to change.
Where have I come from
and where am I going?
The people i once loved seem to be fleeing,
their thrall over me so brazenly comforting.
The fan in the window seems to mock me
for all is still and airless despite the noise.
~
I can't believe i still get upset
after hearing you say, "I don't care" so many times
and yet all of it, is real-- lies.
Like that girl's hips and her smooth little thighs
you caught my looking with my old man's eyes
and laughed saying
"Are you sure you're not bi?"
And i smiled because it's easier to covet
and let my comparisons hide.
It's his hand on her waist
so possessive &
paired with that vacuous face
that's got me staring as though--
with sheer force of will -- i could vanish and take her place.
But neither of us want that.
And I, what do I have?
no gas to go anywhere
and no imagination
no cash for an adventure
and no desire for things to change.
Where have I come from
and where am I going?
The people i once loved seem to be fleeing,
their thrall over me so brazenly comforting.
The fan in the window seems to mock me
for all is still and airless despite the noise.
~
I can't believe i still get upset
after hearing you say, "I don't care" so many times
and yet all of it, is real-- lies.
Like that girl's hips and her smooth little thighs
you caught my looking with my old man's eyes
and laughed saying
"Are you sure you're not bi?"
And i smiled because it's easier to covet
and let my comparisons hide.
It's his hand on her waist
so possessive &
paired with that vacuous face
that's got me staring as though--
with sheer force of will -- i could vanish and take her place.
But neither of us want that.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
what does this mean
oh life, why must you hurt so
when everything is so shiny, yet
all the memories pointed
so sharply
in their silence.
oh life, why must you be so soft
like a billowed curtain--
that cringes
and cries as loud as I.
Too pale,
at the edge of your world
i am instantly.
obscured, contented, terrified
here and everywhere
i must never cross you.
I'm naked in your understanding
that all this is temporary
and all my fears are this and that
and all this has already happened.
when everything is so shiny, yet
all the memories pointed
so sharply
in their silence.
oh life, why must you be so soft
like a billowed curtain--
that cringes
and cries as loud as I.
Too pale,
at the edge of your world
i am instantly.
obscured, contented, terrified
here and everywhere
i must never cross you.
I'm naked in your understanding
that all this is temporary
and all my fears are this and that
and all this has already happened.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
i have never done anything that wasn't easy
When i came to college
I sold my soul
I killed my conscience
I gave away my moral compass
and I erased my resolutions.
I learned to see in black and white and gray
instead of colors
and I decided that the best policy
isn't often honesty
I learned to mistrust nice guys
and beg for compliments
I discovered that the best i can get
is taken at someone's expense;
I stopped sleeping, eating and dreaming
and I walk alone only when I am surrounded.
I learned to break the law and to defend the individual
I learned to be a good capitalist,
and i lost my imagination.
And now, I am an adult.
I sold my soul
I killed my conscience
I gave away my moral compass
and I erased my resolutions.
I learned to see in black and white and gray
instead of colors
and I decided that the best policy
isn't often honesty
I learned to mistrust nice guys
and beg for compliments
I discovered that the best i can get
is taken at someone's expense;
I stopped sleeping, eating and dreaming
and I walk alone only when I am surrounded.
I learned to break the law and to defend the individual
I learned to be a good capitalist,
and i lost my imagination.
And now, I am an adult.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Peep the Duck 1:1
Transformations of a Duckling
The First Week:
Duckling, small as a penny
As an acorn, a walnut, an orange
Shiny bright and fuzzy
Baby down and bat-wing soft
Right now you are
Nothing more than frightened squeaks
To illustrate
The necessity of closeness.
Your bill is like a fingernail
Your eyes a drop of pitch—
Your feet the tiny scrabbling claws
Of a mouse inside the walls.
The Second Week:
Duckling, how awkward and anxious you seem
Peering your long neck
Through crooked doorways in search of me.
Questioning, questioning, you catch each grain
And gobble it down with quivering beak—
Then preen with wings outstretched
Your bill trembling to loose the casings
On the shaft of each prickly primary feather.
Your bill is like a spoon
Your eyes a darkened bead
Your feet the delicate webs
For walking the wet earth.
The Third Week:
Duckling, you still “peep” loudly, through your nose
When all the house is still
And your fuzzy feathers are turning
From mustard to tawny nut
Once in a while your voice is hoarse
And your round body squawks
Before you dare to dive and splash
In your sparkling water home.
Your bill is like a smile
Your eyes a wary pool
Your feet two flailing flippers
To propel you through the waves.
The Fourth Week:
Duckling, you grow fat and sleek
Your footsteps patter, like bubbles from your breath
You peck and flap with pride,
Each feather like a finger
That stops to graze the grasses
When we lie basking in the sun.
You rarely call for me—instead you like to fly
To visit all the neighbors’ rooftops.
Your bill is a weapon
Your eyes as sharp as hawks’
Your wings a silken wave
To speed you in your goodbyes.
The First Week:
Duckling, small as a penny
As an acorn, a walnut, an orange
Shiny bright and fuzzy
Baby down and bat-wing soft
Right now you are
Nothing more than frightened squeaks
To illustrate
The necessity of closeness.
Your bill is like a fingernail
Your eyes a drop of pitch—
Your feet the tiny scrabbling claws
Of a mouse inside the walls.
The Second Week:
Duckling, how awkward and anxious you seem
Peering your long neck
Through crooked doorways in search of me.
Questioning, questioning, you catch each grain
And gobble it down with quivering beak—
Then preen with wings outstretched
Your bill trembling to loose the casings
On the shaft of each prickly primary feather.
Your bill is like a spoon
Your eyes a darkened bead
Your feet the delicate webs
For walking the wet earth.
The Third Week:
Duckling, you still “peep” loudly, through your nose
When all the house is still
And your fuzzy feathers are turning
From mustard to tawny nut
Once in a while your voice is hoarse
And your round body squawks
Before you dare to dive and splash
In your sparkling water home.
Your bill is like a smile
Your eyes a wary pool
Your feet two flailing flippers
To propel you through the waves.
The Fourth Week:
Duckling, you grow fat and sleek
Your footsteps patter, like bubbles from your breath
You peck and flap with pride,
Each feather like a finger
That stops to graze the grasses
When we lie basking in the sun.
You rarely call for me—instead you like to fly
To visit all the neighbors’ rooftops.
Your bill is a weapon
Your eyes as sharp as hawks’
Your wings a silken wave
To speed you in your goodbyes.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
you want me to lie? Fine, I'll lie.
wearing more makeup today
to hide any outward signs of my moral imperfections
and I must say, it's working well
i've never looked more flawless--
I cover my innocence-less eyes
the ruby touch of his lips
in the blush of a cheek--
and mascara brushes all the tears away.
i must say,
the weight of his arm around my neck, so solid
is more comforting than any blanket
and we both know, that i will not be here tomorrow.
to hide any outward signs of my moral imperfections
and I must say, it's working well
i've never looked more flawless--
I cover my innocence-less eyes
the ruby touch of his lips
in the blush of a cheek--
and mascara brushes all the tears away.
i must say,
the weight of his arm around my neck, so solid
is more comforting than any blanket
and we both know, that i will not be here tomorrow.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
to easy disappointment
it is too easy to wake
too easy to stay asleep
although the light is in my eyes
my shoulders are in darkness.
i listen to the whispers in my skull
that tell me
"You were always right."
And laugh at the thought
that he wouldn't disappoint.
I toss and turn and mumble--
not ready to work,
not ready to rest--
I whisper over the sheets:
It is all too easy to be disappointed
and that is my failure.
too easy to see
the cracks upon which i step
the softness of rot
in the almost-perfect peach
the heaviness of the sky
when all i wanted was blue.
too easy to be off tune
with my soft chant that says
"I am too alone,
or too surrounded
too idealistic
or too grounded
it's all too simple or too complex
too much abstinence
or too much sex
too much sugar, too much caffeine
too many hopes, too many dreams.
Too much failure or too much success
too many questions on where to go next..."
Writing this is all too easy
and disappointment
smiles,
wrapping me
in ashen kisses.
too easy to stay asleep
although the light is in my eyes
my shoulders are in darkness.
i listen to the whispers in my skull
that tell me
"You were always right."
And laugh at the thought
that he wouldn't disappoint.
I toss and turn and mumble--
not ready to work,
not ready to rest--
I whisper over the sheets:
It is all too easy to be disappointed
and that is my failure.
too easy to see
the cracks upon which i step
the softness of rot
in the almost-perfect peach
the heaviness of the sky
when all i wanted was blue.
too easy to be off tune
with my soft chant that says
"I am too alone,
or too surrounded
too idealistic
or too grounded
it's all too simple or too complex
too much abstinence
or too much sex
too much sugar, too much caffeine
too many hopes, too many dreams.
Too much failure or too much success
too many questions on where to go next..."
Writing this is all too easy
and disappointment
smiles,
wrapping me
in ashen kisses.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Dot dot dash
so i'll have another beer
and cough up another line
and i'll drive home in tears
for the second time
can't you just tell me
when you want me out
instead of letting imagination
play and sing and shout
and you think it's a joke
and you think we can play;
but I'm not me,
and I'm not me
- and you're not anyone
but you
and cough up another line
and i'll drive home in tears
for the second time
can't you just tell me
when you want me out
instead of letting imagination
play and sing and shout
and you think it's a joke
and you think we can play;
but I'm not me,
and I'm not me
- and you're not anyone
but you
Saturday, May 30, 2009
secrets
Not-so-secret
you told me yourself
you'll always be the kind of person who disappoints
well, I'll always be the kind of person who expects
I'll always be the kind of person who gets hurt
when you don't do what you said.
and i'll be the one
pretending to be alone
while she's counting up her secrets
& painting on her frown.
you told me yourself
you'll always be the kind of person who disappoints
well, I'll always be the kind of person who expects
I'll always be the kind of person who gets hurt
when you don't do what you said.
and i'll be the one
pretending to be alone
while she's counting up her secrets
& painting on her frown.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
i know these clothes are coming off
a slow soft chirp from outside the window,
the squeal of tires somewhere on the pavement
someone else is awake:
we are not the only two.
behind the blinds the world would be fuzzy
if i opened my eyes long enough to look.
I wonder what I am supposed to be thinking,
but all i want is a green sea of solace.
i got what i wanted
(what i planned, in agitation running from wall to wall
while i put on my red dress and smoothed my legs
and touched my breath)
All that was for this - all that waiting
so why
do i feel so sad and slow,
The happiness giving way so swiftly, to a soft despair
and i wish to be elsewhere.
Perhaps a new pair of shoes, a glitter, a silken fabric
Perhaps these will fix me, save me, fill me
make me a new, a better person.
Then I'd be armed
With a coach purse, a skirt and a bra and some perfume
I'll be ready
for all the times you're not really there
(somewhere else, if at all)
After.
We lie on the bed in silence and i
want to shake myself awake
and bow down to consumerism,
that baudy green goddess, whose lips have tasted all my fantasies,
whose breasts have shaped my dreams.
Buyer's remorse, retail therapy, impulsive buying--
that's what i want now
to drive along the strip of lights forever,
without pausing to sign a slip as the imaginary earnings dwindle.
what's it all there for
what's all my time been making--
but wristwatches and high-heeled shoes, lamps and mirrors and shows on Itunes.
After all,
isn't that what girls are supposed to do?
Not lie in the dark and wonder
if i dreamed this world or it dreamed me.
the squeal of tires somewhere on the pavement
someone else is awake:
we are not the only two.
behind the blinds the world would be fuzzy
if i opened my eyes long enough to look.
I wonder what I am supposed to be thinking,
but all i want is a green sea of solace.
i got what i wanted
(what i planned, in agitation running from wall to wall
while i put on my red dress and smoothed my legs
and touched my breath)
All that was for this - all that waiting
so why
do i feel so sad and slow,
The happiness giving way so swiftly, to a soft despair
and i wish to be elsewhere.
Perhaps a new pair of shoes, a glitter, a silken fabric
Perhaps these will fix me, save me, fill me
make me a new, a better person.
Then I'd be armed
With a coach purse, a skirt and a bra and some perfume
I'll be ready
for all the times you're not really there
(somewhere else, if at all)
After.
We lie on the bed in silence and i
want to shake myself awake
and bow down to consumerism,
that baudy green goddess, whose lips have tasted all my fantasies,
whose breasts have shaped my dreams.
Buyer's remorse, retail therapy, impulsive buying--
that's what i want now
to drive along the strip of lights forever,
without pausing to sign a slip as the imaginary earnings dwindle.
what's it all there for
what's all my time been making--
but wristwatches and high-heeled shoes, lamps and mirrors and shows on Itunes.
After all,
isn't that what girls are supposed to do?
Not lie in the dark and wonder
if i dreamed this world or it dreamed me.
Monday, April 13, 2009
parking lot blues
the world is top heavy
over and over
breakfast and sausage lines on the white tabletop
the sticky smell of pancakes
rubber burns in the parking lot
a thickly turning light is green above the wavering of wires
the switch of the wheel beneath my feet
and the world is heavy
careening
down this early morning
this late afternoon
adrift in alcoholic haze
the way I answered an email written last year
as though it was yesterday
and the future still looms but it's
heavily
here
over and over
breakfast and sausage lines on the white tabletop
the sticky smell of pancakes
rubber burns in the parking lot
a thickly turning light is green above the wavering of wires
the switch of the wheel beneath my feet
and the world is heavy
careening
down this early morning
this late afternoon
adrift in alcoholic haze
the way I answered an email written last year
as though it was yesterday
and the future still looms but it's
heavily
here
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
the terms of being human
I have come to realize that part of being human is every once in a while we do something completely stupid, risky and selfish. Then, after a few weeks of fear and guilt have worn off, we do it again. We continue to repeat this act, waiting for the consequences to finally crush us.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
they're not what's important--did you forget?
suddenly, I remember.
I remember-- a fresh white parting of lips
Fresh a breath in lungs
smooth cobwebs disapear.
A relief lighthouse
on this coast
the storms have passed.
I speak aloud,
i scream and laugh as mad
I remember:
"They're not important!"
This silly statement grasps me
for my worst fear had come
and now quickly gone:
I forgot what was important.
My life, my breath, the cold tone of truth
i know there's no one there for me
and yet, alone
is the better misery -
knowing this, i could rise
& touch those shaded tops
where the firs quiver
and console my foolishness
in ever forgetting.
I remember-- a fresh white parting of lips
Fresh a breath in lungs
smooth cobwebs disapear.
A relief lighthouse
on this coast
the storms have passed.
I speak aloud,
i scream and laugh as mad
I remember:
"They're not important!"
This silly statement grasps me
for my worst fear had come
and now quickly gone:
I forgot what was important.
My life, my breath, the cold tone of truth
i know there's no one there for me
and yet, alone
is the better misery -
knowing this, i could rise
& touch those shaded tops
where the firs quiver
and console my foolishness
in ever forgetting.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Piano Man
The room is empty except for the tall rugged black man who works in the dining hall. He recognizes me from last summer, even though I didn't speak much then. Tips his hat.
"Time to make some noise."
He sits down at the piano and plays classically for ten minutes.
Then it's time to go back to the dining hall. His break's over.
"Time to make some noise."
He sits down at the piano and plays classically for ten minutes.
Then it's time to go back to the dining hall. His break's over.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A Room of My Own**
*The case for solitude.
ici sont les amis que j'ai connus
depuis que nous avons jouer dans le soleil
et chuchotant
au sujet du futur
Voici, c'est l'année
que tu me montre l'anneau sur ta grosse doigt
comme un mannequin
qui fait son main une putain pour le monogamy
Voici, c'est le jour tu peut feindre
tu es toujours un vierge
mais tu n'est pas un enfant non plus
avec tes orteils dans le sable.
Ici sont les filles qui donneraient
n'importe quoi
pour avoir un jour habillé toute en blanches
Et voici, je donnerais tout, pour ne le pas avoir.
Voici ils qui disent : "Tu le voudra
bientot"
mais je me sens gros et gonflé avec dégoût
je ne partagerai jamais cette chambre.
ici sont les amis que j'ai connus
depuis que nous avons jouer dans le soleil
et chuchotant
au sujet du futur
Voici, c'est l'année
que tu me montre l'anneau sur ta grosse doigt
comme un mannequin
qui fait son main une putain pour le monogamy
Voici, c'est le jour tu peut feindre
tu es toujours un vierge
mais tu n'est pas un enfant non plus
avec tes orteils dans le sable.
Ici sont les filles qui donneraient
n'importe quoi
pour avoir un jour habillé toute en blanches
Et voici, je donnerais tout, pour ne le pas avoir.
Voici ils qui disent : "Tu le voudra
bientot"
mais je me sens gros et gonflé avec dégoût
je ne partagerai jamais cette chambre.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I am a double agent;
I am a master spy
So good at hiding
I don't appear at all.
I am a perfect liar
so complete is my disguise
I can even hear you tremble
as you whisper with your eyes.
I am the secret weapon
with my silent arsenal
like a trigger for your fire
I watch you softly fall.
I am a lone companion
riding out the night
no one here to save me
from my last desire.
I want to speak the truth
I want to confess
I want to give myself up
and pass this test.
But I will keep on lying
someone else must take the blame
i'd rather have the guilt
than give you any pain.
I am a master spy
So good at hiding
I don't appear at all.
I am a perfect liar
so complete is my disguise
I can even hear you tremble
as you whisper with your eyes.
I am the secret weapon
with my silent arsenal
like a trigger for your fire
I watch you softly fall.
I am a lone companion
riding out the night
no one here to save me
from my last desire.
I want to speak the truth
I want to confess
I want to give myself up
and pass this test.
But I will keep on lying
someone else must take the blame
i'd rather have the guilt
than give you any pain.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Robins skim the freshly thawed grass
searching for prey
like worms that melt and decompose
across the asphalt.
Geese make crooked loops like knitting needles
Dragging broken thread across the sky
Hollow bones caught in my teeth—
a salmon springing upstream
or the first bruised strawberries from california
signaling the end of winter
like robins on beady feet
There are nine of them now, hopping
in the dessicated summer garden
red-coats, snobby
lunging with scalpel sharp beaks
I wonder if i will face each spring
as ready
I dry my hair, crouched in front of the electric heater
the slow trickle of spring water
from the ancient showerhead
warms my body
in this pewter tub
hardwater makes verdegris
beneath the faucet
I sleep buried in pillows
the sleeping bags do nothing
to warm my cold flesh.
searching for prey
like worms that melt and decompose
across the asphalt.
Geese make crooked loops like knitting needles
Dragging broken thread across the sky
Hollow bones caught in my teeth—
a salmon springing upstream
or the first bruised strawberries from california
signaling the end of winter
like robins on beady feet
There are nine of them now, hopping
in the dessicated summer garden
red-coats, snobby
lunging with scalpel sharp beaks
I wonder if i will face each spring
as ready
I dry my hair, crouched in front of the electric heater
the slow trickle of spring water
from the ancient showerhead
warms my body
in this pewter tub
hardwater makes verdegris
beneath the faucet
I sleep buried in pillows
the sleeping bags do nothing
to warm my cold flesh.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
lifestyles
Lifestyles I: A Night with the Townies
coffee so strong it could knock my teeth out--
so i can write this
in the cool gray afternoon
that wakes me. I think about
Lifestyles--
perhaps it's better that way.
At least there the choices
don't require thought.
I wouldn't stay long
as you breathe through the curtains of phlegm
across the shiny hardwood of the alley
the clatter of balls down the lane echoes
shivering the bubbling mugs
tuned to "can't we ever get out of here?"
my fingers plug the holes and i roll
into the fetal face of life
here we are in the pouring rain
I clutch the collar to my throat
the way i wish your fingers
would touch my neck
we crowd into the silver
backseats covered in shed doberman
And writhe like an angry snake
across the night-slicked streets
I push back against the seat
into the cold--if only I am there to catch
myself as you text slowly,
your knees pressed into the passenger seat.
we'll hang a while
up the creaky carpeted stairs--
I'm not getting anything interesting
tonight. Only the aftertaste of beer &
comedy central blaring
You cough and they laugh
all having so much fun
fondling the next bud
I cross my arms and study the wheelchair.
Time to go
out of the truck and into the rain
here I am contemplating life
And you're starting over
back to work-- alone again.
Lifestyles II: Burnout
pretty house.
i think it's cute, but
You're only quoting
I think it ended then.
Aren't you a little old for playing
Dad smoked his first joint at 30
guess i can't judge
But i outgrew it in a semester.
Am i ready to go back to serious?
I am the playful--the plaything
i only tell strangers the details
of my sordid life.
I want to call you a stranger
But you're too busy in your house
fogging up your world
And i'm myself again
Lifestyles III: The Good Guy
you speak to me
in unknown languages
and art and poetry--
everything i thought i wanted.
but you are soft,
and i need someone--
or perhaps i need no one
at all.
Thinking grows too hard
for real life teachers and psychologists.
I'd rather watch
as you work your time away.
Your sweet-talk is too contrived,
like the way you remember
the color of the dress I wore
Last summer.
Why couldn't you have kissed me then
before you loved her
before I knew
what he looks like when he smiles.
Lifestyles IV: Marriage
Here are the friends
I've known since we
cooked playdough in the sun
whispering about the future.
Here's the ring
you show me on your chubby finger
Like a silly mannequin
whoring out your hand for monogamy
Here's the day
you could pretend you were still a virgin
and yet no longer a child
with your toes in the sand.
Here are the girls who'd give anything
to have one day
all dressed in white
And here I'd give everything, to not.
Here they say: You'll want to
In a few years
but i feel fat and bloated with disgust
I will never share this room.
coffee so strong it could knock my teeth out--
so i can write this
in the cool gray afternoon
that wakes me. I think about
Lifestyles--
perhaps it's better that way.
At least there the choices
don't require thought.
I wouldn't stay long
as you breathe through the curtains of phlegm
across the shiny hardwood of the alley
the clatter of balls down the lane echoes
shivering the bubbling mugs
tuned to "can't we ever get out of here?"
my fingers plug the holes and i roll
into the fetal face of life
here we are in the pouring rain
I clutch the collar to my throat
the way i wish your fingers
would touch my neck
we crowd into the silver
backseats covered in shed doberman
And writhe like an angry snake
across the night-slicked streets
I push back against the seat
into the cold--if only I am there to catch
myself as you text slowly,
your knees pressed into the passenger seat.
we'll hang a while
up the creaky carpeted stairs--
I'm not getting anything interesting
tonight. Only the aftertaste of beer &
comedy central blaring
You cough and they laugh
all having so much fun
fondling the next bud
I cross my arms and study the wheelchair.
Time to go
out of the truck and into the rain
here I am contemplating life
And you're starting over
back to work-- alone again.
Lifestyles II: Burnout
pretty house.
i think it's cute, but
You're only quoting
I think it ended then.
Aren't you a little old for playing
Dad smoked his first joint at 30
guess i can't judge
But i outgrew it in a semester.
Am i ready to go back to serious?
I am the playful--the plaything
i only tell strangers the details
of my sordid life.
I want to call you a stranger
But you're too busy in your house
fogging up your world
And i'm myself again
Lifestyles III: The Good Guy
you speak to me
in unknown languages
and art and poetry--
everything i thought i wanted.
but you are soft,
and i need someone--
or perhaps i need no one
at all.
Thinking grows too hard
for real life teachers and psychologists.
I'd rather watch
as you work your time away.
Your sweet-talk is too contrived,
like the way you remember
the color of the dress I wore
Last summer.
Why couldn't you have kissed me then
before you loved her
before I knew
what he looks like when he smiles.
Lifestyles IV: Marriage
Here are the friends
I've known since we
cooked playdough in the sun
whispering about the future.
Here's the ring
you show me on your chubby finger
Like a silly mannequin
whoring out your hand for monogamy
Here's the day
you could pretend you were still a virgin
and yet no longer a child
with your toes in the sand.
Here are the girls who'd give anything
to have one day
all dressed in white
And here I'd give everything, to not.
Here they say: You'll want to
In a few years
but i feel fat and bloated with disgust
I will never share this room.
Monday, March 9, 2009
adults in antarctica
Let's pretend we don't exist
all wrapped up
in this cocoon (of scorn)
of silence
All I'd like is to pretend
With you.
Let's imagine--we don't exist
I wish i were an adult
falling asleep
alone.
It was never you.
(I could pretend it was, if you like.
But you don't.)
I wanted
nothing
Yet now, I believe
a kiss would fix me.
A hug would comfort me
Just a nod,
would suffice.
But instead
Like an adult, I don't exist
Like an adult
I do not sleep alone -
and he is no comparison.
(One trespass becomes a road).
all wrapped up
in this cocoon (of scorn)
of silence
All I'd like is to pretend
With you.
Let's imagine--we don't exist
I wish i were an adult
falling asleep
alone.
It was never you.
(I could pretend it was, if you like.
But you don't.)
I wanted
nothing
Yet now, I believe
a kiss would fix me.
A hug would comfort me
Just a nod,
would suffice.
But instead
Like an adult, I don't exist
Like an adult
I do not sleep alone -
and he is no comparison.
(One trespass becomes a road).
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Renga
“Freedom”
Sunlight and shadows
Who owns these wings, you or me?
Feathers are fragile.
And the blackbird just now left
Earth. I am stuck on the bench.
Flapping does no good
I’m tied down by yesterday
With no way to cut
Free from this crushing embrace
That pins my bones so deftly
And yet—a flutter
I think I saw my hand raise
The palm felt the sky
One does not need wings to fly
Only a hope to do so
And eyes to open
And lips to breathe in the wind
That sweeps across me
Aren’t I still sitting here?
A heart says nothing of dead desire.
No eyes and no lips
Ever open wide enough
To revive lost dreams.
Sunlight and shadows
Who owns these wings, you or me?
Feathers are fragile.
And the blackbird just now left
Earth. I am stuck on the bench.
Flapping does no good
I’m tied down by yesterday
With no way to cut
Free from this crushing embrace
That pins my bones so deftly
And yet—a flutter
I think I saw my hand raise
The palm felt the sky
One does not need wings to fly
Only a hope to do so
And eyes to open
And lips to breathe in the wind
That sweeps across me
Aren’t I still sitting here?
A heart says nothing of dead desire.
No eyes and no lips
Ever open wide enough
To revive lost dreams.
truth and lies
Truth and Lies
I am disguised
Beneath my sunglasses
(those mirrored orbits—ovals, optics—they call eyes)
Truths rise like purple bruises
Under my lids, a lack of sleep
A lack of lies, you can trust me.
The lies exist in silence.
Here I am, surrounded
Everyone moving, milling, steeping, climbing
Here I am in stillness (crying)
Across the concrete—
Here lies the only one who feels.
I wish for a breath of fresh air in this
Collision,
This
Softly
Darkening
Solace.
Solace that covers me,
Entertains, twists and tricks me,
Keeps me appeased
With laughter, pleased
To guess and say
That life is worth the living
Lies I Tell Myself
A silent morning and
I wake (briefly)
Taking the time to move my limbs
Slowly to the window.
Snow is fresh on the tired ground,
Reinstating the winter.
I never said I loved you
(It would have been a lie).
I wish I said it anyway.
I close the curtains, and retreat back up the stairs
Sheets and the downy February light
My companions for the morning
The silence doesn’t matter,
My ears are too full to sleep
(I say, dreamily)
Spring is somewhere hiding
And with snowdrops and crocuses
A different world unravels,
Like a dusty chrysalis.
Before you, truth was absolute.
Out of the darkness of the tented sheets
I hear a crow’s cry
Like a distant siren—bringing me out
Like a moth I hide in stillness.
There are no lies in this bed
There are no truths to stir me
Soft up to my shoulders
I don’t need to move—(Truth)
I’m glad of the things you don’t do
What you don’t remember.
The way you say, “Hey Girl”
I’m glad Nothing has changed.
More Lies
It’s ok—
I don’t remember, where my dad was born
Or went to college
Or the names of my Mother’s sisters
Or how many cousins I have—
It doesn’t matter.
It’s all right,
I can’t remember
What period I had French class
Or how to conjugate “voir.”
It’s fine that I don’t know
How the planets orbit
And I’ve never seen SNL.
I’m still bright
And promising
Even if I’ve never cheered –for a first down
And never watched
Saturday morning cartoons
I’m still fine, red white and blue, without knowing
The fourteen points
You still want me
Even if I forget, all the injustice
Or your last name
And what town you call home
It’s all right
By tomorrow
None of this will matter.
I am disguised
Beneath my sunglasses
(those mirrored orbits—ovals, optics—they call eyes)
Truths rise like purple bruises
Under my lids, a lack of sleep
A lack of lies, you can trust me.
The lies exist in silence.
Here I am, surrounded
Everyone moving, milling, steeping, climbing
Here I am in stillness (crying)
Across the concrete—
Here lies the only one who feels.
I wish for a breath of fresh air in this
Collision,
This
Softly
Darkening
Solace.
Solace that covers me,
Entertains, twists and tricks me,
Keeps me appeased
With laughter, pleased
To guess and say
That life is worth the living
Lies I Tell Myself
A silent morning and
I wake (briefly)
Taking the time to move my limbs
Slowly to the window.
Snow is fresh on the tired ground,
Reinstating the winter.
I never said I loved you
(It would have been a lie).
I wish I said it anyway.
I close the curtains, and retreat back up the stairs
Sheets and the downy February light
My companions for the morning
The silence doesn’t matter,
My ears are too full to sleep
(I say, dreamily)
Spring is somewhere hiding
And with snowdrops and crocuses
A different world unravels,
Like a dusty chrysalis.
Before you, truth was absolute.
Out of the darkness of the tented sheets
I hear a crow’s cry
Like a distant siren—bringing me out
Like a moth I hide in stillness.
There are no lies in this bed
There are no truths to stir me
Soft up to my shoulders
I don’t need to move—(Truth)
I’m glad of the things you don’t do
What you don’t remember.
The way you say, “Hey Girl”
I’m glad Nothing has changed.
More Lies
It’s ok—
I don’t remember, where my dad was born
Or went to college
Or the names of my Mother’s sisters
Or how many cousins I have—
It doesn’t matter.
It’s all right,
I can’t remember
What period I had French class
Or how to conjugate “voir.”
It’s fine that I don’t know
How the planets orbit
And I’ve never seen SNL.
I’m still bright
And promising
Even if I’ve never cheered –for a first down
And never watched
Saturday morning cartoons
I’m still fine, red white and blue, without knowing
The fourteen points
You still want me
Even if I forget, all the injustice
Or your last name
And what town you call home
It’s all right
By tomorrow
None of this will matter.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
the game
I want to create a game
and laminate each piece of my life
on little cards
these are my recurring themes
and laminate each piece of my life
on little cards
these are my recurring themes
i never met a sunday that wasn't gloomy
a heavy gray depressing
the walls of my lungs, an iron band like
a yoke around my shoulders.
I never met a sunday that didn't bring
the sinking airless feeling
in the pit of my stomach
the way i feel when Mom opens the present
she put under the tree for herself.
I never met a sunday full of shine
and excited planning for the day to come
only sunday
of penitence, and waiting
for the refreshing monday to come
Thursday, January 15, 2009
i grok
i feel as though i could break into a million pieces
right now, and it would be all right
each tiny silvery shard
a perfect likeness
a whole of me.
And as you smile, I know it
perfection
to cease to be here
and exist everywhere
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
song quotes
"'Cause when I looked into your eyes,
and you dared to stare right back
You should have said,
"Nice to meet you, I'm your other half" - Reliant K
"I am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images and when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned" - The Postal Service
and you dared to stare right back
You should have said,
"Nice to meet you, I'm your other half" - Reliant K
"I am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images and when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned" - The Postal Service
the shower
this is how i fix myself:
a shower cleans my dirt
my guilt
erases the sadness
as tears are indistinguishable from water
and lying here everything
is warm, safe
here i am protected
and i lie in the tub with my ear pressed to the water
hot pins and needles on my bare feet
nothing moves, except the water
so ceaseless that time stands still
i cover my eyes, my nose
curled fingers against my lips.
I can no longer move
and breathing is no effort
until i tell myself to stop being
such a fucking pathetic piece of shit
and get out of the tub.
but the worst part is
that no one will come to save me
(No one ever, ever comes)
because they will never know
i needed them.
And if they did,
I would pretend everything is fine.
What have I to grieve for?
I am perfect.
a shower cleans my dirt
my guilt
erases the sadness
as tears are indistinguishable from water
and lying here everything
is warm, safe
here i am protected
and i lie in the tub with my ear pressed to the water
hot pins and needles on my bare feet
nothing moves, except the water
so ceaseless that time stands still
i cover my eyes, my nose
curled fingers against my lips.
I can no longer move
and breathing is no effort
until i tell myself to stop being
such a fucking pathetic piece of shit
and get out of the tub.
but the worst part is
that no one will come to save me
(No one ever, ever comes)
because they will never know
i needed them.
And if they did,
I would pretend everything is fine.
What have I to grieve for?
I am perfect.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
and the cruelest trick of all
is that i was right all along.
I thought I'd outgrow those foolish fears
But you showed me I wasn't wrong
if there's a gene for happiness*
then i didn't get it.
Mom & dad, you might as well forget it
I was never really yours.
I tell myself It's as common as divorce
Stop the pity, stop the pain
But it's different because it's me
and like a child
I cry again
So I shall live my own life
if I can
it's so much better
to be free - alone again
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Once upon a time
Eyes glittering, he lunged forward with an angry growl. His sweat-soaked hair whipped across his face as his fist shot out, catching me unprepared. I tried to sidestep, but despite his size, he was fast. His hard knuckles collided with my solar plexus, and the air rushed from my lungs. I cried out as I stumbled backwards, off balance, momentarily numbed by pain. But this was no time for defeat. I launched my counter- attack: a swift kick to his thigh, followed by another to the head. He pushed forward to catch my foot, but my kick connected with the rough skin of his cheek. I drew back to take advantage of my point with a kick right under his guard. But as I jumped, suddenly the world shifted, the ground spun out from under my feet and my body went horizontal, the mark of his heel burning against my collarbone.
I was out of the game for the rest of practice. I have been fighting Marcus for weeks, and I can never seem to beat him, no matter how hard I train. It's humiliating. My rank means I am supposed to have better technique than the new arrivals. Aching, I change my clothes and head out of the gym, avoiding the gazes of the others. I don't want to speak to anyone tonight. I think of the unopened book waiting for me on my nightstand, undoubtedly beginning with the words, "once upon a time." The world is a cruel place. It is not a place for stories. These stories are useful only as an escape from the bleak reality of the city. But no, perhaps this is the wrong place to start. There was a time when the world was full of stories.
My name is Aria. Perhaps my parents were fond of music, or they wished to name me after something hauntingly beautiful that would escape the mundane world of filth in which we live. But I doubt it. Beginning with "A," Aria was probably the first name my mother came across in the baby book.
I was out of the game for the rest of practice. I have been fighting Marcus for weeks, and I can never seem to beat him, no matter how hard I train. It's humiliating. My rank means I am supposed to have better technique than the new arrivals. Aching, I change my clothes and head out of the gym, avoiding the gazes of the others. I don't want to speak to anyone tonight. I think of the unopened book waiting for me on my nightstand, undoubtedly beginning with the words, "once upon a time." The world is a cruel place. It is not a place for stories. These stories are useful only as an escape from the bleak reality of the city. But no, perhaps this is the wrong place to start. There was a time when the world was full of stories.
My name is Aria. Perhaps my parents were fond of music, or they wished to name me after something hauntingly beautiful that would escape the mundane world of filth in which we live. But I doubt it. Beginning with "A," Aria was probably the first name my mother came across in the baby book.
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