Much thanks to all of you who have been reading. Chris, Eric, and I have all been working very hard to rearrange our lives and make time for poetry in our busy schedules. Now that it's over, though, the three of us have agreed to continue posting poems at least once a week. So keep checking back and reading 'em, folks! Because now that we've started, we can't stop.
Ha ha ha, but seriously. We really can't.
XOXO,
Xena
Showing posts with label Xena. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Xena. Show all posts
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 1, 2013
Fact or Fiction
At summer camp, a boy pulled down
I find myself flipping coins when I blink;
debating what is fact or fiction;
if I actually saw a spider crawl
across the kitchen table or if
it was just a stray car headlight
that had crept through the blinds
of my peripheral vision.
Then again, maybe it was both.
Maybe truth is always both,
like a piece of glass that refracts light
and then takes it back; a He loves me/
He loves me not dandelion in a windstorm,
vacillating between promises
and letdowns.
his swim trunks in front of me.
I told one person, who told another person,
and word ended up getting back to him.
He said he never did such a thing,
and I began to wonder if I had actually seen anything
or had just imagined the whole thing.
I told one person, who told another person,
and word ended up getting back to him.
He said he never did such a thing,
and I began to wonder if I had actually seen anything
or had just imagined the whole thing.
Some mornings, I have such convincing arguments
in my dreams
that I wake up intensely mad at someone
for no legitimate reason.
in my dreams
that I wake up intensely mad at someone
for no legitimate reason.
When I read novels,
my scrapbook of memories becomes
photo-bombed by imposters:
Daisy Buchanan sits between me and my grandma
at my cousins wedding,
Holden Cauffield scowls at the camera
as he pins a corsage to my prom dress,
Hamlet proudly holds up
his pickle-on-a-stick at the state fair.
my scrapbook of memories becomes
photo-bombed by imposters:
Daisy Buchanan sits between me and my grandma
at my cousins wedding,
Holden Cauffield scowls at the camera
as he pins a corsage to my prom dress,
Hamlet proudly holds up
his pickle-on-a-stick at the state fair.
I find myself flipping coins when I blink;
debating what is fact or fiction;
if I actually saw a spider crawl
across the kitchen table or if
it was just a stray car headlight
that had crept through the blinds
of my peripheral vision.
Then again, maybe it was both.
Maybe truth is always both,
like a piece of glass that refracts light
and then takes it back; a He loves me/
He loves me not dandelion in a windstorm,
vacillating between promises
and letdowns.
After about an hour
of lying on my back at Pebble Beach,
patiently waiting, watching,
as my family saw dozens of shooting stars,
did I finally see one? Or had I just wanted
so badly to watch something other than me
tumble through space?
Then again, maybe I had been bathing in them
the whole time.
of lying on my back at Pebble Beach,
patiently waiting, watching,
as my family saw dozens of shooting stars,
did I finally see one? Or had I just wanted
so badly to watch something other than me
tumble through space?
Then again, maybe I had been bathing in them
the whole time.
Jan 31, 2013
You Cunt Talk About It
There is no good word
to refer to women’s Bermuda Triangle
and not sound silly,
like a porn star,
or like a gynecologist.
to refer to women’s Bermuda Triangle
and not sound silly,
like a porn star,
or like a gynecologist.
Instead, most people
choose the nom de plume
IT,
like an unwanted child
kept locked in the basement.
“IT hides in the shadows.”
“IT wants more attention.”
choose the nom de plume
IT,
like an unwanted child
kept locked in the basement.
“IT hides in the shadows.”
“IT wants more attention.”
The word “vagina” comes
from the Latin root meaning,
Sheath for a sword;
a fabric or leather scabbard
to protect or encase weapons.
from the Latin root meaning,
Sheath for a sword;
a fabric or leather scabbard
to protect or encase weapons.
Pussy Galore is a fictional
character in the James Bond movie, Goldfinger.
At the beginning of the flick she tells 007,
“You can turn off the charm. I’m immune.”
In the end, she has sex with Mr.
Shaken-Not-Stirred
under a parachute, thus proving
that no pussy is too strong to refuse
a man who introduces himself
with his last name first.
character in the James Bond movie, Goldfinger.
At the beginning of the flick she tells 007,
“You can turn off the charm. I’m immune.”
In the end, she has sex with Mr.
Shaken-Not-Stirred
under a parachute, thus proving
that no pussy is too strong to refuse
a man who introduces himself
with his last name first.
No one has a hard
time talking about Dick Cheney.
By the time H*llary Cl*nton comes
up, everyone throats
are mysteriously dry.
time talking about Dick Cheney.
By the time H*llary Cl*nton comes
up, everyone throats
are mysteriously dry.
At the crossroads of spread legs,
it is a flower that blooms just beyond
the bridge of her arched back.
it is a flower that blooms just beyond
the bridge of her arched back.
NO! It
is a Venus fly trap! Bits and pieces
from nature’s defunct comedy sketch!
from nature’s defunct comedy sketch!
It is a doorway.
Listen to the bell chime
with every satisfied customer
and new life to pass through!
Listen to the bell chime
with every satisfied customer
and new life to pass through!
NO! It
is a black hole! It snatches
light and matter! It is emptiness! It is darkness!
light and matter! It is emptiness! It is darkness!
It is holy.
It is God.
Don’t you dare
say it out loud.
It is God.
Don’t you dare
say it out loud.
Jan 30, 2013
Light
In my Sunday afternoon tutoring session,
I explain to my student the text we just read
about how there is no twilight on the moon.
It says that light holds onto the air,
and because there is no air in space,
there is no transition between day and night;
between light and darkness. And I’m just
thinking back to the morning:
about the lesson plan
about how there is no twilight on the moon.
It says that light holds onto the air,
and because there is no air in space,
there is no transition between day and night;
between light and darkness. And I’m just
thinking back to the morning:
about the lesson plan
of your metronome breathing,
the college ruled creases you graffiti
with your head on my pillowcase,
my cheek pressed against your chest
like a sturdy desk in study hall
that opens to reveal all sorts
of hidden galaxies. I point to the text.
the college ruled creases you graffiti
with your head on my pillowcase,
my cheek pressed against your chest
like a sturdy desk in study hall
that opens to reveal all sorts
of hidden galaxies. I point to the text.
“It is as dark as midnight
right after the sun sets,
as bright as midday in the morning.”
right after the sun sets,
as bright as midday in the morning.”
And I think about how glad I am
to not live on the moon: to experience the other-
wordliness of waking up
in blankets and embraces
painted by rosy-cheeked skies,
in air that has the ability to hold
onto light at sundown,
and find their way back
to each other in the morning
the way our bodies do.
to not live on the moon: to experience the other-
wordliness of waking up
in blankets and embraces
painted by rosy-cheeked skies,
in air that has the ability to hold
onto light at sundown,
and find their way back
to each other in the morning
the way our bodies do.
Jimmy
It was 2nd grade recess.
Jimmy and I sat hiding
in the furthest tree from the school
that was still in the playground.
I had just finished telling him
about how my ma was the best
cook in the world, my legs pretzel-
tied around one of the branches;
then asked him what his was like.
Jimmy and I sat hiding
in the furthest tree from the school
that was still in the playground.
I had just finished telling him
about how my ma was the best
cook in the world, my legs pretzel-
tied around one of the branches;
then asked him what his was like.
He thought for a moment,
looking stony-faced at my beat-up
Sketchers, then told me ‘bout last April when
he found her passed out on the couch.
She was lying on her back, a bottle of booze dripping
from her left hand; an empty pill bottle bouquet
held to her chest like a beauty pageant winner.
He said he was so mad at her
for forgetting to pick him from school
that he punched her in the stomach.
Her eyelids suddenly sprung open,
she rolled off the couch, and
puked face down in her own hair.
She
told him the next daylooking stony-faced at my beat-up
Sketchers, then told me ‘bout last April when
he found her passed out on the couch.
She was lying on her back, a bottle of booze dripping
from her left hand; an empty pill bottle bouquet
held to her chest like a beauty pageant winner.
He said he was so mad at her
for forgetting to pick him from school
that he punched her in the stomach.
Her eyelids suddenly sprung open,
she rolled off the couch, and
puked face down in her own hair.
that her life had flashed before her eyes:
not like how you’d see it on a TV show,
but like a flash from a disposable camera
that she knew
wouldn’t be worth developing.
His Uncle told Jimmy that the apple
doesn’t fall far from the tree.
He never understood what this meant,
but remembered the awful
way his Uncle’s brow creased when
he looked at Jimmy
and said apple.
Since then, he decided
to never eat apples again,
and to climb trees as high
as he possibly could.
Jan 29, 2013
Reminders On
-Index cards
-Sticky notes
-E-mails to self
-Texts to self
-Kitchen whiteboard
-Shaved patch of the cat
-Forearm
-Napkin
-Backs of business cards
-Old receipts
-Dead light bulb
-Paper from empty bag of flour
-American flag
-Banana peel
-Sticky notes
-E-mails to self
-Texts to self
-Kitchen whiteboard
-Shaved patch of the cat
-Forearm
-Napkin
-Backs of business cards
-Old receipts
-Dead light bulb
-Paper from empty bag of flour
-American flag
-Banana peel
Jan 27, 2013
Coffee
The room is dim,
lit only by small table lamps and natural light.
Wall art and knick knacks around the room
set a deliberate tone of calm:
even her skirt
is this sort of earthy tapestry
draped across casually crossed legs
as she asks me,
"Do you drink coffee?"
lit only by small table lamps and natural light.
Wall art and knick knacks around the room
set a deliberate tone of calm:
even her skirt
is this sort of earthy tapestry
draped across casually crossed legs
as she asks me,
"Do you drink coffee?"
"Light roast or dark
roast?"
the barista prompts me,
some folky, mountain music in the background
dragging the dust with its floor-length frock
across the afternoon café ambiance.
I choose the 8 ounce cup,
choose a table facing the window.
the barista prompts me,
some folky, mountain music in the background
dragging the dust with its floor-length frock
across the afternoon café ambiance.
I choose the 8 ounce cup,
choose a table facing the window.
My gaze scrolls up
like a shade tugged at quickly
as I return eye contact.
She repeats the question,
“Do you drink coffee?”
She has a miniature rock garden
on a side table in the corner.
I’ve stared at it dozens of times
in previous sessions, yet
it still fascinates me. I try not to look at it,
try not to imagine the satisfaction
of slamming that table to the ground;
the unsettling letdown of hearing all of the stones
thud, only softly,
as they’d sprinkle onto the floor
of my therapist’s office.
“Did you have a cup today?”
rephrases her silhouette,
darkened by the gray light
sweeping in through the window
behind her.
The barista sweeps up crumbs
at the table beside me.
My mostly full mug of coffee
is room temperature, now,
and no longer warms my hands.
I examine the other patrons—
sitting calmly in front of laptops,
crosswords, or company—
wonder how their nerves can rest
so easily; not rage
cabin fever in their chests
like mine do.
My fluttering foot tap
must’ve given me away.
“Though caffeine may help
with clinical depression,
it is often worsens clinical anxiety.
You have both, so it’s tricky,”
she backseat driver reminds me.
“So I have to choose, then?”
I ask her, irritated.
“Too much energy or none?
A heart that beats too fast
or one that hangs too heavy?”
“What do you think?”
she cream-or-sugars me.
It is an overcast afternoon,
dressed with soothing tapestry; the sound
of grinding teeth and coffee beans.
My rock garden
of carefully-placed prescription meds
slowly submerges in the stream
of one more refill.
dressed with soothing tapestry; the sound
of grinding teeth and coffee beans.
My rock garden
of carefully-placed prescription meds
slowly submerges in the stream
of one more refill.
2x2x2
His mustache awning drips
with coffee and egg yolk
from the morning breakfast downpour.
Jokes huddle underneath,
hold their palms out,
catch the droplets in their punny palms.
They close their eyes, soak in
the sound of the thunder
knee-slapping the sky
as he takes a bite of toast.
with coffee and egg yolk
from the morning breakfast downpour.
Jokes huddle underneath,
hold their palms out,
catch the droplets in their punny palms.
They close their eyes, soak in
the sound of the thunder
knee-slapping the sky
as he takes a bite of toast.
Jan 25, 2013
Computer Class
“When you want the arrow on the screen to move up
you slide your hand up
with the mouse,”
I explain to her.
In a small, community computer lab
in a low-income neighborhood in Buenos Aires,
Maria uses Google image search for the first time.
This is the first time she has seen
her home town in seven years,
since she left with her three children
from the mountainous province of Salta,
to escape her abusive husband.
She describes it to me matter-of-factly,
the threat of his six-foot presence. Then,
transitioning quickly, pointing at the screen,
she describes the breathtaking presence of the tall
ceilings in the church at the center of town;
the walls painted with gold leaves,
the dresses her daughters wore on Easter.
“They looked like dolls,” she says, smiling,
“but we had to leave behind most of our clothes.
We had to leave so fast.”
Her eyes well up with pixels
reflected in the screen.
I am unsure what kind of tears these are.
you slide your hand up
with the mouse,”
I explain to her.
In a small, community computer lab
in a low-income neighborhood in Buenos Aires,
Maria uses Google image search for the first time.
This is the first time she has seen
her home town in seven years,
since she left with her three children
from the mountainous province of Salta,
to escape her abusive husband.
She describes it to me matter-of-factly,
the threat of his six-foot presence. Then,
transitioning quickly, pointing at the screen,
she describes the breathtaking presence of the tall
ceilings in the church at the center of town;
the walls painted with gold leaves,
the dresses her daughters wore on Easter.
“They looked like dolls,” she says, smiling,
“but we had to leave behind most of our clothes.
We had to leave so fast.”
Her eyes well up with pixels
reflected in the screen.
I am unsure what kind of tears these are.
She points to an image of a park,
wiping her eyes with her free palm.
“There I had my quinceañera.”
“It looks beautiful,” I reply.
“What color was your dress?”
She half smiles,
looking down at the mouse,
marveling at the technology.
“Sometimes,
when you want your hand to move up,
it doesn’t move.
Sometimes you can’t protect yourself.
Sometimes it doesn’t
click
fast enough.”
Her smile fades.
She slowly, carefully,
slides the mouse up,
puts the arrow over the X in the corner,
and closes the browser.
“Red,” she says.
“My dress was red.”
slides the mouse up,
puts the arrow over the X in the corner,
and closes the browser.
“Red,” she says.
“My dress was red.”
Jan 24, 2013
Planes
As a kid, I never understood
the curvature trailing behind planes
as they soared across the blue sky.
the curvature trailing behind planes
as they soared across the blue sky.
The ones flying away from me
drew white, downward entrails:
it looked like they were falling.
drew white, downward entrails:
it looked like they were falling.
At recess, I sat in the sandbox,
mourning for passengers
who were perfectly safe;
mourning for passengers
who were perfectly safe;
digging and
digging
‘til the bell rang.
digging
‘til the bell rang.
Jan 23, 2013
Superlative Life
I want foam pits and moon bounces
and enough bushels of bananas to drown in.
I want to get married in white overalls then go
paintballing: courtship is a sport!
Every gathering should have
a coloring station.
Cotton candy venders and hair stylists
should join forces.
and enough bushels of bananas to drown in.
I want to get married in white overalls then go
paintballing: courtship is a sport!
Every gathering should have
a coloring station.
Cotton candy venders and hair stylists
should join forces.
Gravity, my long-standing foe,
you’re ruining my bowling score.
Bowling should always have bumpers.
Bumper cars should always have bowling.
Has Shakespeare ever considered a toupee?
Has bigfoot ever considered donating to Locks for Love?
2Pac, Elvis, and Amelia Earheart are hiding out in Bora Bora.
I assume they have hundreds of secret handshakes.
One of these days I’m gonna start
a Bathrobe Friday revolution.
Vending machines will be replaced by piñatas
and road rage will be a thing of the past.
Every hat will have some Wizard of Oz
character knit to it, so we all look
like we’re slowly, happily
being devoured. Oh my!
Come,
bacon sister,
we have things to do,
people to pie in the face.
A Bed to Lie In
I bought this bed and bed frame
off of Craigslist.
Lying on my stomach,
under mounds of blankets,
I can hear the tinnish pings
of old mattress springs creaking
as I fullbody cough.
Two summers ago
when visiting my parents
I could only fall asleep
on a sleeping bag
on the floor.
For four years I’ve slept on beds
in dorms, on loan,
or on the ground.
Commitment is a sturdy wooden frame
you can carve your initials into.
It is initials that will stay +
-ed to yours beyond a month to month lease.
It means voting in the state that you live
not the state that you’re from.
off of Craigslist.
Lying on my stomach,
under mounds of blankets,
I can hear the tinnish pings
of old mattress springs creaking
as I fullbody cough.
Two summers ago
when visiting my parents
I could only fall asleep
on a sleeping bag
on the floor.
For four years I’ve slept on beds
in dorms, on loan,
or on the ground.
Commitment is a sturdy wooden frame
you can carve your initials into.
It is initials that will stay +
-ed to yours beyond a month to month lease.
It means voting in the state that you live
not the state that you’re from.
Under the covers,
my eyes adjust to the dark.
I study the branches printed on the fitted sheet
that I bought at Savers.
They remind me of the trees
outside my bedroom window in Lincolnwood.
When I was sick, I would lie in bed
and watch the branches silently rattle
in the Windy City reputation.
Letting the day drift
across my white, metal bed frame,
I thought to myself,
I would be in 3rd period,
5th period, now.
My hypothetical states of being were limited.
Time was a mystery. It hid
in the darkest crevices under blanket forts,
moved through the tree branches
like an eternal hand-me-down;
like nothing is ever yours.
I could be at work,
cleaning my room, now,
I think to myself today,
sinus infection swelling in my eyes.
Every minute, we are paying our dues.
I am 22, still wondering
what class I might be in,
what bed I might be in,
what it means to be present.
Life is a commitment.
Commitment is life.
Time is a plastic, thrift store bag
that catches in the branches
for only a moment.
Jan 21, 2013
Napalm Girl
The sky fell shortly after lunch time.
The ground shook
as a city of soot and smoke
constructed itself before our eyes.
As the camera crew and I rushed
to the edge of the town of Trang Bang,
it became clear what had happened.
Two South Vietnamese Skyraider aircrafts
roared through the charcoal sky
like leaders of a parade.
We all just stood there,
holding our breath,
waiting for the assembly line of napalm victims
to blaze towards us.
The ground shook
as a city of soot and smoke
constructed itself before our eyes.
As the camera crew and I rushed
to the edge of the town of Trang Bang,
it became clear what had happened.
Two South Vietnamese Skyraider aircrafts
roared through the charcoal sky
like leaders of a parade.
We all just stood there,
holding our breath,
waiting for the assembly line of napalm victims
to blaze towards us.
Minutes passed horribly.
We weren’t sure if the faint howls ringing in our ears
were coming from the horizon
or from our own heads. Then
the dark clouds perched on the dusty road
sprouted faces.
Screams were everywhere:
on their foreheads,
on our clothes,
on the dismembered limbs
the townspeople held like bouquets.
We weren’t sure if the faint howls ringing in our ears
were coming from the horizon
or from our own heads. Then
the dark clouds perched on the dusty road
sprouted faces.
Screams were everywhere:
on their foreheads,
on our clothes,
on the dismembered limbs
the townspeople held like bouquets.
My heart
rose out of my throat and slammed its fist over my trigger finger,
snapping shot after shot.
These people bear proof of the horrors of the Vietnam War.
The world should not turn a blind eye to this!
I thought, wondering
if the ash collecting on my lips
was from soil or human flesh.
(Screams in our mouths.)
Then, she appeared in my viewfinder:
a girl, about 8 or 9 years old,
naked after tearing off her scorching clothes.
She was screaming,
running towards me,
her arms spread at 45 degree angles from her body
like a wounded, featherless bird;
a horizon-sweeping wall of black smoke
billowing behind her.
rose out of my throat and slammed its fist over my trigger finger,
snapping shot after shot.
These people bear proof of the horrors of the Vietnam War.
The world should not turn a blind eye to this!
I thought, wondering
if the ash collecting on my lips
was from soil or human flesh.
(Screams in our mouths.)
Then, she appeared in my viewfinder:
a girl, about 8 or 9 years old,
naked after tearing off her scorching clothes.
She was screaming,
running towards me,
her arms spread at 45 degree angles from her body
like a wounded, featherless bird;
a horizon-sweeping wall of black smoke
billowing behind her.
After taking the photo,
I put down my camera,
rushed her to the hospital,
pushed us to the front of the line.
She survived
because of me.
I put down my camera,
rushed her to the hospital,
pushed us to the front of the line.
She survived
because of me.
By the time I returned to the United States,
the photo had already been seen by millions.
It won the Pulitzer Prize for Photography that year,
for spreading awareness of the cruelties of war to the world.
Time passed.
Back in Vietnam, Kim was taken advantage of by the government,
used as a propaganda symbol for the masses,
pulled out of college, from continents away,
to be a symbol of the victimization of their country.
To this day, 40 years later,
she is still referred to as “The Napalm Girl.”
I saved her life,
yet transformed her into a martyr.
The worst day of her life is frozen in time
forever
because of me.
She lives it over and over
because she survived.
Still,
she affectionately calls me “Uncle Nick,”
recognizes the historical significance of the image.
My camera was put in a museum.
Her life was put in a museum.
There is more than one kind of casualty.
She learned this better than anyone.
Back in Vietnam, Kim was taken advantage of by the government,
used as a propaganda symbol for the masses,
pulled out of college, from continents away,
to be a symbol of the victimization of their country.
To this day, 40 years later,
she is still referred to as “The Napalm Girl.”
I saved her life,
yet transformed her into a martyr.
The worst day of her life is frozen in time
forever
because of me.
She lives it over and over
because she survived.
Still,
she affectionately calls me “Uncle Nick,”
recognizes the historical significance of the image.
My camera was put in a museum.
Her life was put in a museum.
There is more than one kind of casualty.
She learned this better than anyone.
Jan 20, 2013
Emotions
He struggles to sound it out.
"Do you know what this word means?"
I ask my eight year-old student,
pointing at the word
"emotions"
"Do you know what this word means?"
I ask my eight year-old student,
pointing at the word
"emotions"
on the page.
Without a word, he jerks
his head once to the left,
Without a word, he jerks
his head once to the left,
once to the right.
I struggle to sound it out.
I struggle to sound it out.
Jan 19, 2013
Captive
Why do you stay in
prison
when the door is so wide open?
-Rumi
when the door is so wide open?
-Rumi
The weather holds me captive
in the damp, dark basement of this psyche:
steel gray palates cuffed ‘round my ankles,
(my legs in the holes where color should be)
shivering, bare branches beneath my skin,
(they hold up the sky, why not me?)
soot-stained snow camped out
across the dead foliage of my shoulders.
Time moves slower here.
Some days I crouch down,
peer out of the key hole,
wonder how everyone else
does it.
in the damp, dark basement of this psyche:
steel gray palates cuffed ‘round my ankles,
(my legs in the holes where color should be)
shivering, bare branches beneath my skin,
(they hold up the sky, why not me?)
soot-stained snow camped out
across the dead foliage of my shoulders.
Time moves slower here.
Some days I crouch down,
peer out of the key hole,
wonder how everyone else
does it.
Jan 18, 2013
The Shadow
There was a man
who, for no reason other than being human,
was cursed to wear the heavy hide of a wolf’s shadow
for the rest of his life.
For years he senses his predator
merely feet behind him,
hears it panting,
and wonders,
What the hell is it waiting for?
who, for no reason other than being human,
was cursed to wear the heavy hide of a wolf’s shadow
for the rest of his life.
For years he senses his predator
merely feet behind him,
hears it panting,
and wonders,
What the hell is it waiting for?
I was picked on in Hebrew school
for being weird.
One day, a boy spit in my thermos of tea.
I left class and hid in the chapel.
I tried to pray, but got lost
in thought looking at the framed artwork around the room
all depicting Noah’s ark.
How quickly we forget
what shook our bones
only a moment earlier!
My eyes moved clockwise around the room
counting how many rainbows I could find.
for being weird.
One day, a boy spit in my thermos of tea.
I left class and hid in the chapel.
I tried to pray, but got lost
in thought looking at the framed artwork around the room
all depicting Noah’s ark.
How quickly we forget
what shook our bones
only a moment earlier!
My eyes moved clockwise around the room
counting how many rainbows I could find.
10 years later.
The man doesn’t even notice it anymore.
His back has grown so strong
that he doesn’t even check for the shadow.
But the marauder still follows him,
even though
the man forgets it was ever there.
The man doesn’t even notice it anymore.
His back has grown so strong
that he doesn’t even check for the shadow.
But the marauder still follows him,
even though
the man forgets it was ever there.
A bad Salvia trip as a Junior in high school
made me believe my reality
was a sitcom that had been taken off the air.
Suddenly, these TV crew technicians--
made out of animated puzzle pieces
the color palate of my old, plastic Barbie playhouse--
began to tear down “the set” of my life.
They told me emotions--
happiness, sadness, love--
were not real.
I sat in summer school math class the next day.
shaking, holding back tears, so confused
how I was still alive;
how reality persists.
made me believe my reality
was a sitcom that had been taken off the air.
Suddenly, these TV crew technicians--
made out of animated puzzle pieces
the color palate of my old, plastic Barbie playhouse--
began to tear down “the set” of my life.
They told me emotions--
happiness, sadness, love--
were not real.
I sat in summer school math class the next day.
shaking, holding back tears, so confused
how I was still alive;
how reality persists.
Ignoring his uninvited +1
improves the man’s life a great deal.
Eventually, his friends don’t see
the wolf or the shadow,
either.
New people he meets
don’t even notice its muted snarls
or the footprints it leaves in the snow.
The image
of blurry, square, gray tiles
when my high school counselor
and the school social worker,
crouching on the bathroom floor beside me,
tried to talk to me.
They repeated my name
over and over.
It was right after a teacher had
come up to me in art class and said,
“Your friend, Kamila, is dead.”
Then that feeling like you just realized
that your wallet isn’t in your pocket.
You realize that you must have
lost it a while ago.
On top of missing this valuable thing,
you feel deceived for temporarily
thinking you had something
that you actually didn’t have,
and that you took advantage
of that peace you had
in your ignorance.
They said
my name
again
and again.
again
and again.
It is still there,
even though he doesn’t remember
that if had ever been a part of him.
Memories like these
don’t even cross my mind anymore.
A heart runs out of space for them,
at some point,
to make room for new ones.
The first ones to go are always those
we least want to acknowledge.
I don’t go to synagogue anymore.
I don’t use my real name anymore.
I don’t use my real name anymore.
The wolf licks its lips.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 15, 2013
Dear Consistency,
I’m sorry I didn’t
write my poem-of-the-day yesterday,
and I’m sorry I won’t be writing one
today.
and I’m sorry I won’t be writing one
today.
Building habits is hard,
and I know how you often get slighted
for your twin, Impulse.
But today, yesterday, perhaps
tomorrow, it isn’t about either of you.
It’s about life.
It’s about real jobs that need to get done,
real live people who will be affected
by the time I could have given to them
that I spent devoted to you;
head hard with overcrowding shadows
of commitments that went un-
followed through.
As much as I would like to make
daily prayer of pen to paper
a priority, Rome was not built
with similes; the Sistine Chapel
wasn’t sketched out with line
breaks; the person you care about
will never know the feeling of your lips
if you are too busy trying to find the words
to describe his.
and I know how you often get slighted
for your twin, Impulse.
But today, yesterday, perhaps
tomorrow, it isn’t about either of you.
It’s about life.
It’s about real jobs that need to get done,
real live people who will be affected
by the time I could have given to them
that I spent devoted to you;
head hard with overcrowding shadows
of commitments that went un-
followed through.
As much as I would like to make
daily prayer of pen to paper
a priority, Rome was not built
with similes; the Sistine Chapel
wasn’t sketched out with line
breaks; the person you care about
will never know the feeling of your lips
if you are too busy trying to find the words
to describe his.
Jan 12, 2013
Painting the Dartboard for Some Renaissance Fest
My boss is named Archie.
He is a short man,
mid fifties, perhaps,
always wears sunglasses.
I imagine him as a jester
with a vile of poison
in the pocket of his red,
Ed Hardy hoodie.
He is a short man,
mid fifties, perhaps,
always wears sunglasses.
I imagine him as a jester
with a vile of poison
in the pocket of his red,
Ed Hardy hoodie.
He tells me I have 16 hours
to finish the queen. I tell him
I think that’s doable.
to finish the queen. I tell him
I think that’s doable.
She is a seven foot-tall head
with jewels in her Raw Sienna hair
and currently no pupils.
Tomorrow, I will make her blush.
with jewels in her Raw Sienna hair
and currently no pupils.
Tomorrow, I will make her blush.
I know that despite
how carefully I paint the folds
of her frilly collar,
what royalty I give to the pout of her
Titanium White/Cadmium Red Medium blend lips,
I cannot save her.
how carefully I paint the folds
of her frilly collar,
what royalty I give to the pout of her
Titanium White/Cadmium Red Medium blend lips,
I cannot save her.
I wonder who sews the clothes
of people on death row.
Do they remind themselves
not to bother
over a dropped stitch?
of people on death row.
Do they remind themselves
not to bother
over a dropped stitch?
Jan 11, 2013
Trust
As children, we have
no reason
not to trust.
We trust our parents
to protect us, (my father
running alongside my first bicycle)
our teachers to tell us
the truth, (my kindergarten teacher
twirling in the center of the class,
showing us how the earth revolves
around the sun) nature
to follow through with morning
light. This trust
falters with inconsistencies,
with darkness, with worlds
that stop spinning.
no reason
not to trust.
We trust our parents
to protect us, (my father
running alongside my first bicycle)
our teachers to tell us
the truth, (my kindergarten teacher
twirling in the center of the class,
showing us how the earth revolves
around the sun) nature
to follow through with morning
light. This trust
falters with inconsistencies,
with darkness, with worlds
that stop spinning.
At some point, we lose track;
stop counting the number of times
we have been deceived,
the number of people who have made
not likelys out of our
hopefullys. We grow into adults
who kiss with eyes open, construct
drop moats beneath our skin,
(naked is never the full story)
wait for our lovers to fall
asleep before we do.
stop counting the number of times
we have been deceived,
the number of people who have made
not likelys out of our
hopefullys. We grow into adults
who kiss with eyes open, construct
drop moats beneath our skin,
(naked is never the full story)
wait for our lovers to fall
asleep before we do.
The day after Christmas,
stores are heavily staffed
to prepare for returns. We give
ourselves like this:
detached, ready to be rejected,
gift receipts stapled to our chests.
prepare for mendacity:
we seek it out, trust
only our suspicions,
respond to
“I love you”
with
“What’s the catch?”
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