Friday, July 25, 2014

Laundry

In the rain
Sleepy the yawning
Eyes
Rolling back into silver heads
Crying on the inside
In cold water
On dirty tile
Sticky slick
Waiting
For a voice that rings out like
A bicycle bell
Thrust arms
Grieving
Home: a shell of before
Lives now
Floating up like a bubble
In the market
House of the air
That at a breath’s notice
Will burst
And
Leave you an orphan

In the washroom

Breakfast

church bells reverberate above me in the park
old town
place
I hope to find my place
 the city speaks in bike bells
spells
spell binds you into the corridor of a dark and winding tunnel
the dark and whining
screeching
this is progress
it is actually more modern
to talk to each other rather than to
be here but away in our palms
this is the time I learned to speak quietly and to be heard
and to be black and be visible without being bleak
bleached
black wherever
like bronze in the sun
suppose we started at the beginning and made our way here grasping nothing?
because it all slips through and falls low to the earth
like my dark skin
and a simmering fog on a sultry evening
all the flash extinguished
only leaving the function
the minimalist form
of pulling bodies grounded and
alone still
in a green space



Tuesday, June 24, 2014

A Poem for Losing Two People



this is the magic of becoming untethered
see how lightly we drift away
borne up by the salt of the Dead Sea

you ask how much and why
but the words I want to say to you never come out the way I want them to
not in tears and laughs and but in the pressure of palms
my tiny hand in yours

when I was a baby I slapped you in the face and you slapped me back
I cried and
then I grew
and I thought you stayed the same
and you thought I stayed the same
but yesterday I slapped you in the face and you slapped me back
and this time we both cried

that was your way of begging me not to go
not to grow
when I wake up I’ll be five years old again and you can chase me around the house
we will be familiar to each other
laughing loudly and twinkling like the golden hour on summer afternoons
seeing that perhaps none of us really changed
just became more of what we were

saying only the words that you mean
that we mean
what I mean is that
I’ve inherited the truth

and all the nights
I felt alone
and wanted to call you
but didn’t
are the times we took steps apart from each other
and I think what I’m trying to say in this poem
is that

of all the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays we spent forming memories
of all the many moments
before the fall and the flight
through all my hushed and vivid leavings
you wouldn’t go
looking back looking back looking back 

is sure to turn us into pillars of salt
bitter

I have sat with these pages
trying to think of how to describe the art of letting go
which is really the art of loving well
longing
and little deaths
startling, like a gunshot in a dark room
these bodies are our guns
the room that I will always save space for you in is
the heart
the spherical self
in pieces small
my peace is small
but I won’t change the locks on the doors
and take back the keys
like you did
so you can always find your way back if you want to

home was always hopeful
when the very worst went wrong
there was strong and invincible someone to call
and now
there’s just me
waiting on mercy, not sacrifice

because I gave up everything for you and it came back to haunt me
in the middle of the night
when I stare into the black eyes of the thing I cannot name
and I run downstairs to sit on the couch with you
there’s something under the bed
and you’re always awake at 2am
you won’t ask me to explain
that this time the monster is my head
because I’ve always been your girl

June is our month
and on the summer solstice I’ll ask you for the moon on a string to tie around my finger
a souvenir from our longest day together
a vacation from the dimness of our own loneliness
and
I’ll give you the sun because it's brighter and warmer and more welcoming and
you don't realize what you are

to be sure, there is a way forward
but for now
the land lies
dormant

the roots of the stump are not shallow
and I could wish that I never chopped the tree
that this could have been
that this wood had been more than kindling for
a slow burning fire that eventually went out
leaving curling smoke which dissipates before I’m ready
I’m still grabbing at it when it’s gone
just the last little bit little bit little bit

you are in everything
in these words
you make your way into all my art and live in it
and it makes you cry
I mean it makes me cry
and I was never good at goodbye but
this is the last poem I will write for you
quilted with words borrowed from all the pieces of the past few years

I am collapsing
I am ascending
my hands are open

and as for the words I never had
here they are, now
and you, too, are the first to be loved



Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Dope


Amiri Baraka

This is everything we've been stirring up at WFU.
I hope to become a poet like Baraka.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

'Youth' by Daughter

"We are the reckless,
We are the wild youth
Chasing visions of our futures
One day we'll reveal the truth
That one will die before he gets there.

And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones.
Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.
We're setting fire to our insides for fun,
Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home,
It was a flood that wrecked this home.

And you caused it.
And you caused it.
And you caused it.

Well I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette,
A lifeless face that you'll soon forget,
My eyes are damp from the words you left,
Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QT5eGHCJdE

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Young Frankenstein


“Watch Over” by: Lucy Rose

“It’s a long time, heard it all before
It’s a long time, tell me is this what you’re looking for?
I know just how it feels to be there
One step too far and it’s on your mind
Your heart it falls like you do
You say that it hurts, say that it hurts
I’ll walk away if you follow me
Can you feel, it now it’s gone?
Is it what you thought it was?
Can you really stop it now?”


it’s alive

lightning strikes
a hilltop laboratory
called womb
a new thing emerges
created
copyrighted by the creators
who watch over

these two scientists have created life and are horrified
by what they made
they own the rights to an
aberrant collection of members
which are discolored but have lumbering life

disease effects all these members which are
truth
the poet’s highest compliment
the mother’s mouth speaking raw honesty, cutting
the father’s stubbornness, impassivity
the brute strength
quilted on the body
held together by thin red thread

the monster only repeats what you taught it
as it grows
these gods grow into fear
the first experiment gone bad
stand back and look through the tinted window at his tainted flesh
see yourself
hung up

on the     fuck     ing truth

oh Victor, “you taught me language;
and my profit on’t is, I know how to curse”
the deficit on’t is that you know how to hurt
you ought not to have given the monster a human heart

Solomon asks
“Can we love the monsters?
Can we forgive them?”
Can we beat all the fight out of them?

beat yourself out of the monster
smother your reflection
suffocate
forget that you raised your own hand to create
Cain raised his hand to kill

and now

the deviant devil will be
Abel
defeated but self-aware
it will turn manipulation on its head
push back against the matrix

you
look into the mirror
into one pair of red eyes and see yourselves
in your white lab coats
see from a distance
pieced together flesh
that did not ask you for life
before you generously gave

you ought not to have given a monster a human heart
frozen blooms don’t recover
even after the thaw
flesh is fallible

shoot to kill this thing
shaking a fist in the face of the creators
scientists in white lab coats
taking notes in the final moments
for their next two experiments
in making devils

shoot to kill
shut the door to evil
devil under your feet
save your home before this

thing

takes its life
its autonomy
into its own two mangled hands and

with the same tools you built him with
severs
the umbilical chain that binds you together


Monday, March 17, 2014

Three Dreams and Their Summary

"The Woods" by Daughter

I.
trees not green
twilight and a car with a big backseat
officer realized as justice
a dove
ride on
on the peace of the mountain
and maybe we will hike

II.
wicked summer
wacky wednesday
red shirt blue shirt
short pants long skirt
paint sweat and screams
scraped knees
water wings
a mirage induced by heat
goodbye
to cheers and carousels
to childhood
to playing games
to pretending in the summer heat
society takes over
euthanizing the kid
in the name of Mammon
bowing always to green things

III.
moving portraits
sepia
trees not green
scrolling through the past horizontally
I’ve seen before
father in a suit
mother in a white dress
brother young
I’m young
standing close together
slight smiles
we are missing one
look left
I’m in a long dress full grown
and spinning spinning spinning rooted
head on a swivel
arms up
palms up
to receive
looking back
as if
as a dervish
I will connect with the divine
a tree, not green
laughing in a moment of unconscious joy
but prone to weeping
at daybreak
not for any reason

I + II + III = IV

wake
check the heart box
find that a piece is missing
secrets are written on the walls in permanent ink
the trees are not green
the organic takes over the human
it is the artist’s spirit that

possesses

creates destroys
without permission
won’t give a thought
to anything but doing and making
speak its words
as it fills your mouth
and watch for when
it wants to take your body
for its purposes
the spirit
reminds remembers knows
that something crucial is dormant
let it wake you up
look back look back look back
on the morning after a happy day
it is a guarantee
that your face
will be turned to a pillar of salt

the spirit
must have his way
tongue flickering
as you utter spells