30 September 2009

On Stellar Seismology

The stars are mouths
that hum and sing, but
do not exhale, do not
articulate like we do.

You asked if they made
noise before they die, or
if what we’re hearing
was created long ago—

a last breath of sorts, you
hypothesize, or more—a last
word, if only we knew what
it was, other than some sad

pluck of imaginary vocal chords,
the strumming we only get to hear
long after the concert is over
for the rest of the sky.

But no—each song is a finger
print, a pulse, sharing an age,
a size, a location, and perhaps—
perhaps a true breath—

like a bird on a branch,
a purpose exhaled in notes,
with hidden details—a map
outlining meaning with each stir.

Mythos

I.

Before marking your
favorite Bible verse—the
one about eternal hope—
you wash your feet in
tepid water.

At midnight, you think
of me, as you promised to do,
and for a brief moment, our
waves connect and weave a
gentle tapestry.

I tell you in my little girl
voice that I try everyday to
be good. I try to protect you. I
twist my words to make
them politic, so that no one
worries about me and
my crisis.

II.

When Jesus loved me, I had
all of my organs intact, even
the sick ones. When I was his
sunbeam, I kept my desires
secret. My imaginary friends
covered me, beautiful
in shadows.

I forgive Jesus as much as he
tries to forgive me. I cradle
eternal hope in my eye lashes,
my heart strings: my spirit is
hammocked between
sights and sounds, vision over
visibility, and I hope you forgive
me too.

These Cells Are Passages

i'm reading
the braille
of your goose-
flesh

this is the language
I know, the un-
spoken kind,

the kind

my fingers

translate

my only request
is that you
stop
trembling and

let the pattern
speak for
itself

Meditations on the Importance of Mr. Spock

(a work in progress)

If everything, every human
were something to study,
to examine curiously,
there would be no
room for cynicism.
The multiverse and its
creatures would be
terminally... fascinating.


On Postmodernity

It's a trap.
The door is unlocked on purpose.
Before you know it, you're
turning the knob and suddenly!
you're in the middle of
a bad poem, and everyone
is looking at you
'cos you walked in late
and that annoys everyone.
How dare you be so
fucking vulnerable!
Don't start laughing--
I know it's hard. Truly,
I'm there with you,
but I can't help you right now--
I'm in the middle of reading this poem,

.....
....
...
..
.
suddenly distracted by the thought
of cookies--warm, hot, melty
chocolate chip cookies.
It's a trap.
The door is unlocked on purpose.
I'm supposed to lose my train of thought
and stop speaking altogether in
three seconds.
1...2...3.

High School Yearbook

These are not the best
years of our lives--
these are the shards
we put back together
after an accident.
God dropped the vase--
it was God shrugging, saying,
"I didn't do it, Mom, honest!"
And here I am, a dust
pan in one hand
and a broom in the other,
saying, "You clean it up."

Lacan's Dilemma

Is it possible to miss the Imaginary Stage,
the comfort of linelessness,
the knowledge of oneness,
the capacity of only seeing
the self as an extension of my mama's arms,
her breath,
her vocal chords,
her breast?

Is it possible to stop myself from looking
in that mirror and saying,
Oh, that's me,
and I'm separate,
and I'm free,
and I'm not a part of anything,
and my arms reach out to no one,
and I breathe in isolation,
and my voice is a soft echo in this cave,
and this breast only contains
my own heart,
my own cares,
my own science. . .
?

Could I prevent anyone from forming
these words with their mouths,
asking me to imitate and emulate
and confiscate my own development,
counting and shaping these figures without having
to memorize and vocalize,
without having to know language?

I lost the connection.
When mama became m-a-m-a,
I lost the connection.
Words took that away from me.
They caused the gap between
theory and practice, between
fear and silence. Between
me and you. And
I want to go back.

29 September 2009

One with Wings

Tomorrow is the last day.
The window was open;
in hopped a grasshopper,, ,,
just a little
one with wings. Tomorrow
is the last day for
pretending the mold
on the carpet is grass.
Bye bye, little one.
May you enter
someone else's window
and scare them too,, ,,

Pistol....er








)



(



pull your s k i r t
over your h e a d .
bang,bang, you ' re
d e ad............





Bloodshot

is it fair
that the future
has blood on
its hands?
i'm left
dreaming with
my eyes open,
bloodshot.
i'm holding
a gun
behind
my back.
blood
shot.
i'm silent
then a masked
man enters--
a shot.
a shot.
a shot.
blood s
hot. please
come quick;;
the culprit
is still
alive,, but i
don't know
for how
long.
maybe
he wanted it
for his
kids
Desperation
satisfies
a different
hunger.

no,,
did he know,,
maybe he,,
knew,,
Bloo
d shot.
is it fair
that the future
has blood on
its hands?

28 September 2009

So Book Me

I have a confession: I enjoy the weight of a book in my hands. The smell of decaying pages is akin to sniffing glue in first grade. It's all true. I'm guilty as charged. You better lock me away, because I brake for no one but bookworms. No one else is worthy of my consideration, my tears, my frustration. I'm no ordinary criminal: I prefer paperback to hard cover. There you have it. I've done it. I've read too much and orgasmed over many a passage, slayed many an innocent victim, cover to cover. So, stop wasting my time and read me my rights. I'm looking forward to having some quiet time alone with something to peruse.

27 September 2009

The Pull (II)

whisper   a breath   into this tired, broken frame, this
puppet discarded.   i have this   gift of strings, tangled
in plastic   fingers. a sterile   smile   greets the world,
hollow imaginary   lungs keep the chest   still, the face still--
still   the eyes.   the mouth   lies.
let me dance. let me pretend   through you,   one   jolt   at a time. whisper a
command, promise   to follow through.
tell me,   who lies to   whom?

26 September 2009

Hidden

The sky, an ocean, inside
out: without the hum of
waves, the birds
flutter instead.

I listen, twisting
in your bed, a sky
behind my eyes, an ocean
without noise: if a cloud
is a collection of thoughts,
warm, fragile: the birds
would know--yet I am hidden,

Even from the sky. I tried
my best to move you. Maybe
the rain will do a better
job than I.

25 September 2009

September 19

This little one, so light
her weight barely affects
her perch, this branch.

The morning is
her song, shared--
her body, her position,
an instrument.

She meets with
her chorus each day
in these branches.
A bird's bones
are hollow to make

her flight effortless,
but what if her sound
also travels with ease,
with triumph, each morning--
her mouth a reed,
her body a flute?

23 September 2009

Absent

In Old
Hebrew
breath
is the
Spirit
moving
across
the wa
ter. I
was ho
ping U
woul d
notice
my sto
pping,
my loo
kin g,
my try
ing to
Forget

Untitled

perhaps this star, not just any one, but this one, is our star. perhaps it is a freckle on the back of the sky, bigger than the others though similar in shape, a mark that is permanent. perhaps this star, unlike the others, is our star, one we can pretend to touch with our fingers, one we can see when the sky is exposed. perhaps we can see it better out in the country, silent and vast like god, and perhaps we can point to other freckles, their appearance no less remarkable than the modest trace of this star, not just any one, but this one. perhaps this star is our star, our home.

The Radius of My Brain,

welcome back, please take your seats,
i have a question for you,
but i won't ask it just yet,
i'll wait and see if you can guess,
the radius of my brain, my house,
the formula for breath,
the distance between here and this imaginary star,
a canary in space,
i'm watching you,
yes you, there in the back,
why aren't you listening,
why aren't you in awe of me,
why aren't you taking notes,
why aren't you wearing red today,
a bright day, a good day, a fantastic day,
for hearing my words,
and figuring out my motives,
you there, closing your eyes,
am i frustrating you yet,
have i made you want to drop this useless class,
yet,
have i made you wish you were someone else,
yet,
and i breathe, and i put on this tie,
it's too short and my kids laugh at me,
why don't you care,
this is why i'm here,

WTF kind of poem is this?

PTSD
IBS
(OMG)

HSP
MFA
(FTW!)

BTW,
WTF
kind
of
poem
is
this?

21 September 2009

Curtains

hello night, black as blood,
cold as a stone--i left you
a fragment, a verse trapped
in a jar running
out of air. please
breathe one word before
the crickets steal the show.

Outstretched

Do not mock me. This is how I sp  eak. I no longer bend to wash your feet, rub oils into your wounds.
I no longer hear your voice in my ear--

Do not mock me. I do not have wounds in my hands, and yet I still burn, I still pose--arms out   stretched, waiting for per   mission.

Do not mock me. These are my words. I cannot share your flesh. I cannot tally your crimes.

And yet, I am still here. I cut my feet on the path you laid for me. Why do you stand there as I run to you?
Do not              speak.

Our Suicide

♀ vs. ♂

female vs. male
woman vs. man
the extra letters
make us extra
special--
here we are, Athenas big
and small, holding our
mirrors, looking inward.
here we are--smooth and frail--
too weak to carry
Ares' spear--
hear us [timidly] roar
and use this reflection
to look behind us
for opposition.

female vs. male
woman vs. man
the extra letters
make us extra
special--
here we are,
judged not by the
content of our character
but by the fit of
our pant suits--
"ask not what your
country can do
for you, but who
you can do
for your country,"
so says the
cynical warrior, wielding
his spear of flesh.

here we are--small
and frail--too weak
to fight back.
we are Athenas too tired
to drop our mirrors
and pick up a spear.
female vs. male,
the shades in between
missing from the palette,
we have no excuse--
we only have denial,
our suicide.

17 September 2009

Dreams of the Yellow House

      Right now     I
cover         your mouth
knowing
you can breathe
   through your
nose.

Right now
your       eyes are blue. Right
now    your eyes    are green.
   When      the sun is the
  color of ash you will
        remember.

Your     front tooth is broken.
You swallowed
    part     of it when it
cracked. The only        thing I
   remember      is your
        father smack
ing     your mother
inside the yellow      house.

      I re
member       your father's frame,
muscles    like rock,
      bones    like knives.
Right    now
I am

unclenching my
    fist    for the fir
st time.     Right    now you
are laugh
ing      at me,
your    wolf    mouth    waiting.

    With one    crack,
your   nose is broken. I
   cover    your   mouth again.
   This time          you will remember.

15 September 2009

The Lack

Always perfect, never good enough, with a
side of can't-do-this and a dash of so-help-me-god--she's coming,
this child of ideas nestled safely before stretching
through the skin--knowing fear, confusion for the first time.

The connection broken on purpose, warmth spreads
to fill the void that is created--always perfect, never good enough.

Screaming, then letting go, vulnerability covered
in juices, with a side of this-is-a-miracle and a
dash of I'm-so-afraid--make way for the gap--the womb is gone.
Life is always perfect and never good enough.

12 September 2009

Untitled

Daisies turned over,
drunk with oxygen--
I break a petal,
I challenge my
own wisdom.
My sun-stained
expression,
the grass
our only blanket:
You asked me
something,
I refer to
the rabbits
chasing each
other under
the red bush,
but you are
indifferent, and
nature is indifferent
to you, indifferent
to your breath,
your silence.
I traced a cloud
as it moved past
your shoulder,
seemed to occupy
itself with other
observers, and
I am surprised by
the flutter,
the balance,
the grace of it,
unaffected by us.

Perspiration

He said
there are
no ideas
but in
things.
As
I let the
water wash
over my feet,
I felt time
collapse with
the next wave
in the
distance.
A rhythm
posed as
memory,
hypnotizing,
lulling, until
my ideas
became nothing
but beads of
perspiration
on my back.

A Temporary Remedy

I.

When the skin puckers or blisters
after it is burned, it will turn red,
if not after the injury then after
medicine is applied.

II.

Pain is a part of living, the
Buddhists say, but suffering
is optional. So when I draw a
line across your abdomen and
proceed to slice, you're supposed
to feel it, but you're not supposed
to cry.

III.

When the skin swells after being
punctured, that indicates the wound
is dirty and needs to be cleaned
with rubbing alcohol before
medicine is applied.

IV.

The soul swells when the body
becomes too constricting. The
use of rubbing alcohol is not
recommended, although other
forms of alcohol can be used as
a temporary remedy.

11 September 2009

Untitled

If these seeds should
happen to sprout salvation, God damn it,
keep watering them,
and make sure they're planted firmly
in the soil and not next to
any rocks that can get in their way.

If these fears should
happen to feed remorse, God damn it,
keep starving them,
and make sure they're scattered loosely
in our hearts and not form
any clots that can get in our way.

May peace be the sun
breaking through the clouds. May love flood
our veins and capillaries. May truth
be ours once again.

10 September 2009

The Pull

      Your heart,       my marionette.
   I pull       on the heart
strings, and       you sing for me.
I don't have to   move     my lips for you to say    you love me.

  The lights shine   stars in our eyes,   we split the connections
between rays, but I'm not   nervous. I just
wipe the      sweat from
my brow without    breaking

      the tangles between   my fingers. Then I pull    on the heart
strings to make you     dance

for me.
   It is through you          I dance.

09 September 2009

Empath

Being            your        shoes,
sleeping with   your    enemies,
sunlight   trickled  through    a
crack        in       the              flesh.
I nbsp;dressed           the wound and
forgot about                       you.

Being  in            your        shoes,
I    binged and            purged—
out          of                        purgatory
itself, only scratching  the surface
of    your    deeplyseatedremorse.
I did    not    ache for     you.

I    saw your      wedding photo
in  the paper. You wore  make-up,
had your  hair curled.    You never
wore make-up, and  your hair was
straight.  You  hyphenated the last
                               name.
I      threw       the      paper       away.

Flesh

I tried to compare the sound of
laughter to that of squeezed
dogtoys, but something humane
surfaced from the corners of conscious
ness and resuscitated some tv-mem
ory of a poor heart being squeezed-
literally being squeezed-between
two palms.

There's something awkward
about surgery-gloved hands grasp
ing at exposed objects previously
covered, warm, safe. Now, flesh is
a book, words are read that have
n't been, and I imagine a book be
ing held close to the chest, close
to the heart, where it belongs-
covered, warm, safe. But
what about laughter? Obviously not
every utterance is uncomfort
able, dying breath, a weezing.


And thus not every express
ion that shows joy is actual
ly of joy. But warmth is
different, not hesitant-a
book held toward the
chest, its eventual ex
posure proving miraculous
or fatal.