boundaries have been a huge theme in my life lately - osmosis was needed but leads to weakness, trees need bark to stand as tall and stretch both ways, to the wisdom of balance between sun and ground.
Fences
We both own the fence that stands between us--
some days tall planks that break up the horizon line,
splinters stuck in my soft feet and fingers
some days barbed wire, sharp confines
and skinny sticks I helped my father plant
and when the land falls away around me
and I'm not floating but falling, that fence
stands upright and I can never
see your face, I can never
find the gate, can't unlatch the limbs
that separate
from safety
if it were me I'd tear this aging wood
from the earth's heart, plant orange trees
and grape vines to bring everyone
out of their houses, to end this self-imposed
dichotomy, to start great conversation
and end the hunger
we constantly live with
but isolation is a two way choice--
how would we divvy up this fruit,
how do I know when empty space is all
that keeps you coming back to me-—darling if it
were my choice, we'd build a bonfire
and hold hands dancing, but
it never is. What lies between us is
a product of two wants, twin necessities
in the form of sturdy posts and
deep, deep holes that kill my back in digging.
Without a fence the roses would spread and
hummingbirds would sing in the morning and
I wouldn't miss you daily. Shoulds and wants cross
over until a stockade of fingers and thorns keep
us away, and for now trees grow tall and
pollen doesn't drift over barren fields,
and someday when the land is older,
the house paid off our hearts unlatched
the planks will wear away as something
bright passes between us, builds
something better in its wake
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
salvaging
Keep falling for boys that can't love me,
trying to salvage what's left of us,
children of the age where the war is never won—
like backroad trucks pulled by magnets away from ourselves,
sold for spare parts.
To distant from that loss, of being wantneeded in the world,
I salvage
other things—
cedar planks by the railroad tracks
where bone-thin birds nest—
these once were a barn,
held sweet hay, thickropes calmcows
some young man's livelihood.
Piling them in my truck, each splinter
is a hail mary, a curse I let rest
against my teeth. The house of love
is not filled with velvet or satin,
covered in glitter or stripped clean of
bright hair, or even bound in black leather...
As a child I saw houses collapse in upon themselves
like trees falling, some ghosts's life
imploding nail by nail,
sometimes for years.
Houses came down and fences
went up. Dad told me how lucky we were,
to have redwood fence posts,
their invincibilities
while my life continually crashed down
around my ears, left my sparrow bones
ringing shrill as bells.
I could barely see over the
blessed golden grass
that fed each sweet-eyed cow of ours,
clambering over russet posts
I thought I could smell the sea,
the shaded dirt, baby ferns curled
like sleeping cats—I thought
why not build
with this
as the years got leaner and leaner
and the boards on windows I looked through
were torn at by breezes and typhoons,
sometimes pulled off by pianist's fingers and
doe-eyed promises. Saving relationships--
with my father, girl-dog, old car,
these boys that come to me all soft hands
and words that twist like willows
is a dusty age-long fight,
a journey by bus and foot pushing
a shopping cart, folks avoiding
your crusted crinkled eyes, and you trudge
up the road towards a dirt floor
and missing walls and sagging cross beams
and a single chair you could never find
a cushion for, thinking why am I trying
and how will I eat tomorrow,
staring at a pile of redwood planks
as boys leave helplessly,
wordlessly,
one by one.
Some step on nails,
some I send the dogs after.
They never think to bring tools
but termites, magpies come in their wake,
a reverse plague of reminders and constant cleaving.
When the fences go down
the houses will still
be falling, ravens always at the door
as I struggle to lift one
last beam
one steady once-tree
to keep the roof from caving...
trying to salvage what's left of us,
children of the age where the war is never won—
like backroad trucks pulled by magnets away from ourselves,
sold for spare parts.
To distant from that loss, of being wantneeded in the world,
I salvage
other things—
cedar planks by the railroad tracks
where bone-thin birds nest—
these once were a barn,
held sweet hay, thickropes calmcows
some young man's livelihood.
Piling them in my truck, each splinter
is a hail mary, a curse I let rest
against my teeth. The house of love
is not filled with velvet or satin,
covered in glitter or stripped clean of
bright hair, or even bound in black leather...
As a child I saw houses collapse in upon themselves
like trees falling, some ghosts's life
imploding nail by nail,
sometimes for years.
Houses came down and fences
went up. Dad told me how lucky we were,
to have redwood fence posts,
their invincibilities
while my life continually crashed down
around my ears, left my sparrow bones
ringing shrill as bells.
I could barely see over the
blessed golden grass
that fed each sweet-eyed cow of ours,
clambering over russet posts
I thought I could smell the sea,
the shaded dirt, baby ferns curled
like sleeping cats—I thought
why not build
with this
as the years got leaner and leaner
and the boards on windows I looked through
were torn at by breezes and typhoons,
sometimes pulled off by pianist's fingers and
doe-eyed promises. Saving relationships--
with my father, girl-dog, old car,
these boys that come to me all soft hands
and words that twist like willows
is a dusty age-long fight,
a journey by bus and foot pushing
a shopping cart, folks avoiding
your crusted crinkled eyes, and you trudge
up the road towards a dirt floor
and missing walls and sagging cross beams
and a single chair you could never find
a cushion for, thinking why am I trying
and how will I eat tomorrow,
staring at a pile of redwood planks
as boys leave helplessly,
wordlessly,
one by one.
Some step on nails,
some I send the dogs after.
They never think to bring tools
but termites, magpies come in their wake,
a reverse plague of reminders and constant cleaving.
When the fences go down
the houses will still
be falling, ravens always at the door
as I struggle to lift one
last beam
one steady once-tree
to keep the roof from caving...
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
"this is what summer should be"
a blackwinged brighthearted fairie ladygirl said about this poem... Not so sure.
-
deergirl summeride-
I know I'm free when I let the wind dry my hair on a sunset bike ride, some ghost-transplant from a mother-tea-tree-teacher time, a city truly connected finding roots in this sun-burn suburbs, let the summer storm air tie knots in my hair and leave them—as markers, a fence against fingers, tokens of a brook-smooth lightning-laced affection.
When the first thing
in my morning
is sleep.
Then sun-tea from stolen packets, my grandmother's glass jars.
That makes your face third— like bronze, like a charm— how I wish you were here, and not. How actuality ruins ideal; the sour taste of mixed teas steeped too long.
Know I'm free when the bike veers off the path as oleanders and jasmine sing my blood to summer and I feel no fear, only enchantment with the deadly fuschia blooms, only humble amusement at the wry twisting of my own course.
When my bike-body follows behind a young mother, quiet as Deer, her daughter smiling into my eyes just before I take that turn, around the twilight cedars, too quick for rational minds to catch. I'm a ghost, a deer-girl, the breeze gentler and sweeter on my shoulders—fuzzy nape of my neck—up those too-long-arms—gentler and sweeter than any touch yes even my own, and I wonder if you see me like that sometime—swift and dear and desirable, like a color or taste from childhood, a joy you could always feel—mother's first smile, your father's spicy-scented sweater you wore that first time to the coast, soft against six-year-old-skin, that decaying-salt-bright taste to ocean air familiar to you as cigarette smoke to me—how deep those images go—wool red, slate-gray mornings, freckled skin—I wonder,if that soul -secret isn't so much falling in love as it is chasing after it, some completeness we cannot name but even scientists pine for.
I know I'm free when I can see my beloved from across a meadow and pick my steps carefully (deer girl drawn to your salty skin, the grain of your bluesweet eyes, what salt waits behind them—vast, dry oceans my feet were made soft to cross) and I am still wary, no matter how much your dog-eyed soul tells me never fear, darling – rose and jasmine sing themselves under my skin a song of summertime without leashes, my tangled hair tying me to the foxtails, dry grass, fallen trees crisscrossing the meadows...
No matter how close I get I can never tell if there are ropes in your hands—I'm always prancing round, caught in some jewelled glass jar, anxieties hot from the sun, glass box of ideal and reality, sunset playing on the planes of your face like a running brook in my mind, a stream of things I wish were like the landscape flying by—deer-girl a ghost at your fingertips, mind far-flung even when our skin makes some wildflower palette put so close together—deer-girl almost out of reach, weighing jasmine blooms a cedar-rosemary-melody, a two-wheeled summer against a doe-eyed, fearful freedom...
-
deergirl summeride-
I know I'm free when I let the wind dry my hair on a sunset bike ride, some ghost-transplant from a mother-tea-tree-teacher time, a city truly connected finding roots in this sun-burn suburbs, let the summer storm air tie knots in my hair and leave them—as markers, a fence against fingers, tokens of a brook-smooth lightning-laced affection.
When the first thing
in my morning
is sleep.
Then sun-tea from stolen packets, my grandmother's glass jars.
That makes your face third— like bronze, like a charm— how I wish you were here, and not. How actuality ruins ideal; the sour taste of mixed teas steeped too long.
Know I'm free when the bike veers off the path as oleanders and jasmine sing my blood to summer and I feel no fear, only enchantment with the deadly fuschia blooms, only humble amusement at the wry twisting of my own course.
When my bike-body follows behind a young mother, quiet as Deer, her daughter smiling into my eyes just before I take that turn, around the twilight cedars, too quick for rational minds to catch. I'm a ghost, a deer-girl, the breeze gentler and sweeter on my shoulders—fuzzy nape of my neck—up those too-long-arms—gentler and sweeter than any touch yes even my own, and I wonder if you see me like that sometime—swift and dear and desirable, like a color or taste from childhood, a joy you could always feel—mother's first smile, your father's spicy-scented sweater you wore that first time to the coast, soft against six-year-old-skin, that decaying-salt-bright taste to ocean air familiar to you as cigarette smoke to me—how deep those images go—wool red, slate-gray mornings, freckled skin—I wonder,if that soul -secret isn't so much falling in love as it is chasing after it, some completeness we cannot name but even scientists pine for.
I know I'm free when I can see my beloved from across a meadow and pick my steps carefully (deer girl drawn to your salty skin, the grain of your bluesweet eyes, what salt waits behind them—vast, dry oceans my feet were made soft to cross) and I am still wary, no matter how much your dog-eyed soul tells me never fear, darling – rose and jasmine sing themselves under my skin a song of summertime without leashes, my tangled hair tying me to the foxtails, dry grass, fallen trees crisscrossing the meadows...
No matter how close I get I can never tell if there are ropes in your hands—I'm always prancing round, caught in some jewelled glass jar, anxieties hot from the sun, glass box of ideal and reality, sunset playing on the planes of your face like a running brook in my mind, a stream of things I wish were like the landscape flying by—deer-girl a ghost at your fingertips, mind far-flung even when our skin makes some wildflower palette put so close together—deer-girl almost out of reach, weighing jasmine blooms a cedar-rosemary-melody, a two-wheeled summer against a doe-eyed, fearful freedom...
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
yay genderlabel!
Hello I am |
activist, amorous, beautiful, big sister, blessed, brunette, confidant, Democrat, daughter, dominant, esoteric, female, female-souled, feminist, femme, friend, full of love, hippychick, intelligent, LGBTQIOPPS, lover, loving, man-loving, misstery, multifacetted, niece, outspoken, pan-romantic, panamorous, passionate, peopleemotional, peopleplatonic, peoplesexual, polycurious, priestess, pro-choice, pro-gay, pro-life, pro-sex feminist, queer liberationist, queer-friendly, queer-minded, quirkyalone, recreational gender blender, sacred whore, sapiosexual, self-defined, sex positive, sexy, she-geek, spiritual, survivor, switch, treehugger |
Who are you? |
After taking the "quiz" - mostly an interesting look into vocabulary and identity involving HELLA checkboxes - you can view the "who chose what" statistics. The interestingest thing I've done in a while - thanks to Sinclair for posting it!
Monday, May 11, 2009
women, poets: do not do this
“Do I fall for men not this girl’s father—as fuel? As a tonic for the waiting? As a way to ruin? As a way to subvert some painful remnant?
It is so easy to abandon the self—-as the lover becomes the constant daydream which life interrupts.”
From Kimiko Hahn’s “After Opening her Text” – from The Narrow Road to the Interior
Dammit, is there something on my skin?
Cut the mane, cut the cords, I look into menboys eyes
and see their soul, the space between Them and Everything,
like the emptiness between neurons—
love is a neurotransmitter of height, and bluebluesky,
and dark earth and skin-toned rainbows.
Love is the chain around my heart,
the locket that clicks: open, close,
swollen joints, like a bone spur, two synapses, a scent-memory…
The sea air in France.
Then San Francisco.
His cologne like redwood bark, sharp woody earth scent, soft as skin that’s never seen day.
Darlings need IVs of meaning into their energy ducts,
set their chakras spinning with wild food and OM and an open-eyed kiss.
They come giving me their feelings, their second thoughts,
and I don’t know what else to do but bury them.
Pick up the shovel and run. Send them back, reroute
faux passion: you think you can get that love from me?
Honey, you are higher than I thought.
Sink down, turn around, look to me for the road
but not it’s ending
both heart and hearth are in that pinpoint of life
that keeps you whirling like a pottery wheel,
you are the kenning and the poetry and the song that won’t stop singing.
Baby quit chasing me and take it straight—
I’m willow of wisp, I’m siren of the sick,
to fall in love with anyone but yourself is the ultimate sin,
put your hand in the fire and I vanish like dawn mists, like desire,
like smoke and your soul I am everything, nothing,
the spokes of the wheel and it’s ever-beginning—how can I inject this connection?
How to show you: run your hands down both our lengths and tell me they are not perfectly mirrored, that after wethey implode in a lightgasm of chance all is not rightfully balanced.
Close your eyes for two hours.
Bury yourself in a mountain.
Watch children, ocean waves, learn how to sew yourself up and roast good meat.
But I digress: think:
Priestess as psychologist?
My hormones are phosphorous
but darling you glow just as bright if you’d take those pennies off your eyes.
I can only sit back, assess, diagnose and confirm,
send you away with white bottles and smudge sticks and a message you may not even hear.
I can’t read for you, can’t dream for you, can’t fuck for you,
even from the couch you are sad enough to break my heart, but no…
Can love you, yes, but you’re choking on a culture that demands finding fullness in the other
and empty tv screens and blank hearts and hate,
spit it out and put something good in your mouth for once:
green clover,
the truly wanted, your lover,
yourself,
hold it there.
taste.
then relish the hollow in the back of your tongue, the lump In your throat.
Stop goddamn running and start godbless praying, baby, ask and ribbons will spring from your fingertips, bridges and railroad tracks and sturdy hands will grasp the farthest things, bright loving edges of a horizon, a fulfillment you thought you could never hold on to--
It is so easy to abandon the self—-as the lover becomes the constant daydream which life interrupts.”
From Kimiko Hahn’s “After Opening her Text” – from The Narrow Road to the Interior
Dammit, is there something on my skin?
Cut the mane, cut the cords, I look into menboys eyes
and see their soul, the space between Them and Everything,
like the emptiness between neurons—
love is a neurotransmitter of height, and bluebluesky,
and dark earth and skin-toned rainbows.
Love is the chain around my heart,
the locket that clicks: open, close,
swollen joints, like a bone spur, two synapses, a scent-memory…
The sea air in France.
Then San Francisco.
His cologne like redwood bark, sharp woody earth scent, soft as skin that’s never seen day.
Darlings need IVs of meaning into their energy ducts,
set their chakras spinning with wild food and OM and an open-eyed kiss.
They come giving me their feelings, their second thoughts,
and I don’t know what else to do but bury them.
Pick up the shovel and run. Send them back, reroute
faux passion: you think you can get that love from me?
Honey, you are higher than I thought.
Sink down, turn around, look to me for the road
but not it’s ending
both heart and hearth are in that pinpoint of life
that keeps you whirling like a pottery wheel,
you are the kenning and the poetry and the song that won’t stop singing.
Baby quit chasing me and take it straight—
I’m willow of wisp, I’m siren of the sick,
to fall in love with anyone but yourself is the ultimate sin,
put your hand in the fire and I vanish like dawn mists, like desire,
like smoke and your soul I am everything, nothing,
the spokes of the wheel and it’s ever-beginning—how can I inject this connection?
How to show you: run your hands down both our lengths and tell me they are not perfectly mirrored, that after wethey implode in a lightgasm of chance all is not rightfully balanced.
Close your eyes for two hours.
Bury yourself in a mountain.
Watch children, ocean waves, learn how to sew yourself up and roast good meat.
But I digress: think:
Priestess as psychologist?
My hormones are phosphorous
but darling you glow just as bright if you’d take those pennies off your eyes.
I can only sit back, assess, diagnose and confirm,
send you away with white bottles and smudge sticks and a message you may not even hear.
I can’t read for you, can’t dream for you, can’t fuck for you,
even from the couch you are sad enough to break my heart, but no…
Can love you, yes, but you’re choking on a culture that demands finding fullness in the other
and empty tv screens and blank hearts and hate,
spit it out and put something good in your mouth for once:
green clover,
the truly wanted, your lover,
yourself,
hold it there.
taste.
then relish the hollow in the back of your tongue, the lump In your throat.
Stop goddamn running and start godbless praying, baby, ask and ribbons will spring from your fingertips, bridges and railroad tracks and sturdy hands will grasp the farthest things, bright loving edges of a horizon, a fulfillment you thought you could never hold on to--
Sunday, May 3, 2009
naming the namer
names hold power - poets have often been called Namers in their archetypal work, in that they work with words, definitions, and the essence of things. in trying to work out my own identity, I first at what I call myself, and second at what others call me. This is a short piece based on that....
---
youngin', darlin'
tenderfoot
cries-like-a-girl, bookworm, fluatista, little one, fairy feet, eats-like-a-bird—-
((I wonder what that would mean now as I no longer fly fearful fleet as a 6 year olds are—still feather boned but not picking at my food and keeping to the flock – I tear into meat with a raptor’s beak and I am all eyes, I see, I devour.
I keep more
to myself.
Skillet, Kestrel
Tiger T-Sue T-Bird sweetling Teresita, treesaw
sweet pea, sweetheart, traysa, tres, tracer, Terese
longlegs, browneyes
sickie
sweet girl
angel, mine.
---
youngin', darlin'
tenderfoot
cries-like-a-girl, bookworm, fluatista, little one, fairy feet, eats-like-a-bird—-
((I wonder what that would mean now as I no longer fly fearful fleet as a 6 year olds are—still feather boned but not picking at my food and keeping to the flock – I tear into meat with a raptor’s beak and I am all eyes, I see, I devour.
I keep more
to myself.
Skillet, Kestrel
Tiger T-Sue T-Bird sweetling Teresita, treesaw
sweet pea, sweetheart, traysa, tres, tracer, Terese
longlegs, browneyes
sickie
sweet girl
angel, mine.
Friday, March 20, 2009
jar poem
poem that bubbled up from a friend's poetry and the fond memories I only barely have of "canning season". there seems to be a theme with putting puzzles pieces together. if only I could glue them in place.
---
His poetry right now is
a sweet sigh. In silk-steamy morning
light it shines sometimes, like
dewdrops that collect
then fall. such mundane breaking,
how we like to have things
put together— the simple contentment
of the top of a jar of jam—
that checker pattern
pulled tight.
crushed jewels of berries and
precious sugar, burnt fingers
steaming glass. poems that curve
like those jars—into my hands,
into the stinging water. My great-grandmother’s
recipe, elegant scrawl. It’s all
water-stained, worn to cloth, the
ruby-filled pot, cream paper,
the shining jars sitting on
my front step, waiting
to be taken, emptied, a sigh of ease
when the poem’s lid is tight.
Their gleaming sides studded with morning.
---
His poetry right now is
a sweet sigh. In silk-steamy morning
light it shines sometimes, like
dewdrops that collect
then fall. such mundane breaking,
how we like to have things
put together— the simple contentment
of the top of a jar of jam—
that checker pattern
pulled tight.
crushed jewels of berries and
precious sugar, burnt fingers
steaming glass. poems that curve
like those jars—into my hands,
into the stinging water. My great-grandmother’s
recipe, elegant scrawl. It’s all
water-stained, worn to cloth, the
ruby-filled pot, cream paper,
the shining jars sitting on
my front step, waiting
to be taken, emptied, a sigh of ease
when the poem’s lid is tight.
Their gleaming sides studded with morning.
in which the ocean crumbles
another "I have so much anxiety it sings me to insomnia" poem. I highly recommend Octavia Butler's "Parable of the Sower" if you want to experience the full-frontal panic-inducing apocalyptic beauty that brought this baby on.
A million times a day I go to touch myself—
hands warm from washing dishes,
the quick shower—
but forget, fingers poised partway
or find only slick ashes that stick
to your fingers, flake
into the measly dinner
my body a dogged reminder of
this constant cracking, crackling
the way glaciers slide of mountains
heavy, slow, and great.
Chaos is the whisper that begins
the cracking ice:
god is change. Conflict and order
yin and yang, here and not,
blank paper and that covered in
my shaky hand, blank face or
myself curled, sobbing –
A million times a day
I put a hand
to my own heart
as if to hush a child,
then remember—
what we learned that rainy Monday evening
that to suppress is to damage,
that to shush that I am
angry I am
stupid I am
afraid
Oh god how I hurt
is to press black memories into the muscles
like a branding iron—
hands sliding down my throat I remember
the ways to heal them—
shaking crying laughing
sweating talking raging
orgasm, I want to add to the list
on the board. Coming, and singing,
dancing, but my mouth makes no sound and the professor moves on.
I realize that we do these things
in the first six, crygasms and gigglefits
the song of soft talk and dance of your eyes,
when his face twists so angry I fear for
more things than usual.
I can’t bring myself to any of them.
Even the height of pleasure or the
low-slung weight of violation bring only
a fitful trying sleep and the welts
burn deeper, seep anew.
Black and white, yin and yang
conflict order—everything is
constantly falling apart—
schoolwork, poetry, my clothes
scattered like wind, money,
the tenuous threads of friendship,
when we hesitate to say love,
my health, my grandmother’s,
all our futures—
and I clasp it all together like hands
like ash being pulled by the wind
I grasp, it crumbles, I grasp
each morning and my breath
shatters the semblance of control
like ice in the leftover mug,
the maya I attatch to, illusion worth
breaking down for like when you
miss a lover’s hand on your stomach
in the icy dawn, to howl like ocean wind
for that regimented absence—
the same soda and vodka that
swirls in my grandfathers’ glass,
sea wind that braids herself
into me, urging my belly to soften
at each cresting wave,
sandcastles rising and melting again
but sometimes
it is too much
and the saltwater burns and my
bird-bones hate the riptide, the
winter sun of friend-family-heat is
so far away, too far for my
leaden legs and weighted heart
to push towards, like wheeling gulls
clean air, the blip of blue sky
as I scream ocean into my lungs and breathing
at once
doesn’t matter
and
is everything.
Everything
crumbles,
changes.
We build, it breaks, every minute
hour year second day every blink
and that is the only constant—that there are none.
I put my hand to my neck,
a thrumming necklace, the pressure
of possibility, a sweet
reminder - remember
to slow down,
catch up. Still no real release—
anxiety sits like a sunken ship
and fish nibble on worries
more ancient that this little body
of mine. What would it take—
warm hands on the skin,
lips against my curved shoulder
like blessing a ship’s prow—
to unlock it all— but still
there must be movement,
change; stillness
means sinking, means death.
There is no stopping.
Our blood will not always
beat in time, if this instant,
if at all, to kiss the thin skin
over my pulse is a plea, not a promise—
a question I can’t answer
in surety.
Waves recede eventually, and there
are branding irons, hammer-fists, at the bottom
of all the oceans,
waiting on every high ground.
The smallest mistake will undo me
into an unraveling fractal, uprooted oak—
a child’s hand-written note,
leaving a crisis at the doorway
a boy’s offhanded “hey, faggot”—
What I know I cannot save.
The same tears erupt when others echo
what my heart’s been singing, what I know
I can snatch away before it sinks.
Dialectical—two or more states
that cannot exist alone, that
reinforce each other. Conflict, order.
Father, son. Bitch, beautiful.
But do they necessitate? Can I ever just
breathe in, keep holding you, step
forward, swim upwards, grasp hands
like ropes and anchors?
Dialect varies by region, so what
are we speaking here, lips blue with cold wind,
what moon am I singing this to, what words
whispered against my salt-heavy skin
will bring a raging, shaking, healing sleep—
A million times a day I go to touch myself—
hands warm from washing dishes,
the quick shower—
but forget, fingers poised partway
or find only slick ashes that stick
to your fingers, flake
into the measly dinner
my body a dogged reminder of
this constant cracking, crackling
the way glaciers slide of mountains
heavy, slow, and great.
Chaos is the whisper that begins
the cracking ice:
god is change. Conflict and order
yin and yang, here and not,
blank paper and that covered in
my shaky hand, blank face or
myself curled, sobbing –
A million times a day
I put a hand
to my own heart
as if to hush a child,
then remember—
what we learned that rainy Monday evening
that to suppress is to damage,
that to shush that I am
angry I am
stupid I am
afraid
Oh god how I hurt
is to press black memories into the muscles
like a branding iron—
hands sliding down my throat I remember
the ways to heal them—
shaking crying laughing
sweating talking raging
orgasm, I want to add to the list
on the board. Coming, and singing,
dancing, but my mouth makes no sound and the professor moves on.
I realize that we do these things
in the first six, crygasms and gigglefits
the song of soft talk and dance of your eyes,
when his face twists so angry I fear for
more things than usual.
I can’t bring myself to any of them.
Even the height of pleasure or the
low-slung weight of violation bring only
a fitful trying sleep and the welts
burn deeper, seep anew.
Black and white, yin and yang
conflict order—everything is
constantly falling apart—
schoolwork, poetry, my clothes
scattered like wind, money,
the tenuous threads of friendship,
when we hesitate to say love,
my health, my grandmother’s,
all our futures—
and I clasp it all together like hands
like ash being pulled by the wind
I grasp, it crumbles, I grasp
each morning and my breath
shatters the semblance of control
like ice in the leftover mug,
the maya I attatch to, illusion worth
breaking down for like when you
miss a lover’s hand on your stomach
in the icy dawn, to howl like ocean wind
for that regimented absence—
the same soda and vodka that
swirls in my grandfathers’ glass,
sea wind that braids herself
into me, urging my belly to soften
at each cresting wave,
sandcastles rising and melting again
but sometimes
it is too much
and the saltwater burns and my
bird-bones hate the riptide, the
winter sun of friend-family-heat is
so far away, too far for my
leaden legs and weighted heart
to push towards, like wheeling gulls
clean air, the blip of blue sky
as I scream ocean into my lungs and breathing
at once
doesn’t matter
and
is everything.
Everything
crumbles,
changes.
We build, it breaks, every minute
hour year second day every blink
and that is the only constant—that there are none.
I put my hand to my neck,
a thrumming necklace, the pressure
of possibility, a sweet
reminder - remember
to slow down,
catch up. Still no real release—
anxiety sits like a sunken ship
and fish nibble on worries
more ancient that this little body
of mine. What would it take—
warm hands on the skin,
lips against my curved shoulder
like blessing a ship’s prow—
to unlock it all— but still
there must be movement,
change; stillness
means sinking, means death.
There is no stopping.
Our blood will not always
beat in time, if this instant,
if at all, to kiss the thin skin
over my pulse is a plea, not a promise—
a question I can’t answer
in surety.
Waves recede eventually, and there
are branding irons, hammer-fists, at the bottom
of all the oceans,
waiting on every high ground.
The smallest mistake will undo me
into an unraveling fractal, uprooted oak—
a child’s hand-written note,
leaving a crisis at the doorway
a boy’s offhanded “hey, faggot”—
What I know I cannot save.
The same tears erupt when others echo
what my heart’s been singing, what I know
I can snatch away before it sinks.
Dialectical—two or more states
that cannot exist alone, that
reinforce each other. Conflict, order.
Father, son. Bitch, beautiful.
But do they necessitate? Can I ever just
breathe in, keep holding you, step
forward, swim upwards, grasp hands
like ropes and anchors?
Dialect varies by region, so what
are we speaking here, lips blue with cold wind,
what moon am I singing this to, what words
whispered against my salt-heavy skin
will bring a raging, shaking, healing sleep—
Saturday, February 14, 2009
self-love day 09
Like a lot of single
Today is Self-Love day, and I've spent it helping elementary schoolers with science projects, falling more in love with this city, and getting my Shakespeare gender-bender on in true queer-English-geek form. And of course, memeing. (es de daisy, one of the upper echelon of awesome blogistas in my life.)
Self Love Day 09!
1.) Post one of them thar banners on your blog and declare February 14th as the day you not only love your one and only, but the day that you love yourself!
2.) Post one nice thing about yourself……then ask others to post one thing that they really like about you.
3.) Enjoy yourself!
So, something nice about myself:
This sounds arrogant, cliche, hella Xian, or all of the above, but: my faith will get me through so, so much. It seems strange to me when people say "My faith got me through it", as though it's a last resort or a crutch, as though life wasn't made of faith. I sometimes feel like I've got an umbilical cord to the Universe, providing a context and Eagle's eyes for all of my actions. It's a weight sometimes, especially in this culture, but always a blessing. My faith doesn't get me through things, it pulls me to them, the one untangled thread in the loom of crazy that sometimes inhabits my brain.
Also, petty-nice thing--I think I have really, really pretty hair.
Now is the time to ask--any lurkers have nice things to say about me, themselves, the universe, etc ad inf? Do so :) Mwah!-mwah!s to all my relations. -t
Friday, February 13, 2009
token 4th wave ode to my stretch marks
token 4th wave feminist tribute to my stretch marks
or
what they don't tell you:
-------------
they will fade.
first blood’s red
then pink
rose
silver
boys get them, too.
they come back.
deepen,
move with you
diminish
rise and fall like the tide,
daily scratches on a cave wall
Nobody good
will turn from them.
Not in locker rooms,
slumber parties,
fittings, yoga class,
the bedroom
your local gym
The fading light softens
our skin transluscent and
he draws his head down
towards mine, eyes creased
with worry and wonder—
Did they hurt? He asks and I
bite back a laugh at his somberness,
fingers eking out mysteries
from these divine/benign welts
No, never, I whisper, smiling
though everything else
did—these are reminders
of those growing seasons
that stretching and soft breaking
and melding together again
like beachside salt-water taffy
fit into too-neat wax paper
left in the sun to weep
cherry tears, melting in
some boys mouth,
bluntly spit out—
until you realize as that first
real lover
kisses each scar
that jock was too young for you anyway, you really like girls, father was a terrible communicator, boys are really hot, romance is everywhere, marriage is overrated, mother was right, poetry means ecstasy, buy it if it’s on sale:
the universe cheers for you
if you just close your lips
and listen to the creaking sound of growth:
the way their eyes widen as you unbutton.
one of your sighs.
His fingers on you, lightly, again
that astonished murmur
as you lose yourselves to lust
Can’t believe you didn’t feel
any of this—Oh, sweetheart
you have no idea—
they are just scars, to him. Yours,
which make them all the more
wonderous, but still. Simply
what was once whole.
One woman called them her minnows,
a flock of ever-fleeing silver
spinning through her body.
Another, fingerprints
place-markers on hips,
breasts, back, for where
her wife’s hands should be because
partnerships means sharing the dead weight
you thought you’d be carrying
your whole life alone,
sharing of the skin-gifts that
with a mirror, a certain skirt or tie,
made your eyes flash and
your heart grin,
limbs that made life with yourself
a little less lonely.
For now he traces the
small weights of my breasts—
pears beneath the skin
new-soft with spring but marked
with weather and wear—
he’s still hesitant,
heart measuring my words against
the nerve-endings, surface area
high school anatomy classes
and filched copies of Maxim
One day he’ll see his
bus driver’s stomach swell
like summer berries, her
soft smile as she punches his ticket.
he’ll study
his elder patient’s shoulders
his spine peppered with dimples
stretch marks from a 10th grade
growth spurt, pretend to
test his spine as they talk basketball—
he’ll remember at 17
the cramped back of the station wagon
how every girl’s scars sparkled
under the yellow streetlamp.
her body slack from want and innocence
the same way his wife
rolls out of their bed, unaware
of the graceful coordination between
solid calves and sloping neck and
milk-heavy breasts—
worries weighed in their lank hair
and sleep-soft eyes as she
stretches, nude,
life-scarred body extended in desire
for the top shelf,
an old college t-shirt.
he’ll realize in the waiting room
the steamy frontseat
amidst the warm, worn sheets
and you won’t have to
spell the words
with his fingers
on your stomach
you won’t
have to tell
him a thing—
or
what they don't tell you:
-------------
they will fade.
first blood’s red
then pink
rose
silver
boys get them, too.
they come back.
deepen,
move with you
diminish
rise and fall like the tide,
daily scratches on a cave wall
Nobody good
will turn from them.
Not in locker rooms,
slumber parties,
fittings, yoga class,
the bedroom
your local gym
The fading light softens
our skin transluscent and
he draws his head down
towards mine, eyes creased
with worry and wonder—
Did they hurt? He asks and I
bite back a laugh at his somberness,
fingers eking out mysteries
from these divine/benign welts
No, never, I whisper, smiling
though everything else
did—these are reminders
of those growing seasons
that stretching and soft breaking
and melding together again
like beachside salt-water taffy
fit into too-neat wax paper
left in the sun to weep
cherry tears, melting in
some boys mouth,
bluntly spit out—
until you realize as that first
real lover
kisses each scar
that jock was too young for you anyway, you really like girls, father was a terrible communicator, boys are really hot, romance is everywhere, marriage is overrated, mother was right, poetry means ecstasy, buy it if it’s on sale:
the universe cheers for you
if you just close your lips
and listen to the creaking sound of growth:
the way their eyes widen as you unbutton.
one of your sighs.
His fingers on you, lightly, again
that astonished murmur
as you lose yourselves to lust
Can’t believe you didn’t feel
any of this—Oh, sweetheart
you have no idea—
they are just scars, to him. Yours,
which make them all the more
wonderous, but still. Simply
what was once whole.
One woman called them her minnows,
a flock of ever-fleeing silver
spinning through her body.
Another, fingerprints
place-markers on hips,
breasts, back, for where
her wife’s hands should be because
partnerships means sharing the dead weight
you thought you’d be carrying
your whole life alone,
sharing of the skin-gifts that
with a mirror, a certain skirt or tie,
made your eyes flash and
your heart grin,
limbs that made life with yourself
a little less lonely.
For now he traces the
small weights of my breasts—
pears beneath the skin
new-soft with spring but marked
with weather and wear—
he’s still hesitant,
heart measuring my words against
the nerve-endings, surface area
high school anatomy classes
and filched copies of Maxim
One day he’ll see his
bus driver’s stomach swell
like summer berries, her
soft smile as she punches his ticket.
he’ll study
his elder patient’s shoulders
his spine peppered with dimples
stretch marks from a 10th grade
growth spurt, pretend to
test his spine as they talk basketball—
he’ll remember at 17
the cramped back of the station wagon
how every girl’s scars sparkled
under the yellow streetlamp.
her body slack from want and innocence
the same way his wife
rolls out of their bed, unaware
of the graceful coordination between
solid calves and sloping neck and
milk-heavy breasts—
worries weighed in their lank hair
and sleep-soft eyes as she
stretches, nude,
life-scarred body extended in desire
for the top shelf,
an old college t-shirt.
he’ll realize in the waiting room
the steamy frontseat
amidst the warm, worn sheets
and you won’t have to
spell the words
with his fingers
on your stomach
you won’t
have to tell
him a thing—
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