“Poetry trains us to look past the advertised reality, or better, to see surface commotion as a manifestation of inner turbulence.” – Dan Chiasson
“If you want to write, you have to be willing to be disturbed” – Natalie Goldberg, Wild Mind
^^ The sun is out, the light is shining, I find cool refuge watching it slink and glisten in the water
Pardon any incoherence. I’m practicing.
Not that I hate all white men
If I see one more rich white guy with a shock of white hair molesting me with his presence of leadership, I will throw a TV against a wall and watch as the colors and shards combust flames.
Come on white people
I know you can get tired.
I get tired.
But you don’t even try. You don’t even try to pick up the book and think about how we and our forefathers have caused other people immeasureable suffering.
SWALLOW, nod, shut up
The guilt is palpable – the only thing to do is face up to it and let it pound in your chest.
Seasons in the Mountains
Iced trees or
Skies the color of wine or
A round of nickel sized aspen leaves applauding the wind.
Beacon Beacon Smile Flesh, the goodness of girl friends tucked up in my ear
When you meet another woman and there’s this shared understanding?
A refuge in one another’s beauty that is otherwise pounded up by men – but with one another, we are
Admiring of one another’s accomplishments and Loving of one another’s faults.
We create a tossed mega salad of laughter when we are all gathered up and men are on Nobody’s minds
(it’s sacred, when women don’t compete with one another and choose one another over the boyfriend or crush of the week)
Sisterhood oozes Rose in our shared smiles
Sit in the hot mug tea of female friendship
It is a violent, loud, man’s world. Men hurt too, don’t get me wrong.
But we are all on the floor rocking back & forth, nursing our wounds our feelings of
our Date Rapes, Molestations, Incest;
the quiver in our bellies when at school or work, we can feel our bodies being ogled, hear the comments – spoken and unspoken – that rob us of our minds, of our insides, of the meat that makes us substantial enough to stay standing.
Poem to my clogged sink
The anxiety surrounding snacks purchased on the subway, cars paid to take me home near dawn, the smell of gas in my apartment, the dead cockroach embedded into our staircase
On one hand
I am rich
And the water pools up and sits there
He shoves black goop
Fossil trash in the corner that could never be
How am I not
MADE of my own
made of Bleh
The head weighs and hurls.
The only thing that makes
New York Poverty and
and cockroach cockroach. glassy glassy cockroach.
just a little bit
Worth it. is.
Writing. is making my own projects.
and being in a place that Squeezes the Greatness out of me.
Jerking me all over the hard, loud streets
Hosing me down with other people’s brilliance
with other people’s Noise.
Randomness that might begin something Later
The wine, after you drink more of it, stops making your tongue pucker. —
I can never love enough or be close enough
I can never share enough or have enough of someone else in my heart —
We all drink because
A terror is upon us —
Women have it worse
The flaming oil tears that wracked my body into convulsions over
a lack of boobs
a bumpy nose
Do men get like that much?
Because, men’s approval is at stake for me –
without men’s approval I am the fat outcast
growing moldy & sad & alone –
men don’t have to be hot to get women’s OR men’s approval
women have to be hot, at least on a
keeping up to par with
personal grooming or at least,
if not that,
sort of level
We can’t get in frumpled, wrinkly, and un-made-up like men can
I remember the tremendous effort it took for me to hear my mouth open
The good sandwich with avocado & egg that couldn’t fit in my stomach
(I ate it late at night later, from the fridge)
(Waking up because all of my hungry, shaking body is rolling a million silver worms through the sides of your breath that get heavy after wine or have seizures after coffee)
What disturbs me
The person with the skin tag the size of a foot bubbling out the back of their neck. The older woman who smells like cat urine and speaks with a bewildered wisp when she emerges from the basement.
And right alongside this are the pretty young 30-something couples with their smooth, clear, clean skin, and apartments equally clear, clean, smooth, and spacious! Open, renovated walls with new windows spilling in white sunshine even in winter. And their able-bodied children have no deficiencies of the mind, and everyone’s clothes are new and everyone’s christmases are wholesome, food cooked organically, paper towels and dish soap bought with the environment in mind for the extra 5 dollars each, and you ask yourself if they have ever known that one and wretched pain that befalls the ugly, loathsome, and alone.
When your own skin wreaks of urine, masturbating, shit laced Tears when
The night gets louder & louder but you are the only one to hear it and
A millennia of disease, heartache, war, fire – or epiphany, chocolate, and stars ! – can happen in your mind but no one will understand it or help you eke it out. You’ll just lay tossing as the radiator roars.
I can’t stop floating.
This is painful sometimes only when I can’t find others floating also.
Keep me with the Floaters who See, Admire, and Absorb
A friend who will climb into the abyss with me and come out on the other side
Giddy, our cheap beers in hand.