christmas

it's christmas eve. the woman travails. she is heavy bellied and sweating. we are anxious and angry for his coming. it is 2009; our economy is crippled and begging. we are poor in spirit and overflowing with spite. come to us child saviour. make this all right if you can. this hope in us is being strangled by war and poverty. sometimes it is strangled in the stress of our own homes. we are up to our necks in the blood of the innocent, bound to merciless masters and fettered to false freedom. your intention of redemption is not enough. we need your small body to emerge and live. we are half believers, following a star and hoping to find salvation born beneath it. give us something to hold. we want bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. it is the eve of arrival and we drink strong and wrap carefully the presents bought out of obligation for the people who call us family. the drink is strong, but not enough to make us forget that you are coming. the sky fades to gray and the night falls slow enough. the green of our sickness and the red of our eyes make this city look strange and festive. the woman continues on her journey, soles worn down and back sore from sitting lopsided on the only ass they could afford. we pour another scotch on the rocks, best stuff we've got, and usher in the midnight with scraps of shiny paper around us and frosty singing on the television screen before us. hail to the king. tiny thing begins to move inside his mother. the woman who didn't ask to be used. joseph clenches his jaw and hopes to god he isn't crazy. this wife of his is pregnant and sweating; not his seed, but it is his hand that wipes the wet off her brow, his arms that lift her off the beast. the mexican trio is on the subway all night, singing "feliz navidad" and shaking their tambourine. the one who holds the hat for change also holds their fifth of Cuervo. it's cold out there and we all stay warm as we can. throw in the nickels and dimes left over in our pocket. christmas eve and what of it? take us out of ourselves. call us from our self-sustaining stagnancy and blind us with a heavenly host. sober the minds of the desperate and give us a reason to sojourn. we are waiting with what's left of us. come and let our hearts rejoice. come and be the reason we learn to love. the woman, your mother, strains her neck and bellows with the pain of her labour. she groans with the weight of humanity and we can taste the iron blood in the bottom of our drinks. come to us, and teach us to remember. come to us, born of woman in the dark of an animal's cave and call us from our desperate nothingness. we are waiting for you.

AMYLEIGHCUTLER.COM

alive in red october
we grow like mums
burning orange
scarlet o'hara
we are cold and hot
leaning forward falling backwards
lowered voices
winter is coming with the warmth
of the west
saved the best for other countries
so different in dreams
to rest and to run
let's pull weeds with bare hands
and crush grapes with our feet
Kerouac's land and Steinbeck's too
together in away
if not in together
never left the place in my october
still red from the inside
leaning forward
holding ankles
pressing backs back
into place
the vineyards unkept are waiting
cliffs in the green still simply standing
we crumble we chip away we grow down
alive in red

step into yesterday
moss grows thick on the
arches of soles
console the holes that used to make it all up
made up of ozone holes rips and tears sewn back
with the spider's thread
from moss to oak
from branch to sky
no mistaking the temptation to
live without end
born displaced placing
value on the dust
that rose once with
breath
fell once with
the silk thread of temptation
live into the moss
open souls open to the
oaks pushing out of
dust this is us
tomorrow turned backwards

the word for today is patience.
sometimes i forget where i am and how i got there.
and stories get told and smiles get weared
and then tomorrow tastes like i never wanted it to.
we don't always have to give permission.
some flowers bloom and die and rot without
great conditions.
a few days ago the word was pudding and i found
myself in puddles of laughing and wishing i
were more careful.
to be careful.
to be full of care.
to be full of anything or have a safe place
to dream. what dreams come under the full moon
that pulls and changes us. we all want to change
and be pulled inside out. have our pudding and
patience and forget to water the flowers.
i haven't given permission but my feet are sprouting
roots. tomorrow is tasting more like today with
the wearing of smiles and the laughing
uncareful.

I miss prayer. The anxious feeling I get right before His presence pours into the room. I'm always holding my arm and shaking my head and asking Him to be there and not believing He'll show up. He used to paint pictures on the back of my eyelids and press into my hands until I had to rest them on someone else. I've been talking to Him on the West Side Highway in short breaths and simple talk. Always with a lump in my throat because I haven't given myself permission to cry yet. He listens but I miss the warm bathwater air of prayer on couches and I miss the miracles and I miss the freedom of broken.

We Happy Three

We drank red wine until our lips were plums
and our teeth were soft.
We moved like children and danced
like lazy lovers
until the streetlamps were our spotlights
and we were better than the band.
Williamsburg isn't all bad
so I made a pinky swear to the violinist
over his Malbec and through his eyeglasses.
This isn't a story with a beginning or an end.
We floated home and woke up friends;
left the violinist with the cellist
and grabbed a big yellow taxi right up to
our door.
It's better to leave things where they belong
and we belonged together. Singing and swaying;
fell asleep humming Bon Iver,
woke up to Devendra Banhart.
The death of us will be met with smiles
and holding arms or hands or sometimes faces
of violinists or friends.
We left the strangers in Brooklyn and
kept only our favorites together.
There's no beginning or end to this story
because it's the middle we find
ourselves in.

cigarettes and skittles
on the bridge jutting over the Hudson

the space between January and now is
9 or 3 months backwards or forward

it's the Irish in me that's silent
the Italian in me that's screaming

sweet and smoke while the reward for
capture goes up up up

disappear and they'll find you
on the bridge jutting over the water

Harlem is sudden and cops and ice cream
Europe is going and coming and fresh bread

life is in the water where it breaks
death is there too below the moving

some of my more confident parts are shy lately.
so I'll stretch my fingers and be gentle to my mouth.
words come when no one's looking.
I'm coaxing confidence with the promise of fair.

Amy Leigh Cutler on Facebook

Back in the City

Here we are,
perspiration kissing our young foreheads,
long lady legs crooked at the knee.

It is the hottest day of summer and
we raise the temperature with our tears,
and heavy questions.


We hold onto a finger or two
and let the moon make silver
on our wet faces.

Fairy friends remembering
summer loves; it's good
to have her back.

Life doesn't fall apart with us,
but walls press closer
and we listen in the heat.

found this in the vault.

14th street and 7th avenue, close to midnight. I'm walking down the stairs to wait for the 1 or 2 or 3 train, and I hear him before I see him. He's playing sharp and fast on his old old old violin, and despite the late hour after a long day, I can feel myself grin from ear to ear. God I love the sound of the violin. He's an old cuban man, smiling back at me and leaning into the moan and wail of his music. And he's walking toward me as he plays. Damnit I shouldn't have smiled. He pulls the violin away from himself and tells me in a thick accent that I am new pupil. I blink. He sets this gorgeous old wooden instrument under my chin and tilts my head down toward it. He bends and unbends my fingers until I am holding it right, and I let him. He points to the bow and tells me it is a knife. I don't understand. He repeats it. I shrug okay. He points to the violin and tells me that it is a piece of kentucky fried chicken. I don't understand. He says, watch me cut my chicken, and begins playing the violin under my chin exactly as if if were a piece of chicken and he was an angry carver. The sound is beautiful. He hands me the knife and tells me to do the same. I'm too enthralled to be self-conscious, so I begin to cut the antique chicken in front of me. He claps and tells the other people waiting that I am a natural. He sets my fingers up and has me play for a few minutes. He won't take any money from me, but tells me to get a guitar or a violin and he will teach me to play for free. He lives for music. He looks for people that might want to learn to play instruments. I offer him some food from work. He thanks me but tells me that his wife has packed him dinner already. Get that guitar, he tells me. The three train arrives and I think I'll look into it.

three minutes
take it easy
nothing is certain
the world is smaller than you think
the world is larger than you think
slow down
when you have the chance, say yes
don´t forget what will always be good
keep your heart open when it hurts
let go
learn from your mistakes
balance
nothing is impossible

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.-Oscar Wilde

this can't be real life. it's too good.

On the Hudson

wrapped me up in brown black eyes,
we let the sun warm us.
gazed until I looked away
and lifted gold strands away from my cheeks.
traced my brow, jaw, ear with fingertips
and asked if I knew how beautiful I was.
I suppose I didn't because I don't recall
ever looking at myself that way.
we were by the water and the sun
left its silver white trail
on the waves.
we were by the water and we talked
about where we were going this summer.
me to europe,
him to senegal and zimbabwe.
both alone.
we were by the water and I said that
I would always need to find water to sit by.
dinner was oxtail, rice and beans,
and dessert was strawberries and blackberries
from the farmer's market.
there are a million faces in this city.
every one has their story and today I was young.
innocent in ways he hadn't been in years and
aware of things he might never be.
we didn't need to talk about forever
or tomorrow.
it's summer time and I've given up on love.
I don't want cheap substitutes,
but that doesn't mean
I'm turning down dinner by the river either.
I let myself be wrapped up
in brown, got lost in black
berry stained fingers.
we let the sun warm us.

I want my scars to be kissed first.

Don't forget it baby. Ink is for life.

San Diego

I think this evening calls for
out.

3 days.

Words are my ice cream cone rewards;
they are my congratulatory kisses,
my "go to your room" punishments,
and my everyday passings.
Words are my happy
and my sad;
my pleasure, pain, and questions.
Sometimes I spoon feed my words to others.
Mostly I eat them myself.
Yes, I'll have seconds.
Thanks.
I'm welcome.
Stomach upset,
but words are whiskey in my tea
and the warmest blanket to curl up in.
I'm going to sleep now,
and words are my dreams.
Tomorrow they will be my waking
and my learning.
Words will be my growing
and my letting go.
Right now they are my tired.

hours of this.
hours and hours and hours.
I feel light.
Got that strange smile
playing with the corners
of my mouth.
Kate says,
what?
what are you making that face for?
When I smile like this.
Hours and hours
and I've got my legs bent up
beneath me.
Hair up.
Hair down.
Tap the keyboard.
Hours left,
it's going to be over soon.
I'll tell you what this face is for.

May Day

I feel so terribly small.
Alice in what's this land
and soon I'll find the thing that makes me grow.
Shrinking, shrinking,
rabbit, help me!
Oh dear,
oh my,
he's late,
he's off.
The grass is blue and
there are marmalade daisies.
Each petal is the size of my torso.
I want my size again.
I want the grass to not be a forest;
what is that clearing ahead?
The sectioned body of a caterpillar
resting in the seat of a lily ahead.
His head is large and lazy,
wise eyes, slow mouth
smoking rings the size of hula hoops.
The smoke is sweet and doesn't
burn this time.
Mr. Caterpillar makes glass of my eyes
and clouds of my head.
But he makes my skin lucid.
I am bright and
I want my size again;
these tingles are too much for little body.
Those bottles say drink me
but I think they mean to shrink me.
I feel so terribly lonely with
wise old lazy pillar
speaking in puffs and pulls
but never in words.
Where is my mad hatter?
Where is my tea?
He's mad and I can smell his blood
with this tiny nose.
It's hot and it's fast, and
he'll fly to me when I need him.
He'll make me grow fast, like it or not.
He does it with hands and mouth
and favorite cheshire cat words.
We will climb trees til we're too big,
and I'll run fast and far with him.
In my pretty ripped blue and
we'll drink tea on our scraped knee tables.

Keep the Queen of Hearts away,
she makes me feel little.

6 days until graduation.

Janis Joplin today.
Trouble in my mind.
Sweet family ties.
Jason I miss you.
I miss your thick beard
and your always trouble
hazels.
We could float away together
again.
You are my brother and I love you.
You are my brother and I miss your
pick up truck every morning.
Bush and Nirvana
and Janis Joplin today.
Maybe I'll let my hair
hang long.
Yours did.
You've got a wife at home
with spider plants
and ours are strong hands.
We need strong mans.
Let's drive fast
far away soon
brother.
Let's build houses in the woods
and drink from mason jars.
We could go climbing at the quarries
if you came back.
I would jump if you would.
I miss you this morning brother.

Zachary just taught me how to put pictures on my blog. Oh it's on now.

Suds

I just went to the laundromat. (That's how we spell it.) I haven't had clean clothes in close to a month. Now I've got handfuls and handfuls of underwear. I washed your sweater Kate. Don't hate me. I worked on my senior thesis with reggaeton and spanish soap operas in the background; that is punishment enough. Two hours there because the dryer didn't work and it took me an entire hour to figure that out. I listened to Hot 97 on the car ride home and there was some rap song that I hadn't heard come on. I couldn't believe it was a real song. Here is one of the verses.

for free suites Id give Paris Hilton all-nighters
in about 3 years, holla at me Miley Cyrus
I dont discriminate, no not at all
kit kat a midget if that ass soft I break her off
I exchange V cards with the retards
and get behind the Christian like DR cuz he are
Mack Mizzo

I'm not kidding. It's been a long night. I'm about to go to sleep. There will be hungry mouths to feed tomorrow morning at the soup kitchen, and I'd like to look my best.

Sometimes it's the little things that count.
Didn't have to count my steps or hold my breath.
What once was red has cooled to blue.
Gentle passing.
A storm I had of it for
not too long.
And then my body healed.
Nothing burning in touching or looking,
nothing pressing in nearness.
Oh but it's nice not holding my breath.
I've forgotten the scent I suppose.
It's little things
like the merengue that make me
warm all over.
Simple things like hands on back
and sober sleep that make me smile.
It feels damn good.

I'm on a boat.

True Love.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You asked for a cardigan,
I brought you a sweater.

Eros is bold, enterprising, strong, a mighty hunter, always weaving some intrigue or other, keen in the pursuit of wisdom, fertile in resources; a philosopher at all times, terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, sophist. -Plato

soon all of my delicate features will be airborne then sunblasted soon there will be no hair to tie back no papers to write no warm bed to sleep in soon it will be summer but first graduation

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own.
And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.” Dr. Seuss

It's getting close to graduation. Sixteen days until I am a college graduate. Thirty two until I am a college graduate on an airplane to Europe. I am excited. Anxious. Scared. What does thirty five days alone on another continent look like? What does coming back from a trip like that look like? Coming back to what? I guess it's good that my heart still hurts; it slows things down a bit. Gives me some present to hold onto. But sleep comes easier each night. And last minute college stresses are taking over. The end is coming fast like a tractor trailer and I am a deer in the headlights. The beginning is creeping up on me like vines on a lattice and they aren't to be shaken off. I'm keeping the old with the new. I'm sewing a patchwork quilt and using the cotton blue of friendship and the midnight silk of love as the fabric. It will be warm and worn and I'll pick up new pieces on my journeys. I'm not sure how, but things are going to be good. I've got my red keds on and I'm heading towards the good life. I know what I know and I want to know more. More of what, I'm not sure, but if it is there to be known, I want to know it. And I know where I'm going. I don't know where I'm staying, but I know where I'm going. And that's something.

18 days until graduation. oh dear.

get me the hell out of here.

Dublin
Warsaw
Prague
Vienna
Budapest
.
.
.
Toulousse
Barcelona
Dublin

You were right, dear Kate.
Cyclical.

Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious; both are disappointed.
-Oscar Wilde

Is it right that I hurt and am whole?

I will not go gently.

gouge out my eyes with a hoof pick and let's forget the whole thing ever happened.

More is coming.

You are the rain and I am the fucking cigarette.

I would list my parts for inventory's sake, but I fear that you would blush.

It is almost three and I want your insides.

It is late and I have never loved odd numbers.

should be reading for public policy. instead i'm here again. comforted by the white screen and the quick click clicking of black keys. even when i'm not typing i move my fingers around and tap gently. i like the quick clicks.

I just asked God what He thought about my writing. He told me to go to bed.

It was 222 and you were my wish.

I write because I am scared of being forgotten.

spring will come with squishy mud
and darling buds
and shorter sleeves.

Proverbs 25:11

It isn't difficult to crawl
back into familiar caves
getting lost in
well worn
paths
through familiar woods.
familiar day dreams
fall like hopeless
leaves
in autumn
crunching under foot
and the air is as
crisp
as an apple
even at dusk
a few strands of gold
fall across the
dying ground
painting familiar pictures
on the
hopeless leaves
that crunch like
apples of gold
in pictures of silver.

I am too many words
and there are too many miles
left
to be silent just yet.
I want to dip my fingers
in every pot of paint
and fall asleep
a mosaic in the sun
dry blues cracking like
deserts on my arms and
emerald green legs peeling like
dragon scales
when I wash off my
orange
violet
red swirled hands
it will be in oceans
far far away.
There is nothing magic
about travelling
except for the dust that
travels with you
and the sun that sets
on every ocean.
I am too many words
and my thoughts are jumbled.
Remembering the old faces and
wide open spaces that didn't want
me to leave.
Imagine a great dome of a sky
and prison bars
made of tall grass.
That was a life of
comfort and little else
and I want more.
Words are spilling and splatting
on this life of a canvas
and I can think of little else to do
besides swirl and make new colors
with my fingers.

Ugh.

I want to be writing every day.
I've got nothing.
I thought it would get easier.
It hasn't.
I don't feel like I'm training for a marathon and getting better with time and constant practice.
Instead I keep tearing ideas out from my heart and head like looseleaf paper from my binder, and I am running out of ideas. Running out of heart and head to tear from.
It doesn't get less daunting.
In fact the white spaces on the screen are starting to haunt me. This computer doesn't give a damn if I ever type on it again. But those white spaces won't let me go.
I've got nothing.
I thought writing would get easier after going through sixteen years of formal education.
Instead my sentences are stopped short by road blocks asking what the hell tense am I supposed to be in, and why do I keep changing lanes without a signal?
Diagrams splitting infinitives and making a science out of an art.
I just want to write.
I've got nothing.

some favorites in new york for $5 or freer

gyros at three a.m.
jazz in the west village, no cover
coffee shops that you can sit in all day
sleeping on the roof in the summer
subway rides from queens to coney island
the brooklyn bridge
beef patties in harlem
dimsum in china town
the little church around the corner
different festivals on 7th avenue
subway performers
walking to the river
free concerts in churches if you know where to go
clubs mansion, home, guest house, gypsy tea room, webster hall
mamoun's falafel
bubble tea
the fifth avenue bus ride from Columbus Circle to St. Mark's place
the Staten Island Ferry
staying home.

I was just looking through some of my old stuff. Stuff that I remembered in shadows and impressionist visions. No concrete memories of what significance any of it really had. One poem in particular I remember submitting in my creative writing class for a poetry assignment. I got an A on the poem, and seeing the title saved on my computer, I opened it expecting to be surprised at how good of a writer I was before college ruined my writing. It was absolutely awful. It was the sappiest, most drawn out poem that reached for intimate detail and overshot by about a country. Shit. The poem was so bad, I imagined what I would do if a friend of mine ever gave it to me and asked me what I thought about it. I couldn't do it. There is not one redeemable line in the poem. And it isn't me being overly critical because it's my work, it is really as awful as all that. Good God, it frightened me. One or two years from now, I could look back on this and think the same. Gulp.

Tender Flesh

Take me to new places where I can
Eat my kill with bare hands
Meat is sweeter when flesh meets flesh
Streets are dark
And eyes are street lamps
Glowing yellow
Dim, persistent.
I will be your tangled barb wire
razor edges, hour glass curves
surrender met with racing pulses
you fight hard
I fight harder
Take me now to brand new places
Hearts are meaty
Eyes are tunnels
Street lamps flashing faster faster
Driving running
Predator prey

Found this envelope I had written on awhile ago.


"What color would you like?" she asked. I looked for blood and smiled sweetly.
Fingernails that shine like desire because justice is a few years ahead of me. I thought about love as they made me a woman. Made me mud masks instead of mud pies and I said, "It's all the same to me." But what is love? Is it the reason fingers and toes are laquered with come hither? Is it why face is rubbed smooth and sealed with cold cream? All for this thing called love? It ends up with barefeet and sweatpants and drinking tea and looking at the paper. But does it start with pharamones and laquered fingers and glowing cheekbones and a few pressing questions?
"What color would you like?" I looked for blood because we might as well start honest.

they put their hands on me and prayed in soothing murmurs.
it made me uncomfortable.
the softness of women usually does.
and people were walking around being kind
to eachother and that
sometimes makes me uncomfortable too.
I reminded myself never to be dragged to the front
again.
I don't much like wasting other people's time because I
don't like when people waste mine.
there were general condolences
and then He walked into the
small space. Filled the shadow
between her full lips and stepped
out into the light.
Unshaven, he took my face in His
large hands
and looked me in the eye.
She, with full lips,
had eyebrows scrunched
and was saying I don't know
why, but He's saying...
She didn't know He was holding my face.
But I bet her lips were tingling.
The softness of women faded into
velvet cushioned pews
and the walls fell away.
There were gentle murmurs
but now it was me
and Him
set on the highest rooftop
breathing steam
and covered in night.
The kind of clean air
that goes down
like menthol and He put His hands in my hair.
Drew me to Him and told me I could trust Him.
He covered my mouth with His and entered
the dark space in my parted lips.
I felt him in the lowest part
of my belly.
Fire poured over me
thick like molasses
and my lips were tingling
when the walls returned.

Words to live by

You can't gain weight if you drink on an empty stomach.

Drunk as Drunk, Pablo Neruda

Read this and died. It's Pablo Neruda.

Translated from the Spanish by Christopher Logue

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Wait

I want the weight of tomorrow.

It's one of those nights
when the fire is cold and still
waiting for rocks
and stirrings
but I'm not feeling up to it

it becomes a necessity after a while.
tell yourself that you must write every day
the way you brush your teeth everyday
even if all you have is shit.
cringe when your writing is shit
but don't stop writing.
learn how to open locks
with the keys under your fingers.
every door leads to somewhere new
and after all this time
you still have an endless amount
of unexplored rooms
caverns
closets.
I don't think that my writing has improved
much over time.
but it gets easier and easier to write.
easier to admit when
my writing is shit.
I would stop but
am addicted to the opium
that seeps out from under
some of the doors.
one door led to the sky
and after falling through
forever, I knew I'd have to write
everyday
until i could get into a
room like that again.
so far I haven't found it.
but I have found doors that lead to
nowhere
and closets filled with
priceless old trinkets and treasure chests.
I've walked into shitty apartments
with naked women packing coke
and onto beaches where there was no one
but me
white sand,
blue ocean.
These keys unlock time and space
and there is plenty unknowable
but nothing
unsearchable.
Write everyday. And take me to places
worth going.
There is no reason not to.
and I am waiting.

Buzz.

woke up wide eyed smiling sideways
stretched four years old again
gotta run gotta play
what's next
static hair and toothpaste smile
soon
soon
there are cardboard castles
and convenient street corners
where magic happens
over
over
it can't grow old
we'll all grow old
but if we are lucky
our eyes will stay shining
and we'll wake up wide eyed
and smiling sideways
until we are swallowed up.