a scribe
like the angels.
only better,
cause you're real.
Flesh that bruises,
and hands that know
the texture of
a sycamore.
lift up your
broken song,
embracing night.
wish for simplicity
maybe,
but don't ever take
the easy way out.
your time has
come
to speak.
words drop
into an old glass
bottle.
A complex fragrance
of mountain night
and calculated risk.
a scribe
like the angels,
only better.
your time
has come
to speak.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Tomorrow's Today
sleep felt better than I could have
dreamed.
emptied my stomach
of another uprising,
torrents of old words
and new fears
while the night was
still
around me.
I begged him
to stop it,
anything but this.
instead he sat
on the bathroom floor
and held me
in the mess.
Didn't even shower
just climbed into the
bed that remembers
and drifted into
dark.
Woke up with
fingers still itching
ribcage still humming
hair still curling
questions still burning.
But pain floods me
without mercy
and often
leaves without
reason.
dreamed.
emptied my stomach
of another uprising,
torrents of old words
and new fears
while the night was
still
around me.
I begged him
to stop it,
anything but this.
instead he sat
on the bathroom floor
and held me
in the mess.
Didn't even shower
just climbed into the
bed that remembers
and drifted into
dark.
Woke up with
fingers still itching
ribcage still humming
hair still curling
questions still burning.
But pain floods me
without mercy
and often
leaves without
reason.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Season's Greetings.
I'm tired and can't make sense out
of years of not sleeping.
what do you mean they were days?
Nothing lucky about 7 tonight.
I'm wrapped up in yesteryear's
swaddling
bury me warm
by the ocean.
A beautiful sound
the water on sand.
And the moon is up now
and my skin is pale glowing.
Tired now, of years of unthinking
and where have I been
and why is it hurting?
No space left for
thinking
eat
sleep
drink
be merry.
Ho Ho Ho
set up baby Jesus
in his little glass manger
Mary's so pretty
the barn is so tidy.
A man fell asleep on me
on the 7 tonight.
Some lucky number.
He only grunted when
I shoved.
Invisible woman
with coals
for eyes
and a button nose.
No time for presents.
Is it warm there in winter?
Could we get away for awhile?
I want to go.
I WANT TO GO.
Island of the misfit
toys with the idea
of sand in December.
Fuck I've got to get sleep.
Fuck I've got to stop saying
Fuck.
Merry Christmas to all and
to all a goodnight.
of years of not sleeping.
what do you mean they were days?
Nothing lucky about 7 tonight.
I'm wrapped up in yesteryear's
swaddling
bury me warm
by the ocean.
A beautiful sound
the water on sand.
And the moon is up now
and my skin is pale glowing.
Tired now, of years of unthinking
and where have I been
and why is it hurting?
No space left for
thinking
eat
sleep
drink
be merry.
Ho Ho Ho
set up baby Jesus
in his little glass manger
Mary's so pretty
the barn is so tidy.
A man fell asleep on me
on the 7 tonight.
Some lucky number.
He only grunted when
I shoved.
Invisible woman
with coals
for eyes
and a button nose.
No time for presents.
Is it warm there in winter?
Could we get away for awhile?
I want to go.
I WANT TO GO.
Island of the misfit
toys with the idea
of sand in December.
Fuck I've got to get sleep.
Fuck I've got to stop saying
Fuck.
Merry Christmas to all and
to all a goodnight.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
dflkjafwih
Shit.
Can't stop writing.
There are too many to read.
Don't keep up.
Just let me write.
I'll take my time as it comes.
It comes
when I least expect it.
One Earl Grey misto
and three days of
not enough sleep.
More than enough
sustenance.
Sustain
a writhing ball
of where the hell
did this come from ?
Just go with it
she says
and I shake
twitch a little
and then sit. for
one
two
three
hours or more.
and now I click
without the music.
or the sustenance.
Can't keep it underneath my
shiny blood fingernails
click
clickity click
of keys in hand
hooves on pavement
I want dirt paths
and wooded forests
and a mane beneath me
chestnut ripples
cool sweat
and sweet hay
and where the hell
did this come from?
Go with it
she says
and now there are
eager children in my fingers
running circles
playing hopscotch
on the keyboard
scary dreams
that last a lifetime and
some things take time
but this is coming
in rivers
through the mountains
ride through
rock filled waters
and toward the ocean.
The ride is longer than
I expected
It comes
when I don't expect it.
When muscles are tired
both mine and the beast's.
Cool sweat dried to
salt.
And sweet hay to panting
desperation.
Penumbras of yesterdays
catching up.
We're still running.
Through rocky waters,
toward the ocean
don't keep up
just let me write
Can't stop writing.
There are too many to read.
Don't keep up.
Just let me write.
I'll take my time as it comes.
It comes
when I least expect it.
One Earl Grey misto
and three days of
not enough sleep.
More than enough
sustenance.
Sustain
a writhing ball
of where the hell
did this come from ?
Just go with it
she says
and I shake
twitch a little
and then sit. for
one
two
three
hours or more.
and now I click
without the music.
or the sustenance.
Can't keep it underneath my
shiny blood fingernails
click
clickity click
of keys in hand
hooves on pavement
I want dirt paths
and wooded forests
and a mane beneath me
chestnut ripples
cool sweat
and sweet hay
and where the hell
did this come from?
Go with it
she says
and now there are
eager children in my fingers
running circles
playing hopscotch
on the keyboard
scary dreams
that last a lifetime and
some things take time
but this is coming
in rivers
through the mountains
ride through
rock filled waters
and toward the ocean.
The ride is longer than
I expected
It comes
when I don't expect it.
When muscles are tired
both mine and the beast's.
Cool sweat dried to
salt.
And sweet hay to panting
desperation.
Penumbras of yesterdays
catching up.
We're still running.
Through rocky waters,
toward the ocean
don't keep up
just let me write
The Signs
Daddy put the first signs up.
He pounded a Do Not Cross sign
between the tables and the bar
when Aunt Robin took me out to eat.
She put her finger to her lips and scooped
me up onto the high backed stool
Tony winked and made me a Shirley Temple
we didn't tell daddy.
A few years later he swore there were
flashing danger signs at my cousin's
wedding reception.
He saw them when they made a toast.
So we sighed and climbed into the car.
Mom cursed under her breath.
Flash forward to Amanda's birthday
fourth grade. Her mom's liquor cabinet.
vodka in coffee,in orange juice
and straight. I was holding it
when she came down the stairs.
Her eyes flashed red stop signs
and I begged her not to tell daddy.
Sixth grade and boys in cars
and policemen and daddy's
eyes said whore.
but daddy's mouth said harlot,
whoredom.
Sounded like a place to me.
Ninth grade and Baptist
Churches and teary altar calls
and Restricted.
pounded on my lawn
in my bedroom
and so I stopped.
Away from home and
he said he loved me
pulled restricted signs out
of my bedroom
and pounded them in front of
clubs and bars, and every other man.
at least I had the bedroom.
Back to church and signs all over
Do not touch
taste
smell
or listen.
I was skeptical at this point.
And old signs are spray painted now
and new signs are fresh and bright
Posted, Warning, Do not Cross,
Forbidden, Caution
and they make me dizzy
And some are at the edge of cliffs
and some are outside of secret gardens
and more are rusty
bent
and ugly
but it's still hard for me
to tell the difference
He pounded a Do Not Cross sign
between the tables and the bar
when Aunt Robin took me out to eat.
She put her finger to her lips and scooped
me up onto the high backed stool
Tony winked and made me a Shirley Temple
we didn't tell daddy.
A few years later he swore there were
flashing danger signs at my cousin's
wedding reception.
He saw them when they made a toast.
So we sighed and climbed into the car.
Mom cursed under her breath.
Flash forward to Amanda's birthday
fourth grade. Her mom's liquor cabinet.
vodka in coffee,in orange juice
and straight. I was holding it
when she came down the stairs.
Her eyes flashed red stop signs
and I begged her not to tell daddy.
Sixth grade and boys in cars
and policemen and daddy's
eyes said whore.
but daddy's mouth said harlot,
whoredom.
Sounded like a place to me.
Ninth grade and Baptist
Churches and teary altar calls
and Restricted.
pounded on my lawn
in my bedroom
and so I stopped.
Away from home and
he said he loved me
pulled restricted signs out
of my bedroom
and pounded them in front of
clubs and bars, and every other man.
at least I had the bedroom.
Back to church and signs all over
Do not touch
taste
smell
or listen.
I was skeptical at this point.
And old signs are spray painted now
and new signs are fresh and bright
Posted, Warning, Do not Cross,
Forbidden, Caution
and they make me dizzy
And some are at the edge of cliffs
and some are outside of secret gardens
and more are rusty
bent
and ugly
but it's still hard for me
to tell the difference
10 seconds.
I was on my way to Civil Rights. Late, as usual, with my open computer in one arm, oversized, overstuffed bag slung over the other, and scarf trailing almost on the floor behind me. I was also clutching the final paper that I had just finished in one hand, crinkling it until it must have looked like I wrote it a year ago and found it under a couch cushion just a few moments ago. My boots have no traction and so I slid on the marble lobby floor as I was rounding the corner, balancing my luggage to catch my elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door was already opened and I stepped in and took a deep breath.
Still a little bit happy that I got to have jamaican food for lunch. Anxious and warm from rushing to the elevator. Scared that my paper wouldn't be good enough. I glanced up at the screen in the upper left corner of the elevator to see what time it was. 5:04. Four minutes late? Not too bad. Above the time are fun facts, or CNN headlines, and sometimes even celebrity birthdays or 15 minute dinner recipes. Today it was a CNN headline. A two year old from Mumbai survived a shooting that killed his mother, father and siblings. His nanny rescued him and escaped the open fire without injury.
The next ten seconds of the ride slowed down. I was standing still in what I imagined was Mumbai, in the middle of the dirt street watching a small rundown house crammed in among other shacks and homes. Gunmen with brown skin and dirty camouflage suits, bullet proof vests and hard helmets rushed down the street and looked through me at the house. I could hear gun shots down the street but no one had fired here yet. A woman was in the small yard hanging wet tshirts over a string above the window when they approached, and her eyes grew wide. She grabbed the basket and didn't have time to turn around. Shots were fired and she crumpled to the ground leaving her life on the wall behind her. I felt dizzy and they rushed into the house and I heard a man yelling in tones that translated perfectly into English. Shot, shot, shot, shot. Silence. Crashing, the faint pounding of feet on stairs. Blam, blam, blam, blam. The sky spun and I stood still.
Out of a side window crawled a woman clutching a tiny child. She was covering his mouth and his eyes were wide. He couldn't breathe. But he wasn't bleeding and so I breathed. She ran onto the narrow road over broken bottles and piles of trash. She ran through me and a pleasant bell rung.
The doors of the elevator opened and I was on the fifteenth floor. Heading to a beige room with a mahogany table and huge windows. To listen to presentations about civil rights organizations. Organizations like the Polyamorous Society where adults fight and protest for the right to be respected in having legitamite three or more parnter sexual relationships. The group holds snuggle sessions and swinger's parties where you can hook up with multiple partners without the pain and fear of society's rejection. Parade's where women make out with other women and then their husbands, and then their husbands' boyfriends. And feminist groups who protest any laws that would deter young women from having abortions. They pound their fists and say, "No they shouldn't have to tell their parents! No they shouldn't have to be over sixteen!" Some of the more enthusiastic members even weep when they plead, "These are our basic rights people! We are sick of being oppressed and silenced! Give us freedom, give us freedom!"
And the room spins for me again. Inside of four insulated walls on rolling chairs with arm rests sit about thirty of us. Toying around on our laptops and tuning in to hear about activist groups that want affirmative action, abortion rights, communism, to be protected in their sexual choices by the federal government. We are educated 20 and 23 year old college students. Presentation after presentation.
Break for pizza. Garlic knots.
But for ten seconds I was somewhere else, seeing something else, and I can't make it stop. Can't bring myself fully back to midtown Manhattan and listen to a language that is my own in tones that I can't understand. Fight for what? I see a wide eyed little brown baby, and the strong hand of his nanny slapped hard over his mouth to keep him from screaming. To keep him from dying. It hurt when she hit him, and he'll be mad when she finally puts him down. His momma is dead now. So is papa.
If he's lucky he won't remember. But I will. And I can't come back yet.
Still a little bit happy that I got to have jamaican food for lunch. Anxious and warm from rushing to the elevator. Scared that my paper wouldn't be good enough. I glanced up at the screen in the upper left corner of the elevator to see what time it was. 5:04. Four minutes late? Not too bad. Above the time are fun facts, or CNN headlines, and sometimes even celebrity birthdays or 15 minute dinner recipes. Today it was a CNN headline. A two year old from Mumbai survived a shooting that killed his mother, father and siblings. His nanny rescued him and escaped the open fire without injury.
The next ten seconds of the ride slowed down. I was standing still in what I imagined was Mumbai, in the middle of the dirt street watching a small rundown house crammed in among other shacks and homes. Gunmen with brown skin and dirty camouflage suits, bullet proof vests and hard helmets rushed down the street and looked through me at the house. I could hear gun shots down the street but no one had fired here yet. A woman was in the small yard hanging wet tshirts over a string above the window when they approached, and her eyes grew wide. She grabbed the basket and didn't have time to turn around. Shots were fired and she crumpled to the ground leaving her life on the wall behind her. I felt dizzy and they rushed into the house and I heard a man yelling in tones that translated perfectly into English. Shot, shot, shot, shot. Silence. Crashing, the faint pounding of feet on stairs. Blam, blam, blam, blam. The sky spun and I stood still.
Out of a side window crawled a woman clutching a tiny child. She was covering his mouth and his eyes were wide. He couldn't breathe. But he wasn't bleeding and so I breathed. She ran onto the narrow road over broken bottles and piles of trash. She ran through me and a pleasant bell rung.
The doors of the elevator opened and I was on the fifteenth floor. Heading to a beige room with a mahogany table and huge windows. To listen to presentations about civil rights organizations. Organizations like the Polyamorous Society where adults fight and protest for the right to be respected in having legitamite three or more parnter sexual relationships. The group holds snuggle sessions and swinger's parties where you can hook up with multiple partners without the pain and fear of society's rejection. Parade's where women make out with other women and then their husbands, and then their husbands' boyfriends. And feminist groups who protest any laws that would deter young women from having abortions. They pound their fists and say, "No they shouldn't have to tell their parents! No they shouldn't have to be over sixteen!" Some of the more enthusiastic members even weep when they plead, "These are our basic rights people! We are sick of being oppressed and silenced! Give us freedom, give us freedom!"
And the room spins for me again. Inside of four insulated walls on rolling chairs with arm rests sit about thirty of us. Toying around on our laptops and tuning in to hear about activist groups that want affirmative action, abortion rights, communism, to be protected in their sexual choices by the federal government. We are educated 20 and 23 year old college students. Presentation after presentation.
Break for pizza. Garlic knots.
But for ten seconds I was somewhere else, seeing something else, and I can't make it stop. Can't bring myself fully back to midtown Manhattan and listen to a language that is my own in tones that I can't understand. Fight for what? I see a wide eyed little brown baby, and the strong hand of his nanny slapped hard over his mouth to keep him from screaming. To keep him from dying. It hurt when she hit him, and he'll be mad when she finally puts him down. His momma is dead now. So is papa.
If he's lucky he won't remember. But I will. And I can't come back yet.
Neat.
I take it neat,
because I am not.
Cleans out the fith on its way down.
On the way down
there are roads to diverge on
there are old rusted warning signs
crumbling rock
construction ahead
stop
stop
stop
I do not.
I knew the signs before
they were rusted
and bent by storms
I hardly notice them any more
Any more and the hill
gets too steep.
Branches scratch on my face and
leaves press into my
knees
and hands.
when did I fall?
Why am I crawling.
Up again. I'll take another
neat.
Because I am not.
And make it a double
it's cold out here.
because I am not.
Cleans out the fith on its way down.
On the way down
there are roads to diverge on
there are old rusted warning signs
crumbling rock
construction ahead
stop
stop
stop
I do not.
I knew the signs before
they were rusted
and bent by storms
I hardly notice them any more
Any more and the hill
gets too steep.
Branches scratch on my face and
leaves press into my
knees
and hands.
when did I fall?
Why am I crawling.
Up again. I'll take another
neat.
Because I am not.
And make it a double
it's cold out here.
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