distant subjectivity
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Distant
distant subjectivity
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Flamingo
stares into neverland
keeping meds down
til sleep envelops
bored mad by quarantine
sleep, sleep, come, sleep
movie distracts
from threatening nausea
sad drama knows me
worn journals to phone ringing
movie won’t pause
despite mental absence
Monday, October 19, 2009
Bed without sleep
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Not
Friday, July 31, 2009
Ana.
Please,
let me be
simply
Ana.
Let me live
as an essay without abstract,
pirate’s trunk without treasure map,
and undocumented comet.
Define me, if you must,
as an improvised patchwork being,
ephemeral mirage,
and gypsy collage.
Don’t make me claim
a country of ancestral descent,
language of origin,
or family tree.
I will not pronounce
a bulleted outline of my life’s agenda,
exegesis of past occurrences,
or report of my present sentiments.
I do not fit into
a personality test result,
list of implied obligations,
or eternal legacy of inborn traits.
Save your myopic documentary of this soul’s aura
for my epitaph
floating from a nomadic breath of wind
down to the rise and fall of the restless Pacific.
Cows
The faded sky cries.
These eyes can’t.
I’m over it all though,
Of course.
Wind flies between my fingers.
Take me away.
Fast.
Please!
Cows feed their babies.
Where’s mine?
Can I be a cow?
That would be more funner.
I wish I were a poet.
That would be romantic.
And dramatic.
But I’m too tired tonight.
Let’s go to Cuba.
Forget school.
I can be a maid!
Can I be yours?
So, I think we should get married.
Cuz I like you
And today you said my ears look good.
I think that’s a pretty good reason.
I’m not high,
FYI, Mr. Polo-and-Sperry’s!
I’m going to be a real counselor when I grow up.
Since I guess I can’t really be a cow.
Cramps
Quiet cramps kill ambition
Invisibly eating strength
Diluting muscle
Inside
Slouching sloth seeking relief
Horizontally active attempt
Ease pain
Bedridden
Medicine meanders millimetrically slow
Finally settles sedatively
Deep drowsiness
Erases
Hi
I waited
For the sky blue box
To pop up in the corner of my screen
Saying “hi”
From you
One syllable
To free my heart
And tell me you care
At least
That’s how I read it
Or would read it
If only you
Wrote to me
Right now
Wherever you are
But you aren’t
And I don’t understand
What goes on in your thoughts
Or
What doesn’t
I skipped dinner
I skipped dinner
again
to avoid you.
Your shape,
my eyes dodge it
instinctively.
Those eyes
soft
menacing.
Is it me
who makes them spear my lungs?
Am I irrational?
Really,
what is your face?
Your eyes?
What are you,
but a feeling,
but pain?
Why should it hurt?
Happy memories
that are no more,
…that are no more.
I killed
them
mostly
didn’t I?
I did.
Emphasis on the “I”
I killed them.
I ended it
us being Taco Bell hobos,
homework parties past dawn,
memories on The Couch,
tickle fights.
It was my choice.
My decision.
I also put an end to the other fights though.
Those with tears.
Arguments
that demanded Excedrin.
Too much.
That left me alone
when I shouldn’t have been.
I ended it.
Yet I fear you.
What is it
that makes me seem an ant
soon to be squished
in a boy’s fist?
Being replaced
so easily
and seeing you happy
now with her?
Wondering if she’s just as “amazing”?
Sitting
watching you do with her
what you once did with me?
Probably d.)
All of the above.
It hurts.
A lot.
Still.
So I skipped dinner
again.
London
I looked for traces of me
I looked in a fishnet-clad girl
In a blue-eyed boy
I even looked in a mob of hungry grey pigeons
I found London has a culture
No.
I didn’t find me.
But it only made me more blurry.
Vodka
Vodka would be good.
White amnesia. Sleeping freefall.
From abrasive, toxic, agony… reality.
Glaring scrutiny of my naked, broken soul.
Strength pleads fiercely for recess.
Inhaling deep, under a crushing, acrid ocean.
From plastic smiling cold, lonely frown.
For an inviting audience of his mocking fools.
Writer's block
16 minute minutes remain
empty ideas doused
brain soaked thoughtless swamp
roll, sit up, stretch
stumble to sink
ponder mirror
splash water to face
inhale
receive inspiration
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Seaweed
with a rootless seaweed soul
floating forever ahead
leaving forever behind
fragments of nothing concrete
as today’s currents drift
to the next atlas page
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Nonexistent
sworn to abstain
from mentioning
callous infidelity
against the soul
who cherished him
until he extinguished
that capability in her
and morphed love
into a taboo enigma
Monday, July 20, 2009
We breathe
We most often play
we are happy
and full
though in the bathroom
or in bed
at night
we really get naked
and maybe cry
or not
but we let ourselves,
the real us,
out to
breathe
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Bees
She murdered some bees
with a towel and a beach.
Squish squash went each
to their finish so… final.
She shadowed them
smothered them
smashed them
til they reached their end
under her strong hand
striking the sand
as her friends looked on quizzically.
Powerful, she towered
victorious, she loomed
triumphant, she billowed
as she stood so victorious
among corpses of the notorious
who had lived as laborious
as stinging insects generally do.
Alas, her big toe
was poked
pricked
pierced
for despite their disastrous defeat
they took their revenge on her feet.
Now forever she’ll quietly retreat
when she sees a bee on a beach... and has a towel handy.