Neoliberalism constructed a hallway
for me to walk down
and admire all the gold, shiny, silver, oily stuff
I can't have
and a million plastic hands to shake
So that I might make it
nowhere
The paternal hand of the state
pats me on the back
and sends me notes to
collect debt
for the bankers, the bankers
I've got hallways and highways and byways
Toasters and jail bars and factories
But I have no one left to talk to
except myself,
myself.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Communal Imagination
I think my mind has sunk too deep too many times
Those violent episodes playing like the evening news
in my head
on loop
In my memory blood is scattered everywhere
and I only get a sign, a symbol,
a fuzzy picture of what might have happened
Who was there?
And why?
why, why, why
the question sings me to sleep on drunken nights
when I fall into a bed
that feels like a casket and
I imagine the night closing over me
like the cold door of my tomb
bony fingers prodding me for answers I don't know
I know there must be a choice
if I could only smooth over some synapses
like a mechanic
I'd oil and polish every space in between
sadness and happiness
to lessen the confusion
I don't know the why or the how or the what
I only know there was a woman in Brazil
who wrote down detailed notes
of her day
everyday
She built a rope with words
and lassoed herself to every corner of the world
There must be something in between
everything that has been explained
in that space there must be a white, blue, orange chaos
A whole world of difference waiting to be discovered
A communal imagination waiting to be realized.
Those violent episodes playing like the evening news
in my head
on loop
In my memory blood is scattered everywhere
and I only get a sign, a symbol,
a fuzzy picture of what might have happened
Who was there?
And why?
why, why, why
the question sings me to sleep on drunken nights
when I fall into a bed
that feels like a casket and
I imagine the night closing over me
like the cold door of my tomb
bony fingers prodding me for answers I don't know
I know there must be a choice
if I could only smooth over some synapses
like a mechanic
I'd oil and polish every space in between
sadness and happiness
to lessen the confusion
I don't know the why or the how or the what
I only know there was a woman in Brazil
who wrote down detailed notes
of her day
everyday
She built a rope with words
and lassoed herself to every corner of the world
There must be something in between
everything that has been explained
in that space there must be a white, blue, orange chaos
A whole world of difference waiting to be discovered
A communal imagination waiting to be realized.
Compass
Every day the world is destroyed and built back up
With wealth in the hands of fewer hands of fewer hands
And I wonder who is let go
When those hands disconnect from other hands
to grab at oil and water and money
And I wonder where they will fall
When all the walls have come crumbling down at night
Will they hit pavement?
or stone?
or will they tumble forever
into the spaces that no one keeps track of...
The world is flat, then round, then dark, then light
In seconds I can step from solid ground into a shadowed abyss
Or scale an intricate web of connection.
I dance with lightening and laugh with spiders.
But when I'm tired of feeling myself scattered
into a million pieces (some saved and some discarded)
I will piece together old maps into binoculars
and find my friends buried under the scrap heap of an empire
and we'll create a giant compass
To navigate another world
where no one is forgotten.
With wealth in the hands of fewer hands of fewer hands
And I wonder who is let go
When those hands disconnect from other hands
to grab at oil and water and money
And I wonder where they will fall
When all the walls have come crumbling down at night
Will they hit pavement?
or stone?
or will they tumble forever
into the spaces that no one keeps track of...
The world is flat, then round, then dark, then light
In seconds I can step from solid ground into a shadowed abyss
Or scale an intricate web of connection.
I dance with lightening and laugh with spiders.
But when I'm tired of feeling myself scattered
into a million pieces (some saved and some discarded)
I will piece together old maps into binoculars
and find my friends buried under the scrap heap of an empire
and we'll create a giant compass
To navigate another world
where no one is forgotten.
Silence
Silence is welcomed on restless nights
when it feels like all my limbs have low level
electricity running through them
which threatens to light the whole night with
sharp, neon dreams
Silence is welcomed when we have
both lost our breath and forget
why we were mad or
wonder how we let it get
this far
Silence is welcomed under
bath water when a long
day seems it won't end
and my mind needs to be
slowed by underwater undulations
But, now
and here,
While we breathlessly
watch bombing set off
a thousand screams
cruel fire crackers
ignite the hot earth
smoke, black, mess
of anger burning its
message into the limbs
of women
and children
the last thing we need
is silence.
when it feels like all my limbs have low level
electricity running through them
which threatens to light the whole night with
sharp, neon dreams
Silence is welcomed when we have
both lost our breath and forget
why we were mad or
wonder how we let it get
this far
Silence is welcomed under
bath water when a long
day seems it won't end
and my mind needs to be
slowed by underwater undulations
But, now
and here,
While we breathlessly
watch bombing set off
a thousand screams
cruel fire crackers
ignite the hot earth
smoke, black, mess
of anger burning its
message into the limbs
of women
and children
the last thing we need
is silence.
On Fire
Derek Walcott once said,
"a culture based on joy is bound to be shallow"
And how can I convince you that all my uncomfortable emotions
Fight for depth, most of all.
Sobbing into a red pillow,
Joining you in the blue bathroom,
Arguing on a dark hostel cot
I want to feel my person,
Not like a shadow in the snow
Cut by razor wire and gray bureaucracy,
But like a pulsing open wound
Red, red, red
And anxious orange
And obsessive yellow
On fire, on fire.
"a culture based on joy is bound to be shallow"
And how can I convince you that all my uncomfortable emotions
Fight for depth, most of all.
Sobbing into a red pillow,
Joining you in the blue bathroom,
Arguing on a dark hostel cot
I want to feel my person,
Not like a shadow in the snow
Cut by razor wire and gray bureaucracy,
But like a pulsing open wound
Red, red, red
And anxious orange
And obsessive yellow
On fire, on fire.
Possession
The halls of imperialist history are lined
With its prized possessions;
A naked display of Saartjie Baartman,
A halo of Kurtz's shrunken heads,
The chains and platforms of the slave market
Alongside a line of gravestones.
(What power was gained from these violent articulations of greed?)
Now, there are only ashes and stone to hold onto.
Hollow, chalk outlines
And those of us left alive, with hints of humanity
Lay beside our lost brothers and sisters
Crying tears that mock the absurdity of possession.
With its prized possessions;
A naked display of Saartjie Baartman,
A halo of Kurtz's shrunken heads,
The chains and platforms of the slave market
Alongside a line of gravestones.
(What power was gained from these violent articulations of greed?)
Now, there are only ashes and stone to hold onto.
Hollow, chalk outlines
And those of us left alive, with hints of humanity
Lay beside our lost brothers and sisters
Crying tears that mock the absurdity of possession.
Pin Up
Picturing her up on the wall as a pin up
With red lipstick and begging eyes
A million complications hiding behind charcoal eyeshadow
And remembering the time when I heard her muffled voice
over the receiver telling me
I'm in a hospital
I'm staying here for a week
I see a hundred ghosts a day and I can't sleep
Back then I pictured our bodies
Holding each other
And our eyes overflowing
Like a million sighs of relief
So entangled that I would feel her inhale and exhale
With her oxygen tickling my lungs
But now I know better
After she reminded me over and over
That she was alone in that hospital
And I remember
that I was alone in the hospital.
With red lipstick and begging eyes
A million complications hiding behind charcoal eyeshadow
And remembering the time when I heard her muffled voice
over the receiver telling me
I'm in a hospital
I'm staying here for a week
I see a hundred ghosts a day and I can't sleep
Back then I pictured our bodies
Holding each other
And our eyes overflowing
Like a million sighs of relief
So entangled that I would feel her inhale and exhale
With her oxygen tickling my lungs
But now I know better
After she reminded me over and over
That she was alone in that hospital
And I remember
that I was alone in the hospital.
Territory
There was a silence sliced by a swift punch
that sent his blood everywhere
and my sister said she couldn't help
but get caught up in this red tornado
sending me a flurry of messages
it seemed like she was in a forest
darting around frantically
and I couldn't see if she was ok
or if she was
mortally wounded.
And I remembered a few years ago
another punch that sliced the silence
of a bar on Valentine's Day
when the bartender
had cracked a joke saying
"isn't she a little too young to be in a bar?"
His joke only landed inside the
hot coals of my step-father's anger
so they could simmer and smolder
and eventually explode-
heavy breathing,
a loud crack,
raw pain bursting out like a blue and green fire cracker-
hit the pavement running.
Keep running and running
and I'm back in the wedding
slowly walking up the aisle
to witness my mother
in a peach dress and
a black and blue eye
the vivid colors staining
hidden parts of my memory
so I can't forget them
instead they spill out
just as violently as they
were forced in.
And in the shadows of my mind
I can feel a beast stirring-
him, a father, a boyfriend, a stranger
(this isn't about love, it's about territory)
crouched and waiting
like a wild animal
for a chance to
take it all back.
that sent his blood everywhere
and my sister said she couldn't help
but get caught up in this red tornado
sending me a flurry of messages
it seemed like she was in a forest
darting around frantically
and I couldn't see if she was ok
or if she was
mortally wounded.
And I remembered a few years ago
another punch that sliced the silence
of a bar on Valentine's Day
when the bartender
had cracked a joke saying
"isn't she a little too young to be in a bar?"
His joke only landed inside the
hot coals of my step-father's anger
so they could simmer and smolder
and eventually explode-
heavy breathing,
a loud crack,
raw pain bursting out like a blue and green fire cracker-
hit the pavement running.
Keep running and running
and I'm back in the wedding
slowly walking up the aisle
to witness my mother
in a peach dress and
a black and blue eye
the vivid colors staining
hidden parts of my memory
so I can't forget them
instead they spill out
just as violently as they
were forced in.
And in the shadows of my mind
I can feel a beast stirring-
him, a father, a boyfriend, a stranger
(this isn't about love, it's about territory)
crouched and waiting
like a wild animal
for a chance to
take it all back.
Welcome Home
In the morning there is silence and haste
the harsh scream of my alarm forcing me to
'get up, damn it, get up'
All my reservations and misgivings
get washed off in the shower
Until I am polished to
work and keep working
with the quiet hands of guilt
nudging me along
But there must be,
in the midst of such
unconscious abuse,
something else
Maybe in the dust balls under my bed
there is a tiny world,
a microcosm,
that has carved out a place for me
and fashioned red dance shoes
so I can join their mini carnival
and travel to every corner
of my unkempt bedroom
Or maybe, just maybe
there is a world
that has already arrived
and is waiting patiently
at the airport
for someone to say
'welcome home.'
the harsh scream of my alarm forcing me to
'get up, damn it, get up'
All my reservations and misgivings
get washed off in the shower
Until I am polished to
work and keep working
with the quiet hands of guilt
nudging me along
But there must be,
in the midst of such
unconscious abuse,
something else
Maybe in the dust balls under my bed
there is a tiny world,
a microcosm,
that has carved out a place for me
and fashioned red dance shoes
so I can join their mini carnival
and travel to every corner
of my unkempt bedroom
Or maybe, just maybe
there is a world
that has already arrived
and is waiting patiently
at the airport
for someone to say
'welcome home.'
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A Breakup in Five Acts
Act I: Denial
You didn't even flinch when I was leaving
almost relieved to let love go
spinning like a top
And why would you think I would stay
when you can barely put up a fight
like nothing in the world matters enough
to unsettle the cocoon you've built around yourself
And why does your reaction seem to
send me spinning and spinning
into a bar and a strange town and a bathtub
while you remain perfectly still
In all of this it seems I've lost myself
or realized I've overlooked so much
for years.
Act II: The Impulse
This is the time when that clock kicks in
and says it's time to leave,
time to go
When the bell first rang it meant
open doors
a cool breeze
young and beautiful
I felt freedom unfold behind me like a carnival
Convincing passerbys to get caught up in the excitement
pleasantly surprised when I awoke
in a stranger's bed,
in another town,
under colorful sheets,
under a tree...
I could wear freedom's impulses on me
like a multicolored dress
displaying all the things I took with me,
all the things I left behind
But now,
It seems that nothing will stick
and I feel more and more
like a vagabond
carting a wagon
of items
symbolizing loss and distance
My collection is more
a display of shortcomings
than a beautiful
coming of age.
Act III: Replaced
She doesn't know that when you're nervous you smoke
and when you're scared you talk fast
and she don't know,
don't know
Act IV: Alone
Darkness like a welcomed lover
silence and an empty apartment
I want to sit in stillness until
the world stops spinning,
spinning out of control
And maybe I have to face the fact that it's me,
it's me.
Act V: On the verge
I'll close my eyes on this sleepy city
when dusk has pulled its cloudy comforter over the horizon
singing a sad lullaby
(we hope you stay, they say)
But there is no resting when the
winds of change are blowing, blowing
and I hope I can find myself in this
beautiful tornado
I'll pluck pieces from the storm
to see if they fit
Jewels glisten in the night sky
winking at me,
like this all makes sense
and even if it doesn't,
it will still mean something
to someone
someday
even if it's only me.
You didn't even flinch when I was leaving
almost relieved to let love go
spinning like a top
And why would you think I would stay
when you can barely put up a fight
like nothing in the world matters enough
to unsettle the cocoon you've built around yourself
And why does your reaction seem to
send me spinning and spinning
into a bar and a strange town and a bathtub
while you remain perfectly still
In all of this it seems I've lost myself
or realized I've overlooked so much
for years.
Act II: The Impulse
This is the time when that clock kicks in
and says it's time to leave,
time to go
When the bell first rang it meant
open doors
a cool breeze
young and beautiful
I felt freedom unfold behind me like a carnival
Convincing passerbys to get caught up in the excitement
pleasantly surprised when I awoke
in a stranger's bed,
in another town,
under colorful sheets,
under a tree...
I could wear freedom's impulses on me
like a multicolored dress
displaying all the things I took with me,
all the things I left behind
But now,
It seems that nothing will stick
and I feel more and more
like a vagabond
carting a wagon
of items
symbolizing loss and distance
My collection is more
a display of shortcomings
than a beautiful
coming of age.
Act III: Replaced
She doesn't know that when you're nervous you smoke
and when you're scared you talk fast
and she don't know,
don't know
Act IV: Alone
Darkness like a welcomed lover
silence and an empty apartment
I want to sit in stillness until
the world stops spinning,
spinning out of control
And maybe I have to face the fact that it's me,
it's me.
Act V: On the verge
I'll close my eyes on this sleepy city
when dusk has pulled its cloudy comforter over the horizon
singing a sad lullaby
(we hope you stay, they say)
But there is no resting when the
winds of change are blowing, blowing
and I hope I can find myself in this
beautiful tornado
I'll pluck pieces from the storm
to see if they fit
Jewels glisten in the night sky
winking at me,
like this all makes sense
and even if it doesn't,
it will still mean something
to someone
someday
even if it's only me.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Alexis
Part I: The Crows Carry in a Dream
Alexis is standing in a field and she seems almost as transparent as the weeds. Crows fly over her and their shadows crawl across her body outlining dark, violent oceans of space. I want to fall into my dreams, I want to never wake up because she is there... I think it is her and I think she is waiting (for me I hope).
Part II: Form and Chaos
She had a way of breathing that made air seem almost tangible and I've tried to put it into words a thousand, a thousand times and I can't. I miss her and everyday the memories of her seem fainter. They seem to melt like water colors into a noisy and chaotic world. Sounds and lights and smells all working to dissolve the tiny fragments of herself she left behind. I think I'm the only one who is fighting to protect them from fading into something else. I miss her.
Part III: Tiny Transformations
I retrace her steps up and down the stairs and through the hall. I try to remember what she looked like touching the olive paint in the bathroom after we finished painting. She was proud and amused threatening to stay in that room all night just to enjoy the color and the smell. Then we brushed our teeth together making faces in the mirror the whole time forgetting that we looked messy and foolish. Excited for bed we sank into darkness together, ignoring any signs of distance.
Part IV: Entanglement
When you spend a lot of time with someone, you forget that space is different when they're gone. Every object in our apartment had a different meaning with her there. Every object is anchored somewhere between she and I and I don't think I have the energy to untangle them. Our blankets smelled like her for almost six months. In September, I realized her smell had faded, I tried to find it other places- her shirts, her socks, her shampoo, but they smelled different.
Alexis is standing in a field and she seems almost as transparent as the weeds. Crows fly over her and their shadows crawl across her body outlining dark, violent oceans of space. I want to fall into my dreams, I want to never wake up because she is there... I think it is her and I think she is waiting (for me I hope).
Part II: Form and Chaos
She had a way of breathing that made air seem almost tangible and I've tried to put it into words a thousand, a thousand times and I can't. I miss her and everyday the memories of her seem fainter. They seem to melt like water colors into a noisy and chaotic world. Sounds and lights and smells all working to dissolve the tiny fragments of herself she left behind. I think I'm the only one who is fighting to protect them from fading into something else. I miss her.
Part III: Tiny Transformations
I retrace her steps up and down the stairs and through the hall. I try to remember what she looked like touching the olive paint in the bathroom after we finished painting. She was proud and amused threatening to stay in that room all night just to enjoy the color and the smell. Then we brushed our teeth together making faces in the mirror the whole time forgetting that we looked messy and foolish. Excited for bed we sank into darkness together, ignoring any signs of distance.
Part IV: Entanglement
When you spend a lot of time with someone, you forget that space is different when they're gone. Every object in our apartment had a different meaning with her there. Every object is anchored somewhere between she and I and I don't think I have the energy to untangle them. Our blankets smelled like her for almost six months. In September, I realized her smell had faded, I tried to find it other places- her shirts, her socks, her shampoo, but they smelled different.
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