Thursday, May 10, 2012

Write Something. (Another Performance Piece)

Write something exciting but about nothing, that doesn’t make sense but makes enough sense that the reader might understand part of you—or the narrator because one should never assume that the author and the narrator are one in the same.
.
But I think that’s an easy way out. So someone can stomach looking at the author after she recounts her bloody tale of attempted suicide and her abusive household even when her scarred wrists and bruised face tell you she’s anything but innocent when it comes to brushes with torture and self-pity. But you just sit there and snap your fingers because she’s nothing like you—though you want her to be. You picture her in a happy home with a good life because, obviously, she just imagines a world where someone suffers because life is too boring without pain and angst and crime and war.
.
Love isn’t spicy enough without a little torment and soiled sheets. No one but children read stories for their happy endings because love and sharing and friendship and sex aren’t anywhere close to human without a hint of despair. That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re only human. We are a violent species whom looks the other way when we commit a foul. And none of us can say we’re clean after the age of 13 because we’ve all had that moment when we’ve gotten so angry that we’ve ha to say, “What the FUCK, brain?” when we think of pushing someone into a wood chipper of suffocating them with a pillow. We resist the urge to kill not because it is immoral or wrong or even just messy only because we know if we actually committed the crime we’d get caught.
.
But continue writing your poem about nothing and everything and just try not to piss people off.

Words. (A Performance Piece)

Words. words words words words words words words.
Words across paper, across pavement, spilling through my mind like water gushing over rocks in steams, words that the moment I think of them they’re vanishing down a slippery slope of no return where nothing is eloquent and ignorance is bliss and
.
……Silence.
.
Silence radiating through my mind, this room, this planet. so deep is this silence that I still manage to find noise everywhere. Seeping into silent conversations that don’t make sense, seeping into my every thought and making me feel those words again. Fear, happiness, doubt, rage. Words that lose their meaning in that spiraling circle of silence and words and suddenly I find myself
.
……….Lost.
.
Lost, meaningless, I’ve thrown myself into that sneaky hate spiral of silence and words and I’ve got to remind myself to take my medicine but the pills have dried up in exchange for these words “Write poetry instead of pills, Amanda.” But these words are useless to find my way out if the words are silent and don’t make sense and just get me lost in the first place but it always comes back to
.
…………Words.

And that's all that matters...

Strike me down as flowery and
A romantic. Shove me aside as though
I'm the kind of person you'd hate to
Be with. You hate presents, flowers,
and candy goes straight to your ass.
But I love you.


And that's all that seems to matter.
Being with you is like drinking coca-cola and
Letting the acid eat a hole in my stomach
To the point where I cramp up and
Double over; clutching your head to
My chest, screaming, "LISTEN TO THE BEATING!"


The things you do drive me to the point
Of a dizzy high-dive. I'm just waiting to take
That last step, jumping, head first, into
This romantic highway into the depths
Of chaos and hell and
Who gives a fuck if we're sinners?


I'm corny and you like it.
And that's all that matters.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Serious Prediction. No Stares. Right There. (A Sestina)

Imagine this is something serious,
Within the realm of prediction,
And without needing to shout “no”
And thereby lead to interesting stares.
All can be avoided if you just write.
Just sign your name, there.
 
You think they’re
Nothing but serious
And don’t know wrong from right.
That they’ve forged a prediction
Making you climb endless stairs
While keeping you out of the Know.
 
But you think you know.
You think you see plots within plots, their
Continuous twists and turns creating stares
Bridging on serious.
You see that prediction
And think to yourself, “Right.”
 
So just sit yourself down and write.
Show me what you think you know
About this so called prediction
Give me your John Hancock, there
So I know you’re serious,
So you won’t have to climb anymore God damned stairs.
 
You actually want the stares
Though, am I right?
You want the attention and serious
Face-time, to be in the Know—
You want more of their
Precious prediction.
 
While they help you with your pre-diction
God knows
You can’t form a coherent sentence. There
Look at what you’ve gone to write.
You see nothing but stares
And you’re nothing but serious.
 
You think the prediction is right
You know, the stares know
They’re all serious.

Murderer's Sonnet

He draws his gun from leather strap, takes aim,
A pull of the trigger, a tongue licks lips,
Smoke trails from the muzzle—bullet in flames,
Blood splatters the pavement mocking the Styx.
How foolish she had been to wish him hell,
He thinks, while watching crimson hair dripping,
She should have known him to be this as well,
He’d drag her down with him, scream and kicking.
The police sirens wail; calling justice
He chuckles, his appearance disheveled
Somehow the sound of a gunshot just is
A way for the police to embezzle.
He sits in his prison and watches time,
Thinking, somehow, someway, she will be mine.

Non-Conformist (A Performance Piece)

I look out at their faces and think to myself,
Well, damn. There goes another shot at being
Something other than what I am. I can’t
Seem to find the right phrasing of words,
The right persona to impersonate,
Or the right brands to wear. And I really,
Really, want to be just like them.

I really want to parade around in
Cut-off jean shorts or worse…
Jeggings.
I really want to weigh less than
My seven year old niece and
Even enjoy the same music
(Justin Beiber, oh yeah).

Maybe, just maybe, one of
These days I’ll take a hammer
And I’ll try to nail Jell-O to a tree.
That’s about how difficult changing
Me into someone like you would be.
And doesn’t that just sound like fun?
I’m sure the tree would love the
Strawberry colored stain on its bark—
That same ridiculous shade that
You use to dot every i and cross every t.

See, I like being who I am.
I like being the person who wakes up at 3AM
Not to go jogging but to roll over and
GO BACK TO SLEEP!
I like my ice cream, ramen, and three
Different types of nerdism. No,
It’s not a word, but who gives a fuck?
Yes, I’ve got a “potty mouth” and no
I don’t live with my parents so why should I care?
They curse just as much as I do and twice as loud,
You should have heard the noise complaint—
Neighbors thought we were blaring some
Hardcore screaming death metal.

So yes, I’d love to join your little club.
I’d love to be in your clique and sit at
Your table at lunch. I’ll even let you sign
My yearbook. I’ll sign yours under my picture—
I’m the one flipping off the photographer.

I'm Sure You Can Fix It

Bright glimpses of color and sound stick millions to couches and still more stand cheering on the screen. Scraps of lyrics, screaming from jubilant passersby, over powers equally unsteady news casters. Hey, hey, hey, goodbye.

Hope. Change. Even other countries tune in to see someone off or, perhaps, to welcome someone home. As if to say, "Hello! Here's your housewarming present. Sorry the last guy made a mess of things!"

Dairy of an Internet Adict's Parent

Day 1: Started playing an online game and
Got my ass handed to me on
Level 2. What did I learn today?
Everyone has done my mother.

Day 2: I have discovered a
Strange new website they call
Facebook. Apparently, it promotes
Stalking and teen pregnancy.

Day 3: Looked at my kid’s
History to find cool websites.
Found 4chan and urban dictionary.
**RAGE QUIT**

This Would Be a Perfect Song for a Funeral


We are young with ninety
-Nine problems on a get low circus
Ride to fame. So just close
Your eyes and turn the page.
Don’t speak. Her last kiss was
A car crash and now she’s
Just somebody
That you used to know.

December 25th


The sweeping, the clicking, the noise, noise, noise
Even Dr. Seuss knew the psychological implications
Of holiday-motivated materialism
—And the virtues of sarcasm.
Don’t ask me to tell you again and again
The reason I’m seething and biting
The end of my pencil, my lip, and my tongue
The scathing remarks would hurt you, I’m sure.
See, like this
—you village bicycle,
I can’t make this any clearer
I’d rather spend my holiday cheer
On something involving less Aspirin
—especially in this weather.

November


A single thread stares back at me,
a line of crimson practically glaring,
against the brilliant white of the wall behind.
A single drip of blood alone on a sheet of ice.

For all I see that it is alone—
I know there are more in the dark abyss.
That dark hole where forgotten dreams go,
Washed away in the warm morning current.

I don't know how long that piece of red,
has graced its presence among these walls,
Or when, for that matter,
It left me.

I reach forward,
My fingers pick it up in that difficult way,
that one plucks a hair from moisture soaked walls,
And frown as it somehow twirls itself around four fingers,
instead of just the two I used to pick at it.

I narrow my eyes as it twists and weaves,
a piece of yarn in a weaver's loom,
dancing in and out of sight,
among the other flesh colored players.
It isn't alone,
I can tell by the way the water rises—
higher and higher though the drain isn't closed.
Most would worry that they're going bald.
Though I couldn’t care less either way.

Because if I find one more fucking hair,
I'm cutting it all off.

September


He gets pulled into the darkness,
Head first, his pupils dilated to let in
This point of no return,
This first peel of a rotten banana, where
The blackened skin opens to even
Darker innards. A husk
Of a man hidden by thick slivers of
Blue cigarette smoke, choking on his
Brave choices. Regret,
A word that he doesn’t know anymore
—So gone is he that by now
Regret sounds distant. Something surrounded
In the pale gray of the middle
Ground. If he were to squint hard enough,
Took a step forward into the burning
Brightness of even that dull
Slate gray, then he would know what it feels
Like to be purified. But he,
He likes the unclean self that he has become.
He likes the impurity and the
Shadows, the grit under his nails,
The way the darkness has warped itself
Around him, and turned him into some
Sort of monster that scares children away.
Because now he sees what he
Could not see before.

Summer (A Prose Poem)


We sat alone, staring out at my family, basking in our own personal ignorance. Aunts threw glances. Grandma wrinkled her nose and turned away. Our pleasant smell must have set off her tender stomach, we told ourselves. We smiled in their general direction. A simple wave and quirk of the lips from my wife and I. We loved my family. Like Mark— my uncle with the IQ of Albert Einstein who used it to rob an auto parts store—he died of gangrene after two years in jail, or Aunt Sarah—the woman who spent the last few years of her mother’s life abusing her and embezzling the elderly woman’s life savings—bitch deserved what came to her, or my own grandfather—he knows which kid pulled the trigger during that school shooting back in ’98 but he won’t tell—kid owes him money. We stare down at the image before us: a crinkled paper stained with age. We imagine the flames licking the forms of my family in their wretched afterlives—the smoke thick with the scent of campfires and month old cigarettes.

August


Those words I never got to say
The ones that make me just that—
Me.

That thing I       never told you
Before the world swept you up
And away.

Then your heart gave out
And I asked any god who might hear
Was I the one to blame?

Was it my hand     which took
The air from your lungs and thought
From your brain?

Was it my choice in love?
Was it how I spent my time?
Was it the reason…

That I didn’t get to say goodbye?

Would you have hated me for it?
The way your husband does now?
Would you have turned your back?

Or would you    have held me
With open arms and open mind
When your heart skipped
A beat?

I won’t apologize for who I am.
And I know you wouldn’t mind.

July 17th


When emerald meets hazel, and
Two rose petals part to allow
A puff of heated air in attempt
To regain the fluttering
Humming. That bird, its cage of ribs
Halting any chance of escape, instead
It must calm. Though it keeps moving as
Time stands still.

One wreathed in fire, the other
Haloed in gold as white brushes
Over tender greens and a melody of
Campanulas* gives us canon
In D major.

Silk on skin as fingers
Brush and a blush
Heats the collar of a nervous bird
As he struggles with his sky colored tie.

He flutters his wings to air out
on the breeze, the same that ruffles
the petals of his flower as she tries
to smooth the tangle of spun gold, dressed up.

The bird and his flower, they face
he pecks a kiss on trembling petal lips
though he wants to fly her away,
she's rooted.

He'll stay for her, hunker down,
enjoy his first winter in snow.
Though warmer weather might feel better,
He'd rather—
much rather—stay home.