dafney-tales-lafortune - Hello Poetry

My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven. It is eight. Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold — a mash drowning raisins. I pretend like I don’t see it. But it calls my name as I start my day, even though it looks repulsive and I have avoided oatmeal since college. I toast some bread. She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention — a reflex from my childhood. Because as a child, my parents said I had selective attention. — sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t. When they got divorced, it got worse. I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me separately, What time I needed to leave? and If all my stuff was packed? But all I kept thinking was: Is that all there is? You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids. The thought of swallowing this is repulsive. like leftover oatmeal, it stares me in the face. I don't want it. Most girls I know are raisins — They already have their whole wedding planned on Pinterest, and their kids names picked out. Everytime, I see engagements on FB, I can't help but forsee divorce and I wonder why people run for a partner, kids, and a mortgage, when in college their ambitions were more. I wonder when their mid-life crisis will be, or when they'll wake up and want more than 9 to 5 to fulfill a lie patriarchy put forth. So I spread peanut butter on toast and murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.” My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee. I eat my peanut butter sandwich. I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question, as she begins sentences like "Once you get settled, you'll want to look for someone..." I tune out. I don't have selective attention, just the perception that everyone is ignoring this important question: Is that all there is?

0

dafney-tales-lafortune

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC

courtney-pruitt

Is this all there is?

My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven. It is eight. Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold — a mash drowning raisins. I pretend like I don’t see it. But it calls my name as I start my day, even though it looks repulsive and I have avoided oatmeal since college. I toast some bread. She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention — a reflex from my childhood. Because as a child, my parents said I had selective attention. — sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t. When they got divorced, it got worse. I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me separately, What time I needed to leave? and If all my stuff was packed? But all I kept thinking was: Is that all there is? You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids. The thought of swallowing this is repulsive. like leftover oatmeal, it stares me in the face. I don't want it. Most girls I know are raisins — They already have their whole wedding planned on Pinterest, and their kids names picked out. Everytime, I see engagements on FB, I can't help but forsee divorce and I wonder why people run for a partner, kids, and a mortgage, when in college their ambitions were more. I wonder when their mid-life crisis will be, or when they'll wake up and want more than 9 to 5 to fulfill a lie patriarchy put forth. So I spread peanut butter on toast and murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.” My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee. I eat my peanut butter sandwich. I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question, as she begins sentences like "Once you get settled, you'll want to look for someone..." I tune out. I don't have selective attention, just the perception that everyone is ignoring this important question: Is that all there is?

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for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment, lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix. Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse about discourse about discourse about discourse, who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut, who are lost in forests of brick walls, inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall, who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom, for truth, as they always have, mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe -a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./ -a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred. Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets. and the dog chases its tail, endlessly and the dog chases its tail, endlessly and the dog chases its tail, endlessly These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling, who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning has no meaning in itself. Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it. It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic. Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter, who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor. Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats. Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged. Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust- stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated, ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead, or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual. Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink. Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys, who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop, who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise. Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards. Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops. Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body, sleeping naked together to stay warm, sleeping naked together to stay sane, sleeping naked together to stay touched. Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly. Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence. Those who prance about in un-matching socks from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling, dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence. Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself. Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg, who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry, who live in poverty as if it were a novelty, capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable, who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage. Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small. Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits. Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem- something which is not-yet auto-tuned. Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ****** who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks. Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded. Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged, who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism, who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists. And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity. Listening to the pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w. who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting, who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth, who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone, exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone, and the dog chases its tail, endlessly. When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night, listening to the sound of owls that question: who? whoo? whooo?

0

dafney-tales-lafortune

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC

colt

Title This, Millennials.

for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment, lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix. Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse about discourse about discourse about discourse, who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut, who are lost in forests of brick walls, inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall, who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom, for truth, as they always have, mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe -a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./ -a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred. Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets. and the dog chases its tail, endlessly and the dog chases its tail, endlessly and the dog chases its tail, endlessly These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling, who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning has no meaning in itself. Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it. It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic. Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter, who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor. Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats. Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged. Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust- stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated, ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead, or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual. Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink. Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys, who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop, who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise. Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards. Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops. Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body, sleeping naked together to stay warm, sleeping naked together to stay sane, sleeping naked together to stay touched. Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly. Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence. Those who prance about in un-matching socks from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling, dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence. Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself. Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg, who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry, who live in poverty as if it were a novelty, capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable, who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage. Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small. Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits. Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem- something which is not-yet auto-tuned. Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ****** who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks. Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded. Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged, who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism, who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists. And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity. Listening to the pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w. who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting, who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth, who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone, exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone, and the dog chases its tail, endlessly. When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night, listening to the sound of owls that question: who? whoo? whooo?

81

I saw the best minds of my generation congested and polluted overdosing on irrelevance Abandoned abused replaced Fed to the thought police Corrected corrupted Declining the potential to be heard in exchange for the opportunity to be documented Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards You either make it or you don’t there’s no in between there’s no maybe there’s no equal Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others decisions being made moves being made eulogies being made nothings real nothing’s right nothing’s honest nothing thought up matters Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect are told to mask their emotions Identities saved for the weak Only to be showcased when conducive Who pump iron into their veins looking for an angry fix of acceptance Sweat streams surge down their backs Failure prominent in their thoughts Motivation blessing their features the Devil clever in disguise Who see little white fields of fairy dust a never ending landscape of courage giving them superpowers beyond belief Nothing beats the freedom of being told You can fly Who dream of equality behind closed eyes But render to imposed birth rights when open The upper hand implying more than height and executing more force than necessary to move them It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably the effect Who tuck monsters into their beds Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered in the throes of passion Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with condescending pawns disguised as adults All grown up with no where to go Replacing quality with quantity Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs leading to hearts long since lost Never to be recovered again Who follow sexuality by the book doing this to get that for this him them who what when where Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never Never into her eyes Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly Fingers itching to cop a feel Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul Who trade in their voice mind and individuality for half assed smiles and superficial men As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too night day night night hard to refuse Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past Twisted words convoluting their heads Forcing on masks of pure heroine at the sight of scars left on the soul Scratching at the need to feel wanted But cowering at the ability to truly be heard Who have perfected the art of parallel painting Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes they’re expected to clamber out of Smiling pretty smiling Being treated to complimentary meals Only to be served plates full of disappointment. Who crave companion’s flaws in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades aimed at ***** sleeves Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs Tearing at the seams holding their hearts together Who cower behind brick wall appearances fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come out to play in the face of acceptance Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see Streaks titillate their bright red scalps A reflection of their underlying journey Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to muzzle their Howls Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance! Long nights and roid rage men! Two faces fighting a losing battle! Girls playing mom! Boys playing war! Ill ridden parents still pledging to the United States of Controlling Media! Hestia! Hestia! Overall reign of Hestia! Hestia the beautiful! Incarcerated Hestia! Hestia the ****** Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring Hestia being told what to ******* think Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the darkest crevices of our minds Hestia when least expected coming out to say Hello Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and burrowed deep into the folds of Your Worst Nightmare Stuck in a constant battle between rejecting Hestia, and accepting her.

0

dafney-tales-lafortune

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC

i-g-c

Millennials

I saw the best minds of my generation congested and polluted overdosing on irrelevance Abandoned abused replaced Fed to the thought police Corrected corrupted Declining the potential to be heard in exchange for the opportunity to be documented Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards You either make it or you don’t there’s no in between there’s no maybe there’s no equal Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others decisions being made moves being made eulogies being made nothings real nothing’s right nothing’s honest nothing thought up matters Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect are told to mask their emotions Identities saved for the weak Only to be showcased when conducive Who pump iron into their veins looking for an angry fix of acceptance Sweat streams surge down their backs Failure prominent in their thoughts Motivation blessing their features the Devil clever in disguise Who see little white fields of fairy dust a never ending landscape of courage giving them superpowers beyond belief Nothing beats the freedom of being told You can fly Who dream of equality behind closed eyes But render to imposed birth rights when open The upper hand implying more than height and executing more force than necessary to move them It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably the effect Who tuck monsters into their beds Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered in the throes of passion Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with condescending pawns disguised as adults All grown up with no where to go Replacing quality with quantity Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs leading to hearts long since lost Never to be recovered again Who follow sexuality by the book doing this to get that for this him them who what when where Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never Never into her eyes Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly Fingers itching to cop a feel Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul Who trade in their voice mind and individuality for half assed smiles and superficial men As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too night day night night hard to refuse Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past Twisted words convoluting their heads Forcing on masks of pure heroine at the sight of scars left on the soul Scratching at the need to feel wanted But cowering at the ability to truly be heard Who have perfected the art of parallel painting Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes they’re expected to clamber out of Smiling pretty smiling Being treated to complimentary meals Only to be served plates full of disappointment. Who crave companion’s flaws in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades aimed at ***** sleeves Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs Tearing at the seams holding their hearts together Who cower behind brick wall appearances fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come out to play in the face of acceptance Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see Streaks titillate their bright red scalps A reflection of their underlying journey Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to muzzle their Howls Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance! Long nights and roid rage men! Two faces fighting a losing battle! Girls playing mom! Boys playing war! Ill ridden parents still pledging to the United States of Controlling Media! Hestia! Hestia! Overall reign of Hestia! Hestia the beautiful! Incarcerated Hestia! Hestia the ****** Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring Hestia being told what to ******* think Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the darkest crevices of our minds Hestia when least expected coming out to say Hello Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and burrowed deep into the folds of Your Worst Nightmare Stuck in a constant battle between rejecting Hestia, and accepting her.

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