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michal-shilorPoems
I stroke a brand new page and wonder if rage or plight or a flight out of this age will overtake these white spaces between blue lines, wonder if I’ve anything meaningful to tell, like what I think about politics or **** hips or chapped lips in this winter’s wrath. I’m on this path, you see, to try and gain a different perspective, to learn a different language, to try and send a message instead of doing the usual clichés about love and death and cleaning up an alcoholic mess and everyone we know has aids but we like *** and we hate each other’s different colors and pretend to be emotional, you’ve heard this line before: cry or bleed tears or blood through words or ink onto pages or.. what.ever. I’m guilty, too, of course, it’s true: the one who points it out is guilty most, but now I’m tired of being boring, tired of not telling a story, let’s… try… this: my name is: michal. I am: white twenty one female bisexual jewish a traveller open parentheses : a stranger (close parentheses) I am: Sitting in a room full of black Africans in Africa a stranger, young and white and interested, and suddenly, it strikes me: c o m f o r t a b l e . sitting in a room full of bl- no. we are human beings being taught to see in colors and in genders being taught to judge a person by the accent by the nation by the actions of the past five minutes by the plan for the next three by the chemicals or plants he puts into his body but what about personality? I am: sitting in a room full of: POETS. or people who want to hear poetry, and though on the outside I’m so… white – no, different, on the inside I’m so… warm, feels right, so not distant. for instance: you get what it is to let words string themselves on your necklace and choke you till you’re breathless and make you beg for more, you’re masochistic like me, like that, you get what it is to close your eyes and let each others’ words overtake you like going under a wave in the Indian Ocean like being swept into the eye of a tornado like hiding under three blankets in the dead of winter like turning the engine off but keeping the battery on and parking with dad in the front to let Pink Floyd finish playing Wish You Were Here before we move to open the car door, you get what it’s like to open a blank page and let the pen use your fingers in ways you never knew lingered through the smoke of the incense in your brain, the drops of the tap of the thoughts your mind thought it turned off, those last few breaths you never knew existed, exist in your head, exhausted, I am: walking out of this segregated room and into the next part of this interesting test where I find brainwashed white folks brainwashing my mind and instantly I’m watching every black guy that walks by ‘cause this is the most dangerous city in the world and those coloreds and those blacks commit all the crimes so lock the door and close the windows and watch your back and clutch your bag tight even in the daytime and do a double take a triple take and never talk to strangers you never know who’s a neighbour or who’s checkin’ out his next victim ‘cause he’s been evicted out of society’s boundaries, out of the space God made for good people, fair people, people like us who know how to watch out. Wait! something smells funny, not really funny: sad. we must be mad to buy into this it’s making us crazy and angry and when was the last time you smiled? I am: smiling, thinking about that last time, I was in a room full of poets and there was magic happening and we were black and we were white and we were re(a)d all over, we were blue with ink stains on our fingers, we were pink with our vision of life, we were yellow ‘cause the sun was paintin’ us bright, permanently green from the grass on our denim, brown from the earth that rooted our spirits back to our cores, orange from the flames of our words, purple like the royalty that shined from our souls, we were: rainbows, black and white are just multitudes of rainbows, after all, simply shades like the ones we use to cover our windows out of fear of the next break-in, just shades, just shadows, remnants of painful pasts that we must avoid in our bright & colourful futures – if we let them be so. let me catch my breath, I haven’t been so out of it since that lunar eclipse that lit up the galaxies, let me catch my breath, my death, my breath, my goodness catch me now before I trip on your hiccups before I slip on your scattered makeup before I slip on your shallow skirts and dresses, catch me before I choke on your grey flavourless cooking before i regress to the levels of stress that lead to all our health deterioration our self-poisoning medication catch me so I die with a pen in my hand, righteous and trying to deliver an emotional message of love, of coexistence, I forgot to mention I am: Israeli, plagued by hatred in another story, by violence unnecessary like painting over to hide the rotten parts, like pain in modern art, let’s just lie here together add a little cliché, underneath the stars, close your eyes, feel the dark, hear our breaths move the air and start a steady chain reaction, a journey towards a butterfly effect (how powerful the breath is!) let’s call this art.
0
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
coloring books
I stroke a brand new page and wonder if rage or plight or a flight out of this age will overtake these white spaces between blue lines, wonder if I’ve anything meaningful to tell, like what I think about politics or **** hips or chapped lips in this winter’s wrath. I’m on this path, you see, to try and gain a different perspective, to learn a different language, to try and send a message instead of doing the usual clichés about love and death and cleaning up an alcoholic mess and everyone we know has aids but we like *** and we hate each other’s different colors and pretend to be emotional, you’ve heard this line before: cry or bleed tears or blood through words or ink onto pages or.. what.ever. I’m guilty, too, of course, it’s true: the one who points it out is guilty most, but now I’m tired of being boring, tired of not telling a story, let’s… try… this: my name is: michal. I am: white twenty one female bisexual jewish a traveller open parentheses : a stranger (close parentheses) I am: Sitting in a room full of black Africans in Africa a stranger, young and white and interested, and suddenly, it strikes me: c o m f o r t a b l e . sitting in a room full of bl- no. we are human beings being taught to see in colors and in genders being taught to judge a person by the accent by the nation by the actions of the past five minutes by the plan for the next three by the chemicals or plants he puts into his body but what about personality? I am: sitting in a room full of: POETS. or people who want to hear poetry, and though on the outside I’m so… white – no, different, on the inside I’m so… warm, feels right, so not distant. for instance: you get what it is to let words string themselves on your necklace and choke you till you’re breathless and make you beg for more, you’re masochistic like me, like that, you get what it is to close your eyes and let each others’ words overtake you like going under a wave in the Indian Ocean like being swept into the eye of a tornado like hiding under three blankets in the dead of winter like turning the engine off but keeping the battery on and parking with dad in the front to let Pink Floyd finish playing Wish You Were Here before we move to open the car door, you get what it’s like to open a blank page and let the pen use your fingers in ways you never knew lingered through the smoke of the incense in your brain, the drops of the tap of the thoughts your mind thought it turned off, those last few breaths you never knew existed, exist in your head, exhausted, I am: walking out of this segregated room and into the next part of this interesting test where I find brainwashed white folks brainwashing my mind and instantly I’m watching every black guy that walks by ‘cause this is the most dangerous city in the world and those coloreds and those blacks commit all the crimes so lock the door and close the windows and watch your back and clutch your bag tight even in the daytime and do a double take a triple take and never talk to strangers you never know who’s a neighbour or who’s checkin’ out his next victim ‘cause he’s been evicted out of society’s boundaries, out of the space God made for good people, fair people, people like us who know how to watch out. Wait! something smells funny, not really funny: sad. we must be mad to buy into this it’s making us crazy and angry and when was the last time you smiled? I am: smiling, thinking about that last time, I was in a room full of poets and there was magic happening and we were black and we were white and we were re(a)d all over, we were blue with ink stains on our fingers, we were pink with our vision of life, we were yellow ‘cause the sun was paintin’ us bright, permanently green from the grass on our denim, brown from the earth that rooted our spirits back to our cores, orange from the flames of our words, purple like the royalty that shined from our souls, we were: rainbows, black and white are just multitudes of rainbows, after all, simply shades like the ones we use to cover our windows out of fear of the next break-in, just shades, just shadows, remnants of painful pasts that we must avoid in our bright & colourful futures – if we let them be so. let me catch my breath, I haven’t been so out of it since that lunar eclipse that lit up the galaxies, let me catch my breath, my death, my breath, my goodness catch me now before I trip on your hiccups before I slip on your scattered makeup before I slip on your shallow skirts and dresses, catch me before I choke on your grey flavourless cooking before i regress to the levels of stress that lead to all our health deterioration our self-poisoning medication catch me so I die with a pen in my hand, righteous and trying to deliver an emotional message of love, of coexistence, I forgot to mention I am: Israeli, plagued by hatred in another story, by violence unnecessary like painting over to hide the rotten parts, like pain in modern art, let’s just lie here together add a little cliché, underneath the stars, close your eyes, feel the dark, hear our breaths move the air and start a steady chain reaction, a journey towards a butterfly effect (how powerful the breath is!) let’s call this art.
michal-shilor
Written by
michal-shilor
Israeli
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
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