in the light of pure adolescence;
and in the air of willful disobedience;
our actions fuel off of the energy
of the violent sunsets.
and we find our individual tranquility
in the nights in which we wander.
not only do we wander, but we wonder.
the playful range of shades the sky possesses makes us wonder and wander.
looking past on the identities
we were told to portray, we create our own full of vibrancy and reason.
this identity gives us a powerful passion
a powerful passion that thrives off of
the rays of the sun.
a passion that gives us the motivation to continue on this messy road of colors.
to continue on our ephemeral yet indelible adventures throughout the course of life.
(modeled after Daphne Gittolieb's "Why Things Burn")
The sun’s reign came to an end
when its arms no longer know
when to rise and when
Somewhere in the heavens,
87 constellations threw an uprising.
I was there. When I walked beneath
your canopy of blue, your pistols
cocked towards the light.
You knew I was singing
lovers song, fighters
song, muzzle against my temple.
There is no difference
between the sun’s blood
sunshine and starshine. I am a body
fevers and you are of dead
philosophers. If we sing proud,
it’s an anthem.
I am so leaden, people have carved
constellations on me: Corvus. Corona
Australis. They bleed
opium smoke. Lovers song,
You tell me to kneel
and vow: ‘telescope,’ ‘empty
night.’ As you pointed
your silver sword of Polaris
a manifesto, I plucked a pair of astronomers'
eyes. Inky. Certain. All seeing.
We were brighter in golden
aiguillettes and it rained mahogany tears
till the sun set. 87 constellations
threw an uprising
in the heavens.
I never heard the battle cries.
Till the sun set, I held my witness
unmoved, like promises
waiting to be broken.
I'm going to miss this place,
with it's countless amount of forgettable faces.
I'm going to miss this home,
although for three years, I felt alone.
I'm going to miss this shelter,
but sometimes it made me feel like a cave dweller.
The time went by so fast and yet so slow.
I've got a lot of people to thank or hate so,
thanks to every person that made me feel like I meant something.
And to every person who made me feel like I meant nothing,
I hate you.
I haven't grown up.
my hands are far too full
to touch the faces of boys
who have left me behind.
my hands were made for
holding the universe together,
for catching shooting stars
in the palm.
they are meant for
flying over piano keys,
for writing down all the words
i want to remember, for
making hot chocolate
on the latest of nights.
they are not there to
reach behind me
for someone who isn’t coming back.
it took twenty one years
but all at once, i feel like a person
who tucks her own damn self
into bed, who
stays up late drinking
wine with people she loves, who
wears a short skirt to the party.
all at once, i use lotion,
i eat vegetables, i only wear
i have picked myself up off the floor
enough times for my sadness
to stop being interesting.
my damsel-in-distress routine
had an expiration date, after all
and now, all my dreams are
everywhere all at once --
of getting married,
of having friends and keeping them,
of being the kind of person
i can be proud of being.
they are twisting through the soles of my feet
like vines, something strong,
with roots. i am sick of
fleeting promises and
i am only in the market for the
deep and long-lasting.
and without even knowing how,
here i am:
the strongest thing you’ve ever seen.
faster than a diving hawk
yet, with five cm. per second
have been falling for :
two hundred and sixteen months
or eighteen years
or so I reckon . . .
Not much is left
the board is cleared
all pieces played their chosen roles
and here I am
the latest pawn
I'm all that's left
I'm all that's left . . .
So I'll masquerade
this last parade
and when I wake up
I'll still be the same
the same old man
the same old child
still falling in the pit
of society's crimson essence.
“be who you want to be” my mom always swore
no restraints besides the ones given
by my peers
and untrained mind
some claim to be the seer
some don’t, and thank God
i claim to be none of the above
always wanting to know what it was like to succeed and be flawed
reared and dropped off
to be mended / made whole
“this is always a chore”
the king i dreamt of
lived in a place untouchable by flesh
but accepted my spirit
my untrained mind will never be fully trained
giving me limitations beyond my control
so i’ll just be who i want to be
and be yours all the same
Suburbia greeted me with pale hands in my late teens.
She was a wasteland in a mini skirt; in its’ own right it could be called a Cave with Plato egregiously driving his brand-new Prius 90 miles an hour saying “this is really living as long as you don’t look back” and all you can do is nod your head vigorously because the twisted weed that had settled surreptitiously in your baby lungs was giving you daylight hallucinations. My endeavors didn’t end there when they should have.
There was something uncanny about the way streetlights gave you the eternal glare. Of creating ordinary neighborhood streets appear like you’ve been there before in a dream, in another body. In a dazed stupor the sounds of a television and a light coming from a garage is forgiving in your misguided attempts to be comfortable in a foreign space. It could almost feel like home when your repressed trauma keeps resurfacing while you’re trying to introduce yourself. Almost.
In these polite badlands with everything uniformed the people I met were always trying to stand out from the serene landscapes. Sitting in plaid couches I was giddy playing the nihilist. Rerun episodes of Portlandia playing but all I remember from that smoky room were brown pants that looked extremely crisp to the touch and I wanted to reach out my hands and see if they would crunch under the paperweight of my heavy palms. I didn’t but I’m sure they would’ve emitted the sound of potato chips being eaten in a frenzy.
When I wasn’t walking through dark rooms feeling through what could have been hallways, a family’s living room or the cool gates of hell I was meandering my way through drowsy parties where boys with the names like Dusty and Slaughter were prevalent. Each with their own bizarre story about how they stole their parents’ money one night and took off spontaneously. Driving all the way to Nevada with nothing but half a tank of gas and one pack of cigarettes. You could almost pinpoint their personalities by the type of cigarettes they smoked. Most of them holding different colored American Spirits. Had I been smarter I would have asked for a light and a smoke. Never mind that I was always deadly afraid that I had some undiagnosed lung disease and that asphyxiation was my biggest fear or that I had a pack of Marlboro black menthols in my purse that were over a year old. I found my corner sitting in a worn outdoors chair. The ones where the armrest comes built in with a cupholder. My beer ice cold sitting awkwardly sideways while I tried to consider why the host of the party was wealthy yet so hostile. My favorite party game was the one where I took hit after hit of joints being passed around until I was crazy glued to my chair and my brain started to feel like a lagoon that continued to melt into a Campbell’s soup I once had as a child. Everyone completely unaware of the horror that the house had become to me. Somewhere in the distance I was acutely aware of who I would go home with, why my ventures into the suburbs had sparked my intrigue in the first place. The only reason why I had endured feeling like a spider watching a smut film and why I had lost my virginity just a day before. I was a displaced specimen thinking about her hymen in a room of 30 people or more.
There is a girl called Southern Ugly,
She often faces the mirror- Believing
that the reflection must be oneself.
But a woman’s essence
Lives in the light, not in our eyes.
Mother Mary, dressed in blue-
Your daughter sees her face, knowing
That she is not first to be saved for Heaven.
We come second to God
(Though Man did not refuse the apple).
Mother said, “You are a southern belle,
Just baptized in the bayou.
Virgin in the water,
The depths of the swamp do not foster
Power nor Fortune
But your birth, the prayer of the Moon.
And like a cypress knee
That has not yet broken the surface,
You’re hidden in wisdom unknown."