In sixth grade, I wrote a letter to David Bowie addressed to his New York home never knowing a girl named Kamryn exists, but I thought I was special enough for a world-renowned rock star to reply or care enough about some pre-teen angst
I shared with him how my grandma Pam chose drugs over (I know now an addiction has many more complex layers) getting to know her grandchildren or to love her son, but then I remembered- this is David ******* Bowie, he's lived life with ******* in his bloodstream for thirty years prior
Maybe, I mentioned it all because I wanted to feel special, like the way, I think dying young will create that for me. It's stupid how I painfully so-identified as "the girl with the mousy hair" and the piano aiding an eloquent discussion about the world's disarray in which I selfishly identified as my own "Life on Mars" always felt like a personal performance just for me, but at twenty-one, it isn't just a song and I still lay awake wondering if Mars and I share a similarity, we want life to ebb so distinctly within us both.
There is a girl inside my head Running round and round In a pretty black dress If I write about her, maybe she could rest Here goes nothing, let’s put it to the test —————————————————- Her name is Beth, she’s a fragile mess But she’s beautiful in every sense She plays guitar and sings with her heart Dedicates her entire life to art She’s one of a kind, the prettiest star The serious moonlight in the dark ————————————————— If this poem is ****** than excuse me I never really wanted you stop running really
There is two good David Bowie references in this cheesy poem
Two and a half weeks into this quarantine Rainy days and no poems No words forthcoming All quiet I decide that perhaps if I just put one Word In front of another And keep on for a time Words upon words something will come?
At 8:30 every morning A man passes walking a Pomeranian mix A joyful little dog (I’d steal him in a heartbeat) They walk He twirling the leash round and round The dog leaping higher and higher still. They dance together eyes meeting and smile as I know a dog can and I remember how I would dance with my last greyhound. We would tango and box-step. I always led.
These days the little Pomeranian can’t get his attention anymore The leash doesn’t twirl above its head He’s pulled along impatiently There are no more smiles Their eyes won’t meet He’s slow to realize that he’s become a drudgery I want to yell out the window I see you EVERY MORNING AROUND 8:30! Where’s your joy gone buddy? Don’t you know that’s all you’ve got? You’re bumming me out for real and your dog loves you! Wake up! You fool wake up!
I think that now I’ll walk to Ralph’s I have various thoughts while doing so Children race their bikes passed me as if they’re in an entirely other reality altogether and maybe they are. The wind blows through their hair effortlessly As if it couldn’t mine.
Front lawns offer up fields of dandelions as if their orbs the most prized bounty Freshly mown grass smells new and clean instead of putrid, rotting in the sunshine The fulsome wafts of springtime’s jasmine and osmanthus heaving with citrus and pepper evade me as I pass their blossoms Yet on the rare occasion a fragrant rose pierces through the weft and hits a nostril but I can’t tell which bloom.
The smooth talking homeless girl has finally covered up that diabetic open sore on her left ankle the size of a flattened crimson football which is something, although I can see that she’s being told to move along as she just can’t sit anywhere she pleases.
I’m counting every time I see the word “dead” along my way.
In the store the ladies that buy their bottles of white wine in the afternoon are starting earlier now with supplies and deliveries unsure It’s one thirty and I see Two bottles of Clos du Bois And four Domaine St. Michelles in the cart to my right and nothing else as they do. I’m not going to ask her about her dinner party.
While I stare at packages of coffee A man pulls off his mask to sneeze into the air before him And I say to the older man approaching I don’t think that you’ll be going any farther in that direction. It was under my breath. He didn’t hear me. I have a mask on. He turned his cart around and walked back the way he came.
I have this urge to talk to everyone. I have this relentless desire for ice cream. I miss everything. Nothing here will satisfy anything to do with me. Can one survive a global catastrophe with candy and magical thinking?
Older people And by that I mean really old people Eye me suspiciously Almost fearful As if I myself alone embody the menacing contagion and I guess I could. Perhaps I do. It’s hard to read emotions with these masks But their eyes seem terribly unkind and brows, furrowed One stares at me hard with beady anger and a ready insult another will jump me in the checkout line and with great solicitude unwrap her money from the white notebook paper pulled from the manila envelope Now re-folded with rubber bands and string And placed back into her chest She is so sweet to the cashier with her black acrylic wig askew that he seems quite shocked to hear she cut in front of fifteen people without so much as a word. Who cares really?
My first mask made me sneeze for four hours straight and made my nose burn like a hit of **** *******. I’ve been handed a free mask by a representative from my local assemblyman made of a softer material I find that it won’t stay up and fogs the base of my glasses. I don’t think it’s working. It reads We’re All In This Together.
I still can’t breathe.
The doomed asthmatic selling his single ciggies on the sidewalk dies on Staten Island from a policeman’s chokehold. Eric Garner In those desperate last moments of his 2014 despite his pleas and confusion surely there before him appeared although not quite the end that he’d envisioned or feared what with steroid inhalers from the pharmacy a crystalline moment when he knew without a doubt that he’d never take another gasp of air like a bloated goldfish on its side expressionless and saucer eyed outside its bowl What happened to his mind then? What will happen to mine?
It has been said that certain tribal kings have brought before them after battle their most worthy enemy in the process of imminent death while they sit in numinous splendor and wait for that perfect moment to lean in close to the mouth and inspire greedily the purest most sublime expiration of their life force, now a pristine delicacy of the infinite, for themselves alone.
A reflection is shadow made of light. I look at myself. “Who you trying to fight?“
You know he’s crooked cause his head is cocked. It’s rebellion. His past is in flames, he’s a hellion. That’s why he don’t hear what they be tellin him. He hears his own music. He let’s it in, he grooves it. It flows through his body when he moves it. You can always be happy if you choose it. Listen to the dope beats and keep a couple close to your throne seat. It’s emotion in wave form. There is no rawer art or rarer reward. For if you truly listen changes will start in the you-est you.
I was shocked too but I swear, it’s true. All sorts of things will change you, if you let them.
I am like those SETI-scientists, clinging on radiowaves; noise-melodies from outer space, questing after truth with huge telescopes and scanning the visible light with satellites, seeking desperately the limits of worlds apart, searching for signs of intelligent life in the desired-to-know universe. Just to communicate with the extra-terrestrial; to achieve certainty: there is someone out there, someone, who is different, yet alike, who is able to speak my thoughts without knowing my language, who still can easily translate my feelings into the secret programcode of the universe. An astral-traveler, who can tame the waves of gravity, someone, who is faster than the speed of light and could eat the distance between us. To be my interstellar compass; my one and true guidance, to help me explore this unfathomed life. Someone, as David Bowie sang at once, who is able to believe the strangest things, who is able to love the alien.
Week after week, life drops the weak, All of this strife makes us reek- of depression, The Great Depression? More of a depression of the Greats... It started with Bowie, all these phonies, mourn for something- someone they weren't around, to witness or experience...
Never knew all of these people talk about, I don't think they did either... Wrote this about a year ago.