"participant" poems
I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
2 men,
that's it.
2 men
have known me,
inside, they fit.
Doped out
of my mind;
it's hard to recall.
Bits and pieces,
flashes of memory.
I was a living rag doll.
Barely breathing,
he takes me from behind.
Pulls my hair,
and says,
"I'm gonna make you mine!"
I think it happened
three times,
but who really knows?
When your brain's
as high as mine goes.
I can't call it ****
I was a willing participant.
Numb to the bones,
so with it I went.
When it all fell apart;
my secrets exposed,
he wrote me something
that was no longer prose.
His words were razor blades,
slicing the skin with ease.
I kept myself in my own prison;
over, my heart began to freeze.
"A willing **** victim",
is what he called me.
Sick to my stomach
for allowing him in,
I lay my head on the pillow
to cry for a 5 year old sin.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Found myself at a dental clinic...
He was the best there was.
Unorthodox and eccentric,
But to the specialised craft, he was boss.
Ran through the bits and bobs
Like any normally would.
The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays.
Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood.
Strange was what happened next...
Specialist and I then stood facing each other.
He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage.
Held them there over a few breaths before it was over.
Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man.
Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature.
Talks of politics and odd human behaviours...
What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter.
I then realised that along with his decorated credentials,
Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant.
Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide,
But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant.
Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness!
I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought.
I wanted him to just stop talking!
I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!"
He was stunned momentarily...
I suppose he hadn't seen that coming.
Then his features softened to a blank
I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring.
With an exasperated sigh of resignation,
He uttered his next words swollen with regret
"There's no need...for you only have four years left."
It dawned upon me that my timer has been set.
And then I woke up...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Aware the day was approaching, Little tugs reminding how Quickly time passes. And the knocks on the doors of his heart, opening ---One at a Time ! ! To reveal memories in Full Color of each eventful day, Clearly showing "ALL the Extra joys that encircled him, but never took the opportunity to be a Full Participant ! ! *ANNIVERSARY DAY *was presented , as if on a Silver Platter. Engraved with "All those things *Missed because of Prior committals . A stack of Priority signs, which offered choices and options, he " F A I L E D " to turn over and read the instructions. That, simply said "Choose carefully, because as time goes by,. You may overlook the options. AND, as more time goes by, Routines and Habits begin to replace the Presentations from the Silver Platter. MAN'S WEAKNESS, was the next sign offered up to him, NOT the weakness of knees, but thinking that empathy was understood, the reality was not the extending of empathy, but rather, to be a Part of that which is "GOING ON NOW" or that which was "GOING ON THEN ! ! ANNIVERSARY, carries with it the meaning of Commemoration. Which is a "CELEBRATION of our MEMORIES **. BUT, by leaving out a sharing of this event, it Dampens. This "Celebration" should be Shared , in a Loving, devoted, caring, joyful, HEARTS Goal as "ONE". On this Anniversary,,he Thanks GOD for lighting the pathways of understanding. This Anniversary he "Celebrates" with her with a humbled, clearer appreciation, and with a "REFRESHING LOVE". As he writes this on the Tablets of his heart, "SHE" is his " ANNIVERSARY " .
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Suicidal tendencies, alleged attempt in 2011
(National Scholar-Athlete)
Bipolar with psychotic features, meds necessary
(President of student government)
Anti-social features, deceptive, manipulative, lying.
(Captain of varsity athletics)
Qualifies as a pickup. Forfeits all rights. Police involvement if necessary.
(President of an all-star rugby club)
Extreme aggression. Any homicidal idealization should be taken seriously.
(Trustee Scholarship to a renown private college)
Narcotics abuse. Marijuana, LSD, Klonopin, ******* Alcohol, Painkillers
(3.7 GPA)
Masks and shields intentions. Deceptive with professionals.
(Active volunteer)
I advise that he be admitted to a hospital immediately
(Participant in community)
Drug abuse counseling, medication, extensive therapy necessary
(Leader of peers)
Diagnoses fly like a panhandlers love affairs
Your inexact science is a disgrace to what I've created
A philosophy based on your experience
Ignoring the dynamic of the human condition
****** for feeling to much
****** for not feeling enough
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
The glory of failure.
It’s just **** with sugar on
Jam and cream without the scone.
Because when I’m begging out in the street
And my eyes happen to meet those eyes that look down
To me on the ground, and you put a coin in my cup,
Just remember you’re looking down I’m the one looking up.
And for those who pass by while shedding a tear
Don’t worry yourself none I’ve made enough for my gear
And more than enough for a couple of beers.
I know what you’ll say
You’ll say, I waste life away
Like I’ve wasted this day.
But I’ll say, I made enough to pay for my addiction.
The seduction which leads me to say
That’s the glory of failure.
I saw an advert for a job and this job was paying quite a few bob.
But I wouldn’t have got it…no sugar just ****
So I didn’t bother trying
I went back to lying on my bed
I went back to getting out of my head.
When all’s done and said I’m just a no hoper
A drug fiendish doper.
That’s the glory of failure.
If I could have a chance, a second chance, a last chance
To get my brain round to thinking
To think I’ll stop drinking.
I could get off the gear, I could get off my rear.
I could send my C.V to employers
Those employers who are known as the unemployment destroyers.
I could have a meaning instead of this leaning I have,
Towards self destruction.
I could get a job on a site become involved in construction.
So many things on the doorstep right here
But really
I much rather prefer getting ****** on the gear.
Oh yes that’s the glory of failure.
I should get myself well move out from this hell
But what the doctors have said is, in six months I’ll be dead
So I’m going to make tracks.
No,not those made by the needle
I’m going to wheedle
My way into a hospice which could be quite nice.
I think that’s the glory of failure
But what the hey I’m a guardian reader
But unlike other guardian readers those centre right bleeders
I’m totally anarchist, often totally tanked up and ******
But in reading the guardian I just cannot lose
It makes such wonderful padding for the holes in the soles of my shoes.
And I’ve had plenty of dates with several girlfriends of mates
But when they’re looking down there and they see nothing stir.
That may be the glory of failure.
Perhaps when I’m old and I’m ready to die
I might cast my mind back and I might wonder why,
Every time I have failed the boat seems to have just sailed.
But I was never a sailor.
I was just a participant in
The Glory Of Failure.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
1
You will not find a more willing participant
To join you on this serendipitous adventure of luck.
We will merrily hijack the trippy ride of Helios
And daringly traverse the long way around the sun.
We will sleep together in the heart of the meadow
Where sun-dappled leaves and rabbits frolic in jolly romps.
We will swim in salmon-filled rivers and go upstream
Where many-coloured coins glint upon the surface.
We will not curb our enthusiasm to conceal the truth
Fixing Nyx, we share unbridled passion upon the moon.
We will cradle each other's fears within parched lunar craters
While the world waxes on the rim of existence, our love will not wane.
Let us be more than willing to unshackle the mind
To explore lost messages in a bottle on the high seas.
2.
Yet I'm willing to journey through the darkness even
With eyes closed
In an attempt to reach you
To find you.
I am so willing to play the fool advocating love
Than to be over cautious and lose out big time.
So, I am willing you ....to let drop the scales
'Twud be astounding to have a willing....you
Willing us to deflect this way untimely contretemps
And placing us this day upon an unbroken tide beyond.....
S T, 8 May 2013
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
In this moment, I am both an observer and a participant, feeling every ounce of her pleasure as if it were my own. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of us in this private, electric connection, where every sigh and moan feels like a secret shared between lovers.
May 29, 2024
May 29, 2024 at 2:11 PM UTC
What do you do
when you realize
your life as you know it
is a cardboard cutout,
a dollhouse scene,
Of what your life should be.
Of what it once was.
The people in my life are characters
A backdrop in the place of reality.
Scenery behind my doorstep.
Photographic fire in the fireplace.
Tiny kitchen cutlery that isn’t sharp.
Staged people in my living room
at literally, a lifeless party.
A fantastic picturesque magazine spread in Southern Living.
And I am a part of this falseness.
I am a creator of this un-reality.
I am a willing participant in this stagnant stage of my life.
This life, this love, this truth
Is a figment
Is a dream
Is a scene of a scene.
I remember when green was green
And blue was blue
And I breathed in newness in every breathe.
Reality bowed down in servitude
And I took every step into a setting sun
The world around me, my partner in crime
As I took it by storm.
The tragedy here
Is knowing that life and love and truth barren
Is knowing it naked
As it really is.
As it really was.
And knowing that you’ve settled for the cardboard cutout
is recognizing you’ve given up.
You’ve settled for second best.
You’re taking the doll house route to life.
You’d rather watch the movie than live it out.
It’s cowardice at its best.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
My Doppelganger holds secret negotiations with my Avatar.
Slicing up the available territory by flipping a coin. Apparently,
I can see a me for myself if I happen to be in Somalia next Monday.
But that’s the Avator talking. Doppelganger is betting on Seattle.
I am eavesdropping, sitting around in my underwear. They
think I am unaware because I can’t see them, but they are
impossible without me.
Goethe, Shelley and John Donne are in the next apartment
huddled over some broken poems each had written on
the mirrors. No mistakes were made. No reflections.
They get to see themselves out of the corner of one eye,
for up to nine seconds which is like a lifetime to remember.
Yet the acrid smell of Neitzsche emanates from dark corners.
Sturm und Drang be ****** Neitzsche is convinced
no one has ever looked like him, but he does suggest
a parallel universe.
Abe Lincoln, a latecomer and unlikely participant, picks up a few pointers.
He knows full well that what he saw was not a reflection. And he rode that train
all the way from Pittsburg. All those windows...
And, yes, KA, the spirit double, the Egyptian Goddess, goes in **** as the
Greek Princess and shows up as Helen to tease Paris of Troy.
How can you not believe that? For Goddess sake, she helped end the Trojan War.
I have a lot of time on my hands. I don’t get out much.
Ava and Dopp came by just to let me know I’m still around.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,
Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.
I am an analyst-dissecting details.
4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,
in a circle...
Till I reach the middle.
I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.
I am a participant in social warfare.
Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.
All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
touch,
taste.
All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
And I am listening very closely.
I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.
Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;
Chewing paws in strange positions.
I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.
Constructive chaos:
Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.
I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.
I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.
Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.
Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.
( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )
[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]
I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.
That Deliverance tune.
And walk around ski towns
Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
You really disappeared.
Leaving me with no last words.
Did you think it would be that easy to forget you?
Without being hurt?
You vanished.
Leaving me hollow, leaving me with a mouthful of pain to swallow.
I missed all the signs.
Blinded by my care for you.
You never cared, did you?
You weren't really ready.
Left with this tragic love story.
You left and I was lost, felt so empty.
I thought it was just like the other times, two maybe four days, but now I think you're gone for good.
Silly me.
Memories are all I have now.
You left as quickly as you came.
Like a magician and I was just another willing participant.
Yet I still feel you.
I fell in love with a disappearing act.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
Session 1
*Greet people you meet;
smile and give 'em a Presidential wave*
Session 2
Facilitator:
*What happened to you
Participant Jones?
Would you care to tell everyone?*
Participant Jones:
*This man at the mall
stepped up to me and punched me
Cause, he said, I was smiling at his woman*
Facilitator:
*Be undeterred, O participant Jones
Be persistent - practise positive behaviour*
Session 3
Facilitator:
*What's with that bandage on your head
O participant Jones?
Would you care to tell everyone?*
Participant Jones:
*That's where my wife's ladle landed
O positive Facilitator -
for my wife thinks I'm trying to get fresh
with the women in the neighbourhood
with my exuberant smiles and hand waves*
Facilitator:
*Have no regrets, practise in earnest;
the broad smile wins all hearts*
Session 4
Participant Jones did not attend;
has not been heard from since Session 3
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
She is looked at not as an object,
Not at all a means to please him,
But as the life producing mother.
She has faced no physical abuse,
Not any sort of emotional either,
But respected if not worshipped.
She looks happily in the mirror,
Not to find her mascara ruined,
But admires it & longs for tears.
She stands as equals with them,
Not as assistant but participant,
But equally women & men live.
She also eats dinner at the table,
Not just serving them everyday,
But also relishing food he cooks.
She shares a new equal dignity,
Not fearing any ****** or teaser,
But cared for who she is to him.
She is content with spirituality,
Not praying only the male God,
But also aware of His Mother...
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Sometime, I'll have a dream
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
Around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go:
You're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Copyright © 2009-Present
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
The Devil,
King of Hell,
Lord of Deception,
and to me,
a common misconception.
He tempts us when we least expect it,
he tempts us all the time,
subversive puppet strings,
his subterfuge refined.
He is evil,
he is cruel,
participant of time's longest feud.
But wait,
his intention wasn't this at all,
where did he lose his way?
where did he go wrong?
He was prideful,
an unwitting thrall,
Son of Perdition,
hated by the one and the all.
Guile isn't an easy game,
he must have intellect beyond our scope,
why can't he see what's in front of him?
He himself is his own undoing.
He gives us agency,
is that such a bad thing?
He's either,
stupid,
spiteful,
or most frightening of all,
knows the truth,
the necessity he represents.
Perhaps,
this whole game is a ruse,
a tool,
a pawn ready for use.
A necessary evil,
corrupting some,
perfecting others,
a tragic story to tell.
He struggles in vain,
we struggle the same,
struck from the Good Lord's veins,
made to improve.
There is no refuge in the dark,
darkness is stark against the light,
without the one,
there can be no other.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
It was that widescreen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already ******* the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:47 AM UTC
Are you a participant?
When I'm in the mood for it.
When I awake in the middle of the night.
Or middle or the early morning.
Are you a participate?
When I'm hungry?
When I'm yearning?
For whatever?
I'm yearning for.
Are you a participate?
I could mention more of what I'm yearning for?
But I just settle for your love.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Deserted streets at dusk,
Grey skies and lowering cloud,
Trees and hedges shrunk like a model train landscape
And pylons that could snap their wires, tuck them under their arms
And walk away.
Lego houses with lids to lift
Releasing smells of Sunday lunch chicken
And tea time bath salts.
I could pluck the towers from the power station and roll
Them down the dual carriageway.
An Alice or a Gulliver.
A non- participant;
A reluctant participant;
A can't participant.
Roads and trees and factories and pubs
Retreat
And shrink.
God- like in stature only-
Clumsily stepping,
Not wanting
To crack the road
Or gouge out windows
With a misplaced elbow.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
This doesn’t feel right,
I want to go home,
Should I call?
I can’t go home this way,
I’ll wait.
I text a friend,
He’s calling a cab for me,
That’s fine,
I’ll be safe soon,
I can wait.
Maybe I should lie down,
The keeper said I could lie down,
Should I just sit out in the cold instead?
There’s nowhere to go,
I’ll just lie down.
Crack opens the door,
I watch his shadow,
He’s taking his shirt off,
And the air is thick with sweat,
He lies down next to me.
There’s no escape,
There’s no running,
Should I scream?
Will anybody hear?
Is anybody awake?
I close my eyes,
His hands are moving,
I clench my fists,
Salt in my mouth,
Blood in my jeans.
Why can’t I scream?
Did I lose my voice?
Or maybe it didn’t happen to me,
Something hurts,
But he’s gone now.
I adjust my clothes,
Fix my hair,
Stand on my two feet,
And walk out the door,
“You won’t tell anyone, right? You’re like my daughter.”
The cab pulls up,
The driver got lost,
But now I’m on my way,
Something hurts,
I’m on my way.
Maybe it wasn’t what it seemed like,
I was alone and he was a man,
And why was I out drinking anyway?
Nobody needs to know,
It didn’t happen.
I was a mere spectator,
Or was I a participant?
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go: you're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Damon Michael Garrett
Copyright © 1972-Present
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
time passes, does it not,
trickling away in drops, from a leaking tap unnoticed
imperceptible, drops of our days and months that
tsunami into years
we might grow more cynical or wise
we might allow the animals to howl or to transform
or we might eliminate hierarchy and symbolism
and see plain and clear past the allegory
what is left of the experiment
(an unintended one, an unknowing participant even)
the residue, the remains of the years –
what chemical composition do we have?
What has transpired here? -
as clueless as we are of the first expansions
the time when the universes arrive in another cycle;
or perhaps we could see everything in the cocksureness of faith
and drag on, in suspension, leave in doubt or in certainty –
each but a conditioning, a myth,
the truth shrouded in symbol and plainness
O sweet loves,
Time wraps us in its mysterious archaic cyberspace
an inner space that draws a roar, a bark, a howl
and we have justifications, visionary words, systems
to put everything into perspective
like a Titian framed so elegantly in an esteemed museum
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Oh, you were a creative little girl with growth and potential.
Could create a poem.
Could make bracelets for those you adore.
And yes, I was one of the participant.
You what we call Talented?
All into God to whom most your poems were addressed too.
If not your mom, who you loved and adored too?
It's a shame many others will never get this chance to meet you.
Your friendly charm would rub off on them too.
You was gifted and talented.
Then this God already knew.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC