Philosophy of the Stars

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Champion Haiku

Going down on you,
the hottest thought I could have:
You'd make a good dad.

Katrina

I wasn't kidding when I said

I eat men like you for breakfast.

You should've heeded that warning last night--

because now, as you are tumbling

through the waves of my stomach acid,

you realize just how right I was.

I am not just a play thing or

a gentle little girl.

It is not a coy joke

when I whisper calmly in your ear:

"Do not fall in love with me unless you are prepared for war."

I am a walking earthquake,

bringing down cities

with nothing more than a gentle sigh.

I am the flood that finds you,

and after me, there is nothing left.

In your vain attempt to dry off

and find anything of value,

you will find only choked up crops

and bloated living room furniture.

I am tornado,

tearing everyone around me apart

after they've come in contact with me.

If you're strong, you hold on

while the weak go flying

across fields and dreams.

There is hardly a reason to chase after me

if you are not willing to swing a lasso of barbed wire,

spur your horse until you both bleed,

or live in longing of developing

callouses along your rope burned fingers.

I am burning wave of fire.

Shield of cannonball

and falling crash of firework

in a shower of confetti and acid rain.

I am grindstone,

crushing noses and hopes

directly into bread crumbs

--every ounce of which

waiting to be consumed

on a slab of ashwood

dripping in boxing glove blood.

I am parafin,

sucking air out of lungs

to preserve only the most perfect notions of human,

counting the months lost to stillness.

It is only in the outburst of violence

that I may find peace.

I am not looking for you to come

and bridal my tempest, merely hoping

that you can meet my shock of lightning streaking across the sky

with your own clap of earth trembling thunder.

So you must understand my disappointment

when I managed to unhinge my jaw

and snake-swallow you entirely with such ease

that I barely thought twice

about what bones might get stuck in my gut.

You were all talk with no punch,

all tomato juice and not a slight tickle of bloody.

I had hoped for anything but a lamb to take to slaughter

even as you wrapped the leash around you own neck

without my prompting.

You are cornflakes, boy.

You had no idea that this battle would take your legs,

that I would sink your eyes into star-filled oceans

and you could never look at other women without seeing me.

I will ruin you.

You will find my face in every turn,

my name ringing past your throat,

you will follow me blindly,

haunting yourself with the memory of my lips.

Originally performed on 3/28/11

Originally written on 7/26/2010

Endlessly Edited.

Monday, February 27, 2012

8 reasons why I don't undress in public anymore

When I met you,

I was naked.

And I don't apologize for it much,

but I really do have to say--I'm sorry.

It can be hard viewing someone's flesh

so quickly or without warning.

It must have scared you so much.

However, in my defense,

I need to let you know,

you were lucky.

It is not often that my skin doesn't shrink under strangers' eyes

and you ended up getting a show others might miss for years.

It was only because...I trust you.

When you met me,

you were naked.

And, I'm really sorry

that I couldn't look away.

You were a car crash,

a domestic dispute on the street,

screeching banshee cry

over the smash of drywall

and squeal of flattening tires.

And when you walked into the next room,

I didn't follow to keep staring.

It just seemed like the right thing to do.

It was only because...I trust you.

And that was fucking stupid.

When we met,

we were both fully clothed.

You said hi

and I immediately wanted to be close to you.

I wanted to feel your arms wrap around me,

your face warm next to mine.

I wanted to know that you were behind me,

ready to catch me.

You can bet your ass that I didn't trust you at all.

but I took joy in pretending that I did.

I was proud that I wasn't so easily scared

and let you think I was a bigger person.

I was a fool for letting you believe,

because you soon shrank away without knowing it.

I don't really remember the night we met,

but I'm pretty sure after you introduced yourself,

Our clothes melted away like spring snow.

I can still see you hiding under the covers,

or trying on different costumes,

hoping to catch the one that I might like you in best.

But you told me I looked beautiful in the nude,

that so few could pull off that shade of invisibility.

The only time you were so clear with me

was when I told you

my smile was because

I never bought your lies.

You were never really naked.

You gave me a strip tease, but always stopped short.

Instead you insisted on me joining in,

and each layer between us traded bodies,

never quite reaching an end point.

It was with you that I learned

trust is not really about full surrender

but learning what you can expect from someone else.

When I found I could hold nothing against you

because I expected nothing in the first place,

you must've known and decided to rip out the tablecloth from under me

just as a reminder that you don't want to be part of something predictable.

All I could expect from you was drunken honesty.

You were always naked and that frightened me.

who would've thought that a budding nudist

would be so mortified by someone else?

But your skin was so fresh

and all I've ever been is sandpaper.

We should have reconciled,

my poison dart frog coloring

and your curious squirrel,

I should have backed off for at least a minute,

but I never wanted to.

I'm sorry that your tears added to your torture,

that my words were knives and never comfort.

We've never taken off our clothes at all together.

but I've already imagined

how sexy you really are underneath that hoodie, babe.

Damn.

I have sculpted you as paper doll cut out,

tabs around each shoe and pant leg.

And when one get up doesn't suit you,

I trash it and imagine a new one-sided cover,

hoping you won't need it when I stop playing pretend.

I never liked taking my clothes off in the first place.

There were stories of showerless days

when I couldn't bear to look at my body

without a t-shirt on or even a pair of shorts.

I held my hands in my tangled hair

in hopes of refuge,

away from the mirror,

away from myself.

I had seen my reflection, or lackthereof,

and understood that there are monsters.

Monsters hiding inside each dresser drawer,

behind each lapel, under every belt.

Originally performed on 2/22/2012

Originally written on 2/20/2012

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Practical Magic

There is a witch living in my neighborhood.

I don't know the house she lives in

but I can hear her chanting to the full moon;

casting spells into the darkness.

Perhaps the witch is the cat lady

living down the street,

surrounding herself with claws

and inviting ivy onto her gables.

But she keeps her words to herself,

and only stares blankly out to the street.

Maybe she's my next door neighbor,

complaining of sleepless nights

as she fetches her mail

in her pink fuzzy slippers every morning.

Does she lose her sleep

by finding herself in the backyard

muttering pagan rituals under the stars?

But the witch's voice

is not coated in catnip and smoke,

she does not sound like sleep deprivation,

only velvet,

pillow murmurs and cool comforter cloud dreams.

Sometimes she whispers in my window,

wisdom leaking through the screen,

saying things like,

"Do your homework, girly."

And I know she's right,

but still I sit at my desk,

night after night,

drawing hearts

around the names of each my beloveds.

The first time she did this,

I was so startled,

I ripped the paper in half!

And I knew in that moment,

that boy would never be the same.

Young girls are given chains and leashes

without knowing how to use them.

And even my tortured ignorant mouth has uttered the words "Boys are puppies that need to be trained."

But we need to learn to soften the whipcrack of our tongues and loosen the collar around their necks.

Young men's hearts are such fragile things:

made of

china,

porcelain,

venetian glass.

waiting to be broken

--asking to be broken.

But I can't help but wonder,

who at such a young age

asks for that kind of pain?

Having been wrapped in poison arms

and my ears licked by silver tongues,

I am no stranger

to the incidental invasion

of a trickster practicing his sport.

She knows that we all have tricks of our own trade,

waiting to test them out on any innocent passing our front door.

We're hoping if we shoot the right game that they'll stay for dinner.

There have been countless nights that I have spent

coughing my own ceramic beat up into someone else's hands,

knowing down to my bones

that the only protection for it

would be solitude.

I have been the duct tape girl,

trying to piece together each eggshell frame,

to put those damn horses and men to shame,

even when those around me insist I am just a peasant.

Still, I've tried to untangle those mangled clockwork pulses

without understanding I am wearing the same uniform

as the ones that carry a cat and nine tails

and have cramped cage waiting in their basement.

Spinning a cradle to trap those who have been hurt

makes for a lazy hunter

and simply re-opens any poorly sealed wounds.

Instead, I turn to the witch's words,

insisting that weaving a hammock for broken bones to heal

might leave enough space to quell the bared teeth.

Some nights, I whisper back to her,

"Does this make my ass look fat?"

But mostly questions about the heavens

and the chatter of animals and spirits.

She always answers with compassion,

icing bruises and patching up misunderstanding.

I asked her once,

after I heard her final prayer

why she prays to the moon

if the man in there

looks so sad

and she answered,

"You would be sad too

if embracing your closest companion

would kill millions."

Originally performed on 3/28/11

Originally written on 2/24/2011

Originally slammed on....

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

I read this less than an hour after it's completion. It wrote itself, mostly.

The fireman's wife will tell you,
my limbs were on fire the night we met.
dancing in the breeze
and licking the air
with a raging passion
that set your hands in casts for weeks.

My skin singed a new trail in your mind,
a path you walked carelessly
with no other shock than the delight

of setting your newly charred feet

on the earth that

would soon foster seeds for another wild disaster.

My eyes filled with a blaze,
an eruption of hue
so brilliant
that I swore you
were the cause for my blindness.

My mouth sparked with every breath.
I could only speak in verse for the months
that we traced each other's flesh suits,
mapping out possible futures
and fantasies
that came to suffocate
in the smoke rising between us.

An unlined chimney is the difference
between a cosy living room
and a devastating heap of rubble.
When I promised to burn for you,
I did not expect it to be an everlasting smolder,
a pile of lumber,
or a wisp of ash floating across the sky.

I made a promise to the cold brick walls,
with the hope of wrapping myself around you,
enfolding you safely from your own consuming flame.

But you never hear the ticking

inside the chamber-head of a murderer,

claiming it was all in the heat of the moment

as the world world caved in.

We had no way of knowing that cotton sheets

and terrycloth could catch so quickly,

and we were fools for even thinking they wouldn't.

The fireman's wife will tell you,

that no room is safe.

There is always a fiesty stove,

a zealous fireplace,

or an over-working furnace.

Don't get heated floors, your convenience could end you.

Originally performed 12/23/10
Originally written on 12/23/10

Friday, July 1, 2011

Don't Buy the Hype

Remove the words from this sentence

and you'll uncover an ego the size of a pea

wearing the disguise of a Texas ranger.

Dig deeper,

burrow through the suffocating desert of rhyme and logic,

undo barbeque chicken smoke and curly fries,

slip past the beer soggen falls

and under the red clay chatter you will find me

--windchimes of unnoticed song,

hovering gulls of forgotten sky,

the quiet memory of a small playground

you never got to discover.

The little workbook you've followed this way

reminds the reader to pile the dirt on the side,

to be mindful that it does not slide down,

enter your throat or clog your vision,

lest you find this path a graveyard for your valiant efforts

of unwrapping the heart of that human girl.

Remove the aviator sunglasses from this face

and you'll find eyes that want to suck you in

and spit you back out at the next person like bullets,

cartoon lashes that beg for affection

and irises that desire the freedom of flight.

Push past the leather jacket armor and the denim barricade

and brush the sleep away from that overtired, under-whelmed face.

Tell those lips you've got a story to tell this time,

that it's an original-- a word-of-mouth-piece you're trying to restart,

about a girl in a room wearing a shirt

that says in bold green letters,

"I'd rather be writing/saving the world/wearing my superhero costume."

You're trained to believe that you are important.

Remove the you from that lesson

...and you have a grammatically incomplete sentence.

Your bowels are frightened,

your lungs are gumming up,

your hands are forgetting how to push your body from the bed

--and yet you've convinced yourself that you are planning an escape.

If you want to leave,

forget that you've heard this story or that song a million times before

and instead seek out new, stranger ones.

Get out of bed with a jump

and eat breakfast with the fervor of the hunt.

Sweep away the fluffed up pillows.

Stop watching your back when you walk down the street.

Quit defending the territory you haven't earned.

Remember that this life is not about safety.

Your id wants to always be coddled

but your superego wants fame

and no place is safe when you're famous.

Originally performed on 6/29/11

Originally written on 6/30/2011

Friday, April 22, 2011

My 30/30

April is National Poetry Month and folks in the pomeing community (I believe their called "poets" or something.) honor this wondrous month by writing a poem every day. That can't be tough, right? ...right?

If you really asked that second "right?" then only two things could be true. 1- You don't know many poets, do you? or 2- You don't know me very well yet.

T'any rate, 30 poems in 30 days is basically the poets' opportunity to show off good work, jerk off non-sexually, have fun procrastinating, cry and commiserate over poor writing and generally wonder how the hell we manage to ever write anything good, capture excellent brain farts in a jar and stink up a whole bunch of pages. We get to share (or not) what happens in our heads before we really get a chance to refine it. For me, it is actually the hardest part of the creative process--writing regardless of the possible result.

I considered making another blogspot or even another tumblr, but I'm already scattering my thoughts around as it is. I've decided, instead, to make this the home of my 30 poems for the month of April. Not the whole blog, but just this ONE entry. I've been a bit behind with typing up work and showing it (fuck it, I'll be honest, I'm doubling up for 10 days because I was busy staring at my toes for the first week) so I'll be updating this as much as I can with links to the various locations of my vile 30 poems.

Imagine it as an Easter Egg Hunt that you didn't even have to work for:

1/30--Angels and Demons

2/30--The Coffeeshop

3/30--Oh, The Places You'll Go

4/30--Oh God, What On Earth Is My Head All About?

5/30--Astral Projection

6/30--Sorry This Isn't a Happier Poem.

7/30--Escapism

8/30--Grow up already.

9/30--Mountain Goat

10/30--Good Ole Days

11/30--Pen and Parchment