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

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

12/30--All is Fair...

13/30--The Roaring, Sore-ing 1920's

14/30--Beat Movements

15/30--Icarus

16/30--Lovable Fuck-Ups

17/30--Stripped

PS--Yes, I know it says "pomeing". No, it is not a misspelling.

oh no, a list poem!

the house that dad built

or

i wish i'd known what i inherted

1.

it starts with a pinhole.

the walls have been silvery smooth since we moved in

and we'd never marked anything up

but there it was,

barely small enough for a thumbtack.

she stared at it,

studying the dark spot with the precision of a calligrapher noting a blot on parchment.

she reached her hand out,

as though to smear ink.

i asked her what was wrong

and she replied, "there's a bug on the wall."

before scuttling away.

2.

the next day

i found her poking her finger into the wall

the space large enough now

to fit double the radius of her pointer.

when i asked her what she was doing,

she turned suddenly, wide-eyed,

lip folded under her upper teeth,

then yanked her hand to her side

and stormed off.

3.

i awoke and found her sleeping soundly in her room.

i padded down the stairs

and found a large crooked crack

leading from the hole to the top of the doorway.

i paused for a moment,

mourning the loss of the glassy finish,

but thought nothing of it after i walked away.

4.

the following afternoon,

while frying onions

and pouring hollandaise over asparagras,

i heard a crash!

followed by a rattle...that may have been in my teeth.

i simply stopped,

and turned to see the door,

defeated, laying on the floor.

and she stood on the other side of the threshold,

hands clamped to her side,

lips squeezed together,

no doubt holding back something of a shout.

her gaze was fixed on the spectacle

as though just watching

would place the plank back on its hinges.

as her eyes slid over to me, she simply muttered,

"i--i--i d-d-didn't mean t'd-do i-it."

before she hugged herself and ran upstairs.

5.

we walked past the fallen door on our way to breakfast.

we weren't sure if we should try to put it back

or leave it,

like a trophy of confusing domestic horror

or the unwanted gift the cat brought home.

it isn't an elephant in the room

if we were able to interact with it,

right?

i noted, that evening,

how she was now tracing her hand

along the twisted spine of the old frame,

from the now quarter-sized gap in the wall

across the meandering rift that worked

down and across to the floor.

she seemed to coo, and breathe secrets into the house,

the kind of talk that a bladesmith saves only for his forge and steel.

6.

just this past monday

as i went up to bed,

i found a large plastic bag

huddled next to the front door.

as though anything this week could get any stranger,

it drew me in until i had no choice but to peek inside.

the contents might've been curiouser than my own desire to view them,

my vision was filled with the sight of a tawdry estate.

she'd managed to collect

a fraying toothbrush

three t-shirts

a small bag of grease paints

five cds without jewel cases

a small box filled with various cigarettes

a hair dryer

and one sad looking teddy-bear.

i blinked a few times

in the pathetic hope

that it might make something useful appear.

instead, i turned to face the wall,

the incision was still growing,

creeping up the doorway

and crawling along the ceiling

with the determination of a undiscovered cancer.

7.

when i awoke, i was already running.

this was the day.

it was more than a crash

a boom

or a silent itch

stretching slowly into a room.

i found her,

silently screaming in a corner,

knees to her chest,

hair in her eyes,

nails clawing at her own feet and arms.

i shook her,

shaking with the house,

shaking in my voice

and in my head,

she was already as trashed as the walls around us.

her words were farther away than needed.

she tried pawing at the floor,

picking at the paint chips falling past her shoulders,

asking me to tell people

that she would have done it differently,

that she wasn't always like this.

it wasn't her fault, she tried,

but she didn't mean to make it so bad.

when i told her we had to leave,

only otherworldly moans escaped her,

a harpy cry punctuated by

"i don't know what to do"

"why is this happening to me?"

and the worst:

"please don't make me go."

it was then that the kitchen unleashed a roar

Lyricum Dentata

Last night I did a showcase at Zebu in Red Bank, NJ with three other lovely ladies: Ren Pomrink, Rene Rogers and MaryCae Vignolini.

We call ourselves Lyricum Dentata -- Poets with a Bite.

My portion of the set is listed (with links!) as follows:

• Opening Poem: Celebration
• Dream Job
• Encounter.
• Katrina
• Practical Magic

Enjoy!

The Highway

There's an accident on this highway every two miles. There's a mournful but light song playing on the radio and a matching smile on your face as we pass each one. The flames licking the sky and the frantic eyes searching the road give you a sick satisfaction. As if you're the one that caused them.

This is an everyday event as we head toward our not-so-final destination. The reflection in your glasses blocks out any understanding someone might reach. You shine back a cruel, malicious smirk carved into your mouth as you push your foot down on the gas pedal and switch lanes. I don't even try to look into your eyes anymore.

There's a disaster on every exit this time of year. you signal to the fast lane as if we were headed somewhere important and cut off the faster car behind us. The sun is blasting us with dying rays from behind the trees making a blurry sunset rainbow in the clouds. Your wheels hit the pavement with such speed the dashes become complete lines and I wonder if I'm just being overexposed.

With your hands locked onto the wheel, you murmur for me to turn up the music--it's your favorite song. I lean foward against the wind and bitterly turn the dial. I glare at you with your simple, free smile. I look at the cracks on the windows and remember the day you knocked them out because you were going to live in some desperately wonderful place. I wonder if you'll ever leave the state.


Originally performed for the slam on 3/10/11

Originally written on 7/10/05

people who like bad news.

he told me to lie to him.
it's a surprise when someone needs to remind me
and even worse when someone does.
i choke back a tear
and reassure him that i am well.
everything runs smoothly
and just as expected from me
there is no reason to ask for a hug
or an extra kind word at the end of our exchange

instead, i stand atop the mass of rubble
while he gently sips on his tea
a sweet smile leaks from under my matted hair
so that he may chuckle softly.
i don't bother to shout or scream or yell
because i know he'll only get scared
and scamper back under his shell.

i wonder if his mild-mannered life
is just not built to handle anything
that i have the guts to dish out to him.
i wonder if he reminds me to lie
so that i forget all the truth that hurts.
i wonder if the method works,
i obviously don't try it out enough.

i am not built of lies to entertain my guests,
i am a bold shining truth and sometimes it's ugly.
i have bad days too
and i think we all need a sounding board,
not a verbal punching bag
or a human damn it doll,
but a car to rock you to sleep on the ride home
and a gentle hand to pat your back
or give you a little something for free.

isn't it strange when someone
insists they can support you
when all they continue to do is shout "timber"?
he wants me to crash in the forest and not make a sound.


Originally performed on second open mic 2/24/11
Originally written on 10/21/10

celebration

acid and fire and sleet and spit and trees and rain and walks on the beach and heading nowhere and laughter and plantains and feet and numbness and crying and waking up and watching stars travel and coffins and paths and clothing and colors and the word yes and eyes watching and parents and rules and religion and anarchy and simplicity and curry and movies and take out and dumb people and the rate of motion expressed as distance over time and drugs and calico cats and coffee grounds and stories and marshmallows and toothpaste and breezes and orange juice and good morning hello i love you and i'll never forget the look on your face and blooming flowers and listening to something new and trains and dolphins and grammar school and tickling and cold tile and this is just the beginning of all that you know in one moment and this is what surrounds you and this is today tomorrow yesterday and this cannot fade and this is here and this is now and this is you and this is yes and yes is life.


my thoughts are scrambled eggs that i made in a pot with a fork. hope springs eternal. a wish can only come true if you live long enough to forget your expectations.

it starts with a bang.


Originally performed 2/24/11
Originally written on 10/15/08

dream job

there is something so sacred
and tender about the strength
resting across your shoulders
that asks to be crawled upon,
and the broad plain of your chest
that seems so willing to be carved into.

i would like so desperately
to peel back your skin
and suck the juice
straight to your bones.
--to grip the back of your neck
and show you i am just what you're looking for

if we could get past the posturing
and the petty politics
i could make you realize
that when you look at me,
it is your knees that should be weak.
because i have the power to make you tremble,
to make you invite me to wrap myself around your torso
and squeeze into your ribs
until you beg me to never let you go.

no one at work would have to know.




anthony.

Originally performed on open mic 2/17/11
Originally written on 7/23/10

We slept side by side and woke up in a heart shape. My spine curved to accommodate the emptiness you could fill and your forehead arched to reach mine. With our knees touching and our chests sighing, someone watched over us and laughed inwardly. There was a whisper in my ear and I mistook it for an unconditional understanding of where I would always be. If it wasn't a definition left to the dreams that happen in the satellite hour of consciousness, I might not have to look upon that moment with such delicate longing. There was no backward or forward in time---only the complete conglomerate of some essence of one magic fitting perfectly into another, no desperation or wild rallying; just soft, light, content. The happiness of half open eyelids in an unbelievable, unremarkable miracle.

I used to struggle to tell dreams. The struggle to explain with painstakingly accurate detail the occurrences from another realm used to take me all day. with time, I have learned that my dreams were more fascinating to me as I saw them than to anyone trying to paint their own picture with my words. I slowly learned that the message to be found was not within the placement of the walls but the broadness of your shoulders. No, wait, that's not right, it can't be. I learned how to keep dream and sleep separate---where were we? Ah yes, my chronic obsession with talking about my intimate adventures of feathery dreams. So I rode a roller coaster right off the tracks and into the sunset where I found the dragons living in the glory of the blazing sun. (Your breath became the fire in my gut and the sleeplessness in my lungs.)

I was traveling over the snow and ice, over the highway separating us from realities and time. It wasn't a spark that came from your hand as it grazed my cheek but a fresh tenderness. I felt a renewed wordless something and it spread from your fingertips to my depths. There was an unimaginably large grin on our faces that started in my eyes and spread to your feet. (Or was it the other way around?) My eyelids wrenched my sight back to the road and then suddenly I was awake. I heard a far away, familiar voice scolding you and I wiggled my toes remembering the sensation of your touch without any contact.

Laying in bed and continually recalling the memory you traced into my skin will not bring me closer to any conclusion. I've grown older in such a small amount of time, all I have to do is close my eyes and I could be back there, wherever that may be this time. Now the problem is not that I am scared of tomorrow, but that yesterday and the fantasies beyond dance out of reach and it seems less pertinent to mutter any yearning for them to return. It was never about how far I could go but how long I could keep it.


Originally performed for slam competition 2/10/11
Originally written on 4/2/08

The Sound. (Part 3)

I tripped over my own shoelace while I wondered what you were staring at. And it made me frustrated at the time that you didn't say anything, but only now do I realize you were trying to tell me with your eyes.

And talking without listening is a way to say you remember the past instead of hearing me now. Because losing that small anchor you had means that you cannot go back, even when you know the truth.
The places and people and things, all these proper nouns (now-ns) you hold in your heart, are long gone outside of you. Everything you have seen will live in you for as long as you have loved it and continue to do so. You cannot be lost from it. Not ever.

But it seems that no matter how far across the world I reach, you will keep looking at something else, at some other warning sign. And still, even in this isolation, I hope you feel all the warmth I have for you. I want you to do and get the best.

I hope, someday in a fairly distant future, I may be allowed to speak at your wake or throw dirt on your coffin. And then I will know how just peacefully you rest.

Originally performed on 1/27/11

Originally written on 3/29/09

The Size. (Part 2 of 3)

I run into this kind of problem all the time. I cannot sleep at night because I oversleep in the morning. Or perhaps vise versa.
The silence shared with one person is screaming about sadness while a loud concert with someone else is so peaceful.

It's just the little things you have to really watch for, all of them can speak in echos that count frequencies in the thousands and depths that no one has the strength to see. The way you can miss someone so new to your life or feel the way a memory plays out even when the sensation has passed.

These are just the small parts that speak so loudly. So when your eyes splinter your vision into a million sights and chairs become mountains, you'll learn to navigate your way to the shore and calm yourself before walking away again.

Originally performed on 1/27/11

Originally written on 3/29/09

The Shape. (Part 1 of 3)

There is something clear to me.
Part of it is that you haven't gotten it yet.
Another part is that I see that you're not ready to, but you want it.
I wonder if you have this clarity in a different way, though. Like seeing what you know I'm not ready to see.
It is a shame this misunderstanding is actually an inability to communicate something so subtle and so obvious.

When it comes to it, there are feelings and motions that I cannot begin to narrate so I make do with what I can. In the meantime, I hope that someone will pick up on the subtext of it all.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to know telepathy. I want to speak in measures and notes and heartstrings. I wish you could feel what I am feeling because I think it would mean so much more that way.

Originally performed on 1/27/11

Originally written on 3/29/09

Compulsive

I keep checking the mail.
Looking for a package I know will never arrive, because no one is going to send it. But I just keep checking to see if the courage has been gathered for anyone else but me to shout out words into the rain. I'm singing out my life story and I'm wondering if anyone can hear me. And I'm pretty sure I'm being heard, but I'd like someone to shout back and tell me they think I'm doing well enough and could be on TV one day. I'm blasting my radio with my favorite song and I'd like to see if anyone else will make a fool of themselves with me. Because I'm dancing like an idiot in the supermarket and I'll always be doing funny things if it'll get a smile on someone's face.

I keep going out of my way to make a scene. And maybe it's not the best idea I can have, but I'm digging my nails in until someone screams out with an actual reaction. I'd like to hear a response filled with opinions and thoughts. I'd like to know if my being forward makes others uncomfortable or gives me freedom. My freedom to do the extraordinary will always be a free invitation for others to join in.

So when I ask what you thought of what I did, it isn't because I want to hear praise. I want to hear you. So come grab my hands and dance down the dairy aisle with me. I want to feel someone else screaming lyrics in the car seat next to me, I want to lose my voice between the raindrops. I want to open the mailbox and have something outrageous come flying into my world.


Originally performed 1/20/11
Originally written on 11/12/06

common knowledge

I am mining in my history to find that simple nugget I can sell to someone. Perhaps I can just keep trading up and find something worth a lifetime of searching. It doesn't have to mean a thing to anyone else other than me, so when I find it, I'll know.

But until then, I've just been looking at what I've done. I hope that I can uncover something that was accidentally great or subtly indicative of genius. I'll bring it out into the light and expand upon it. Or maybe just show it off to people who haven't seen anything like it before.

The truth is, I won't find silver or diamonds in my history, only rackety old buildings filled with dust. In all reality, and all realities, those places are abandoned for a reason. One cannot create a masterpiece by piecing together one's individual failures. The past can only teach you, it cannot build you.

There is no possible way to make gold out of cobwebs.


Originally performed 1/13/11
Originally written on 10/12/08