Tag: creative

Dear Good Sir–

[AKA. Yo Engaged Dude, You’re Still Staring At Me]

You aren’t well behaved on Mondays
that boding stare of yours
burying itself in my bones
singing the milk of my marrow
boiling me like burnt butter
crusted on the bottom of a pan
I need to soak
after all this silent courting
eyes laced in the gaping of rooms
my delicate mouth fat with worry
over words
&whether to say them
—or keep eating them
Your eyes are very intense sir
&yet
I don’t know what color they are
something silly to know them
so intimately
&still not know them
at all.

 

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We’re writting letter poems this week for workshop &it beats a fifth or sixth poem about anxiety! (anxiety poems are the shit though. I think I found my niche.)

Sestinas Make Me Nervous

If I grant anxiety a color, it won’t be blue—
My leaden unease mingles
with the smirks of unsure gods
laced in the thread of milk clouds at night,
Grey. Half-moon fingernails can
carve out my nerves, but can’t unsee what I’ve seen

blister apart in my sleep. &My dreaming teeth grind pagan scenes
on the inside of my cheek—veins traveling blue
listless circles, nervous drunks can’t
swallow the twitch that mingles
with itching skin. Sober nights
breeding a fiending god.

Anxiety is nothing but a gaud,
trinket of disquiet—pallid scene
aching over nights
horizontal pacing twisted sheets, the cornflower blue
of my blood shot eyes—motes mingle
with the crust of feigned sleep. &I sleep when I can

but I rarely can
as my ribs roped and bloated by a mocking god
strain to mingle
in between hand-me-down sheets laced with the scene
of secret nicotine, the stench of Camel Blue.
I’ve tried to end this wrenching night

by burying a grave of down feathers—suffocate the night
that can
not drown me in the ink of sleep, my nerves aren’t blue
but instead that dead cloud pavement, made of asphalt god
a serenade of my ache my adult angst my scene
of fractured ease. This ticking of my blood mingles

city streets &choking alleys, a coarse coursing of dreams mingle
between my window screen and paned glass. Tonight
I breathe in that seam, swallow the shards from a can
of cheap beer and whisper my elegy to an unworried god
plastered from lead crystal decanters filled with something blue.

My weeping anxious wounds aren’t blue, their fever mingles
with restless gods that make a mockery of nights
&they can’t sleep either after threading these scenes out of needled nerves.

 

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My first attempt at a sestina. That’s some difficult shit right there. &This is my fifth poem at anxiety this semester… woops.

My life as a bat

My life as a bat: an abrupt swinging, pendulous
ticking between ducking in shadows of lace
cob webs and rebirth.

I entangle long limbs in the hair of a lover–build bird
nests out of frail bones. Bones,
mine waste away. They don’t fossilize well.
I carry them with me–bearing their feather weight
tucked beneath my winged breast,
but I don’t wear feathers.

A confused leather mouse I am made to be by
being half wings and half milk. Blind but
ever observant–navigating night alleys
by outstretched palms on pavement.

I am sacred. a separable soul, a delicate skeleton
that feasts on blood and flesh
of fruit. A white-winged vampire
sucking from its half-blood
step-sister. I am swooping shadows.
I rise in the wake of twilight.

 

 

I’ve been in Baltimore for just over two weeks now. I’ve finally started my MFA classes. Tomorrow is night two of poetry workshop and that guy above is my first product. We were given a random line that we had to use as the first line of our poem. Mine was obviously “My life as a bat.” We’ll see what happens in workshop tomorrow. We’re still waiting on our wifi box to arrive so more regular updates will happen when Comcast gets their shit together. (never, maybe?)

 

Resident

Day Four
The corner is crooked. I dress bare breasted in front of its window. It faces a sceneless alley but light filters across my bed as if through cheese cloth. I saw a man pissing against the facing fence today. I wonder who was on the other end of his phone call.

The keys of my Grandmother’s typewriter stick like the knuckles of my spine crunching at the base of my neck where the ink starts. Tomorrow I’ll scrape the decades of grime from the letter springs. With the resilience of mint we will bite back together.

day five
I fell in love with Baltimore today as I tiptoed on the edge of her skirt, leaving her in the breath of morning–caught her in a yawn. Each blinking eye spread across an expanse of asphalt skin–that perfect grey complexion at dawn.

Every minute away raked my neck. Borrowed doctors agreed. But my muscles yawned relief as I climbed city walls, scaled row homes and whispered hello to the one-legged man in the wheelchair. I think we’ll be friends–feed him communion. Bread and wine. Eat the blood, drink the body of Baltimore.

mmm Journals

As a child, it’s a diary… as an adult, it’s a journal. By whatever name, I’ve always had one. Often throughout adolescence it was online (I still have a LiveJournal account hah) but nothing has the tangible effect as a physical journal.

The cover, the pages, the ink, the artifacts taped within… nothing compares. I’ve always been a fan of Moleskines. In the past, I’ve regularly carried the small lined notebooks in my purse and the full-sized at home. Throughout the packing process (preparing for the move), I am filling boxes with old journals. I buy them faster than I can fill them… much similar to the fact that I buy books faster than I can read them.

Recently I bought a pack of journals from Barnes&Noble and I’m going to share some pages that I’ve filled in the past week.

image (19)

from Jonathan Adler. It says “Notes” on the back.

image (16)

image (15)

two blacked out poems made from a piece of prose from an issue of Whurk (a local monthly magazine which is rather fantastic).

image (17)

A self-portrait… physical proof of my inability to draw. I do love to doodle though! Imagine the hair is red, the eyes blue, the teeth not creepy, and plenty of skin imperfections. My glasses are super cool but they aren’t quiet as enormous as characterized. I am pretty adorable though. 😉

image (18)

another Currently. I’ll have the tell the story of Stalker Boy at another time. It was a very random incident that lingers like a haunting. I also plan on documenting the antiquing adventures of my momma and myself—where the 1950s dinner table and chairs were discovered. More importantly, I bought an antique pink velvet sofa which is the bee’s fuckin’ knees. GORJUSS.

…until next time.

Poem that isn’t about Corn

One summer we grew corn. Cutting into the Virginia clay-sand soil. (My mother always cursed the dirt. Spoiled fertility.) I knifed three rows, ripping and clawing at clods of grass. Thick with sweat, slick skin slipping their grip on the yard tool just as suitable to cleave open his skull at the temple. That thought didn’t occur as the lower lumbar ache spread like a pandemic—flushing my muscles in a race of infection. Maybe somewhere deeper—nestled in a bed of arteries, feeding off fresh bleeding—it was growing. He was breeding me for domesticity. I loved those little pink seeds. I held them in my sticky palm. They looked like rock candy. I imagined sinking my teeth into the tawny flesh of that fruit. The hours, the labor, the loved poured over that fruit—the ache of that love would be tangible. I would sink my teeth into that flesh and sever it for good. but We let it die. Let it rot tall in its stalks. A mockery of that ache.

 

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First draft. Very in the works.

I Will

Scars mark my skin all over like waves of August heat… from scraped knees to razors dragged into the meat; teeth sallow from the nicotine, heart wary from the ache of latent hate. I lean with the creak of floor boards, pliable to the derecho winds that rip roofs from homes and ease from wills. I ache with the constant tick that reminds me and plagues me of mistakes decades old.

I want to be that girl that blooms in the barroom smoke with crystal eyes with will of fervor shining like pearlescent wings of some detested pest that thrives in separate airs.

but I am neither. I am on fire–letting my skin be licked by flames, letting my skin melt and peel like petals. My lips are velvet, rubbed over by decay–crushed scarlet from the flush of someone else but dried up. Wasted.

I’ll paint myself with the colors of someone famous and strong. I’ll sidle their spine through my flesh and stand tall with their strength. I will prop my arms strong with the proposition that I’m all I need. I can force feed myself disappointment. I need no men to help me with that.

Shouldn’t we all be feminists?

I feel like writing about women, as if we are opposed
from any other vessel of human emotion or blood
and guts or sex. I am no fragile fuckin flower, but I fuck.
I outwork some men and I wear it on my teeth.
Social construct,
I learned the term from liberal arts school–I wear it
as a brand on my breast plate—that rigid bone
you have to break to save lives. I’ve had more men
cry on my shoulder, clutch me as they shudder—
than women confide in me.
I hold my shoulders straighter than I ever have,
eat my emotions to hold me over for dinner.
I don’t need to feed another
off these breasts. I’ll feed myself.

 

Honestly… this is inspired mostly from watching Girl Code and too much wine. I’ve only watched the show in the past couple days and seriously… that shit is hilarious. I could legitimately throw in my liberal arts education as well. I had one professor in particular—he was raised by his mother and grandmother and doesn’t believe in gender roles. He taught me so much. He wrote one of my recommendations for grad school so I love him eternally.

 

Seventeen is a good round number
to desecrate the soil. My
pavement is littered with carcasses.
Their wet bodies’ slow crawl
out of a shed shell, left as
a testament of a long patient sleep
for a lover. I hear everything
in the night. Those wings are still
silent but soon they’ll shake
the spring sweat from the trees.
Something inside me still
aches to die, to feel the slow rot
of aching dull pain. I will wake
covered in their legs, cicada
wings crawling over my lips to lie
in wait for a love, for a mate.

 

This cicada shit is out of control. I might vomit.

Five-Fifteen

How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.

 

Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.

 

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I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.