Posts for June 6, 2018 (page 3)

Been on a true friendship kick the past few days
since at almost thirty years old, people still feel the need
to tell me, be careful who you choose to call a friend.

Should have asked the title advice guy,
is warmth of the soul beyond anything recently experienced
where I genuinely enjoy the company of another
the first sign of this supposed toxin sinking into me?
Seriously, who am I to judge a person
based off another’s interpretation of hearsay knowledge?

A couple weeks ago, when the girl I was sitting with
got up to use the restroom, another friend approached, saying,
I’ve been sent to cockblock you because that girl’s a bitch!
Oh man, are we dodging bullets here? Much better learning like this
than when I potentially make a move on her
knowing that she knows that I know she has a boyfriend.
Never mind how pleasant our conversation is and always has been.

But today, I face a reminder of a time when a good friend
leaned real hard into wingman mode when I betrayed my secret.
I should have stopped him, but I vastly underestimated
the amount of damage his relentlessness could do.
That girl was becoming a very dear friend, but conversation now
is like a dead sprint race to the periods.
I keep meaning to try and fix that, but I don’t know how.
Meanwhile, the wingman is still telling me what I should be doing.

And it is only now, as I start stitching these stories together
that I see, among all these unwanted actions and advice,
there was only ever one thing worth listening to.
Be careful who you choose to call a friend.

Today I played 
tag–you’re it! 
Tucked my navel 
into my spine and sank
my fingertips into the earth. 
Birthed the sun through my toes 
pressed out, and behind me, 
in child’s pose. 

Placed a grin on sidewalk Sam. 
Thrust my hips into downward dog, 
passed the frisbee over the fence, 
returned to myself in goddess pose. 
Let my thighs hit the mat
felt my belly’s deepest breath. 
Watched the world become 
that which it has always been.

first meeting
     I’m relieved he’s dating you.  I thought he was gay!

wedding guest list
     my friends require an extra banquet room

decor decisions
     he will be devastated without yellow table cloths

severe allergy food preparation
     the onions are finely chopped in all four salads

pregnant with her granddaughter
     you look like a prostitute in that photo

healthy lifestyle
     how’d you lose ALLLL that weight?!  are you taking pills?!

speaking my mind
     hahahhahahhaha!  you’re soooo tired!

my dad dying of cancer
     if you don’t go to LA it will ruin my plans for Christmas

today
     your face doesn’t even look like you anymore

a man with a bad leg and galaxy-print yoga leggings on the 4:40pm CTA Purple
Line to Howard/
I spent my day talking to academics who speak too quickly and at length/
Jungian analysis in 21st Century America is anachronistic and makes me pause for a moment/
I bought The Death of Ilan Ilyich today from a used bookstore/
Looking at the $36.15 in my bank account and wondering if it matters at all.

the sunlight casts shadows, distorted, like fish, on the train in the afternoon/
Professor Ramirez spins his hands in small circles while he talks/
Archetypes synthesize two disparate groups: tarot-readers and far-right pundits/
I wonder what it would be like to die because Tolstoy makes it sound nice but somehow I doubt it/
My roommate only eats eggs anymore and I’m worried about him.

everyone on the 3:15pm Red Line to 95th is brown-paper-bagging it/
I feel bad when talking to academics in their offices because I suspect they haven’t read all the books they keep in there/
A man who was arrested three times for dissidence by the Nigerian Government taught me Jungian analysis/
Ivan Ilyich is not a kind person and his redemption seems forced/
Thinking about only eating instant noodles until I get paid again but I probably won’t.

I ride the train often to catch a glimpse of myself/
I talk with academics often to better understand what I am trying to learn/
I avoid Jungian analysis because Lacan is more fashionable and it embarrasses me/
I only read The Death of Ivan Ilyich because I feel like I’m supposed to and I didn’t enjoy it/
I ate day-old soup for lunch and today was just another day where I learned about “ragas,” the five-note Indian improvisational music form, and listened to Mark Kozelek’s self-titled album and knew that, unless I wrote it down, I wouldn’t remember this day at all.

grew up round em bad habits
grew up round em addicts 
no time for sadness
get a shovel for the ditch
wonder why the kids
cuttin on their wrist
cuz we stuck em in this shit
it’s all about the biz
gotta get rich
rich as the people that be ownin the prisons
breedin just clones in the system
skull and crossbones and they glisten
stoned off attrition 
sittin in your home do they listen
to what you sayin on the phone
no kiddin
i ain’t playin no joke
why i always gotta talk dirty politics 
past two thirty i’m too wordy for no acknowledgement 
new school of thought got a jersey with a scholarship
but i still got that drop outta college wit
keep a sonnet on my hip livin in lyrical fits
i ain’t gonna miss
you put jesus on top like miracle whip
every fuckin rapper like honest i’m the shit
talk to that woman don’t holla at that bitch
why don’t we just 
call it what it is
i ain’t an alcoholic 
i’m just tryna get lit

forget my problems 
it’s my callin 
tomorrow callin 
let it ring 
like freedom in your dreams
like freedom in your dreams

forget my problems 
it’s my callin 
tomorrow callin 
let it ring 
like freedom in your dreams 
like freedom in your dreams

I
The paved lanes spill
over hills and
the road rolls both ways.

II
Their asses sat on the side
of the road; the hitchhikers in black,
thumbs out at passing cars.

III
Somewhere, a road’s rumble strips
awaken. Somewhere
else a baby still sleeps.

IV
A road is the quickest way
between two destinations.
It is not the only.

V
The maw pours road
like liquid
in the dead of night.

VI
The road to hell
is paved with the promises
I made myself.

VII
“The freeway’s just like veins
without a heart.”
This road’s clogged.

VIII
Empty, I wonder
if a road is ever meant
to be full?

IX
This road takes me there.
This road takes me back.
Which do I take?

he stands confronted
by this foreign girl
holding his ball above his head
in his own backyard

she stands curious
of this big black dog
which stares up 
at her saliva soaked hands

he knows enough to wait
watch for the twitch of wrists
trace the curvature with fervent eyes
to fetch

”who are you?” 
cautious question through full lips

“a friend” she whispers
ball at her feet once more

Boy,
I’m a feminist,
and that word carries no shame
for me.
I have tiny fists
that can hit like a girl.
I’ve sent men running
with the crack
of one delicate knuckle. 
Better,
I’ve quaked boys and girls
with one word,
one look,
and I don’t need you for power. 
Honey,
I was born with power. 
Boy, 
I’m a feminist,
and that should shame you–
that I have to be.

I rub my thumb over a St. Jude prayer card,
the irony is not lost on me

my Truths have alway gotten knotted around my ribcage 
on their way to my mouth. 

my teeth always biting your name into my tongue 
voice never seeming to hold out long enough
to explain myself. 

Maybe I’ll learn to make bread  
Learn to knit red and black caps 
To bounce knife tips between my open fingers
in vacancy of communicative skills 

Maybe I’ll just keep stroking this Saint
I’m sure you’ll feel some part of it

What’s it called when
you’re equally exhausted
and enraged

When you have the urge to
punch through glass,
to bite things hard,
and cuss at strangers

When you want to 
use your body to
ruin things 
before you 
let it
rest