Wound
As if she were
Grinding a bubble bee
On the ground
That had stung her hard,
She stomped
The flower
On his grave
With vigor
Twished —turned
Her foot on it—
Ground it down
Dirt deep
Like the hurt
In her heart.
if I stay here,
nestled,
would someone bring me
a steaming cup of soup?
brush aside the regret that loving me
isn’t lipstick-stain pink?
pardon the weight of my eyelids;
the smog is dense today.
Sometimes I can’t write….
I go blank,
nothing gets put on the page.
I stare in space
sometimes my frustrations turn to rage.
I squint my eyes,
to see words that are hidden.
I’m trying to move this pen,
but it seems creativity is forbidden.
Speak, scream, say something.
barren are the thoughts in my head,
can’t remember a song, a movie,
a book or what the last word was I said.
Writer’s block, damn it!
Can I really say I have that?
If I’m a so-called writer,
I guess having writer’s block is fact.
Where’s my motivation, where’s my muse?
Oh, how at times words spew out like vomit,
as if I ate a bad word salad,
that was full of words I couldn’t stomach.
Headphones on,
there’s no music in my ear.
I’m blocking out noise,
yet desperately trying to hear.
Sometimes I can’t write…
Really, because why?
Do I have nothing interesting to say?
That’s BS to me, and maybe others,
if anything else I can write about my day.
Who wants to hear,
what goes on in someone’s life?
Quite a few I suspect,
that’s why biographer’s write.
Dreams of being a poet,
seems so far far away.
Talent, time, imagination,
from me sometimes strays.
I’m feeling feelings,
some feel wrong, some feel right.
I’m just venting right now,
because sometime’s I can’t write.
Sweetness is held at the tip of the tongue
Which is why I long for yours to meet mine
To taste the ripeness of your mouth
Heavy with my musk
The texture of each taste bud
Ignited with a robust flavoring
Of salt and sweat
Lips soft yet bruised
With a redness like an overripe strawberry
They look like the blood would burst
Forth at the slightest graze of my teeth
Sticky strings of spit
Moving from lip to lip
As if spiders built a web
A smile of satisfaction
Swollen lips over cutting teeth
Okay then,—the Donations are done,
but what about all this other stuff?
These questionable and maybe semi-sentimental looking things—
that exist in the margins——-literally in the margins everywhere??
Q. When did these “New” things become so old?
…dunno,
Q. Why are there so many things in the back of the closet and under the bed?
…dunno,
Q. I don’t remember owning these—are they even mine?
…I think that’s a sign, start a pile over there
Q. Where did this come from? Was it a disliked gift, or an odd inheritance?
…maybe that’s a big sign—into the pile
( You don’t have to keep things you don’t like—do I really have to tell you that?)
Q. Are these things old enough to be desired as vintage—do they have any worth?
…no and no. I think you know what to do
Q. Do any of these corded things with plugs still work?
(…You mean like these ancient party lights and outdated electronics)
…hummmm, I think you have your answer.
Q. What do I do with these things that are actually kind of cool.
…I can give them away—make another pile quickly
Q. And now these..Am I saving these for a “future me” or someone else I don’t know yet?
…(silence)…
Hey—where’s the answer? This might be a turning point question. I am listening–tell me:
…Okay, okay, well, I am the “Future me” and upon closer inspection
I can honestly say that I don’t want these. There is no one
else I know who wants these. I would be impressing no one to
hold on to them. They are not useful in my art practice or
my daily life. And I am pretty sure that my grandsons,
when they grow up, will not want these either.
Q. So why are these being kept?
…I usually tell myself—my parents were Depression Babies—
saying things like — keep things just in case —- always good to have a spare
—- these never go out of style — its good to be prepared…etc…
And their voices are I my head.
Okay, I am interrupting this whole process right now!!!
Listen to what you just said—your parents would
tell you today that it is time to rethink
their century old advice…
Update your ideas about time and space and stuff
based on your now. See space
as the priority and not things in it
Be ruthless to achieve nothingness.
Remember— space is what you always say you want
Okay, okay, I get it, I don’t have any more time for
these questions or lectures!
I hope this is easier next time. Let’s get on with it.
…Garbage Day is Tuesday
(An idea for this poem was inspired by “MA ,The Japanese Concept of Space and Time”. It speaks of the role that space plays in support of our need to grow in life.
for more info: https://wawaza.com/blogs/when-less-is-more-japanese-concept-of-ma-minimalism-and-beyond/ )
History is a mystery-
until you’ve found someone who lived through it.
But then again,
did their emotions form their notion of the moment?
or did they claim it and own it?
has time altered their memory,
shaping imagination into reality?
Where’s the credibility?
I only have faith in one thing,
and it’s not humanity.
I can’t believe anybody,
I can’t trust anything.
But I can entertain everybody
and every being.
he was formed
weak
small
and lacking
he missed a leap
in critical
social
development
he was falling
and no one
could hear
his slipping away
especially not him
because children
have not the tools
to fix themselves
he grew up feeling
like belonging
might always
elude him
he fell into wrong peoples
whose inability to love
only exacerbated
his hidden traumas
he lost all strength
and confidence
to stand
against the storm
it makes failure
and disappointment
his norm
no matter where he goes
in turn, he’s been made
conscientious
determined to serve
where others let him down
you’re super reliable
I can trust you with anything
he’s been told
and it warms him
if only all Christians
lived it like you do
another says
validating him
you’re like
the best guy that I know
and he loves to hear it
until the conversation turns…
you’re so kind
I’m afraid I’ll ruin you
she says, his heart
already breaking
you’re so gentle
I don’t want to hurt you
you say, another chance
at belonging slips away
and just like that
the things he does best
are once again his worst enemies
in moments of greatest need
it’s a paradox
he can’t shake off
that he struggles
to even talk about
but he knows
he can’t change her
and he doesn’t want
to break character
he will get back to normal
after some passage of time
he just might keep
an extra eye on the skies
still, he hopes
that she somehow hears this
if for no other reason
than to just once feel
heard
Elderly woman at the mirror–
my mother would have called it primping–
fluffing up her hair
dabbing cream under her eyes
painstaking work
as though preparing a masterpiece
for presentation.
How sad is this–
though isn’t this what we all do–
trying to put the best foot forward?
My heart aches for all of us.
depathologize me and take my face with you. won’t need
these eyes to see
clinging onto your thick adult hand and vitamin pills in it.
take me to school so they can see me writhe on the linoleum
like a cluster of snakes. miss class
secretary, you gave birth to the village idiot in a princess
costume. play three songs for me and make sure they’re
all shitty. cover your ears
when I start splitting my fingers on the piano keys.
give me that paper bag. now no one has to see the face
that looks nothing like you
that makes strange contortions when the music stops.
no, keep playing it. keep playing
the shitty music
and make sure you keep laughing.
