I was reading The Great Gatsby earlier this semester for my American Novel class and it gave me the inspiration for this poem:
Flowers and Tears
If personality
is an unbroken series
of successful
gestures,
I am
a continuous middle finger
not tiring
from standing
tall,
even when slumped
in my chaise.
Exempt from
consequences
all my actions
steeped in
dirt.
Maybe my baby
is crying
somewhere,
in this drunken haze
I can't tell if these
tears are mine
or hers
or the country's.
They don't belong to
the slaves of America,
but slaves
of the American Dream.
When I smile
the S's,
two vertical blades
slicing through,
sparkle in my
irises.
The sparkle
is drunken
in thirsty gulps
and
when only ice
is left
my eyes reflect back
this
dream of America,
devoid.
Running My Mouth
Friday, May 9, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Broken Brick Red
I want you
but what is this want
and how do I know it?
The lust thick in the air
making me thick in the head
I claw at it, feral
The sun swollen and high
like us
threatening to explode
like us
I feel the grit on my skin
and the taste of your sweat on my teeth
as we paint our town
broken brick red
I feel your eyes down to my bones
this humidity, to my bones
it just sits
and it waits
watching Urgency pass, with a smirk
I know this want
when my skin is alive
humming and buzzing
like a swarm of angry bees
and I can shed it and
still climb your body
Ten thousand miles and two boyfriends
away,
I sit in the heat
panting,
wanting you.
but what is this want
and how do I know it?
The lust thick in the air
making me thick in the head
I claw at it, feral
The sun swollen and high
like us
threatening to explode
like us
I feel the grit on my skin
and the taste of your sweat on my teeth
as we paint our town
broken brick red
I feel your eyes down to my bones
this humidity, to my bones
it just sits
and it waits
watching Urgency pass, with a smirk
I know this want
when my skin is alive
humming and buzzing
like a swarm of angry bees
and I can shed it and
still climb your body
Ten thousand miles and two boyfriends
away,
I sit in the heat
panting,
wanting you.
Friday, February 14, 2014
I Will Never Be Your Bride
I know what is in store for me
I know what is the reason
these bruises on my skin
from white
to purples and the blues,
swirls of red.
I walk slowly up the stairs
Step by step I feel it,
my heart,
the sound of horses hooves
against hard dirt.
Step by step I feel it,
This excitement like hand
pressed to my back,
pushing me forward
Tomorrow I will feel it
when someone hugs me,
skin pressing my skin,
I'll be reminded of you.
Tomorrow I will feel it
when I have to sit slowly
consciously remember
to watch where I am walking
But who has time for that?
I will bump into things
I want to be reminded of you.
All these dull evocations.
Still
I will never bring you home to my mother,
I will never be your bride.
I know what is the reason
these bruises on my skin
from white
to purples and the blues,
swirls of red.
I walk slowly up the stairs
Step by step I feel it,
my heart,
the sound of horses hooves
against hard dirt.
Step by step I feel it,
This excitement like hand
pressed to my back,
pushing me forward
Tomorrow I will feel it
when someone hugs me,
skin pressing my skin,
I'll be reminded of you.
Tomorrow I will feel it
when I have to sit slowly
consciously remember
to watch where I am walking
But who has time for that?
I will bump into things
I want to be reminded of you.
All these dull evocations.
Still
I will never bring you home to my mother,
I will never be your bride.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Alive
The wind whips at me
Like I deserve it
It is bitter
This medicine, going down.
Monsters
Everywhere I go
Arms stretched over their heads
Their leaves ready to grab
at me
Lights flashing, on and off
But I keep walking
Too many SOS signals
Not everyone can be helped
I see a white man
Start to walk towards him
His hand starts flashing
Red
Breaking into a run
I stop on an island
I have a pulse
On the boulevard of death
Like I deserve it
It is bitter
This medicine, going down.
Monsters
Everywhere I go
Arms stretched over their heads
Their leaves ready to grab
at me
Lights flashing, on and off
But I keep walking
Too many SOS signals
Not everyone can be helped
I see a white man
Start to walk towards him
His hand starts flashing
Red
Breaking into a run
I stop on an island
I have a pulse
On the boulevard of death
Labels:
long walk,
NYC,
poem,
poetry,
queens,
queens blvd,
queens boulevard,
winter
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Inspiration
I went to the Book Expo America last year and received a ton of books, some I am still getting around to reading. One of those books is a poem, titled To the Barricades, by Stephen Collins. I am only a few pages in but I am loving every second of it. My favorite stanza is the opening stanza, which is written as a letter:
Dear Common
after Gerald Raunig's Art and Revolution
I had thought this was
Outside the barricades
No street in time
But a space left
Uneven and cluttered
With broken ballot boxes
Like a poem with
Everything in it so
Nothing you write
Isn't it and
Nothing you write is
But everywhere your
Hand over the page
Is shadowed by
Another hand taking
Up what you've written
Down and finding the
Spatiotemporal scale
At which it
Makes the most sense
I've been reading this over for days and loving every line of it.
Dear Common
after Gerald Raunig's Art and Revolution
I had thought this was
Outside the barricades
No street in time
But a space left
Uneven and cluttered
With broken ballot boxes
Like a poem with
Everything in it so
Nothing you write
Isn't it and
Nothing you write is
But everywhere your
Hand over the page
Is shadowed by
Another hand taking
Up what you've written
Down and finding the
Spatiotemporal scale
At which it
Makes the most sense
I've been reading this over for days and loving every line of it.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
No Man's Land
I heard screams and crying all night
Their tears left on car windows
It chills me,
This windless cold
I don't think my bones
Will ever remember warmth
Empty streets
Only last night's ghosts
Departing
As that ball of fire
Stretches high,
Melts them away
Leaving these frosty puddles
littering the sidewalk
Where are all the old people
playing chess,
All the old people
usually on the benches?
I am
Before their time.
Their tears left on car windows
It chills me,
This windless cold
I don't think my bones
Will ever remember warmth
Empty streets
Only last night's ghosts
Departing
As that ball of fire
Stretches high,
Melts them away
Leaving these frosty puddles
littering the sidewalk
Where are all the old people
playing chess,
All the old people
usually on the benches?
I am
Before their time.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
July 4
Steel wool
Dragged across my skin
Ripping off a layer
Thinking about our last words
I bite my tongue
Every chain link
Digging in
Bleeding me out
I pound away
at the metal
Sparks fly
Fragments everywhere
I stop
Sweating, spent.
I will let
The shower
The change of seasons
The kindness of strangers
Return me to me
Kitchen surface tops
Will collect dust
Without your condescending eye
I am no longer
Bound to a broom
The apron
Permanently untied
I can wear my highest shoes
Without fear
Of making you little,
You do that fine
By yourself.
Dragged across my skin
Ripping off a layer
Thinking about our last words
I bite my tongue
Every chain link
Digging in
Bleeding me out
I pound away
at the metal
Sparks fly
Fragments everywhere
I stop
Sweating, spent.
I will let
The shower
The change of seasons
The kindness of strangers
Return me to me
Kitchen surface tops
Will collect dust
Without your condescending eye
I am no longer
Bound to a broom
The apron
Permanently untied
I can wear my highest shoes
Without fear
Of making you little,
You do that fine
By yourself.
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