Archive for December, 2008

Posted: December 16, 2008 in Uncategorized

i feel like every day i wake up and decide to take a breath, i’ve walked into a trap.


a fantasy

Posted: December 12, 2008 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

you need to stop being afraid to die
he said it while lying over me
my legs spread and warm
stomach tightening and losing breath
the moment you don’t care about dying
you let go and all your emotions spread out
like blood on a canvas
like fire on a silk curtain
like heat on a bed of clouds
i bit my lip and kept moving
and he whispered in my ear
you need to just die
let yourself die
your religion carries you to death
as something to care for
but sometimes a little death means nothing
sometimes you have to feel yourself
descend from your heights
to your depths
and then rise to fall again
let go and don’t worry about time
don’t worry about love
don’t worry about anything
stop caring and let yourself sink into an explosion of
light and nothing
let yourself die
and i died and opened my eyes
he was gone.

until i perish

Posted: December 12, 2008 in Poetry
Tags: ,

I’ll be saying “when I grow up” until I’m at least 40,
learning the meaning of dead-end jobs and missing
the marvel of entry-level experiences, muscle
strains and uncertain reimaginings of the same old

new moment.

Posted: December 10, 2008 in Draft Dodging, Uncategorized

at *this* moment the shards and jagged edges in my eyes have traveled down into my lower back.   it hurts to move.  it hurts to adjust.  it hurts to breathe.  i have a cold water bottle shoved down the back of my pajama pants because it’s the closest thing to an ice pack i have.  and there are spasms.

i surely surely know how to study for exams in style.

the tiniest pieces

Posted: December 7, 2008 in Draft Dodging, Poetry
Tags: ,

At this moment, if I looked in the mirror
and I’d see glass shards and jagged edges
where my brown eyes used to be. I’ve
become too intimate with my teacup, and
I ask the swirls of honey to deliver my
stories, credit my sources, and carry
me to a hive of serenity. It’s another late night,
different from the others because I’m upright
and I’m not crying into my false hopes for a
tolerable tomorrow, not even better, not really.
I only want to do something beautiful, and no
matter where I turn, I see beauty is a full-
time job, an impossible standard, and I puzzle
over fearfully and wonderfully breathing life
into a new world order, a genesis of revelation
for a gaggle of glassy-eyed brown nympho
reclusive legal divas like me. I wonder if I’m
the one who will make my beauty known, and
how many laws I must break to live my truth.

The truth is hardest to pick up; it breaks into
the tiniest pieces of biting light…

i’d rather get poetry in my prose
then prose in my poetry
because being prosaic is formulaic
and you can’t play as hard
as you can with poetry
love flowers from my poet-tree
that’s how you know me
my poet-tree blooms

and sometimes when i write prose
i talk to poetry and i say
“yo, purify that shit” and
a missy elliott-like cry shoots out:
and i take my honest hatchet
to a poet-tree and branch it into
my formulaic prosegri-la
build a cabin of words and
double meaning (multifunctional)

and then i rub out my thicket
of poet-tree and solitude
before the reader knows
the equation’s unbalanced

i needed a place to write
an ungraded unbroken screed
not condensed and referenced
not footnoted and endnoted
where i wouldn’t have to worry
about bluebooks and alwds and
no letters telling me how to write
no one telling me how to give credit
no one diluting my voice and a place
where people would take my voice
my words
my life as proof
that what i’m saying matters
that my scars are my references
that those scars serve as cite checks
and site checks of where i’ve traveled
a travelogue of pain and love
and fear and joy
and where i don’t care to go without
immediate reciprocity of identity
without someone looking at me
and saying without the help of
a theory or a prescription
“woman, i know you”