love is the flag we follow-
though the bearer impales our flesh,
fighting fear we continue the effort
'til the crowd loses interest-
and our aficionado offers mercy
at the tip of a spear.
Monday, July 22, 2013
misc. 1
voice voice voice
it's all about the voice
"you've got to find your voice."
well, i don't have a voice.
i have a sob
and a cry
and a pen that doesn't know
what to do.
it's all about the voice
"you've got to find your voice."
well, i don't have a voice.
i have a sob
and a cry
and a pen that doesn't know
what to do.
hesitation
is this the cusp of understanding or madness?
a tottering breakthrough, or a massive breakdown?
when the supernova of change takes place,
will you be the unstoppable energy hurting through space?
or the collapsed mass at ground zero
from which not even light can escape?
a tottering breakthrough, or a massive breakdown?
when the supernova of change takes place,
will you be the unstoppable energy hurting through space?
or the collapsed mass at ground zero
from which not even light can escape?
daddy's little girl (work in progress)
on an archeological dig
in the southeast corner
of my basement
i found an emptiness
in the exact size
and shape
of my childhood
the boundaries were
vaguely marked by small walls:
a few remaining animals,
dolls (only the sad ones),
laminated hand prints,
and 110% A++ spelling tests
folded carefully in a trunk
was a small, soft gown
near certainly the symbolic shroud
for my age of femininity
(generic stock definitions applied)-
beneath a tiny purse, a miniature vial
of scent capped by an opaque dove-
a fragile sliver of gold laying claim,
equally fragile, that i belonged
to a large man who helped
make me-
what i am today
marvels at these ancient trinkets,
building stories around
their placement, wondering
at their significance
taking samples of the earth
built up around them
for later testing, questioning
the validity of carbon dating
as applied
to myths.
in the southeast corner
of my basement
i found an emptiness
in the exact size
and shape
of my childhood
the boundaries were
vaguely marked by small walls:
a few remaining animals,
dolls (only the sad ones),
laminated hand prints,
and 110% A++ spelling tests
folded carefully in a trunk
was a small, soft gown
near certainly the symbolic shroud
for my age of femininity
(generic stock definitions applied)-
beneath a tiny purse, a miniature vial
of scent capped by an opaque dove-
a fragile sliver of gold laying claim,
equally fragile, that i belonged
to a large man who helped
make me-
what i am today
marvels at these ancient trinkets,
building stories around
their placement, wondering
at their significance
taking samples of the earth
built up around them
for later testing, questioning
the validity of carbon dating
as applied
to myths.
something familiar (work in progress)
now, as often
she entertains a pair
of lovers, naively
playing one
against the other
clueless
like lois lane
intentionally unaware
that thrilling life
(remove the cape)
dependable death
(subtract the glasses)
are still one
and the same.
she entertains a pair
of lovers, naively
playing one
against the other
clueless
like lois lane
intentionally unaware
that thrilling life
(remove the cape)
dependable death
(subtract the glasses)
are still one
and the same.
when dizzy
i find myself
a child beneath
the stars, catching
breath, uncertain
if the gravity
of the situation
will hold
in the face
of such momentum
hoping some things
stay just
because
they have
so
far.
a child beneath
the stars, catching
breath, uncertain
if the gravity
of the situation
will hold
in the face
of such momentum
hoping some things
stay just
because
they have
so
far.
unintended lessons: gethsemane to golgotha, and back again
when jesus begged a deaf father
for another option-
father, everything is possible for you...
prayed to an unforgiving god
for a brief reprieve-
take this cup from me- not what i will,
but what you will...
and still died alone, surrounded
by un-crucified criminals-
he saved others, let him save himself...
my education in despair,
and the inevitability of suicide,
was complete-
friend, do what you came for.
for another option-
father, everything is possible for you...
prayed to an unforgiving god
for a brief reprieve-
take this cup from me- not what i will,
but what you will...
and still died alone, surrounded
by un-crucified criminals-
he saved others, let him save himself...
my education in despair,
and the inevitability of suicide,
was complete-
friend, do what you came for.
Stepping to the Side
I used to have this roommate, this little beaten chick that winced if you looked at her too hard. Little personality, not person. She was one of those plus-sized girls, big through the hips but not bad looking. She was a great roommate as far as housekeeping was concerned. Kept the place spotless, doing dishes, vacuuming, scrubbin' the toilet, the little things that fall the wayside, otherwise. As far as that goes, I couldn't've asked for more in a roommate, unless I could've gotten someone to prepare my meals and do my laundry.
Anyway, this chick was okay to live with- quiet, withdrawn, respectful, clean- but kinda mopey, in this downtrodden, don't-hit-me-again kinda way. Got on my nerves, you know? So we didn't interact much Passed in the hallway, shared the kitchen waiting for the microwave, sometimes she'd read in the living room while I watched TV. Period. No real interaction of any kind, for almost the entire year we lived together. Until about a couple months before our lease was up. I don't know, it must've been early November. Anyway, I was sitting in my room, watching some TV show or another that I was crazy about, at the time- and I hear this hesitant voice from the hallway.
"Are you home?"
"Yeah. In here."
She peeked her head in through my door with this hopeful smile on her face, cradling some bundle she'd wrapped in one of her ratty flannel shirts.
"Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could give me a ride to an animal shelter if I find one open?"
"Uhh... sure, I guess."
"Thanks. I- I found this bird by the road. I think its wing is broken."
She unfolded the flannel to show me this bird she'd picked up off the ground. It was decent-sized, fully grown, with these deep blue feathers and ink brown eyes- I think it was a pigeon. I don't really know, but I think it was. Its head was kinda lolling to the side, leaning against her right breast. Until it saw me. As soon as she leaned int let me get a look at it, this bird threw a fit, floppin' around with its left wing, kickin' with its left foot, scrabblin' against her like I was waiting' with a knife and fork, or something'. She covered it with the flannel again, caressed its back through the cloth until it relaxed into her arm. She shrugged as she tucked her dishwater hair behind her left ear, apologizing, explaining.
"I think it must've glanced off of somebody's windshield. I didn't see any blood when I picked it up, but it's definitely hurt. It hasn't moved its right wing or leg since I found it."
"Ok.
Apparently she'd been walkin' home from the house of this kid she hung out with, starin' at the ground, no doubt, and she saw this thing floppin' around. She'd thought it was garbage, at first, some plastic bag somebody'd tossed, or maybe a newspaper. I don't know. So she was steppin' around it when she looked closer and it realized it was this bird. It was on its right side with its left wing strainin' up, like it was tryin' to fly with just the one, stretchin' it to its full length and kickin' with its left leg. And I remember thinkin' that that'd be somethin' she'd be drawn to, that stupid bird. So, bein' the chick that she was, she took off her over shirt and wrapped it up like some baby. I can see her doin' it in my head, even now- pushin' her hair back from her face, tuckin' it behind her ear while she's walkin' down the sidewalk with this precious cargo of hers. I don't know. She was a weird one, like that- sweet, but weird, tryin' to fix everything, make it alright.
Anyway, a few minutes later I wandered into the living room, and she was on the phone with some lady from a nearby museum, who did work with local wildlife. And that damned bird was still cradled in her left arm. She'd hugged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while writing down the address with her right hand. When she hung up the phone, she gave me this look of desperate hope, like you'd imagine some starving kid giving you if you'd promised them a loaf of bread. Slightly glazed, maybe a little unsure, but unable to keep from hoping.
"Sorry it's taking so long. You still okay to take me?"
"Uh huh."
"Cool. Thank you so much. The lady said I shouldn't touch it any more than necessary so I just need a minute to track down a box and some clean cloth."
She eased the bird out of her elbow niche and settled it on the coffee table in front of the couch, before diving into the hallway closet. When she left the room, this bird just stared at me. It didn't make any noise, and so long as I kept my distance, it didn't move- just followed me with those dead brown eyes, its head still lolling to the side.
When she returned triumphantly with her box and cloth, she apologized again, and kept thanking me while she re-wrapped the bird and settled it into the box. As soon as the bird was inside, she looked a little beaten, again, like she'd taken some unapproved break and had to make up for it. I could tell it was killin' her not to hold it, too.
"Ready?"
"Sure. Let me grab my keys."
When we got down to my car, she eased herself into the passenger's seat, tryin' not to jostle the box, upset the bird, I guess. Once we set off, she was quiet again, like when we passed in the halls, just- sharin' the space. Every minute or so she'd peek in, dip her hand in to smooth its feathers, whisper to it. It took me a few minutes to notice, but she even held the box up from her lap, used her arms like shocks to keep the bouncing to a minimum. It was strange, like she needed this bird to be okay- not just okay, but comfortable and safe and I don't know- she was clinging to this bird.
It wasn't a long drive, couldn't've been more than ten or fifteen minutes to the museum. She eased herself out even more gently, left the box on the seat when she ran in to hunt down the woman who was going to take care of it. And it was just me and that bird, again. She'd left the lid off, a bit, and it was watchin' me. Animals don't usually make me feel guilty but that broken bird made me feel like shit sittin' in that car, like I should've been the one runnin' around tryin' to find help.
"Let's not forget who drove you here, okay?"
It just kept starin' out of those blank brown eyes, with a hint of blue lining. I don't know. I don't know. Anyway, she came out with the woman, this old lady from the museum, and handed the bird over to her. When the lady pulled the bird out, my roommate just barely failed to cover a flinch, like she wanted to take it back, drive it home and keep it, coddle it.
"Got herself banged up pretty good, didn't she? I'm not sure if I'll be able to help her, but I'll try. You did a good thing, you know, bringin' her here."
All my roommate did was nod.
When the museum lady walked off with the bird, she got back into the car and just watched after the lady until she was out of sight. And then she sank back into the seat, folded her hands and stared out the window. The ride home was silent. Not the quiet on the way there, this was a full-blown silence, the kind that makes your ears ring a little, ya know? I turned on the radio at some point, just so there'd be something in the car with me, since she'd obviously checked out. Without that bird to take care of, every bit of her seemed somehow resigned, meaningless.
By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd practically forgotten she was even there. But as soon as I turned off the engine, and the radio died, I could hear her crying. I don't know when she'd started, I'd quit payin' attention a while back. But she was crying in my car, these gentle, delicate sobs of someone who wants to stop but can't, so they try to keep them out of the way, minimize them. I just froze when I realized. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know this chick. We shared a bathroom, granted, but I'll be damned if I knew a single thing about her. And she was crying less than eight inches away from me.
"Are you okay?"
She gave this little shake of her head, no. It was a small motion, but it shattered her control. Her hands shot to her face, tryin' to hide her tear-streaked cheeks as she doubled over, shaking and crying, nearly silent.
"What's wrong?"
"The bird... I'm sorry, this is ridiculous... that bird, I couldn't... I'm so sorry, this isn't your problem, but the bird, I wanted to, to, to help, I wanted to help..."
"You took it to someone who could help. I just drove and I feel like I did a good deed, so why are you-"
"It's not enough!"
I'd never really heard her raise her voice before. She still wasn't yelling, but there was something harder in her voice that made me feel dirty for not understanding.
"It's not enough to just, just, just hand her over, to someone who doesn't know, doesn't know what it's like... I should've, should've held her, I should've held her longer, I should've helped, or soothed, or, or done something, anything... what if I, what if she dies alone? What if that's all I've given her- what if that's it for her, for, for no reason, because I was stupid, or lazy, or, or... it doesn't make a difference, not a bit of difference, to anyone, no matter what, no matter, it doesn't matter... I just don't understand why I can't, why I don't, I don't matter..."
She choked on her sobs then, just leaning forward, resting her head against the dashboard while I sat there watching. I hadn't signed on for this. This wasn't my problem, this chick breaking down in my car. That's what I thought then, anyway, when I patted her shoulder and got out. Maybe I didn't think anything of it when I left because she didn't look to me, didn't look after me hoping for me to return. I guess I thought we both understood our boundaries, and that she could expect this. I mean, I wouldn't've broken down like that to her. I had friends for that, a boyfriend on occasion. She was just a roommate.
So I let myself back into our apartment, and curled back up on my bed with that same TV show still running. And I sat there, watching TV, while this girl was downstairs crying in my car. Well over an hour must've passed before I heard her come in. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than walk to her room and close her door. I remember being irritated because I was so sure that she hadn't locked the doors when she got out. Not irritated enough to check right away, of course. It wasn't until later, when I was getting ready to go to bed, that I decided to check the car. It as locked, after all, looking neat and orderly, and not at all like some place where someone had fallen apart.
Before I went back to my room, some little bit of guilt made me stop at her door. I think it might have dawned on me that the fact that she had cried in my car, to me, might've meant she needed something, from me. Some little shred of humanity demanded expression loudly enough to make me knock on her door. It hadn't latched, apparently, so it swung open, giving me a narrow view of her bed. It was a plain bed, shoved into the far corner, un-decorated in any fashion. I'd never seen it before, and I haven't seen it since, but I remember exactly how her black comforter was bunched at the foot of the bed, the way her off-white sheet draped gently over her motionless torso, and that black garbage bag fitted over her head. It was some cheap kind I'd bought the week before when she'd forgotten to pick some up- a generic Hefty, or something.
I never actually saw her. Just the comforter, the sheet, the bag. When I walked back to my room to get my cell phone, I did so like I did to call information. 411. 911. Silently, indifferently. The next few hours flew by- paramedics, police, the coroner, eventually my boyfriend of the time. I spent the night with him, called the landlord the next day and cancelled the lease. I sent moving people to get my things, left her stuff for her family, friends, anybody else who wanted to claim it. The only thing of hers I checked on was the bird. After calling around for a while, I found the museum lady.
"Oh, right, right- the pigeon? Yeah, she'll be fine. Somebody must've glanced her with their windshield, broke her wing, shocked her real good. It'll be a month, or so, but she'll be heading back out, eventually. Are you the one that brought her in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was real good of you, just so you know that. It wasn't a bad blow, but if she'd been left on the side of the road she'd be dead by now."
"Thanks."
"Alright, now, you have a good day, and thanks again, for bringin' her by."
I don't think that I hit her, or that it was a specific someone, at all. I think it might have been some collective windshield we were all behind. I don't know any of that, though. The only thing I do know is that I didn't pick her up. When I passed her straining to get up, with one broken wing, I did not take off my shirt or wrap her up like the precious cargo she thought that bird to be. I stepped to the side, told myself we should drive more carefully, and continued on.
I don't know how that makes me feel. Some part of me wants to sobbingly confess that I tear myself to pieces over it. But that's not true. There's no sobbing, no tearing to pieces. There's just this knowledge that I stepped to the side. And this image of her, holding that damn bird, when she peeked into my room that afternoon. She was so hopeful, so peaceful at the prospect of saving something. Maybe because she couldn't save herself. Or even help herself. Or anyone. I don't know. She was weird, you know, always trying to fix things, make it alright. I don't know.
Anyway, this chick was okay to live with- quiet, withdrawn, respectful, clean- but kinda mopey, in this downtrodden, don't-hit-me-again kinda way. Got on my nerves, you know? So we didn't interact much Passed in the hallway, shared the kitchen waiting for the microwave, sometimes she'd read in the living room while I watched TV. Period. No real interaction of any kind, for almost the entire year we lived together. Until about a couple months before our lease was up. I don't know, it must've been early November. Anyway, I was sitting in my room, watching some TV show or another that I was crazy about, at the time- and I hear this hesitant voice from the hallway.
"Are you home?"
"Yeah. In here."
She peeked her head in through my door with this hopeful smile on her face, cradling some bundle she'd wrapped in one of her ratty flannel shirts.
"Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could give me a ride to an animal shelter if I find one open?"
"Uhh... sure, I guess."
"Thanks. I- I found this bird by the road. I think its wing is broken."
She unfolded the flannel to show me this bird she'd picked up off the ground. It was decent-sized, fully grown, with these deep blue feathers and ink brown eyes- I think it was a pigeon. I don't really know, but I think it was. Its head was kinda lolling to the side, leaning against her right breast. Until it saw me. As soon as she leaned int let me get a look at it, this bird threw a fit, floppin' around with its left wing, kickin' with its left foot, scrabblin' against her like I was waiting' with a knife and fork, or something'. She covered it with the flannel again, caressed its back through the cloth until it relaxed into her arm. She shrugged as she tucked her dishwater hair behind her left ear, apologizing, explaining.
"I think it must've glanced off of somebody's windshield. I didn't see any blood when I picked it up, but it's definitely hurt. It hasn't moved its right wing or leg since I found it."
"Ok.
Apparently she'd been walkin' home from the house of this kid she hung out with, starin' at the ground, no doubt, and she saw this thing floppin' around. She'd thought it was garbage, at first, some plastic bag somebody'd tossed, or maybe a newspaper. I don't know. So she was steppin' around it when she looked closer and it realized it was this bird. It was on its right side with its left wing strainin' up, like it was tryin' to fly with just the one, stretchin' it to its full length and kickin' with its left leg. And I remember thinkin' that that'd be somethin' she'd be drawn to, that stupid bird. So, bein' the chick that she was, she took off her over shirt and wrapped it up like some baby. I can see her doin' it in my head, even now- pushin' her hair back from her face, tuckin' it behind her ear while she's walkin' down the sidewalk with this precious cargo of hers. I don't know. She was a weird one, like that- sweet, but weird, tryin' to fix everything, make it alright.
Anyway, a few minutes later I wandered into the living room, and she was on the phone with some lady from a nearby museum, who did work with local wildlife. And that damned bird was still cradled in her left arm. She'd hugged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while writing down the address with her right hand. When she hung up the phone, she gave me this look of desperate hope, like you'd imagine some starving kid giving you if you'd promised them a loaf of bread. Slightly glazed, maybe a little unsure, but unable to keep from hoping.
"Sorry it's taking so long. You still okay to take me?"
"Uh huh."
"Cool. Thank you so much. The lady said I shouldn't touch it any more than necessary so I just need a minute to track down a box and some clean cloth."
She eased the bird out of her elbow niche and settled it on the coffee table in front of the couch, before diving into the hallway closet. When she left the room, this bird just stared at me. It didn't make any noise, and so long as I kept my distance, it didn't move- just followed me with those dead brown eyes, its head still lolling to the side.
When she returned triumphantly with her box and cloth, she apologized again, and kept thanking me while she re-wrapped the bird and settled it into the box. As soon as the bird was inside, she looked a little beaten, again, like she'd taken some unapproved break and had to make up for it. I could tell it was killin' her not to hold it, too.
"Ready?"
"Sure. Let me grab my keys."
When we got down to my car, she eased herself into the passenger's seat, tryin' not to jostle the box, upset the bird, I guess. Once we set off, she was quiet again, like when we passed in the halls, just- sharin' the space. Every minute or so she'd peek in, dip her hand in to smooth its feathers, whisper to it. It took me a few minutes to notice, but she even held the box up from her lap, used her arms like shocks to keep the bouncing to a minimum. It was strange, like she needed this bird to be okay- not just okay, but comfortable and safe and I don't know- she was clinging to this bird.
It wasn't a long drive, couldn't've been more than ten or fifteen minutes to the museum. She eased herself out even more gently, left the box on the seat when she ran in to hunt down the woman who was going to take care of it. And it was just me and that bird, again. She'd left the lid off, a bit, and it was watchin' me. Animals don't usually make me feel guilty but that broken bird made me feel like shit sittin' in that car, like I should've been the one runnin' around tryin' to find help.
"Let's not forget who drove you here, okay?"
It just kept starin' out of those blank brown eyes, with a hint of blue lining. I don't know. I don't know. Anyway, she came out with the woman, this old lady from the museum, and handed the bird over to her. When the lady pulled the bird out, my roommate just barely failed to cover a flinch, like she wanted to take it back, drive it home and keep it, coddle it.
"Got herself banged up pretty good, didn't she? I'm not sure if I'll be able to help her, but I'll try. You did a good thing, you know, bringin' her here."
All my roommate did was nod.
When the museum lady walked off with the bird, she got back into the car and just watched after the lady until she was out of sight. And then she sank back into the seat, folded her hands and stared out the window. The ride home was silent. Not the quiet on the way there, this was a full-blown silence, the kind that makes your ears ring a little, ya know? I turned on the radio at some point, just so there'd be something in the car with me, since she'd obviously checked out. Without that bird to take care of, every bit of her seemed somehow resigned, meaningless.
By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd practically forgotten she was even there. But as soon as I turned off the engine, and the radio died, I could hear her crying. I don't know when she'd started, I'd quit payin' attention a while back. But she was crying in my car, these gentle, delicate sobs of someone who wants to stop but can't, so they try to keep them out of the way, minimize them. I just froze when I realized. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know this chick. We shared a bathroom, granted, but I'll be damned if I knew a single thing about her. And she was crying less than eight inches away from me.
"Are you okay?"
She gave this little shake of her head, no. It was a small motion, but it shattered her control. Her hands shot to her face, tryin' to hide her tear-streaked cheeks as she doubled over, shaking and crying, nearly silent.
"What's wrong?"
"The bird... I'm sorry, this is ridiculous... that bird, I couldn't... I'm so sorry, this isn't your problem, but the bird, I wanted to, to, to help, I wanted to help..."
"You took it to someone who could help. I just drove and I feel like I did a good deed, so why are you-"
"It's not enough!"
I'd never really heard her raise her voice before. She still wasn't yelling, but there was something harder in her voice that made me feel dirty for not understanding.
"It's not enough to just, just, just hand her over, to someone who doesn't know, doesn't know what it's like... I should've, should've held her, I should've held her longer, I should've helped, or soothed, or, or done something, anything... what if I, what if she dies alone? What if that's all I've given her- what if that's it for her, for, for no reason, because I was stupid, or lazy, or, or... it doesn't make a difference, not a bit of difference, to anyone, no matter what, no matter, it doesn't matter... I just don't understand why I can't, why I don't, I don't matter..."
She choked on her sobs then, just leaning forward, resting her head against the dashboard while I sat there watching. I hadn't signed on for this. This wasn't my problem, this chick breaking down in my car. That's what I thought then, anyway, when I patted her shoulder and got out. Maybe I didn't think anything of it when I left because she didn't look to me, didn't look after me hoping for me to return. I guess I thought we both understood our boundaries, and that she could expect this. I mean, I wouldn't've broken down like that to her. I had friends for that, a boyfriend on occasion. She was just a roommate.
So I let myself back into our apartment, and curled back up on my bed with that same TV show still running. And I sat there, watching TV, while this girl was downstairs crying in my car. Well over an hour must've passed before I heard her come in. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than walk to her room and close her door. I remember being irritated because I was so sure that she hadn't locked the doors when she got out. Not irritated enough to check right away, of course. It wasn't until later, when I was getting ready to go to bed, that I decided to check the car. It as locked, after all, looking neat and orderly, and not at all like some place where someone had fallen apart.
Before I went back to my room, some little bit of guilt made me stop at her door. I think it might have dawned on me that the fact that she had cried in my car, to me, might've meant she needed something, from me. Some little shred of humanity demanded expression loudly enough to make me knock on her door. It hadn't latched, apparently, so it swung open, giving me a narrow view of her bed. It was a plain bed, shoved into the far corner, un-decorated in any fashion. I'd never seen it before, and I haven't seen it since, but I remember exactly how her black comforter was bunched at the foot of the bed, the way her off-white sheet draped gently over her motionless torso, and that black garbage bag fitted over her head. It was some cheap kind I'd bought the week before when she'd forgotten to pick some up- a generic Hefty, or something.
I never actually saw her. Just the comforter, the sheet, the bag. When I walked back to my room to get my cell phone, I did so like I did to call information. 411. 911. Silently, indifferently. The next few hours flew by- paramedics, police, the coroner, eventually my boyfriend of the time. I spent the night with him, called the landlord the next day and cancelled the lease. I sent moving people to get my things, left her stuff for her family, friends, anybody else who wanted to claim it. The only thing of hers I checked on was the bird. After calling around for a while, I found the museum lady.
"Oh, right, right- the pigeon? Yeah, she'll be fine. Somebody must've glanced her with their windshield, broke her wing, shocked her real good. It'll be a month, or so, but she'll be heading back out, eventually. Are you the one that brought her in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was real good of you, just so you know that. It wasn't a bad blow, but if she'd been left on the side of the road she'd be dead by now."
"Thanks."
"Alright, now, you have a good day, and thanks again, for bringin' her by."
I don't think that I hit her, or that it was a specific someone, at all. I think it might have been some collective windshield we were all behind. I don't know any of that, though. The only thing I do know is that I didn't pick her up. When I passed her straining to get up, with one broken wing, I did not take off my shirt or wrap her up like the precious cargo she thought that bird to be. I stepped to the side, told myself we should drive more carefully, and continued on.
I don't know how that makes me feel. Some part of me wants to sobbingly confess that I tear myself to pieces over it. But that's not true. There's no sobbing, no tearing to pieces. There's just this knowledge that I stepped to the side. And this image of her, holding that damn bird, when she peeked into my room that afternoon. She was so hopeful, so peaceful at the prospect of saving something. Maybe because she couldn't save herself. Or even help herself. Or anyone. I don't know. She was weird, you know, always trying to fix things, make it alright. I don't know.
One Way
The stripes from the blinds
climb the wall with indifference,
caring little what hour they signify,
how for a single person
alone in a sterile room
they measure all that there is
of time.
Daily they work their way
up, up, up
from mid-floor to trim
before surrendering
to the limits of the earth,
neither wave nor particle muscling through
the mass of world.
As she rocks herself
below their dwindling path,
faded green scrub-covered knees
pulled up to chin, desiccated arms
wrapped around, distant eyes staring
up, up, up
to where the light ends,
she waits to follow,
even as she fades.
climb the wall with indifference,
caring little what hour they signify,
how for a single person
alone in a sterile room
they measure all that there is
of time.
Daily they work their way
up, up, up
from mid-floor to trim
before surrendering
to the limits of the earth,
neither wave nor particle muscling through
the mass of world.
As she rocks herself
below their dwindling path,
faded green scrub-covered knees
pulled up to chin, desiccated arms
wrapped around, distant eyes staring
up, up, up
to where the light ends,
she waits to follow,
even as she fades.
Understanding the Audience
(This was originally written as an original monologue added to "Offending the Audience)
"I'm angry because I understand, not because I don't." -Sarah Kane
You. You terrorists. You murderers. You survivors. You screamers. You prozac-addicts. You aborted suicides. You sellouts. You phonies. You thieves. You reapers of the benefits wrought by broken hands. You historic moments. You unsung heroes. You chauvinists. You feminazis. You frozen embryos. You almost heroes. You everyday heroes. You mindless masses. You commercial kids. You envious bodies. You struggling bodies. You abusive parents. You spoiled brats. You rotten middle class. You media whores. You consumer slaves. You designer paper dolls. You sex fiends. You lonely losers. You battered wives. You wasted lives. You bleeding hearts. You people of our time. You cookie-cutter anorexics. You wretches. You slit wrists. You wounded psyches. You supplemental lovers. You dying stars. You vacant stares. You sleep-walkers. You meaningless actions. You carriers of contagion. You button-pushers. You soon-to-be-bombed civilians. You theocrats in democratic skin. You wards of the state. Eden's outcast. You.
"I'm angry because I understand, not because I don't." -Sarah Kane
You. You terrorists. You murderers. You survivors. You screamers. You prozac-addicts. You aborted suicides. You sellouts. You phonies. You thieves. You reapers of the benefits wrought by broken hands. You historic moments. You unsung heroes. You chauvinists. You feminazis. You frozen embryos. You almost heroes. You everyday heroes. You mindless masses. You commercial kids. You envious bodies. You struggling bodies. You abusive parents. You spoiled brats. You rotten middle class. You media whores. You consumer slaves. You designer paper dolls. You sex fiends. You lonely losers. You battered wives. You wasted lives. You bleeding hearts. You people of our time. You cookie-cutter anorexics. You wretches. You slit wrists. You wounded psyches. You supplemental lovers. You dying stars. You vacant stares. You sleep-walkers. You meaningless actions. You carriers of contagion. You button-pushers. You soon-to-be-bombed civilians. You theocrats in democratic skin. You wards of the state. Eden's outcast. You.
Too Much Too Soon? / Too Little Too Late?
Our Mother who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Memory.
Thy Queendom gone,
Thy Will beat down,
In Heaven as it is on Earth.
Give us this day
Our daily breath.
And remember our trespasses,
As we remember those
Who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from empty beds.
For Thine is the Queendom.
And the Pain.
And the Shame.
For Now.
Awomen.
Hallowed be Thy Memory.
Thy Queendom gone,
Thy Will beat down,
In Heaven as it is on Earth.
Give us this day
Our daily breath.
And remember our trespasses,
As we remember those
Who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from empty beds.
For Thine is the Queendom.
And the Pain.
And the Shame.
For Now.
Awomen.
To My Maker:
(This poem was written for a creative writing class,
based on the painting "Weeping Woman" by a friend of mine.)
So many shades, thank you, yes, every shade.
But only blue.
Where is the brown of earth?
The green of leaf?
The blood's living rush of red?
You think me
Other
in my sorrow
Woman
in my weeping.
Other is always
limited in definition
by definition
by unknowing.
So is Woman.
My grief has overcome me.
It does not consume me.
You have created me.
You do not know me.
based on the painting "Weeping Woman" by a friend of mine.)
So many shades, thank you, yes, every shade.
But only blue.
Where is the brown of earth?
The green of leaf?
The blood's living rush of red?
You think me
Other
in my sorrow
Woman
in my weeping.
Other is always
limited in definition
by definition
by unknowing.
So is Woman.
My grief has overcome me.
It does not consume me.
You have created me.
You do not know me.
House
(This is a sket I wrote for my improv troupe, in college.)
S: Hey, Evan. Wanna play House?
E: That's a girl's game. Why don't we play tag, or cops and robbers, or-
S: It is not just a girl's game. Daddy used to play with Mommy every day, so it's just as much a boy's game as a girl's.
E: Okay, I guess. How do we play?
S: Well, if we're going to play it right, we have to play Dating, first. I'm going to sit over here and read a play magazine, and I want you to ask me out on a date.
E: Okay... Hey, Sarah, let's go out on a date.
S: (in character) I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
E: Umm... yes? Didn't you tell me to-?
S: (under breath, giving directions) No, no, no- this is where you grovel and chase me when I play hard to get.
E: Oh, okay... (lowers himself to the ground, slightly in front of her) Like this?
S: A little lower. That's good. (places her feet on his back)
E: Do you want to go on a date, now, Sarah?
S: Well, I suppose that if you take me to the most expensive restaurant and promise me gaudy and pricey jewelry, I'll consider it.
E: Umm... okay.
S: Very well. (setting up for the next stage) Okay, now you sit on this chair, and we'll pretend we're in a restaurant.
E: (sitting hesitantly) Okay. You want a hot dog?
S: Hardly. I want the filet mignon, with the most expensive alcoholic drink on the menu. And the alcohol doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you, pig.
E: Uh- does that mean that are mom's aren't going to have us nap together-
S: (short tempered) When boys and girls are grown up and dating, the boys want to take naps more often, and the girls are supposed to say no.
E: Okay.
S: No, no- you're supposed to keep trying.
E: Please, Sarah, can't we nap together?
S: (freaking out) Don't push me, I'm not ready!
E: I'm sorry. Don't be mad, Sarah, I was only doing what you told me-
S: At least you've caught on to something. In fact, from now on in the game, whenever you're not sure what's going on, just apologize. That's the best way.
E: Okay.
S: Alright. Now that we've been dating for so long, you need to buy me a shiny rock and ask me to grace you with my hand in marriage.
E: (digs around in pocket) Will this do?
S: (examines carefully, shakes head) No, it needs to be bigger, shinier and cleaner.
E: (lowers to all fours to search the ground) Okay.
S: Have you proposed before? That's the perfect position.
E: Um-
S: Never mind. Just grab that big one, right there. Perfect. Now we can get married.
E: But I didn't ask-
S: It's okay, I know you need me.
E: Ok.
S: Say you do.
E: I do?
S: Okay- me, too. Now we're married. Carry me across the threshold!
E: What's a thresh hold?
S: The door to the huge house you've offered me as a gift for marriage.
E: Oh.
S: Well?
E: Oh, right. (struggles to lift her) Um, Sarah, I don't think I'm strong enough-
S: Are you saying I'm fat? I hate you. Why did I agree to marry you, you stupid, stupid man? (sobs melodramatically) You're cheating on me, aren't you- with Trisha, in Mrs. Nelson's class. I know it, just admit it!
E: I'm sorry?
S: I knew it! I want a divorce!
E: But Sarah, I'm sorry..
S: I don't want the kids. I just want all of your toys and the money from your piggy bank.
E: When did we get kids?
S: (feigning shock) Don't you dare act like they're not yours. They'll hear you, and then you'll have to pay for their therapy sessions.
E: I-
S: Well, (holds out hand) where's my alimony?
E: Ali-money? Is that like monopoly money? 'Cause I have some of that in my pocket-
S: That'll do. (he hands it over)
E: (growing antsy) Sarah, are we done playing House, yet?
S: Almost, almost. Before you leave, you have to tell me I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, and ask me for one last nap.
E: Umm... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me... and can we still have our naps together?
S: (smacks him)
E: Sarah! You can't hit me!
S: Well, that's how House ends. You did want to end the game, didn't you?
E: Well, yeah- I guess.
S: Then I had to hit you, after you propositioned me.
E: What's a proposition?
S: What you got smacked for. After a divorce, boys always want to keep napping, but the girls have to say no. And then the whole game starts over.
E: Oh. Well, if we're going to play again, we should play House the way my Mom and Dad play it.
S: They're playing it wrong.
E: Shut up, Woman! When I lay down the law, you had better lay down dinner, and then lay down yourself for nap time!
S: Evan!
E: Don't raise your voice to me, Woman! (smacks her)
S: Evan, I don't want to-
E: (grabs her roughly) You like it- you know you do-
S: Evan, stop! Mom! Mom!
E: No, no, Sarah- don't call the authorities. I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it... I- I- I must've had too much root beer... I just got carried away.
S: Well, alright. (brief awkward pause) You know- maybe we should make up our own way to play House. I don't think out parents have been playing it right.
E: Yeah, I was wondering. They never seem to have too much fun, the way they play. So how should we start?
S: Well, we could play in the sand box, for a while, and then go get some peanut butter and jelly before we start our homework.
E: Cool. I have a new bucket we could use-
S: I'll get my shovel!
END
S: Hey, Evan. Wanna play House?
E: That's a girl's game. Why don't we play tag, or cops and robbers, or-
S: It is not just a girl's game. Daddy used to play with Mommy every day, so it's just as much a boy's game as a girl's.
E: Okay, I guess. How do we play?
S: Well, if we're going to play it right, we have to play Dating, first. I'm going to sit over here and read a play magazine, and I want you to ask me out on a date.
E: Okay... Hey, Sarah, let's go out on a date.
S: (in character) I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
E: Umm... yes? Didn't you tell me to-?
S: (under breath, giving directions) No, no, no- this is where you grovel and chase me when I play hard to get.
E: Oh, okay... (lowers himself to the ground, slightly in front of her) Like this?
S: A little lower. That's good. (places her feet on his back)
E: Do you want to go on a date, now, Sarah?
S: Well, I suppose that if you take me to the most expensive restaurant and promise me gaudy and pricey jewelry, I'll consider it.
E: Umm... okay.
S: Very well. (setting up for the next stage) Okay, now you sit on this chair, and we'll pretend we're in a restaurant.
E: (sitting hesitantly) Okay. You want a hot dog?
S: Hardly. I want the filet mignon, with the most expensive alcoholic drink on the menu. And the alcohol doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you, pig.
E: Uh- does that mean that are mom's aren't going to have us nap together-
S: (short tempered) When boys and girls are grown up and dating, the boys want to take naps more often, and the girls are supposed to say no.
E: Okay.
S: No, no- you're supposed to keep trying.
E: Please, Sarah, can't we nap together?
S: (freaking out) Don't push me, I'm not ready!
E: I'm sorry. Don't be mad, Sarah, I was only doing what you told me-
S: At least you've caught on to something. In fact, from now on in the game, whenever you're not sure what's going on, just apologize. That's the best way.
E: Okay.
S: Alright. Now that we've been dating for so long, you need to buy me a shiny rock and ask me to grace you with my hand in marriage.
E: (digs around in pocket) Will this do?
S: (examines carefully, shakes head) No, it needs to be bigger, shinier and cleaner.
E: (lowers to all fours to search the ground) Okay.
S: Have you proposed before? That's the perfect position.
E: Um-
S: Never mind. Just grab that big one, right there. Perfect. Now we can get married.
E: But I didn't ask-
S: It's okay, I know you need me.
E: Ok.
S: Say you do.
E: I do?
S: Okay- me, too. Now we're married. Carry me across the threshold!
E: What's a thresh hold?
S: The door to the huge house you've offered me as a gift for marriage.
E: Oh.
S: Well?
E: Oh, right. (struggles to lift her) Um, Sarah, I don't think I'm strong enough-
S: Are you saying I'm fat? I hate you. Why did I agree to marry you, you stupid, stupid man? (sobs melodramatically) You're cheating on me, aren't you- with Trisha, in Mrs. Nelson's class. I know it, just admit it!
E: I'm sorry?
S: I knew it! I want a divorce!
E: But Sarah, I'm sorry..
S: I don't want the kids. I just want all of your toys and the money from your piggy bank.
E: When did we get kids?
S: (feigning shock) Don't you dare act like they're not yours. They'll hear you, and then you'll have to pay for their therapy sessions.
E: I-
S: Well, (holds out hand) where's my alimony?
E: Ali-money? Is that like monopoly money? 'Cause I have some of that in my pocket-
S: That'll do. (he hands it over)
E: (growing antsy) Sarah, are we done playing House, yet?
S: Almost, almost. Before you leave, you have to tell me I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, and ask me for one last nap.
E: Umm... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me... and can we still have our naps together?
S: (smacks him)
E: Sarah! You can't hit me!
S: Well, that's how House ends. You did want to end the game, didn't you?
E: Well, yeah- I guess.
S: Then I had to hit you, after you propositioned me.
E: What's a proposition?
S: What you got smacked for. After a divorce, boys always want to keep napping, but the girls have to say no. And then the whole game starts over.
E: Oh. Well, if we're going to play again, we should play House the way my Mom and Dad play it.
S: They're playing it wrong.
E: Shut up, Woman! When I lay down the law, you had better lay down dinner, and then lay down yourself for nap time!
S: Evan!
E: Don't raise your voice to me, Woman! (smacks her)
S: Evan, I don't want to-
E: (grabs her roughly) You like it- you know you do-
S: Evan, stop! Mom! Mom!
E: No, no, Sarah- don't call the authorities. I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it... I- I- I must've had too much root beer... I just got carried away.
S: Well, alright. (brief awkward pause) You know- maybe we should make up our own way to play House. I don't think out parents have been playing it right.
E: Yeah, I was wondering. They never seem to have too much fun, the way they play. So how should we start?
S: Well, we could play in the sand box, for a while, and then go get some peanut butter and jelly before we start our homework.
E: Cool. I have a new bucket we could use-
S: I'll get my shovel!
END
Words, Words, Words...
My city is no longer so overwhelming- though the noise and myriad people do occasionally send me back into my room, with the door locked and the fan on high. At this point, I'm not ready to try an improv class, yet- nor am I prepared to audition for anything. So, not knowing what else to do with myself, just yet, I'm going to start posting some bits and pieces that I am proud to have written.
This first one is one of my absolute favorites. I wrote this after performing as Fraulein Schneider in Cabaret, in school, for one of my creative writing assignments.
a whispered fiction
for tommy
love is a fiction
we whisper in the dark
unquiet of ourselves,
writing in characters
with hardly a breath
wasted on cuing them in;
and likewise writing them out
of ourselves when they fail
to read what we know
was never penned.
assigned and assigning
exit after entrance after exit
there was no surprise
in my mind when I tripped
into love on a sparse stage,
via scripted doom
of separation. what better
than a lover knowing
his lines, his limits,
his place in the scheme
of pre-determined things? what worse
than a slip of paper
tucked into a costumed pocket,
demurely confiding, however in-character,
a tender whisper of fiction
unscripted, unsolicited,
undeniably more than ever I
would be scripted to read?
This first one is one of my absolute favorites. I wrote this after performing as Fraulein Schneider in Cabaret, in school, for one of my creative writing assignments.
a whispered fiction
for tommy
love is a fiction
we whisper in the dark
unquiet of ourselves,
writing in characters
with hardly a breath
wasted on cuing them in;
and likewise writing them out
of ourselves when they fail
to read what we know
was never penned.
assigned and assigning
exit after entrance after exit
there was no surprise
in my mind when I tripped
into love on a sparse stage,
via scripted doom
of separation. what better
than a lover knowing
his lines, his limits,
his place in the scheme
of pre-determined things? what worse
than a slip of paper
tucked into a costumed pocket,
demurely confiding, however in-character,
a tender whisper of fiction
unscripted, unsolicited,
undeniably more than ever I
would be scripted to read?
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