Category: Poetry & Poetrish

There is the world where gravity is gravity, 
and the written world, where it may be not.

Stories slipping in silence through the still moments of the night, black text, glowing white screen, eyes hazed, words flow and reformat the physics of gravitational force. Words strung together one after another form impossibility, or, implausibility into another reality — fiction.

Words are dangerous in their ability to mimic truth. Lost in story, one can easily forget gravity is still law— that, writing is a gift of invention and freedom locked in a straight jacket, blindfolded, handcuffed, and surrendered even prior to battle. At best, a story has a beginning, middle, end, and readers who care to find meaning inside of it. At worst, it is a torturous illusion of fantastical maybe shattered the moment one looks away from the page.

Yet there is a delightful gift in sculpting, not writing, words — each night returning to the same story, as if you weren’t its author, and diving into its plot as if you’ve never read one of its letters, surprised by your plot twists, your character choices, your moments upon moments of reality reflected in another dimension: stories in sleepless solitude seducing slumber.

Life cannot be punctured, only minded.

Life becomes routine — adulthood swallows us all.

But words never grow up. Words can take risks we never would.

Illusion is not the enemy.

Failing to imagine what if is.

Transparent is the touch felt with greatest intensity.

The sun’s rays tattooing heat onto skin at high noon, or 
a gentle breeze swaying up and down one’s spine, 
lifting a strand or two up and over a thousand times, 
a welcome tickle.

By the seaside, shifting sand so fine,
the particles go unnoticed racing through the air, 
yet a layer of gritty golden dust, in extant exposure,
scratches every ounce of exposed flesh —

much like the

space

between 
eyes 
and 
limbs 
and 
fingertips —

rivers of atoms dancing, 
intercepting two heartbeats
jolting concealed currents 
in all directions

viciously hot, like the sun,
sweetly gentle, like the breeze,
rough in its repetition, like the sand.

My hands are gone, lost in pools of paint // clay // oil pastel //
swirling the mischievous moisture from palm to wrist to elbow.
Puddles of insanity dripping slowly faster slowly faster still:
no longer red or yellow or blue but a magnificent mud.
Fingertips slipping through palette to identify the remnants of
color to press onto canvas // paper // board // brick

Limbs stretch quickly across surface in attempt to capture the gesture
of nude form/human, frozen still: a woman’s curves slipping
in line after line after line after line — hands work fast, furious,
to create form or mess or something in between with color or not.
You see the shapes upon shapes upon shapes and she is a sculpture
to flatten // to form // to evolve // to undo // to trace 
and etch 
and sink into
her mold from eye to hand through perception to flat to form to function. 
A gaze: empty, a smile: shifting, a shiver: silent.

A figure with no story, a story with no figure, a person with layers
upon layers upon layers upon layers upon layers upon layers of
you’ll never see so you have to imagine peeling slowly, gracefully
What orchestration is there of beauty // music // soul lost behind
the stillness of a model caught up in a 5-minute sketch or a two-hour pose
or a lifetime of playing a role don’t move // don’t move // don’t move
// don’t let them see more than your form in its effortless light and shadows.

As paint piles up on skin and charcoal smothers hand 
and forehead catches a hint of Cobalt Blue, you haven’t noticed, 
you’re lost scrawling a lifetime of stories in a thousand lines 
about a person you’ll never know. You’ve done this once, twice, 
a thousand times, and a thousand times more,
all the scribbles and ink and wants and moments and messes,
on a thousand pages long forgotten, ever ready to sketch again.

As time goes on, it’s easy to forget all our moments
How we became each other’s lifetime BFFs — 
The way we made each other laugh
And gave each other ample room to grow,

It wasn’t always easy, but you made it not that hard.
Because you gave me something I never knew
Unconditional love for being the broken girl that I am
And patience though all life’s great spills,

Continue reading “Love.” →

Sitting in a Starbucks, waiting quietly for a friend to meet;
Leaving an AirBnB with suitcases full of my own luggage; 
On a college tour, being quiet and listening, minding my own business;
Shutting my eyes after a long night of studying in a dorm common room;
Having a barbeque in a park with my friends and family;
Buying clothes in a Nordstrom Rack, paying for them and exiting the store;

You won’t call the cops on me.
No, you won’t call the cops on me.

Walking down a city street, age 13, whistles, catcalls, as I simply walk by. Fear;
By age 6, thinking boys are smarter, being taught to be “perfect” vs “brave”;
Applying for a job with a female name, vs a male one, less likely to get a call;
Your lack of belief in my pains; your decision that my health doesn’t matter;
Your private male-only gatherings, “drinks,” fear of being alone with women;
You’re too nice or too bitchy, how the f*ck do you lead? You bite your tongue;

Yea, it will hold me back.
But it won’t hold me down.

Private lessons, private help, summer programs to put together a portfolio;
The opportunity to go to the college of my choice, tuition paid in full;
No college debt, a cushion just in case, unpaid internships for “experience;”
A chance to save and invest, to achieve some semblance of stability in my 20s;
An emergency fund & retirement investments & a path to the middle class;
Never going hungry, always having a home, a room, a “how was your day?”;

Yes, I’m privileged this I know.
My privilege is a million stairs I never had to climb.

No trust fund, no worthy family name, no friendly connections to get a start;
No prep school, no etitique training, no Ivy League, no fitting in with the elite;
21. Alone. Afraid. On edge. 100s of resumes. No exit. Can’t breathe; Can’t fail;
A family gifted in judging, not loving. Blame, not empathy, greeting mistakes;
Yelling and shoving and belts snapping and listening to hateful, vicious words;
A deep-rooted guilt for merely existing. A depression that lasts a lifetime;

No life is perfect. We all have our battle scars.

Our privilege is our passport. But how far can we travel?
Our privilege is our passport. Some can’t travel far at all.

In 10 weeks, I might meet you.
Or 11, or 12, or 13.
You’ll be this blob of a creature,
with all the creature parts.
A little innocent person
gazing up at the world
barely able to see its splendor
with no wants other than to eat,
sleep, pee, poop, repeat.
Life will be so simple for you
// for a little while //
You won’t fear your mortality.
You won’t care who is President.
You won’t have any worries.
We’ll have each other, and your dad,
together we’ll be a family — 
One that I’m determined to make
filled with love, and laughter, and light.
I know there are many challenges ahead
Many sleepless nights;
Many moments I question everything;
But I’ll have you, looking back at me.
I’ll finally have somewhere to put all of this
unconditional love I have locked inside
for all these years, waiting, patiently, for you.
You who will want more than I can ever give;
without ever knowing how to ask for it — 
A little life who I’ll worry about day and night,
Who will grow to become a person who has
hopes and dreams and fears.
The best I can do is promise
I will try my best…
I will be here for you…
I won’t try to control your life…
I will accept you as you are…
I will hold you when you need to be held…
And give you space when you need to close the door…
I’ll watch you grow up, ever so quickly,
as my own body slips into middle age.

My fitness goals will be set, not to look good in the mirror, but…

…to be able to run through the meadows with you…
…to hike through trees until the ones scoarched by lightening
reveal their barren peaks…
…To dance with you, if you want to dance…
…To sing and play and explore the world with you…

should you want to.

To be a mom that is inherently and admittedly flawed.
But to be exactly who you need me to be.
As best I can. That’s all I can promise.
And I promise you that.

Ringing. 
Dream state. 
Ringing. 
Running. 
Heart beating.
Brushing a strand away.
Simply revealing
your
eyes open
wide.
Breath in tandem.

Eyes open.
Eyes close.
Wide shut.

Ringing.
Reality awakens.
Day begins.
Light seeps through eyelids.
Ringing.
Snooze.
Battle the seconds.
Dream dissolves
in pixelated recall.
Chase it in fiction.
It’s gone.

Ringing.
A billion darts of 
to-do lists shoot
through your mind
all at once.
You rise,
in a panic,
prioritizing.

Ringing.
Alarm, off.
Slip away from 
warm body and 
pillows and 
sheets.
Slip into 
hot shower
its steam fogging flesh.
Awake. Awake. Awake.
A moment still, 
still, your day begins.