is love that
i don't know who has made who better
me or you?
or is it safety
and laying our throats open to each other's knives
tell me i've been bad
kneel behind me and tug my arm in a direction it's not meant to go
put your other hand on my windpipe
and while i choke
i'll tell you that you're desperate and pathetic and disgusting
and if you say
"you're one to talk"
i'll cry and your hand will move from my neck to cover my eyes
and if i grab for you
and you don't let me go
i'll keep crying
for mommy and daddy and my broken roommate and dead classmates and Trayvon Williams and my hung ambitions and girls boiling in their own rage and the little indecent things you have to hear everyone say and cluttered aesthetics and careless art
and you will get to take credit for cracking open my frozen heart
and you will get to sink your teeth into my shoulders so you don't have to bite anyone else
so no one will call you pyscho anymore
we'll all feel better
we'll tell each other we've been so good
we'll forget the language of crushing and spitting
forget "stupid, self-indulgent, ridiculous, childish, infuriating"
you were so good
you did so well
you did so well for me
the salt off our fingers still in each other's mouths
our stinky toes entwined
Showing posts with label wincing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wincing. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Monday, November 16, 2009
Talking the talk.
It's winter today, I realize. For once, I have gloves. I usually never have gloves.
Today, I am bored in class. Not just in math (which honestly is a given), but in design as well. We go to the theater and we are told how it works. This always breaks my heart a little. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" And the TD tells us all about how hard it is to make art. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" By this time, I have to remember that the feeling of my heart breaking comes from my brain and that I am, in fact, dandy.
I go to art school for the first time today. I am a little nervous because of some ingrained message from the time I spent as an "upright citizen" that makes art schools seem so...precious to me, but there is something wonderful in the weird triangular staircase down to the basement, in the metallurgy workshops, the buzz of people, the high industrial ceilings with sweet hand-painted signs to tell you where you are, and clanging echo. It is very different that what I am used to. I spend a handful of hours playing, my head often close to the ground or falling out of a spin. My hip hurts because I push a little to hard, but I am no worse for the wear.
Today, I sit on the bus back from downtown and I look at faces. Michelle has recently told me a story. She says, "I saw a woman on a bus and she was like this (big wide-eyed, amazed face) and like 'new shoes really, I just bought these, but I think I'm going to return them' face never changing and just a mask!" She makes the face again. I make the face. I look like a blow up doll. I promise myself I will practice in the mirror. So on the bus home, I look at faces hoping to find Michelle's woman. But, everyone is tired and falling asleep so I spend my time staring at what look like death masks to me. It is a little frightening. To be less scared, I look at the notes the man next to me is writing in his limegreen notebook with red pen. His handwriting is terrible but I read something like this, "Are there certain humans born with spiritual capabilities? I have the impulse to say so. Yes, I suppose you could reach awareness and then through awareness enlightenment. But there is a long distance between awareness and enlightenment." He leaves a big space. He writes, "I imagine!" He leaves another big space. Then he writes a block of words I can't read from my angle. He gets off at 47th street. His writing has made me feel better, oddly.
Which is to say, today I have been vague and cloudy, but watching. Peering, listening, creeping even. I wonder how much watching I can do and how much I have done and what that watching all adds up to. Do you know?
Today, I am bored in class. Not just in math (which honestly is a given), but in design as well. We go to the theater and we are told how it works. This always breaks my heart a little. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" And the TD tells us all about how hard it is to make art. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" By this time, I have to remember that the feeling of my heart breaking comes from my brain and that I am, in fact, dandy.
I go to art school for the first time today. I am a little nervous because of some ingrained message from the time I spent as an "upright citizen" that makes art schools seem so...precious to me, but there is something wonderful in the weird triangular staircase down to the basement, in the metallurgy workshops, the buzz of people, the high industrial ceilings with sweet hand-painted signs to tell you where you are, and clanging echo. It is very different that what I am used to. I spend a handful of hours playing, my head often close to the ground or falling out of a spin. My hip hurts because I push a little to hard, but I am no worse for the wear.
Today, I sit on the bus back from downtown and I look at faces. Michelle has recently told me a story. She says, "I saw a woman on a bus and she was like this (big wide-eyed, amazed face) and like 'new shoes really, I just bought these, but I think I'm going to return them' face never changing and just a mask!" She makes the face again. I make the face. I look like a blow up doll. I promise myself I will practice in the mirror. So on the bus home, I look at faces hoping to find Michelle's woman. But, everyone is tired and falling asleep so I spend my time staring at what look like death masks to me. It is a little frightening. To be less scared, I look at the notes the man next to me is writing in his limegreen notebook with red pen. His handwriting is terrible but I read something like this, "Are there certain humans born with spiritual capabilities? I have the impulse to say so. Yes, I suppose you could reach awareness and then through awareness enlightenment. But there is a long distance between awareness and enlightenment." He leaves a big space. He writes, "I imagine!" He leaves another big space. Then he writes a block of words I can't read from my angle. He gets off at 47th street. His writing has made me feel better, oddly.
Which is to say, today I have been vague and cloudy, but watching. Peering, listening, creeping even. I wonder how much watching I can do and how much I have done and what that watching all adds up to. Do you know?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
a fragment, half-smoked
recently i have been wincing more upon recollection of recently laid-out misspeaks
also, i have been stuck in a cycle something like this: yeah, i do feel like a woman/ali; then not.
flirting with ideas of gender revolution, of harmonica beatboxing and how my voice saves and betrays me.
(then i lifted a lighter to my lips and flicked it, and upon realizing that i did not have anything in my mouth to smoke, slowly lowered the lighter)
(how did i get ash all over my lips?)
(my eye stings as i inhale and my tired throat gets a little flatter, losing a tiny bit of air)
(the butttray is about 1/2 Cigarettes and 1/2 rollies, an interesting mark of something.)
also, i have been stuck in a cycle something like this: yeah, i do feel like a woman/ali; then not.
flirting with ideas of gender revolution, of harmonica beatboxing and how my voice saves and betrays me.
(then i lifted a lighter to my lips and flicked it, and upon realizing that i did not have anything in my mouth to smoke, slowly lowered the lighter)
(how did i get ash all over my lips?)
(my eye stings as i inhale and my tired throat gets a little flatter, losing a tiny bit of air)
(the butttray is about 1/2 Cigarettes and 1/2 rollies, an interesting mark of something.)
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