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Showing all posts tagged as poetry:



The Performer

They told her she could be a real hit
hard hitter
in the scene
strut the stage
like she means business

The Benjamins
would unfold themselves
to find her
be with her
burrow their way into her pockets

and she could have everything
if she agreed
donned the meat dress
built the persona
put on a good show

Misunderstanding the novelty
of this
missing the whole point, actually
that she has been playing a role
all her life

that’s how she got good at it
in the first place
became shining star against dark backdrop
became anything necessary
to survive

and now she spends all her time
backstage of fluttering lashes
unbecoming perfection
ripping costume seams
and removing makeup

Stripping poise and promise
to stand naked and writhing
with purpose
to withstand empty scrutiny
something more rare than stardom

something human
something
you can see yourself in
something
you can see right through


FOMO

No matter what you say,
you are just another California commitment -
another casual "let's do coffee"
tossed over your shoulder.
Your smile all sunshine and pristine sand -
still, the eyes tell the tale - scudding clouds
always searching the next horizon.
You'll never rest on the shore of now
and then - sincere presence
eludes you. You are a stranger
at an endless cocktail party, faking
eye contact and sipping mimosas
while the sun sets on the Western world,
always staring beyond,
chattering aimlessly about changing the future
whilst gazing over the naked shoulder
of that which lies plainly before you.
You'll hold out, endlessly
for something better than this reality -
sweltering honesty laid on heaving dune,
sweating brow
over beckoning palms.

The Family Paradox

What dwells on either end of the extreme
becomes
one whole
when born
under the same roof -

in the same way
one sheds tears of joy
or resents a work of art
for being too admirable
or loves
all of the worst parts of themselves
too intensely
for change

this is the conundrum
blood ties - which are both
gift bow and binding -
unexpected sweepstakes
and taxed burden
which follows
is that really winning?
The discovery
that loving and loathing
sound very similar
when one speaks them quickly -
without thought
to consequential enunciation -

and, isn't it strange, that
one home
might shelter so many
strangers
still call them relative -

Elegant, this
remiss tug of war
just the tautness of heart strings.

Barflies and Bedtime Stories


#throwback

Insecurity

Insecurity lives two doors down from Love - wants to adopt a pet, so she won’t feel so lonely - so she can feel someone’s loyal devotion. Insecurity does not like open spaces; is good at taking up less space - diminishes herself to make others more comfortable. Insecurity spends too many nights dressed to expectation - can’t meet her own eyes in the mirror. Spends too much time in front of it, anyway. She is always becoming something other. Molding herself to fit into the moment - into the desires of the present. Into the waiting hands of entitlement. She is not the kind of girl who walks home alone after the party. She does not believe in her own strength in the face of darkness - in the bright light at the end of the tunnel.

She is slow to smile - often awkward. Covers her mouth when she laughs hard. Holds her breath more than is healthy. Doesn't believe she is lovely. She needs to compete - needs to win - will still not feel worthy of the prize. She will still flinch at the flicker of their eyes as she walks by - never believing her stance is inspiring. Insecurity is not the type to ask for what she wants - only questions the sound of her own voice - echoing, reflective. She is all swagger and high heels and hip sway - only stumbles when Love is near. Insecurity grapples with pale fear, and her own sharp teeth.

Love wants to rest quietly in bed - still hears Insecurity’s heels clicking, a slow stroll down a nightmarish hallway. Love prays for the white noise camouflage of the heater - for endless compassion, and patience. For a generous slice of kindness, and clear communication - but Insecurity wields a sharp knife, hands shaking; waiting to slide it between Love’s soft ribs -

still, Love is not a victim. Love is no sleeping fool. Love is a five-alarm house fire, flashing a winning smile. All sirens ringing, blazing the way with no fire escapes - razing the walls to lick at her insides, resolved to burn them both down to the ground… only Love will rise, whole - from all of this ash.

m(V)k



In this moment

You
are not
the man
I'm
choosing


I
hope


You
are not
choosing
him
either

What Eve Said

When I was younger, I was naive. I didn't know our sins were cumulative. It doesn't happen overnight, see - the fall to despair. The fall of a body into disrepair is a slow fight to the death, literally. A house that crumbles, eventually, under years of foundational stress. It starts with a dripping faucet, or flexed glass which cracks and remains unfixed. Ends in a flowing carpet of ivy, starred over with the flowers of clover, and becomes once more reflection of the night sky. There is beauty in decay, sometimes. The gorgeous wreckage of our lives' lack of common sense, forethought, or funds.

When I was young, all I wanted was to know the feeling of nourishment. The joy of joining one's source - of letting my atoms go, to be transported or reabsorbed and formed again into another life - maybe as an apple, this time. Maybe something better than a man's left rib. Maybe after seeing what happened to Lilith of Mud or all the little Cinderellas on their knees in the dust - maybe I was hoping harder than I should've for mouthful of poison and a soft bite - the snake's first strike.
Really, can you blame me? He was always wandering the garden. Naming birds in the air or stars in the sky, never noticing those shining here, in my eyes - all that wondering miracle - when I was younger, I was more easily swayed. Wasted all of my beautiful becoming so quickly. Confused coup de foudre for {cold} fusion. Back then, no one told me that it would all unfold in perfect order - one fractal path following another, into the drastic infinite. All becoming the mass of experience which carries us along, slowly increasing in size as it tumbles in orbit, gaining momentum until it's own force simply tears it apart. The friction of it's own body charged, weighed, then dissipated. But none of the language surrounding it matters. We'll all give ourselves back to the cosmos, eventually. Water and ground will absorb us. All the sheltering stones we've stacked, crumbling. All debts gathering interest, eternally - all our bones dents gaining density, reinforcing themselves into calcium fortresses - still, breaking down. Falling, laden with the burden of age on old limbs, letting go.

When I was younger, I was not afraid of this. I was not afraid of anything, then - I had no understanding of consequence. How one bite of fruit might move shift straight to my hips, or dole the cursable gift of knowledge both good and ill - I was just naked and craving, seeking fulfillment from anything but him - still hungry and yearning for new perspectives...

See my point of view? I had no ill will - just nothing to lose - and a sweet tooth.




Always the groomsmaid

He sends me photos
from the other side of the world
and wants me to be happy for him

Asks me if I can see
how beautiful his new girlfriend is
Tells me he chased her across an ocean

And, isn't that love? He asks
Isn't it some kind of wonderful
the way the world works out?

And I am distancing myself from his words
by anthropomorphizing the globe,
fantasizing that pumping iron will help him attract the moon

When he says I knew better
than to make the same mistakes
I made with you

And I am imagining dear Atlas,
bending his knee beneath the weight of my heart,
muscles straining

And I try not to laugh and cry
at the same time, as a general rule, so
I just say I'm happy for you

Hoping the green salve of gratitude
draws the sting from the wound; renews
my thick skin in time.


изгубени в космоса

Аз говоря,
но вие не можете да ме чуете.
Ние викаме през една празнота -
гласове
отекващи и изоставени
никога не прекосявайки пропастта между нас
за да стигнем до другата страна.
И двамата викаме
и двамата викаме
но звукът отскача от бариерите на природата
се скита самотен и изгубен.

Аз работя за нещо златно.
Счупвам камъка от сърцето си
издълбавам твърдостта
опитвайки се да отрежа фасети
които оставят нещо
остър и блестящ зад себе си.
Всичко това изкопани ни оставя да се взираме в космоса.
Не знам
как продължава да се разширява

San Francisco

Oh, you
City of Concrete
of bumstink
of bad traffic
and no parking
barking with laughter
the whole way home
from the bar,
City of Linking Arms
and hollering after midnight.

You
of constant wind
and cold summers -
late-harvest Autumn which wraps us
all in sweaters and slanted light -
falls on the golden glow
of a comfortable front stoop
ringing fate's doorbell
only to bail at the first chance.

Someone called
you
The City of Love
once,
but never again -
still, all the hopefuls
come back
to

You -

Goldrush of the West
your jasmine perpetually in bloom,
though its soft scent seems lost on
the hard-soled parade of your sidewalks -
all VC fanfare and ticker tape -
City of Step-on-your-Mother's-Back,
City of Slip Through the Cracks
City of Soup Kitchen
and Instantaneous Drone Delivery

City of Bright Bridge and
privilege and real money
conjured from thin air
you
no longer
wear flowers in your hair.

You
no longer
seem to care
for such trivial things
as this.