When I first met you, you were swimming. Your body was almost entirely concealed by the blue-green glistening of the lake at twilight. I sat at the dock, your quiet observer, and watched you each time you emerged from beneath the horizon. I looked down at where my feet should have been, engulfed by the same sharply cold water, and turned a half smile at the thought that this substance alone is what connects us. We did not need to speak a word, or even acknowledge the other's existence. Still we were one; joined by our own desires for solitude, for escape. My eyes were transfixed, mesmerized by sight of your hands smoothing over your long wet hair as silver drops scattered off of you, back to their origins. The waves traced your figure and urged me to rise up from the shore and go to you, yet, as to not disturb our symbiosis, I remained in my place. I watched the setting sun bathe you in red and orange hues as you continued to make laps and as eveningtime chills began to transplant upon my skin. You displayed a silent determination, propelling yourself further and further, no clear destination in sight. I yearned to join you, to achieve the same private freedom through simple yet concentrated movement. I did not know how. I simply sat there soaking you in and being grateful for the encounter yet to come.
Fast Talker, Sleep Walker, and What a Nice Little Girl You are
Unplug, she says
Waiting in the wings devoutly
As whispers hover over her thin layer of skin
She walks a tightrope
Smashes lightbulbs with tiny fists
And watches them bleed in clever drops
Sleep is her number one enemy
Or best friend, she can't decide
A numbing ride had brought her here
To a false awakening
A pretend spring
And where she thought she would blossom, she fell
Tumbled beyond the reach of any arm or mind
She lays in silence
For silence knows her, sees her
But has never graced her with its presence
And so she is halved
With only pieces of her face visible in daylight
Others shattered, torn, or taken
Buried in bus terminals and stale bars
She peddles pounds of dignity from one side of the city to the other
Never trusting what she can come home to
And what will be washed away before she returns
I had the strangest memory pass through my head just now. It was of you, putting on your sports bra after summer morning sex in your bed. It was most likely August after I came back from spending three months away, and so we've been going at it, trying to rediscover each other. The sex was quick, dirty, and all before breakfast. Our bodies emit their natural odors as the morning air grows warmer, juxtaposed with the occasional breeze, I am happy, blissful, and nude. This is probably not one clear memory, but rather a collection of familiar moments that all just clicked. And while I know my carnal desire for something more, something different in the future, I can't help but long for this sweet scene that exists in my past. It instructs me to cherish every lazy second because it hurts to know that this experience is no longer accessible; that it has been sealed away in an untouchable realm of what used to be us.
I fell in love with words on a screen
An image, a reflection, a silhouette of you.
After you are long gone,
I linger through the hallways of your consciousness,
Silently begging to be drawn forth into your heart.
I pray deeply for recognition,
the naming of things,
that have been lodged between us,
For uncontrollable reciprocation
Stolen from another
and delivered to me upon screen after shining screen.
I call out for nothing
And request a messenger who cannot be received.
Here I stand,
Isolated in the meadow of my mind,
Clutching your words like raindrops
Cataloging one frustration after another at the fleeting delight of each ounce passing from between my fingers.
I desperately burn you into the sturdiness of my skull
Afraid of what will happen when forgetfulness lowers itself over me as nightfall
And I am once again without your warmth.
we were never anybody special
we danced to hip-hop, jazz, swing, and salsa
we breathed in bubbles of our own intoxication
and at nightfall, we slept like the Dead
some people said of us that we were two literary
too orchestrated bodies
when, in fact, we were a tragedy in slow and steady motion
S P A C E S
All I need's a good delusion
She loves me
Across sweet distances
An uproar of activity
synchronized as a simple, all-knowing caress.
Telephone lines cannot contain us
cannot explain away
the substances that make us
who we are
when we loved no one
the very one
whom we signified
by the cold and empty side
of a moment we designed.
Strain
Remove your robes...Tell me that it's quite all right dear...Let's believe for a second that this is all just nonsense...TOUCH do this simple thing...remember that we are all human...and life is more than just theory in action...Put my head-daughter to sleep...tuck her in but refuse her request for a goodnight story...kiss her atop the head...comfort her before the monsters...My home is everywhere and so my body feels all over the place.
We are pretenders
We forget our bodies as we worship them
The disconnect
between brain and spinal cord
I am another
woman with slender legs
plain meadowlike stomach
void of hills or mountains
no domes above flat land
He is a man
a face of stubble
an untouched lateral frame
chest carved out of solid rock
yet memberless despite
Every encounter is an out-of-body experience
For the aftermath does not, will not, compute
Figures like us do not deserve to have good sex
That is a job for our alter egos
I don't know why I picture it
every time I feel too stuck to be human
or too human to be anything else.
Is it the clean incision
I feel dragging down my body
splitting me perfectly in two?
My cavity is open.
The blood gushes, sticky
and internal organs, soft
It's cold here on the metal table.
Everyone is watching
the distribution of me
piece by piece--allocated
careful funds among beggar nations.
Close your eyes,
you can't watch,
you're tumbling down as they rip you apart.
Love what you've got
hate what you don't
shut the world out, there's no time,
there's no time at all.
Float,
into a deep slumber,
Leave,
all your thoughts and loved ones behind,
crawl under a rock,
plug your ears.
I can't stand it
do you hear me?!
When the people you wanted to be, become all that you least expected, where do you run?
When he joins them,
who do you cry to?
Why must the first piece always be like this,
not about love,
but about the CRAZIES!
I've got the Crazies, do you hear me?
I'M A FREAK!
I'm the different that different left behind when it went mainstream.
I am the original copy!
I am the truth to your lie.
The rule to your pleasure.
I am she who grew because of you, in spite of you.
It's my words of praise you display in your doorway
with your self-righteousness
and if I could I would tear it down,
because they all know you're a fake,
they smell it
they taste it
they hear it coming,
from around the corner.
HIDE, do you hear me?
They will come for you,
take away your life and leave you,
with nothing but scraps of ideas you put back together on your own.
Close your eyes,
do you hear me?
This is the first semi-poetic piece I had put on paper since my creative writing class ended last December. It was written on June 25, 2011.
Beyond the Reflection
The full-length mirror
in the bedroom that isn't mine
sings me songs of progress
that I have not yet made
The marks on my body are invisible
but they are there
On my thighs, my arms, my wrists, my ankles
signs of hurt and indulgence
conceal themselves directly beneath the surface of my flesh.
I have not visited the same place twice
and lived to tell about it
but the poorly lit trail I chose to follow
whispers promises to me
between the forest trees
"Abandon-not the traces of dignity embossed in the depths of your soul,
for true light shines
beyond the reflection"
I write this letter to you fully knowing that I may be the only one left still following me, that's okay, for I am here for me too. It's been a long year. You may have thought that I had abandoned writing after reading my last post, and for a while I may have thought that too, even though truthfully every time I've thought about how long it has been since I last updated here, my insides hurt a little more and I felt that I couldn't come back. But when it comes down to it I could never abandon writing, it runs through my veins.
So here's a little rundown of what I've been up to this past year. I grew as a person quite a lot. I entered and completed my sophomore year of college. I took a creative writing class last fall, it helped my fiction a bit but didn't do much for my poetry (except for one poem I was able to spit out at the very end, which I believe is my very best thus far -- more on that at a later date). I gained a lover, who, interestingly enough, identifies as male, which just goes to show that you can spend your life preparing for one thing and the Universe hands you another. I stood my ground on the topic of my lesbian identity several times and I continue to do so. I became President of a club on my campus called Social Justice Coalition. I went to an amazing sexuality conference in DC called Momentum. I began embracing my kinky side and my passion for "alternative" sexuality. I fell in love with American Sign Language and Deaf culture and have now worked it into my life plan to become an ASL interpreter. I helped my mom move to her first solo apartment over the summer. I had my first sexual experience, and loved it! I passed organic chemistry, just barely. I was rejected for the same job a second time (a dream college job of mine since I set foot on campus freshman year), and learned to appreciate the job I had. I went through a semester in hell with horrible roommates. I saw Wicked on Broadway, finally! I began truly accepting that God/the Universe (depending on what you believe in) will work hard to give me what I need and what's best and meant to be for me. I gained a ton of self worth, that I didn't know was left to gain. I began listening to podcasts, which turned out to be pretty life enriching. I survived a 3 month long distance relationship (out of a new 4 month relationship) with flying colors. I learned so much about the kind of person I am. I frequented a Lit club on campus, read my poetry aloud and learned that people love the way I read poetry and how my poems sound. I joined a pre-med honor society. I've made new friendships and strengthened existing ones and may have lost a few in between. And all in all I had a rather inspiring year! I'm ready and invigorated to begin this new one.
If you are still with me after my year long hiatus and after this lengthy, very un-poetic post, I commend and appreciate your loyalty. If you have gone your own way in the meantime and have yet to return, I wish you nothing but the best. And for those who have discovered my work while I was out discovering myself, thank you, I hope to continue to provide you with... well, with a sense of what you're looking for, I suppose. And to myself, past, present, or future, as it may be, I'm still here and I'm still kicking, I haven't yet given up.
I am not special. I am not beautiful. I am not happy, and I may never be. In fact there’s a great chance that I wont be. I won’t be where I want to be, ever. I will never leave an impact on this world. I am not driven. I am not talented. I don’t want to try. to be useful. or productive. I want to abandon every project or endeavor I had ever begun or planned out. I am no writer. Everyone is a writer, no one is discovered. I may never love the way I dream to. I may never love at all. I dream too big, yes there is such a thing. The floorplan of my life is imaginary, it’s based on other people’s fiction and realities. I am not a good human being. I am a lie. I am the façade. I do well to rack up karma points that I hope will one day buy me the life I’ve spent too much time fantasizing about. I’m beginning to doubt my potential. I have not yet succeeded at anything. I am not noteworthy. I am not memorable and no one will remember me. I am nothing BUT a memory. A face in the crowd of someone’s life. The girl I knew in 6th grade. I haven’t cried like this in a while. I have not sobbed. I have not curled up in a ball, kneeling into the floor attempting to degenerate myself into matter. It’s been some time now. The things I worry about are absurd. Will I have money to buy toothpaste, or shampoo, in the next week before college starts? Will I be able to afford getting my sheets laundered and my jeans altered? I am not noble, and I have no story to tell. I suck at fiction. I do not want to try so hard, work my life away to be a writer, or a doctor, to revolutionize fertility, or be an activist, I don’t want to bring a voice to anyone… I barely have my own. I can’t live with myself as being the person who sits on the couch marathoning decade old television episodes. being a spud. I am inconsolable most of the time. I have used up my free sympathy passes and never truly have anyone to turn to, that I will not regret the next morning. I am not great. or good. I can’t breathe through my nose. It is stuffed. I have been alone for too long. I have nothing of my own. I have not been inspired. and I am not inspiring. I am selfishly kind, if at all. I am prettiest after I spend my time crying. I am trying to ignore the fact that I have not and will not shower today, lie it away, believe my own lie and make it disappear, not because I am depressed but because I am lazy. I am running out of words, my attempts are getting shoty and way too calculated but I can’t stop typing because the lifeless, worthless, not empty per se, more like decrepit, feeling is still there. I firmly believe that I am too difficult to love and that those who may begin to explore feelings for me will find that I have standards that they shouldn’t try to live up to. Yes, I too have standards, while I don’t have the right to. I expect to meet my ideal and for that I may be foolish, no, I most definitely am. I am tired to of being relied on but I am good at nothing more. I spend my time proving myself to someone who isn’t there. And what for? To be remembered by few, and famous to virtually no one. To leave nothing behind. Living life as merely going through a series of motions. a procedure with no wealth. I saw the sparkle in her words as they surely were in her eyes when she wrote them and realized that to some she was an idol, while others had never heard of her and that’s how I started to cry. I would never meet her or get to love her. I would never be her. Her optimism soars and she believes in the best in people and in art. She herself is an artist. She has the luxury of being herself and loving it, even when she doesn’t know it. And I fear I will have none of that.
I have a hard time believing that you can mean everything to some people and still mean nothing to others. What does it take to live happily and what can we teach the world?
Community College Cafeteria clears out at about three or four in the afternoon
reminding me somewhat of an airport gate
people wait
for something to arrive
or depart
Vending machines dispense cheap overpriced candy
to students eager for a sugar fix
to make it through the day
And I can't concentrate on anything
two papers due
not a single one started
Whose brilliant idea was it to take summer classes anyway?!
The cold air conditioning torments
but refuses to awaken me from my daze
another force of destruction working against me
I stare out the window
and the trees outside are waving their limbs
inviting me to join them
but I am stuck here
between table, chair, turkey and cheese sandwiches, my computer, old episodes of Smallvile, and a
Literature textbook with tomorrow's assigned reading still unread
And it will all remain as such
until eight o clock p.m.
when I am forced to go to History.
My favorite writing conditions occur when a line of poetry or prose comes to mind out of nowhere and I scramble for a piece of scrap paper to capture it on before the thought is lost. Another piece from the scrap paper collection, written this morning.
Sucking supple nipples
sweet like pears
She lies nude beneath me
whispering sonnets of Shakespeare
as my lips chisel at her figure lovingly.
Her thoughts get lost in a silvery haze
their case lulled in a pillow somewhere
and after minutes of soft and mindless pleasure
She emerges, speaking to me in a silky tone,
"What do you make of good literature to-day?"
I cease my persistence in working over her body
and lay to rest beside her, cradled within her,
I release a sigh,
"I suppose it should be much like this,
an art of the mind, body and soul"
This was actually written more for my own sanity than anything else.
Remember?
Remember?
Remember when I sat there waiting for you at the benches by the tree?
Remember when I read you my writing and you read me yours?
Remember nights sitting on couches or beds watching television series?
Remember Gumi-Gum ice cream with the gummy bears in it
and how we'd count them to see who got the most?
Remember scribbling on scrap paper, using the products as visual aids?
Remember the birthday gift I gave you?
It took me three whole months to plan out:
Michal Negerin earrings and a personalized journal.
Remember sending me weekly text messages with short story prompts?
Remember my piece about Heaven?
Remember one-on-one talks that made us cry sometimes?
Remembering teaching me everything from numbers to what really counts?
Remember forgetting to keep in touch?
Remember telling me that salmon-pink was my color?
(I still love my salmon-pink backpack best because of that)
Remember doing wake-up duty wednesday mornings and finding me already awake to greet you with a smile?
Remember the one time I ignored you and stayed in bed grudgingly?
Remember the morning of Valentine's Day when you found me waiting for you at the bottom of the stair?
Remember the first time I showed you something I had written of you in my journal?
Remember all of our talks about boys?
(who knew I wasn't into that)
Remember the time Shani and I offered you chocolate balls and you looked at us longingly like you were truly proud of us?
Remember all those times you spent reassuring me?
Remember calling me "little sis"?
Remember sitting on the porch of your tiny apartment?
Remember all those unexpected visits of mine?
(I couldn't wait to see you)
Remember the stray cats? Remember Checkers the cat (how you called him Twix because you couldn't say it) and his fucktoy Chess?
Remember when Sonya had yelled at me and I was so upset and so we went out for strawberry icicles as a pick-me-up?
Remember doing my Purim makeup?
Remember Jungle Speed?
Remember the night you left?
Remember how disappointed you were that I skipped ecology class to sit with you and Noa?
Remember sticking our notes in the Western Wall together?
Remember our silly emails and how we used them to get to know each other?
Remember how you said repeatedly that you'll ALWAYS be there for me?
Remember letting me play with your hair?
Remember back when you caught Noy sleeping in our room?
Remember showing me your high school final performance?
Remember "how much wood could a woodchuck chuck?"?
Remember telling me that I give to others sometimes more than I give to myself?
Remember me?
Remember ME?
I keep all of these sealed away,
in a compartment of my heart
where no one can reach them
and occasionally
I bathe in the great misery they leave me with
as you succeed to move on.
I love language. I am often in awe of the ways in which people use it to string together moments of art, love, and logic. Here are my attempts at doing just that.
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