Hotel Rooms

The heart has long known
that secret that stole life,
and the universities,
from German mathematicians.
Infinity beyond infinity,
love doubled, until
it suffuses the soul.
The first sip from that eternal cup
takes one by surprise.
Quiet moments,
illuminated in the dawn.
Or the strident passions,
of those first steps
into intimacy;
Sharing everything,
souls pressed close
against souls,
everything shared;
pain and rage and happiness.
Double what is in your heart
and you will know my heart.
The infinite hotel
is doubled
and all the rooms are filled
again.

I'm sorry to say, I've forgotten the name of the German mathematician in question. I'll get back to you with it. However, the concept of infinity beyond infinity can be explained through the metaphor of a hotel with infinite rooms: Imagine a hotel with an infinite number of rooms. An infinite number of guests show up and fill the infinite number of rooms. Imagine that then, another infinite number of guests show up. How are we going to fit them all in? Each person already in the hotel, moves over two rooms. This opens up an infinite number of rooms for the infinite number of guests that has just shown up. Cool, right?

Bilingual

These are my words:
You call them nonsense,
gibberish,
gobbledy-gook.
These words are using music,
art,
poetry.
But it is uncivilized,
it isn't written down,
you can't read it.
"Use your words."
No, use your words.

 

Burden

Like a father,
he beats his children,
he calls them names
and tells them he loves them.
Like a father,
he lets his brothers touch them,
he lets his brothers rape them.
Like a father,
he yells when he doesn't understand,
he steals their words and secrets.
Like a father,
he crafts them in his own image,
he tears them down and only lets them grow
in ways he deems appropriate.
Like a father,
he teaches them to love him,
and they learn to hate him.
Like a father,
he hurts them and whispers,
"This is for your own good."

Today we have poems about colonialism. And possibly childhood. But also, and mostly, colonialism. YAY!

Eulogy for Soft Hips

I wish you still knew
that you were the one
who got away
That I still dream
of your curves
That you were going to be
the one
all my heroines were based on
But you conspired with them
to take away
one more curvaceous beauty
from the world

And you disappear
wrapped up
in the narcissism of
your appetite
So I disappear
into the narcissism of
art
Observing my chest
and the way my thighs jiggle
And I let your buxom beauty
slip away
like you let it
slip away
Obsessed with thinness
and the unnatural
lies they sold you

I wish you still knew
that you used to be beautiful.

Love Poem

The muscles of our love atrophy
I watch the sentiment between us,
watch as is slowly, slowly, begins to rot
smelling of silence and distrust
oozing the pus of discontent,
your doubts, like maggots eating away
at its rotting flesh,
turning into flies, that buzz,
incessant
like my doubts.


I watch you struggle
with the clasp of your dress
in the mirror,
as I struggle with the knot of my tie.
Our eyes slide past each other,
and we leave, late, and arrive,
later.
Ignoring each the other,
the niggling presence,
I am the shadow in the corner of your eye,
you are the shuffling sound,
catching on my ears
as I focus elsewhere.

I don't know if these are two poems or one.

Vagina Poetry

I want to be that girl who
always write poetry about her vagina
like, "Do we have to listen to another charming line
about your labia? Again?"
But  guess what for once
I want you to think about it
think about my VAGINA
but not the way you think about it
some warm
wet
wanted
wanting
secret place for you to BURY YOURSELF.
I want you to think about it
the way I do.
I want you to think about a largely nerveless channel
that I am stuck with
damned by
told to live my life with it as my guiding principle.
Because that old joke,
"What do you call the useless piece of skin around the vagina?"
is more than true.
I am sorry I am a woman.
I am sorry that you look at me and think
"Why should I have to hear about her body?"
when you want to tell me how to wear it
my useless piece of skin.
I am sorry that you don't know
what it's like to be terrified that
if you're not careful
something will start to grow
where you don't want anything to grow.
I watched my best friend lose her mind
on birth control.
The mood swings brought to the forefront
some kind of anxietymentalillnessdepression
she'd been hiding.
Well, I'm not hiding it,
I wear my lows out in the open
and I'm terrified that--
I will have no option but a flimsy piece of latex
to keep me safe.
I'm sorry that amongst the useless flaps and folds
of my useless skin
my clitoris hides where you don't think of it
because, you know,
when I touch myself there
everything is beautiful.
But you aren't interested in the useless ways
of making me feel good.
You are interested in seeing my vagina
the way YOU see my vagina,
but that doesn't feel good to me.

So next time you decide
that "Those girls" who "only write poetry about their vaginas"
aren't worth any of your time or interest.
Maybe think about what they're trying to tell you
and if you have something nice to say
they might need to hear it.


There was this kid at fall orientation who talked about not wanting to have to hang out with girl slam poets who only write poetry about their vaginas. I took his point; that being bombarded by angry feminist shit day in day out is no fun. But the way he phrased it made me SO ANGRY. Because I'm like, "Fuck you I have to put up with phallic imagery EVERYWHERE and dicks and dicks and dicks LIKE YOU and if I want to write poetry about my vagina I FUCKING WILL DAMMIT." I hate being made to feel guilty for it.

Poetry?

poetry is not an idea
that I have spent any time revisiting
she asked me,
"Do you write poetry?"
I told her,
"Not for years."

but.
would it be so bad
to tell a story with
sil-
ly line
breaks or
obscure and melodious
language?

or perhaps a short story, or two, the old "once upon a time" and a princess and a terrible dragon or a tall tower, the charming prince who shows up, only to find that he isn't needed there after all, or a young man on a journey about town, perhaps for a cup of coffee or a magazine, and the people he meets and the thoughts that slide, sudden and perhaps a little dangerous, into his head...

would do me some good.

Chairs: a poem not about love

two colors, blue and white

almost as if they were meant

to make a patter, picture or design

we fit together like they do

pretty, one beside the other

but don't quite stack properly.

but even they don't have enough color

to have any depth.

solids and outlines plus whatever shadow

the lights let them create.

like them, in the dark

we are two-dimensional:

merely color and line.

PseudoRomance

public void PseudoCode main(String args[]){       if(you look my way){           i'll never leave;           don't let me go;      }else{           walk away now || i'll lose control;      }       while(i = true){           don't let me go;      }       if(this touch means anything){           we'll stay together;           we can stop playing games;      } } //don't walk away all romantic poetry ought to be written in code. old piece from last year. (haha... Java romance...) PS: || means "or". so. yea. enjoy? (Jan. '08)

ANTI-LOVE POETRY

Keep your hands off me.

You're everything that I want.

Not what I can have.

Always 5 steps back

7 inch distance, at least.

Less makes me stupid.

an intermission:

just let me tear my heart out

and hand it to you.

Pretty you may be

We know beauty killed the beast

Guess I'll ignore you.

You break what you have

Something good will come of it

But its not certain.

the second movement:

sorry for staining your rug

i'll just lick it clean.

You're a stupid jerk

With your stupid pretty face

Wish you had cooties.

I'd love to hate you

I'd love to love to hate you

Not hate to love you.

now, the conclusion:

rejection's not a sure thing...

acceptance, neither.

Let me walk away

While I haven't lost my head

And can play it safe.

If I'm not open,

Under my skin's all you'll get

Far from fragile things.

Capitalism.

Hello!

The pleasure's all mine

But I'll sell it to you cheap!

Cheap cheap cheap!

At least cheaper than the guy next door

But that's because, as I said, the pleasure's all mine

(and I'm making room for more!)

Would you like some happiness?

It comes in a brightly colored box!

It's right where you can afford...

Whoops! The price went up

Because THEY just ran out.

So I'm the only one on the block

With some, don't you doubt.

Replace that outdated melancholy

With a little bit of cheerfulness

You don't want it now, but I know you will

Because the one selling it to you is Tess.

She's tall and blonde and beautiful

A Barbie come to life

She's not really the brightest

And to get through her skin you'd need a chainsaw not a knife!

I bought out all the rest of them

You can only come to me

I don't play fair (never did)

And that's the way it'll always be.

Anxiety

I stepped into the house, and knew she was there. She'd left her black strappy stilettos by the door. One was lying on its side, the other barely balancing up. I found her curled up in my favorite chair in front of the fire. She smirked up at me, a seductive, slow one. I made a point not to meet her eyes. I knew already they were a deep green. She had the Catcher in the Rye open on her lap. It was a worn abused book, and I didn't wonder that she'd read it a hundred thousand times. The air in the room was dead. It was stale and hard to breathe and a slow sweet scent permeated the area. She always smelled of it. The setting winter sun sliding through the windows did nothing to lessen the stifling atmosphere.
I left the room before she had a chance to speak. I made my purposeful way upstairs, packed a few shirts and two pairs of pants quickly. I saw her startled painted mask of sadness watch me from the door standing there in her hose.
----
A twisted sense of calm was allowed in the motel room. It was a tense calm, that was wearing thin the longer I stayed from home. Yet I knew that's where she was and didn't wonder, not for the first time, if perhaps her power didn't stretch further than I knew. I dragged my eyes around the nearly barren room. It was dusky, and damp and had smelled of sweat for days now. The curtains were the lightest shade of blue that still managed to be blue and not white. They hung limp in the sodden air, and almost did a good job of covering the bars on the windows. Sighing, I knew it was time and once again packed the five shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans.
----
She had re-arranged the house in my absence. Chairs where small tables used to be and empty space where none ought to be. The sense of unfamiliarity was not strange, it was her punishment for me when I left the house at her arrival. The twisting in my gut doubled as I walked through a strangers home, knowing that things weren't as they were supposed to be.
With silent footsteps I made my way up stairs. I tiptoed past the bedroom, avoiding the sweet smell and incense, knowing she knew exactly where I was.
I locked myself in the guest room. It was just as impersonal as the Motel 6 room. But her familiar sense of stillness filled the room, making it fractionally more bearable. I flung the window open hoping to dispel it for a more calm, quiet feeling, but the air moved neither in nor out, and her smell surrounded me.
----
Everyday I leave as early as possible and return as late as possible. Although the freshness outside is still stagnant, it is less stifling than the sweetness and stillness inside the house. She has pervaded the entire household. Now reminders of her cling to everything and its nearing impossible to breathe.
Out of doors the sweetness still clings to my clothes and I can feel tendrils of the stillness wrapping around me, the staling freshness invades my senses creating a pleasant cacophony behind my eyes.
I can always catch her watching me from behind the stained lacy curtains as I near the front door. The deep green boring into the base of my skull, and making my stomach churn.
----
As the sweetness and the stillness of the house became suffocating I made my way towards the bedroom. Her incense burned strong and it smelled of sweet basil and orange blossoms. Behind the door she lay posed on the bed; she had one arm stretched and her head tilted back exposing her neck. The way her lingerie folded, where one leg was bent, made a complex pattern of lines. In the half-light they were indistinct and bled into and between each other. Her brassiere pushed and pulled perfectly, in a manner that made her most appealing. The sweetness and the strangulating stillness wrapped comfortingly around me. Dark green eyes trapped mine, and my heart raced madly and my stomach twisted and tied itself in unpleasant knots.
As she stood the fascinating lines disappeared and I found myself staring at smooth skin instead. A carefully manicured fingertip dragged itself across my chest, and sharp fingernails dug into the skin of my cheeks as she turned my face to hers.
Her pretty porcelain veil smiled its painted lips and my heart stopped.
Her name slid slowly from my lips, and I crumpled to the floor.
----
Though she was gone, the stillness slunk through the house. I would find a shirt here, or a pair of panties there. One of her strappy black stilettos remained by the door, toppled over on its side. I couldn't get the smell of the incense out of the air. And whenever I found one of her things, the sweet smell of Anxiety would curl seep out, suffocating and caressing me.

Finis.
This is a quick thing I did back in Sept. '08 and i just remembered about it. so yea. what's everyone think?

love mess

echo Narcissus

me me me

but

he said something before

love love love

repeat him

love me love me love me

staring at himself

me me me

but

he's taken in by the feeling

love love love

he pleads with the spitting image

love me love me love me

trying to catch his attention

me me me

but

its so one-sided

love love love

nothing he says will get him to hear

love me love me love me

no matter what they said it was still

me me me

but

could it still be a matter of

love love love

he was still only saying

i love me i love me i love me

Myth

Would it be possible,I wonder, to re-work the Narcissus myth to include both Ameinias (who ran himself through with a sword) and Echo? 

Nemesis took Ameinias' revenge, (he wished for Narcissus to feel the pain of unrequited love... ) made Narcissus fall in love with his reflection and Narcissus drowned.

Echo got in trouble for talking to much, so she was cursed with only being able to repeat what others said. She fell in love with Narcissus, but he had eyes only for himself. He died, and she wasted away, until only her voice remained. (Or alternately, she wastes away first, and then one of the gods gets mad at Narcissus, and makes him fall in love with himself. He wastes away and dies.)

Either way, I'm fairly certain at the end of the myth, the gods feel kinda bad for Narcissus, and they turn him into a flower. 

A flower of the genus Narcissus, is actually a daffodil. Resilient, they bloom in the early spring, and they're bulbs, so they bloom year after year. (Extra bonus points, into making that into character traits!)

I wonder... 

the truth

in the end it becomes all about not hearing

not listening

not acknowledging 

the little voice

repeating

liar liar liar

Home

And they're swimming in hurt

in the tears

their own tears, backed up

over the days, weeks, 3 months.

they can look at each other

but sometimes

they just

they can't 

they forget to touch

and the whole house shakes with voices.

they stand far apart from each other

sitting right next to one another

the screen, the idiot box

the T V.

sitting in silence, laughing here

or arguing there

its almost like conversation.

so the hurt sits

fetid between them

explosive between them

miles and fathoms between them

and they keep themselves afloat with tears.

They leave the Captain to his own devices, little contraptions that whirl and twirl and print out list of numbers and strange symbols. He flits about the room, eyes big and black behind multiple lenses. He pulls the papers and reads them, up and down and sometimes sideways humming to himself at the insights they afford him. His calculations and, indeed, his variables, are unknown.

One day a particularly stocky instrument made its way over to the Captain, trailing a long list of results, like intestines.

As he ran his eyes over the long thin strip of paper, his wrinkled face smoothed in shock. His black eyes looked over-large, magnified. He scrambled towards the nearest device, which flailed slightly as he grabbed it. Frantically, he looked over its train of numbers, his eyes sliding back and forth as he added and subtracted. Checking the equations in his head, his face folded again, like a paper crumpled in frustration.

Days later, when the chaos died down, someone noticed the lack of smoke exiting the Captain's chimney. When they tentatively entered, they found him on his back, limbs curled like a spider, and the solitary, still intact device shuddering in the corner, the symbols contorted and twitching across the paper it continued to spit.

uhm. something new? maybe for the lit. mag. but i dunno if its good enough.

the killing feilds

calluses

aren't enough to

save

us. smiling

send us to our

deaths.

torturing confessions

or their confessors

doesn't take away

the truth

in them. if they are

written down.

EXAM

read the instructions.

they'll tell you what to do.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

maybe, a little caution

can be applied to them.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

indefinitely? well, probably

if you follow the instructions.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

apply

your own

mind

read the instructions

do you want to follow them?

i did.

do you dream?

no, she says, maybe.

next, later.

she's asleep, perfectly still.

later, next.

we're running

            running

            running

the city is a sudden forest

snow grey then

colorful trop. with flowers

then.

do dream people dream?

I don't know, she says

why don't you ask one next time?

but.