mia. 'murica. in artistic recovery.
it's all very confessional.
Once, I met a man, easily seven feet tall.
He walked to the register, purchasing nails perhaps and definitely a hammer.
I scanned his items.
Sir, you’re very tall,
you’re somewhat small.
But to me, you are miniature.
We mutually chuckled,
in another life,
in another century,
in a book of fables,
he would be the giant, benevolent and kind,
with a hammer made of an old water wheel spoke and nails of rail road spikes,
and I am the manic pixie peaseblossom
with mischief and an eternal broken heart.
Once, I met a man, easily seven feet tall.
He was awkward in the store, too big for everything,
and every one stared.
Once, when I forgot to eat, I turned into a pixie,
I was awkward at a party, too bright for the light,
too strange for the bedroom
and everyone stared.
In another life,
he is very tall,
I am somewhat miniature,
and we have not a single fear.
i had a three day weekend.
yesterday, i was on top of a mountain joyfully proclaiming how, because of said three day weekend, i could drink as much as i want (the mountain is a metaphor, i was not actually on a mountain).
i could drink as much as i wanted because all i had to do was write papers the next two days.
now we land here, today, 3:36 in the afternoon.
i’m too hung over to do anything. except type this.
maybe that’s a good sign.
if i can type this, then i can definitely type papers.
stop with the dried flowers,
with the artfully placed coffee cups,
with the half consumed plates of food
and careful shadows
the practiced lighting.
stop with the dreams of wasting away,
with the bird bone shoulder blades,
the wastrel heaven thousand dollar unwashed jeans
the looks out of the side of your eye.
stop with the busted lips,
stop with the cigarettes
for the love of god stop with the cigarettes.
loneliness will eat you into the bed of a boy you will throw away
even sheets are draped carefully on movie sets
and your real life is so much more promising
than a closed studio padded room
where thin limbs
and shy lashes
find their way down the front of her body faking ecstasy
for a camera ten feet over head
operated by four old white men who will spend their evening
joking about the vulnerability
you were paid to display.
I want you to think of me naked. Picture me
in bed (that’s where I envision you taking me;
simple, obvious, classic, plain even).
I imagine you’re nervous about your body your white boy chicken legs
your working class young man midsection
I even think you cut your own hair
what am I doing here
I’m a dirty bird
Picture me naked. Really conjure up the lighting.
Is my ass, the peaks of it, illumined by daylight?
Is the time of day 2:14pm because
we couldn’t wait for tea?
Are the sheets on the floor, or wrapped around me like
seafoam? Seafoam and jellyfish hair, you a shy clam your pearl
is some innuendo I haven’t thought of yet.
What am I saying?
Have you seen the ocean?
I imagine you’re bad in bed.
Not bad, just not a woman, not what I’m used to.
This is part of the fantasy.
You’re like someone who hates calculus—yeah you can add and subtract, but what is the power of N squared to the?
My descriptions are rooted in affection,
please don’t read into this, the language says more about what
a creep I am than what a wholesome and cornfed and prayerful
boy you are.
I want you to think of me naked.
Think of me naked, and not as the strange girl
who dreams up such scenarios while watching you
engrossed in your work.
If we could all be so engrossed in our work.
I don’t want another LifeProTip.
I don’t need a list of lists that will change my life.
Ladies, life is not a list.
Gentlemen, love is not a good tagline.
If I need to write a poem for you to understand
what the space within
the 24 hours we’ve constructed
to constitute a day
(if/then, a logic puzzle always has a strong beginning)
Then There is Hardly Any Hope for Us At All.
Because a poem will not tell you anything
that turning off your TV,
putting on your shoes,
and walking down the street
with your eyes open
in ten seconds flat.
all I’m saying is live.
live like what life is,
and not the words we’ve sounded out to define it.
whatever it is.
here is a list of titles i’m literally giving away.
i’m listing these same ones on fb and bookmooch. if you’re interested, and not weirded out, message me whatever mailing address you’d like it sent to and for totally free i’ll ship it to you. i’m just trying to get these books to a good home. i’ll italicize them out as they are shipped away to avoid confusion.
*update, woah, that worked well. those bolded titles are still very available. takers?
The Pillowman by Martin McDonagh (play; irish; prison setting; mental disability)
Bash: Three Plays by Neil Labute (play; one-act; satire; dark)
Immigrants in Our Own Land and Selected Early Poems by Jimmy Santiago Baca (poetry; immigration themes)
Apocalyptic Swing by Gabrielle Calvocoressi (poetry; female author)
Rose by Li-Young Lee (poetry; romance; eroticism;loss)
Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties by Felicia Luna Lemus (queer topics; female author; urban backdrop)
The Road by Cormac McCarthy (apocalyptic; father-son journey)
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess (near future; dystopian; classic)
Rabbit is Rich and Rabbit at Rest by John Updike (hedonism; american dream; male perspective; modern classic)
Hamlet by William Shakespeare (c’mon.)
August: Osage County by Tracy Letts (play; familial issues; southern issues; drug abuse)
Goethe’s Theory of Colors (nonfiction)
The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything by Ken Robinson (nonfiction; education)
Blue is the Warmest Color by Julia Maroh (queer topics; lesbians; female author; graphic novel; french)
The Most Massive Woman Wins by Madeleine George (play; female topics; female author; body issues)
Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie (play)
Othello by William Shakespeare (play)
American Brutus: John Wilkes Booth and the Lincoln Conspiracies by Michael W. Kauffman (nonfiction; american history; conspiracies)
A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion (international relations; female author; intrigue)
The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon (modern fiction; post-modern; satire)
Solitude: A Return to Self by Anthony Storr (nonfiction; studies on artists; artistry)
Chorus: A Literary Mixtape by Saul Williams (poetry; compilation; modern)
A Shakespeare Glossary by C. T. Onions (nonfiction; glossary)
Posthumous Keats by Stanley Plumly (nonfiction; biography; poetry)
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell (fiction; dystopian; future; historical)
A Language Older Than Words by Derrick Jensen (nonfiction; environmentalism; abuse; childhood; naturalism)
Keys to the Rain: The Definitive Bob Dylan Encyclopedia by Oliver Trager (nonfiction; Bob Dylan)
The Purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women by Jessica Valenti (nonfiction; female author; feminism; cultural critique)
An Arrow Pointing to Heaven: A Devotional Biography by Rich Mullins/James Bryan Smith (nonfiction; religious; devotional; biography)
my only ultimatum?
either you give kate bush an open minded listen, or you walk out that door.