Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Opposed to the warm,
enveloping darkness
of summer nights,
when coldness combines
with the absence of light
I feel exposed. As though
my emptiness is
somehow showing. All the
hope and love I've been
trying to absorb shines through.
But it's radioactive,
unnatural and frightening.
Nothing good comes from
such eerie brightness.
It is the glow that demons seek,
as they hunt the hearts of the
weak and the lonely.

Hi (coo)

I am inspired
by the transcendent features
of your lying heart.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Too much of a good thing

I am flooded with light,

likely to burst at the seams.

Full to the brim, my pores

are leaking your mislaid dreams.

"She's so heavy" (Black Sheep Mythology)

More heavy than gravity,
I'm breaking the paths of falling things
and they follow my trajectory.
They land where I land, on top of me;
with crippling blows to my
spinal cord, knocking the wind
from my lungs, disorienting.
I strode forward to take on the
burden of the constellations, but
was shown to be over-eager and
under-prepared. I was ready for
the weight of the stars,
but I never accounted for all the things
that matter in the space between.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

The Clockwork Girl

I can hear your tinny gears turning

you on; lifting your head

so you can flip your curls and dance.

Don't remain oblivious, time is always

running out. Yes, all your plans are

pre-programmed, but why not

stretch your hinges toward singularity?

Amuse with your attempts at autonomy.

At least struggling keeps you moving, to

give those poor springs some use.

Why not shake until you break, preferring

self-destruction to neglect. Instrumental at

last, even if only in your own demise. A much

greater fate than languishing

in the chest of the lost and forgotten.

Trapped with those who failed to entertain,

or held on until they were easy to replace.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Value Drawing

I miss drawing with charcoal,

the way it lingers on my fingertips

and feels like ashes.

How it lets you pull life

from what's been burnt to death,

forcing you to comprehend

the depth of possibility inherent in

shades of grey.

Tim Wise- The Pathology of White Privilege

Do you have an hour to spare?
I don't care, you should watch this anyway.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

How does it feel?

Now that he really has started to need you.
When he thinks of you daily
and always wants to see you.
Now that he holds you, tight.
As if the extension of the word
was "the world will end tonight"
And places kisses on the nape of your neck
that are forceful, and burn with
restrained passion.

Be careful with each other

This is oil for the cogs of
revolution.  A peek into
the inner workings of a movement.
An inner dialogue. Propaganda
specifically of unity and
hope. Representative of a moment
of community building, an acknowledgment
of the necessity for transition within and without. A suggestion,
that perhaps hypocrisy is not the way to start a new world.
Reminding that in revolution, everything is subject to change.

This reminds me of reading about feminism in the civil rights movement and how, so often, black women were fighting for the rights of all black people while still being oppressed and mistreated by their lovers and husbands.  They had to make a choice to support an entire movement, or risk splintering it to call for their own equality and acknowledgment.  I like that this exists, because it shows that there was at least some awareness of this issue, that someone understood the importance of a truly supportive community behind any social or political movement.  It’s much less intense than, say,  “Join or Die,” but the message is the same, and just as affective.


Monday, November 1, 2010

You're in a car with a beautiful boy,

and one of you is about to leave.
It doesn't matter who the car actually belongs to,
the amount of repellent power between the two of you
could force either one from the vehicle.  And the game
only ends when the person stubborn enough
to sit and stew in their own obstinacy pushes
the other far enough away, that regardless of proximity,
they'll never be close again.

You're in a car with a beautiful boy...

(I saw the original Richard Siken poem on another blog, and the author's name wasn't cited, so I thought it was a writing exercise and I took a crack at it. I hope I haven't offended anyone by doing so, but I would kind of like to see what others come up with to say in this frame. Give it a try.)