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my own private island

1/30/2011

i hate when disconnection feels normal.
my own private island
forging my name on someone else's sheets.
i knock on doors. i am a visitor
waiting to make my bread and then leave.
my hands pressed against glass,
i watch the thirsty drink their tea
and quench the plausible things that i can't seem
to figure out how to do, not at least without asking for help
which, in turn, makes me feel ugly

and behind closed doors i wish for things
like how to control my life and put things on pause when i'm happy
overlook the brittle air and not let it affect me
instead of dragging me down
and to be needed for longer than a honeymoon phase
because i'm something worth growing with
i need a base beyond my own private island
that shelters my desire to feel full and content
where i can understand everything. and be understood

until then, i'll keep knocking on these doors
offering the best i can or sub par at least
whatever gets me through the day, two notes closer
till the bridge in the song, a reminder that
this is all a process. something i forget while i
format the lines others draw and keep them steadily in place
ignoring my inner begging

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poema

1/27/2011

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i tried to write a poem in spanish. it sucked. i clicked delete before i was dumb enough to say yes, and admit to the world i'm a faulty communicator in a language i thoroughly love

i'm mad about it. i'm mad at it. i hate how it turns its back on me after rolling its tongue in my ear. it's not afraid of me

sometimes can i pry its eyes open and force it to see what i see? just once so i won't have to try to convince that we're on the same team. just once

i'll love you long enough until i'm tired of trying

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rock

1/23/2011

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i remember sitting in a chair, in a circle
among women, expressing our shared problem.
and a man walked in to pick up his girlfriend
she had brown hair like me and sadness in her eyes.
she said, "that's my rock" and put her arm inside his
and they left while we all watched in appreciation.

i still haven't found my rock,
for they all turn into putty

growing deep inside is my own rock
less trusting, colder, hardened with time
would want to feel soft and young again
but these things keep happening and i feel less and less

i remember laying beside someone
and he whispered in my ear that i could always turn to him
that he would always be here for me.
funny that he's nowhere to be found

i still haven't found my rock
'cause when they say they are, they're lying

feeling pain and feeling nothing are exactly the same
so which do i choose? with pain i have something to write about
the rock is my fist when i punch the wall
and feel my knuckles break

i remember staring at the sky and begging.
lend me a hand, i pleaded.
bring me a rock who will be there for me
and help me be the best person i am

i am my rock.
cold, incapable of feeling

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Fuck your "Right"

1/9/2011

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I don't care what the U.S. Constitution says. Guns have no place in our society. Live in a place where the people aren't allowed to have them and you'll see a difference. You will feel it as you walk alone at night. If the Second Amendment was somehow magically abolished and all people gave up their guns, you'll quickly notice the difference of "men from the boys," when that source of power is taken away. Then tell me, who are the true fighters now? Who is the real threat? The trembling 22-year old in front of a supermarket? Or the one who rushes to pull him down with her bare hands before he reloads? If you could choose between having a gun or having a brain, which would you choose? Would you be willing to give one up for the other? Imagine not having that choice, or having someone else choose it for you when they decide to pull the trigger against your temple. Think about it.

P.S. if one day you are ever "blessed" with the experience of having a gun pointed at your head, I promise you'll never forget it.

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the pleasure of discomfort

1/4/2011

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Mariano Fortuny Marsal, 1838-1874

art needs conflict to be interesting
so that solution gives it meaning.
spike-heeled boots on cobblestone
zero calorie dressing.
trains, harsh rain helps me sleep
when i just can't bear the thought of having
my head spin and churn, turn like the wheels
smashing the street
like calluses on a dancer's feet
swaying to a sweet, sweet song. about losing

children wail for reward, they scream to be held
we gaze at the photographs of towns covered in snow
3D glasses give migraines
sometimes blood resembles paint
is it worth it?

is any of it worth it?

we chase the ones whose backs are turned
only to find more lessons learned
inhaling air into dirty lungs
because there's a pleasure in discomfort

there's the girls who cut themselves
or the ones who never eat
there's the job with the angry boss
because you need to make ends meet
there's the old man on the bus
with a bobbing head he tries to sleep
there's the rush to exceed the speed limit
while russians fear their police

wasting time, telling you what's right
and what's good, that it's not polite to fight
yet it's all completely boring
there's no chorus to this song
there's no arc in this story
no bloody battle scene gone wrong
no epilogue to explain it all as we are all left hanging down
loose nooses gripped around our ankles,
tongues licking dust off of the ground
wanting more, feeling less we build a tolerance to time
satisfied means nothing, it feels wrong to feel just fine
for there's a pleasure in discomfort, my friend
it's the milk to nurse the rhyme
the best artists are tortured
but their work comes out divine

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my own private island

poema

rock

Fuck your "Right"

the pleasure of discomfort

tell me.

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