When I Say That You're Stardust - 01/19/14

Don't let anyone tell you that you can be anything;
that if you dream it, you can be;
that you'll get anywhere wishing on stars.
This world was not built to grant your wishes,
nor mine,
and, someday, you'll find
that your blood is required to get very far.
I want you to know this going in.
I don't want you to know
that the world is mostly darkness;
I want you to know
that you're the world's only light.
I don't want you to know
that life is a battlefield;
I want you to know
when and how to fight.
I don't want you to know
your place;
I want you to know
how to scream,
I want you to know
what your words taste like
when they leave your mouth;
how to say "love" and mean it;
how to say "hate" and mean it;
what equality looks like,
what power feels like,
and how to have the parts
of both that you want and need
in order to breathe
a sigh of relief
in this eighty, ninety, hundred year struggle
of your life.

I want you to know
you'll never get anywhere wishing on stars.
I want you to know
you'll get exactly where you are
and you'll never be happy
if you aren't allowed
to watch comet trails in the night
and imagine a utopia
where you don't have to fight
for the right to be
exactly the way you were born.
I want you to know
that a star is more you
than a mirror and
I want you to know
that the same is true
for everyone you meet.
I don't want you to know
that you can be anything
because I want you to know
that you are everything.

Sneaker Wave - 01/17/14

When I was seven,
I was caught up in a sneaker way
while playing on the beach,
but all I remember are bubbles.
There were bubbles
all over the sand,
sea foam
all over the sand,
like the water had all
run away
and left a trail of bubbles
for me to jump on.
I remember jumping on bubbles,
then sea all around me,
then yellow rain boots.
My dad wanted to get me
rain boots
after he pulled me out.

Apparently,
I could have died?

I don't remember that.
I don't remember feeling that
pain, terror, life flashing before my eyes.
I didn't know fear.

But know it now,
to fear the future,
to fear potential pain,
to fear failure,
to fear what's coming,
to fear the night,
to fear fighting for my life.

And I don't think about
jumping on bubbles
anymore.

Radical - 01/16/14

break me
break me
break me down
into little pieces
you can swallow
you can handle
you can control
you can devour
break me into chunks
you can hold
you can lift
you can control
break me into
dull edged shards
you can touch
you can move
you can throw
break me
break me
break me into dust
you can't see
you can't cut
down anymore

break me because
were it any other way you
would be cut on my rage
could see my eyes blaze
couldn't throw me away
couldn't move me from this path
couldn't touch any piece of my skin
couldn't control any of my words
couldn't lift the weight of my knowledge
couldn't hold my attention
couldn't devour my heart
couldn't handle my power
couldn't swallow the universe
that I rule,
that I dominate,
that I understand and influence,
to grown and prosper,
that I nurture,
that I create.

It's a very particular emotion - 01/12/14

The comments
on internet news articles
make me want to
set flowers on fire
so if you understand
the reaction
I'm trying to convey,
plant me a garden
of delicate
purple pansies
to fuel my rage.

She - 01/05/14

I identify as a woman
but really I am

steel bones
forged in the heart
of a star erupting
into its successor
with diamonds in
my joints
and venom in
my marrow;

mythril muscles
knitted by the goddess
of revenge
but tailored to my bone
by forest sprites
weary of fire;

plastic veins
vibrating under my skin
every time
needles
eyes
scissors
or the monsters hiding in men
are mentioned;

blue fire
and lightning bugs
and punk rock music
and decaying charm quarks
wrapped in paper,
painted in crayon,
choked in ribbon,
drowned in books;

captain,
wizard,
queen,
debate mother,
teacher,
shadow.

Increased Police Activity on 82nd - 01/02/14

A healer handed me
a miracle stone
while we waited for the bus
outside of a bank
being robbed,
red and blue flashing lights
for a block in
every direction.
He said I was going to be
on a magazine
because I had vision.
He said to remember
that no matter how much
hate, racism, and evil
we encounter,
there is also and always
love.

Ordinary Ghost - 09/15/13

Hey, little wisp of smoke,
Hey, little spirit,
Hey, little transcendental passerby
Won't you tell me why
you're in this creaking house, why
you're in this gloomy room?
Why, little ghoul, oh why?
Shouldn't you be haunting
all the small things?
Shouldn't you be with
the Pumpkin King?
Shouldn't you, little spirit?
Shouldn't you, little spirit?
Oh, shouldn't you buzz,
little fly?

But you're an ordinary ghost
in this damn dark world
and you've been left behind
by all the vampires
who don't care if you're alright

But you're a quiet, little ghoul
in this deafening world
who's nothing beside
all the banshees
shrieking tonight

They're gonna tell you that
"Good little ghosts
don't go no where,
cuz you're only as loud
and the screams you snare."

Who are you haunting tonight?
I say,
who are you haunting tonight?
Little ghoul,
who is on your mind?
Who do you wish
wasn't afraid of the night?

They're gonna tell you that
"Good little ghosts
don't go no where,
cuz you're only as loud
and the screams you snare.
Good little girls
had better beware
of the darkness
lurking everywhere."
And if you try to ask
when the darkness persists,
those monsters will try
to feed you some bullshit
about how shadows are caused
by your light,
when you're the only thing
even close
to right.

But you're an ordinary ghost
in this damn dark world
and you've been left behind
by all the vampires
who don't care if you're alright

But you're a quiet, little ghoul
in this deafening world
who's nothing beside
all the banshees
shrieking tonight

Oh, little ghoul,
I promise I care
Oh, little ghoul,
I know it's tough out there
And, baby, I swear
You are scary
Oh, who is haunting you tonight?

Graffiti Poetry #5 - 09/06/12

Each human being
is burdened with
the seeds of creativity,
the building blocks
of beauty,
the framework of elegance,
the blueprints of perfection,

which we use to build bombs.

Can't you imagine
a world where those tools
are used for creation?

Dance With Me, Langston - 12/07/11

She stands -
the potent lyrical potion
palpable in the air,
tossing her soft hair
from restrictive bobby pins
her mother pinned in.

She leans
against the anachronism of a bar
until her young head falls
in a beam of artificial moonlight,
a stream of liquid sunshine,
dusty souls fall through her.
She is Heaven.

Heaven waits -
hanging off the trumpet’s hiss,
lounging in the bass’ lisp,
tethered to the saxophone
and his bleating, bleeding, blurring
baritone bombardment,
bullets of notes blistering
past Heaven’s wholesome stockings.

That Girl - 07/22/11

That girl would live off mixed drinks if she could
Partying in her upper class neighborhood
Hard liquor for the sharpest flavor
To contrast her debutant behavior

And she thinks she’s got it so good
And she thinks she leads the high life
She thinks being up to no good
Makes you invulnerable to any down sides
And she thinks that all the drugs
Will just find their own way out
And she thinks that all the boys
Will ever bring her down
She thinks that there’re no negatives
She thinks there is no pain
She thinks she’ll live forever
Well, what a bloody shame
That her pretty face will find the gutter,
That she’ll be blubbering for her mother
The second her drunk driving kills somebody’s daughter

Could Be So Much Worse - 05/12/11

So you want a happy song?
A nice serenade?
Something kind
To whisk your mind away?

But here’s a sad note
And another desperate line
Crystalline teardrops
Falling in time

You see,
What if it was my name on a bomb?
Dropped on civilians
In a war so long?
What if the characters of my name
Continued a conflict that I wish would refrain?
And what if I wished
That I was that bomb
Falling to desert with a startling thud
What if I wished
That I couldn’t fly?
What if I wished to still try?

What if I chewed my fingers to the bone
And gnawed my lips right off?
What if I screamed
With pleasure at the scene
Of my own blood
On marble?
What a sight to marvel

What if I cut down my chest
And opened a bleeding soul?
Let insanity squeeze
Into every line of poetry
Let all the crows fly
Just to be shot from the sky
By lightening
And drift back to the Earth
Like snow

Isn’t it pretty?
Isn’t it pretty?
Isn’t it pretty,
The red rain?
My wet face?
The dark nights
Brought to life
By mechanical LED lights?
The long conversations?
The fleeting temptations
To step off the face of the world?

We thought I was better
But there’s no way
Not when there’s still
Another pill
That might cure a disease
That I probably don’t have
Why would I wish
For a psychiatrist
To cry to
When I have friends?
I’m not insane
Just a little pained
At least,
That’s what I tell those friends

So where do I place
The pallium surface
Of a decentralized brain?
Is there a way to keep taste
While removing sight
And sound
And smell
And feel?
Because the metal of blood
Is smooth on the tongue
As you’ll know if you’ve ever bit
A bit to far into your skin

And these are even
The full whipped cream
On this gory meringue
That comprises my dreams
My thoughts are disgustingly dark
And I think that’s why
They’re so appealing

I need a little outlet
That isn’t quite cutting
And isn’t quite shutting
My brain completely down
Every time anything goes south
So don’t mind if I indulge
On the image of my body
Mangled and cold

Another Reason I Hate That Class - 03/10/11

It’s like delicate egg yolks
Wrapped in barbed wire
Shedding my insides
And it isn’t usually like that

Painful, sure
But not like this.
I shouldn’t be waking up
At 2 am,
Screaming and crying,
Because there is something wrong with that.

It supposedly stress,
Which I would deny,
But all my denial this week
Has been used too soon.
It was drawn like blood
When I held my arm to a heater
Until it went numb.
I wasn’t going to say anything
But apparently
That’s denial too,
Like cross bred plants
Still being organic.

In my history class,
We’re learning about all that,
And all the other things
Wrong with all of everything
In all of history.
I don’t understand
Why anyone would want to
Sit through an hour of pointless debate
Over events long passed,
Just steaming
Angry
Furious
As I hold my arm to the heater
And hope it burns and hurts,
But it just goes numb
And everyone is disappointed
When the bell rings.

I heard my English teacher,
While reciting a beautiful poem
That she had written,
Frightenedly mumble “fuck”
A wisp of what I’ve been told is
A powerful word.
Like someone was going to take offence,
Like a little anger would end everything,
Like if maybe someone got mad
And did something
Something might change
And like that was a bad thing.

You know what I think?
I think too much.
And I think all the time.
And I think in words,
And rhymes
With breaks in the lines
Like my whole life is just one poem
One depressing poem
That just doesn’t know when
To end.
And I think that I fall flat on my face
When there’s something I need to face
That I slip up
When I need to stick up.
That I pull out
When it’s time to put in.
That I can’t get angry
Except at myself,
And even that is slowly jerked into
The sadness of sticky red fingers.
That I want to bleed
But I’m afraid of blood.
That I do the worst
When I’m not paying attention
And then feel the best.
That you still don’t get
What I’m talking about.
That I really wish you did.
That I knew you wouldn’t
And thought that anyways,
Wrote this anyways,
So I could have another excuse to
Hate my poor, pitiful self.

So there should be some hope somewhere
And this is supposed to be the stanza
Where I add it,
But what do I know
About hope and love?
What do I know about happiness?
All I have is a heater
And the sharp point of a forgotten staple.

Let Me Take a Note from Tunisia - 03-01-11

Ladies and Gentlemen,
adults with baby brains,
kickin’ back to the glare
and the snare
of FOX News,
listening to whatever
and whoever
is on the radio,
turning the dial low,
making your brain slow

Let me remind you Americans
what the people of Tunisia
recently discovered,
let me inform you
what the people of Egypt
have uncovered.
Come and hear the wisdom
of Yemen, Bahrain, and Jordan.
Listen to the secrets
of Greece, Algeria and Sudan.

We are oppresses
by the clothes in which we’ve dressed,
by the revolutions we’ve missed,
by the chemical lips we’ve kissed,
by the star lit crack addicts we’re caresses,
by the companies we’ve supported,
their causes we’ve donated to,
by the way we’ve paraded to
their mass sales,
throwing workers wages back at you.
The consumed consumer.
The used user.
The obsolete treat
to freedom’s enemy,
the television.
By everything you see,
all the Barbie dolls you try to be,
every advertisement you believe.

That moment when you stop perceiving
and start following.
The moment when you stop following
and sit down.
When we sign our votes to companies,
and disregard epiphanies,
and throw poets away
to the modern day Gulags
of writing crap pop songs
that someone else will sing.
When what Lady Gaga
wore to the Grammy’s
is more important than the riots in the streets.

And here’s the ultimate plot twist,
the deadly kiss,
the last lisped words
of hope:
they look to us.
People in other nations,
praying for freedom,
marching for liberty,
bleeding for basic, human, rights
look to us.
We symbolize freedom,
we symbolize progress,
we symbolize equality.
We have women senators,
but I still wouldn’t earn as much as a man
for the same job.
We have a melting pot of culture,
but Portland only has nine Synagogues
among endless churches.
We have the first black president,
and we beat gay men to death.

You know,
I won’t debate over the second amendment,
because we were given it
for a reason:
so that when the government
- our government -
commits treason
we can correct them
and protect
what we are currently
neglecting to respect.

Freedom.
It’s more than a constitution,
it’s a state of mind.
and the reason not every dictatorship is revolting
is because some have bigger things on their minds,
like their next meal
and clean water
and their children’s lives.

And we?
We have the Oscar’s.

Roaring 20s - 03-01-11

Should’ve been born in the 1920s.
Shouldn’t been a rebel girl
with my rain boots unlaced,
flapping around like jazz notes
blowing away all the German spiders
and sticking to billboards like price tags.
Should’ve bobbed my hair short as my skirt.
Should’ve given Queen Victoria the finger
and caresses Langston’s black neck
the way his words wooed my soul.
Should’ve sang with Margret Sanger
about ending the pain in my ovaries
and spreading my legs without worry.
Should’ve run around with DuBois
and lynched the freaks in the sheets,
not the knights in Harlem.
Should’ve run to the lights,
to the glamour and clamor,
to the growing cities like healthy children,
rocketing to the sky with hopes.
Should’ve laughed in the flowers
and gazed at the clouds with Georgia O’Keefe.
Should’ve head butted the traditionalist for firing Scopes.
Should’ve stayed out late with the Jewish.
Should’ve danced with the Polish.
Should’ve drank bootlegged beers with an Irish fellow,
out in the woods with painted lips
that sneered at mothers and puckered at men.
Should’ve seen the world for the first time
in a black and white news reel
with maritime music.
Should’ve cheered for Babe and laughed at Chaplin.
Should’ve lived and loved.
Should’ve drowned in culture and possibilities.



Historical context:
In my history class, we are currently learning about the Roaring Twenties.  This was a time of cultural revolution.  The traditional Protestant ways of the United States were being challenged by Pluralism - being of more than one belief.  This was the time of Woman’s Suffrage and the sexual revolution, where flappers wore short skirts, drank beer, and defied their mothers.  The flapper was named after the fashion of wearing rain boots without lacing them up so they made a flapping sound.  This was also the first instance of birth control, promoted by Margret Sanger.
This was the time of the Harlem Renaissance, an explosion of African American culture in New York, of jazz, poetry, and art.  Langston Hughes was one of the foremost poets of that time, and if you’ve never heard of him, please look up “Mother to Son” because it is amazing.  African America rights movement took off, With W.E.D. DuBois advocating for blacks to not just accept what they could from white, oppressive government, but to fight for their rights.
This was the time of mass immigration and the true beginnings of America’s “melting pot” idea, that, until then, had honestly not been followed.  People of all races moved into cities and learned about each other.  Old ideas were replaced with a conglomerate of the new.  Catholics in the USA formed a tradition of football watching.  A person could be of two worlds, that of their decent, be it Polish, Jewish, or Irish, and also be an American.
This was the time of learning about the world.  Mass use of radio and the first movies with sound brought news from all over the world to American citizens, letting them expand their view.  It was the time of the skyscraper, of the big city, of innovation.
I have been greatly inspired by this era.  Yes, I know it wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty freaking awesome, you have to admit.

It is Better to Forget - 11/14/10

I want to write everything
Every word
In the right combination
With the right spacing
And separation
So that my words form an arrow
To hit right through
The heart of whoever did this.

Some world we live in
Where it is better to forget
Then to know
Because the things we know
Are dark
Are scary
Are scarred.

What a world we live in
Where we step out of our homes
And fear.
Where we step into our homes
And fear.
Where suicide is an escape
And murder combats murder,
Where accidents and insanity
Weight the dice of justice
And Justice herself sees all
But does nothing.

What a world we live in
Where we are told to love our neighbors
And then to kill them
If they are not what we think they should be.
Where those preaching the sanctity of marriage
Are those who defile it
With the fifty percent divorce rate.
Where the strong leaders of our world
Are slaves
To their own desires.

What a world we live in
Where we spend more money
On weapons to destroy now
Than on knowledge
To secure a future.
Where we fight over oil
Rather than dying children.

Do you not see this world?
Do you not smell the death,
Hear the sirens,
Taste the blood,
Feel the hate?
It is everywhere.

I want to write
A poem for each problem
The likes of which
Will change the hearts
Of every being who reads it.
I want to align letters
And spaces
Just so
And create a heart-wrenching art
That will make a difference.
But I am no more than any before.
They have failed,
So shall I.

A persistent seed of thought
Has been growing in my mind,
That fire will burn everything,
Even fire.
That in the time we waste
Finding a perfectly
Peaceful solution,
More will die than if we end it now.

What a world we live in
Where the powerful don’t care
And the weak want to do good.

For young girls and old men,
For teenage boys and young mothers,
For the media whores
And the political bores,
For the sluts and the junkies,
For the honest criminals,
For the deceitful juries,
For the teen suicides,
For gay pride,
For homophobic bastards
And generic Prozac perfection,
For broken homes and broken hearts,
For lovers and rapists,
For mothers and murderers,
For children and soldiers
And for child soldiers,
For cancer patients in Hawaii
And young girls with heart failure,
For the bipolar best friend,
The schizophrenic college student,
The depressed genius,
For dealers and doctors
And for pharmaceutical representatives,
For bombers and beauty queens,
For veterans and their children,
For those who didn’t come back,
For those who aren’t going to,
For musicians who sell out
And those who can’t continue to play,
For writers of fiction
And for readers who believe every word,
For boyfriends and girlfriends,
For best friends and enemies,
For fighters,
For workers,
For strangers,
For the bums and the rich,
For shamans and spirits,
For the ghosts and the shy,
For myself
And for you,
Whoever you are:

I do not have the words to change.
But I have these words.
And, now,
So do you.

Screen Shot - 08/07/10

screen shot
punk rock
heart throb
next job
another round
of jello shots
British invasion
so long gone
the remnants twisted
in every new song
Howard Roark
still fights
a losing battle
for a creativity
incompatible
with modern thinking
independence sinking
in the oil
and the ocean
and the obvious
devotion
to conformity
Roark,
wouldn't you agree?
if you don't
please
tell me
what you see

Red Alert - 08/06/10

The inert gases
took all their classes
to keep in touch
with what's up
with the upside down world
like the good boys and girls
on life threatening drugs
and their parents
egging them on
and dealers
with PhD's
from Harvard,
Yale, and my MIT
all making us think
that we're all sinking
and slipping
and thinking
too much
or not enough
always in the gym
or on the couch, inert
heading for a red alert
cuz emotional twisting
is the new big sport

Veto the Addiction - 07/14/10

Say you’d pay
For a day
In my brain?
You’d just be paying
For a day
Of pain
A little
Masochistic?
Well, that’s okay
Join the club
Cuz even I’m
That way

And unfortunately
It ain’t just for
My poetry
That I’m this way
Ha, no way
Honest to the core
And probably
Gonna stay
That way

You see,
If there’s something
Wrong with me
Something that can’t
Be changed
Chained
To my brain
I’m not interested
In addiction
To make
It break
So put
The prescription
Pad away
Forget it, Doc,
I’m okay
This way

Am I tired
Or am I sad?
No one knows
Not even my own
Mom and dad
Cuz I hide it
Confide it
In few
I’ve made it
This far
This way
Who’s to say
Anything
Will really change?
I’ve got no interest
In it
So let it be
You see,
Even if there’s something
Wrong with me
It makes for
Damn fine
Poetry
So I think
I’ll stay
This way