Part One
If I Write a Poem
If I write a poem, it
will necessitate a bolt
and chain in arms reach.
Because when the last
words of its form are
written, it will begin
to growl at volumes that
causes fusion at the joints,
bark so relentlessly that the
paint on the walls stiffens
until it cracks, and just as the
poem is about to leap from
its birthplace to demolish
the bedroom window in the
name of freedom,
I must snatch the chain and
slam it into the poem’s
neck.
As I grapple with such a poem,
I must avoid its feral bite, I must
constrain its muscles with my
own, all while I curse myself
for birthing such a beast.
But these poems, like their more
tame siblings, always find a home
in a special cage.
A cage of thread and bounded
paper,
to ensure they behave.
If I write a poem, I may
have to shadow doctors and
learn the process of creating
vaccinations.
Because the poem will have
a way shrinking itself into an
invisible speck,
burrowing into a reader by
eye or ear.
The poem will brave Mt.
Brain and commandeer
its epicenter,
the poem will split its form
endless times to a create a
swarm of doppelgängers,
and those copies may just alter
the reader’s vision and perceptions
permanently.
If I write a poem,
I mustn’t give it too much
praise.
I know I’ll be the secret
admirer it expects.
I’ll hold prolonged stares
at the gentle curves of
its body, I’ll nod to
sleep to the rhythm of
its voice, I’ll have to stifle
chuckles at its clever rhymes,
but I’ll boast about its personality
to all my close friends.
I won’t tell the poem that.
I don’t want to make it jaded
like those other poems.
But I know it’ll be the
poem that readers pause at
with a tilt in their neck.
I know it’ll be the poem that
other poems gossip about in
the back alleys of literary magazines.
I know it’ll be the poem that is
quoted in someone’s favorite
movie,
the poem that arches the spine
of someone in love,
as the words of the poem waltz
out of the mouth of their partner
at their wedding,
and in that instance,
the new union will formally know
the poem as their own.
I know I must hold a baby poem
in place, if only for a couple of seconds.
Because I know that once I let it
breathe in oxygen,
it is something else entirely.
Something familiar,
yet unrecognizable.
Something I adore,
yet am afraid of.
Namesake
Know me by my namesake,
approach me if you dare.
Love me until I’m colorless,
odorless, fearless about all seasons.
And if you speak my name,
you leave me anywhere.
Define her by her sexuality,
subject her if you dare.
Admire her until she’s confident,
voluptuous, jaded to all advances.
And if you speak her name,
she’ll tell you she doesn’t care.
Judge a culture by its lifestyle,
spit at its ways if you dare.
Condemn it until it’s considered
undesirable, worthless, less than
righteous, and so imperfect.
Because deep down you don’t
understand.
It’s not that you can’t comprehend,
you just never embraced such a word.
Leave all your senses uneducated
and all your views become absurd.
Love me because you trust me,
judge me after you listen.
Admire me for my vision, for my
talent, my intuition.
And if you should disagree,
all is still respected,
and all is forgiven.
There’s a picture to be drawn.
A scene to be depicted.
Where we redefine balance,
after braving any distance.
I’ll meet you just to sit and listen
as you tell me your name.
As we sit in shared company,
for once we’re just the same.
The Photo of Nothing
My generation cherishes the photo.
I would say that’s not a bad thing.
I certainly love to converse with an
image that speaks to me,
my eyes telling the photo,
you look marvelous always.
But now social media holds a reign
on imagery,
and what’s considered beautiful,
hence.
Users strive to create depictions of
what doesn’t exist,
and all that is truly present,
is cropped from the lens.
We post pictures on our feed
to do battle.
“My life is great, how about yours?”
Our photos yell for the sake
of attention,
and now all there is is noise.
Noise that makes us insecure.
Life is joy through the social camera.
Users filter truth,
until they’re less than natural.
Reminisce on falsified memories,
but at least we still have perfect photos.
Songs for Us
People have been gathering together in groups and transcending the limits of their pathological individuality through music and ritual since the beginning of time.
Jordan Peterson
What happens to us
when our heads tilt back,
when we grip our hair
to a melody, when we
close our eyes to
shut out what’s existing
right before us,
yet we’re in tune with the
cadence that plays around
us.
What happens to us,
when we finally clasp
that runaway high,
that only shows itself
when all our senses align,
when we stand in front of
who we were,
and just behind whoever we
could be,
and with every twitch of our
muscles,
we know that movement
is right.
We are the congregation
bouncing around in church,
flailing our hands in the
grip of the Holy Ghost.
We are the tribal men and
women galloping and
somersaulting around the
night fire.
We are the concert goers
screaming under fluorescent
lights,
sharing our manic kisses
with strangers.
And what about the loners
bumping into their room
walls with the speakers blaring
or the golden couples who dance
to the songs of their heyday as
they fold clothes
and take each other into their
arms.
With closed eyes they become
time travelers,
swaying through the years of
their history as one.
We could be those people too.
Whenever You’re Anxious
Tight grip of the chest,
a dread of upcoming events
no matter how small.
There’s panic in every shallow
breath,
as your heart feels the labor
of outsprinting the beast of
possibility.
You haven’t even left bed.
Please try and take that first step.
Let your feet hit the hard floor
so you know the ground won’t
collapse.
Take another step...
then another once more.
Small movements towards
progress will conquer what once
felt dangerous.
Please know that the next time
that you’re anxious.
i call her HAPPINESS
What is Happiness?
She is the nudge on my shoulder that pushes me out of my messy bed. She is the pharmacist prescribing dopamine to my brain as I eat my favorite foods. She gets lost in melodies with me as we dance around a room.
Where is Happiness?
I hardly know. She comes and goes unapologetically. I call for her after a long day and suddenly she’s there, and other times she’s in the distance. She lifts me to the peak of a steep mountain and leaves me there to fall again.
But then there’s Sorrow.
She comes whenever Happiness gives me the space I never asked for. Sorrow greets me with a thunderous kiss, and I am rubble in her storm.
Sorrow stitches her arms to mine, and as she holds me, she compresses. Because Sorrow says she loves me. I can’t reciprocate because I’m breathless in her grasp. The grass is gray, the clouds are gray, my mood is blue, she says I’m safe. Sorrow holds me so very close, even when I’m striking, kicking, spitting, pushing her so far away.
But then Sorrow left me.
And when she left so did the cold, so did the worry, so did the storm. I must search for Happiness’s warmth again; she never just comes back to me.
Happiness, sweet Happiness.
I hate you... but I don’t. You leave me for good reasons. I’m selfish, yes it’s true. Your absence is my addiction, the enigma and the fool.
