I've been sitting on this poem for a few weeks now. I'm trying to get into the habit of writing longer pieces. I figured phases and variations might be a way to do that. This poem, so far, is in four parts. Help me revise!
fall out
*
nuked i
I have an irrational fear
of being too close
to working microwaves.
After just being
set usually into the next
room I run or further
enough away to not
hear the disturbing hum
of particle excitement.
I pushed inside you, one
night when we were both so lit
and our feelings sat on top
our skins. You were telling me
how scared you were I’d leave
you in a confessional
tone. You went
on to say you loved me.
I agreed I loved you as
I agreed to love you back.
Water tends unattended
to evaporate. Microwaved
molecules break apart
from each other reconfiguring
onto the walls of the appliance’s
insulated shell. Inside
the mug there might only
be trace amounts. White residue:
from minerals of the tap.
*
nuked ii
when you mouth a name into his
ear that is your own, does it take
his breath away? does it move
you too? or is it a gesture: the finger
moving into the button just pushed?
there is a vacuum
of air caused by the boom
of a hydrogen bomb. sound can’t travel
where there is none
so at the face of the combusting shell
you won’t hear the bang
turn you into pink mist.
though you’ll notice ticking
mistaking warning
for a pulse.
*
nicked i
It cut right, a tiny
lesion on the surface
of epidermis, below
the lip and a carmine
bead transformed
the mouth into an eye
which wept red.
On the pink
skin the nicked lip
quickened the blood
coming, a red
ball leaking air in
reverse, as it bled.
Therein, it did not quit.
I filled with not
the fear I would
scar, that moment I
would have thought, instead
I dreaded as it thinned (not
thickened) it would never
end and I would bleed to death.
*
nicked ii
the spot splat pink
clinking on the blank
white rim around
the basin. suddenly less
dark red ink than it was
when it left my lips,
a factory of polka-dotted tears
of toilet paper.
the fogginess was lifting
off the mirror.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
lizard
[This is a poem I read for To Have and To Hold. It underwent a number of changes even up to five minutes prior to reciting it. Like any of any poet's poems, it's still a work in progress, but I am honored to have been approached to write specifically for this event and that a version of lizard contributed to the event's success.]
neuroscientists call it our reptilian brain, sitting inside
of our cortex it is smaller and primitive a croc
scaly, slithery, leather-skinned lounging lizard-like,
keeping time and moving us dancers rely on it, they
call on its memory it is the mother of our kinesthetic impulses
steps to a rhythm, our flight and fall, the beat of our heart or tapping
of our foot, the tick-tock of our souls the metronome to
the movement of ourselves within ourselves without it
we cannot avoid injury or win at boxing matches walk into our lover’s arms
or down an aisle to an andante tempo of a promenade
it is infallible if only we would listen closer to the sussurus
hissing between its forked tongue into our ears
from inside the inside of our head to the rest of the brain
this lizard computes in alternating numbers, say zeros and ones
but the dancer and musician knows it thinks differently, unlike a robot
but in soaring lines perhaps flashing colors or a story about itself
there is a hot rock, it crashed from a planet that resembles the Russian tundra
and it is in the center of a desert now California is a Gila monster
who spends its respite summer idling hot—hot and cold-blooded,
it needs the rock to stay alive the rock is the right parts cool and warm for now
California wants to move from off of the rock and into danger
a Katrina or a tsunami it wants to shatter itself orgasm is the best way
to put it precipitate into the Ocean and from the foam rise
like a fiery bird California wants to birth and mother itself
into a better Gila from broken pieces become better, better because it was broken
but the rock is committed to its own inertia growing colder into the winter
the lizard will die if it does not move off of the rock
in the delirium of heat the Gila dreams itself a dissociative disorder
California is an angel its disparate parts the parts of that angel
she is fractured but all there there is a golden halo and a lake of tears,
from both sadness and joy, beneath it
there are dry patches of land that is its body and the valleys
of green that carve it out there is a heart, a stomach, a brain and a reptile-brain
there are shoulder-blades that slice into the sky like a bird with fire for feathers
and a faulty heel that will some day crumble into the whispering Ocean
like the crack of thunder the angel, California, will beat
its wings to the music only she can hear—the BPM of birth, love, rebirth,
the heartbeat of a monster, the unshakeable imperfection of the cerebellum
deeply submerged beneath a riverbed—flying out toward space, screaming
at the stars ‘move out of the way’ a bat out of hell imitating a banshee,
she is a serpent with cotton-like wings, thunderously battering the air around her
applauding the break the break of a state into an island
neuroscientists call it our reptilian brain, sitting inside
of our cortex it is smaller and primitive a croc
scaly, slithery, leather-skinned lounging lizard-like,
keeping time and moving us dancers rely on it, they
call on its memory it is the mother of our kinesthetic impulses
steps to a rhythm, our flight and fall, the beat of our heart or tapping
of our foot, the tick-tock of our souls the metronome to
the movement of ourselves within ourselves without it
we cannot avoid injury or win at boxing matches walk into our lover’s arms
or down an aisle to an andante tempo of a promenade
it is infallible if only we would listen closer to the sussurus
hissing between its forked tongue into our ears
from inside the inside of our head to the rest of the brain
this lizard computes in alternating numbers, say zeros and ones
but the dancer and musician knows it thinks differently, unlike a robot
but in soaring lines perhaps flashing colors or a story about itself
there is a hot rock, it crashed from a planet that resembles the Russian tundra
and it is in the center of a desert now California is a Gila monster
who spends its respite summer idling hot—hot and cold-blooded,
it needs the rock to stay alive the rock is the right parts cool and warm for now
California wants to move from off of the rock and into danger
a Katrina or a tsunami it wants to shatter itself orgasm is the best way
to put it precipitate into the Ocean and from the foam rise
like a fiery bird California wants to birth and mother itself
into a better Gila from broken pieces become better, better because it was broken
but the rock is committed to its own inertia growing colder into the winter
the lizard will die if it does not move off of the rock
in the delirium of heat the Gila dreams itself a dissociative disorder
California is an angel its disparate parts the parts of that angel
she is fractured but all there there is a golden halo and a lake of tears,
from both sadness and joy, beneath it
there are dry patches of land that is its body and the valleys
of green that carve it out there is a heart, a stomach, a brain and a reptile-brain
there are shoulder-blades that slice into the sky like a bird with fire for feathers
and a faulty heel that will some day crumble into the whispering Ocean
like the crack of thunder the angel, California, will beat
its wings to the music only she can hear—the BPM of birth, love, rebirth,
the heartbeat of a monster, the unshakeable imperfection of the cerebellum
deeply submerged beneath a riverbed—flying out toward space, screaming
at the stars ‘move out of the way’ a bat out of hell imitating a banshee,
she is a serpent with cotton-like wings, thunderously battering the air around her
applauding the break the break of a state into an island
Sunday, July 5, 2009
to have and to hold
[from facebook]
When did love become a threat?
Mixing displays of public affection with visceral, athletic dancing, RAWdance reminds that you can never tell anyone who to love or how to love. The company will be joined by poets Robert Andrew Perez & Cristobal McKinney.
Chuin Phang & Andrew Ng, contributors to Do the Love Thing, will be on-site to take pictures for the web photography project featuring images of couples and families who believe in spreading the message of love, tolerance, and marriage equality. Check out dothelovething.org and come with your loved ones ready to take part.
Sunday, July 12th
Two shows : 2pm & 3pm
Union Square Park, SF
Performed by: Alexis Miller, Chad Dawson, Diana Broker, Dudley Flores, Gretchen Garnett, Jessica Stephenson, Laura Sharp, Mayuko Ayabe, Nikki Pinchott, Ryan T. Smith, Sonja Dale & Wendy Rein.
www.rawdance.org
| Host: | |
| Type: | |
| Network: | Global |
| Date: | 12 July 2009 |
| Time: | 14:00 - 16:00 |
| Location: | Union Square Park |
| Town/City: | San Francisco, CA |
| Email: |
When did love become a threat?
Mixing displays of public affection with visceral, athletic dancing, RAWdance reminds that you can never tell anyone who to love or how to love. The company will be joined by poets Robert Andrew Perez & Cristobal McKinney.
Chuin Phang & Andrew Ng, contributors to Do the Love Thing, will be on-site to take pictures for the web photography project featuring images of couples and families who believe in spreading the message of love, tolerance, and marriage equality. Check out dothelovething.org and come with your loved ones ready to take part.
Sunday, July 12th
Two shows : 2pm & 3pm
Union Square Park, SF
Performed by: Alexis Miller, Chad Dawson, Diana Broker, Dudley Flores, Gretchen Garnett, Jessica Stephenson, Laura Sharp, Mayuko Ayabe, Nikki Pinchott, Ryan T. Smith, Sonja Dale & Wendy Rein.
www.rawdance.org
origami
I am meeting
the corners of the square
sheet making
on a diagonal
a valley
triangle and invisible
almost at times so thin
a syllable in epic
the width of string
confessions creased into
an ear, a letter penned
in vanishing ink
a page forgetting turning
bright white, light
was beaming beneath it
meant for disappearing
acts not writing.
the corners of the square
sheet making
on a diagonal
a valley
now I’m closerflat, fat right
and steps ahead
triangle and invisible
almost at times so thin
a syllable in epic
the width of string
now valley openingvapor of our under-the-breath
lips whispering fire
confessions creased into
an ear, a letter penned
in vanishing ink
a page forgetting turning
bright white, light
was beaming beneath it
the edges line upit’s a piece of paper
so imperfectly
meant for disappearing
acts not writing.
Friday, May 29, 2009
a call for poets
A good friend of mine, Ryan T. Smith, the artistic director and one of the choreographers for the contemporary dance group RAW, based in San Francisco, is organizing a protest in Union Square responding to passing and subsequent decisions regarding Proposition 8. He asked if I wanted to participate and if I knew any poets who would like to contribute spoken word or any other type of artistic expression to the demonstration.
So, if you’re in the Bay Area July 12th and interested in participating, we would love to work with you. Here’s what Ryan originally sent me, though I’m sure there’s a lot of flexibility in terms of how we can integrate our work; in any case, it should give you a sense of what page he’s on:
Ryan needs responses by Sunday, June 7th, for a press release, so if you're at all interested and sure you can commit to this project email/text/call/im/harrass me by 12:00a that day. If you won't be sure by then, it's no travesty, just get to us later; the press work will just be deficient information.
So, if you’re in the Bay Area July 12th and interested in participating, we would love to work with you. Here’s what Ryan originally sent me, though I’m sure there’s a lot of flexibility in terms of how we can integrate our work; in any case, it should give you a sense of what page he’s on:
so we're down for union square, finally starting to pull our shit together, and would love you to do something for the event. i'm not sure how it would make sense to organize things. right now i'm wondering if we may want to actually integrate readings into the piece, not necessarily dancing to them but using them as intros before sections. or maybe they are totally separate....I hope to hear back from some of you. Aside from the fact that contemporary dance demonstrations are always in dire need of good text, this will be an amazing and beautiful avenue for queer and allied artists to voice their feelings on this heated and critical issue.
do you want to get other poets involved or fly solo on this? talk to me. get your brainstorm on. what ya thinking? my hesitation with opening it up is always a) the quality of the work and b) the dependability of the person. so that'd be up to your history with other folks.
if you have any work already done tat you'd be interested in. i could use inspiration these days.
we are discussing asking a photographer friend of mine who is already doing a project in response to prop 8. but wendy's not sure about how she feels about his work or the addition. we'll decide to approach him or not this weekend.
if you're still down, get me a few sentence bio ASAP. going to get a press release for Monday morning so it comes before the outcome tues. am.. the release will basically say that either way, it goes we are ready and eager to respond.
okay end of business mode.
hugs.
r
Ryan needs responses by Sunday, June 7th, for a press release, so if you're at all interested and sure you can commit to this project email/text/call/im/harrass me by 12:00a that day. If you won't be sure by then, it's no travesty, just get to us later; the press work will just be deficient information.
Monday, May 18, 2009
one art - elizabeth bishop
A good friend lent me a copy of a superb anthology of poetry, Strong Measures, when I had expressed to him some interest in reading and composing more classic poetic forms. As of late, I’ve found this particular book particularly invaluable. Though I’ve specifically been focusing most of my recent creative efforts in the writing of pantoums, I found a vianelle by Elizabeth Bishop eloquently haunting. Like the pantoum, the vianelle is defined by a series of repetitions of either lines or words. That is to say, the form is intrinsically designed to be haunting; I acknowledge how I have been manipulated. In this piece, the repeated lines are reiterated with subtle changes that enhance their emotional impact, though the images are pedestrian in nature. The poem moves from household objects to, eventually, globally expansive concepts but never adopts the tone of grandiosity. The repetitions assist it in staying focused in an almost clinical manner. Though amidst its clinical and aloof tone, the poem elicits a pointed emotional response. The speaker requires this tone to engage the poem's loaded subject matter, the subject of loss.
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
a relevant vintage youtube video
It was a pervasive but fleeting fad, once upon a time, to produce parodies of the Brokeback Mountain trailer as it applied to films or TV shows with similar plots to that of the BBM--though with less direct outcomes--using the underscoring and voice-over of the original trailer as a template. I found the youtube phenomenon astute and illuminative of how films inadvertently code homoerotic/homosexual tensions for an ignorant audience. This clip I found especially germane given my last post.
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