Weblog
Thursday, 06 August 2009
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kevin told me to write.
i think he told me to write because he wants me to do what i love
he wants to see me soaring through some horizon
lifted and lifted and lifted
by all the things i realize i can do.
i love him for that,
for even picturing me
tumbling in the air through the pollution
for wishing it upon me that i'd rise.
i love him in ways that make me double over from being grateful
when i'm drunk i cry because of it and then i make up some excuse.
today i heard a song and thought about how i felt.
my loneliness throbbing through every second.
its like the ticking stopped suddenly.
do i thank him for that?
do i thank myself?
and how?
Friday, 12 June 2009
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It all starts innocent, oblivious.
One day she's inching toward you,
smiling.
And then you realize:
You fell in love
all that time she was talking.
Like it was nothing, innocent, nothing.
You forget that I make little moans in my sleep
and reach for you when i wake up.
You realize I'm states away.
She is
smiling
skinnier;
you picture her nipples.
I forgive you,
but guilt follows you around.
You can't stand to see me outside my cradle
accumulating more chances to blame you
for looking away, even for a second.
The subconscious drunk and curious
leads you down an unexplored hallway
and you are robbed of content
again and again
until you are nothing but a turbine of disappointment.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
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She told me she was embarrassed.
Embarrassed. In Spanish, you would think it would be
"embarrasada," but that means pregnant. You would think
it would be "embarrassed" in English, but that means invaded.
She told me she was embarrassed
and the old shame rippled through my blood.
Invaded. In times of war there must be conquest
the inexplicable stamping out of something precious
provided there are those too weak to protect it.
I wanted to tell her everything, wanted to admit
I couldn't draw a map out of there if I wanted to
that violated sense that puts you on an uninhabited island
where you expire if you don't learn quickly
and if you survive, you're not really sure how. -
Friend Request
kinkygirlx, did you just want to read some poetry
but upon violation of the blogging community's terms of use
you were stricken from all cyber-testimony
moments after you came upon a stranger's writing?
Two of my own friends took advantage of my teenage sister in just one short weekend!
They touched her everywhere they could:
her skinny pale legs, the scar that hovers
over her bellybutton like a moon. I was drunk, asleep in my bedroom.
kinkygirlx, does the x mean a kiss
or x as in the first in a sucession of typically capitalized x's
to denote in pornographic material not suitable
for the poor celibate cherubs under 17?
They rubbed her small breasts, her once broken collarbone,
still slightly jumbled beneath the skin of her left shoulder.
kinkygirlx, are you really young enough
to be just a girl, a kinky one at that
one that likes strange or even violent sexual encounters
enough to make it her publicly known name?
My sister isn't familiar
with the dialect of no she needed
to chaperon herself in such strange situations
to descend barefoot from the leather couch and hide
where? under the kitchen table? in the crumbling fireplace?
kinkygirlx, do you like poetry
despite the fact that you spent so much time making porn?
did you always fancy yourself a sylvia plath
or an anne sexton, swathed in spray tan
fuck me echoing through your swinging tonsils
the thumping more and more like a warning?
If i could pick anybody to love my poetry,
it would be the other poets
it would be you, kinkygirlx.
In her own sister's living room
they touched her as if to say, Beware.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
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Inbox (1): "S Darko the Movie"
Kristin,
Your mom and I just watched the sequel, S Darko.
S stands for Samantha, Donnie's sister.
It made no sense whatsoever, so I ate a barrel of sunshine
and backed it up with a tab of microdot
and it all became perfectly clear.
During the final scene, the background music
was a Cocteau Twins song from the 80's.
I was sure that it was them
because the lyrics were completely incomprehensible
as all Cocteau Twins songs are.
And I thought it clever, a sort of inside joke,
that the producers would pick such a song
knowing full well that the movie was equally abstruse.
But in the end, I felt vindicated
triumphant even
in my esoteric music tastes.
I know full well that I am one of a very select few
really myself alone and the movie producers
that knows who the Cocteau Twins actually are
certainly not a single person in the target age group for the movie.
Knowing that you once left my vinyl of them laying about one day,
as I had to return it to its sleeve
and put it in its rightful spot in the bin,
picking up after you
I thought you perhaps a kindred spirit
perhaps the only other person east of Los Angeles
who could possibly recognize them
after having played them on my turntable.
Victory is mine.
No longer will I have to tolerate ignorant fools
that criticize my music tastes.
I will bask in the smug satisfaction that my music
is a soundtrack for the most hippish of an idiotic sequel
as any that has ever existed.
-Dad
