Sunday, August 29, 2010
into a perfect square of construction
crisp around the corners; cut me to pieces
and the beauty of your imagination
will break my wings.
There's something about origami
that reminds me of struggle,
and hands that are to big to grasp
some of the details
are always destined to view the big picture
but never fly.
There's an old superstition
that says 1000 paper cranes
can save you
but I don't know if my fingers
are that elegant,
if the blood from papercuts taints the fortune
or if you get credit for trying.
Some of the wings are lopsided,
some of the corners are torn
but these are the beauties of imperfections.
And I want to make them out of tissue paper
in honor of your thinning hair
but I'm afraid of breaking you
like I've broken
that I love.
So I will make them
rugged as your exoskeleton
a folded masterpiece too beautiful
for tumors. And radiation may hurt but always remember -
Hiroshima survived chemotherapy.
And I'll keep folding
until I've loved you
1000 times over
into the only Japanese words I really know -
origami, paper folding.
We did it.
Monday, August 23, 2010
It's a good thing you're not going to stand here and wait for a hero. Because fuck you, I'm going on vacation. Leave your complaints on my office door.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Ghost prisoner dances in an old window.
The girl dies when the music stops
and this house has been quiet for years now,
with footsteps echoing through the cracks in the attic floor
but never reaching the bottom of the stairs
I wonder how many haunting are self-imposed.
Don’t cry tonight, my baby. . .
Last week, I saw something I thought I’d never witness.
Saw a man’s stone façade falter
alternate between guilt and sadness
the now and the then
the past and the present
but now. . .I can see the spirit fading from his eyes
tell he is human for the first time
and see he is not a polished rock flowing from the river of family photos
my father is no stone.
He’s simply a trucker.
And in the sleeper of a semi it’s nothing but him
his radio and his memories
dancing in the swaying of curtains and sounds like
similes when you’re trying to write a poem
always present but just out of reach
so he captures them in homemade music boxes.
Don’t cry, you’ll always be loved. . .
And ‘always’ is always longer when you make a decision you can’t take back,
so he finds solace in songs and sheet music
jagged and smudged like the signature across the bottom of a release form.
passes through these walls like a phantom, fast as a haiku like
a stranger to me.
Often wonder if our eyes
are the same color.
He dances in that window
a captive my father cannot let go
waiting for the day that 15-year old feet
bounce off the bottom of the landing
and out the door
to rebel against him
bring back a report card, a trophy, a girl, a mistake
but that sound never comes
when my father’s memory is only lit by that window
and I wonder how much harder it is to abort a child
when you can look him in the eyes.
Now I realize why he always tells me
to appreciate the beauty of the little things.
Knowing that even though his blood runs through that boy’s veins
he’ll never be there to keep Brandon warm again
knowing he held a masterpiece in the palm of his hand
and let it free for the “better life” he was promised
giving up on the music he made with a lover
I’ve judged without truly knowing.
Nothing I could say could make the music box gears spin
I could cry moment but that them up again
and the silence in my father’s house is deafening.
Maybe that’s why I left.
I could make him proud
I could make him smile
But I’m only one son.
And even when I have the audacity to wonder
how often he dreams of Brahm’s lullaby
or days playing in the Colorado snow –
I know there is no poem
that can bring Brandon back but please poppa
if you can listen to the music instead of just making it.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Fortune favors the bold
but it’s hard not to shiver
when you’re so icy.
As a kid in the south,
it’s always been more likely to rain
than to snow.
The 1001 variables must weave into one another
like dancers looking for partners
or future lovers catching each other at perfect moment
for the air to crystallize between their gazes
and cool off the heat that separates love from lust,
dissolving like dust from diamonds –
the dashing we do changes everything.
The weather outside is frightful,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
And there’s a lot of that
in the wreath on my door
the photos on my shelves
and the person I used to share both with.
The storm isn’t so scary
from in front of the fire –
I admit: though I no longer hang your stocking,
and through sips of my grandmother’s recipe eggnog
I often forget you, there are still nights
where I wish you’d fall into my arms
like a 73” dream-catcher and lay your head down.
Tell me say me cher
I’ll be gone till November. . .
Leaving in some places and just arriving others,
your very essence is a matter of perspective
and they call your beauty debatable.
You remind me of a dawn or dusk
in the arctic circle: all good things
begin and end sooner or later
and most of all it depends
on where you’re watching the sun go down.
I hold a north star in my bloodline.
I always wander, never get lost
and never snowblind
but I keep finding myself back where I began.
Maybe I’m a supernova
distant from society, waiting to collapse
wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.
All the gravity of the city
trying to bring us together
only serves to break us apart.
This is what dead things do.
If I ever meet an ice road trucker
or talk to my dad again
I’ll let them know
it’s nothing personal.
If this is what the end of the world feels like,
I welcome it. With the cackling crackle of embers
on Christmas Eve
and the wind whipping the world,
causing the trees to bend and kiss one another
under the mistletoe they’ve grown in the 100 years
they have been planted here shows me:
now is the gift we call the present.
If I could have one wish for the world
for my loved ones and for myself,
they’d all be the same:
that we learn we are all more similar
than we are separate.
Every single flake is unique
yet they manage to stick together
love the simple things like snow days
and hot cocoa,
And since all that’s left of the storm is silence
let me say:
We are so different.
yet exactly the same.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
no matter what you do
you are caught in the crossfire
of dirt in flux.
When the earth moves,
the people blame Atlas
for having the audacity to catch a cramp
instead of blaming their own moving feet.
I used to wonder what it would be like
to be a Titan.
And then the world fell
and now I have to fight through the pain
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My fellow interweb lurkers,
There comes a time in ever (wo)man's life where (s)he comes to a crossroad. For this writer, this time is coming as I'm working on a chapbook and looking towards my future after college. Searching for publishers, shopping grad schools, job hunting. . .it's all rather difficult to pull off but it's going smoothly.
Now that the boring's out of the way, let me just say this: I have not disappeared. I have not died and I have not by any means quit writing. But if you don't hear from me for a bit, it may just be life trying to take me under. I'll let you know now, though, there's two things that I never do easy: scare and die. I will not be bested by stress, anger, fear, jealousy, or all the ugly things in this world. I almost succumbed to them, but I was not defeated. I never give up.
On that note, I'd like to urge you to do the same. Never yield. Live on your feet, die when you're ready and with a smile on your face ready to greet the reaper saying "bring it motherfucker, I'm not afraid of you anymore." I can honestly say that while I don't feel ready to die (obviously, I'm 21), I don't fear death anymore. It's nothing personal. The waves don't crash for a reason. They crash because that is what waves do. Things happen and they are inevitable. Don't anticipate, but live each day like the waves are about to take you under and when you go, go knowing that you put in all you could to make your life as awesome as possible. Remember, you are beautiful, you have meaning, and someone somewhere loves you more than they love themselves. Make their love worth sharing. As my good friend G would say:
". . .but she'd NEVER be defeated."
Will you? Will you allow yourself to fall to the rigors of the world or will you face them with a smile and say "It's time to go to work"? Tomorrow's waiting. Who's coming with me?