Tag Archives: Feminism

IRL

In real life
sticky black ink
pools at the tip
of my writing pen
it bleeds onto my
fingernail–the ugly one that
was slammed in the front door
I lick my fingernail, wipe
it on my sleeve but the
ink stays, it cannot
be deleted–
which almost
surprises me.

I stare at the page.
my handwriting is that
of a harried, unbalanced person
my handwriting is not feminine
it does not stand up strait but bows
and curls with the weather, with mood
I hate it. I wish my words could be as
pretty as type, as pretty as font.

In moments of weakness and disillusion I
desire — foolishly — to filter our life.
perfectly symmetrical
handwritten pages of
original thought.
this might bring me some joy,
create some illusion of order.

How can I work with ugly and imperfect?
I mean, the goal now is that nothing
is ugly and imperfect: nothing should be
not with the tools we have today
Not our penmanship or our thoughts,
not our friends or our parties and
most importantly: not our faces
oh heavens no, not our faces.

Funny how in our pajamas,
slack jawed and scratching
here and there,
breathing heavily
through garlicked tongue,
we click and primp — determined
to camouflage our shortcomings
(as if nobody knows they’re there)
but in reality when we up and walk
from the computer: we are no better off
than when we sat down

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

IRL we are worse for the wear,
evolving, stupidly
toward disillusionment
passing it off as enlightenment.

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

To-Do

Fall apart, let loose into creation
Let my hair down, like a poet would do
Dance a sexy dance, for no one
Write off my obsessions and idols
Lower them until we see eye to eye
Kiss them
Open my mouth
and let love in

Get places on time
step by step, cover the basics
Clock in and clock out
with a smile
Allow myself to fall apart,
just enough behind the scenes that
I walk away with a notecard poem
safeguard–just barely–my reputation
my job title

Forgive others
as easily as I forgive myself
Let loose the reigns
and let em go wherever
the fuck they want

Seize the moment
(cross that out)
Avoid cliches

Fear blank pages
more than scribbles
For mistakes are a sign
of progress

Live in the knowledge
that things cannot be pretty
100% of the time
A concept not limited to
my face, my body
Understand that superficiality
is the sister to vanity
and to view yourself poorly
makes you just as vain as if
to  view yourself pretty
all of the time

So you
do the dishes
tidy up
Everything
Everywhere
All of the time

But most of all you
fall apart
into poetry
even if it means
scribbles and
ink on the fingers
or your face
even if it means
mussying up a
blank page
a blank page
that will roll around
in your purse
in your car
in your junk drawer
mussying up your life
like children or dirty jobs
in general

Fall apart for creation
for a full and happy life
Fall apart for a full heart
and just write

End All Be All

I’m not the
end all be all
of face and body
nor do I want to be
that business is for young
playthings, Hollywood, and shallows
What I want to do is show
you my insides
the words in there
the stories the hope and fire
burning, begging truths and
pointing fingers at all the liars
I want to rise from my sweatbed
naked and then I want to take
that off too
remove my skin and bones
and bare the colors and vibrations
proving I am soul
I am spirit
not just shorts and
breasts
bones
and
lipstick

Womanbody

I want to be a mother. Want to harness life inside of my own body. Want to validate and make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. See I always thought I’d have that baby by now. But I’ve discarded two lives by the ingestion of two pills taken two hours apart. Two men and women weeped and then ate ice cream afterwards two bloody times. I let go of two children on the floors of two different college town apartments no longer than two months into two separate pregnancies. I wasn’t yet twenty-two. Judge me, go ahead. I don’t care. I did what I had to do. What I had the right to do. But that was  way back then.

I want to do it right this time. And that’s OK. I can want that, can’t I? To do it right? My secret shames me. Or tries to. All the women ask me more more more about what I see, what I want. But the men turn their cheeks, their torsos, go silent, don’t know what to say. Most of em anyway. One of my friends though, he told me: I want the baby as I stifled a surprised laugh. The baby. I said I’d get back to him on that. Told him thanks, bra.

I’ve been on my own since fourteen, or seventeen depending on which angle. Point is, I’ve been on my own. I’ve packed and moved thirteen different times. I’ve hosted garage sales with a smiling beaming face all the while featuring the discarded stuff of lovers going their separate ways. I’ve patted the back of men I’ve dumped. I’ve sucked the dick of men I love, but never of men I didn’t. I’ve found my own truths through self-therapy, self-medicating, self-forgiving and self-love. I’ve had sex a million gazillion times and I’m still wandering through life unattached, not pregnant, working at a menial job, going to parties, “living it up”, paying rent, extending my youth. But I want to be a mother. Unapologetically.

I like to think I manage quite well our twenty-something household by cooking meals, watering plants, fluffing guests pillows before they arrive, and subtly controlling everything and everyone—including two twenty-something male roommates (one of whom is my boyfriend) who love to drink and debate and hoot and holler but will maneuver this way and that way to avoid my emotional pull and to please me in many a unique manner. But the men must know what I want. They must know I want a baby. We don’t go there. Sooner or later though, we must. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to prove that I can handle a baby, like a kid would try to prove that he can handle a puppy. Thing is, I probably can’t. What I mean is: learning curve. What I mean is: everything changes. What I mean is: there really aren’t words for becoming a mother.

I dreamed last night that I was. That I was a mother. I was the mother of a small little girl, chubby faced and brunette. She had a smile. Oh she had a smile and we smiled all above and around her. Then there was this moment. This moment where I wanted to go to the other room, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go in the other room, because I had to stay with Her at all times. It was bliss meeting burden, being a mother. I want to be a mother. Make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. Make up for lost time; for lost bodies.

Love Blues Balance

Twelve cups of coffee later and I have (finally!) completed my book of poems Love Blues Balance. A project I have been compiling for weeks now has a cover and 108 pages of material. Just awaiting approval from Createspace and then I will a) order a copy for myself and b) order copies to distribute. A special thanks to friend and photographer Kirsten Lara Valenzuela who provided the lovely cover image you see here.

Can’t wait for distribution! Stay tuned!  ❤

BookCoverPreview

How To Deal With Monsters

As a kid I’d get scared
We all did I know
We feared a thing
called Monster
It’s origins unknown
Yes it could be
under the bed
in the closet
down the hall
but where did this
thing come from
all slimy sickly and slow
I thought it all over
I thought it through
real good
I though if I ever
actually meet the
monster,
I’d know just what
to do:
I’ll make friends
with it, I said
a monster seems
a lonely thing
now I know I
only wanted to
manipulate the
monster–get him
to stay under the bed.
Do we ever dream
up female monsters?
No I think we don’t
Do we have good reason to?
Sometimes, but mainly no
Amazing that I feared the
green and gooey
When monsters
were all around me
Well at least there
were one or two
But people called them
Grandfather, Neighbor
or just Joe
Rather than run
from them
call them out
or call the cops
we would roast
them chickens
fill their coffee,
clean their pots
Now I’m not saying
the women were angels
the men were devils
and that was that
but there’s something
to be said for fighting
not running
when things get bad
So if you ever meet
a monster
Don’t you listen to me
Instead of making friends,
you just be as loud as
you can be
Scream, shout, bite, tell it all
Don’t you hold a thing back
There are exceptions to this
rule, as life isn’t always
white and black
But use your rage and
use it good
Be wise beyond your years
Know that monsters come in
all sizes and ages
And this is how you know their near:
You feel it in your gut
it doesn’t have to be dark outside
The monster doesn’t have to
be scary
When you know
you know
you know
you know
And I know you know
what I mean
The sooner you tell
somebody about it
the sooner the monster
stops feeding
But even if it’s been
years and years
come out with the
thing and start
your healing

Little Robby

Some people are firestarters
others rain
others rock
women are animals
that men hunt
men are butterflies that
can’t ever really be caught
I am free and I am burdened
I use the fire to get me hot
I put it out when I get lost
I was never my mother’s
not even in the womb
a psychic on Alder street said
when the seed was planted
I was bloomed
I raged out of her fists up and
how do I shake it?
Angry babies are not funny
they just try to fake it
I was always my father’s child
If at a distance
I was a grown man,
a grown woman
I am fire, ice
all of it

I Want To Be

I want to be forgiven
for what I’m about to do
to you
catch and release
you’ll be guy number five
I’ll be your girl number two
your first
your last
your mystery
I want to be whipped
into shape
taught a lesson
fondled and driven
to madness
wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said tell me
to put on a dress
I said ask me
to take down my hair
I said
I want to be whipped
into shape
I want to be tamed
lead me
guide me
I want a man
I’ve never seen a man
I’ve rarely seen a man
I thought I saw a man once
but he walked into the day
and by night he was all gone away
I saw a man once
who had It
I saw a man who
could tame me
but he didn’t want a thing
to do with this woman
with this body
with this piece of work
right here
I want to be forgiven
I want to be whipped
I want to be tamed
I want to be a girl
who is chased
but women like me
are so bold
so brass
women like me are
more of a man
than you’ll ever be
chew on that
and when
you’re a man
come back to me
cause I want to be
whipped
hard
I want to be tamed
and pregnant
I want to be
forgiven