October 2011
1 post
February 2011
1 post
May 2010
5 posts
“
last night when i undressed, i drew a lighthouse on my chest, and said a prayer for it, by
morning to have sunk in, so you could find your way to me, if we ever get lost. - her <3
” —April 2010
1 post
they got you
as long as you lust
they’ve got your where they want you
right between the thrust
and the sparkling glimmer of plastic blue.
March 2010
4 posts
February 2010
18 posts
Play
Jackie from Jackson, Mississippi
I want to remember Jackie. And how I almost passed her up as she was crying, cold, and asking for spare change because i didn’t believe I could help since I didn’t have cash on me. I’m glad something made me turn around, Ask her her story, and Breathe with her. Hug her. Tell her I loved her. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have known she had to sleep in the hallway of the boarding house down the street while her 4 year old daughter was kept from her by the woman running the joint. I wouldn’t have known that 2 dudes just attempted to rape her in that same hallway 4 hours before we met— and they know where she sleeps. I wouldn’t have figured that the reason her teeth were shattered was because someone punched her in the face two weeks ago when she asked them for change. If I had ignored her, made her invisible, tuned out her sobs- I wouldn’t have known anything. I wonder what would happen if we actually started to see one another?
January 2010
7 posts
“Thousands upon thousands of phonies across the country mourned the death of author J.D. Salinger, who was 91 years old for crying out loud.”
—http://www.theonion.com/content/news/bunch_of_phonies_mourn_j_d
Play
collarbones slow
[collar bones]
I want to remember, like my roommate says.
these stories that lie beneath the black layer.
hiding under the wrinkled black blanket.
like a tiny human pretending to sleep.
pretending her family played board games.
cooked casserole. and never made her weep.
through a tunnel in the blanket,
she see them through a perfect circle
opening in her door where a knob used to be,
she sees what her family must appear to be
to the rest of the world. she sees him smiling,
being the life of the party.
she sees her, gently carressing his back,
throwing her head back to release a sound
reminiscent of laughter.
she sees them from the forts
she now builds on the cold floors
after he took away the mattress too-
a family that produced her like a factory produces
a product to market and distribute.
but she will not offer herself to contribute.
she bites her tongue until she can taste
the sweet familiar iron that makes her stomach cringe
in rhythmic waves of contracting pains.
but she never goes down without a fight.
struggle.
resist.
create.
paintbrush in hand
she makes use of the blood that leaks from her left eardrum
swirling it on canvas and transforming her high pain tolerance
into a visocity so surreal even the most trained eyes of art collectors
can’t tell.
she’s already been to hell.
and
she’s ready to yell.
although they might not be able to comprehend.
what meaning is really hidden between the thick folds
of photo realistic black and white security blankets
revealing her truth only once the top layer is etched away
with an exacto knife exactly the way her delicate hand
dictates it so.
she glows underneath it all. she soars like the tiny boned bird
gracing her neck,
wing tips stretched
collar bone to collar bone.
she ready to fly home.
