Wednesday, May 8, 2013

type of stranger





Who is coming across me?
Who has come onto me?

What search leads
The stranger onto

The excavation of my breastbone
Onto paper?

What night did they have me?
Or what day are they ignoring?

Why, so loud does your feel pound the floor?
Why, so delicious do the strawberries pervade?

Why, so lengthy the times I do mourn
Mourn a thing ill fitted and weak

What stranger type of stranger find solace
In small letters grouped together

What future does this odd grouping
hold for someone without a clavicle?





Sunday, May 5, 2013

Artist's Statement




 
How to begin explaining my poetry…? Well, I guess it’s a culmination of a lot, just like any other artists’ work in that way.  My poetry is a response to each and every conversation that I’ve had with each and every stranger, with a family member, with a lover.  It is the last word that I wish I could have had in a fight.  It is a plea for forgiveness for the things I either never said or said too loudly.  It is a lament for the neon Technicolor moments gone by that were too beautiful for words, too beautiful for thoughts even.  It is the shape of a background for a scene in which maybe I played a part and a score to a movie that perhaps you can find me in, sipping a cup of tea hidden by a fuzzy darkened corner.
 
My poetry, try as I may to do something different, is above love. And that’s basically it; I write about love. I write about the obsession that love is, and I write about the way that love comes to obsess over us.  I write about the love that I feel for tiny things like four-leaf clovers and I write about the love that I feel which shatters in avalanches over thirty thousand miles of emotional territory.
 
Poetry to me is freedom.  Within writing poetry I am finally without.  I can finally lay a word or seven hundred down on a page with the flick of my fingertips or the click-click of a keyboard (which is always an inferior way to transcribe poetry) and release the rules that burden my creative psyche when reacting, articulating, spellchecking, and the general business of sounding smart in prose.
 
My work has more limits than it doesn’t, but I seem to find cliffs from which I throw the conventions of others and most importantly, my own, in some guttural, animal desire to continue challenging myself to be better, to grow better ideas, to extend farther into something that I can be proud of, and really, to just confuse the hell out of myself when I look back on those crazed scribblings swirling in the style of my handwriting.
 
When I sit down to write poetry…, which is actually a lie because I never sit down with the intention of writing poetry. It happens, instead like a monsoon’s insane, electric lightning.  It flashes into my brain at moments of its own choosing, usually with no rasp on the door or introduction. And usually in inconvenient times, like when I’m suspended in the hallucinations of near sleep, or while a dear-to-me face wants my attention to recount a story, or while I am washing my hair, or turning my motorcycle onto a freeway ramp.   When this happens, I am completely possessed and can think of nothing else.  If, for some unfortunate reason, I don’t have pen and paper, I must rehearse the lines over and over and over. And I must wait until the shifting of the universe connects like puzzle pieces and a surface and writing utensil become available for me.  Then, I extract the looping string of words dancing pirouettes from inside my dome and lay them out just so for eyes other than mine to see. 
 
I suppose, this is my process.  It isn’t a process, per se, but more of a reaction to what is already happening, a support to some organism already churning, or a way to ease the physical itch in my palms if I go too long without writing.   

Friday, May 3, 2013

gold star goblin




That name
Once forced showers of convulsions through my teeny tiny veins
Fluorescent, whispering shakes
Snakes
as they went down in tornadoes throughout my spinal column
Wholly

It penetrated protuberances
Prolonged its hallucinogenic effects with home scents
Cookies Soup Blankets Sweat

That name
Floated above me
And it’s owner, the fabricated and the real one alike

Gold star goblin and a teeny tiny Christmas tree
Absurd
And throbbing in a holy strobe of enigmatic twinkle
Casting five-fingered plastic shadows
Against the ugly mauve thread-bare carpet of adolescence

We were young
And that name meant salvation
The blinging register of it a tri-syllable demigod
God, I was dumb

I’d assigned to it the vitality of gravity
Like oxygen to fire like bounce does to rubber

But it found it’s own truth through cynical cylindricals
Turnings of facts
And almost
A cyclical cyanide infusion to this heart

From it’s slumbering flush
A red palm
And a pipe
That name found solace
That name found life beyond the spring of my personal pronunciation


Wednesday, May 1, 2013

We Used to Be Three






My feet are Sicilian and small
like her tube of red paste that I pressed against my chapped lips
in my Father’s Mother’s kitchen after the American Lake
my blood, too, ran feisty and tangential

My thick thighs and healthy chest are inherited from her, my Mother’s Mother, who wrapped tiny hotdogs in butter-cut dough
I remember when she died; I went to the funeral and sat on a bench of chestnut wood
it was marbled, encased in a thick shell of see-through resin

The Virginia summer light was yellow, and hazy, palpable, and early
I cried, not embarrassed and embarrassed all the same
because the Italian cousins were mean
and I wished to make them salted slugs


I remember how it feels to not remember enough
or
To not have ever known enough to form a way to remember
See, my grandmothers weren’t like boulders; instead they floated like an ambiguous fog, surrendering to the caverns of silhouetted personalities

They lived mostly
in my mind, in a rewind
of a blue storm streaking the windows of a rainy dusk

and now,
She, with the silver cotton-candy bob, with crystals, and a pearlescent purple Cadillac
has also died
when I was young, Florencia Nicole smelled like rainbows and I thought she was famous
when I was young, Clara Marguerite knew the alkaline secrets to a strange place called the desert

I remember now,
that I am here only and directly because they were
Their names form the floral fabric of my own Marguerite Nicole
Their sunsets and pain and successes built the steps for me to taste my own
and They were before
We used to be three