So, this might be terrible. I don’t even know. I woke up from another disturbing dream and just grabbed my pen. I wrote this whole thing with my eyes half-closed, in the real world but still hearing the screams of the dream world. Here’s what I came up with. I used to write a lot of poems like this, using wordplay, rapid fire poetry slam style.
i am always screaming
in my dreams
my voice is hoarse
from all this wailing
they are jailing
i am imprisoned by
i am such a good girl
i hate being such a good girl
while everyone else gets to act
i’m going fucking crazy
red hot rage
on this page
where’s my stage
let me out of this cage
biting the heads off of
this plastic tastes terrible
bitter and hard
like my heart
like my resolve
i cannot solve
but i can fight it
i am stronger than you ever expected
or you’ll miss the amazing trick
where your actions literally make me sick
and i spew right onto your shoes
chunks of knowledge
erodes the very bones of you
climbs up your limbs like creeping death
dissolves you ’til there’s nothing left
hose you off the cold concrete
joyfully splash in your defeat
my skin bronzing in the heat
goddess of the sun
i have won
i have won.
I definitely want to edit it, but it makes the bones of a good poem, I think.
It had to be the week I decided to listen to White Blood Cells in my car to and from work. The week I choose a random episode of This American Life called “I’m Sorry” to listen to on my lunch break. It had to be this week that I opened Facebook and saw One New Friend Request that in itself might be a tiny, whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Ten years, man. Ira is talking about how apologies are rarely satisfying for anyone involved. I wouldn’t know. Apologies are something I don’t often hear, but it’s my fault. I have one hell of a cold shoulder. Once it’s clear that someone’s no good for me I just cut them out of my life. Sure, some of them come back around with apologies, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I think about the last time with him. Myspace. A friend request and a message that began apologetic and ended accusatory. No way, Jack.
But isn’t forgiveness supposed to feel good? Fuck his feelings, but maybe I would feel better? Me. Maybe it would be nice not to want to vomit whenever someone mentions his name (which is, thankfully, rare these days). If I could forgive him, would that make me a better person?
Jesus. It’s Easter and I am not Jesus. It’s not in my nature to forgive. I pick up my phone and press “Not Now.”
Not now. And maybe not ever.
Bear cub sleeps within my heart.
He growls and yips in dreams
heavy with the scent of spring
approaching — thickening mud,
warning caw of the red-winged
blackbird. When night falls
I crawl into his cave and feed
him golden combs dripped in honey,
red tubers dusted with earth. His
coat shines, his claws lengthen.
Where is the medicine? I have searched for it
on paths leading far from the homestead;
past skeletal groves of stark birch trees guarding
the iron gates of a world beyond my grasp; ashen
fields pale with drought, thirsty buds pursed upwards
for any lick of rainwater. I tunneled into the ground
and wandered through ancient cities, pored over books and
yellow bottles. I have traveled through steady breaks in time.
Where is the medicine? Where is the medicine?
Bear cub wakes from restless
sleep and toddles into my arms.
He yawns widely, incisors bright,
pink tongue curled up, up towards
the narrow roof of his mouth.
There are no pills, no powders;
no six red seeds to swallow
and keep spring’s fever at bay.
There is only a longing, nascent still,
that quivers and stretches with each
passing moonrise. It is a voice, hushed,
that dares to whisper when all are fast
asleep. Your rivulet, bear sings softly,
barely above a sigh. Your rivulet is here.
How do you and I know what separates us from each other as well as the rest of existence?
Looking at this planet from the other side of the galaxy, let alone the other side of the solar system, everyone and everything blends together into a collective, a unit composed of particles sprayed randomly across the cosmos by exploding stars.
Yet we feel like distinct, unique individuals with a purpose for existence. There is something special about our inhabitance of this lopsided, blue-green marble, something that we need only look inwards to find.
What does innate mean to you? What resides inside you that gives you the drive to distinguish yourself from the infinitude of the universe?
That’s it, nothing major.