Poetry
I've never been a big journal-er, despite the pleas of more than one therapist to give it a try.
Sometimes, though, big feelings swell inside me until they run out of room in my chest and my brain, and they come rushing out. I find healing in working the words with my knuckles like dough, and they end up being much more than a typical stream of consciousness. Are they prose? They're more poetic than monologues usually are. But, they are longer than I think poems are legally allowed to be. As an actor, it appeals to me to call them monologues. But, then there's spoken word poetry - I have never performed it and I think I might like to try it. A dream to fulfill another day. I suffer blissfully from too many dreams. So are they spoken word poems? I dunno, man.
For now, I have the following completed poems? monologues? monopoems? poemologues? with excerpts available below, full pieces available upon request.
As a playwright, and with the intention of turning them into spoken word poems, I've included estimated run times.
Sometimes, though, big feelings swell inside me until they run out of room in my chest and my brain, and they come rushing out. I find healing in working the words with my knuckles like dough, and they end up being much more than a typical stream of consciousness. Are they prose? They're more poetic than monologues usually are. But, they are longer than I think poems are legally allowed to be. As an actor, it appeals to me to call them monologues. But, then there's spoken word poetry - I have never performed it and I think I might like to try it. A dream to fulfill another day. I suffer blissfully from too many dreams. So are they spoken word poems? I dunno, man.
For now, I have the following completed poems? monologues? monopoems? poemologues? with excerpts available below, full pieces available upon request.
As a playwright, and with the intention of turning them into spoken word poems, I've included estimated run times.
39when I turned 39, I spent the day day drunk at a day spa writing this poem.
run time: 2 minutes ....................... I stare up the winding staircase of the rest of it. A body beginning its long surrender. A mind that finds the prospect of continuous living impossible. And there she is at the top - sun-spotted, joints aching, names escaping her, eyes wet, and she can see it all at once: every sticky-sweet summer, every frozen cheek in the dead of winter, every mosquito whining in the dark, every sleep-warm brush of lips at dawn, every splash of lake water from her paddle, every bug in her mouth on the downhill, every dark night pinned beneath the ceiling, every goodbye that split her open, every cold bathroom floor, every hand on her back. She looks for God in some burning bush, in the puppy’s velvet black neck, in the blinding sun in the oncoming windshield, in the eyes of the old man trying to remember her name. She pleads with the old broad: send me back. Give me the unruly mess of it to love it and hate it and love it again. ..................... Full text available upon request. reception: alter/altarin January 2026, my partner and I adopted a puppy. as most things have, she saved my life.
run time: 5 minutes this piece is part of a larger body of work entitled 'reception' wherein at title is selected that has multiple meanings, and the poem attempts to weave together the disparate meanings. based on a series of monthly salons hosted by my dear friends David and Toni. ..................... How she makes me into a metaphor, pressing her warm weight into my wanting womb, laying her soft, certain head upon my chest as if I were made for this, only this. How she trusts me with her trembling joys, her sudden sorrows, her bright, brief fears, How she leans, and leans, and keeps leaning until am remade in her reaching-- a place she comes to be held, a place that holds because she came. I am here, I am here. How my hands learn her liturgy, even in the small, unceremonious moments: me perched on the toilet, her perched on my naked lap, suddenly sovereign, reminding me that love does not wait for dignity, as if this, too, is sacred, as if all of it is. How, in her nuzzling, her needing, her near-constant nearness-- I learn what it is to be worthy of worship. How he saves me with the soft, stubborn insistence of being, a daily, delicate dragging back from the dim edges I do not name . ..................... Full text available upon request. pleasean exploration of the relationship between a woman's sexuality, the ways she may try to own and love it, and the obstacles (men) in her way.
run time: 7 minutes .................. This, what women have always been here for To wait for men to come home from hunting and war, World weary and wanting a place to lay their heads And we say, forget the shower, crawl right into our beds Where we offer our laps and our bosoms and our ears Receiving little in return for drying men’s tears How many men have told me no one ever sees them cry and then the skies of their eyes open up for me to dry How many men have said they don’t tell anyone these parts and pour themselves into me, slice open their hearts So they bleed into mine, not a question if I’m prepared Not a check in, how’s your day? any grievances to air? Because when I come home having waged the wars I wage With my brain, with my body, with my increasing age, With my trauma, other men, with my future and my past, I don’t get a ‘lay your head’ I get a ‘let me see that ass’ ..................... Full text available upon request. crash, four waysa very dark time in my life, reflecting on the connection to the dark times of another.
run time: 2 minutes ...................... But what if he hadn’t? And what if he had? I imagine his mangled body lying somewhere in the valley under the bridge Twitching with last signs of life under the weight of the seats, the frame, the engine His sad life come to a sad end, no one to miss him, no one to mourn him What would his last thoughts have been? Would he think of me? Would I want him to? ...................... Blood gushing from his forehead where it had smashed mercilessly into the cement And, mercilessly, too, I wished for him to fall asleep. ..................... Full text available upon request. small beginningsIs it time to come out yet?
Whispered one small crocus to another Peering its purple head through a blanket of earth I think so! Said the other Stay close just in case Said the first They clasped petals and blinked into the sunlight Happy to be alive this magnificent morning In the far distance A snowstorm began to brew
|
PRa meditation on my ex-husband's obsession with fitness.
run time: 2 minutes ................. My once-husband asked me how I would fare in the zombie apocalypse. Terribly, I laughed. I would overdose on gummies, curl into the fetal position, and let them take me. Feel nothing. Fear nothing. I would go out in a state of blissful unknowing. I thought he would want to go out with me, you see, Drifting into oblivion, the old couple on the sinking ship, gripping hands as the water surrounded them. I would die quietly. My end of the world would be soft. But he would fight, he said, not laughing. Wielding shanks carved from wooden kitchen spoons. Stab them in the brain. Rip out their hearts. If he went down, he would go screaming, kicking, thrashing. He would feel the teeth sink into his neck, the soul drain from his body, the carnivorous instincts take hold. He would not die quietly, you see. Even the end of the world would be his workout. ................. Full text available upon request. reception: brooda meditation on death, softness, and change.
run time: 3 minutes this piece is part of a larger body of work entitled 'reception' wherein at title is selected that has multiple meanings, and the poem attempts to weave together the disparate meanings. based on a series of monthly salons hosted by my dear friends David and Toni. ................... I read once that birds weave discarded hair into their nests– soft, warm cradles for wide-mouthed babes– and ever since, I brush my hair on the drive to work. My partner will tell you I leave the house half-made and return each evening assembled differently. At 8:30, I drag myself from bed, despite the 8:15 phone chime, despite the 7:30 puppy whine. I descend the stairs, my face wearing only moisturizer – (the cheap kind, only half-worked in, a streak of white caught in my hairline). I bury my face in the dog’s belly for my final five minutes, kiss the kind man with sleep-heavy lips, and, by 8:40, go. Red light: deodorant. Red light: brows and a smear of shimmer across my eyelids. Red light: rings and earrings from the little plastic container in my console. (I have plenty of red lights, you see.) Red light: run a brush through my dark hair – that’s my favorite red. I lower the window, pluck the strands from the bristles, and ready my hand. Green light: accelerate and feel the wind steal the spoils away. ..................... Full text available upon request. Alzheimer's prayerThe Father's Prayer, adapted to recognize the sacredness of a man suffering from Alzheimer's.
run time: 1 minute ................. Hollowed are his eyes, caverns where confidence once lived. Hollowed are his pant legs, hanging like borrowed clothes. Hallowed is he still, despite it all, despite it all. Thy death will come, and sooner than later, as the outline of a man grows dimmer each day, as even cable TV can no longer be mistaken for company, as his silence leaves indentations in the worn pink armchair. ................... We forgive this condition, whose name in its possessiveness reminds us that he no longer belongs to himself, whose apostrophe is a tiny hook, claiming him as its own. ..................... Full text available upon request. here, girla meditation on how the body stores trauma.
run time: 5 minutes ................. I woke up too early this morning. Feeling - not quite... right. I immediately start the scan: rotate the wrists, stretch the ankles, crane the neck. Is it my eyes? I slept in my contacts again so I could see my dreams more clearly. Is it my arm? The left one, the one I broke falling off a bike rack? I only climbed up there to impress a boy. Is it my knee? The one I slammed into a hurdle running track? I only joined the team to impress a man. Is it my lower back? Sore from lifting heavy things before remembering I’m getting older? I only lift heavy things to impress-- Is it my heart? Which will fail me someday soon, the way my mother’s heart keeps trying to fail her, three times and counting, and counting, and counting. Is it my stomach? With its too-long cord that wraps around my spine every time my phone rings from an unknown number? Who died who died who died who died– WHAT? I scream at my body. I crack open my ribs, split myself wide, and shove my head inside. What do you WANT? ..................... Full text available upon request. two types of foolsI spent 10 years on and off of dating apps after my divorce. these are my stories. dun dun.
run time: 2 minutes ................... She reinstalls the next day and carefully selects eight, Chris-Matthew-Anthony-Kris-Andrew-Mark-Gordon-Kevin. Whose ‘good mornings’ enliven her, whose compliments she accepts gracefully, whose spicy suggestions excite her, whose questions she answers patiently. Eight men who find her charming, with soulful eyes and flowing hair, eight men whose demographics and details swim feverishly around her brain: Which lives an hour away? Which has teenagers? Which is a teacher and which is a lawyer? Which do I have a date with Wednesday and which on Thursday morning? She flits about at work, text photos to giggling girlfriends, and awaits the notifications, that say, you are worthy, you are worthy. ..................... Full text available upon request. how to carry itwhat do you do with a box of memories?
run time: 1 minute ..................... I picked them up one by one, Remarked aloud to no one (I live alone) how happy I looked I swept it into a pile with a broom I picked it all up and let it slip through my fingers onto the specked floor And laughed at these precious memories, suddenly I put the box in the northwest corner, near the used candles I’ll never melt down into new ones Then in the southwest corner, near the cobwebs and paint cans I never used on my new walls I tried the southeast corner, near the Christmas decorations I never get around to putting up any more And settled finally in the dead center, between the hot water heater and the furnace I don’t know where to put this grief, how to carry it, on which shoulder ..................... Full text available upon request. poem beginning with a headlineinspired by maggie smith's 'poem beginning with a retweet'
run time: 1 minute ......................... Robots could be the answer to stopping car break ins Until they're the ones breaking in, my uncle says, But he voted for Trump and so I treat all his predictions like best by dates and I want to be optimistic about robots, and life So I allow myself to dream What else could robots be the answer to? Could they work my 9-5 so I can write? Could they sweep the bike lanes before I ride? Could they cook dinner before I tell myself I’m not hungry? Could they match me with a partner Or be the partner themselves - no, scratch that Could they keep our streets safe With badges and guns - NO Could they write this poem, but better, No- was he right? About the robots, not Trump. Will they have audiences applauding their work while I sit at home? Will my AI likeness take my curtain call? Will they break into my car? What would they steal? My phone? My spare change? My voice? If they steal the whole car, where would a robot need to go, And if the answer is nowhere, Will they light it on fire just to watch it burn?
|