HAUNTING THE SELF

i was just sorting through boxes of my stuff, and i found several CDs jay, my friend who committed suicide two years ago, burned for me of music and movies from our freshman year of college. i have almost nothing with his handwriting on it, and it's sort of jarring to have these relics sitting in my lap.

the CDs he gave still aren't anything that i feel overly excited about in terms of content -- a nine inch nails mix and a creepy, excessively-violent japanese horror movie -- nor was i excited about either of these things when he gave them to me, but he wanted me to have them anyway. and that was so jay: i think he viewed himself as a selfless person, maybe even a giver -- and he really did have a big, raw, deeply-empathic heart, which i think is part of what brought him so much suffering -- but he often seemed to give things without asking, or to give things that were based in his interests and not necessarily an honest reading of the other person, their wants, their likes. i think the things he seemed to give were things he wished others would give him.

sometimes his compassion was perfect, more than i would expect any human being to carry in their hearts. the summer between freshman and sophore years... )
Here are the first eight sections (subject, very much, to change, re-ordering, etc.) of a work-in-progress that I'm basing off of Adrienne Rich's "21 Love Poems" (which, if you've never read, you must -- it's phenomenal).


Late on a Sunday night, lightbulbs, window squares
flicker across the city. Lighters percuss the discordant
harmony of two burly voices in tight jeans
on the corner under the ring of the streetlamp
before they drift further down the road, hands linked.
They do not walk the same way we do: they lilt, glide;
we stumble, step. i hesitate to say we because you disconnect
my graceful curve from yours, claiming all that is soft and blushing
and feminine in your arms, leaving me with grey stones like
me that you don’t understand. i dream of trees raising
their arms as the earth inhales my heels; You are sitting
at the mahogany kitchen table, home in your concrete jungle,
weaving tomorrow's lunchtime conversation out of the front page
of the Corvallis Gazette Times. i detach myself from your stories,
releasing breaths like finches from my hands.

*

Sun yawns, stretching )
Eeeeee! One of my poems (this one) got selected to be published in the on-campus literary magazine, The Sandy River Review, for the Spring '06 issue, and those bitches are elitist (sometimes to a fault, and they certainly have other flaws as well), but nonetheless, I'm pretty ecstatic!

This conversation with Jay about said selection made me feel WICKED warm & fuzzy )
Hola, kiddies. I don't feel like writing full sentences today (I haven't really, lately, at all, which is why I'm not...updating...so much... but anyway, I'm gonna try something new and update in the form of pretentious, self-important poetry.




I.

I remember tiny things that happen: moments
And then they pass & shift away, like beaches or an
Empty glass or perfection - you leave them all behind.

II.

Days ago the sky raged and everything (&we) were quiet.
The next day the sky was quiet and the world stormed on,
Railing rattling rolling & going - we are a Pink Rabbit World.

III.

It's been cold outside lately and I never sleep in my own bed
I'm vagrant: I travel, hiding from things. I live in places not my own &
I am so transient that I'm evaporating, losing pieces of me left & right.

IV.

"Is this what you think poetry is?" you said
Dangling my notebook from your fingers like a spent cigarette.
Yes, I wanted to say, as I took my notebook from your hands before
You could crush it with your heel.

V.

My count of enchanted objects has diminished by one
And two and three and I'm losing more each day. I want to keep you all
Caged, and inside my bars you'll stay the same.
But you are tigers that tear through my arms, bloodying me
I cannot contain you & so
We are dying.

VI.

On the sink there is a box of dye: It's red
And now, so am I. I sit on the toilet, red fingerprints speckling the porcelain
That's cold beneath my thighs, and I hold the box
And look at my fingers and think that I'm finally being caught for
The charlatan that I am.

Profile

unearthingbone

February 2012

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
1213 1415161718
19202122232425
26272829   

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 20th, 2017 10:39 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios