schoolgirl requests December 13, 2006
Will you walk with me to the bathroom to the snack machine the library my next class to jupiter my locker Will you walk with me to homeroom to hope to that hidden place in the stairwell humid with secrets Will you walk with me to the chapel the store to the sidewalk and more It’s just that the story we’re telling doesn’t come packed with endings just with phonecords (remember) and loose strands of hair and shared bags of skittles, hands hiding public laughters and the suspence of knowing this time will pass once and that leaving you is practice for something I’ll never grow into.
behind every good woman December 13, 2006
there is a small worn record
asking “staaaaaaayaaaaaaaay”
pleading “stay in my corner”
behind every good woman
there is a secret audacious
(and really unjustifiable
in the terms we know to speak)
blooming of faith
a whispered reminder
of breathing and blinking
a windblown taste
of gardenia/hibiscus homecomings
a warm thrill
of some humid starlit walk
to nowhere
what i’m saying is
behind every good woman
there is mostly air
and her air
of believing it
will catch you
and her air
of believing it will catcher
is everything
ashe
Trouble October 3, 2006
or how to get the sketchy but hot slim butch aspiring poet to want you to the point of stalking…
I.
If you are dancing she will blatantly stare at you. She will make her way over.
She will wonder why she’s never seen you before.
Do not reveal the secret of your shadow and light.
Do not confess to being someone who compulsively leaves
and compulsively returns.
Make an excuse, but don’t apologize.
Tell her its school, that you’ve never been to this club.
You will feel bolder than you actually are
you will possess an unearned grace.
Tell you her you and your “friend” just heard about it today.
Point to the guy, at least as good looking as you, better looking (all told)
than she is, dancing in the middle of a group of ostensibly bisexual girls.
She will wish that she was a guy you could come here with. She will go silent at your ability to leave him there. Finally she will tell you that a better DJ is spinning at a newer club on Thursday. Tell her that you already know. You were already planning to go. Hope that the truth won’t teach her how to break you.
II.
If you are at a concert your, your friends will see her first, will move to be seen by her, will try not to stare. You will look only at the back of her neck, the movements in her hands. You have already picked up her contagious recklessness.
Agree with your friends, yeah she’s cute. Insist when she turns around, girl she’s looking at you again. You friend will get bold and you will make three wishes that somehow you’re wrong about this.
You are right.
You will feel like you are sending you friend unaware into slaughter. You will feel that way because you are. You secretly believe that this wrecker is watching you. You believe that because she is.
And you already know that, not tonight, but next week or later, by the time your friend is hopelessly infatuated, you will steal her attention without looking like you mean to. Without wanting it as bad as she does.
You will switch seats at a coffee shop, apparently so they can sit together. But really you will be making yourself more visible. Really. This might be kleptomania. It will be the poetry, the travel plans, the activist ethic. It will be theft. Untraceable theft and unjustifiable greed. You will pretend that it is all out of your control. But who is reckless? Who should know better? Who is shaming the guise of innocence by wearing it so damn well? You will do it anyway. Stealing but not keeping. Denying everything.
Effectively.
Hoping that she doesn’t break her heart.
III.
If you have just given a poem, you are in trouble.
Grandma is listening and you are laid bare.
She will seem very serious. Telling you that your poem was “beautiful”.
Act like you don’t know.
She means you. She means you are, you.
You will be delighted. (You thought everyone here was straight).
You will still be high off the sound of your own voice. Amplified.
You are in trouble.
You will thank her and reach out your hand.
You will look directly in her eyes.
You will say your name and not hear her’s.
You will not hear anything else either.
You will get stuck in your name and her eyes.
You will want her. To know you.
She will be saying maybe she’ll see you later.
You may or may not be answering her when you say
definitely. Smile. And finally let go her eyes.
She will hope that you are not straight.
She will be sure that you are.
She will be momentarily unsure of her ability to convert.
She will wait until you are alone.
You will see her again and decide
she probably thinks she’s straight, poor thing.
You will forget her altogether.
She will wait until you are alone.
You are in trouble.
You are alone.
She will finally approach you.
Notice that her friends are watching you both.
You have forgetten and ignored her name.
You will feel like you owe her something.
You will feel tempted to hand her your entire bag then and there.
You will feel tempted to blurt out, know me.
For the love of god, if not of property or propriety. Don’t.
Sit still. You are in so much trouble.
She will ramble nervous eloquence.
She will find you addictive and dizzying.
She will trip on her words and fall in your lap.
You will not care whether its an accident.
You will forget to cross your legs.
You are in trouble for sure.
You will not want to tell her that you are already in love.
With someone else. That you have just recently admitted this
to yourself and to the relevant loved one. That you are sure
it is true love. You will not want to tell her.
You are greedy for the scent of yourself breathing.
Tell her or don’t tell her.
She will not care. She does not care.
She will not care enough. To stop.
She wants you to excess.
She wants you to spillage.
You will not be able to look away
from this scattered and infinite version of yourself.
You are hypnotized
to think that you could drown here.
You are underwater already. Deep.
You are deep.
In trouble.
For god’s sake do not let her kiss you.
For god’s sake do not hold her hand.
At least try not to give her your home address.
You have already given her half the contents of your purse.
This is the one that could break everything.
How to ever laugh again… September 14, 2006
after your best friend sexually assaults you.
a draft
They will expect it. Everyone. Your laughter.
Eventually even the people who know will demand it.
Don’t hate them for this.
To most, laughter is a cover, hiding an everlasting cime.
To most laughing is a coping mechanism served with genocide.
This cannot be your reason.
Never forget this.
You are not coping. You are not a sheild.
You are not, are not, are not a criminal.
You are neither comedy nor tragedy
(though you are being watched).
You are not this story.
You are alive.
You will hold you breath to keep from crying.
You will focus your eyes and stare at air.
You will bite your wrists and squeeze your pressure points.
You will try to talk louder than thinking.
This will not help.
You will wake up crying and psych yourself out with a shower.
You will cry facing windows and call on rain to drown you.
You will lie to yourself about why you are crying.
You will go hoarser than silent,
screaming sighs at the self that won’t believe
the lies you want.
You will dig your nails into your own palms
to try, to make, this stop.
As if you are the one that needs to be taught what stop means.
Let yourself. Go.
Listen to your crying like it’s music.
Cry it like an opera diva.
Listen for a melody.
Go low and deep.
You are breathing.
Remember. This.
This is the sound of your laughter underwater.
Memorize the cadences.
You are breathing.
You will be tempted not to trust yourself.
You will be tempted not to trust anyone else.
You will call yourself by other names,
just to avoid the question.
Just notice this.
And breathe. Deeply.
You will want to ignore your body.
Listen carefully.
It will not help.
Remember (I know. You want to forget. I know. You want to forget. I know.)
that if you body ignored you, your heart would stop.
If your body ignored you, you couldn’t breathe.
You already know what that feels like.
Remember.
Give your body everything it asks for.
Become fluent in the language of your celluar desire.
Listen hard.
Listen porous.
Listen photosynthetic.
Start with small things.
I want water, now. Do it immediately.
I want sleep, now. Don’t wait.
Turn left, here. Don’t question.
Treat your body like a bratty precocious rich kid that you are babysitting.
Then like the gruff martial arts masters from the kung-fu movies.
Then like the only child you will ever have.
Finally, like the love of your life.
Listen hard. Treat her good.
Dance. This is important.
You will want to skip this step. Don’t.
You will think dancing is impossible because you are so dizzy when you walk.
You will think dancing is inadvisable because you have lost/gained 10 pounds since. You will think this is a bad idea.
This is your body talking.
Listen.
Don’t worry
about the fact
that you chose a non-western dance form
that doesn’t require you to hold onto a partner.
Don’t worry. But don’t forget.
Why.
It was the right choice.
This is about you.
This is NOT training for compromise.
This is NOT someone’s power to spin you.
This is NOT someone else feeling strong.
This is you.
Breathing frequently.
Making space.
If you chose West African dance, expect to be sore the first week.
In muscles you haven’t even met,
that introduce themselves while you walk down stairs.
When you walk down the street
expect to hear drumbeats that rival your heart.
Choose the beat when you’re walking.
Choose your heart when you’re still.
If you chose belly dancing
let yourself be surprised that you can shake while standing still.
You will start to hear bells when you walk down the street.
Pretend
you’re the only one that knows.
Let your self smile.
(invisible bells on your hips loud drum of your heart)
Let strangers be witnesses.
Laugh.
