Sparkle & Purple

Before the poem, another great event going on Tuesday Dec 30 at Busboys & Poets at 5th and K. Sparkle is a queer driven reading and open mic that will start at 8:30 pm. and will be hosted by Regie Cabico.

A hot little poem bout me:

My life is a hot mess too untamed for Crayola definitions
Purple
The sunset of summers spent on hallowed back porches
Splintered tongues twisting around
Eggplant shells
Secrets captured in wooden walls

Orchids dancing through the garden
Carefree, Rare
Hard to raise
O’Keefe

Relief
Like female

My life is a sprinkler’s sunbeam reflection
Clinging closer to greens than blues
That hue
That keeps the splash behind my eyes
Reeling

On nights I fight shadeless dreams

My life is that sacred cup
The perfect buzz
Bring it to your nose
Inhale
That’s some good shit

My life is purple
Propelled permanently towards the next freeway
Past comfortable
And straight on till morning.

Plucking past lives like orchids
To create the radiant light
That is my life’s backlit TV screen
Glowing off
Your now sleeping face.

Purple haze
Purple nonsense
Dancing around #107
That moment that sheds the reds ad blues
From my day’s hand worn blisters.

Purple heat
Screaming through the walls of the apartment
Like static.

Like something barely palpable
But violent violet
Like magenta

Like a shade so familiar
Yet so undefined.

District Winter

Written in a workshop last Thursday. The prompt was something vague about seasons and detail. 

This apartment has a view when the leaves hit the ground
It opens up like red and orange bursting like
Full-bellied angels before the winter hits the city

I see clearly now

My eyes wet and foggy with the resistance of yet another season
Life
It’s just brief jogs between floor board heating and
You
You’re all radiator heat
And fleece blankets

You spell out warmth like the braile behind my eyelids spells discomfort

You comfort my limbs
Make me whole again before spring rushes in without notice

See, I’ve lived in a place without seasons and I’m a girl afraid of change

Afraid of revolving four times around the sun four times yearly
Like I’m always looking for the next season

I want to stay here for a minute
Here in this bare trees and barely breathing
Here in this cold dancing the edge of snow globe
Here in this sheepskin boots and thick stockings

Here in this cold comfort of reds and oranges
Half lives coming to and end
Like summer always seems to too soon

But I’ve stopped missing her

Stopped wishing black ice was puddles to jump through
Stopped tugging on my scarf, praying for tank top
Stopped praying for time to give me back more sunlight

I’m here
Swirling in the surf of yet another cycle
But present at best

Basking in the gloom
And the view
From my apartment.

Letting cold rush over me like juice of a baptism
Never forgetting to let it
Leave me
Breathless.

Karen Effing Finneyfrock in DC Tomorrow Night!

MotherTongue DC will be hosting Seattle poet (originally from DC) Karen Finneyfrock tomorrow night at 9pm at the Black Cat. Okay, so it's $8, but it supports a great local nonprofit, Our Place DC which helps formerly incarcerated women get back on their feet. A few of them will perform on the open mic (and so will I) and Karen is worth it people. 

As for Finney, one of my favorites. "My voice turning 20 years younger in my throat. My voice growing a mermaid tail and a unicorn horn."

Voice to the Voiceless

Daddy Comes Home Today
Daddy comes home today
And my ears hang low, and they wobble to and fro

And I can throw them over my shoulder like a continental soldier

and then I can be like my Dad.

Strong and tough and brave and good and smart and the best.

When Daddy left for his army vacation Mom told me he was going to I-rack.

Mommy has a spice rack

Baby Julie has a diaper rack

I have a stuffed animal rack

And Daddy has an I- rack.
That’s an inside family joke I think is funny
but I feel silly when Mommy tells it in front of other people.

I kiss Iraq on the map on my wall every night before I go to sleep.
I try to squeeze my lips really tight so they don’t touch Syria or I-ran, but my Mommy says people there could use my goodnight kisses too.

Daddy told me how to tell my left from my right.

Sometimes I get it wrong

But tonight I will kiss Daddy on his right cheek

And whisper “I missed you” in his left and he will know that I am smart

Just like Mrs. Jacobs knows I’m smart when I name all the US State Capitals in alphabetical order by state.

Smart
like winning the geography bee last month

Only this time it will only be Daddy cheering for me and it will be

the greatest.

Daddy comes home today
And I will sleep safely for the first time since he left.
Because Daddy really knows how to look for monsters in all the scariest places.

He looks in the closet

And under the bed

And just outside the window.

He looks in the air conditioning vent.

Tonight Daddy’s hug was the best I’ve ever had in my life.

It was like a thousand hugs all in one and for a minute

I thought I couldn’t breathe

n a really, really, really good way.

I fell asleep in the car and wasn’t awake for Daddy to put me to bed

But I feel safer already just knowing he is here.

I am safe and

Daddy is home and

everything is the

best.

But Mommy is different since Daddy is home.
Her eyes aren’t as shiny.
Her jokes, less funny.
Her smile, hiding in her pocket like Megan’s Girl Scout song.
And it's weird—
But she seems more alone now that Daddy is home.

Can I tell you a secret?
Tonight I heard crashes below my bed

Below where the monsters sleep and into the kitchen.

I didn’t leave my bed.

I tried to be a big boy.

I pulled the covers over my ears
and recited state capitals to fall asleep.

In the morning I ate my Lucky Charms out of Mommy’s good bowls

because something very, very, very bad happened to my Dinosaur ones.

Mommy had this purple spot under her glasses that I tried to ignore

But as she sat across from me at breakfast, reading me Peanuts from the funnies

it was all I could see

think about

stare at.
Did Baby Julie hit her when she was changing her diapers?
Did she run into a wall?

Did this have something to do with the crashes I heard last night?

With Daddy’s voice rumbling under my bed the way thunderstorms do on nights

When they are competing with monsters to see who’s scarier.

Daddy’s voice
Daddy’s voice
Daddy’s voice is meaner

Tonight I tucked myself in.

I can’t check the scariest places by myself

So I just squeezed into that tight place in my covers

And made sure not even a hair was sticking out

Tonight I am hiding

from the monster

in my mommy’s bedroom.

This was a poem written while I was working for an affordable housing organization. One of the families we worked with was a mom who, with her six kids, was forced to flee from her husband after he suffered PTSD from his time in Iraq. I wanted to tell the story of one of the children.

The Point is Not Me, The Point is the Poetry

So people have been asking me when they can see me perform (and by people I mean 3-4). The problem is, I am not yet of feature status, open mic lists are unpredictable and I usually don't know what what my plans are until I'm doing them. But today I thought to myself, screw it, I am going to start putting events up. Even if I don't make it on the mic, it will be cool for everyone to know of upcoming poetry events.

I had been emailing with Danielle of MotherTongue earlier this morning and she let me know she would be performing at The Guerilla Poetry Insurgency open mic tonight at 7pm at Bossa in Adam's Morgan (my new neighborhood)! I will try to make it on the open mic list in which case I will perform the Seattle poem. I think.

Tomorrow night is the regular open mic at Busboys and Poets on 14th & V. It starts at 9pm, but you should get there at 8pm for wristbands, getting a seat, etc. Very cool poets and a cool vibe there, but Bossa will likely be more low key.

I am pretty excited about tonight so please don't hesistate to join. TK and I will be there at 7pm.

Short. Sweet. Truth.

Backward glances
Fixed over fingers
Lingers with the scent of you
And the stench of everything that comes after
Every time you walk into a room.

Love, Not H8

Big things are happening here at Remember When. Thanks to a very dear friend of mine I finally got my act together on this whole embedding videos nonsense. Turns out, its easier than rhyming words with 'our.' I think it dynamically changes the layout and hopefully will make it easier for people to watch the videos of poets featured here.

As for poets featured here, they are mostly from Seattle. I realize that and I am dealing with it. I just have an incredible bias towards the amazing shit that touched stage every Wednesday in oh-so-city-fringe Fremont. The truth is, there are incredible poets all over the country and world. Bringing you one of them in 5,4...

Andrea Gibson. A queer Denver poet who was the first gal ever to win The Women of the World Poetry Slam. She also performed a few times this summer with the Junkyard Ghost Revival, an amazing group of PNW poets. For me, it is always great to see women on the stage and especially one who is so compelling with her words. I saw this piece a long time ago and it ripped me to shreds. The truth is, it's not sad or heart wrenching in the way some other poems are. It's just truth. Plain and simple. As Sharpies bleed from Prop 8 posters and this issue inevitably takes the backburner to other world crisises, I thought it was appropriate to share this poem. As for the bastards who voted for Prop 8, Andrea Gibson totally made me gay, so apparently they do recruit!

The Backup Band of My Soul

There is really no rhythm to this poem or slam-ability, but there is still something I really like about it:

The solo of my soul is provided by the sweet song of some strung out hip hop hippy girl
Her grill gleaming in the green of my emerald heart.
My misguided steps make her voice fall apart

The lesbian twins of my contorted stomach sing backup in melodic circles taking turns with the harmony, always there to catch their twist and drop in rhyme
Their perfect pitch keeps me in line.
My soul delicious
Impossible to define.

Drop beats
Turn this garage band into Prima Donna  
You can do this
Cue the music. 

The mellow undertones of the drums bring the beat back
Put me back on a straight path
And the spotlight drops on a girl.
Young, beautiful, Snow White features.
Arms flailing, fingers barely big enough to grab drumsticks
Licks her lips
Takes a glimpse at the crowd
She knows she can handle this.

She is brave, wise beyond her years
Her eyes swell with tears

This is no longer a dress rehearsal for an audience of two
In the audience is you
You close your eyes
And let the the music wash over your memory.

Arising from the looped chorus of our creation
A voice booming from each speaker
A surround sound sure to make your ear drums swell
Your sickness well
You to hear the music
Stop the nuisance
Become the sound
That is me.

See I can sing the humility out of any man when I’m alone
But I rock worlds to islands
Leave the strongest crying
Make that flutter in your heart turn into convulsions
Bring phat flows of fancy with that drop from percussion

I can make you dance
Put the beauty back into your step, into me, into the world

When the backup band of my soul 

Plays center stage to this girl.

Lauren Welch Knows All My Secrets or My New Favorite Poem: Take 2

My dear friend Lauren gchatted me at work earlier this week to let me know that Danny Sherrard
was reading "my new favorite poem" on a "very Seattle" video on YouTube. Confession: This video is the reason this poem has become my favorite. Confession: Danny Sherrard is the reason I do anything in life. Seattle's own rock star reading the Archipelago:

And if you want to get your world rocked: The Distance.As for my excuses, I promise I will post my own stuff soon. Lots in the head and little time to put it on paper but I will get there. Soon. Promise.

My New Favorite Poem

I hope to one day be as brilliant as the last line of this poem.

The Archipelago of Kisses
By Jeffrey McDaniel
We live in a modern society.
Husbands and wives don'tgrow on trees, like in the old days. So wheredoes one find love?

When you're sixteen it's easy
Like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses.

There's the first kiss.The sloppy kiss. The peck.The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes kiss. The I knowyour tongue like the back of my hand kiss.

As you get older, kisses become scarce.
You'll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. If you were younger, you'd pull over
Slide open the mouth's red door just to see how it fits. Oh where does one find love?

If you rub two glances, you get a smile. Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. Now what?

Don't invite the kiss over and answer the door in your underwear.
It'll get suspicious and stare at your toes.
Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out ofyour body without saying good-bye, and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth.

You must nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it illuminates the room.
Hold it to your chest and wonder if the sand inside hour glasses comes from a special beach.
Place it on the tongue's pillow, then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia.
Beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.

But one kiss levitates above all the others.
The intersection of function and desire.
The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil
Just to be next to your bones.

A Horrible Haiku for My (one day) Hipster Husband

penned on the red line. bitches.

scruff, gruff, of the earth
heart worn sleeves, eyes pierce, calming
wake up next to me?

Politics Aside

This is a poem I was asked to write for a celebration of Israel's 60th Birthday in Seattle last Spring. I performed it at the slam that same week and I was oh-so-politely publicly ridiculed on stage by the featured poet, a Jewish girl whose views on Israel were different than mine. She thought. 

Everyone who knows me well knows that I have a special place for Israel in my heart and have spent many of my summers in recent memory in the Middle East. While I've wrestled with religion over the past few years (story, poem, novel for another time) I still hold a strong affinity for the culture, people and distinct 'ness' that is Israel. At the same time, I do see clear human rights and democratic issues in that land and am always looking for discourse on this issue (I mean, I work for the New Israel Fund!) I felt very polarized by the poet's comments that night, feeling nervous about performing this poem to a sea of liberals who cringe at the "I' word without really listening to the common thread of the poem.

On a happier note, it is worth noting that Buddy Wakefield came up to me that night to tell me how great he thought the poem was (and to ask what "goy" meant...!). My Israel poem (in a safe space..):

A few summers ago I took a group of college students on a tour through Israel

On our fifth day

We found ourselves in Yitzhak Rabin square

The vacant quad that echoes songs turned to screams from the day
That day
When history defied itself to bring Jew against Jew

 An event so rare, yet so poignant, in our lineage

The Israeli soldier accompanying our trip recounted the events of that day to the sea of co-ed ears

Exchanging suntan lotion and invisible notes about how cute he was

I stood in the back so they could listen better

But his story eyes pierced me to the front of the class
This soldier was staring right into me as he told his story
Because he was certain that my 22 year old

Self-proclaiming Zionist heart had a clue what it was like to be him
What it was like to be Israeli
On that day

Because I was 11 when it happened,
And these students were barely 7
So sliding across the top of their sunburnt scalps 

Comes this look
This understanding he thinks I have
This call looking for a response

Only I don’t know what to tell him

His country crumbled that day
And even the forced picture of peace shattered 

Like light bulbs on wedding days

The image of our presidents hands playing tug of war with the hands of their two leaders
Was nothing more than a Superman boy hoping to get his parents to sleep in the same bed again.

I went to bed that night

My 6th grade mind filling with more questions than answers

Felt my moms tears when my Dad said “hug your mother,"

And promised myself I’d learn all the words to Hatikvah in the morning. 

Promises empty like regret
Like threats
Like bomb threats that ended an Israel event I went to that year
Like the bomb shelter this soldier would later write me emails from
when fighting escalated in the North
While I was back safely in Seattle throwing lassos around stars
Hoping to pluck luck out of the sky for him

He’s spit dirt for his country and never asked questions

I can’t conceive what its like to be born fighting
To be conceieved a pre-meditated soldier
To modern history’s seemingly endless war
To stand on not-quite firm

Not quite solid

Not quite anyone’s soil

See I've never questioned the certainty of my own backyard

So this look he’s giving me
Can be repaid with nothing but an awkward glance
With hopes of peace measured in more than months between fighting
And maybe we connect on that basic level

But his eyes reflect the blue of the Kinneret

The ribbon tied around our fingers reminding us “never forget” 

The flag shrouded over his friends buried on Har Herzl 

Eyes blinding me with the 112 degree shade of this Tel Aviv afternoon
Begging me to remember why I love his land
This land

Yes We Effing Did: A Remember When Feature

When I turned to my friends at 11:04pm on Tuesday to say "let's take to the streets," all I meant was "let's pop champagne on your stoop before I pass out on your Mt. Pleasant couch." My only regret from the night is not joining them on their adventure to U Street, White House and essentially every other block that seemed to be flooded with people. However, the energy in DC right now continues to be palpable. You cannot ask someone simply how their day is going without a large grin and exuberant response (of course, I work for a human rights foundation, so this may be a bias..).

So in honor of Tuesday night's events, I couldn't think of a better feature than Barry himself. He wrote these poem's while on a brief tenure at Occidental College (can't keep up with dude's geography). There is so much I to want to say right now but I think I'm just coming down from it all and need some more time to process. For now, our feature for this week, Mr. President Elect (baller), Barack Obama:

Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken

In, sprinkled with ashes

Pop switches channels, takes another

Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man

Who fails to consider the

Flim and flam of the world, since

Things have been easy for me;

I stare hard at his face, a stare

That deflects off his brow;

I’m sure he’s unaware of his

Dark, watery eyes, that

Glance in different directions,

And his slow, unwelcome twitches,

Fail to pass.

I listen, nod,

Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,

Beige T-shirt, yelling,

Yelling in his ears, that hang

With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling

His joke, so I ask why

He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...

But I don’t care anymore, cause

He took too damn long, and from

Under my seat, I pull out the

Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,

Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face

To mine, as he grows small,

A spot in my brain, something

That may be squeezed out, like a

Watermelon seed between

Two fingers.

Pop takes another shot, neat,

Points out the same amber

Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and

Makes me smell his smell, coming

From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem

He wrote before his mother died,

Stands, shouts, and asks

For a hug, as I shrink, my

Arms barely reaching around

His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause

I see my face, framed within

Pop’s black-framed glasses

And know he’s laughing too.

Underground

Under water grottos, caverns

Filled with apes

That eat figs.

Stepping on the figs

That the apes

Eat, they crunch.

The apes howl, bare

Their fangs, dance,

Tumble in the

Rushing water,

Musty, wet pelts

Glistening in the blue.

I Have No Idea What It Is, But I Want It

Ryler Dustin is an amazing, Seattle (shocking) poet who regularly ripped it up at the Seattle slam and was on the Seattle National Slam Team in 2007. This poem is nothing short of genius although if you are left at the end wondering what the heck it is all about, you're not alone. The thing that I love most about this poem is that you are just along for the amazing ride and usage of words, whether the context is clear or not. The killer line for me is "not like suicide but like setting himself free/ when the nurses fell back like you did from me." Just. Genius.

Change is Cerebral First

This weekend, Jenn and I ventured to Ohio to visit our good friend Aaron, who has set up shop in the Obama headquarters for the last two months and will be there through the election. It was a great experience to canvass with Toledo folks, meet all the transplants who have literally put their lives on hold to work for this campaign and just to feel the energy that so many have about putting Obama in the White House.

One thing that continues to amaze, appall, befuddle me is how much of a role race is playing in this election. While there are a number of people whose opinions are clear on electing a black man as president, I fear that there are possibly even more individuals who, behind the closed curtains of their voting precincts, will choose Candidate White over Candidate Black. Some version of the last line of this poem has been in my head for weeks, but the rest of it finally came together over the weekend (no fault of the good people of Ohio, just finally had time to put in perspective). It also truly is a yell-and-scream-I-got-some-sh*t-to-say slam poem, so it may not translate as well on paper but I’ll try…

We touch pavement

Rock signs for change

Grip to the inevitable hope that we have come to put our faith in

As my neighbors draw the shades

Draw back themselves into a world of 50 years ago

Unable to admit why Hope is not enough for them.

Fists knock doors

Knock air

Knock the wind out of me as the monsters under my bed come to life

This Struggle often reserved for my eyes unseen streets

Is in dress rehearsal on our global stage

And I’m wondering what section of the bus is reserved for me.

Reserved for this girl whose feet are touching down on the streets of Toledo

Like they were Montgomery’s 1950’s concrete.

Words of another dreamers tongue ringing in my ear

Now perched on the surface ready to break spit

But squeaking out in a whisper I can barely translate.

We are armed for discourse about the Issues but not the Issue

We are complacent in our space to stay away from this

While we should be breaking open our voices to scream

“We did not fight for ignorance!”

We did not fight to have our hands shake with fear of Color being the bottom line

As hands silently unravel the work of past generations and mine

Retying it into a firm and solid slipknot-

I cannot comprehend that we are back at this

That this 11^th hour pipe dream is as black as fists

We have progressed so little in our quest for progress

Yet we are willing to settle for less

If it means we can tape our tongues and give voice to the racist.

I’m left wondering what defect iris has eyes seeing nothing but skin tones,

what heartbeat thinks that matters.

I hear a man who is pumping motivation back into the veins of my generation

See a protector of my life-giving body, a world I would want to bring life into

Taste the success of teachers who can harbor their craft and still afford to eat

Smell the Middle East sands settling into dust with the memories of soldier’s feet

Touch the face of the college student who never saw a diploma as an option

I cannot imagine what you see.

And I fear that my hands are too shaky to change your mind.

To stop Southern teenagers from shaving their heads and cutting this off at the source

To try and show them that hands can hold change

Even if their palms are a different shade.

But I am left with only one week

And as results hang in the air

Like nooses on Alabama trees.

All I can dream to say is Yes We Can

Yes We Can

This mantra

Once inspirational, now making me feel numb

Wondering if this candidates slogan should echo the words of

We Shall Overcome

Remember When I Had Fan Mail?

My name is Sarah L and I approve this message.

Julia's Slam

sarah's blog is really tight

with poetry, thoughts and lots of insight.

it's more fun than facebook, one step up from TV

it's seriously entertaining and cliche-free.

when you're bored at work or chilling at your pad

read sarah's blog- it's pretty rad

- the lovely and talented, Julia Unger. 

It Only Has To Make Sense To You

This poem is ridiculous.

While a wise man once told me that your poetry only needs to make sense to you, I still find this poem way too outer space to perform most of the time. Yes, it's fun. Yes, the two or three times I have performed it, I've realized that there are some lines that people can relate to. Otherwise, it's serious nonsense.

I love this poem but often finding myself wanting to brief the audience beforehand on the even more ridiculous prompt that led to this poem, asking at the end "now do you get it?" So since this is my blog, with my rules, I am going to do exactly that. The prompt to the poem (as well as I can remember it) is at the end.

Maybe you will get it. Maybe you will just enjoy the ridiculous.

Rooftop Chitchat
The dark back alleys of Boston's side streets Daddy's arm chair you in their shadow
You are alone in this city with nothing but your art
You're Mommy's Reading Room to Robin Hood arrow nothing
But beautiful and profound things with cameras and stages

We hot cocoa with extra marshmallows as we Chuck Taylor to your Cambridge apartment
You yap-box snap snap about Cracker Jack knapsacks that I can't free prize from
But guys tend to do that
Rooftop chitchat about their own interests
Long after women are on the first floor.

You grandma's gold bangle jangle with your hands
A true actor in every sense
Your voice box click clack would be gone if you were last pick in freeze tag
Could not emphasize the fire-red door next door two nights ago
Could not "you'll poke your eyes out!" to the kids in your theater workshop
Could not Oscar, Emmy, Tony your life

Your hands are Dinosaur Night Light Lite-Brites
Baby Belugas in the Deep Blue Sea
Green shag taxi cab me to 7 and 9 years old
42nd Street on Broadway
An optical illusion we thought
We had never seen
Knee, Leg, Foot, Hips
Take me to our DC Suburban upbringing that you vocally shun and desperately miss
To your backstage

And you're my brother
And for a moment I'm not sure which pajamas mom told you to wear to bed
A textile so distinct from my own
Me- yellow, fleece, footies
You- cars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, flesh

For a moment I am jealous
Or is this envy?
I always get the two confused when my heart plays cops
Brain plays robbers
Emotions call us down to dinner

Your intensity is contagious as we sit in your apartment
You- wide-TV eyes on your craft
Me- Kristof crossword my New York Times morning

Eyes caught
Awkward love
Baseballs in oversized mitts

"Will you thank me in your acceptance speech some day?"

You look up at me, tearing yourself from your commitment to your page for a moment.

"Sar, I accept you already"

Prompt
Write about someone you know well. They are doing something with their hands. Include an exotic place (Boston?). At some point, they look at you and answer in a way that shows they have only understood part of the question. Turn all your verbs into nouns. Drink a bottle of wine.

Ain't Nothin But A She Thing

For months, I have been hearing about this woman's poetry group that Talya's former boss' partner Ruth (breathe) founded here in DC. On Wednesday, Talya and I finally ventured to the Black Cat for Mothertongue's 10th Anniversary open mic and event. It was really the energy, vibe and intense poetry that I've been searching for in this city and it was wonderful to be surrounded by smart, beautiful women especially since there are really so few represented in poetry (end fem rant). Excited to get involved (and super excited that they are bringing out Seattle poet Karen Finneyfrock in November)!

Freedom Brain Dump

This weekend I escaped the Beltway to explore the wonderful, progressive and charmingly Southern town of Carborro, NC (thanks J & S!). I left feeling rejuvinated and ready to write. And then, there was horrific traffic on 95 and I barely had time to finish my Sweet Tea before plopping into bed at 8:30pm. All the motivation I could muster for writing was a 10 minute brain dump (think: guts of the poem, rought rough draft) on defining Freedom. Enjoy and hopefully it will turn into something real someday!












Freedom Is...

Some say it is when you have nothing left to lose
But I say it is everything to gain and nothing but a backpack of future
It’s a peace sign giving the finger to everything

It is forgetting the reflection and acting how you feel
It is feeling beautiful because your veins tell you to
And ugly because you’ve acted that way
And content because you are not a child anymore
And happy because you may be turning out to be a good thing.

It is a world most will never know
And that few don’t even know to forget.

It is the moment your religion becomes less of a box and more of a globe

It is silences becoming comfortable
And words less conscious

It is realizing the infinite possibilities of your single life
It is never being afraid to say you deserve nothing but genuine

It is buying a bikini for the first time

It’s your heart
Moving mountains and planets and rib cages
Just by letting your voice out of it’s cell
It is speaking on the mic like you’re on the podium to the universe
Giving reason to the dictionary.

It is my heart
Ringing on the downbeat just to make sure I don’t miss the moment
As deliberate as the suns’ rise and set
As essential as lifeblood and hair
As beautiful as sky and grace
And wonderful as the
possibilities before us.

He's Not Flash, But He's Fast and His Name is J

As I said in the opening post (about a day ago..), I really hope this can be a space for other friends, poets and poet friends to share their work. So following an open plea sent to my friends, poets and poet friends, I was thrilled to almost immediately receive an email back from my good pal, Justin Searns.

J is one of those people who has a natural gift for writing. His poems are incredibly powerful, every word deliberate. I won't say too much about this poem (and just for kicks, I'll let you guess where the clinic is...), but I will say this: when J sent this to me it was the first time there was a title attached to it. Gravity. Perfect. This is the line that rings in my ears for days and the image that really haunts me from this piece. Please show him some love via comments-- I think this poem deserves nothing less.

Without further adieu, from Portland by way of Denver, Colorado, Justin Searns:

Gravity

This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the hump of trash we set on fire outside.
This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the mouths of goats sifting through that smoldering pile. This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the needles we keep herded and separate.
This clinic is dirty. Like a cheap day care is hectic.

It is out-of-control dirty. Inertia dirty. Newtonian physics dirty.

And I,
I’m just a third year college student.
Ineffectual and impotent.

I’m writing a research paper, so all I can do is

Scribble notes
Talk
Breathe

Cling to the back of Sophie’s white lab coattails
in front of me.

Assist her, the only doctor for 50 miles with the lumbar puncture in bed seven. Look over her shoulder at X-Rays back-lit by sunlight.
Keep her company as she burns tobacco sacrifices to the gods of stoicism.

This clinic is dirty.
Like Ward 6.

The unventilated Tuberculosis room.
Where an old woman from across the aisle locks eyes with me,
so I swear to keep it secret that she wore nothing but gravity.

That her shoulders folded back like clipped angel wings.
That her head rocked forward, a cradle to her country.
Double bent heavy under the base of this
pyramid scheme.

This clinic is dirty, like the backs of her knees,
slung over the side of that steel frame stretcher at an impasse.

To stand up and try walking or
lay back down and
try dying.

We move on, to pediatrics, so Sophie and I can check up on a half-calendar life
5 pounds later.
His mother is propped against the edge of the bed twisting an IV between her fingertips like an umbilical cord.

All three of us wonder
how something so small can be so shrouded in shadow,
when months earlier, he was being forged in light.
A boy, too frail to raise his eyelids
cradling death in his hands like it was his fucking birthright.

Sophie, don’t hold eyes with me. I don’t want you to see this inner complexity,
for how some doctors can lose their humanity,
so easily.

This clinic is dirty, like a broken condom.
Like a catchement area of 700,000 people
and an HIV rate of 45%.

This clinic is dirty, like the politicians.
Who misplaced it’s funding exchanging full coffins
for swollen coffers

If cleanliness, is godliness.
Then god grew tired of this place long ago.

And now this tin roof palpitates, these asthmatic windows wheeze out warnings, these walls harbor no welcome for weakness, so I collapse outside them,
Screaming into the wind at people
8000 miles away.

Wondering how far my voice can carry on air.
Knowing folks back home won’t see life like this,
except in soul-shiver nightmares.

This clinic is dirty and my backbone has left me.
So I crawl my way back down the hill home,
eagerly.

I lose myself.

Forget my day.
Pour some tea into my cup.

Wondering
Why we are all so certain.
That we know which way
is up.

About A Boy I Knew Once

Seriously, I'm 12...

You make me physically uncomfortable
Like a thong
Like a night that goes on too long, laced with alcoholic visions and poor life decisions

You make me uncomfortable like the morning after

Uncomfortable like the first time I saw Jordan Catalano lean when I was 14
Or the first time your best friends shows up in your not so little-kid dreams
Or me trying to fit in to size 6 jeans

Like the first time you make a promise you know you won’t keep
Or sitting in the middle seat, admitting your defeat
Or the first time I let a new boyfriend touch my feet

Or like when you know you’re hanging out with people cooler than you
And wondering if they know too
Or when you still haven’t gotten your period and it’s day 32

Uncomfortable like biting my tongue when I know too much
Or Sunday morning exit strategies because last night I needed a touch
No not your touch
His touch
But I had to settle for a touch just to make this loneliness a little more
comfortable

Uncomfortable like the heart palpitations I get when I think about turning 25
Or riding shotgun with my best friend from New York who never learned how to drive
Or the impulse
To have our hearts broken just to know we’re still alive.

Uncomfortable when I hear your name and the word itself transfixes on my brain
Seeps through my veins
Causing the syncopation
of casual conversation
to come out in stutters

The anticipation of seeing you makes me sweat

And smile

And practice conversations we may exchange between our lips
Because this delicate dialogue is too scary without a script.

Uncomfortable like the secret we share
That under my palms of sweat and flirty glares

This concoction of curiosity and chaos
that is our trademark brew
I secretly revel in the joy of knowing

that I make you uncomfortable too.

Don't Think, Just Write

I took a writing class in Seattle taught by Daemond Arrindell, Seattle's Slam Master and a generally wonderful person. Class after class, Daemond would give us prompts to inspire our writing but remind us to just let the pen take control. No worrying about what our words would sound like later. No thinking. No crossing out words. No idle pens. It was poetry boot camp.

Armored with a homework prompt from Daemond, I recruited J Searns, a fellow aspiring poet and generally wonderful person, to set up a two-person writing circle outside El Diablo cafe in Queen Anne. Channeling the instructions from Daemond, we set an alarm to limit the writing, quickly glanced at the prompt and..just..wrote.

The product? While normally these writings turn out to be a brain dump that need serious editing later, this afternoon actually produced a poem that has gone through little edits and seen the stage many times since it's conception. Enjoy & Comment!

Hunger

The pit in my knees that lets me know I’m weak for you

Allows me to rise and face the day

I want nothing but this moment

Want only to open the door and find you clumsy on the bed

Engrossed in my gaze

Entangled in my sheets

Enveloped in my kiss

In love

With the sun and stars that we plucked from the sky to erase this 24 hour cycle we call day

To just be.

We take this moment and swish it in our glass

Hold it on our tongues

Promising our memories that we will never forget this.

My fingers play an empty tune on the invisible harp strings that lead to the hollow after-life of your ego.

My hands, slender but strong, peel you open like a grapefruit until you are exposed.

And I taste the sweet juice of what lies underneath.

We know that this is brief.

But we would sacrifice excitement if the universe had not been jealous enough of this moment to steal it away from us.

We know that time

Like the

Fast forward, playback, mute, slow faster faster slow of this biography is selfish

And we spend hours remembering to remember

To hold on

To never forget

To always always remember

To breath in and out

Breath it all in until

It’s gone

Until time is the only witness to what this is

To the brief but immortal moment where the world forgot about history and just created this

Creation.

I wonder what that first bite of apple tasted like.

If Eve’s aching middle left her doubled over like elephants—too burdened with the weight of memory to stand proud and strong, defiant.

A woman

Empty in the wake of a man who created her

You etched me out of nothing

And now to nothing I return

Vacant like hope

Blank like my gaze searching for your eyes, finding only sockets

Empty like your side of the bed.

Hollow like the promises we made to always be this moment.

Remember When I Had A Blog?

Sunday nights have always been dangerous for me.

My best friend in college and I would consistently get the “Sunday Night Blues” after our whirlwind weekends, usually cured with bad movies, fleece blankets and Tostino’s Pizza Rolls. Tonight, with my weekend schedule making it impossible to sleep before 2am and my laptop taking up shop next to me in bed, I decided now was a good of a time as any to start a blog. Really? Really.

The background: I just got back from living in Seattle for three years where I was exposed to this crazy world known as Spoken Word Poetry. It pretty much changed my life and if you haven’t checked out a slam: GO (steps down from soap box). April is arbitrarily the month where poets test the limits of their writing and challenge themselves to write a poem for each day of the month. I had been thinking about starting a blog then but decided that tonight, October 5, 2008, is close enough to April for me. Thus, Remember When I Had A Blog was born.

I’m hoping this can be a place to share some of the poetry I’ve been working on, display other people’s work and hopefully share musings/ comments/ general judgmental observations on life.

First poem has literally never been seen/ heard by anyone but me and I just finished it last night. I wrote it for my last time on the open mic in Seattle but never finished it there. Enjoy & if you got something to say, comment!

For the Place I'm Coming From

I never was the type of girl who dreamed of moving West
Always harbored my post-college dreams somewhere between Chelsea and the Village
Never dreamed I would be 3, 000 miles away from Atlantic summers swinging off porches of every memory I had before 3 years ago
When the itch to leave comfortable kept me up at night, kept me haunted with nightmares of lonely
of far
but soon reminding myself that cheap thrills come in giving ourselves goose bumps
So soon I was dreaming of a new air in my lungs
Pressing deeply on the lips of some new city

Seattle

Where a .org girl could afford a drinking habit and an apartment in the city
Where hipsters are not just trust fund babies in disguise
Where everything was anything but familiar
Thank you for being anything but familiar.

Thank you

For the first sign of spring hitting you like Rainier hovering over I-90,
Leaves you breathless
Like rain
Like Colin Meloy’s music and Buddy Wakefield’s words.
Like the Olympics ground swelling with these verses, making it feel like home

Seattle

For baristas with a truck full of stories and nothing but ears to sing them to
For this Hill having a story to tell and a hidden mystery to prove it
For the most interesting souls
The raddest tattoos
The sincerest of eyes

Thank you

For Sunday afternoon latte art watching people’s lives bounce off the Bauhaus Balcony
For poetry beaming through windows of now-vacant theater basements
transforming
conforming
To Seattle’s new look but always remembering the power of its core
To those who convinced me to go to that first slam and licked my ears with wounds that still pray to heal

Thank you

My 12 season cycles of Seattle echo in my ears like the whirl of a rainstorm
And I’m up at night with phantom pains of limbs that live 3,000 miles away
With only the sky to hold us together

A forever dot in my constellation
Guiding me towards the coast I once called home.