Love Triangles

(You gotta know a little hollywood history to really get this. Suffisive to say, at the end of the day, we all can understand everyone's actions if we accept that in some ways we are alike. But Marilyn, she is the most beautiful, and it just so happens that in this situation, I identify with her the most...)

“Meanwhile she slept with Kazan,
who remained in town during February
to work on ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’.
Their sexual relationship did not end
now that she had become preoccupied with Arthur Miller...
Kazan found himself looking into Miller’s eyes
on the bookshelf over the bed...
But why did she leave his photography in view?...
Perhaps Marilyn, too, was turned on by the idea of a triangle.”
Barbara Leaming, ‘Marilyn Monroe’

Elia: The most egocentric
character in my head.
Of the three sides
he is publicly regarded as the most talented.
He represents my desire to name names.
To bask in the quiet shade of blame and guilt,
to fiercely protect my directorial accomplishments.
Alongside him I am consistently stunned
by how quickly the moment passes,
when they turn on you.
I am forced to remain unapologetic
and maintain a distance from
my former-friend attackers.
Sometimes he is who I am most
ashamed of.

Arthur: The smartest. Most logical.
This part of me understands all
rationales, and yet
refuses to refrain from over-analyzation.
I re-read dialogue and study
stage directions over his shoulder,
hoping for some insight
as to how an audience will view it.
He pushed me in over my head,
and in the end betrayed me
on a public stage.
He sold me on his idea of myself without bothering
to explore every inch of skin first.

Marilyn: The most lasting image,
and the most tragic end.
“Say goodbye to Frank.”
she said.
Those kinds of last words
will haunt the duration of your healing.
Her drug induced fits of self-loathing,
on or off set, are no easy accommodation.
But My God,
when the cameras start rolling
she becomes ‘the girl’. Her triumphant transformation
signals and escape from, among other things, herself.
Only through her can I rise to the occasion
and give the audience what they crave.
When she glitters she is blinding.
And she gets the last laugh
because she knows the whole story.
She knows the other two don’t matter.
How could their choices make a difference
when I can’t even choose myself.

And Elia goes on being successful,
regaining his power despite renowned notoriety.
Arthur falls for yet another ideal,
but will he ever be able to write something true?
And how can Marilyn, with all her
beauty and blonde and sparkle and drive
have the saddest first memories
I’ve ever encountered?
(Late at night,
it is her image transposed with my own;
naked under a soft white sheet
with a phone receiver dangling
from my delicate hand,
wondering if someone will be by
to save me.)

Dreamscape (12/26/09)

(I dream super vividly, so you'll read a lot about that. Colors are very symbolic in dreams, kinda like poems...)

And now my dreams are all
deep greens and blurry greys.
And you're still there
but much more far away.
I'd been running from you,
towards and ocean that sparkled in blues.
There was my rational sand
ontop of grains I would stand
and stare,
and pretend you weren't there.

But that night in the cold
in a place we knew well
you caught me, sparkling in gold
and with secrets to tell.
And I kissed you back,
taking something not mine
but what I'd been searching for
I did not there find.
And now I'm so lost
I'm relying on rhymes
to say that you broke me.
And finally free I still feel you,
cloaked in the colors of our shared broken promise.

Terminal A27 (November 2006)

(Even though not all love lasts forever, if you write about it you can have a poem that will...)

In terminal A27
my chest contracts
to an uncanny tightness,
while i picture you
driving in direction
that is decidedly
not towards me.
There's a string tied
to the end of my little finger
getting longer and longer
measuring the growing
space between us.
I am temporarily blind,
my eyes see only
replayed scenes of our bodies
together.
There is a growing puddle
around me,
because the drain on the
bottom of my left foot has been
pulled out,
suddenly,
and I am spilling out
onto the ugly blue carpet.
My foot is asleep,
and then my hand,
and soon my whole body
is tingly,
prickly with inertia.
I can't even move to
go after you.

Before I catch up to myself
I am looking out the window,
watching your state fall away
into the deepening night.
The lights get smaller and
fainter and
fewer
and when the last one disappears
I am gone.
The perfect sad song is playing.
I pop the pressure in my ears,
close my eyes,
and attempt to convince myself
that it will be soon
when we say hello again,
and that the string around my little finger
is not so terribly long
and taut.

Untitled (Summer 2006)

(Oh man, the last stanza of this is one of my favs ever. This poem has gone through lots of reincarnations, this is the last and simplest. I find myself coming back to this over and over...)

It's just that we had words.
And kisses
with words hidden inside them.
I can't stop reciting them,
quietly, under my breath.
I feel the shape of my lips
as they form the syllables
we invented together.
I listen to their cadence,
concentrate on how they taste
in my mouth.

But how do you start to tell someone
exactly how you feel,
when your hands and lips
are trembling
and the words get tangled up
in fear.
I almost can't remember when it was
that we held hands
and left important things
unsaid.

While Your Hair Blows in the Breeze on a Summer Day (Spring 2003, i think)

(I was really into long titles haha. Wanted to give you something super retro, if you remember this roof you're very special to me. a little summer vibe to get us through these cold days...)

I wake up when the sun is high
lay on the roof as clouds breeze by
for nuts the squirrels race to win
birds sing gliding through blue sky

the sunlight glistens on my skin
and bounces off the chimney tin
my eyes reflect the yellow sun
my feet remember where they've been

hair off my face in messy bun
ice melts the tears where bees have stung
I'm waiting, eyes closed, for a star
the sun dips down its song is done

I hear songs, music from a car
the ice cream melts, splats on the tar
the twilight glows, extending far
blond curls trap fire flies in a jar

New Years Emo (12/31/09 slash 1/1/10)

(not the brightest note to start a new year on, but it is what it is. and i was surrounded my beautiful amazing caring lovely sexy loving women. so that helped...)

I can only eat when I drink.
I can only drink in the dark.
That space when the sun goes down
is where I feel I can emerge into,
and safely blend in.
If I use black mascara and red lipstick
the other shades of guilt and distress
won't seem so bold.
And no one will see my hands shake
if they're holding a glass
filled with cold liquor and something fizzy.
And as long as my outline
blurs into the night, little by little
I'll forget about you
and that night we seeped into together.
And maybe tomorrow I'll be able
to eat something while the sun is out.
And steady myself with a deep breath.
And fall asleep without wishing
you missed me.

Poem for Those Left Behind (12/08/09)

(This is an exercise from Fiction Writing last semester. It's stream of consciousness. We did an exercise the 1st day listing what we'd take with us in the boat to survive the big flood. This poem is the counterpoint, what one other person we'd take and of course, who we wouldn't. Remember, its completely streamed and not revised...)

I couldn't take Mom without Dad,
because of the fact that their love story
is the greatest never written.
They wouldn't go without me.
And then I couldn't qualify the 4 or 5
I've lived with and loved the most.
And taking someone unknown
for the sex
or the novelty
or the talent
or the logic
or the absurdity
didn't seem possible.
It seemed ungrateful.
If I couldn't save their love (or mine)
I didn't have the heart to save anything.
And so I threw in Gatsby
and the other objects I cherished
and I stood together with the other unsavables
and watched the boat drift off.
And we waited for the rain.

Road Trip (Summer 2007)

(Dumb title. Dedicated to Devy ov, RIP Baby Honda. Oh and Elyse, since she was our destination...)

The Honda is tan,
but I prefer to describe it
as dull gold. The inside is full
with evidence of our lives there
(cause this past month
its been more our car than her car.)
Burned mixes and albums form last decade,
with faces full of scratches and nostalgia,
some empty water bottles and at least
five pairs of sunglasses,
plus a red lighter and small gold key.

Today our trip winds through mountains,
the valleys littered with horses and haystacks
and other indications of a small and rural life.
As we drive I become fascinated with this
landscape, listening
for the lines I can sing along with.
No matter how far we drive
we can't seem to lose the mountains.

We don't always have to talk,
we aren't pressured to fill the inside
with our bullshit.
The truth is, it's already full to the brim
and we know it so well
there's no need to rehash it.

With one foot on the dash board
I light our two Blacks
and say "we need a shower."
We glance at each other from behind
oversized sunglasses, the I hand you
your cigarette and we begin
to smoke and sing simultaneously.
This feels familiar, you navigating
with me shotgun to light our cigarettes.
I inhale and blow towards the window,
feeling the air conditioning chill against my calf.

It's been hours
and you've been speeding
but we still haven't lost the mountains
or the skinny roads
or the patterns of filtered light
that the trees (the greenest trees
I've ever seen) leave
on the two lane highway.

Haiku (Spring 2004)

(So haiku is 5/7/5, tanka is 5/7/5/7/7. The japanese are trying to say a lot in very few syllables. All of these are out of my 16 yr old brain, except the very last one which is from today. Or yesterday. The very recent past, in any case...)

Ribbons on ankles.
Pink against pink faded tights.
Beautiful arches.

Sun is always warm
as it shines through the windows
when driving alone.

Prom is important.
Everyone must look their best.
I bought orange shoes.
(LOL! Shout out to Shanika Nicole)

Even without you
being there with me each night
I always miss you.
Even though I know I shouldn't,
I wonder if you think of me.

(and last but not least, from the present moment...)
Showers are refuge.
But in the heat I realize
not all things rinse off.

Tattoos (Spring 2009)

(Ok it's Fri, lets go crazy w/ some prose. This is longer than I'd like... but I can't help it. May be my favorite prose piece I've ever written, if you want the rest holler at me...)

And tattoos are sexy. Or they should be. There are days when I think my tattoos are the sexiest thing about me. This forbidden, subversive art form has always had a touch of danger and mystery. And its permanence lends it immediate recognition as important. My tattoos are illustrations of my life story. They exist only in the context of my history. They are part of what makes me unique because they are not just words or images or melodies, they are moments. When a person sees me undress for the first time, they are looking at symbols that can reveal to them major events in my life, and bare the feelings I had in the minutes and hours surrounding my visits to the parlors. If you really look at them, and if you take pause to ask, you could learn everything you need to know about me. When I’m naked, I am even more exposed than if my skin was unmarked. Vulnerable, but also powerful in my expression. It’s not just that I let my guard down, it’s also that I command you to see.

This contradiction is necessary in a world where my naked body is never detached from a political state of being. When claiming sexual assertiveness you run the risk of claiming labels like bitch, slut, dyke and whore. Independence is not always lauded or encouraged. Adding art to my skin is a way to assert my ownership over it. To make it even more valuable, more of a sight to drink in. I politicize in on my own terms. I get a rush when I see another person’s eyes light up with surprise and discovery. Nothing nourishes intimacy like the possession of a secret. A women’s body has always been said to possess secrets, and by adding tattoos I have added more secrets. Asserted more control. Declared myself beautiful.

Implore (April 2009)

(Hate the title. If only words like this actually came out of my mouth...)

To ask me to hesitate now
would be a costly mistake.
The simple fact is that I don't guard my heart well
& I never have. I never learned how.
It doesn't feel right
when I try to stop it. Or hush it.
Or cajole it in another direction.
I pretend to start trying,
but if you look into the green around the middle of my eyes
you'll find I'm actually standing still,
entreating you to take my hand & start walking
in a common direction.
If you ask me to wait
I'll get impatient and frantic.
I don't know how to be still.
I want to give in, untighten the screws in my chest
& kiss you on the mouth so you know
that I could take care of you.
So you can taste how I'm afraid too,
& see how being scared together is better than being alone.
I don't want to put on any pressure.
I only want to know how it feels
to have you look down at me that way you do
& know it only me those eyes implore to kiss.

Untitled (10/29/09)

(Still a little rough, inspired by a CSGS event about bodies. I think a/b the body a lot, the body as self I mean...)

I'd like to send you my heart.
(This seems an obvious place to start,
but its not what you think)
It has a rhythm to be held and heard,
a dull steady lull to sing you to sleep.
And I'll include my arteries,
because my blood will have that
comforting metallic taste,
and blue and red (or purple)
will be pleasing colors to surrender in.
And how about my collarbone,
delicately shaped and easily displayed.
I'll pack it in fat from my breasts and my hips,
a squishy and comforting measure to ward off fractures.
I'll slip all this into and epidermal envelope,
because the things written there
(freckles, tattoos, light hair and goosebumps)
are probably the most important.
You can memorize the space of these,
use your fingerpads and palms
and ear drums and tastebuds
to learn me.

E.A. (Aug 2009)

(Not a poem about love. Shocking.)

You started visiting the night
the hummingbird appeared.
I began seeing places that could easily
be described as home.
First I'd be standing on a back porch,
gazing at an old grey garage
standing guard at the end of the lawn.
Later I was watching you make coffee
(in a coffee pot I've since inherited)
on the stove in a kitchen
without a stitch of 'brand new' vibe.
I noticed the curtains, faded
and floral and unchanged.
You were speaking but I cannot shake
the visual details out of the way,
and so those words are lost.
In both places there is light,
and the color green.

Did you come because the hummingbird called you?
Because you're restless, and so am I?
Sometimes, when I'm sweaty from the heat wave
and barely awake,
I imagine you snuck in,
while I was dreaming,
and drew the bird and flowers on my ribcage.
As if you say "Remember home"
or "Go home again."
I wish the message weren't so coded,
stuck in dreams and tattooed scenes
of places loved and lost.

One Look (Spring 2005)

(This is really taking it back. Long hair, no tats, straight outta wilmington DE. I was somethin else...)

One look
then the cool night steals away your breath.
You become lost in my eyes,
then blinded by the glow of my skin.
You start to walk closer, drawn in by my lips,
my smile.
You entwine in my fingers,
drinking in my body.
Your mind wanders
around the world with me
in a split second.
Your heart is beating fast
as you try to remember if, in fact
I was always this beautiful,
deciding finally that is doesn't matter.
And for now you've never seen such a goddess.
You've never lost control so suddenly.
And even if we don't kiss at that moment,
when we do,
your lips are possessive and probing.
Like you need all of me,
and will wither when we cease to touch.

Duets (Fall semester 2006)

(This might be the first example of my obsession w/ collarbones...)

We waltzed all night
through empty rooms,
filled with echoes of people
I couldn't quite see.
Our first steps began
in the room with a leather couch
and windows facing the street,
then carried us into the smaller back room
with a ceiling fan
and the same dirty carpet.

We separated briefly
for cocktails and solos,
then re-found our stance
in the wood paneled hallway
with posters of rockstars.

The kitchen floor lay slightly sticky,
but we managed to glide
past the beer filled fridge
and sink full of used plates,
out the back door and into the night.
We swayed on the wooden patio
in the thick humid air,
with only the lamps inside
to create our makeshift spotlight.

I sat on the railing
to relieve my tired feet
and stared through the stench
of exhaled cigarettes,
sounds form a distant highway
attempting to whisk me away.
I contemplated taking my bows
and collecting my roses.
Then you wrapped your arms around my waist
and let your head rest on my collarbone.
We breathed together
through a brief intermission.

After awhile I let myself slide down.
Our feet, dirty flip flops and ratty sneakers,
resumed their all too familiar dance, and we
floated back the way we came.

At the front door I paused,
realized that early dawn light
struggled to break through the shutters.
I gasped.
You held my stare
as I dropped your hands.
I stepped back, and pivoted
to grab the doorknob.
You lunged for my hand
and spun me in a last
twirl, the finale.
You pressed me against the glass
and we kissed
with shouts of "Encore!"
ringing in my ears.

Paris Poem Jan '09

(Almost a year ago exactly...)

I can't quite adjust
to streets that I can't map on grid paper,
and this city without liquid borders.
The streets zig zag and curve with an unfamiliar sprawl
as I walk with my headphones to steady my pace.
Sometimes, when I'm just setting foot on the sidewalk,
a breeze seems to brush my cheek,
and through the music I can hear
my city,
and feel my own streets underfoot
as I set out into the dusk.
Like all breezes and moments that matter
this feeling is fleeting,
and as I cross the street
I remember that this place doesn't sing to me.
We can't even speak except
in halting sentences fraught with disconnects
and lost in translations.
At night though, if I unfocus my eyes,
the lights seem familiar.
And if I listen, underneath the rhythm
of a language not my own,
I can hear the lap of the East River.
And with on focusing breath
I can trace the skyline on my forearm,
where it'll stay for me the whole night.

That space between rivers,
my island of abbreviations
and stumbles and imagined constellations,
is more patient than I.
I wrote the skyline a post card.
It said: Thanks for waiting.