resurrected!

escaping myself, I caught
my eyes, dripping the
stuff of goodbyes.
signing off and over
and out to tell-tale signs
and warning signs.
I always knew
she'd do it.

"it's you and me, we could get out of here." -- Mae

-see me-

I'm pining.
Dressing my memories
in brims of mid-sentence
hugs and just because.
Days were easier then,
you lifted my eyes
with me cupped in
soft hands, and sheets.
I linger in my
mind, pretending tip toes
and late-night
lessons on love in the
form of sweet slices,
the core what we left.
Naked, bare, calm
and I left us there.
Remember that
where we are is not
there.
I'm pining. Praying for
moments when I
smell you.
Feel you. Remember
You.

-Fake it-

I pretend we're lovers,
like love-making is easy
and sensual is how I
play your motions,
bu tin my mind we're
settled, soft, and still,
sinking before beginning,
as I dream
of other
lovers.

-left @ the altar-

daddy's little girl,
she'll don her tradition
in threads of
white
remembering what being
a daughter meant
to be
or not to be
happy without lines,
lingering lineage that
at least musters
genealogy and genes
without knowing it.
standing alone
captured under a canopy,
new family,
without any story
to call
her own.

מתחת ללב
יש קול שאומר השם.
ֿאבל מי שם?

i hadn't bought the box with this in mind (08-22-08)

the knickknack never used to sing before
the way it does now, with its big red bridges,
and the Bay in the background, but upon the
shelf the box still sits still, ever-so empty.
because memories were meant for the other,
one who said forever wasn't just a metaphor,
but now -- those words are distant and different.

so this little black lacquered vessel,
it is vexing me as i sip slumber slowly.
i could fill it with the words i whisper
between boy and girl normal when i'm wishing,
whisking myself away in fabricated fiction,
stories i dream, vast displays of affection,
figures intertwined in sheets, placing words like
"i love you" upon the earlobes of the other.

words that whip and twist likes wind through waves,
overflowing  the little black box, sentiments seeping
into heart chambers, filling up the empty spaces,
making the small glossy bauble worth its weight in gold.

you gave me this

i've got this stretchy,
sandy colored rubber band
reminder wrapping
my wrist and when
I'm wringing my hands,
trying to sleep and see
silence as my escape --
i'm thinking of you.
because in my mind you
will always be the
ultimate prize, the
winning ticket, playing
perfectly into my poetry,
as the non-us I play up is
nonplussed, nay i say,
impossibility.

It's National Poetry Month, and there's a tradition of writing a poem a day during the month of April. Thus, LiveJournal will be my dumping ground for a poem a day (I hope). Now, I tried this once before, and resulted mostly in posting haikus. Since I hadn't really thought of this until now, I'll start the month out right with a haiku, for you, my non-existent readers. (This just doesn't fit in with my Jew blog over at http://mamaloshen.blogspot.com.)

A starry gaze he
flirts over Chinese, Buddha
It's a mustache, Yes.

So get writing, damnit!

war cries ...
give me your weak, your wounded
your liars, your decievers.
your nameless,
your faceless.
breed and gender matter little,
life and living matter none.
color and creed,
religion and deed,
war cries
give me your all,
for i leave you with nothing.

as you have given yourself not.

i think i might be forgetting what it feels like to live. so i'll brush off my eyes and sweep aside my hair and hope that it comes back to me. until then, i'll study my ass off for Jewish History and leave you with this poem (which might i add the teacher decided today wasn't due until the thursday after spring break >:-( which pissed me off becuase, grr...sigh). hope you enjoy, and hope everyone's enjoying their weeks.

Meditating on Kiwi-colored Cantaloupe in the Produce Aisle

my breath, warm from morning, fogs
the chrome before the water’s steam creates
a wall. closing my eyes I listen to the beats,
the drums of nature’s flow. I watch the droplets
trace and chase each other clearing lines and
patterns my fingers once traced. like the rain
down the window on a dark, dank day moving
along the highway, I map out the interstate
in the blackberry marble shower stall tiles.

*****

I close my eyes and count the spots
of white, blue, strawberry and green
light while the professor carries on and on
on the soapbox of academia.
the kid next to me is yawning and I zoom
out, smiling at the dancing dots, fluttering.
the train whistles begin to scream
and I’m back to “passion plays” and
christians killing Jews.

*****

I’d forgotten what sitting on floral pillows
below indoor lamps bolted to the floor felt like.
the room, immediately nicknamed “The Great
Gatsby Room” with clean, white light
likeness, feels comfortable again as
the window fogs with my eager breath. the
snow is melting and I feel weak while waiting
for the next downpour of coconut
and nutmeg white flakes.

*****

standing in front of the glass sheltered painting,
you confess you hate the lines and color – you
don’t get it. I can see your washed out reflection
in the nearly-clear blueberry wine shaved glass,
just so, behind me looking on, frustrated. the smile
on my face isn’t clear, the glare of light and color on the
canvas hide my unreserved elation at your
misfortune and misunderstanding of enormity.
but more revealing is that I stand and look on at
your reflection, forgetting the medium, and feeling
you out through my eyes.

*****

I’ve noticed my hands take form
like the sky – vast, spotted with milky
ways that color the veins and cracks,
crevices and bendables. The more I look,
the more that appears. these almond-bent
eyes catch every last spec and then another
And another: rebirth and multiplication
tables that go on and on and on and …
I get lost in my own genetic map.

*****

the last of winter’s fruits are being
blown from nature’s arms and body as
I walk across the mall. dead trees are
becoming movers and shakers while
my nose becomes atwitch with the wind
and the dust that crawls through it. I close my
eyes and feel the fountains rush move
between my toes. I’m soaked in Spring’s
hopeful breath.

*****

I carry myself to the front lobby –
two chairs, plastic, avacado green
plant – computers buzzing.
Humming a tune I don’t recognize,
the sound of work, hours of intense
network division and multiplication.
the goal was a tissue, a Kleenex to alleviate
the stuffed brain, nose shrapnel, perhaps a
moment to breathe and feel my lungs.
instead I stand and listen to the buzzing,
the calm, clear, static sound of a
computer crying – indefinitely stuck to
a wall while I blow and meditate.


note: guess who stanza 4 is about!

written several days ago...perhaps...last thursday?

culturally connected, you are, to your mother's
breath and tide -- the womb like a temple,
where you learned your tongue and smelt the
incense of life's wealthy diversity.
coming around and becoming alive you stood in
waters of shit and smoke coated in the new
and unknown -- a mess of cultural vomit and
dissatisfied analysis of a
not-quite-whole-and-balanced world.

i'm going to bed smiling. why you ask?
a) random e-mails
b) good talks with my roomate. i love the gal. and she was actually here tonight. and we talked! and it was...splendid. *HUG to my roomate*

i thought i'd sneak in a piece of silence,
like the driver of the bus who bounces up and down
on the seat, shocks like movement of the big
arrow stageline bus in the wind. a piece --
silent wind, blowing across your lash, the
small slice of silence you feel as you nod off to
a good, long nap. watching the television on
mute to hear yourself breath and make the
words your own. i thought you could use a
moment where your heart is the only thing
you hear, the silent moment where you feel
completely, entirely, fully at ease in yourself.
i thought i'd welcome you to silence, the
silence of my mind and body where i like to move
away and reside. but you can only visit,
visit for a few single, hypnotic moments --
and nothing more.