Leftovers

There lie my remains.

Whittled carcass.

As the predator birds

have their final way with me.

 

But what’s left to fight over?

(for those bothering to battle)

Scraps is all.

Leftovers.

Scattered in the cruel desert

which was once my sanctuary.

 

Soon to be bones bleached

white by the sun.

Left, but not buried.

Just scorched memories

and forgotten hope.

Life is Art

Found poetry from the book “Humans of New York”

 

I’m just figuring out what to do.

I want to change the world but I don’t know how.

I used to live in a plastic bubble.

I woke up, smoked a bowl,

grabbed some random stuff I found by the door,

and headed outside.

Every time I force myself to go outside, something wonderful happens.

 

I’ve got all these crazy personalities I can do.

In my free time I like to perform in burlesque shows.

Will you give me a couple of bucks if I dance?

(A very private performance commenced)

Y’all gonna have to pay when I get to the Apollo.

 

I look like God, don’t I?

One day you’re gonna realize who I am and you’re gonna say “Holy shit!”

(And in this moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came.

I’m not making this up)

I really don’t have time to talk, these shadows are changing every second.

(I realized it was nothing but an army of shadows)

Somebody’s got to make the clouds.

 

I’d rather be interesting because I created something.

Damn liberal arts degree.

Homage

A response to Kenneth Patchen’s “As We Are So Wonderfully Done with Each Other”

As we are so wonderfully done with each other,
Let us stave off sleep until morning birds call.
And meld under the rich velvet promise of darkness,
prolonging the transient beauty of one perfect moment.
O my truth, my strength, my bravest, loyal one.
Your touch has forever marked me with the ink of salvation.
My body has blossomed like an untamed garden of hope.
It is divine exhaustion, this expression of love.
It is perfect freedom being held beneath you.
A slip of curtain flirts with morning . . .
Don’t let slumber come to take us.

You deserve love, all of you

I just read the most horrific, disgusting, and saddening article entitled “Why Fat Girls Don’t Deserve to be Loved” I thought about posting the link here so people could see for themselves the vitriol this man is spewing, but I refuse to give this drooling troll any more traffic to this shameful article.

I know body type discussions can be a hot topic. Everyone has their preferences and that’s everyone’s right. But to say any human doesn’t deserve love due to a physical trait, especially something as random as a number on a scale (be it a high number or a low) is beyond comprehension to me.

My weight fluctuates a lot. Some months I’m up, some months I’m down. Does that mean that in March I deserve love and in February I don’t? Not only is this logic outright insane, it’s just cruel.

I could go on and on about the details from the article, refuting them one by one but I won’t because it just makes me sad and I don’t want to drag myself or anyone else down.

The point I want to make is simply this; Regardless of your personal preferences, please don’t forget we are all humans and all humans deserve love (with the possible exception of the awful person who wrote that article, but I’m going to let Karma work that one out).

This is not a Love Poem (the sonnet version)

(I reworked the original in sonnet form for class. Be kind, it’s my first sonnet)

 

You are not my lover, we’re worlds apart.

But there was a time when I floated like

A gleaming star in your universe-heart

And, like hot confetti, comets would strike

 

And flare into space proclaiming our bond.

And the celestial beings in flight

All celebrated, but you were not fond

Of the brash fanfare, not one for the light.

 

And then there were the other stars brightly

Floating into orbit, fighting for space.

Swirling, preening, dancing for you nightly

As you fought to keep us all in our place.

 

I guess there’s nobody really to blame

That after awhile all stars look the same.

Vincent’s Lament (a rewrite)

(apologies for the redundant post, but I like this version better and wanted to share it)

You, rich off the back of

my frenzied labor. Auctioning me off

like those whores I painted.

At least they were up for an honest day’s work.

 

Wildflowers should be wild, you know.

Not withering on dorm room walls under

plastic pushpins and double-sided tape.

 

Where were you when I suffered?

Without a cent to pinch. No one to remove

the monstrous veil blurring my sanity.

But not even Theo. Nor Christ himself

could save me. The green faery

only taking me deeper into Hell.

The ringing in my brain. Relentless thoughts.

Blinding colors. Dizzying motion.

Visceral. Urgent. Competing their way

to the surface ‘till I could no longer breathe.

 

I was the slave of creation.

A little death in each stroke.

My pain, now your beauty. Enjoy it.

Vincent’s Retort

 

I see you,

Littering the earth with my constellations.

Yes, MY my dancing stars, not yours to hang

On tacky dorm room walls

With push-pins and double-sided tape.

 

And you,

Rich off the back of my frenzied labor.

Wildflowers should be wild you know,

Basking in the compassionate sun.

Not withering within your dank, pretentious walls.

 

You don’t know me.

With all your analysis,

And your theories,

And your feigned sympathy

For the cliché’d “tortured artist”.

You are so proud of yourselves.

 

But you have no idea.

I had nothing but the ringing in my brain.

The relentless thoughts,

The blinding colors,

The dizzying motion,

The visceral urgency,

All competing their way to the surface

‘Till I could no longer breathe.

 

I was the slave of creation,

A little death in each stroke.

My pain is now your beauty,

You’d better enjoy it.