Wednesday, October 17

Written Wednesday: Tiny Crimes revisited

i want to skip written wednesday this week.



but i don't want to be a quitter.




so here's my homework for one of my classes. we learned about toy theaters...but of course i missed that class and didn't know what it was so i made this terrible, terrible, laughably terrible little video for which i drew the characters with crayons and cut them out with scissors 15 minutes before class and scotch taped them to plastic forks and knives. i filmed it on my macbook's photo booth (hence the backwards "ABC" and "let's read!") and spliced it in iMovie to the soundtrack of one of my poem videos


why am i telling you my secrets?!




video


never the less, i love any chance to experiment with different ways of combining images and stories. i never consider a project (even the occasional super-last-minute and half-assed ones) to be futile. i treat everything as a sketch at least, like a blue print for the next idea

Thursday, October 11

this isn't a poem

it isn't anything...it's embarrassing. it's word vomit. it only has stanzas for the sake of air..you know like how you need to breathe when wretching




These are the things i can't say
to my therapist, only the internet,
because it doesn't need to understand,
to make me feel better. It isn't a being.
Sure, lots of beings subsist
inside of it

but together with thoughts
and ideas, and social media, and pop culture,
mixed with
inflated senses of self importance
and skewed self images, the internet
becomes a thing.

A jumble of mixed connections and missed
messages. Crossed wires, fried brains,
GPS locations of food trucks, and
digital games and the ability to connect
with perfect strangers, both on another level
of Halo 3, and on another level
of self.

I can word-vomit onto the drug-hazed
face of the internet
because it doesn't sit before me
breathing quietly and possessing the
ability to judge my bouncing knee
or decipher my nervous eyes.
No, i sit before it, this thing, with no
mind to decide on me and
no heart to feel about me.

Really, in this world,
how can anyone bare their soul
to anyone, with the ability
to think and choose? Because
with that ability comes options,
possibilities. The chance
to not understand, to not relate,
to unlove me.

I need an empty page and a pen,
or a glowing screen and a send button.
I feel, I think, I love,
y'see–
and therefore, possess the ability
to walk away, the chance
to uncare about the opinions on my soul, by these
inanimate things. They are just things. Just things,
which can't love me
or unlove me.

Wednesday, October 10

john wayne? turtles?

video


Turtle Locket


Hanging around water’s edge, just
below my breasts, is a miniature
bronze turtle locket, chomping
on a copper penny chain

The turtle has two halves–
holding the shell to the body
is a single magnet, weak but earnest,
luring the shell to Stay, please

Some nights–bloodbuzzed
and spinning, when tangerine sweaters
are peeled and thrown, sent to hang
like shells over wooden chair backs–
the turtle locket unfastens–becoming
two hollow acrobats
with a small hinge for honest hands–

It is hours before I notice
to close it up again

I’m always asked why I keep
nothing inside–
A matter, I say, of a fragile lock

Truths come in halves–
How nice it feels to be empty
of important things–baring, for hours,
the most sheltered core of you

Wednesday, October 3

Girl at The Hot Dog Stand


  Everyone is either a bird or a cat
She said

Her eyes were perfect black coin spheres
and I said  Which am I?
But really I meant
   Which are you?

  I’m a bird  she said,
       and  You’re a cat

We paid for our hot dogs and stood at the silver bar
slick with the melted ice from
  soft drink sweat

With the very tips of her fingers
                 she picked small bits of bread and dog
                  and breathed the morsels in

I tipped my head back
                and guided my dinner to my lips
        -half of it gone in one bite-
           then held it gingerly with one hand
            like a mouse by the tail







pen and ink on paper, 2011




*the poem is nothing final, just recently worked on, so i thought i'd share it since i came across this illustration of mine from a while back that sort of coincided with it. i would do this illustration much differently now but i still like painting fabric and textures like that. but holy hell the hair makes me cringe