Hey There Poets and Readers,

My fellow poets, do you ever have those poems that you would never share with the world because they are either too personal, they may not be appropriate to show in certain circles, or they just suck? I have quite a few and while these are works that I rather not show, there are some great lines I really want to share.

Not every poem is meant for the world and you are in control with what you share. You don't have to share a whole poem to show that you have written. With that said, here are some of my lines from the X-Files (if you know me, you know what this means):

Politics

"It's the I become 
a babbling mess and
everything I keep working 
towards goes 
out the window 
because 
you make me 
want to get 
on my knees 
and 
beg, pray, suck 
your cock - 
look up at you 
like you are 
the majestic king."

Accountability - Part II  

"How do I stop myself from wanting your name in my womb? "

The Hunt

"It's another day 
in the life of me. 

7:23 AM, 
brushing my teeth, 
calculating time 
while listening 
to my poetry 
gods. 

They remind me to 
lick the dawn 
in between 
my fingers 
as I storm 
out of the house. 

That if I do not get 
the job and have wasted 
a day in my 
Ashley Stewart, 
Lane Bryant, 
Avenue combo, 
I still have the 
beauty of you 
under my tongue. 

So I'll sit for a moment 
in my borrowed Queens 
apartment and pray 
that one day, 
I will sit on the steps 
of Brooklyn again. 

I will get the chance 
to love you 
again, my god, 
poet."

Phases

I am
purple drums
beating to the 
smirks of opening
acts that have nothing
to do with the play,
a forward of Ara
humming Dawn Richard
while meeting you
in panties, converses
and breasts, loaded
pistol to the hips.

I am
the teacher with 
the ranch-styled
house, cat, bicycles
in driveway,
bananas on counter,
canned corn next
to the sack of potatoes
and ham for dinner,
switching on ABC 7
for Grey's Anatomy,
tweeting quotes
from my iPhone.

I am
a jug of Water mixed
with nitrogen,
a long and lingering
secret love in
Helvetica Bold
under autumn leaves
in Queens,
a cup of tea
tucked between
a stack of literary
magazines and
poetry by Amber Tamblyn.

Hello Poetry fiends,

Last Friday, I was at an event for the Deep Tanks series in Staten Island. I've never been in the borough and was already fascinated, but creeped out about being in an unfamiliar place. At some point, I was getting ready to send a text message several times, but backed out of the inbox many times. 

When I was finally ready to write the message, I saw that there was text already there. I started to delete it, thinking it was something I copied and pasted from earlier when I realized that none of it made sense. I really wished that I didn't delete part of it. But I do have the rest. 

Guess the poetry gods said that a poem was going to be written one way or another that night. Check it out:



The elders about the hunger walk please call 130 we Chicago Days global lending day honey red willow gave by pipe in about 10 gray yellow bile text das West lifted and pray your ride home 



Guess everyone is a poet, including the iPhone. Probably won't be going to SI for a while if this is what happens!

Hello my lovely readers,

I realized that I have take a few workshops in the past year, but I haven't shared my poems. 

I'll be sharing some throughout the rest of this journey, on top of lines from the bone pile (which you'll have to wait for a few posts before I get to that).

So without further ado, some poetry!:

Alone

11:45 p.m.
glow of television
outlines
cup of rice pudding
rice
congealed in cinnamon,
milk -

no name brand

representing
thousands of
Latinas and
lips,
looking for
satisfaction
late night calls
for,

stretching
toes on the side
of bed
no one sleeps
in,

TV falling into a
buzz as I scrape
last lumps
sticking
to the bottom of
cup.

He begged her 
to 
keep it 
on 
paper 
because
cuts heal.

The memory
of 
the spine 
of 
her hands 
won't.

I look at pretty girls
and torture myself
with thoughts
of your lips
on theirs.

I find my stomach
wrapping tightly
around the eyes
of your future
muses, seeing you
love the red
of another's mouth.

I see a future
of trembling
hands, clutching
another wrinkled
love letter,
not knowing when
to let go

even when you
push me into moving
cars and tell me to
get home safe.

Pennsylvania gave us
rest stop kisses,
chicken wings,
and laughs about Victory
pursuing southwest Jewish
boys of Brooklyn.

There were no kisses
on the Ohio Interstate
as toes crossed
snow covered fields,
pushing icicles to
corners of Indiana.

We got a little tipsy
underneath
a patch of stars,
clarity far from
the reach of this city
girl willing to
stick her neck out to
catch a gust of road
in between her lips.

Hello Write Queeners,

I have a case of writer's block due to a lot of personal issues, but I still want to stay consistent with updating. So sporadically, I will share with you pieces I have written in workshops in the past few months. I would love feedback so comment away!

I haven't posted a poem in ages, especially since I have been workshopping a lot of my pieces, but since I wrote this nearly a half an hour after my blog post, I'm kind of feeling myself - blog and poem all in one day in the span of an hour. Plus it was one of those Here write a poem moments via text with my dear writing biffle (If I keep calling him that, he will disown me). Plus it's an excuse to come up with a new section - The Write Poems.

Vacant

I wonder who else I may be lost to.

The stage is lit, the crowd full,
but my struggle is bee-lined to you -
an apocalypse in the middle of 
book writing and a girl's night out,
vacant eyes dreaming our moments
against vibrating speakers or
with fingers in mid-air, keyboard 
waiting stiffly beneath my fingers.

Voices rattle around my ear drums, 
hushed against the silent movie of our 
memories - repeat repeated over and over 
until one of my friends or the 
gentle buzzing of the screen 
wordlessly touch the back of my neck,

the stage lights dimming down as I pull 
in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, 
a gentle smile that cannot climb 
to my eyes, mouths the words

"I'm here."



Then the glorious editing suggestions. I like this version too, though it takes out a good line.



Edit:

Vacant

I wonder who else I may be lost to.

apocalypse in the middle of 
book writing and a girl's night out,
vacant eyes dreaming our moments
against vibrating speakers or 
with fingers in mid-air, keyboard 
waiting stiffly beneath my fingers.

Voices rattle around my ear drums, 
hushed against our memories - 
repeat repeated over and over 
until one of my friends or the 
gentle buzzing of the screen 
wordlessly touch the back of my neck,

lights dimming down as I pull 
in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, 
a gentle smile that cannot climb 
to my eyes, mouths the words

"I'm here."


Opinions? Comments are always welcome.