Kate or something like that.
21. Female. Virginia Beach. College mook. Theater major going into costume design. Lover of good literature (I am a former English major), fashion and writing in my diary. Christ-studier. Tea drinker. Steampunk. Fangirl. Snarky snot.
I love The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Shock Treatment, Beetlejuice, Moonrise Kingdom, Harry Potter, The X-Files, Sherlock, Pokemon, Harvest Moon, American Horror Story, occasionally Glee, and a good many other fandoms.
This is my personal blog.
(For Emily Wonderboy Saavedra,
my tour manager/buddy/partner in poetry for the last two years,
in celebration of our final weekend of shows together.)
The fact that you are the most positive,
hopeful, joyful person in the entire world
makes the fact that we get along a goddamn miracle.
Two years into our friendship
I still ask you about being happy
in the same way my high school friends
still ask me about being gay,
“So what do you do exactly?
I mean, how do you do”it”?
And by “it” I mean smile,
all the fucking time,
like your mouth is a glory garden
and your teeth are the tulips
you grew for the “Say Yes To Sunshine Festival.”
Were you born this way?
Or did your mother raise you to be a fairy?
A literal fairy, with the magic
and the dust that sparkles.
I was in the worst fucking mood
shipwrecking around the clashing waves of feminism
the day you called me, voice singing like a chickadee on a sunflower
to tell me you bought velvet shoes.
Who buys velvet shoes?
I have 16 handmade postman delivered
postcards on my refrigerator from you
and we live in the same town.
The only time I ever turn my frown upside down
is when I’m standing on my head in yoga class,
and I only go to yoga class
to infiltrate Om time with the question:
“I wonder if visualizing world peace
is just an excuse to sit on my ass?”
I swear to God if I see one more “Free Tibet” sticker on an SUV
my head is gonna explode into peace flag confetti.
But you aren’t even paying attention to the cars
with the bumper stickers that say,
“If you’re not outraged you’re not paying attention!”
Instead you’re meandering around on your bicycle
in a snowstorm
praising the ice on the streets for being so shiny.
I don’t even think you have a heart beat.
I think you have a heart kiss.
If think if you listened to it with a stethoscope it would sound like:
kiss kiss…….kiss kiss…….kiss kiss………
You make Mary Oliver look like Quentin Tarantino.
I’d give anything for film footage of you
in your suspenders and mohawk
handing out love letters to strangers.
Or you walking downtown with your 20 pound typewriter
to type love poems for the lonely.
Nobody ever believes me
when I try to describe your hand-puppet theater
or your ukulele singing
or the ferris-wheel spinning of your parking lot dance,
not to mention all the videos you post on YouTube
of you bending gender into a bowtie with a tutu.
I walk through the airport
my conscience in a constant fistfight with my own use of jet fuel.
On the plane I go off about the wars fought
for the minerals that make our cell phones,
while you compliment the flight attendant
on her pretty teal scarf. She blushes
like all the world’s blood spill has just left the battle
to bloom a rose garden in her face.
How do you talk so kindly to everyone?
Including the manager at the front desk of the hotel
when we found that 2nd poisonous mousetrap beneath the bed?
How did you not scream when homophobes
keyed our rental car in Florida?
I burst a blood vessel in my eyeball that day.
As I’m writing this it still looks like Rudolf’s nose
while you’re somewhere elfin around in a velvet suit
probably carving wooden toys for children
I’m tearing up my throat trying to tell the world
how Santa mines his coal.
I have always believed in thunder,
in the loud truth that shakes the fruit from the trees
while you have always believed in blowing kisses to the seeds.
I’d say I’ll forever be inclined to argue
for the fire of sacred rage,
but you’ve taught me
there is probably little chance for revolution
if we are all doing things the same,
if we’re all reading the same books,
underlining the same words
in the same lines
on the same page.
Unless of course, we’re reading Mary Oliver,
who said, “Imagine grief as the out breath of beauty
or the gesture of fish.
Swim for the other side. Wage peace….
Learn the word thank you in three languages.”
Emily, thank you
from the top of my roaring lungs
to the tippy toes of your fairy feet.
I honestly believe in magic when I’m around you.
I believe in the heart kiss and in the heart beat
and in all the ways we stand up for love
that swinging chandelier in the shack-castle chest,
in all the ways we sing the word YES
into this dark dark dark infuriating
yet lovely world.
Don’t google your name. Ever.
Don’t “search” for yourself
on anything that glows in the dark.
Don’t let your beauty
be something anyone can turn off.
Don’t edit your ugly out of your bio.
Let your light come from the fire.
Let your pain be the spark,
but not the timber.
Remember, you didn’t come here
to write your heart out.
You came to write it in.
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal” (via words-in-lines)
I love this poem.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
there are days
when there is no way
not even a chance
that I dare for even a second glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror and she knows why
like I know why she only cries when she feels she’s about to loose control
she knows how much control is worth
knows how much a woman can loose when her power to move
is take away
by a grip so thick with hate it could
clip the wings of god
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking
my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain
I could give every tear she’s crying a name
and a face I’d forever erase if I could just like she would
but how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot
and what the hell would you tell your daughter?
your someday-daughter when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place that hasn’t learned the meaning of STOP
what would you tell you daughter
of the womb raped empty?
the eyes swollen shut, the gut too frightened to hold food, it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell
and she stopped believing in heaven
mistrust became her law, fear her bible, the only chance of survival
don’t trust any of them
bolt the doors to your home, iron-gate the windows, walking to the car alone, get the key in the lock like
please, please, please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck, two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh
please, please, please, please open
already she can hear the broken-record of the defense:
“answer the question, answer the question, answer the question miss”
why am I on trial for this?
would you talk to your mother, your daughter, your sister like this?
I am generations of mothers, daughters, sisters
bodies battlefields, war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers’ hands
do you know they’ve found land mines in broken women’s souls?
black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation as bright as the light on infinity’s halo?
she said, I remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in, now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa
kali oshun mary, bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn’t know I’m a girl, cut off my curls, I want peace when I’m dead
her friend knocks at the door, it’s been three weeks, don’t you think it’s time you got out of bed? no.
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath, I think I need just a few more days of rest
bruises on her knees from begging to forget
she’s heard stories of vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she’s wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling of their amputated wings, remembering what it was to fly, to sing
she’s not wondering what she would tell her daughter
she knows what she would tell her daughter, she’d ask her what gods do you believe in?
I’ll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and I’ll show the light in you that made that wish come true
she’s not asking what you would tell your daughter, she’s life deep in the hell
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves ib every pore of her flesh
knows the war’s not over, she knows there’s bleeding to come
knows she’s far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more than the hands trust rusted barbed wire
she was whole before that night, believed in heaven before that night
and she knows she won’t be the only one, no she knows she won’t be the only one
she’s not asking
what you’re gonna tell your daughter, she’s asking what
you’re gonna teach
I can’t even anymore. Spoken Word is so powerful.
Laura Lamb Brown-Lavoie - “Bean Meditation”
“This gratitude has a gravity to it. The core of the earth, pulling me to my knees.”
A truly one-of-a-kind poem. No one else is doing anything like this.
YEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! I LOVE THIS POEM!!!!!!!!!
Titled, “I’VE GOT THE WEIRDEST BONER RIGHT NOW.” I do not. I am, however… fascinated.