Tinder Drummer Boy

there is a small, missing chunk of skin
from my right ear that makes me
feel sorted like a meandering cattle.

i remember little, besides
the aftermath. lying underage
we met at your neighborhood bar
and i followed you drunken, half-witted
home to your punk rock basement
where you played drums
and the whole world
spun like a disco.

this was five years ago,
but i don’t forget
how i awoke: bloodless in heart,
earring ripped from cartilage,
confused where i am,
confused who he is,
confused how to find my train home,
a soul of a lost girl
flapping carelessly in the wind.

a dirty sheet in the center
of a metropolis.

from an unknown DC neighborhood,
i walked home, stopping halfway
to draw a sketch of drumsticks
in an otherwise empty notebook,
mourning a rhythm
much stronger than words–

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I’ve written so many poems

and in the past year or so, shared few. I’m debating whether or not to create a new blog since I’ve felt so many changes in my writing approach since its beginning. I started with shameless idealism. I got too serious. I experimented. I overdid it. I “quit” for a year and a half and stumbled back. I got lost. Reemerged. Took a leap of faith and found it again…. and now, I’m fighting for something brighter…but I don’t quite know what…

It’s funny how my hate and love for these poems oscillates. I see beauty in many and ridicule others. A few no longer make any sense. Plenty feel like diamonds in the rough–strong concepts + imagery that have potential–if only I gave them a bit more focus… I see places that I edited too much and unintentionally whittled away. And occasionally, I marvel.

The best version of myself feels grateful they’re all here, as well as a little regretful for the times I didn’t believe in them.

I’ve been experimenting with many new forms lately: journalism, copywriting, feature stories, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, satire, and even screenwriting. Poetry will always be my heart though. It’s the first form that ever made sense and the only one that has ever been intuitive.

So, if anyone is still listening, here’s more poems–and possibly some other structures. Thanks for being here.

In This Recycled House

you lied for
their crutches
which became your crutches
which became you
with a missing face
and blank white slats
and fingers with no prints
and circles of dark brail
that crashed like dominoes
and never broke
but really should have
touched something
more besides holes
of broken knots
holes of words
that drowned
and scraped
like sand

you weren’t the first
brisance
of gunpowder
you weren’t

like the mongols
or the ancient
world
suddenly violent

but you also weren’t
stopping
the phantom of
me swaying
from a sudden depth
of time
of the why

i see pictures
before and
after
and those pictures look like
ugly lilies
and mapped laughs and
how i saw you there
and how i see me
here
we were here
but i swear

we were never there
never
even
almost
quite there.

[untitled]

Your voice
crawled across the bed
and unearthed itself:
a windmill of vectors,
shudders, wrenching into me.
You said it happened when
you were eleven years old.

How ridiculous that a man
would bring his eleven year old
to the railroad tracks
ignoring the way
bullet holes
gouge identity.

You learned cruelty too young,
you confessed, on the second day
an invisible sense of arson
how it crawled in radiant numbers
across the bed. I wonder
if there’s ever a good way to murder,
and if so, can you remain
titanic when you live
a ragged sun.

there’s no clarity in symmetry

i smoke my cigarettes sober and stare

the homeless straight in their eyes
searching beseechingly
for something more than faith
 
living on fringes, becoming
marginalized, misanthropic
even chaos misunderstands
my composition
 
one day i get t-boned on a sidewalk
fate hands me answers on a silver platter
locks click into each other as perfectly
as that car which magically assembles its 20,000 parts
in the midst of a wind storm
 
hope beckons and i follow
but so do questions,
plane crashes,
trust funds, and
wounded buffaloes;

so does
ravensbruck,
las vegas,
and sandy hook
 
and absolutes taste bitter on my tongue
 
yes, the smoke i exhale is honest
but i can’t live in a world without entropy

Quote

“You get them w…

“You get them wrong before you meet them, while you’re anticipating meeting them; you get them wrong while you’re with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again. Since the same generally goes for them with you, the whole thing is really a dazzling illusion. … The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong.”

–Phillip Roth, American Pastoral