Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.
A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.
Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.
by Sheenagh Pugh
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
|—||Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)|
The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.
The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.
The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.
Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. “Ahhhh,” it thinks. “Yes. A goatee.”
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In late August when the streams dry up
and the high meadows turn parched and blond,
bears are squeezed out of the mountains
down into the valley of condos and housing developments.
All residents are therefore prohibited
from putting their garbage out early.
The penalty for disobedience will be
bears: large black furry fellows
drinking from your sprinkler system,
rolling your trashcans down your lawn,
bashing through the screen door of the back porch to get their
first real taste of a spaghetti dinner,
while the family hides in the garage
and the wife dials 1-800-BEARS on her cell phone,
a number she just made up
in a burst of creative hysteria.
Isn't that the way it goes?
Wildness enters your life and asks
that you invent a way to meet it,
and you run in the opposite direction
as the bears saunter down Main Street
sending station wagons crashing into fire hydrants,
getting the police department to phone
for tranquilizer guns,
the dart going by accident into the
neck of the unpopular police chief,
who is carried into early retirement
in an ambulance crowned with flashing red lights,
as the bears inherit the earth,
full of water and humans and garbage,
which looks to them like paradise.
Pole Dancer // Andrea Gibson
- She pole dances to Gospel hymns
Came out to her family in the middle of Thanksgiving grace.
I knew she was trouble
two years before our first date.
But my heart was a Labrador Retriever
with its head hung out the window of a car
tongue flapping in the wind
on a highway going 95
whenever she walked by.
So I mastered the art of crochet
and I crocheted her a winter scarf
and one night at the bar I gave it to her with a note
that said something like,
I hope this keeps your neck warm.
If it doesn't give me a call.
The key to finding love
is fucking up the pattern on purpose
is skipping a stitch,
is leaving a tiny, tiny hole to let the cold in
and hoping she mends it with your lips.
This morning I was counting her freckles.
She has five on the left side of her face, seven on the other
and I love her for every speck of trouble she is.
She's frickin' awesome.
Like popcorn at a drive-in movie
that neither of us has any intention of watching.
Like Batman and Robin
in a pick-up truck in the front row with the windows steamed up.
Like Pacman in the eighties,
she swallows my ghosts.
Slaps me on my dark side and says,
"Baby, this is the best day ever."
So I stop listening for the sound of the ocean
in the shells of bullets I hoped missed us
to see there are white flags from the tips of her toes
to her tear ducts
and I can wear her halos as handcuffs
'cause I don't wanna be a witness to this life,
I want to be charged and convicted,
ear lifted to her song like a bouquet of yes
because my heart is a parachute that has never opened in time
and I wanna fuck up that pattern,
leave a hole where the cold comes in and fill it every day with her sun,
'cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds
knows it takes a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go.
And I want to grow
strong as the last patch of sage on a hillside
stretching towards the lightning.
God has always been an arsonist.
Heaven has always been on fire.
She is a butterfly knife bursting from a cocoon in my belly.
Love is a half moon hanging above Baghdad
promising to one day grow full,
to pull the tides through our desert wounds
and fill every clip of empty shells with the ocean.
Already there is salt on my lips.
Lover, this is not just another poem.
This is my goddamn revolt.
I am done holding my tongue like a bible.
There is too much war in every verse of our silence.
We have all dug too many trenches away from ourselves.
This time I want to melt like a snowman in Georgia,
'til my smile is a pile of rocks you can pick up
and skip across the lake of your doubts.
I have been practicing my ripple.
I have been breaking into mannequin factories
and pouring my pink heart into their white paint.
I have been painting the night sky upon the inside of doorframes
so only moonshine will fall on your head in the earthquake.
I have been collecting your whispers and your whiplash
and your half-hour-long voice mail messages.
Lover, did you see the sunset tonight?
Did you see Neruda lay down on the horizon?
Do you know it was his lover who painted him red,
who made him stare down the bullet holes
in his country's heart?
I am not looking for roses.
I want to break like a fever.
I want to break like the Berlin Wall.
I want to break like the clouds
so we can see every fearless star,
how they never speak guardrail,
how they can only say fail.
Near the book a notebook
near the notebook a glass
near the glass a child
in the child's hand a cat.
And far away stars stars.
by Galway Kinnell
Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
Sometimes the living make us very sad. This is not an unusual condition.
There is a fine bronze threaded through the pears and butter. I am sad
for this bronze. I am sad when I watch Bea Arthur on television. Once
I saw a dead fish, unblemished, half-buried in the mud on the lip of a
pond. I mistook it for a knife, and I was sad first for the fish, and sad
second for myself, who so easily lapsed into the sinister. I am sad when
Bea slips on a beaded caftan the color of a nightcat because now that
caftan is empty and guileless. There is a certain way in which the sunset
directs the light in my third-floor walk-up. I am sad to have to pick up
these pieces. Bea eats cheesecake, and I am sad first for her because
no one should eat that much cheesecake, and sad second for myself,
for having none. It makes me sad to read Oliver Twist because I have
often felt orphaned. There is a way in which everyone is an orphan.
Bea is going out on a date. She kisses her smallish mother goodnight,
opens the door, and sees that there are no stars.
my building was on fire. The hallway was not filled
with smoke, and then quickly it was. I rescued a few
older men from their bathtubs, a few babies from
their cribs. Outside, the air was filled with hair.
Everyone but me was holding a plastic cage with a
cat in it. We weren’t supposed to have cats in my
building, but there they all were, an invisible nation
suddenly uncurtained into a blinding and brutal
world. Everyone looked at me with a face that said
let’s never speak of this. Let’s not look directly at what
is meant to be loved in secret. Let’s, for example,
imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever
spilling toward us, that our screaming building is
something worth escaping.
You worry too much. And he is right. My fear is a drilling.
Constant. Bloodthick. That girl in the suitcase,
that wife in the river, that woman in the elevator needed me.
I worry too much, it is my right. My fear is a drilling,
a songless bird perched upon my shoulder.
That wife in the river, that woman in the elevator needed me.
But I have three girls of my own, they are mine mine mine
and the songless bird perched upon my shoulder
watches over them, my sweet little Gretels who follow me home,
these three girls who are mine mine mine
gobble up my heart like a hunk of bread. When men
see them, my dear little Gretels, they follow me home.
When there is a knock at the door, I stash my darlings in a cupboard.
They come to gobble up my girls like hunks of bread. Men
line up like ants to take them away, to carry them home.
When there is a knock at my door, I hide my darlings inside a cupboard
like bowls of sugar. When they sleep, I wrap them in kite strings,
line them up like ants so no one can take them and carry them home.
They clutch their dolls and all night long they wish for boys
like bowls of sugar. As they sleep, I hold them like kite strings.
Constant. Bloodthick. That girl in the suitcase,
clutched her doll and all night long wished she'd been a boy.
It is why my sweetheart says I can no longer watch the news.