Erasure poem (#2)

Among the secrecy of music
The trouble went on, lightly
Glance upwards and
Fumble For Words
Tell a story to pass on to the next still heart.
Good lord,
The last few hours fled, eagerly
Enthusiasms that betrayed this moment
Turn back to the deep, resonant tones and rippling notes
Don't you want to know the words?
The confusion that was overwhelming her, numbing her senses:
The circle of light
Glimpse the quizzical eyes.

Schizometric Writing #1

Starting NOW: Dust in the air cold air Can’t wait til tomorrow >< STANDS FOR HURLEY stupid logo fucking symbols Sandals STENO, toxic YELLOW Torn tore page out Dark room Breathe again DARK-ROOM closet Waiting waiting WAIT FOR ME No, don’t never mind! Flash batteries mind always running ALWAYS RUNNING and yet (and yet) ‘have yet,’ not ‘am yet’ grammatical errors couldn’t care less APOSTROPHY (sic) E that felt good to say unnecessary running ALWAYS RUNNING out of time squiggles where did he go in skinny letters Where am I going need want have MORE TIME broken, it’s okay.
There’s always tomorrow (with one m and two rs).

Voice

My voice.
When do I use my voice?
I use it to laugh
Or to cry
Usually to laugh.
And say “I love you,”

Often
I don’t use my voice at all.

Silence.
It’s not always useful.
I tend to use it when I don’t
Feel the least bit
Useful.
Like I have nothing to say.
When I'm too scared
To use My voice.

Bones

Fragile pieces of skeleton
Light dependable sticks
Building and rebuilding
Our internal support system
Cartilage that thickens
Darkens
Here to stay
(for a while)
Fragile pieces
Porous inside
Falling apart with time
Bone-eating
Bacteria
Skeleton
Falls apart
With age
Stiff, straight channels
Hold us above ground
Suspension
Then we fall
Pushed out
Withered hands, curved spine
Bones destroyed.

Senses

“Taste”
Candy.
In bright colored wrappers
Bright blues and greens
And pale pink bubblegum
Blow bubbles
Growing
Growing
Going
Pop.

“Vizual”
Smiles. Braces.
Metal on my teeth.
Dark hair
Short and shining
On pale skin
Short legs.
Big smile.
Bright colors
Decorative
Memorabilia in my room.
Shiny things, flashy things
Posters and bottles
Street signs, cones
And other things stolen
From the city.

“Soundz”
Laughing.
I am always laughing.
It doesn’t take much to set me off--
And I can stay that way for nearly ever.
I sing, too.
But only when no one’s around.
Music is always pouring
From my room
Drum beats like rain
Guitar solos sharp and quick like lightning
And terrible singing -- a tornado siren
Coming from my room.

Beauty Head piece

Face of plastic, tinted wax
Pink lips with bleached white teeth
A complex figure of inner strength
A lawyer, a doctor
An actress.
A woman going places in the world
With perfect hair, a business suit
And a matching briefcase, too.
Curlers in synthetic gold strands
Cheap, plastic jewelry
And pretend lipstick modeled after those in the real world,
Made of fish scales and whale blubber.
Barbie the activist ©
Polluting the air with her hairspray
And convincing girls everywhere that huge tits and no waist
Are all that make a capable woman.

Ind. Piece.

I haven't had a chance to type up and post my in-class work, and I won't be home all weekend. Instead, I thought I'd post something I wrote outside of class.

(Untitled)

I feel like a victim in this dress
With tender, fragile tufts and frills
Leering men behind cigar smoke
Tap their ashes and look on.
I feel ashen,
And embarrassed under their gaze.
As I walk home late afternoon
I see a man huddled at the foot of a hill,
In an abandoned park
With only trees to converse with,
But he isn't up for talking, anyway.
Sunlight glints off something in his hand
And I notice he's crying.
The tears also shine in the sun.
I've almost passed the park when he lifts the something to his head;
A click
And a boom
And I no longer feel like a victim.

I Am

I am
I am what
I am. I am a
Child, helpless
Not so independent
I am female, a
Weakness
If you ask
My dad.
If you ask others
I am silly, irrational
Unreasonable
Wrong.
I am Quiet
A little weird, I
will admit. I have a
lot to say But
I'm kind of
scared to
say it.
I am poor
Grew up in a
slum in the middle
of nowhere With a father
who told me plenty
what not to do
But left me
kind of
lost on what
I should do. So
I never spoke Guarded
from his criticism
I was so angry
All the time
Rage
At how things
should have been
My cynical father Who
saw it unecessary
to buy groceries
(Food bank
once
a month)
Bought cigarettes
and drank every day.
Still drinks, I am
just not there
to see it.
For years I did
not speak what you
and I would call English
instead I spoke
'Hick' I guess
I still kinda
do I find it pretty
funny that I learned
the difference between
'ain't' and 'isn't,' and 'good'
and 'well,' Learned to
Speak real English
In Tucson, Where
my dad said
he didn't
want me to
go because there
are too many Mexicans
(His words, not mine.) Here
I am, I am a nuisance, a
girl Estranged Not
Lost, well maybe
Just a little
Teeny
Tiny
Bit.

Corpse Response

BEHIND THE FORMALDEHYDE CURTAIN:

There wasn't one particular quote in particular I felt the need to respond to. Rather, I chose to respond to the whole essay, what I learned about the embalming process. I'm really glad I read this and that now I know more about the practice.
Anyway:

On one hand, it's a load of time, skill, energy to make the corpse look good, preserve its dignity, if you will. In the corpse's looking good, the bereaved family looks good for having spent the capital to have the body look the ost artificially alive, and lay in a pricey, color-correlated casket and pillow set. Families have the body mutilated, cut-up, filled-in, pieces removed, replaced, destroyed, recreated rather than accepting the corpse's natural state. This aspect is all about appearances: the corpse's looking healthy and well, the family looking especially caring for the deceased, the mortician looking sympathetic to the family and caring about their pain.
But who is this for? I have strong doubts that the uninhabited body is going to notice the color-coordination of its surroundings.
Mortician have great skill, provide a service, a bit of a morbid art. It's on the family's part where you find thoughtless adherence to custom; no one opposing to the embalming of the deceased. The mortician, funeral director and others involved, on the other hand, put plenty of thought and consideration into the "show" of the funeral, making sure the actor (the body) is in full costume, the set fully designed, color coordinated and looking its best, and the audience soothed and ready to take in the scene.
..I think the whole practice is kinda bogus.

Scars

Under my brow, to the right, lies a scratch just above my eye
Caused by swinging around and around
From my sister’s hands in our living room at age three.
At first a game, I swung
Laughing
As I revolved,
My clean white Strawberry Shortcake sneakers kicking
The pink shoelaces flailing,
She swung me a little too close to a chair.
Wooden, with comfy cushions,
But it wasn’t the cushions I hit.
I knew my sister always had it in for me.

A small indentation between my eyes
From an extra itchy chicken pock when I was younger;
My parents didn’t have the oven mitts to affix my hands
And muffle my nails.
Left to my own devices,I scratched
And now I have what I’d like to call
A third eye.
But it’s rather a symbol for afterthought.

‘Fuck’ in small, blocky letters
On my inner, upper arm.
Caused by a foolish, temporary sense of nihilism
The way some earn cigarette burns
At 2 am
During “contemplative” conversations
With their bored druggie buddies.
At least it’s barely legible now.

Missing toe. Shark attack in the Pacific.
..Just kidding.

A thin, bulging scrape along my most loving artery
From this mister I once thought I had
Who pulled on my heart strings
Pulled a little too tightly.
Wrapped tightly against the throbbing blood,
The package in my chest
With capacity to love.
Left a fading welt,
A slight disfigurement from rope-burn.