Soot Red

Mine Words belong to everyone, but you could put some together in the order that you wish like no one else could and they become yours. Words belong to everyone, these mystical, magical things; they can be twisted and turned to the way your tongue talks and they are your own. Words belong to everyone but some of them are mine. They talk of beauty The taller kids told her, fevered, in math, Like they'd been telling everyone all day, That if you swing all the way 'round a swing It turns you inside out, the legends say. She grew more and more excited As every slow second passed She could hardly count the moments Until recess would come at last She ran right out to the swing set Didn't stop- she was almost there; she cried, She screamed, with joy and fruition, “Now my beauty will be on the outside!” Stages in Recovery (a sonnet in slant rhyme) When you fall asleep by TV light; and wake Without coaxing whispers or suggestive Pulls, realising the ghosting, restive Fingers you felt were only ghosts raking Over your skin; when you pick up the phone Every time you see a droll pick-up line, But hear just “Leave a message at the tone,” Don't find yourself all by yourself, but find Yourself, all by yourself; smile wistfully At echoes of past weaknesses; learn bull- Fighting, or pottery, with tickets you'd bought Together; fill your minutes with you; and when All else fails, console yourself with dreamy Leads, cheesy films, and tubfuls of ice-cream. Soot-red She was in her heavy, heavy Auspicious reds On that cold winter's night, When he arrived in white. She stood shivering, dreaming Of domestic bliss And watching mindless films On new couches with the plastic still on them And pitter-pattering little feet. She didn't know the names Of some of the things she wanted But she wanted them anyway. All she got was barked orders Of "have tea ready by 6 am sharp," And "you missed a spot." And she is shackled Under the weight Of her oppressive reds. She is scrubbing; she is trapped; She lines her forehead every day, Right where her hair is parted, With the red of her blood And devotion. And he whispers to her In the silence of the night that's on their shoulders by now When they're at a traffic light, Waiting on the blink, "I'll send you a bill, For every burdened day.” Shower Thoughts She says Let's go Live in a big city And make art and change the world. She can say this; she is art. But my hands are bound With dirty hair; They cannot make. He says Come, run with me We will live on the beach And watch films and all will be love. He can say this; he is love. But my heart is strapped With suds that wrap 'round it; I cannot love. They say They are leaving To live on the hills And sit and think about life. They can do this; they are life. But mine is whirring and swirling And whirlpool-ing In a black drain. Mother says Get a good job, and marry someone Who thinks like you and earns like you, Eat, and breed, so your rabbits, too, Can eat. She can say this; she has bred, and earned, and eaten. But I am held By threads that catch And tear on the jagged edges of my body: Shoulders and eyebrows (sinking and rising, in submission and rebellion). Apartments constrict and choke; Beaches drown me; Hills are voyeurs with sharp surveillance; And mansions Have golden bars, that cling too tight. For now though — Shampoo, soap, drain, dry — Monotony holds comfort And muse-less function runs the key that jolts me Onwards. museless- 1. uninspired; 2. uncontemplated In our Alternate Universe The US will drive like the rest of the world, And declare peace on the Middle East for all times ahead; Good films and books will be successful; And punk’s not dead. Pink Floyd will be back together; Bond will like his martinis stirred, not shaken; Race, gender, and class will be nonsense words; And there’ll be no sequels to Taken. Teenagers will fawn reading Tolstoy; Old, black men will order the "extra whip, non-fat, caramel latte, venti;" Art galleries will be closed to people over 21; And poets will feature in the Top 20. There will be equal jobs and opportunities for everyone; Humans will give up on colonising mars and the moon; We will bring down the imperialistic, capitalist, racist, misogynistic hetero-patriarchy; Tonight at noon. Flye I don't have a distinct poetic agenda And I can never recollect accurately in tranquility. All I am is a voice, but I want to be a loud one -Not seeking inspiration Under every rock laying unturned With a cosmic universe throbbing Patiently under it. I want to lie awake at night, Vowing not to sleep until I reach my next goal- I want to have goals And not be a dreamless drunk; I want to fly And not flutter; I want my wings to melt, Over and over again, Day after day, Until I can build wings strong enough To hold the heat of the sun Inside them, and then propel further. I am not Icarus. I am not An aimless butterfly. I am with direction. Sleep I have risen but Have not shone, and will not do. Remind me at noon.