Wednesday, January 16, 2008


i sometimes feel like there should be a soundtrack accompanying these blogs. maybe it's the result of a childhood saturated by sitcoms but i feel like there should be a button that my readers [all four of you] press right as you start to read the last couple paragraphs. it would be like that moment when danny tanner sits stephanie down on the couch and says "listen steph..." and then you hear those delicious warm synth string pads flavored by sprinkings of artificial piano that signal the onset of a pivotal life lesson. i don't know why i get so sappy and after-school-special-y and i'm not sure i'll ever be able to teach a lesson quite like danny tanner did but gosh dang it, ima try.

last quarter i took a poetry class that had a profound effect on my life. i had never really attempted poetry before and found that it was an entirely different process than writing lyrics. melody can be a little more forgiving when it comes to word choice while poetry, at least when you scrutinize your stuff the way that i do, can be made or broken by every word, every line break... even font choices can change your reaction to any given set of words.

the hardest part of the process for me is always revision. i've never had a problem picking apart the prose i write [including but certainly not limited to these blogs], but i've always had a terrible time revising lyrics and it seems the same struggle applies to poetry. i get married to every word and divorce is just not an option.

in this particular instance, the revision process was made infinitely more difficult with the passing of my cousin. i missed the last week of the quarter and had the very difficult decision of whether or not to finish my school work. i decided to finish out the final chapbook for my poetry class and the end result was incredibly cathartic. it was an opportunity to work through some very painful and confusing feelings and although i'm still working though them, revision was an opportunity to turn that introspection into something constructive.

i've posted a couple poems on this blog before but i've since made some revisions both to the pieces themselves and to my life in general. here they are and here i am, revised.


i’m going to try to keep from saying more
i’m sorry secrets aren’t my forte
i haven’t got the power to ignore
the things my heart keeps wanting me to say

i’m sorry secrets aren’t my forte
i’ve other strengths designed to compensate
to hide the things my heart wants me to say
fueling constant heart and mind debate

i’ve other strengths designed to compensate
to overcome my overactive mouth
fuel for constant heart and mind debate
somehow shutting both and neither out

i’m overcome by overactive mouth
it keeps my heart from saying what i mean
somehow shutting both and neither out
and losing purpose somewhere in between

my heart keeps me from saying what i mean
but i don’t have the power to ignore
the pain of losing purpose in between
i’m going to try to keep from saying more


I was once told that the best way to defend yourself when you’re about to be raped is to defecate and rub it all over your body, thus rendering yourself undesirable and your assailant flaccid. I should note however, this advice was given to me by the type of woman who constantly forwards those email horror stories, the kind you’re supposed to PASS ON TO ALL THE STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMEN YOU KNOW. Tales of sickos that sneak up in your back seat when you’re pumping your gas and so they can slash your Achilles heel when you least expect it and frightening first-hand accounts of predators that prey on unsuspecting women who didn’t check their email that day. Stories that up pepper spray sales and add paranoia to the preemptive fear that that type of woman already feels so that now when she walks to her car at night, the purse she already clutched close contains a can of mace alongside her tube of lip gloss and now the two can click together in time as said woman walks confidently with keys like claws between her fingers. However, I am not said woman and though the image has never left me, I’ve never been tempted to carry laxatives in my purse much less mace. My defenses are meant for offences far less violent but violations none the less so that when I feel threatened, when I fear my heart is about to be intruded upon, I’ve been known to say the wrong things on purpose or say the right things with purpose, to say too little but more often too much to effectively cover myself in poo.

crazy is a cutting word the connotation kills
the way it’s wielded like a weapon wounding me at will
floods of insecurity flow in while blood is spilled
to fill the void that dignity once but no longer filled

crazy is dismissive in its limited portrayal
the way it keeps me hidden thickly underneath its veil
cruelly compensating where compassion often fails
confining me unwillingly in ignorance’s jails

crazy is a dirty word defiling what is pure
a verbal masturbation pleasing tongues of the demure
tools of mastication used to mangle and obscure
effectively dismembering what stomachs can’t endure

crazy is so circular it works without intrusion
it sneaks into my psyche without warning of confusion
collaboration clean and quick in seamless execution
prophetically condemning me in my own persecution

a pain and pleasure to explain
why crazy is my given name

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