I would not leave your heart to dwell
in any other sacred place,
than the nearest I can feel its beat,
as close to the noises mine too makes.
I would not hold your hand in mine
if it did not fit with perfect sense,
if our fingers clasped so tightly there,
met with the smallest, slightest pretense.
I would not steal your kiss today
only to tell you I must go,
I hold it on my lips and neck,
in the safest place I know.
I would not say I love you
if in the words no solemnity lie,
I say them, my love, in sincerest of breaths,
as can only be spoken of you and I.
July 28, 2009
July 27, 2009
Woman, completely
When I walk down the street
with my womanly swagger,
the men they all turn as if
something’s the matter,
I don’t bat my eyes,
or swivel my hips,
I don’t flip my hair,
or pucker my lips,
but they can’t resist me,
so womanly,
so completely
a woman.
I stroll into a bar,
not flirty, but casual,
I smile ‘cause I smile,
I laugh ‘cause I’m funny,
I can make you feel easy,
that I’ll promise you, honey
So don’t get all bothered,
when resist you cannot,
it’s no fault of yours,
it’s simply what I’ve got,
because sexy is sexy,
and beauty is all me,
I’m so womanly,
so completely
a woman.
with my womanly swagger,
the men they all turn as if
something’s the matter,
I don’t bat my eyes,
or swivel my hips,
I don’t flip my hair,
or pucker my lips,
but they can’t resist me,
so womanly,
so completely
a woman.
I stroll into a bar,
not flirty, but casual,
I smile ‘cause I smile,
I laugh ‘cause I’m funny,
I can make you feel easy,
that I’ll promise you, honey
So don’t get all bothered,
when resist you cannot,
it’s no fault of yours,
it’s simply what I’ve got,
because sexy is sexy,
and beauty is all me,
I’m so womanly,
so completely
a woman.
July 18, 2009
Beautiful
Beautiful.
I love that beautiful is all relative,
I love that you could look at a work of art and say “That is really something”, and I could look at that very same piece of artistic prowess and say “Meh”,
I love that your beautiful is not my beautiful,
but that his beautiful may match her beautiful and what they’ll have will be so beautiful that they’ll think back on what they USED to think was beautiful, and say “man, what were we thinking?”
Beautiful is inclusive and exclusive at the same time,
for example, we might say colors are beautiful, but we all know what happens when you mix together every color in your paint set,
yeah, you get that murky, brown, puke-y color that most people would never define as beautiful.
Or how a triple-chocolate cake is beautiful,
but a triple-chocolate cake with some gasoline drippings added for flavor is nooooot so beautiful,
I want an internet where every time you google “beautiful” a different picture parades itself across the screen,
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l, click, and you see a picture of a pig-tailed little girl on a summer night,
sitting on a fencepost, licking an ice cream cone that drips from her wrists to her ankles,
or click,
and it’s a grey-haired couple, hand in hand on a rose-lined path,
and it’s clear that their steps were lighter in earlier years when their knees weren’t arthritic and they’d seen fewer wars,
but it doesn’t matter, because they still have each other.
Sometimes I think we’re losing touch with what beautiful really means,
with Botox, and latex, and lift this, and plump that,
we need to return to the understanding that skin deep is
not deep enough to define the depths of beautiful,
that surgeries, and eye creams, hair implants, and hours at the gym won’t change the fundamental, rudimentary potential for beautiful that lies within each of us,
I wish I could amass all the beautiful in the whole world,
roll it together into one breathtaking ball of awesome and
air-lift it to the top of mount everest,
and there it would sit, where it would emanate equally waves of beautiful throughout every dirt, gravel, or paved street, so every last person got their fair share of beautiful every single day,
so every individual could say,
Wow,
I experienced beautiful in the most beautiful way.
I love that beautiful is all relative,
I love that you could look at a work of art and say “That is really something”, and I could look at that very same piece of artistic prowess and say “Meh”,
I love that your beautiful is not my beautiful,
but that his beautiful may match her beautiful and what they’ll have will be so beautiful that they’ll think back on what they USED to think was beautiful, and say “man, what were we thinking?”
Beautiful is inclusive and exclusive at the same time,
for example, we might say colors are beautiful, but we all know what happens when you mix together every color in your paint set,
yeah, you get that murky, brown, puke-y color that most people would never define as beautiful.
Or how a triple-chocolate cake is beautiful,
but a triple-chocolate cake with some gasoline drippings added for flavor is nooooot so beautiful,
I want an internet where every time you google “beautiful” a different picture parades itself across the screen,
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l, click, and you see a picture of a pig-tailed little girl on a summer night,
sitting on a fencepost, licking an ice cream cone that drips from her wrists to her ankles,
or click,
and it’s a grey-haired couple, hand in hand on a rose-lined path,
and it’s clear that their steps were lighter in earlier years when their knees weren’t arthritic and they’d seen fewer wars,
but it doesn’t matter, because they still have each other.
Sometimes I think we’re losing touch with what beautiful really means,
with Botox, and latex, and lift this, and plump that,
we need to return to the understanding that skin deep is
not deep enough to define the depths of beautiful,
that surgeries, and eye creams, hair implants, and hours at the gym won’t change the fundamental, rudimentary potential for beautiful that lies within each of us,
I wish I could amass all the beautiful in the whole world,
roll it together into one breathtaking ball of awesome and
air-lift it to the top of mount everest,
and there it would sit, where it would emanate equally waves of beautiful throughout every dirt, gravel, or paved street, so every last person got their fair share of beautiful every single day,
so every individual could say,
Wow,
I experienced beautiful in the most beautiful way.
On graduation
Please tell me this won’t last forever,
please tell my these loans are forgiven
and my time was not wasted.
Directionless is a terrible place to be,
perhaps as awful as overly-focused,
only less lucrative.
please tell my these loans are forgiven
and my time was not wasted.
Directionless is a terrible place to be,
perhaps as awful as overly-focused,
only less lucrative.
July 17, 2009
Love poem
This is a love poem.
This is a love poem,
not a “see how beautiful my words can sound” poem,
or a “listen to how profound I am” poem,
This is a love poem.
I’m not a subscriber to snuggly metaphors,
or saying I’m completely yours,
I won’t do it, because that would incriminate my most
intimate ideas of independence,
and sensible is a quality in which I pride myself.
I won’t tell you that your eyes are like sunshine,
and I won’t tell you I would die without you,
I would be just fine,
and in time, I would probably find someone new,
and they may or may not be like you,
so no, I don’t need you,
I don’t need to hear your “I love yous”,
you’re not some muse from which my poeticism is inspired,
I don’t need to hear the
music parading from your piano like a circus of genius,
I don’t need to see you grin at my ideas,
you say my eyes get so big you can’t resist playing along,
or telling me I’m wrong,
so you smile, and I love that smile,
(but I don’t need that smile),
and I love how you throw your arm around my neck,
when we’re walking, like I’m some safety net,
and talking to you late at night on my cell phone,
and your voice grows deeper,
and our words get slower,
and you swore the moon glowed brighter
as the distance between us grew smaller,
and you didn’t care about cars, and clothes,
and conquering fears,
and my dear, I never loved you so much than in that moment,
I would have frozen it,
but I don’t need to have you,
I don’t need to love you,
but I sure as hell want to.
This is a love poem,
not a “see how beautiful my words can sound” poem,
or a “listen to how profound I am” poem,
This is a love poem.
I’m not a subscriber to snuggly metaphors,
or saying I’m completely yours,
I won’t do it, because that would incriminate my most
intimate ideas of independence,
and sensible is a quality in which I pride myself.
I won’t tell you that your eyes are like sunshine,
and I won’t tell you I would die without you,
I would be just fine,
and in time, I would probably find someone new,
and they may or may not be like you,
so no, I don’t need you,
I don’t need to hear your “I love yous”,
you’re not some muse from which my poeticism is inspired,
I don’t need to hear the
music parading from your piano like a circus of genius,
I don’t need to see you grin at my ideas,
you say my eyes get so big you can’t resist playing along,
or telling me I’m wrong,
so you smile, and I love that smile,
(but I don’t need that smile),
and I love how you throw your arm around my neck,
when we’re walking, like I’m some safety net,
and talking to you late at night on my cell phone,
and your voice grows deeper,
and our words get slower,
and you swore the moon glowed brighter
as the distance between us grew smaller,
and you didn’t care about cars, and clothes,
and conquering fears,
and my dear, I never loved you so much than in that moment,
I would have frozen it,
but I don’t need to have you,
I don’t need to love you,
but I sure as hell want to.
July 14, 2009
Where my America sleeps
Mountains are majestic.
Oceans are overwhelmingly inspiring.
Snow-capped peaks fill me with awe,
and forests of evergreens ring out in exquisite naturalness,
but real elegance, true inspiration
lies in the rolling rows of corn
planted so expertly by farmers
with sun-spotted hands,
the most authentic sustenance comes from midwestern
plows sowing soybeans, and small-town kids tearing off tassels for
five bucks an hour in a smoldering summer heat.
This is home to me.
This place, so thankfully distant from crowded city streets,
this place, so close to the hearts of my brothers and sister,
where we played softball, and built tree houses,
and found first loves on middle school swing sets.
This place where my mother made military-sized pots of
macaroni and cheese and insisted we eat our vegetables
before heading back out to further stain our hand-me-down jeans.
So many memories here,
sometimes they’re so thick and tangible
I am able to relive them as I walk
down main street.
Trips to the corner shop for strawberry jelly beans,
bike races won for dollar slushies,
kissing boys on rusting monkey bars
and etching eternal initials into wet concrete.
This is where my America sleeps,
where my dreams were planted,
where my soul rests its head.
Oceans are overwhelmingly inspiring.
Snow-capped peaks fill me with awe,
and forests of evergreens ring out in exquisite naturalness,
but real elegance, true inspiration
lies in the rolling rows of corn
planted so expertly by farmers
with sun-spotted hands,
the most authentic sustenance comes from midwestern
plows sowing soybeans, and small-town kids tearing off tassels for
five bucks an hour in a smoldering summer heat.
This is home to me.
This place, so thankfully distant from crowded city streets,
this place, so close to the hearts of my brothers and sister,
where we played softball, and built tree houses,
and found first loves on middle school swing sets.
This place where my mother made military-sized pots of
macaroni and cheese and insisted we eat our vegetables
before heading back out to further stain our hand-me-down jeans.
So many memories here,
sometimes they’re so thick and tangible
I am able to relive them as I walk
down main street.
Trips to the corner shop for strawberry jelly beans,
bike races won for dollar slushies,
kissing boys on rusting monkey bars
and etching eternal initials into wet concrete.
This is where my America sleeps,
where my dreams were planted,
where my soul rests its head.
July 05, 2009
What men want
Us women are always trying to figure out what men want from us.
How we can please them,
how can we make them want us.
I’ve done it myself, and so has every woman in this room.
Should I wear the heels or the flats?
Oh definitely the heels, they make my butt tighter AND my legs longer.
Does he like my hair long or short? Brown or blonde? Curly or straight?
Should I talk about politics, or would I come off as too strong-willed and opinionated?
Do I order dessert?
Oh absolutely not,
he’ll think I’m a future whale just waiting to snatch a man so
I can eat chocolate cake to my heart’s content.
Should I tell him that I actually DO need affection and that I really DO like chick flicks (because the characters are just so real and I can empathize with their struggles)?
Do I tell him I’m a feminist?
Oh hell no, he’ll call me a flaming liberal,
tell me to burn my bra and hand me a razor to shave my lady parts.
The thing us women need to realize is that men don’t care if you’re blond or brunette,
if you wear pink or green or polka dots or horizontal stripes,
and those highlights you just paid $90 bucks for? Yeah, those will go completely unnoticed,
because what a real man really wants is a woman with some god-damn self-confidence.
That’s right, a woman who works what she’s got,
makes no excuses for who she is, or how small her waist is (or isn’t),
and can eat a bowl of moose tracks ice cream without even glancing at the nutrition facts
(okay, maybe that’s just what I want).
Most men don’t even realize they want this type of woman.
They fool themselves into thinking they want an insecure,
does-this-make-me-look-fat,
I-depend-on-your-compliments-for-eating-disorder-prevention type of girl,
when all they really want is a woman who has her shit together and isn’t afraid to look real, act real, and be reeealy, really good in bed.
Yeah, I said it, you can quote me, and don’t “psha” me,
because I know this is how it is,
and even if it isn’t,
it would be wonderful if instead of a bunch of
male-pleasing, self-doubting females running around,
we had a whole hoard of beautiful, confident, self-assured women who don’t give a fuck,
(but enjoy fucking), and loved everything about themselves despite what men or
anyone else has to say about it.
How we can please them,
how can we make them want us.
I’ve done it myself, and so has every woman in this room.
Should I wear the heels or the flats?
Oh definitely the heels, they make my butt tighter AND my legs longer.
Does he like my hair long or short? Brown or blonde? Curly or straight?
Should I talk about politics, or would I come off as too strong-willed and opinionated?
Do I order dessert?
Oh absolutely not,
he’ll think I’m a future whale just waiting to snatch a man so
I can eat chocolate cake to my heart’s content.
Should I tell him that I actually DO need affection and that I really DO like chick flicks (because the characters are just so real and I can empathize with their struggles)?
Do I tell him I’m a feminist?
Oh hell no, he’ll call me a flaming liberal,
tell me to burn my bra and hand me a razor to shave my lady parts.
The thing us women need to realize is that men don’t care if you’re blond or brunette,
if you wear pink or green or polka dots or horizontal stripes,
and those highlights you just paid $90 bucks for? Yeah, those will go completely unnoticed,
because what a real man really wants is a woman with some god-damn self-confidence.
That’s right, a woman who works what she’s got,
makes no excuses for who she is, or how small her waist is (or isn’t),
and can eat a bowl of moose tracks ice cream without even glancing at the nutrition facts
(okay, maybe that’s just what I want).
Most men don’t even realize they want this type of woman.
They fool themselves into thinking they want an insecure,
does-this-make-me-look-fat,
I-depend-on-your-compliments-for-eating-disorder-prevention type of girl,
when all they really want is a woman who has her shit together and isn’t afraid to look real, act real, and be reeealy, really good in bed.
Yeah, I said it, you can quote me, and don’t “psha” me,
because I know this is how it is,
and even if it isn’t,
it would be wonderful if instead of a bunch of
male-pleasing, self-doubting females running around,
we had a whole hoard of beautiful, confident, self-assured women who don’t give a fuck,
(but enjoy fucking), and loved everything about themselves despite what men or
anyone else has to say about it.
Until then
When you kissed me on that bench,
by the lake,
under that tree that dripped with summer romance,
I thought I must be the luckiest girl in the entire world.
You imitated the bullfrogs, and I laughed,
and you loved to make me laugh,
so you blew raspberries on my neck,
and we spoke about pink elephants, and black holes,
and islands we would discover together.
We held each other like lovers who would soon be without
their counterpart,
and swore we would never love like this again.
But we both knew you were leaving.
I asked you to stay.
Asked you how I was supposed to seduce you from
hundreds of miles away,
And you told me there were plenty of benches in
Tennessee for me to kiss you on,
(and you always had something clever like that to say),
and I told you your wit needed updating, so you said,
“your kisses are better than hot coffee under my front porch
in a morning rain.”
I said, that’s pretty good,
kiss me ‘til it starts raining.
And you told me I was your favorite girl,
and I was thinking... “you bet your sweet ass I am”,
but I diplomatically replied with... “and you are my favorite boy”,
and you insisted I call you if insomnia set in,
so I did, and I’d lay on my pillow with my cell phone to my ear,
smiling, while you read me poetry in your deep, playful baritone until I was too sleepy to complain of the places between us,
‘til I slipped into slumber and dreamt of your hands
moving over my body with such deliberate strength,
but so....gently, so....perfectly.
And I like how you speak in full sentences in text messages,
and how your eyes soften when you see me,
like I’m some relief you can rely on,
And I’ll probably never long for another as I have for you,
and I can guarantee that no person has ever been so expertly missed as I have missed you,
and you will live in the deepest parts of me until
bullfrogs stop ribbiting and rain stops falling on roofs made of tin,
until that little, bald section of your beard begins to grow in.
I will love you until then.
by the lake,
under that tree that dripped with summer romance,
I thought I must be the luckiest girl in the entire world.
You imitated the bullfrogs, and I laughed,
and you loved to make me laugh,
so you blew raspberries on my neck,
and we spoke about pink elephants, and black holes,
and islands we would discover together.
We held each other like lovers who would soon be without
their counterpart,
and swore we would never love like this again.
But we both knew you were leaving.
I asked you to stay.
Asked you how I was supposed to seduce you from
hundreds of miles away,
And you told me there were plenty of benches in
Tennessee for me to kiss you on,
(and you always had something clever like that to say),
and I told you your wit needed updating, so you said,
“your kisses are better than hot coffee under my front porch
in a morning rain.”
I said, that’s pretty good,
kiss me ‘til it starts raining.
And you told me I was your favorite girl,
and I was thinking... “you bet your sweet ass I am”,
but I diplomatically replied with... “and you are my favorite boy”,
and you insisted I call you if insomnia set in,
so I did, and I’d lay on my pillow with my cell phone to my ear,
smiling, while you read me poetry in your deep, playful baritone until I was too sleepy to complain of the places between us,
‘til I slipped into slumber and dreamt of your hands
moving over my body with such deliberate strength,
but so....gently, so....perfectly.
And I like how you speak in full sentences in text messages,
and how your eyes soften when you see me,
like I’m some relief you can rely on,
And I’ll probably never long for another as I have for you,
and I can guarantee that no person has ever been so expertly missed as I have missed you,
and you will live in the deepest parts of me until
bullfrogs stop ribbiting and rain stops falling on roofs made of tin,
until that little, bald section of your beard begins to grow in.
I will love you until then.
Ice Queen
He was like every other early advancer I had come across.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.
I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.
I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.
For Sam
I wish I could write you a poem that would explain everything.
I wish I could write you a poem that you could reference
when you need to know how you should feel
when you don’t make the basketball team,
or when your first girlfriend leaves your heart broken in pieces,
or when you think that no one in the world understands you,
but this is not that poem.
This is not a poem about love, or successes,
This is not a poem about life’s mysteries, botched wisdom,
how to swim, how to read, how to understand women (yeah, right).
This is a poem for you, my little brother.
This is a poem to tell you how much I love you, unconditionally, forever.
I wanted to tell you that when I look at your little hands,
I get a feeling deep in my soul that peace is possible,
that all is right in this unforgiving world.
When you smile that toothy grin,
geez, that little smile,
it’s the brightest thing that’s ever blinded me with happiness.
I would give you everything in the world if I could.
I would gather all the good things that were ever created,
mold them together in a giant mass of awesome,
and keep it in the basement so you could tear off a little piece when you were feeling sad,
or needed a reminder that things generally turn out okay.
I want you to know that things aren’t always going to seem fair,
that you WILL get caught doing stupid shit,
and you WILL wish you hadn’t done it,
but be glad you did,
because you shouldn’t EVER hold regrets within yourself.
Live every day like you do right now.
At 1 year old.
With cheerios on your fingers, juice in your sippy-cup,
and a contentment that every adult wishes they could grasp for
one
single
day.
I wish I could write you a poem that you could reference
when you need to know how you should feel
when you don’t make the basketball team,
or when your first girlfriend leaves your heart broken in pieces,
or when you think that no one in the world understands you,
but this is not that poem.
This is not a poem about love, or successes,
This is not a poem about life’s mysteries, botched wisdom,
how to swim, how to read, how to understand women (yeah, right).
This is a poem for you, my little brother.
This is a poem to tell you how much I love you, unconditionally, forever.
I wanted to tell you that when I look at your little hands,
I get a feeling deep in my soul that peace is possible,
that all is right in this unforgiving world.
When you smile that toothy grin,
geez, that little smile,
it’s the brightest thing that’s ever blinded me with happiness.
I would give you everything in the world if I could.
I would gather all the good things that were ever created,
mold them together in a giant mass of awesome,
and keep it in the basement so you could tear off a little piece when you were feeling sad,
or needed a reminder that things generally turn out okay.
I want you to know that things aren’t always going to seem fair,
that you WILL get caught doing stupid shit,
and you WILL wish you hadn’t done it,
but be glad you did,
because you shouldn’t EVER hold regrets within yourself.
Live every day like you do right now.
At 1 year old.
With cheerios on your fingers, juice in your sippy-cup,
and a contentment that every adult wishes they could grasp for
one
single
day.
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