concretekiss: (Default)
Imaginary Love Song
For A Very Real Girl

On Sunday I was tired of being a mother. I wanted
someone to take over; to wipe my daughters'
faces, replace my son's quick mouth with a silk
blue bow. After dinner, I snuck off and hid in the
basement. I pretended to be your sister. I imagined
your small feet padding the stairs, your sugary
body wrapped in flannel. It was Christmas Eve,
and I'd stolen the presents from under the sharp
pine tree. And I was tucked behind the stack. It
was my birthday and I was tired of seeing presents
with other peoples' names on them. And I heard
you on the other side of the foil Santas and holly
berry leaves, and I could even hear you smiling
(because your heart always joins in) and it is a
sound that I can only imagine was the sound I
heard when I was still inside my mother. When all
I could do was sleep and dream and dream of her--
my mother--who was strong enough to leave me.
You must have heard what I was thinking, because
instead of dismantling the gift pile, you squirreled
your way behind it. And the thirty-three candles in
my heart lit up and we laid together, cold and
shining. Two soft spoons in a welcome dark.


The above loveliness was sent to me on my birthday and I spontaneously combusted.
Poet, mother, shaman, zebracorn, Rachel Mckibbens, [livejournal.com profile] lowhumcrush, my faithful wife in a previous life, the apple of my eye, the heat of my night, the raider of my lost arc has finally released a book, Pink Elephant, which is available for purchase here. My copy came in today, and I have to take the pages at intervals, it is so potent and haunting and tragically beautiful. You should have it, to test your heart out.
concretekiss: (i am sorrow)
...Antilamentation

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
- Dorianne Laux

...As an over-analyst, the line "Try to analyze how your life suffers because of some baseless thoughts still lingering in your heart about someone who never cared about you," was a mantra in a sad article I found to sooth myself, to stop from mutilating memories. I wanted to share, incase you are wrought with recollection. When you find yourself always puppetting the last occasion, looking for new evidence you may've missed on the 52nd rewind, in slowmo, another defective grin, telling pause.

...If your life is a book, this was a few pages. Give full chapters to those who deserve them.

...When I was a kid, to pass time for free, my mother would drive us through wealthy neighborhoods to gawk at the houses. I remember lamenting our deprivation, once I got old enough to realize that at most we could only admire the architecture. At once I was angry that she would bring us there. What a horrible diversion. For if I had never seen those houses I would not have resented my own.
"O baby most of those houses don't even belong to those people," she said. "They were financed through loans, as was the furniture inside them. The little house we live in, we own it." This did not pacify me, as the house we lived in had a perpetually flooded backyard, peeling paint and no central heat or air.

...Two swindlers told a foolish emperor that the robes they made for him were so exquisite and the material so fine they could only be seen by those most intelligent and worthy. The emperor, in his devotion to objects and social status payed the cons well for nothing. Onlookers, fearing the emperor's anger or the ridicule of their peers, applauded, congratulated the emperor on his impeccable taste as he paraded himself through town naked, proud, wretched.

...Mom was never jealous as I. She did not need to own shares of a sunset. Or this is what she must tell herself, as I sat imagining a sleek Mercedes rolling through the mud down Walker Drive, a fur wrapped family inside.
concretekiss: (Default)
They are so cowardly and stupid
Indians would not eat them
For fear of assuming their qualities.

The wild turkey always stays close
To home, flapping up into trees
If alarmed, then falling out again.
When shot it explodes like a balloon
Full of blood. It bathes by grinding
Itself into coarse dirt, is incapable
Of passion or anger, knows only
Vague innocence and extreme caution,
Walking around in underbrush
Like a cantilevered question mark,
Retreating at the least hint of danger.

I hope when the wild turkey
Dreams at night it flies high up
In gladness under vast islands
Of mute starlight, it's silhouette
Vivid in the full moon, guided always
By radiant configurations high
Over chittering fields of corn
And the trivial fires of men
Never to land again nor be regarded
As fearful, stupid, and unsure.

-Paul Zimmer
concretekiss: (i am sorrow)
How to Change a Frog Into a Prince by Anna Denise

Start with the underwear. Sit him down.
Hopping on one leg may stir unpleasant memories.
If he gets his tights on, even backwards, praise him.
Fingers, formerly webbed, struggle over buttons.
Arms and legs, lengthened out of proportion, wait,
as you do, for the rest of him to catch up.
This body, so recently reformed, reclaimed,
still carries the marks of its time as a frog. Be gentle.
Avoid the words awkward and gawky.
Do not use tadpole as a term of endearment.
His body, like his clothing, may seem one size too big.
Relax. There's time enough for crowns. He'll grow into it.





cross posted to [livejournal.com profile] theysaid
concretekiss: (Default)
Want new ink, but am unsure of what to get, exactly. I guess this is when tattoo addicts start getting bullshit cartoons, butterflies skullfucking loony toonz characters & their Chinese names in Sanskrit on the backs of their necks.
There is an intense scene in The Man w/ the Golden Arm, where Frank Sinatra, a heroin addict in withdrawal shoots water into his veins to get a placebo effect. I developed strong crushes on both my tattoo artists by the end of each sitting, intoxicated by the endorfins, giggling & giddy.
Do any of you have tattoos? where, what & why?

Coming home from a taxing work day, for the last 2 hours there were construction workers re-siding the apartments, clinging to the wall directly next to me, hammering violently. It was really nice. My skin feels prickly & stings. I could barf.

& Then earlier, I tried to post a poem in GP, but comments began veering into a Billy Collins debate (tip: quick way to incite drama in GP, mention Billy Motherfucking Collins. He's like Beetlejuice), so I got bummed out & deleted it.

& Then yesterday I commented to someone's entry in FoundPhotos & noticed the predictably hilarious procession of assheads who emerge from under their rocks to be snotty. I have to wonder what type of people these are. Those who meticulously read comments solely for the purpose of springboarding with an incendiary, aggressive or competitive one that will top those previous. Scouting for someone to disagree with, correct, stoke into an argument. To gain some badass status? Attention mongers. I rarely go into communities because of these kinds of people. Is it because they cannot gain attention any other way but through opposition?

Anyway, the charming little poem I found on my lunch break:
Mark Halliday's
Refusal to Notice Beautiful Women )

& Then I learnt that this jerk named Riccioli from Bologna mapped out the dark spots on the moon in the 1600s. He named them Seas of various things. Among them, Seas of Rains, Moisture, Storms, Vapors. Thanks you Riccioli the Redundant. & now we have to live with it & say it in Latin to cover up the shame, because they also aren't even real seas!

& Then I'm having these problems with delayed anger
where in the moment I am too dumbfounded to respond, questioning my emotions, the stars, the month, the temperature, my daily water intake before I react. Pathetic. Then much like laughing last, I analyze some situation until yes, yes, it is feasible to feel anger aaaaand [release anger]. Always too late. What is the statute of limitations for validity of anger? Two days after? Minutes?

& Then a Yeti or Chuppacabra of some sort has shat upon my car.
F this Tuesday in the A, without permission.
concretekiss: (Default)
The Primer

She said, I love you.

He said, Nothing.

(As if there were just one
of each word and the one
who used it, used it up).


In the history of language
the first obscenity was silence.

Ezra Pound

Jan. 12th, 2007 11:09 am
concretekiss: (Default)
Salutation

O generation of the thoroughly smug
        and thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth
        and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake
        and do not even own clothing.  
concretekiss: (Default)
Sojourners - Marge Piercy

The rabbit who used to belong to Matthew
of the Parks Department now lives with Joanne.
She keeps him in an orange crate
for shitting raisins in shoes,
on bathmats, under pianos and in beds.
He is white, fat and runs like a faucet;
freed, would scuffle in closetbottoms
and with a rug for footing
do jigs, his red idiot eyes flashing.
In the crate he sulks.
His sinewy bent legs are stiff.
I am sorry for animals who scrounge their living from people
whether scavenging among ashcans and busted tenths
or tricksy and warm in kitchens:
it is hard enough for people to stand people
hard and sharp as the teeth of a saw
and at least we fuck eachother.

remember

Jun. 8th, 2006 06:25 pm
concretekiss: (Default)
"Simple-Song"

When we are going toward someone we say
you are just like me
your thoughts are my brothers
word matches word
how easy to be together.

When we are leaving someone we say
how strange you are
we cannot communicate
we can never agree
how hard, hard and weary to be together.

We are not different nor alike
but each strange in his leather body
sealed in skin and reaching out clumsy hands
and loving is an act
that cannot outlive
the open hand
the open eye
the door in the chest standing open.

- Marge Piercy
concretekiss: (Default)
Hide & Seek by Stephen Dobyns

At first it's just a form of play. Your mother
shuts her eyes or hides them with her hand.
Briefly, she is gone. Are you afraid? Then,

surprise, she's back again. A few years later,
your favorite game is hide and seek. You wait
behind a tree as your best friend counts to ten.

Then, when it's your turn, you hunt for him.
Doesn't this suggest the impossibility
of getting lost? Your mother uncovers her eyes,

your friend uncovers your hiding place-
the world's machinery won't let you disappear.
As you grow older you read of runaways returned,

stolen children found again. We long to believe
the world wants each of us in our own spot,
secure and respected, the fortunate held dear.

Yet increasingly on the street you see the lost,
men and women adrift between destinations.
Do you see that man in the park behind the tree?

He waits for someone to finish counting.
Then you notice a woman on a bench, a man
idly smoking. Don't they, too, seem to be waiting?

If the whole beginning of your life attempts
to prove you can't be lost, then what belief
directs the rest, or are you lost from the start?

That man behind the tree, see how he listens.
Does he think someone seeks him even now?
Does he regret that he hid himself so well?

He stands up. It begins to rain. As you pass
on a bus, the man glances toward you as if
at a scrap of paper being blown down the street.

Briefly, you feel alarm. Lost, lost, you ask,
when were we ever found? Then your view
is blocked by shops; the man slips from sight.

The bus turns and stops, starts and turns again.
You forget but don't quite forget as you watch
people with pursuits much like your own hurry

between two points-not quite lost, not yet found.
Consider this: our first breath brought us here
and as sparks rise up from a fire so we disappear.
concretekiss: (Default)
Gee, You’re So Beautiful
That It’s Starting to Rain

Richard Brautigan


Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:

Play with Gentle Glass Things
A

Computer Magic
A

Writing Letter to Those You Love
A

Finding out about Fish
A

Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty
A+!
concretekiss: (Default)
Took Elise to Austin Java (where they serve THE BEST crawfish quesadillas w/ jalapeno) to do her homework. She’d brought along a book about Unicorns; a fable of how in the struggle to help the other animals into the ark, Noah had left two unicorns behind to perish in the great flood. Each page ends with Noah & the animals crying out “Unicorns! Unicorns! Hurry! The flood is coming!” as the animals all file in. Eventually Noah shot the bolt to the door of the ark & all the animals wept for 40 days & 40 nights to the sounds of the unicorns’ horns & hoofs beating @ the ark. By the end of the book I was frazzled. I cry about unicorns like Molly Grue & having to urgently whisper Unicorns! Unicorns! Hurry! was getting to me. I choked up in the corner of the restaurant hunched over a children’s book Fucking stupid unicorns, hurry the fuck up!

C.S. Lewis writes an amusing poem about the fable called The Late Passenger )

I wonder where the story originates.

Then there was this sweet-faced waiter who, I didn’t realize until later, was trying to ask me out. He stopped to say hello to my daughter, to ask if he could show us a picture of his own little girl, & lingered around our table peeking & smiling at us. I was too embarrassed & frazzled about the damned Unicorns so that as he was about to say something, mid-sentence I interrupted him --“WELL BYE!”
He gave me a hurt/perplexed look & shuffled off. I felt stupid & rude, but I guess it’s ok, because he looked too much like Jesus…well sans scourging. & Jesus is...cute but really, no one wants to DO Jesus, you know.
concretekiss: (Default)
In 1996, @ the age of 19 on the same day I received my SAT results for college I also noticed a plus sign on my home pregnancy test, spinning my academic future out of orbit. Being a typically self-reproaching ex-Catholic girl; it was an uncomplicated choice to prudently swaddle a velvet infant to my breast over the eternal fires of hell. In 1999, by the end of my first college semester I was once again heavy with child, this time a little lady.
In conclusion; college makes me pregnant.
So I gotta study outside o’ class. The perks are When I want & What I want.

Lately/today/for the moment I’m interested in the conflict between the contemporary & the antiquated;
In one of the photography communities I play in there is a group of OGs who like to rag on people who use digital cameras, mostly, from the reasons I’ve gathered, because a digital camera paired with its corresponding photo-editing software forgives an amateur photographer’s ignorance of lightning & focus, therefore ‘debasing’ the art by the simplification of ‘point & shoot.’ With DCs less skill is required to produce a nice shot.

So the old schoolers look down their noses, claiming they can tell by sight the difference between a digital shot & a film shot which I only partially believe. I personally love my digital camera for its easy use & economic features. With my old 35mm I was less likely to take multiple shots because I only had so much film in the camera & didn’t want to waste it all on getting That One Amazing Shot…when I’d only throw the rest away. My skills have improved as a result of all the practice a digital camera affords me.

However, I can conceive & even appreciate the classicalists’ disdain for contemporary if I dress hygiene or housewifing in the same circumstances. I don’t need a revolving, sputtering, bubble blowing, mp3 playing, multicolored, soap oozing toilet brush to cut down on scrubbing so that I can spend more time on my ass in front of the tube with a Schlitz. I don’t need a pretty bright label on a bleach bottle I’ll eventually throw away.

The archaic vs. The progressive, powdered vs. shredded, From the Box vs. From Scratch the thing is, there was always some crotchety old fogy before you bitchin’ about how it used to be respectable.
Is a painting any less beautiful if the colors came from store-bought factory made tubes as opposed to hand ground pigments from roots & shit?
Would this dumbass entry be any less dumb had it been written with a goddamned peacock quill? Gosh Stacie don’t shit yourself & write an essay about it. ROSE/NAME Kapeesh?

In other news;
~ printing out pics of the Sea Brontosaurus to show the tattoo artist for my second inking because plesiosaurs are so SO rad. I'm exciteeeed.


~ & working on this painting/drawing/collage thing. A friend told me once I should just sit down without a preconceived "vision" & just let my hand go...so there you have it; as you can see I've no idea what the hell I'm doing.

~ oaGaaad this bra is grating my boobs. :(

~ oh my stars! )

Dana Gioia

Jan. 25th, 2006 08:12 pm
concretekiss: (Default)
Alley Cat Love Song

Come into the garden, Fred,
For the neighborhood tabby is gone.
Come into the garden, Fred.
I have nothing but my flea collar on,
And the scent of catnip has gone to my head.
I'll wait by the screen door till dawn.

The fireflies court in the sweetgum tree.
The nightjar calls from the pine,
And she seems to say in her rhapsody,
"Oh, mustard-brown Fred, be mine!"
The full moon lights my whiskers afire,
And the fur goes erect on my spine.

I hear the frogs in the muddy lake
Croaking from shore to shore.
They've one swift season to soothe their ache.
In autumn they sing no more.
So ignore me now, and you'll hear my meow
As I scratch all night at the door.

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concretekiss

August 2010

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