Monthly Archives: May 2015

Art Institue Poems

Chicago

Marked and stated historical building.
Black and silver desk with sad and silver women behind it.
Took our cards and gave onceovers in return.
We paid one month of my rent for a night, but got more space and coffee packs.
She called down for soap. All those fancy towels and nothing in the dish.
Way it goes.
I went supernova on the couch with coral reefs and, I’m good with this, phone.
The desk couldn’t hold my whole laptop.
But the fancy pens and embossedness had their own box in their own drawer.
I sat on the pink velvet window seat and gazed lovingly at the apartment building next door.
It was all I could see.
Who wants to pay for faster internet when you’ve already paid for sheets?
I got carded by the couple in the elevator.
“Touring colleges?”
No, here for a wrongful death suit.
Wish I had the courage to say even some of what was on my mind.

It opened at 10:30. There at 11.
Central time, central time, central time.
All, day, whole day in the art museum.
I wandered with Europeans, and felt dingy.

I met this wonderful hunched woman with dyed red permed hair next to the triptych on one of the deaths of Christ.
She told me about the catholic myths in her southern South American and told me to look at the details. Her daughter lives here in the city. We walked piece to piece, getting yelled at by guards for being too close behind the still ropes.
I made a soul-friend with a woman who’ll die before my wedding, and who I’ll never greet again.
I find myself wondering, wondering a lot actually, but in this case, wondering if I’ve ever changed the way people think so I become part of their shortcut to a memory for worse thoughts.
How scary to think I could live in someone else’s memory without permission.
What do I do up there all day in their heads?
Probably make new soul friends with passerbys staring too long at the dutch egg details.

I crashed on an unused bench in the textiles room behind the paperweights and the tiny chairs.
The guards checked on me every couple minutes.
But it was me and the patterns and the corners.
The longer I looked at the blue stamp printed tulips, the more I thought furniture.
I am furniture.
It was so peaceful, you’d get the women wearing clothes so they hoped to get photographed for fashion blogs. But it was me and whirring conditioners for thought and hooks and placards and planned space that kept me there listening for me to say I’m ready.

We experienced the naked men statues of someone called Ray something.
We surmised he was famous, used our whole brains for that we did.
Truly, too many naked men.
The spraypainted silver statues, maybe he watched too much Goldfinger,
Looked trapped and chilly.
My feet hurt. I want to walk on carpet.
Let’s go home where we don’t have to hold our heads higher than the smarter richer.
I’m imaged out. Show me empty fields without too much color thoughts.

Only the homeless guys I don’t give money to bless me by God on the street.
Your eyes are your best feature, and they disappear when you smile.
The drivers in the low-riding big headlight red sports cars drive the speed limit.
They handed me prom dresses to try with a number missing in front of the size.
Old women with part dark brains ask me how I am and mean it.
I’m going back home where I know what to be scared of.

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Bird from Far Away

drawing of a bird soaring

a little sketch of a lot of white.         (p.s. this drawing came from a photo by Davide Ragusa called “Eagle in the Sky.” i found his work on barnimages, which is a collection of cc0 photographs.)

Crying Loops

Sometimes, hormones mess with my brain. There’s no other way to put it. I can qualify it if you want. I can say: it’s not my fault, it only happens to some women, it shouldn’t impede my cognitive capabilities, you shouldn’t judge me on this one thing, it’s not just me. But. It. Happens.
So I’m listening to the radio, and the woman gives a heads up message that the next song, “Creep” by Radiohead, was banned by the BBC for being too depressing. I, of course, relate to the song. I’m already a bit teary, not, oh look a baby sniffling, but sniffly. I start singing along, “I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.”
The words hit. Boom. Then I’m thinking about the last time I heard the song. I remember I was sitting by myself in my dorm room back at school listening to Radiohead for the first time, looking for something that would mean something to me, feeling all alone, unheard, and understood by no one. So I’m thinking of that, driving down a pretty busy street in rush hour. And I start crying and singing. I’m wiping my eyes, singing along with wobbly gasps, and navigating traffic. We stop at a light and I look to my right. Oh look, it’s a police officer. I’m worrying he’s going to pull me over, and I’ll hit a car while I’m trying to pull over, then I’ll have to get another job to pay for my broken car, and I’ll still be crying. So I’m frantically trying to wipe my eyes and at the same time roll up the windows so he can’t hear my shrieking. But, I went right on past. No problems.
And that made me cry, because I thought maybe he needed to fill his policeman quota, but he didn’t want to pull over a crying girl after a day’s worth of work, so now he’s having a bad day because I’m having a sad day. Then Thom finished his sadness hole, and I drove back home, flicking radio stations every minute so that I didn’t get too attached to a song with too much memory.

May Flowers Brought By Showers

Ok. It’s official. I am the worst schedule keeper ever. My poor white rabbit.

photo of a tree in bloom

bloooo sky

photo of grass by a river

bunny’s eye view aka got mud on mah jeans

photo of tree in bloom in a park

fancy frolicking trees share with us their flowers. i think overall this was a nice trip to the park. very nice indeed.