i meant to say

When I said I had to leave I meant:

these 13th floor windows look too much like doorways. I meant:

I'm a fish drowning in all this air.

When I said I missed you I meant:

you are my water, my ocean, my sweat,

tears and blood, meant

everything smells like metal since

we said goodbye.

When I said it had been too long I meant:

time had become a foreign language.

I meant every number rhymed

with "alone."

When I said I needed to take a lover I meant:

I know no other names but yours.

I meant: every graven idol

eventually crumbles before God.

13/30: landai

In honor of these women, today I write landai:

Sisters: they tell us we are not enough!
But they are forests chastising matchsticks.

---------

I loved him too much so he told me to go.
Now I laugh as he begs for a bite!

-------------

I fear to go home because I fear I won't want to leave.
Or worse: never want to visit again.

------------

Zurima asked for love, then for fire, then water.
Now all she has is dust, rocks, and stars.

----------

I have seen death, danced with it, kissed.
I ask you: What now do I have to fear?

3/30: from a few different prompts, trying to write about depression

It won't come up on you all
of a sudden like joy or spring
rain or the first time you held
someone's hand
because you liked them.
There is a place inside you
everyone hates.  It is not round.
This place is all corners, not warm
ly lit, but warm, too warm, stuffy
even. There is either a bed
or a puddle of pillows, and most
assuredly a blanket under which
you now womb.  “But, sunshine.”
“But, exercise.”  “But, Jesus.” “But--
”   But shut up.  You've paraded
every pill, waltzed every doctor,
spelunked every self-help source.
It is always Thursday here, and no
salesmen sell insurance
for this most unnatural disaster.
Silver dust on everything,
no crawling out.  There is a place
inside you even you hate. This is where
you live now, pay rent in feelings.
It will slip up slow, swallow you
whole, devour your want
to go.

26/30: And you thought I was gonna go all month without writing about my mom.

When my mother dies
I will plant her body
inside my belly, safe
to grow again.  I will deliver

her back to life.  I will deliver

someone
who has never hated me.
Not even once.

bargaining

I will cut off all my hair
and send it to you in a box
wrapped in gift paper
some holiday design or perhaps
an old map, tie it all up
with a bow or some twine if you'll send me
in return
your most recently worn undershirt.
Sweat in it good for me first.
For one more night
with your shoulder as my pillow
you may have
your choice
of my teeth.
Take them all.
For your voice,
soft,
saying anything, reading
magazine ads in my ear
while you stroke my hair
I would cut out my heart,
that raw animal, so noisy.
I haven't even used it
in days.

Today is the 24th.

Back on the 18th I wrote four poems.  I figured that didn't put me ahead, as I still wanted to write every day.

I got a little behind on the weekend.  Been working on an application for a master's degree.

So, I still want to write for the days I missed.  I'm two behind, plus today I haven't written yet either.  

I'll post two tonight, and we'll see what happens tomorrow, as I work a double then.

I’m not excited about tonight’s quality, but then, the April 30/30 has never been about quality, I don’t think, as much about writing every single day no matter what.  Or, missing a couple days and then writing two afterward ;)

She Dreamed of an Old Shoe:

Comfort, said her daughter.

Shedding layers, said her friend.

Your childhood, said her therapist.

You’re tired, said the quiet voice within.

It’s me, her tired husband.

The urge to run, said her lover.

From this prompt by Nicole Homer:

First, she lost her comb,

the one her mother left her.  “You must not have really

loved it,” said her husband.  How quickly the flames

consumed him.  Out of the ashes crawled a spider, carrying a song

her mother used to sing, and faster than light, she realized

she had to swallow the song.  When the comb reappeared,

she did not cry, said only, “I knew you’d come back.”

listen i may be a little drunk (20&21)

because i went to a super awesome groovy slam with a super awesome groovy after party and anyway i still managed to write two poems at the slam beforehand the first of which i used in the first round and totally managed to advance all the way to a win only using stuff from april which was extra super awesome groovy because it was the last one of this scene's slam until theydono when because they're gonna try to rework the running of it and they're gonna see how it turns out anyway the first one was this one:

statement of purpose:
the fact of the matter is simply this:
i have got to stop fighting my destiny.
i've been groomed for service since birth
my hostess mother continuously creating events
     dinners, parties, dinner parties,
     this serving dish with that utensil,
     the theme, the wine, the gifts
through to volunteering - the animal shelter,
     the pet therapy with people in rehab,
     the teaching Spanish to homeless kids,
     the activism the feminism the antiracism
     the working in a job whose title is literally
          SERVER
it's ridiculous it took me this long to commit
so okay sign me up, here i am, committing
     supplicating - accept me to your program
     this service is my purpose
     i'm proposing we partner - take me, teach me, mold me to the cause
but first you're demanding i state mu purpose.
so here it is:
     i am here to be a queer woman who through those lenses
          sees farther, sees more, sees
          my whiteness, my able body, my cis gender
          and privilege is a fucking real thing, y'all.
     i am here to intersect, i am here to connect,
     i am here to learn and listen and respect
     i am here to change, create, within and without
     i am doing this because the more i hear about the military's response to sexual assault
          the more i need to Go Fix That
     i am here to doubt the status quo, to dream about where we can go together, i am here to be
          together
my purpose is service my purpose
     is to do what my father taught me when young
          to return things better than they were lent to me
     and this world is not mine
          and someday, sooner than i'd like
          i'ma have to return it

the other one was a haiku and i am not ashamed of that now i am caught up until today when i need to scribble out another at some point also i am very impressed with all the typos i've managed to correct thus far i am a little sauced:

you have to choose your battles, she said
okay, said i
i choose them all.

18/30: The day I tried four poems and didn't really love any.

Haiku:
the clap can be cured
even a cold goes away
but depresson?  oohf.


This prompt, which gave me a ghost line from Tara Hardy.
She wants to hear the bees in your chest
which is why she buys flowers
every day, new ones all the time.
She's trying to entice them with
fresh flavors, call it a buffet
of bribery, she keeps the sheets
sticky with honey sketching out
sacred circles, drawing honeycomb maps,
why she wears netting to bed,
to be ready, just in case, blows
smoke in your ears, why you wake
to find her, the side of her face
pressed to your heart, whispering,
"come on, you beauties, i know
you have secrets to tell."


A Poem About The Doctor Who Gives Me Meds:
walk in to the circus.
greet the other freaks.
step up to the counter for my ticket.
get called back for my 2:00 with the man
     i was told was a lion tamer.
as it happens, he is not a man
     at all, but a pony
and now i am the tamer.
here, pony, step up, step pretty, show
     me your one and only trick.
open that horse's mouth, say:
     "well let's try increasing
       the dosage and you can come back
       in two months."
bow for the applause.
here's your treat.
the crowd is leaving.
get back in your cage.


Somewhere I Found A Prompt That Said To Start With A Quote Of Advice And Then Work Backward Through Lines That Sounded Similar Until You Had A 14 Line Poem But Now I Can't Find The Prompt To Link To It Anywhere:
All towns are full of the same things.
Brown liquids cool beneath steam.
Frown at the fool while he swings.
Down in the pool he's swimming.
Now will you please kiss me?
How damn full these mixed things.
The cow and bull are fixing
calibre and marine
calipers on machines
Call the person with wings.
Wall off the parson 'til he sings
all of the parts in tall rings.
Swallow the start; it still stings.
Follow your heart in all things.

17/30: In which the wolf is not so big nor bad

In the video, I am almost in
my mother's lap, but not quite.
She is holding a book with one arm
around me; I am not yet four.  I struggle
to read the words, letters leading into
syllables climbing into words, I sound
it all out awkwardly, aware that there is
a camera and pretending I am not.
My mother laughs with love when I get
a whole sentence out.  She is proud
as a whole mountain, and in this moment
I can believe that there was once a time,
however brief, that she loved me.

13/30: The Pill Bottle Tells the Truth

The Pill Bottle Tells The Truth:
I am not making her better.

I am making her less worse.

Call them diamonds, call them footballs,

call them stuck in the dry throat after too many

gulps of water, call them lies;

my contents carry promises that one day

she will feel the sun full on her face again;

call them lies.  

12/30: a day late, a poem for yesterday

A poet uses metaphors when she’s afraid

of direct honesty.  A poet never fears honesty,

do not misunderstand me, it’s just sometimes

she’s been forced into such small spaces

while the rest of the world sprawls out around her

that she’d rather tiptoe in curves than stride

straightforward to the truth.  She calls you a tattoo,

something exciting when fresh and new but also

something that fades, something that needs

touching up.  She calls you a puppy, adorable

and great for cuddles when young, but something

that grows into a sleepy old dog, carefully avoiding

any metaphors about training.  She talks about

daybreaks and opening chords to songs, about unwrapping

gifts on birthdays, talks about birth, then moves

into death, into disappointment, fade outs and sunsets

and even now I am using the third person to talk

about myself because I cannot say directly

without first writing a whole poem in metaphor

how terrified I am not only that this love could die

but that perhaps its song has already reached

the final bars, and I’m still standing here singing

but the crowd has all gone home.

10/30 O G Will

Shakespeare doesn’t give a flying fuck

if you like his sunglasses.  Doesn’t care.  Wears them

cuz he wants to, cuz they feel good, cuz he knows

he can rock some fukkin pink.  Shakespeare

likes to wear his pink wayfarers

down to the market, lean up against a wall,

leave everyone wondering whether

he’s looking at them.  Shakespeare likes

to stare at people with his head turned away

so they’d never think, likes to dissect

their characters with no repercussions; this way

he can stare as long as he wants.  Shakespeare

can’t write without his sunglasses, can’t fuck

without his sunglasses, refuses to come to the door

if he can’t find them.  Shakespeare never wore that collar

until he got them sunglasses, and even then he only got it

cuz they looked baller as fuck together.  Shakespeare wore

his sunglasses to meet the queen, no lie, spent

the whole time face tilted toward her perfect shoes, his eyes

burning straight into hers, unabashed. 

day 8 pome 8 / 30: feetsies

at night
in bed
in your sleep
your feet
hug mine:
toes wiggle,
heels nuzzle,
arches cradle;
you moan-
but never wake.

in this moment
i listen
for the words
i don't hear;
the mouths
in your heels
whispering
to the ears
in my arches:
i love you
i love you
even
in my sleep.

7/30: ghost line from Melissa May

The day I killed my mother, I got out
my Sunday best, washed it again, just
to be sure, pressed it with starch,
curled my hair, flossed.  I wrote her
a love letter and wrapped it
around the blade.  I ate well,

two eggs over medium, bacon medium,
toast and gravy, orange juice, coffee, hot
and black.  I went to the chapel and prayed
for the first time in years.  I kissed
a stranger and stared directly
into the sun.  The day I killed my mother,

I went to her house, rang the bell,
placed the love letter directly into
her heart and then left, cut off
all my hair, didn't cry, burned the clothes,
didn't cry, tore the pages from the books
she'd given me, carved her name
into the soft flesh of my belly, didn't cry.

6/30: It's Okay.

It’s okay to eat nothing

but cookies, or boxed macaroni

and cheese; you’re grown now,

an adult, as they say, and now

you can stay up late, you can watch

all those films your mother said no to,

you can brush your teeth or not

brush your teeth, you can have dessert

first.

You can take candy

from strangers, you can go home

with strangers, you can fuck strangers

until they are no longer strange.

You can confess

intimate details of your life

on the public transit

or on the stage, or on

the blank page.  You can cuss

to yourself, or in front of children,

you can still

dream about becoming an astronaut,
a mermaid, 

You can find sneaky ways to get

on top of buildings, you can stand on the roof

and scream at the clouds,
I am here, look at me,

you gods and devils;

I am arriving

all the time.

5/30, just before midnight, from an accidental ghost line by Sonya Renee

I love that there is an answer to all things.

Look long enough, hard enough, look

in the closet behind the box of your father’s

ashes.   Look inside your father’s ashes.

Under  the graduation cap

and gown, try flossing, who knows,

it could be tucked inside a popcorn kernel.

Answers like Of course you can and No,

it will cost too much.  Answers like blue and tomorrow

or never, answers like thundering rivers,

like the smell of yeast bread, like drinking

to forget, like oak.  And so, I know, there must

be an answer for me there, somewhere, I love

that there is, I search when you’re sleeping, peek

between your knobby toes, the chaos of covers

twisted around you, a shelter of turmoil, run

my fingers through your hair, search behind

your earlobes, sift through the smoke

of your dreams and find,

just there, in the right corner

of your primal,

godly mouth:
YES.

4/30: To The Coworker

To The Coworker Who Said, Loudly,
In His Man Voice In His Man Body,
In The Kitchen When Her Song Came
On The Radio, "Rihanna Deserved
To Get Beat," And In That Instant
Became My Abuser:

NO.

You do not get
to hold our names
and our fates
in your great
and terrible mouth.

The atom bomb apologizes (2/30)

I am a song of death never meant
to be sung.  I did not write myself
into being, I was collaged, Frankenstein-style,
by men with minds
like sunshine, angry and not angry.
I am a rain of ruin, a crash
of becoming, a ballet of regret.
I am so hungry all the time.
I only meant to breathe and now
there are entire parts of the world
in which you must not stop the car
or even drive it at all.
Give me your hair, each precious
twisting strand, your white blood cells,
proud soldiers, one by one.  In return I will give you
cell clusters like constellations, exploding fast
like supernovas, like myself, will give your children
extra legs to run.

1/30: Telling jokes with the moon

If you want to tell jokes to the moon, you must
abandon all your old tricks.  She's heard them.  Knows
the one-two-jab, the dance and punch, knows
them all.  You'll have to be clever, but not quick;
the moon does not like sudden.  Her changes
come on slow and heavy.  She is an expert
on fear and patience.  Tell her a joke
that is mostly sad.  Start with sorrow
before you move in for the laugh.  Finish
with something sparkling and she'll love you
forever, call you her favorite, promise never
to turn her face from you, and her laughter
will ripple like the waves she's always moving
and she will never let you drown.

Sneaky Feet

My partner plays footsie... while completely fast asleep. It's the most darling phenomenon. Or will roll over and heave this big sigh and throw an arm across me - completely unconscious - or I go to the bathroom and when I come back my pillow has been swept up and is now being cuddled in my place, like a surrogate-me, to facilitate survival until my return.

Having a partner who's not so big on words can leave a poet feeling lovestarved sometimes. Me, I gush them like a fountain. All the time. Sometimes I worry it's too much. And all I want is to hear some sweet words, about anything, about me, or my dimple, or that I cook all the time, or even just those traditional three, and I've always had trouble falling asleep, and I lay awake wondering if I'm not good enough...

...and then those sneaky feet sliiiiide across the sheets to hug mine, and the whole wide world just melts away.