kamikaze

First of all, the poem I am about to present is tough. Being on anti-depressants has caused me to feel well enough to deal with issues I typically stuff away. One being my tendency to have sucidal thoughts and desires. This is what those feelings are. I would love to be able to walk in the light with these things, and that you may have a better understanding of what those are. But I don't want to unintentionally make you carry a burden you are not prepared or willing to carry. In that case, please don't read this.


I know, first hand, what causes
a grown man
to tip toe down into his basement,
gently press his knees into the floor,
feel the cold barrel of a gun at his temple

It's what a jelly fish goes through
from ocean to glass cage.
It's tentacles buried in the sand
of a retched place she was forced to call
"home."

It's when the last leaf falls from the tree,
and the last beat
hits your last nerve.

It's the train wreck that makes the sound
of his bloody shirt tumbling in the dryer.

It's the tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement
going, or leaving, it doesn't matter
because each breath feels like thorns in your lungs
and you pray to God you don't have to do it
one
more
time.

Because you're bored.

You're bored of the same old shit
that weighs too heavy on your eyelids.
The same old shit
and pushes the knife to your wrist and says,

drag.

It's the time between
stepping over used condoms
to get to your after morning shower
the time between walking to the liquor store,
(listening to the
tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement)
and watching the cork
fall into a bottle of wine.

It's how the beard of the man
who beat the hell out of you
can smell exactly the same
as the beard of the man you love,
who hurt you just as much.
so you start to beg
to see your blood glistening in the sun
You start to beg
that you would just have the fucking nerve
to not come back up
after diving in the ocean.


But you always come back up.
You always do.

Women's Studies Bar Crawl

Every year, the nursing department has a bar crawl. They have clever t-shirts.

this year, the women's studies department will do the same (hopefully).

I am making tshirts. I need a witty saying for these t-shirts. Any ideas?

Poetry.

I LOVE spoken word poetry. I love it. Especcially when it's as good as Andrea Gibson. She is my favorite. Please check this out. It's so raw but so, so, so good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kBU7xTS1Ss

Just a different medium.

I think I'm into cakes right now. Not necessarily baking them (all though, I enjoy that part too) but decorating them. That's my favorite. I used to be an art major, so really it just feels like I'm using a different medium to work with. Icing. I think I want to get serious about it one day. Not ace of cakes serious...but I'd do it for a living. Hells yeah, I would.


I made this cake for my friend, Amy's birthday. Which was today. ( :) ).

I made this cake for my friend Grace. It's an african safari. She said she liked giraffes.

paralyzed

I was twenty years old when I saw my first dying man.
He was hunched over, in the fetal position, on his bed at the nursing home.
His fingers were knotted and wrinkled, much like my own.
The sound of his slow and heavy breath,
like the waves hitting the shore after a thunderstorm,
haunted my dreams.
Breathing like someone told him the rhythm would launch him to God-
He yearned to burst of his body.

I could relate.

Because, I swear, every time I hear your voice I die.
and the only feasible cure
is to sever my soul out from it's cell.
to slice my skin from ankle to thigh,
from wrist to torso,
like the time I butchered a bison in South Dakota.
I'd peel back my ribs and hold my breath
because I've never seen anything so close to reprieve before.

and I imagined the sky breaking away from the stars,
and my soul floating back into the Womb.
and they say, in heaven, there is no pain.
your heart mended, and your skeleton reset.

It's hard to imagine
from the bed in your nursing home.
Yearning to hear your mothers voice,
and to feel your wife's breath on your neck.
wanting to be able to sit up and take a drink from your cup
without someone you barely know putting the straw to your lips.
Craving to skip rocks across the Atlantic ocean
and to see what Utah looks like from the top of a mountain.

I think all I know is pain.
I think, every year, I'm afraid the trees wont replenish in the spring

what if someone told you, you could never sing?

and I imagine him,
soul cut free,
standing at the shore of the sea,
chest expanding with salty air.
His arms stretched out,
like it was the first time he'd ever seen the ocean.
He can't think of anything more perfect.

I prayed that night I'd see him in heaven.
That God would hear his rhythmic breathing.
That the angels in heaven breathed that rhythm with him,
welcoming him home.

Ever since I was little, I imagined Jesus to be the face on the moon.
And I hoped so hard my lungs burst that he could see Jesus, too.
out the tiny window in his room at the nursing home.
That the illumination would at least make his heart warm.

and there was so much hope that night,
that for a moment,
I swore we were both already in hell.

But, I like to think every time God says, "well done my good and faithful servant."
He gets so excited he forgets to breathe.
that His heart swells so big, sunsets couldn't even compare.

and I hope he's there.

What's the first thing you remember creating?

I distinctly remember when I was a child drawing myself as someone I'd rather be or someone I wanted to be. Sometimes it was me, but somewhere else. It's a funny thing that no one ever questioned that. But, I think it said a lot for where I was as a child. The things I dealt with. What I saw. Heard.

What's the first thing you remember creating?

Disc golf if this thing I've been playing recently and I think it's pretty great and I'm glad I gave it a chance.