Thursday, November 6, 2008

i'm putting my neck on the cutting board. i'm putting myself out there.

i'm takin' a risk.

i'm home, alone, and perusing thru my old emails, thinking of what i've saved, why, re-reading tons and tons of short stories i've written and poems i've written and.. and jibberings and jabber wockies and shoot, is that spelled right? spell check? tap? hello?

anyway. so, i thought, since uhm you know this is all about bein' honest and i had a pretty good day today and . uhm . i just danggum want to (why am i always southern when i blog?? goodness. i'm from california!) and so i'm gonna. so. uhm. i'm gonna post a poem here. i don't know if it's a 'correct form' or if it 'makes sense' or if it's even any particular shade of good. i just know that i wrote it. it's not about anyone in particular. i did it bc .. well, i was melancholy at 18, living in big bad Chicago without knowing a soul in the world, so i would make up things to sort of fill the emptiness.

i've been a very lonely person in my life, more than once, and probably will be again before i kick the bucket. i've learned what works to fill the silent spaces in between the habitual workings of a life. or the shell of one.

erk! anyway! here you go. you don't need to like it. i just needed to post it. i've been in the mood for baring-all lately, and it's quite nice to tell all your secrets and find out.... people will probably love you all the more for being true. here ya go, ya'll.

if i opened-
if my body
like lotus blossoms,
if your dampness
lapped at my base
like inked water,
if my mind reeled
ribbed cage
if i unhinged
the words
stuck to the roof of my mouth,
if my choked-down heart
spat itself back up,
if my body creaked open
a door into darkness
would the black air
be like dawn
in your halls?
how long
has my longing
raced like a latitude
against your axis,
how long
have i longed
to lap at your horizontal
like the black sea,
to corner your palms
beneath me,
to exist
in touch-
how long
has it been
since the mute
cumbia of our hips?
if i were to lift an arm,
unzip my skin-
would your words still
find me,would you still
soothe my midnight hour,
my mute throat?
would you still welcome
the clatter
of my rushed key strokes?
would you
let me
press you
like my
key board-
make phrases
from your hips,
the curve of your knee-
the delve of your
collarbone a metaphor-
the tip of your eyebrow
a simile-
would we speak
the same
vernacular of
(and the blurred lines between?)