Euphemistic Sunday, May 24 2009 


They don’t call us victims anymore,
they call us survivors.
Like a turn of the phrase will make it all better.
Like the words actually matter.

Like in Harry Potter, no one
will say the name …”He who must not be named”

But in reality, I doubt I could be friends with a guy named….
And I would never name my son….
Let alone ever dating a guy named….

We use words incorrectly like girls who use toothbrushes on their throats
instead of on their teeth.
Like we say “bulimic anorexia nervosa”
instead of “help me”
Or “May be a danger to herself or others”
instead of “hurry”
We call it a “class 3 misdemeanor with intention to harass and intimidate”
instead of a “please, don’t let him hurt me anymore”

Maladies are like bad wine.
The worse they taste, the more time we take
putting a pretty label on them.

Don’t make light of someone’s situation just
Because the phrase stings your throat.
These are words that fight back,
They won’t roll off your tongue,
They’ll ride it like a cheese grater.

Euphemisms everywhere are on their knees begging
Say My Name.

Don’t call us victims
Don’t calll us survivors,
like we did something right,
like anyone else would just lay down and die.

Did you think I never cried?
Because I did. A lot.
And like Alice for a time I swam in my tears,
But like Jesus I learned that you can be reborn
Of the same waters you create.

Holy water won’t heal like unconditional love
So we replace words like bandages,
Pacing the halls as hospital drones,
Experimental pharmaceuticals are our shiny new toys.
We wear bed sheets like ballgowns,
Waltzing to the beat of heart monitors and iron lungs,
Harmonize with the screams of your terminal neighbor
until they close the curtains
and call the priest.
Xanax zombies, we live in our sleep
Don’t wake us up or we’ll pull our own plugs.

What forced this abstraction to huddle in a corner?
Seesawing back and forth, I padded my own cell
With gin and tonics, this black hole
I like to call home.

As a supernova I shined too brightly.
How could that last?
I am too big to fit into myself
So when I collapsed I took the whole damn world with me.

By the time my light reaches you now, it’s already 2 million years old
the leftovers of a celestial supper.
But count me with the other stars fighting for a spot in the sky.
Count me with the survivors.


The Best Lesson Saturday, Apr 11 2009 

A little slam poem for ya’ll.  I think it actually sounds decent writen, but let me know what you think.


The Best Lesson

What I learned in College was that
everything I learned in highschool
was wrong.

English taught me of the
grammatical dichotomies,
Government taught me
how to judge others; while
History said
not to repeat myself, but in
Spanish it was always
repeat after
repeat after
repeat after me. In
Chemistry I learned that
we have none, but
Theatre taught me to how fake it, and
Politics taught me how to lie.

Like how I lied, in Art class when I said
I liked your tattoos, when really
I wake up most nights
Licking my fingers and
trying to rub them out.
Maybe astronomy has just made me jealous
of your astrological sign, because
Lions and Leo
charging across your chest
look a lot better than
Crabs and Cancer
crawling across mine.

I need to dispute the
Fundamental Theorem of Calculus
because every time I try
to integrate your surface to find out
what lies beneath
I always come up short.
And the curve of a woman’s
hips to her chest
must add up to more
than an ass and some breasts.
Marine Biology told a story of kids
combing the sands for driftwood and bottle caps,
while the media collects abused
women and missing children like sea-glass.
You see, sea-glass
is prettier because it’s beaten.
Now they wash upon our shores
like beached whales, dead mermaids.
They shine with sea salt in their hair
but the calcification of their skin
makes them hard as nails.

Which brings me to Newton,
who said that for every action
there is an equal and opposite reaction,
but when I tried to bear some of their pain
on my shoulders, it didn’t make the load
any lighter. When I pushed myself
into the ground, it didn’t help you
to fly any higher. We’ve all
watched twin towers burn, but have
yet to see anything born of that fire
but more fire and
more fire and
more fire, a bastard child
of the conservation of energy.

Philosophy taught me that with wisdom
comes lines carved deep into our skin
like prison nails on soap sculptures,
so according to this graph,
I was born a baby with blank palms.
It took pain and experience to grow these lines,
and I should be proud, but really
I wake up most nights
Licking my fingers
and trying to rub them out.