Tuesday or So: Poems.

III Haikus

knuckles on the door
towel pillow, bathtub bed
crying in my clothes

to not upset me 
and to work to make love stay
are not the same thing 

up in the corner
You found my heart still beating
it tried to escape

Each Time
I am not a whipping-post distraction.
Penance for your inadequacies.
It doesn’t matter when I leave.
You’ll always say it was right before the page turned.
If only I could have been more patient. 
If only I could have stuck it out a little longer.
Each time you understood it like never before.
Each time I watched you believe yourself. 
Each time I hoped myself into believing.

Untitled
Practice tenderness until it becomes a habit
or until you tenderize yourself
all day, kneading myself with my knuckles
the heels of my hands guide out the knots
my muscles squeeze into relief in between my fingers
up into my palms
my fingertips flutter around the edge of my face, my eyes, down my neck
tenderize until it becomes a habit.

Wrote Yesterday: Posted today.

“Get the mental stimulation you crave.” – today’s horoscope. I feel this deeply. I miss the witty back and forths. I miss going out into the world and having my views challenged. I miss being learning about things I didn’t even know there were to learn about. 

Continue reading “Wrote Yesterday: Posted today.”

The Cement Mixer Song: It’s to the tune of Spiderman.

My horoscope is asking me if I feel flexible? I mean, yeah. 

“Today, you’re able to enforce your limits. It’s not magic, it’s your capacity to deal with instability. Blazing a new trail will serve you well right now.” 

The only new trail I’ve blazed today is beginning to play relaxing rain videos in the background to help soothe my nerves. 

Pork Rind Saudade.

Pork rinds with hot sauce are an absolute delight. I take comfort in fried pig skins and memories. Memories of a van barreling south, of paper plates with hot sauce, of deciphering the tiny Reader’s Digest text by high-mast highway lights. The heat turns on bringing out the baked in scent of cigarette smoke with hints of motor oil. I don’t want to forget sitting in the passenger seat at twilight, tracing my finger down the yellow lines, state capital buildings aglow. 

I’ve been craving that feeling of comfort and security. Like sleeping in the backseat of a car while it’s raining. How does one cultivate that feeling from within? Life is a slurry of chasing, and working, and laughing, and trying not to yell, and taking deep breaths and honoring my body and feeding my curiosity and hoping that when I sit down next to my other person, we hopefully call it a good one. 

Wearing: Yoga pants, a blue shirt that says, “dreaming under the pale moonlight,” and a black cardigan. There was a cute chunky necklace too. Took it off to do yoga. Day two of the rest of my life. Or at least of trying to do course one in the appendix of light on yoga. The time will pass regardless, right? Wasn’t I talking about what I was wearing. Just capturing this moment in time. That’s it. I swear.

Chachi was a good dog.

If my notes app could talk:

I finally caved and did the dishes; I had run out of clean stemless wine glasses.

Do I say supposedly like suppossively? 

My doorbell has been a man’s voice demanding, “INSTALL” for three years now. Finally, it was pressed long enough for him to finish his call to action. “INSTALL COVER.” I finally understood what needed to happen. (Wrap masking tape around the little plastic piece that clicks in the button to signal the doorbell cover is clicked on because apparently that is critical to the doorbell’s operation. As if it would explode or set fire if that covered was not in fact installed.) He had been trying to tell me for three years, but I had never let him finish. 

Four years old is equal to 84 in matte liquid lipstick years. 

My body is like a spiral ham. 

I realized my eyelids were oddly saggy from watching YouTube makeup videos when I was 23.

One of my goals in life is to swim in Martha Stewart’s pool while listening to Transviolet’s “The Hamptons.” 

Burberry Brit.

Do you ever have days when your mind refuses to line up at the starting line of reality?

Coming out of my cage: And I’ve been doing just fine.

What happens when one becomes a virtual voyeur? No longer creating any of their own. No words slowly culminating as a book. No lines of a poem. No yoga sequences. No playlists. Nothing for themselves. Is that how to disappear? Without the expression, the emotions, the details, the vague high-level overview, the anything, it all gets stuck inside. I’d imagine the result to be a tornado in a bottle. The mixture, however, is slow pouring concrete, blended to the color of my hair in the winter, like thick oil paint in the hue of ennui. 

I am not without purpose, ever the diligent worker, I find joy in my day-to-day responsibilities. In quiet moments, I see myself through my son’s eyes. A completely inescapable lens. “Just be happy, Mom,” he offers. “I’m working on it, bud,” I say, hoping those words ring true for each of us. 

“When death finds you, may it find you alive,” an African proverb that has taken residence behind my eyeballs and refuses to leave. Referring to may death find me living my life in my own full colors. Whatever that means for me. I get goosebumps imagining the possibilities. I am not sure who I think I’m benefitting from living in the shadows. Keeping my joy and love and discoveries hidden has only led to experiencing grief and discomfort and loss alone. Coming to terms with the idea that only I, me, this broad right here, is responsible for my happiness has been liberating and terrifying, and a lesson I think I will continue to learn over and over again. 

A story I told myself, and perhaps still do at times, is blogging (or whatever this is), is no longer for me. I was never quite comfortable with “partnering” with anyone for anything. I don’t take nice pictures. I’m not here for the stats. I think about seventh grade me, freezing in an unheated room, typing away with cold fingers, postulating on how shaving my legs is like living life. Sticking my hands between my thighs between thoughts for warmth. Poor grammar. Song lyrics. Naming names with reckless abandon. 

Sometime after moving to Nashville, I came up with a veritable list of reasons of why I would stop blogging. The blogger world had changed so much. I bowed out of the one thing I knew I loved to do daily. I took myself out of a self-perceived race like I have so many times before in life. They can’t take something away from you that you’ve already given up. Like my son chucking a tree branch as he runs away before anyone can snatch it from him. Except no one’s chasing me and I’m supposed to have this branch, but I needed to learn that for myself. 

Part of this journey is knowing and trusting myself. There will be no declarations or lofty goals. I cannot even commit to a seven-day yoga Instagram challenge. It is like something misfires in my brain when I commit to anything. The accountability of publicly declaring something holds no bearing on me. My rebel spirit won’t allow it. This is for me. When I started writing, there was no question around why or for what. I had not internalized that sort of transactional line of thinking yet. It just was. Two decades later, my heart is still there, just waiting for my thinking mind to take a day off.

Poems: How did I forget?

Funny to think when I began writing haiku last fall, I thought it was the first time I had ever written poetry. Going through my old notebooks and folders, I have found hundreds of poems. How did I forget?

Sometimes the words are breadcrumbs back to my being. Sometimes it seems as if I knew I could lose that magic, those emotions, the sparkle, and I scrawled endlessly in order to make it stay. Or perhaps so I would come back. 

I re-write them. At least three times. Usually.

What is True

Windows down, music up.
Blaze the highway, Dusk extinguishes the day.
Splashes of orange and pink rinse into gray.
No barriers between my heart and my mouth. 
I feel the most alive.
Feet on the Dashboard

My hair unbound and wild in the wind.
You, masked in dark sunglasses.
I laughed when you said something about my hair.
I couldn’t really hear you, though.
You were that guy, from that one party.
I was some girl, from that one time.

She Writes: Sometimes poems.

Sign

Sometimes, when folks are not gentle with me, I interpret it as a sign, a worn billboard, just off the side of a country road.
“I am not worthy of tenderness.”
And so I become rough with myself.
I mistake the callousness of others for what I deserve.
And so I feast on my own inadequacies.

My soft spots throb, from all that wanting, from all that craving.
My rage tremors, from all that withholding, from all that neglecting.

-KAM