Spending money I don’t have
on drinks I’ve already owned
etched in pillow stone.
Spending money I don’t have
on drinks I’ve already owned
etched in pillow stone.
As the ghost of reason
tumbles from my lips
turning tricks with scents of ships
sailing poisonous, golden seas
I wish you would kiss the captain
and dive, entwined with me
to derelict, dismissible dawn
and swim to the bottom
of uncommon decency.
Okay I have 6 minutes to write a poem
I’ve been drinking
and truth be told I’m not entirely done.
your distance makes me feel warmer
as if the way you reciprocate
every other moon
brings more brightness
to the skies claimed
under your name.
The way you bury yourself
rather than leave me to appreciate
the nuance of air
renders all wandersome thoughts
shovels, built into my wrists
the pulse of me
calling to your subsurface
that I might again
how is your morning
and, beyond carving
lapis out of clouds,
how might I better
the stride of your soaring?”
Embers fall from your eyes
as you blink away the shy flames
of our centered gaze.
Base intentions rise
quelled only by inner fountains
set to sprinkle on Saturday–
noon time, splintered sun tans,
Campfire veins fail to cool
even as summers come to close.
Ample airings of argent hues
clenched, bark worn toes.
Speak with lips softened
by separate encounters
a step closer
to our shared heat.
Dancing tongues only know
so many steps.
We grew feet for a reason.
Remember the first time
the sun claimed your flesh as its own?
I fear the same of our first touch.
Burn me, afternoon lover
with the sunberry juice
of your blue sky brush.
Etched into the palm of time is a personal clock
ticking off each second
as it happens to pass
with individual volition.
Each finger, screwed back on
leaves the fist as creaky
as the release.
They don’t write much anymore
but what can be certain
is the night with no moon
is favorable for those
who deny any sort of wrong doing
in the face of atonement.
must be everything
opposite to selfish.
I do not want to feel better.
I deserve to be
in the manicured muck
of my own making.
I should have a tattoo
composed of January tears
and spring weather.
It will read,
“Love never knows best.”
The heart can pound
against the walls of my
but it can never break free.
the hands must act.
As the heart beats blood
into the remorseful limbs,
creaking fingers must grasp
the iron handle of due servitude
easing, as able,
the weight within
loosen rusted locks,
burn regretful seconds
tock, through to tick
cold as snow, soft as tin.
The flaw runs along the length
of my pale, clay and shale torso.
A tectonic fault
brought about by wanton weather patterns
fffin the eyes
fffin the palms
forgotten hymns remixed within
embalmed Toonami psalms.
I learned how to plant trees as a child.
Often they grew, thanking me for the soil.
You’d think, after years of building life by
filling spaces for the betterment
of the (immediate) world
I would know how to re-purpose a shovel,
I would know that one needs to add each single, solid, soft layer
of earth, of mineral, of sand and solar love
one at a god damn time.
All the way from the bottom
up through the star
hidden in the bridge of my nose.
Instead, I took a 2 dimensional spoon from some cartoon on the tube
and slammed it against the surrounding edges of my canyon
smiling at the delirious, dehydrated state of the being I was, laughing at the deepening, increasingly busted state of the psyche I toiled to correct.
Shrugging sunburnt shoulders and exclaiming, with no certainty and no care for it aside, “hopefully the dust settles such that all is well and fine, the hole is filled and once again we can think about sunshine, or perhaps even a solitary emotion rooted in more than air and empty arcs.”
Would you like to know why, dear writer, you will never be worthy of the sun? Of that last cup of water, of a kiss beneath a crimson blanket as the song you hate most plays and you forget to care about the overly crusted chorus?
No matter how long you spend dreaming up a field of molten love and distant skies fit to brim with salubrious storms, no matter how many drinks you can fit behind your glazed eyes before the night is done, and no matter how few times you say “I truly despise your character”, the smoke will always fall off of that same balcony beneath the same moon and it’s neighborhood stars.
Ah, but no one said friendly.
It was always assumed.
Your heart is gold and your hands are cold, Halsey.
But my heart is a weak and fearful sponge, and my hands are too recklessly uncreative to find a way to say anything better about that which pumps them full of purpose, second in and second out.
I know what you’re asking, dear writer. It’s what you always ask on nights like this. Nights where, you feel you’ve finally beat enough dust into the air to hide the fact that there even is a canyon anymore. A gap of any sort. One can hardly find an uneven surface, so long as they refrain from wincing.
“What do I do? How do I finally do it? Why am I still like this, even though I am no longer like that?”
I will never have an answer better than this. This. What you are doing. Actually thinking about helping and doing your best to go and go and go until there is some sort of brighter future on the horizon, for you, or for anyone really, to chase.
Keep going. Create the horizon. You know you want to because you keep looking at it, asking, pleading, knowing it will not answer. So make it answer. Create the horizon, and dye the storms with your eyes.
I cannot help with the canyon, however. I’m a poem, not a therapist. Get a therapist, and make sure they have the right kind of shovel–the short handle one with the nice plastic grip surrounding decent iron, the one you used to plant 100 trees in a single day. Let them toil away at you, as you toil at the world. Everyone needs help. Get help.
Get help so that you yourself can help. So that you yourself can finally, maybe, perhaps at last, sing the song buried at the bottom of your canyon, the one that needs good top soil reaching all the way to the surface. The one that yes, will then need water every single day after the hole is filled and yes, the one that will need sunlight from each separate dawn until the dawn’s respective end and yes, mulch that will not simply be tossed away by the next alcoholic breeze.
You want to finally sprout? You’d like a tree that means something? A day where you finally feel worthy of a kiss, of sweet songs written with the quills of the moon?
Soil. Water. Sun. Mulch. Love.
Love even so.
Love, in rest.
Now play me out with the droopy notes threatening to end the concert of your eyelids earlier than expected. There are jobs to do that tired folk should not be doing.
photo credit to lunacameo
This entire season is, of course, hugely emotional. With that in mind, it must be stated that whatever I state here will inevitably lack any sort of intelligent discourse. I am running off of pure emotion as I finish my repeated journey through season 4 of Orange is the new Black. Good. Now that we have established you are reading the opinion of a brainless twat, we can continue.
The first time I finished this season, it would be easy to say I had a lot of questions. What season of any show leaves one without questions to be answered? It is the nature of media to leave the mind of the viewer wondering after whichever loose ends have been introduced, or what cliffhangers keep one intrigued enough to care when the next season/movie/book/installment comes into the world.
This time around, I had one question only, and it isn’t original by any means. I wondered, “Why Daya?”
I don’t know the real answer. I’m not smart enough for that. However, I have my own answer after rewatching, and I can’t help but share it because even if it is way off base, I feel it is super important.
We see more than one woman experience pregnancy and caring for children throughout the show, that much is clear. Hell, motherhood is a central theme. Still, I see Daya as the most visceral experience of motherhood in this setting and in this story. Her baby is seen not only as a problem for the generic white male guard Bennett, but also as a solution to rid the prison of the most corrupt generic white male guard present at the time, Pornstache. We see Daya suffer, we watch as she copes with her child being a problem as well as a solution, the humanity of mother and child itself morphed into this strange yet necessary dynamic of, “how do we turn the actual beauty of life into something useful?” To be certain, it is a journey.
Before I get too off base with that, let’s just fast forward to the point I’m trying to make here. Daya, at the end of season 4, holds the gun against possibly the most sick and twisted man presented to us in this series–Humphrey. I mean Pornstache at least had an infinitesimal amount of decency in that he cared for a child that he thought was his…? Perhaps Piscatella is worse, and that is certainly an argument that can be made. Also the other white male guard who did some of the worst shit you could imagine while deployed. Whatever. All men suck. Especially the white ones. For the sake of this argument, let’s say that Humphrey is portrayed as the worst this season, because we witness him inflicting psychological mayhem upon Maritza. He uses his power to do whatever the fuck he wants, which is nothing short of torture, a repo of female agency, and unmitigated corruption. Basically every single factor we have been shown in this show that is wrong with privileged males calling the shots in a women’s prison.
This is why Daya holds the gun.
The essence of motherhood, of womanhood, of everything it is to be an oppressed female of color in our modern society and the very gender that allows any of us to exist, is placed against this absolute abomination of male existence. It is the comeuppance of everything Woman, given the choice to put down the sick, rabid dog that is Man. It is the cliffhanger and the question anyone who truly considers themselves a feminist inevitably wonders. Is it morally correct to simply kill that which plagues us? Whether Humphrey deserves it doesn’t really matter, when the scene is placed in this context. Does the male gender, with all that it has done to oppress, intimidate, and control women over the course of, I don’t know, all of history ever–deserve to finally be put down?
I wonder at the mind that sees the moral value of this as, “no life should be taken as such. Administer punishment otherwise, and let them live in the hopes that they will learn, that they will do better.”
At this point, with all that has occurred, with everything currently occurring in our nation, in the world at large…I mean…fuck them. Fuck us. Fuck men and their relentless disregard for half of the human race, and fuck white men in particular for using their privilege to further cause harm to people of color, women of color, and women as a whole.
I don’t have the mental fortitude to argue a possible reason for Daya, or the show’s writers, to allow Humphrey/a symbol of male power and privilege, a single additional breath.
Pull the trigger, Daya. Do us all a favor. Shoot the patriarchy right in its dumb fucking face, once and for all.