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POETRY
--The Struggle to Mean(s)
--Destin Without Turn
--She: A Fetus
--I Shop Therefore I am
--I AM A...

THE STRUGGLE TO MEAN(S)

Take a Seat in the Theatre-of-the-Absurd
(10 Cents to Watch the Dance of Cognitive Dissonance)

I sit in a theatre-of-the-absurd
Where role-playing is a way of life
For our money
In cumbersome costume
In a cage
Built themselves
By-hand
Evoking our sympathy
Our money

The Search For Meaning:

Tourists pile off air-conditioned buses
Clutching purses in premature panic

Expectation: find meaning in what they lack:
Authenticity:
An assumption rooted in our ignorance
I sigh

Exotic difference must be easy-to-read: authentic but accessible
“It is a doomed search for meaning” O’Rourke said sadly

I sit in a theatre-of-the-absurd
Where meaning lies in the meaningless

I-not exempt from the tour of cognitive dissonance

My hands write in search of enlightenment
—embedded nails bitten but see no stress—
My hands reach into my pockets
—coins jingle like loose shrapnel—
Hands searching for what they owe…

The Fair Trade Game:

I pay her less than two dollars
Her tired eyes half-satisfied
Her weathered hands take the crumpled bills
My guilty eyes twinkle with satisfaction
My eager hands take the rice-paper painting

This is fair trade

It is an authentic piece of art
Buddha hand-sketched in charcoal
Painted over in Christmas reds and greens
I show the circle of teenagers lazy on the grass
Leaning on backpacks

Cool we laugh

I bought hand-sewn silk pants
For less than the cost of specialty coffee
I wear them real low
So you can see my pelvic bone
So I look effectively sloppy

I walk down the sewage stained streets
With an air of white-authority
I smile at whistles of leather-faced drivers
Of motorbike taxis
I take a photograph of a three-legged dog

To me three is odd

It’s an airless grey day humid and heavy
Like most other days here
The smell of rotting cow-carcass at high noon
And noodle soup made with rainwater
Mingle in the air

The Products Of (In)Difference:

I buy a can of Coca-Cola light
Because they do not call it Diet
I don’t ever buy drinks not bottled or boiled
Always use a straw
I consciously try not to gulp

So I can learn to savour

I pay a street vendor for a slice of pineapple
Hands guide the dull knife
Acidity stings the cracks at the corners of my lips
Juices rumble in the caverns of my belly
I follow the directions my guesthouse gave me

I pay a man sitting on a stool to let me climb a mountain

The mountain has stairs
A spine curling up its massive body
Carved out of the rock
Hands holding chisels
Leave impressions that look like acid rain drops

Children pepper the steps begging me to buy postcards
Miss Madame—buy this—Miss buy this

I squat down and point my camera lens up
To take a picture of trees with trunks so thick leaves so lush
And the children crowd me
Unripe hands reach out free of humiliation
Confused why I won’t pay ten cents for a postcard

With all the money I got
They wonder why I came this far

The Path To Enlightenment:

Do not look directly into their eyes
Do not acknowledge their extended hands
It’s this act of cognitive dissonance
It’s this way we can go home again
And pay for specialty coffee

I am loyal to this act of cognitive dissonance—with no need for justification…

I find pleasure just looking at the sky (see: loyalty to cognitive dissonance)
Here the night sky wears rings of gold
On its seductive black hands
Glowing stars mock the endless dark
Blinking like beautiful eyelashes

I stare content at the sky—
Dogs bark at that sky

Peasants cry to that sky for rain

I photograph them—
Bang! Bang!

I steal their souls
To show my friends

The Agreeable Grin:

Coffee comes half-filled with condensed milk
Pushcarts don’t serve Sweet n’ Low
Before sunrise people sit piled on the sidewalk
I sit with them—knees to my chest
Balmy hands around a glass mug

We sip our coffees—savouring

Men suck tobacco from bamboo water pipes
They cough black smoke through decaying teeth
In circles they sit—laughing—clapping calloused hands
In circles they sit picking dirty toenails
In circles they sit around a single bowl of rice

Sharing it bare-hands make it last all night

I buy a pastry and bite in hungry
It ejaculates sweet green custard too sweet and too green
Washing it down with gulps of sugary-condensed-milk-coffee
I am left with sticky hands gurgling belly top-of-mouth layered in filmy candy
I watch a pair of women beside me lick long fingers with wet tongues

What if one day I could live here
I could make handicrafts—sell them on the street
Marry a fire-thrower
Buy a mansion on the sea for the cost of a Fisher Price jeep
I would want to

In pencil I sketch the wrinkled woman on the cracked plastic stool across from me
I smile she does not smile back 
This is one exchange she is not willing to accept
Hands folded in her lap
She knows what I want and will not give me that:

Agreeable grin

The Dance Of Cognitive Dissonance:

The women work too much
Who am I to judge
They barter they cook they sew they nurse they wash
The men work too hard
Who am I to say
They haul wooden barrels and roll wheelbarrows

Across the unpaved land you can see it in their hands

Hands with thinning skin bulge veins so stressed
Hands reaching out crusted with earth but empty
Hands like mine just hackneyed
Except I have pockets full of money and my hands reach into them
Buried in the denim lining my hands embarrassed of their innocence
           
I sit in a theatre-of-the-absurd
Where meaning is found in the struggle to mean(s)

I slide my coins into the machine
One
By
One
They
Get
Up
And
Dance
Mechanically
Stoic
Faces
Hopping
Hopefully
Marionettes held by strings 

I sit in a theatre-of-the absurd
And it makes me want to stand


BACK TO TOP

 

 

Destin Without Turn

She howls—

 

                      Lick the filth off my abused lungs

 

                                                                              — But is not heard.

She curls her toes inward,
claws, sinking into the moist Earth.

Once destiny held her like a marionette,
Atropos cuts the thread of life.

She howls,

her spine begins to coil and sever,
every notch like a pearl on a string,

Sequence
is
set
free.

Her mouth accumulates discharge:
 at its ends.

She howls,
tear the skin off my suffocating flesh,

wear me like a velvet cape.

 

BACK TO TOP

 

She:
a fetus
raw and bare.

Lined the night opalescent

With discharge
 despair

Noon offered nothing
but the disillusioned clown

Draped over her
supple skin
Wore her
like a crown

She:
not ever broken.

gaunt figure impaled

limbs nailed to a mirror

over puddles of red

She dangled

She dripped

offerings to Belladonna

H o w l e d with resonance

                  They danced around nude.

Juice from black berries dripping
from their lips
Chants sung nobody could hear

Tounges twisted
tied

saliva
tide

They lay down
cunts bare

The Earth soggy accepted their form,

Healing.
Saturating.
Stroking.

WoundsExposed
by whippings

by desire
forbidden

Earth  m o v e d  beneath them,

Grew around them

Whispering urge
In their ears.

their bodies
their bed,
their refuge.

With knees to their chest. 

Until dawn:
when day would eat away at their flesh


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I Shop Therefore I am

It fit like a perfect princess fits on her rich-velvet throne. Like no love story Holywood has told: It fit. Like summer-sun warming bare-legs and freshly polished toes: It fit.

The bustier-inspired bust modestly enhancing, the fitted body slenderizing, yet practical. Seams softly licking down the side of my torso, hitting the hip and letting loose where a girl must swing. Just the right amount of legs bared—screams sexy, but does not plead. Tube-top cutting through bare chest, collarbone flirting bellow pearl-drop earrings. Neon-pink crashing appropriately in a sea of lime-green, splashed with beads woven in Nepalese-style embroidery.

The dress hugged me as I slipped on glittered-gold, peep-toe stilettos. It tickled me as I sipped white bubbly, as I let my feet dance freely and as I twirled the curls of my thick hair around my index finger melodically.

Now the dress hangs perky and eager in my colourful closet, raw silk and all—amongst stripped linen jump suits, hand-sewn denim backpacks and crinoline tutus.

 

BACK TO TOP

 

I AM A...

I AM A HELIUM FILLED BALLOON inhale my breath and I will make you squeal.

I am well rounded. Defined by my never-ending sleek curves.
I can make your hair stand on end with a soft rub.

Play, but don’t be too rough. I burst under pressure.
My skin ‘aint thick, but it is smooth.

I rest easily under your grip.
Waiting for you to release me.

Longing to float away.

As I wait for the day where I can drift aimlessly into the open air,
I celebrate life in all its occasions.

 

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