If my identity is negotiated for me within certain constructs (and if anyone with more brain waves than rocks have sees, hears, feels, smells, or tastes me, it is) then if I do not say their names, even to deny them or fuck them up, the identity that is created when I speak is not influenced by this thing that says “I” and makes others say “you” or “she”. Is that fine with you (I’d say “you” but then might as well put quotes around every word)? Maybe until “you” (purity repulses me) go to make a withdrawal from “your” bank account.

The Bird Girl is the perfect artist otherwise. Art and artist at once, without a damn thing to say for herself.

This thing that says I, says “I”. And so does yours. Why should an impure people have pure art? Why would they? Do you remember what has been done in that name? Do you care?

How many of those acts did you have to learn? How many of them were burned into your skin or into skin like yours? Oh no, I won’t say “yours” here.

Purity is always either disgusting or boring. It’s the pursuit that’s really repulsive—and the valorization of that drive. Valor from valere, be strong. Those things that say I because they have to never get medals for it. Don’t write a poem about rape, the unnamed editor told Julie Buffaloe-Yoder.

Commas, are pure. White space, is pure. I                  use them impurely. This our language is (thing that says I), not mine.

Related articles by Zemanta

• I am a lie who always speaks the truth (paulocoelhoblog.com)
• 11 Things: Lady Gaga lyrics (sfgate.com)
• Owning manuscripts is one thing: owning the contents is quite another (guardian.co.uk)

Related posts:

1. Progress, Change, Poetics
2. Rapists’ Art

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

everything was per,fect  cold    made
ice out of the bear's fur
before she went extinct
he carpeted my floor & skin remained

on my feet         I cd run away if glass
shattered for me the way they did for evil
queen's beautiful warts & hairy cheeks

but I am not so blessed
whitely smooth or speckled tan

I felt the bear's skin
on my feet made smooth
by months in bed
(I wasn't his prisoner      never no, more
the sex, his sex  was just that good

I felt murder in my toes
crawled back into bed
turn me on——it's perfect                 made me cold

Related articles by Zemanta

• Ravages of Sleep; A Magpie Tales (smalltownmountainboy.blogspot.com)
• Poem – Me Without You (teabreak.pk)

Related posts:

1. Magpie Prompt Poem
2. Weekend Prompt
3. Weekend Prompt
4. Weekend Prompt
5. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
6. Thursday Read Write Poem
7. Thursday Read Write Poem
8. Thursday Read Write Poem
9. Thursday Read Write Poem
10. Thursday Read Write Poem

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Manifesting after Emily Dickinson

—If I can stop one heart from breaking I
will learn to drink salt water & piss it out fresh
will chew aluminum cans into diamonds
                               no one will die to mine or steal
(or steel arms to save you from

—If I can ease one life the aching I
will learn to be ice on your knees
                              & feel warm when moon
is only blurred by clouds

——Help one fainting robin
unto his nest again,
I'll transcribe his song

                      which I'll hear
                 changing every day
                      after even his hatchlings have died

Related articles by Zemanta

• Emily Dickinson in Bloom (blogs.wsj.com)
• Emily Dickinson’s Secret Love (huffingtonpost.com)
• Video: Hope Is… by Emily Dickinson (beliefnet.com)

Related posts:

1. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
2. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
3. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
4. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
5. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
6. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
7. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
8. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
9. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
10. Sunday Poem for Big Tent Poetry

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

every fire extinguisher turned into a book that summer
their pages were printed letterpress with the heavy kind of punch
     makes girls swoon
                         some of us are sensitive to ink fumes
                               and blue is worse than black
  don't forget puce                 is healing
                               and no one wants to see that

imagine arranging upside down metal
characters in eight-point font
                                                MO
                                                -ADID TYPE
                                                EXTINGUISHER
                                                R FIRE
                                                BOTTOM UP
and you'll know how lost I felt
whenever he kissed me

after he raped me

every fire extinguisher turned into a book
I could open street or subway signs
name the plot or rhythm
          which might have been forced ecstasy
          but it wore off
     and leaves of red & yellow
  turned brown beneath rain & feet

I left the city
signs were only signs          and I discovered arrows
again                            I wd've let anyone
                                hose me down if only heat
& open hydrants had reappeared

Related posts:

1. Magpie Prompt Poem
2. Weekend Prompt
3. Weekend Prompt
4. Weekend Prompt
5. Thursday Read Write Poem
6. Thursday Read Write Poem
7. Friday Poem for Big Tent Poetry
8. Thursday Read Write Poem
9. Thursday Read Write Poem
10. Thursday Read Write Poem

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.