I've got a writing problem

Did you notice that? 

That sound in your refrigerator, emanating from your cell phone, thrumming through the power lines and the car stereo?

There’s not a moment on this earth that’s not full of white noise and vibration. No moment of silence is complete without the comforting whir of an air conditioner, or maybe it’s something in the plumbing pipes, no one ever asks because no one ever wonders.

I live in the poetry, though I cannot write it. I see this poem before me written by my ancestor And I breathe it in, exhale its essence like fire; The poet’s heart I understand, not only, I bleed for, I cry for, I die for them. While I look at the world with eyes of disdain, In poetry, I sway and swoon, astounded by its beauty.

Art Shows Have A Most Profound Effect On Me

Who am I? Not quite myself, At least not anymore. Well, I still exist Not one entity alone, But many. The artists— They’re the sum of me

At the time of day That marks our passage From old to new From young to eager, We begin Not in our own heads, But in the soul of another, Our heads filled with flowers, Passive and idle for years.

The fear once we decide To think for ourselves Follows with uncanny elation Something beginning, Something new and untouched, Liberation, a realization—

Tylenol

Have I even ever know what it feels like to live in  One fluid motion? Or maybe it’s better this way, this Jagged life, with its Lurching stops and  Jolts And long unnecessary Pauses So if these jagged days are here to stay, then tell me, how am I supposed to cover up all the scratches they leave? How will I keep polishing the armor that tarnishes by dusk, slowly building bigger pockets of rust? How can I ever Buy enough Band-Aids?

What do I use to numb the unexpected growing pains that 3pm always brings? Does extra strength even work better?

The Cloak of Invisibility

The confused facade breaks and shatters, and the clothes that bind the facade are thrown in a pile in the back seat of the car. The makeup is wiped off. And the maps fall out of the glove compartment, never to be referenced again. Today is a good day to be

Uncovered.

It usually happens while driving on the highway, at night. One second your drowsy eyelids are nearly closing out of fatigue, and the next they snap open as you swerve. You wake up tired. Tired of trying to be something, be someone noteworthy every single day, putting up a front for the world and trying to be some higher level version of yourself.

You x2, You 2 The MAX, the glorious and sparkling version, smothered in charisma and glowing with exuberance, cloaked with the armor of your valor and virtues.

In the time after, you no longer desire to be seen. You don’t even care to be heard. The chameleon is the more enticing of the two choices ahead. And you just want to be

The Infinite Science of Connection

The pinky swear, the blood-swear hand shake, the shaking hands before the performance, the palms sweating, the couples holding hands under streetlights

Two cousins with the same last name, two strangers with the same first name, same birthdate, same high school, same favorite flavor ice cream, 1 million people with the same dreams

150,000 people with the same conditions to live in, 7 billion people with the same oxygen to steal, four regions of the globe with the same rainstorms

Countless synapses fire in pleasure as countless individuals enjoy the smell of the earth after it rains, the same dopamine received when this place smells like home, the same exhale of exhaustion and staunching flow of adrenaline at the end of an exhausting day

107 billion people that have ever enjoyed different versions of the same humanity, maybe more--who knows how many alternate realities? the same desire to feel joy, the same longing to express love, to be loved, to revel in the universe’s beauty

Humans

Last Opening Night

Five more seconds of solitude In the dressing room Until the world finds out where I am With the muffled silence of  Whirring air conditioners and Distant laughing Tap shoes clacking And then the world will crack open Fill up with noise And neon pink and blue lights

But for now  I look in the makeup mirrors In front and behind See myself for an artificial infinity As my reflection bounces  Back and forth Illuminated by white gold Globe lights Eyelash crimpers and Red lipstick stains on the counters

But when?

At what point did she come to realize that she would be better liked if she became a chameleon, if she lived for someone else? Changed shades with the seasons, the ebbs and flows of trendy crowds?

And when did she decide that people would consider her a thing of beauty if only she always wore a mask? Covered up her insecurities with paint and plastic, who cares if it chafes or scratches or makes the space underneath her eyes sweat?

And what caused her to stop considering herself worthwhile? Of individuality, of her voice, respect? 

Was it between ages fifteen and sixteen— or sixteen and seventeen... when we had already drifted in different directions? Or maybe it was while I still knew her so well, but one time I blinked too long or woke up one day and failed to notice she had already left.

And she was fifteen years old, like your daughters at home, too young to drive and just still naive enough to make you worry when they’re not back by 11:00. But as your own daughter looks to you with a suddenly scared expression, you’re watching CNN and you take her hand, say, “Don’t you worry darling, that’ll never happen to you.”

And yes indeed, we’re born the lucky ones with fair faces just as beautiful and worthy as those of our darker brothers and sisters. Born into the right state, in the right neighborhood, on the right side of towns that are “not segregated” anymore. Man, we left all that absurdity in the sixties.

The girl in the orange bathing suit, lying pinned to the ground for four minutes screaming for someone to call her momma would beg to differ.

But aren’t you glad that your daughter wasn’t there?

The Beauty That Comes From the Brain’s Right Side

So you want to be an artist?

Then first let everybody paint you. Let everyone decide who you are, what you stand for, and what you’re bound to become. The critics, the readers, the viewers, the teachers, and after you’re dead, the art history professors. You’re life is up to them.

Paint, draw, write, and sing everything and anything that your heart exists to produce. Just know that nothing will matter unless someone watches, listens. Notices.

So let them label you with the colors of the sunset sky. And don’t even look up from your work, but continue with the tenacity of all your fellow convicts to call yourself a dreamer. 

Fast Minds Never Still

Wire emboldens me, the chains, the epileptic rainbow charms hanging off a lake drain the imagination from an overactive mind. Drip dry, zip fly so functioning can happen once again, and again, and again, and again...

Slipstream, I’m mean, I dream dreams of seams of cantaloupe lined up in columns of antelope (what are antelope(s)?). You’re out of your goddamn mind, go to sleep, it’s already morning, no it’s actually 12:30 PM. Then get off of drugs, start healing—

Ma’am, I’m naturally this way. Thanks to George Saunders and Salvador Dalí. 

Surrealism ruined my life.

I am But will never exist enough To be

I’m defiant But not enough To be a rebel Unique Not quite special enough To be one-of-a-kind

I walk too slow to keep up I talk too loud to be heard My hands, though talented Will never make something worthwhile The ideas in my brainspace Aren’t even original

I haven’t reached my full Potential today There’s tomorrow, I guess Or maybe tomorrow I will still be

Too young to be wise And too old to be naive Too reticent to be eloquent But too talkative to be introspective Maybe I will always be

Too much to fit in But too little to stand out And I cannot stand The thought That I might never be Too lovely to be ordinary Too brilliant to be dull

I cannot handle the idea That they’ll never see Me Overshadowed by my incompetency

And in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to run a ship aground or jump out of a rocket or drive a car right off of a bridge and into the vast, gorgeous sea.

But do not mistake my sentiments for notions of suicide. No, suicide was unthinkable.

It was just that I felt so, inhumanly, incoherently free in that moment that I felt very nearly ready to challenge death.

I felt so alive that I was beginning to doubt I should ever die.

Writer’s Block

It’s a two for one—a loss of the words and a loss of the soul. It’s a sickness running circles in a sludge, sinking deeper in the brain. The words are covered in fog and fuzz, it’s hard to see through the haze. Softly, dimly flickering, you’re afraid they’ll die completely.

This notion makes you nauseous, empty as an echo. Random words you try to sling bounce off walls but fail to stick, fail to even make a sound. The stale and dreadful feeling as words gather up behind your lips, lining up to take the dive from the cliff off of your chin.