enemies and friends

Published April 18, 2013 by pipsqueak

my enemy is the sucking giant hole of apathy
i will sometimes crumble into
when i am too lacerated by shrapnel of the world
to fathom pulling myself from my cocoon of  sheets

when i read Google news
sadness slithers into me like heavy syrup
and bogs me down until i cannot move
the world is broken, why should i survive?

the answer is lies with my closest friends, who are:
the soft palms of the boy at the punk show
the femme fatale kiss of coffee
my best friend moaning about cinnamon popcorn
the chatter of those lovable assholes i hang out with

we pile damp twigs of discontentment
make sparks with hormones and rusty old lights
we shout as they wither and burst into flame


can poems change anything?

Published April 15, 2013 by pipsqueak

poem, i thought you were here for “closure”
what is that? it’s nothing i’ve known to happen
and liquid memories trickle through the seams
of the cardboard boxes in the attic of my mind

they cannot hold the gentle one i let wander too far in
even though i saw the thrash of agony in her
i didn’t know that she would grow so wrathful
and she barreled right through my ribs

and the fingerprints fade, but i can’t forget
the lattice of overwrought bruises
that we slapped on each other, plastering pains on pains
instead of making the slow choice to be gentle

worse than the slow-burn of pain, the flash of joy:
now i have ceded the authority of my reality
to those who have never learned my secrets,
not trusting the erratic flap of my own
butterfly-wing mind

Focusing on Something is Difficult

Published April 9, 2013 by pipsqueak

I sample hobbies like halloween candy, picking them up and discarding them as soon as I don’t find them interesting anymore. Trying things out is cool, because you learn about lots of different things. But I’ve always the envied the concentration and dedication of those who give themselves completely to their craft. I think the quintessential example is the ballerina who has been training since she was three. Hours of practice and exertion adding up to something beautiful.

I am not that ballerina. I am the living example of Quantity over Quality. Hnng. Need a very basic Tae Kwon Do move executed? (At this point, I only remember the ones with cool names, like “Tiger Mouth” and “Ox Jaw”) Want me to play a simple guitar song in the key of C? How about a sloppy watercolor painting? Or a scatterbrained poem written? Or a charmingly rough-hewn pencil sketch of an eyeball? Or a knitted sweater? Or the theme song of Sherlock played on accordion?


you think this is for comic effect but i’ve dabbled in like 4 of these instruments (via flickerstage)

So here I am, the product of many fulsome years of doing this and that. Nothing in particular very intensely, though, except maybe knitting and writing. And although in some ways, my sample-pack approach to Doing Stuff has been fun and illuminating, I do feel a bit unrefined. I envy the laser precision of some people’s dedication to their craft. I mean, they are out there, BEING AMAZING AT ONE THING THEY PRACTICED A LOT.

if you haven't stabbed yourself with a mirror you aren't trying hard enough (via fanpop)

what i’m saying is if you haven’t stabbed yourself with a mirror you aren’t trying hard enough (via fanpop)

I used to be completely confused as to how people could stick to something so faithfully. In the past, I’ve found myself squirming with boredom, sickness of the sameness, when I stick with something for too long. I’ve had this fear of going into something and having it be really boring. And that has happened to me a few times. I gave up flute after three years (it was hard to channel my adolescent angst in its dulcet tones). I thought it was all sonatas and sunshine, which didn’t suit me. But maybe if I’d stuck to it, I could have actually found a way to do something cool (to a middle schooler) with it. I mean, that beat-boxing flute guy did.

freaking beatboxing flute

literally so metal (via jonestunes)

I think that you need to make something your own in order for it to be truly impressive. Although technical expertise can be staggeringly impressive, I think that what truly marks an artist is the ability to add something new.  Maybe the mark of a genius at something, then, be it ballet or needlepoint, is the ability to synthesize their expertise with imagination, to add the richness of their experience and make art. We’ve seen writers of every generation reinvent their craft again and again. From Homer to Steve Roggenbuck, there have been endless iterations of what poetry can be and mean.

So here, dear reader, is my mission (and yours, possible): To find a hobby, a thing to do, and stick to it. Become good at it. And then do something with it that no one has ever done before. If Debbie New can knit a boat, then anything is possible.

none of your punk-ass grandma shit here (via valariebudayr)

none of your punk-ass grandma shit here (via valariebudayr)

put it down, let it go

Published April 7, 2013 by pipsqueak

maybe your voice was a sonic boom that shuddered my insides
the tiny quirks of your fingers traced sparks on my skin
and the contours of your mind were my favorite maze

maybe so, darling, but since then
i have yanked off the tablecloth, broke the bone china
you were so sad about the stains!

now my ears ring with the cacophony of breaking
we tiptoe backwards, crumbling away, stumbling over debris
and shouting apologies into the middle distance

vers de printemps

Published April 6, 2013 by pipsqueak

today i snuck away from the formation
shucking off my regimental blues
my gold epaulets are askew
and the tongue lolls in my black boots
but i am radiant in the drunken morning

i capper through spring mist
whistling birdsong with my scratchy voice
i run my hands through the greenery
ripping out lush handfuls of leaves
twisting the flower stems until
they fray and tumble into my hands

i bruise the petals
with the pads of my fingertips

Book Review: The Difficult Farm

Published March 29, 2013 by pipsqueak

       (via spdtoday)

Heather Christle’s poems are full of emotion, conveyed in oblique ways involving pioneers and assassination and yelling at forests.

Some of her poems sound like the beautiful babbling observations of an omniscient magical alien. The poems change emotions as unexpectedly as a finicky toddler, so you’re never bored. Christle’s work is mostly very exciting to read, full of novel phrases and shiny metaphors. Some of her poems contains snippets of fairytales, historical references, or bits of dialogue snagged from a stream of conscience. It’s these expertly-joined bits that forge such exquisite little stories.

Dear stupid forest

Dear totally brain-dead forest

Dear beautiful ugly stupid forest

full of nightingales

Why won’t you shut up.

-“Acorn Duly Crushed” by Heather Christle

Heather Christle is a young poet, pretty much free from the norms of traditional poetry.  Not a rhyme scheme or iambic foot in sight anywhere. Her poems are full of vivid, unorthodox ideas and images. However, many of them do have a sort of hypnotic rhythm when read out loud. There’s also something about them that, even though many of the poems are somewhat uncomfortable, seems very humane.

When they say nobody rides horses anymore

what the mean is: look, the ineffable sadness

has returned

-“Pale Lemon Square” by Heather Christle

I’m not really sure how to describe Christle’s poetry. It’s zingy, it’s full of surprises. Every poem contains 2-4 phrases that will make you feel strong emotions. Go read it.