Poetry is how I reveal myself in the most vulnerable and true way. It’s a form of meditation and condensation of my thoughts. The words I generate I tend to regard as mostly meaningless to others. A lifelong stuggle with self-esteem issues has left me hesitant to ask others to read my poetry. I wouldn’t want to be a burden. After all, who likes poetry?
I have considered starting yet another blog and moving on, but I have written in this blog, however sloppily, since I was a 19-year-old confused semi-radfem stoner night-time deli diva of the scandalous variety, and it is so comforting to me to have that continuity. When I look back over this blog, as I often do (for I mostly intend for it to be a personal collection for archival purposes) I start to wonder: are these real poems? Are the word combos I rack up worth anything other than imaginary Juliet points? Do I sound as insane in real life as I do in my poems? These are rhetorical questions. I ask them into the blogosphere, to no one in particular, to whatever phantom nobodies brought here by a random click.
There is reason to believe
in the proverbial light
at the end of the tunnel
crawl down the funnel
reach for the honey,
the old gold and rainbow
Tread lightly, these colors don’t run.
The real deal’s here. It’s phony gelt
It melts in your hand, not in your mouth
Look twice. The spectrum’s sewn inside
your cloak of stars,
that atomized silver lining
Atomsk’s disciple on the natural bridge,
theories confirmed, self-sacrifice cigarettes burned,
that’s me, I am Mamimi. A microcosm of adolescent crises,
a millenial on the verge of beautiful overflow,
swimming in data.
This is a new class of warfare altogether.
We bond in the trenches, make silent jokes of gestures,
or turn against: enemies behind our own counter.
Some, equally stalwart, planted or sliding,
endure the onslaught and level up to expediter tanks,
Their righteous humorous social media volleys
a dozen tiny David’s 2cents: 140 word pin-pricks in Goliath’s side.
(I hope they haunt Howard as he cries himself to sleep.)
A few, emerging unharmed, save for steam wand scars on their arms,
caked in syrup, reeking of moldy caramel, ears ringing with rebuke,
make a run for it,
& survive the onslaught to become embittered veterans
diagnosis? Post Traumatic Starbucks Disorder.
This Jackson’s mine
Not like the big bucks I tuck
in Uncle Howie’s billfold daily
Ah, that’s the stuff.
You’d stiff your partners for it
a swift shank in the side’ll show ’em
Keep ’em coming, America,
there’s more where that came from.
Sentiment gets loaded on possibility,
Drunk dials future prospects,
Sabotage on the brain. Three years, down the drain,
Maintained a stolid homeostasis of self-effacement.
At what cost comes such succulent flagellation?
Nonsense cultural appropriation.
Totally lit, wallow in it,
Make of it what you see fit.