Poetry Under the Stairs

I'm one of those artsy, idealistic people who resisted the very weak urge to major in business or computer science (you know, gave corporate America the finger), and decided to get my degree in something that I feel truly passionate about and believe is a vital part of our individualism and culture that functions as a crucial mirror for society.

All that translates into "I'll be poor forever."  So here's a poem I had published by the kick-ass people at Haggard and Halloo Publications. Surreal poetry rocks.

Heated Color
Haggard & Halloo Publications: Jan 23, 2011
http://www.haggardandhalloo.com/

Ignore the scrape of scales on the sidewalk.

Help.
It’s all gonna bleed out neat and nice,
and the linens will smell soft again;
he can hit the road – truck full of loads they put
on his fraternity tease and their records stamped
with stabbed freedom, torn from a country
horizon in absofuckinlutely Nowhere, Tx.

I rode on a bus once
and pretended I was in a music video. Me and Gods.
What a sweet girl. What a smart girl.
Prick my finger and see if you burn. That bus left me dragging.
Children saw my beautiful body flinging bright
red glory undiscovered. It covered their faces
in Jackson Pollack portrait flashes.

Ugly crunch of white.
Yellow grass unloved, uncared for, but not from
the beginning. No, in the opening page of this
the smoke tasted different coming from one mouth
to another. The first time she heard the hurling roar
of the ocean her body froze in awe and
overwhelming shades that smelled undeserving.

Masichism minus fun.
Chase their shadow to a better block, a brighter
street that beckons in the cool paint of night – the canvas.
Cross yourself and ask the king for advice and the
priest for absolution. Damn, things light up
with crazy at an alarming rate. Everyone caging us,
stroking the antidote hope, soap that dirties me and you.

I’m telling you man – it’s cooking.

               

Vinyl Fiend

Once upon a time, in a possibly more artistically aware age, people filed into music stores to physically purchase whole albums. Albums in which musicians spent legions of blood, sweat, and Marlboros formulating and arranging into this black disc that once you touch the needle to, morphs into some transcendental sphere of euphoric senses taking you by the hand and telling you a story. 

As a member of Generation Y, I understand and appreciate the advantages of the digital age and am totally guilty of buying a few song downloads from an artist rather than their whole album; however, these were from more recent musicians and groups who came around well after vinyl was primarily used by record companies. I don't think they have the same creative process as musicians did in vinyl's heyday. It was more of a serious art form back then, wheras today it's all about having the hottest single. 

Anyway - I fucking love vinyl....the fuzz between songs. I'm a thrift-store rat. You have to pass through a lot of Anne Murray and Christmas music, but it's worth a good 50 cent find. I found my Jeff Beck Group album that way. I also bought a Hank Williams Jr.......why not?

 My point is that when I get home and put my "new" record on (that's another thing, I'm a vinyl purist. I am in no way interested in the new vinyl pressing of Nelly's "Country Grammar"...give me a fucking break), I can sit on the floor and listen to the entire album: from "Whole Lotta Love" all the way to side two's "Bring it on Home", and be completely immersed in another world that surpasses dimension. I can crawl inside it for an hour, forget the latest bullshit, and be transported to a well of creativity that I can bask in or drink from; or I can flip through my Ipod and experience a vast variety of emotions and images that fail to create any real meaning or pattern.  However, there is something delicious about chaos, so I get it. The download days are here for good.... (maybe), but I can't help it. I'm a progressive vintage girl.