Take a writing class w/ me!
Poems are like exhaled breaths. Recyclable. Disposable. What keeps you alive is not the breath but the act of breathing.
I am not your ornament/ not yours to ornament.
“I could tell you my stories but that won’t undo them. The opposite: to tell you my stories is to solidify them. To think the unthinkable. Make real my reality. Tongue it. Tangible. And here I could insert a metaphor about mountains and climbing. Upward motion. Fist in the air like a warrior. But I’m tired of that. In my poems I say things like “I want to kick in my father’s teeth” because it’s true. I round-house kick a boxing bag and pretend I am kicking in my father’s teeth. If I had the chance I would kick in my father’s teeth. Afterwards I would shatter. And I want to say It’s not possible to shatter any more than I already have but I’ve learned that’s not true. It’s always possible to shatter more. Pain is an abyss. We know this.” –from “Wired: 29 Short Stories
Today writing poetry seems dumber than ever
I am so tired of trying to squeeze
Myself into this two-dimensional space
And pretend it brings you closer
To knowing me
I want to stand in a bright room
In white overalls
Slap paint onto a canvas twice my size
And make a movie of it
So that you’re not sure
If I am making art or
Myself
And is that art
To attempt living
When you’d rather not
I don’t think so
I mean yeah poems can be powerful
Take shape like soft
Pills that melt inside us
Swimming through our veins
Like microscopic angel fish
Collecting temporary heavens
Like this
Is all I ever mean
The nerves in your bottom
Lip when you think of me
When my nail polish doesn’t
Chip for two days
Fuck a career
I want you to read
My words and cry because you know
What I mean when I say
There is a scream
That starts in my belly and tears
Up through my chest
Gets caught on the barbed
Wire in my throat
How quickly we would burn
Our own books out of love
For everything they cannot touch
JULIET II by SARAH XERTA
THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME