.untamed thought. #3
I fall in love
With accordions.
Things I don’t know how to play.
Leave my fingertips
For drums sticks
And easily plucked guitar
Strings.
Dear Sylvia
When the audience
Has had their way
With you and judgement
What is left?
The blame.
They want to make our houses
Like spring.
Women like us,
Prefer
The colorless winter
For the vibrancy
Of fresh flowers and new paint
Reminds us
Of everything we
Will never come to
Meet again.
Hope you
Are well
Tabitha.
.A Woman Like Me.
Beautiful minds are often stricken with a beautiful tattered seam, seemingly well stiched but very much on the brink of falling apart.
We have mouths like swinging doors, vagina’s that never quit their search for the right touch, and an appetite for breaking already broken things.
I bought a second set of glasses just in case, you didn’t break so easily.
We get stuck on beautiful like dusty old record needles skipping on the same lines saying the same words, and they always listen. And we always laugh amongst the chatter of who we are and how absolutely amazing you fancy us to be.
This is funny to us… the luster you see in the insanity we kept well dressed.
But we know, our committment to you is much like the underwear we can’t find the next morning, or our right shoes. We are no Cinderwomen… we leave like dusk… break fast like wave at high tide.
We will drown you.
And you will love it.
Call it fantasy…
then anger
when the book meets it’s ending.
Sudden and abrupt.
cursivedream asked: so glad rudy retweeted you. I watched you at elevated tonight, and I must say, you are fantastic.
Thank You!!!! <3
4/30 Upstairs
she stomps.
I wonder what makes a woman
walk so heavy.
she is only up at night.
she fucks loudly.
-showers often.
I sometimes run into
her at the mailboxes.
she rarely makes eye contact
in passing…
i know
too much about her.
we suffer from the same
nervous shuffle.
2/30 .Letter to Charles Bukowski.
Dear Hank,
you ever sit back,
notice more than the sloppy roll of pantyhose
and drunk haggard women who try to stay
past the hour of wanting?
I often wonder,
what makes us so appealing
to the tramps who are only beautiful
with a mouthful Jameson and nuances of fairytales drowned out by
bastards and after hour bands…
Are we real to them?
You always yelled at mefor asking you the hard questions
but really…Are we real to them?
Old Men,
just wanting someone tolove us past the fascination…
past th epoems and pipe dreams
but they are much too taken by facades,
raspy voices,liquor and fucking to notice thethe sick in us…
We choose them Charles…
because we can’t fix ourselves.
So we poets,
tinker about the insidesof women we know
will leave at the first sight of storm,
we faulty umbrellas…we can’t weather shit but morning
withdrawls for a loversoothed when the next one
falls for us…
we are gypsy and bad mouth,
and we’re good at it…and they love us…
always love us in the beggining.
We know to keep us is impossible…
We know the bottles and the bars,
the pertual need to search for everything that is not there
is all that satisfies the appetite
and write it all down.
We will be remember as
careless old assholes…
you and me Hank…
but they will read us…and we will still
be more interested
in the way they came and went
than who they were
silent and sleeping.
Heartbreaking news today… I was raised in a dojo. 5 days a week for 12 years of my life… I was built by men and women who not only saw my potential as a Karate-ka but as a young woman. I am daughter to many. Hanshi Dometrich your encouragement lives with me some 20 years after the day I stepped foot in Yoseikan Hombu. You always snuck me rootbeer when Sensei was teaching :) Thank you for everything Chito-Ryu is today R.I.P <3
.Just a Thought. #1486
The fantasy
of being ideal
is but a figment
of a glamorous past.
I am
a woman
who loves
unconditionally,
that is enough.
.Sylvia Plath: #452.
Isn’t it daring,
the spiral we
fashion ourselves
inside
to one day
hope
to feel the
recoil
of love.
It’s a fast draw
and quick drown.
Hope you are well.
-Tabitha.
5/30 Age
Her name is Cheryl.
She paces the broken concrete
in front of my stoop.
She smokes heavily and
is always with Catherine,
who never leaves the comfort of
her oxygen tank and wheelchair.
Cheryl is drunk today
and smoking heavily.
I sometimes want to ask her,
why this life,
why choose to be
a face of wrinkles
missing all your teeth.
She goes on about
how being old
is an excuse for giving up.
She enjoys petting my dog.
Her hands look like old broken things,
her nails snaggled and chipped…
I don’t wonder who
Cheryl was…she quit
being anything more than
a crazed woman who
no longer gives a shit
about being human…
or being old…
or giving up.
It’s friday,
the sun is out…
I give her a smile,
Catherine mutters
a hello…
I wonder why she holds
so tightly to Cheryls hand…
3/30: Scenery
The bathroom
Is breathing in slow chokes
And the hot water stings
Like tiny nettles
On my back.
There is no dance left
In the shower curtain
And the candle pops
And burns hurriedly
Trying to stay focused
And centered.
I’ve written too many reminders
On the mirrors and as things
That grow tired it too has
Begun to forget
To tell me what
I was thinking
Yesterday.
There are too many bottles
Left half empty.
I’ve taken most of their goodness
And watched it sud and
Slide down the drain.
The paint bubbles
And bulges trying to be
Noticed.
This bathroom
Is my best listener,
Even when it looks as though
It’s given up on itself.
1/30 Apology to My Body
Whoever said loving is of heart
and soul forgot to send
my body a mo[u]rning memo
filled with reminders
of how to get back in shape after
lovers leave youlike question marks…
I’ve been staring at this room
from the tangled mess of bed sheet
and can’t seem to wake up my shadow…
My arms do not work for me,
my feet, dangling at the edge of the bed
hoping the floor is not so close…
this is what losing feels like,
this is what giving up smells like
and I can’t seem to shower
away the martyrdom from my breast.
So I let them stay wet with your kisses.
Silence can be debilitating,
broken hearts can convince you
you have no will to survive the moment
and you will do some of the most unforgiving
things to yourself when the skin is feeling
desperate.
Dear Body,
I’ve been reckless with you.
And as much as I want to move from this place
I realize you have been begging for a rest I will not give you
and you’ve finally refused my push for your labor…
I’ve been trying to sprint for too long,
been trying to give away parts of you
that were not up for offering…
I’ve betrayed the very softness of your skin
and shown you too many faces you will never see again…
I am sorry you were taught to fuck
before you learned what love might feel like…
I apologize I let my heart fall for the potential and
not the hands that touched you…
I’ve been playing Russian roulette for too long
and last night the bullet
came
spiraling
down
the barrel.
