Based on a Prompt: Object and Location

You know, it's ironic
that you brought me up here.
This is the Great Wall of China
I am your phone.
You brought me up to something
that was designed to create a disconnect
between people
and
here I am
building a great wall between your face
and books --
Life is a funny thing
especially when you're just phoning it in.

You have hundreds of contacts
but barely remember the context
for acquiring their names.

You know,
just having someone's name attached to their photo and number
doesn't mean you know them.
I know your touch better than your last lover --
I know your likes better than your mother.

There might be an app for just about everything,
but I bet if we looked at your history,
we'd find more than the sites you've visited.
the comments you've posted --
I'm not saying you're more than you think;
I'm saying you're than a medium
for social media --
and you need more than face time or
Facebook.
The number of people who like you
doesn't make you more likable.

Saving the world
does not involve
posting selfies from famous places
or inspirational quotes on instagram.

Money is more a flushing toilet
than it is the settling of a sick stomach.

I'm sorry
that you're looking for moments to preserve
so that your followers will know you did something
over
finding stories worth preserving
or
dreams
worth following.

4/30 Based on a 10 minute free write

This is why gargoyles hate the cooing of pigeons

Shit
is so often preceded by cooing.
Birds
have no excuse to perch
because they
have wings.

But even
Pheidippides
is said to have died
after running 26.2 miles.
Sometimes
it's not the fact that we can fly
but that we're too tired to try
that seems so depressing.

Taking a break
is not an act of treason
against the light you've been given.

Asking for help
is not punishable by hemlock,
so stop acting like
you're going to die
if someone notices how tired you are.

Sometimes
the best way to get back on your feet
is to admit that you've fallen.

Sometimes, birds
get scared too.

A Surprise Treat Awaits You

I have been a little behind on the blog/poem posts... So today is a catch up day!
This piece is based off of a wonderful workshop where we wrote based on a Snapple Cap fact, a fortune cookie's fortune, and a tea packet's wisdom. This one came from a fortune cookie.
Note: This does deal with issues I have faced, and sometimes, yes, I do still feel sad/angry/depressed about it, but I believe it's better to write out your frustrations in order to help get rid of them. Catharsis is a wonderful thing.

A surprise treat awaits you --

I am a comfort zone zombie.
I am a specter of everything I currently understand.
I am a tombstone afraid to know its own inscription.

When your clinically depressed students tell you
that you need to stop looking so ghost
that your scarecrow stance is
making them weary of becoming an adult,
then you know
it might be time to listen
and stop telling yourself
that you're not worth your own wrist watch anymore.

I want to believe the fortune cookie's message;
I want to listen, but I've been scared to break bread
ever since diabetes claimed a piece of my identity at 10 --
dinner is a death row final meal;
breakfast is Socrates' punishment;
lunch is a poison,
and a savior.

Maybe I haven't been comfortable with Christianity
ever since I understood
that every diabetic blood test
is less sacrament
and more sacrilege to Jesus' promise --
my fingertips are lamb sacrifice --
I bleed to know how healthy I am;
my disease is a daily flirt with suicide
because knives that cut steak
are far too similar
to the knives that cut wrists;

weight that no one can see you carry
is the heaviest.

I'm trying --
I'm trying --
I'm trying to feel normal
to trying to touch tomorrow;
to let go of yesterday;
to move past
but moments can feel lead
and sometimes I don't feel strong enough
to lift this tombstone inscription
of everything I haven't become.

Snapple Fact Lolly Pop

"The lollipop was named after one of the
most famous Racehorses in the early 1900's, Lolly Pop..."

Type II diabetes has become an epidemic in America.
Maybe we've been betting
on the wrong horse
to win this graveyard race.
The body craves sugar because
in the early morning of humanity's childhood
before we domesticated animals,
before we plowsheered hunting into recreation,
before we buried gathering to reap crops from soil,
sugar was a lottery ticket.
And now we can find it on every street cornerstore --
we put the gross in grocery.
Our bodies
have not kept pace with our abundance.
Lollipops are winning this race
because we're such suckers
for everything that's easy.
Every birthday comes with cake,
but we have to be careful
with having our cake and eating it too
because if we're not careful,
birthday cake could become necrotic tissue,
could become retinopathy,
could become hear disease, nerve damage, stroke,
and these are only some of the side effects of diabetes.
Killing ourselves
has never been so sweet.

_________________________________________________________________________________

This poem is not finished yet. It was based on a wonderful workshop that came from kind of a joke: Buy a snapple... read the fact... That fact becomes your first line... And write.

I'll write SOMETHING happy... sometime... I promise. Today was just heavy. And I needed to expel some of the lead through my pencil scratches.

Thanks for reading!

Elegy in E Harmonic Minor

In 1880, Tchaikovsky composed the Overture of 1812.
It is a composition made famous
by the fact that it uses canon fire to act as instrumentation.
It's played every July 4th here in America,
but if you listen closely
you can hear canon fire covers
in distant deserts;
you can hear sons turn their bodies into crescendos;
cast their xylophone bones into a chorus of shattered silence.
The Middle East may not know western music,
but that's only because they only hear its dissonance
never its resolution
because an accord reached at the end of World War II
diminished holy land held by Palestine
and augmented land exiled from
into a land returned to.

If bodies are temples,
then every suicide bomb bent
on spreading holy organ chords
is just another form of graffiti
that tags blood over open doorways
to tell those around:
Pass over this place.

The trouble with holy land
is that it's only holy
because so many martyrs have buried their beat underneath it.

And somewhere a Palestine father prays
that his son will never elegy himself into an explosion.
Somewhere, a Palestine mother prays
that he child will grow instrument limbs,
that her child will have A sharp lungs and B flat feet
so that hate can't conscript him into its sepulcher.

And somewhere in America, a politician prays that the public
won't listen long enough to remember
that it was we who swung these scales in the first place;
it was we who thought democracy
would sing the right key.

We are not the correct composers
because we still think that the Overture of 1812
with its explosive instrumentation
commemorates us.

It doesn't.

That overture found its voice in 1880
to celebrate a Russian victory,
and that's ironic because the CIA taught a battle hymn of hatred
to Afghanistan when Russia invaded 100 years later.
That hymn still echoes with IEDs rather than canons.

The trouble with never having war on home soil
is we don't have a reason to cease
because we've never had to reap
crops sewn by the flesh of the dead.

We haven't had to hear dissonance's dirge,
and the only coverage our soldiers get
is flags covering their coffins.

I don't know
when our anthem became
the sound of a nation collectively covering its ears,
but there are still measures left.

This song isn't over.

And I don't want anyone
to fear their son becoming
an explosion.


This piece is based off a quote I heard on NPR spoken by a Palestinian man:
"I don't want my son to become a suicide bomber.
I want my son to live.
I want my son to become a musician."