People stealing my poems
And putting them on your Twitter and WordPress like you wrote them. I see you. Then when people call you out and you’re like “I wrote this yesterday!” Meanwhile the poem is on my blog from December of last year. Write your own things. I’m more saddened by the fact you’d rather pretend to write my words than give yourself a chance to write your own.
I never knew my one grandfather well, he died when I was much too young to remember anything. I recall him only in bursts. He was a big man and he sat at the head of the kitchen table when he visited. I was frightened of him, but I was a shy child so I was frightened of everyone.
My father never spoke of him much, and when he was brought into discussion the topic was quickly changed. But when I turned twenty-one my father took me out drinking. He lined bottle caps along the edge of the bar and stared at them, not looking up as he spoke about his father.
My grandfather cheated on my grandmother with a Mexican woman named Macaria. He had two children with her and brought them back to Pittsburgh for my grandmother to raise as her own. My grandfather was also a thief. He’d cross the border to steal merchandise that he could peddle in the states. He’d always bring my father home bottle caps from Spanish beer and my father would save them. Once my grandfather was caught trying to bring Mexican pornography back over. The items were confiscated and he was placed in an eight-foot deep hole in the ground and then released hours later. My father recalled this with only the slightest smile on his face, but then it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at my father because he’s as much a stranger to me as anyone else. He’s locked up inside himself and he’s ashamed of things he has no control over. Ever since that night I collect bottle caps from the bar. I keep them in a box that I hope to one day give to him, so he can see that it is not healthy to stay locked up forever. And much like anything else, it is good to come undone once in a while.
ENDNOTES: Writing Tumblr can be found here: lucyquin.tumblr.com
Yay! New Column up over on The Inner Condition - and as always go check the site out or I bite you.
I think those who cast judgement on anybody who uses their body as a canvas, whether it’s for tattoos or piercings, is insecure with the fact that another human being was confident enough to make a permanent decision. That type of comfort in one’s own skin is rare — to literally put your heart out on your sleeve, to show us all what makes you tick. But instead of choosing to acknowledge such an artistic expression, we disregard it, treating self expression like self mutalation. We encourage people to cover their body to accommodate our own discomforts, when instead it should be the exact opposite. We should be challenging our own outlooks to be more accommodating and accepting to those around us.
Adoration of a Shepherd
i want to write a poem
about your cobalt blue
but there isn’t anything to say
three little words
encompass a lifetime
met and lost
to your wall.
all those eyes
your whole life
is watching me
as you slide your fingers
my sheer grey pants
our fingers sticky
from one thing or the other.
there’s this cobalt blue sadness
that lingers in your sigh
your whole life watches me,
press my lips
to sadness’ lids
with dandelion chained cerulean blues
press my lips
to pleasure’s hips
but i am no heavenly body
no bringer of great joy
i am just a salve
kissing your temple
fingering soap bubbles
to hear the echo
of laughter —
it is no echo.
When I was little my father told me the moon was never in phases, that the shadows cast on it from time to time were the wishes of the hollow hearted hoping to feel something other than emptiness. When the moon was at its tiniest sliver it was not because the darkness won, but because it gave all of itself to those who needed light in their lives. And from then on I vowed to live exactly like the moon, to shine despite the darkness, and to give every last inch of myself to anyone who needed it regardless if I was appreciated or noticed for it.
I am razor sharp soliloquies shouted into grenadine colored skies, an incurable incorrectness, inconsistent and disappointing.
I am cardinals on snow banks, fooling no one but myself, only capable of blending in when I am a hidden in holes dug by my own hands.
I am harsh gashes along porcelain skin, I ruin by touch, a love mirage persuading the hopeful hearted into dissolution.