video of sonata.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFhnFwJZFAk

found on my bedroom floor. loose leaf.

3. there is something beautifully mysterious about unknown origins. being forced to accept what is because you know no difference.
being unaware of where someone was built is almost blissful. a chance to be content in breath.
no one else could understand that the simple act of staying alive says more than words can.

No clue what the context was for this.

one of my favorites.

i'd fall in love with you,

if you would beat these people out of me.

-buddy wakefield.

pearl (final copy)

Written as a part of the IGNITE! Spoken Word Mentorship.  Performed with Jasmine Harvey.  Green: Jasmine.  Blue: Me.  Red: Both.

What do I do?

In your family, the definition of a tragedy is when bone crushing is involved.  Something like a drunk driver and a little old lady.  Something like a car jacker and a family minivan.  Something, something like a newly licensed driver, losing control and spinning into a tree.  The compressing of a body- like an unwanted vehicle, crushed as easy as hearts. The sudden melting of marrow, spreading of soul onto bark like butter and toast.  Glass attacking the canvas of their face like an angry artist good. 

When you tell me your secrets, this is what your voice sounds like.

Did you see it coming?

Your older sister thought that when romance was finally brought up, boys would be involved.  I picture you in the car with her.  Asking her to please not/don’t tell your/our mom and dad as if this was the moment when you threw all your eggshell bones into one basket of a closet as if there is no turning back now, and you wonder-

Growing up in a home with a bible of morals, how could i end up as broken as a rib cage after a crucifixion, when I was raised to be as sturdy as a cross. 

Was there a point when you noticed your joints were bending too far?  A morning when you woke up a little more crooked than usual? A morning when you woke up, covered in the aftermath of your carcrash of a sexuality. 

Surely, we are both searching verses for the perfect answer.  Psalm 139:13 says that he/ you created every part of you/me; he/you put you/me together in you/my mother's womb.  Did he plan on the shin splints that would show up in seventh grade, the ones that would turn into broken legs?  Did he plan on me pulling at skin, until I found answers?  An orientation so crooked, surely not even a mother could love it.  

Maybe it’s just a phase?

How long does a phase last?

After you tell me about coming out to your sister, I face the reality that there is nothing I/you can say.  You tell me that this is your/my life.  You/I don't expect anyone to help you/me with it. 

I thought I could never be more caught by surprise than then.

I never thought I could be as feline in the fast track of your vehivle death trap as when I didn’t know what to say.  Caught between religious and reassuring.   Never thought it could get worse than not having the right answers when your car crash tragedy of a life comes to me and asks what do I do? 

I know this will send me to hell, but I swear to God it’s worth a few fourth-degree burns.  So put down your bible, and listen to your skeleton, it is closer to your heart than anyone can claim to be.  I will never know how to answer your body of questions, but I hear that the closets in this city, they’re big enough for two good.  One skeleton, and one friend to make it a little more comfortable in there.

By listening, and staying.

anthony

thought it would be interesting to post one of my first slam pieces.  i wrote this almost exactly two years ago- it's crazy, the difference I can see.  holy moly.  

Your mangled limbs

Like misplaced puzzle pieces

Awkwardly strung together

Makes it difficult for us to believe

You're just sleeping.

Could it be that we're just dreaming?

Because if that's so,

We'd like to wake up now.

The wrinkles on your green polo shirt

Tells the story of inebriated bar fights

Before you passed out

and the purple liquor and fist induced

Bags beneath both your eyelids

Suggest that when you wake up

You wont remember much more

Than the taste of ice cold vodka shots

As they cascaded down your throat.

I wish I could hug you and I wish I could hold you

And I wish I could tell you I understand

That to you, this addiction is a sick love affair

And you've always seen yourself to be

A hopeless romantic.

I wish I couldSmooth down your hair

From flying in seven different directions

And brush the dust and the lint

From your faded, over worn, two sizes too large sweater

And tell you it's alright

Because someone out there still loves you.

If I was the daughter

Of that seemingly strikingly beautiful young woman you met in college

Before you dropped out

While you were asleep on the couch

I wish I could play connect the dots with the freckles

Scattered across your nose and cheeks

Making lasso shapes

So for mere moments

We could tie down this innocence.