Jimmie buys a home
Jimmie buys a wife
Jimmie buys a firstborn son
Jimmie splurges on two daughters
Jimmie buys a deluxe double-wide California king mattress
Jimmie buys home insurance
Jimmie buys a pension plan
Jimmie buys a diversified stock portfolio
Jimmie saves his pennies for a pair of jet-skies
Jimmie buys a vacation or two
Jimmie buys a divorce
Jimmie repurchases a new wife
Jimmie buys a nursing home
Jimmie tries to sell his Alzheimer Disease
But forgets the market is slow
Jimmie tries to sell his failing kidneys
To buy new kidneys
But forgets there is a waiting list
Jimmie buys a gravestone
With gilded writing and a sweet message
Jimmie tries to buy an afterlife
But they were all soldout
An oil-painted portrait of a young man
Ancient and old and has seen the sun
Of many late summer evenings
Cracked and crackling
Layers lifted and flaking
Eyes shifting yet more majestic
Eyes shifting adding to the mystery
Of whom this little man-boy was
And what he meant to those in his days
My hand reaching to glide the ridges
The tips of my fingers riding up and down
The mountains and valleys created
By the oil’s age
And as I pull my hand back
Palm-side to my eyes
I see its own mountains and valleys
And try to imagine what it means
To those in my days
In the twenty-third-and-a-half minute of Chris Marker’s masterpiece of a film, Sans Soleil,he writes "Poetry is born of insecurity". The moments afterwards when those words settled in and made evident how true they were, I had to pause the movie. I had to reexamine my experiences with poetry and the times in which my work is at its best or when my work really rings true to my moods or thoughts or feelings.
We spend so much time and effort in our life to make moves that circumvent insecurity; We are nest builders and future builders in which both aspects involve making these areas comfortable and secure. In our nests, we have our down-comforters atop quilt-top mattresses, coffee machines, and movies by the fireplace. In planning our future, we take our college courses and sacrifice countless hours in cubicles to maintain a secure job. But these secure avenues are robbing us of our intimacy with insecurity.
I liken this to immersion therapy, in which phobia patients are directly subjected to their fear in gradual phases until they ultimately overcome their fear or learn to rationalize and live with their fear. Writing about an insecurity is much the same, the reactions we feel when we directly subject ourselves to our fears when writing can be just as visceral and highly emotional: Panic, sweating, hysterical laughter, disillusionment, and disorientation. These are just a few reactions I have when I’m tackling a piece in which the initiation was based on an intense insecurity or in some rare instances when I am simply feeling insecure.
The result? I will either end up with a piece that is well received by my peers or a piece that will never see the light of day but will be well received by myself. Which in the end, makes me feel more secure… and that’s what we crazy crows want in the end. We crazy nest building crows.
I want to first thank everyone that has been sending me messages and prompts - It’s truly an honor that you all want to participate and collaborate! However, I need to let you know that I can’t get to everyone’s prompt, although I really do wish I could - If I’ve missed you in the past or in the future, please know it is not personal!
Much love and respect to the best fans in the world!
She called me “Can’t”
The worst amongst the four-letter-words
As if I couldn’t scream louder than the roaring engines of the passenger planes flying above my head… or were they in my head?
Or were they the confessions that were at odd decibels… shattering glass and peeling paint?
Yet these are not merlot bruises upon my lips but the bruises of being punch-drunk by your confessions
•••IconBrown & anon
So it is you that ignite the stars in the night sky?
Then tell me fire queen - Why is it that you burn my stars and plant them on my face like little ash trails?
And why is it that you are you placing these stars neatly upon my thighs in order to depict our hands held tight? This wizardry you call “constellations”?
The only thing here fearfully crafted are your magic tricks
Tricks that incinerated my arms from our first embrace that painfully made it our last embrace
•••IconBrown & anon
I broke my collarbone
Digging fiercely for the secrets you left
As each secret is more tantalizing than the last
Now each deep breath stings
As my bones attempt to settle and heal
This is a problem
Because my chest and heart rate rise
Each time I see your face
And at the rate of how often I see you
My bones will never settle
Which has caused me to possess
A perpetual hobble
Like an old man upon the shore
This poetess speaks simple truth
We poets are creatures built upon simple lies
Lies of love
Lies of beauty
Lies of promises
We sit behind our desks late-nightly
With our cups of tea or whiskey
And immortalize you, our loves,
With paper and ink
While you rest soundly in the other room
Not a clue you will be read
Like a history book
One-hundred years from now
•••IconBrown & my lovely narglepunter