Turpentine

He carved me from the canvas—
sharp, graphite bones, and watercolors
bleeding into penciled skin.
Then thick oil paints, layer
on layer, coat after coat
of red on red on red, gently—
tender caresses on my hips,
my legs, my chest. He paints
my breasts, and I,
his cheeks with scarlet.

Still, I offer him no sigh
of my stolen breaths, no whisper
of my purloined syllables.
My iron brow and carbon clavicles
defy his affectation.
This buried heart will never seek him,
for I am the Delilah of his desolation.
Scarlet of cochineal upon my lips
is the shattered hulls of female insects,
my fat, the rendered fat of calves.
The shadowed pigment of my skin?
Carbon. “Amorphous Carbon Produced
by Charring Animal Bones.” Herein
is my spirit, bones upon bones.

Your angled razor on
my cracked mosaic skin
cannot defile; I shed this tabernacle
gladly. With each fiery drop
of your indignation, I grow thinner.
Thinner, I will not melt away;
I am more than these pigments,
these gesso ligaments,
I am eternal Shiva,
I am annihilation.
I am the echo of your solitude, and
I fear no turpentine:
I drink destruction laughing.

Pleasta Meecha

 Well, I was asked to write a blog post introducing myself for a class that I'm taking on John Milton, so I figured I would post it here as well just for fun. I am not a big guy on taking photos of myself, so any time I want to post one for a profile or whatever, I have to take one on the spot, so I've included an obligatory photo. I feel like when introducing themselves, most often people emphasize the same five or so things and then finish it all off with "something interesting" which invariably becomes nothing more than an extension of one of the first five things, so this time, I'm going to take a little bit of a different approach and share some things that not everyone might know. I hope you can get to know the everyday stuff about me from just regular interactions, here and in real life.

I am a technology enthusiast with reservations. I follow all sorts of cool new technologies, from transparent solar cells to 3D printers that can be used to print viable human tissue (to quote the oracle from Hercules, "...it's gonna be big"). I'm interested (though shamefully inexperienced) in lots of different forms of digital expression, from 2D art to filmmaking, and I'm really interested in reinterpretations of older forms, like spoken word poetry and the work of young and aspiring Youtube artists like Lindsey Stirling. It's secretly a dream to make a successful vlog or Youtube channel someday. I remain adamant, however, in my opinion that just because your phone is an egghead, mine doesn't have to be a "dumb phone" even though it's from 2005. I like a lot of the features of modern phones and stuff, but I know myself well enough to know that if I had a so-called "smart" phone, I would probably quickly get sucked into all the cool apps and other stuff. So, I stick with my museum-worthy RAZR. 

See, MSPaint isn't thaaaat bad...

Ever since I was 15 or so, I've wanted to develop a low-cost method of water purification for application in low-income areas. That's pretty much what made me want to study chemistry originally (that, and the prospect of going into food sciences and developing calorie-free Goldfish crackers so I could not feel bad about being practically addicted to them). I worked at a nature preserve for a summer and actually served on a municipal water council to raise awareness of water-born illness and to encourage "green" building techniques. Yep... closet hippie. Eventually, though, English called my name, so I can still be a hippie, just in different ways.

Lead Paint

I refuse to grow up
If I'll end up
Just another lost boy
Thrown from Neverland
To Never can and Never will.
To always sleep and Never dream:
Maybe this is your dream,
But I'll hold to mine...
I've found my way
And you can't say
That I'm too young to understand.
It's okay, it's okay,
You can act like it's okay,
But the facts will say
That things... fall apart,
Our childhood playthings start
To fade from our minds much sooner
Than cheap Chinese paint
That kills children.
But we buy it. We buy it anyway...

dirty-dishes love

there are bills on the table,
and the laundry's piled high on the bed.
but the window's all alight with a love
that has no time for dirty dishes,
with a love that knows only laughter, friendship,
and slow dancing 'neath a bare, hundred-watt bulb.

seventeen

shadows of an airy past
dissolve then coalesce
as constellation sketches
on the canvas of my mind,
streaks of tarnished stardust
sighing through the dark'ning skies.

yet ashen memories ignite my soul
and whet my will to burn once more,
though in that blaze–  i'll burn.

bridges to my past...

all of these things....

I have always wanted to try out kinetic typography, but I didn't have the tools I wanted to use, so I always put it off. Well, here's a shot at kinetic typography, poetry, music composition, and video editing. The audio's not great, and every aspect of it was a bit rushed, but it was a fun start to something that I'd like to invest more time in! I hope you enjoy! The poem is below in its original format:

hospital bed

HOSPITAL BED

for no one really understands

the Loneliness of Death,

the Sorrow that ensues within 

those last few moments' breath.

and no one truly comprehends

the Pain of true Regret, 

the moments you would fain relive 

and words you can't forget.

One of the things that I love most about writing is it's an opportunity to develop empathy. In order to create characters, plots, or dialogues that are at all realistic, you have to frequently leave your own life, your own experiences, and drown yourself in the thoughts and sorrows and aspirations of people from all different age groups and walks of life.

"Strive"

Wade

Through the shadows of yourself,

Through the caverns of your confusion

And the dark night 

Of your doubts and fears.

Wander

Through the wonders of reflection

Through the thoughts of yesterday,

Of time long past and yet 

So here, and now.

Wait

Upon the quiet hope 

Of memories yet unarrived–

Upon the daring of a moment, 

And the hope of today,

Of a thousand summery tomorrows.

"pity these hands," à la e.e. cummings

pity these hands,

gnarled and crippled

that never ached

to bring another aid,

that never sweated

in the cupped palms of a lover

and grew wrinkled, old,

alone.

pity that heart,

battered and befuddled,

deprived of love

by love once lost,

that never knew mankind

nor humanity–

that heart

that ticked and tocked

for want of other occupation

and then, gears grown thirsty

and beset by rust,

one day

stopped.

To Peter and Back Again

That is, in fact, a monkey in a sweater.

We arrived in St. Petersburg (henceforth, Peter, as it is referred to in Russian) on Thursday after a rather enjoyable train ride where all the Russians stared at the loud Americans for seven hours straight. We, of course, felt very flattered that others thought us so fascinating as to pay so much attention to us. We were supposed to stay at a hostel that night, which, if we had been in Western Europe, would have meant we spent the night with a bunch of backpackers, young tourists, and generally interesting people. Unfortunately, Peter didn't get the memo or something, because we walked in and it was fully of forty-five-year-old ex-cons in wife-beaters. We had joked before arriving that we would end up in some hole-in-the-wall place, one where there's a creepy guy in the corner who just stares at you and doesn't ever say a word. We coined the phrase "Kyrgyzstanian in the corner" based on its alliterative quality rather than as any statement about Kyrgyzstanians, who are some of the nicest people ever. Anyway, we didn't exactly have the "Kyrg in the corner" in mind when we got there, but it soon became much more relevant. Most of our new ex-con friends were pretty inebriated and didn't give us much of a problem, but there was one excessively friendly one who insisted on telling us that the Kyrgyzstanian in the other room had stabbed someone the week before, and the Kyrgyzstanian in the other room insisted on yelling at us. So, we decided that there wasn't reason to find out whether the rumor about the "knife fight" (as the friendly one put it) was true and ventured out to find somewhere else to stay.

Thoughts on the Metro

new words

are heavy on my unwilling tongue:

predubezhdéniye. 

prejudice.

taková zhízn.

"das jus' how it is."

other words come easier--

a PRAYER on my lips:

lyubóv, dobrotá.

love, kindness.

But to them i am only a color.

am i zimbabwe or cameroon?

it does not matter because

to them

i am only a color.

the moscow air is

   cold...

do they think 

that i don't feel 

it already?

sticks and stones, man,

stick and stones.

but they don't have to say 

anything

for the words in their eyes 

to hurt me.

what have i done

to deserve

THY enmity?

Psych Ward: A Vilanelle

A dressing gown, a light, and fresh-cut grass–
My vision flashes red, my body shakes,
My heart, a stone, this cell made out of glass.

They gave me yellow pills that taste like brass,
And Betty brings me Salisbury steak,
A dressing gown, a light, and fresh-cut grass.

Before they brought me here I’d sit in class,
And hark, what light from yonder window breaks
A heart, a horse, a cell made out of glass.

They said hallucinations usually pass
Within a day or two. Can’t stay awake...
A dressing gown... a light... and fresh-cut grass?

A storm of convict thoughts that flee en masse
From there within my mem’ry’s lucid lake–
A heart, a shout, and pounding on the glass,

And leather straps, syringes... laughing gas.
And later on the aide will feed me cake,
A dressing gown, a hall, and fresh-cut grass!
Within this mind, this cell made out of glass.

Sahara

Calloused feet
leave five-toe prints
in still, soft sands,
still hot, still waiting
for night's cool reprieve;.
A long, thin shadow
trudges across an ethereal expanse,
a fragile frame fading
into a blood red sun
as it slips silently
over the darkening dunes.
And the desert– the desert
breathes out a tired sigh,
and footprints melt into the winds,
swirling off into the twilight sky.

A Poem of Love...

Gertrude

I love the way you pick your nose,

The chipped nail polish on your toes,

Your crooked grin, your frizzy hair,

Your absent look, devoid of care.

I love your cakey, make-upped face,

Your manly gait, devoid of grace,

Your rumpled blouse, your sauce-stained skirt,

Your cheeks begrimed with soot and dirt.

Your hoggish snort and loud guffaw

Reduce me to dumbfounded awe,

And when I see your monstrous feet,

My flutt’ring heart nigh skips a beat.

In beauty naught surpasses now

Your bristle-brushy unibrow.

And I’ll not fear the touch of death,

When thinking of your rancid breath.

Your stubbled chin oft to behold

Is better boon than purest gold,

And if true love be hard to find

Then glad I am that you are mine.