I identify with my heroes

I identify with Oscar Wilde
not because of his wit or his style
which I do not have

I identify
because I feel his journey
of discovery

I know how it is to reject
the self that
you see reflected 

I identify with his attempts
in looking to cure to hide
pretending he wasn't as he was

and how he accepted the
self before him and embraced it
completely and utterly

with abandon that
destroyed
everything around him

Oscar's bravery now another note
in a biography
with a torn cover on a shelf

I identify with Nicola Tesla
not because of his genius

I am not an engineer or a scientist

I identify
because I have believed in things
that are larger than myself

I believe in the
goodness that is inside of
people everywhere

I too, would sell
my patents, rush onward
hope others see

the seeds of hope inside of me
as I build a tower on a mountain
to harness megawatts of energy

Nicola remembered,
eventually, as an old man
who fed the pigeons in the park

Eclipsed by Edison
forgotten by those who
plug into his genius daily

I identify with Ludwig van Beethoven
not because of music
(my ear is tin)

I identify
with his constant determination
against everything that defied him

an ugly, short man
with a quick temper
difficult to please

a terrible stand-in parent
a presumed misanthrope
who loved macaroni and Goethe’s poetry

who imagined strange life
on other planets and symphonies
in birdsong

I identify with his hope
with his defiance against
lords and encroaching silence

that even in the end,
he raised his fist,
undefeated.

I hold them close
gather them in
whisper that I will remember

the way they fell
the way they didn't fall
the ways they were human.

Song Lyrics

Inspired by FeministTaylorSwift on Twitter, a better set of lyrics for part of California Gurls sung by Katy Perry:

California Girls are unforgettable /
Sharp fresh wit /
We got it non stop.

That's all I got, folks. :)

Horrific Leaves

Clear clean water with slithery stealthy
upsetting - should - not - be - here
things
that slide over bare skin
are splashed against faces
in accident
causing shrieks
tightening grip of small fingers on my hand
splashes
of water exploding into white fountains of sunlight
that seem at odds with the
random unknown
horrific leaves in the pool.

Hummingbird Toaster

The black-orange
hummingbird toaster
flies in the heat.
I can hear it click
as it travels and pops,
smelling of
crispy buzzing.

(from a writing workshop exercise--it made my kids laugh) :)

Autophagy

I am reminded of a story I read when I was a kid
that I suppose is true
about an octopus that was kept in a tank
inside of a place where they observe
animals and their behavior
(not just an aquarium)

and I am reminded of the pictures in my head
as I read about the creature
how I imagined a black room with black painted walls
(I don't know why)
and that the tank was bare

and inside there is a small octopus, eight armed, bumpy, eyes blinking inside a tank.
there are many such tanks.

The story I read was about how smart the octopus is.
An octopus can learn to do something very clever by watching another octopus do that thing.
It can learn from observation
But they can become bored.

They can become depressed.
I think this is why I imagined a black room and an empty tank, glass walls, glass bottom
and only a glass jar to hide in.
I imagined an alien place for the octopus
I imagined its almost human eyes staring out of a world of glass in a room that was black
and I think I could see how it could feel sad
(they can change their colors with how they feel, too, but I did not imagine the color of a
sad octopus)

A bored octopus, the book wrote, can kill itself.
It has a parrot's beak.
It tears its own arms off and eats itself, destroying itself

I remember the word: autophagy
instead of suicide

Driving

The air seems crisp when I drive.
The clouds seem to have more defined edges.
As light glints off the road and off red and white tail-lights
it seems focused, like a narrow beam of concentration.
I feel the curves and their accompanying centripetal force
as I swerve around them, gliding
through a spaghetti bowl of bow-tie concrete.
And all above me, the entire time, is a sky so blue that it
demands to be seen, to be noticed, as if its screaming at me.
No words, car radio, Basket Case by Green Day.
I sing, I scream, I feel. I notice.

Zombies

Zombies wear the face of someone we once knew
a person stepping out of one life and into another.
A life after death that excludes consciousness
a life of gnashing teeth, bloody sinews
strength born of a lack of fear, a lack of awareness--
no need to worry if the body is whole, only that it can move
forward just a little bit more, inch by inch, to chew, bite,
ingest, infect.

It's not even destruction that zombies bring wearing
the faces of the ones we once knew. Maybe we even
loved that object that was once a person,
but now the moving body in front of
us is only a body. It's the shell that once held what we
knew was "that person."

That person was something that was not the body.
That person must have been something that didn't include
hands and feet and eyes, or even a smile
That person could be described as an animate "soul."
But this definition doesn't satisfy.
Naming it, labeling the thing that makes "that person"
doesn't confer understanding.
Maybe "that person" is a network of collective neurons
firing in a web of patterns that somehow made an "I."

Alan Turing said that there was a complexity about information
that he believed or hoped could not be destroyed. The "I"
is complex information. Physicists say that information cannot be
destroyed.
But can it be turned into something else?
the way that matter is forced to change into energy
as it explodes over the desert
or over a small island of people with children and dreams and
that sense of "I" and "we" and "us."

The "I" has left the zombie.
A zombie is an "it," neuter like a virus or bacteria.
It is a vector for the creation of itself--a disease that erases the "I" and
replaces it with gnashing teeth, grinding jaws, broken fingernails,
incoherent violence that seeks endlessly without reason for the warm
beating heart,
the fearful dash of movement in the forest,
the cry of fear from behind a
broken window pane.

What happened to the "I"?
Why does the zombie wear the face
of the one I once loved and cherished?
I am left with teeth and hands and
bloody eyes that don't know me anymore
moving ever closer

Orange

Orange is loud.
It clangs and bangs and is
Full of jagged edges.
Orange is unexpected:
It shocks and warns.
An impressive sound that
Burns on the edges,
Full of heat and warmth
That can easily overwhelm
Is what orange is.
Yet if orange has a smell,
It is sharp and citrus –
A jolt to the imagination,
Something that
Awakens
With a slice of sharpness,
A sliver
Of the unusual.
The uninvited color
Is what orange is.

Why another blog....

Well, yes, why another blog? Why not?

I've recently been to some poetry workshops that helped me free my writing -- made me feel excited about writing again. That made me feel good.

So another blog, because I want to explore writing creatively. And I want to feel good.