POEM A DAY DRAFTS 8-14

January 8th, 

Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured

in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons

faxing, emailing, smiling

through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.

I make an impression of fingertips on the glass

window-door.

Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord

should he have come face-to-face

with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton

space, unevenly paced

birth-day party dressed up as

job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s

and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.

Is this the adult-world warned of

and written in diaries of mad-women

only given the choice between illegal sex-work,

and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all, 

are hyper-gendered stereotypic,

picturesque working mothers come to 

steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,

it’s no accident that fetishes include

uniformity. We can’t keep profession

out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity

away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love

power-dynamic, don’t we?

Even when our celebrations are decaying

and the good-byes are exchanged,

the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.

Did they put on the right clothes, did they

forget their names? Haven’t they

forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!

That old home that travels with us,

staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Selfless

   Shea butter    on hand    spread bitter

          palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm

   rivering,    weaving,    between fingers

balm against lips, war paint under eyes .

  Summon moon and traffic police light

       An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t, 

Sta lk s  of  l egs,  praying « mantis » throughout

   a dewy stone floor

  Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering

tiny flames reflecting in

 burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .

    Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies

                     up at me

     gazing                       from the grave .

Hallucina

Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.

Some believe God is inside of us all.

During the Big Bang, the bell shattered

good intention spilled out every elsewhere;

our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,

but damn, do we try

to use it.

My brain must be a 

pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this 

creature looming over my shoulder?

Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?

Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?

I ask too many questions. My canvas is

getting full. It’s always dripping.

I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy

to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder

than me. 

I hesitate too much. My chords are

disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.

It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that

looks in the mirror, and declares,

« I see you. »

capital H

Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized

ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,

wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down

army-brown, the door-attendant asks 

« Can I help assure you walk out having spent 

the blood of your father? » She

smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would 

shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize

my ink blot eyes.

I carry her question in my pocket, and my

cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,

so I remove both. I cannot find myself

in the screen, and the junior department

giggles.

For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats

and sweatpants, I see trees.

To be feminine is to be wild, fully

functional. A machine with feral wirings,

journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to 

each other. Doesn’t he understand?

I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer, 

singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,

his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia

would dissolve him. 

What is a man, without his stick? Do I need

guidance? Am I stuck?

I have the option of throwing myself in.

« In » a shady, empty haunting. 

He notices me, and offers his

money. Commodity. I need it. I

need it. I need it. I need

it. That blood. That sugar. That

security. I can no longer commune

with winter-bringing white.

So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way 

out. The door-attendant rings

like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find

what you were looking for. » 

未だ Hither-to,

言はもう無い

川 空 声は 『時間』 から

生まれた 聞こえない

風 野 追跡

そっと、名は 蒸発

炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門

人声は一声?

静かの  雫

Equation & Conversion

giving = receiving

Anemony lungs, embracing veins

Filtering venom, passing down chains

violence ^living

Vapor waves, tanks, storebought 

Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy

∞ duration (feeling)

Time, effervescence, babies crying,   .

I still love you

Photographic shards of 

         glass  Fall from trees

                    cloaked in mid

winter graces  Dancing drops of

         Light is our primary currency

                    Is that still in your heart?

Does the love still fit  Do

         You remember  The language 

                    Lost  Remain  Recall  Re

Habilitate  This fledgeling desire

         Smiling  Reflecting in each of

                    These seeds  raining 

Heaven into your sugarbird nest 

         Shimmer  Argon oil  Collecting

                    Sun rays  Fool.  Weary

Traveler  Step into the light & dance

         Roots are the steady feet  of

                    Gods  &  rusty lovers

Begging for diamonds as if for mana 

          from the air  Wood  Awaken

                    Melting.  Rhythm

Poem a day drafts 1-7

Jan.1

They call it circulation;

this breathing. They

just forget that

circles are

zeros.

These patterns

mean nothing. Even

existence is gasping and

screaming in the dark.

Spilled absence and

lung-distilled air;

both, 

heavy.

Helios and Chronos

both kept on the calendar;

unaware 

of the other. Flybys

measure days, count years;

toils and harvest are

the sum of a man.

On the third rise in June when

the summer sun begins

its rotting hobby,

North America tells this sun

to celebrate how many

rings Saturn has

acquired.

One band

and two bands

and now three. This

is the value of a man.

How long he can

hold his breath

until the father

opens his

eyes.

Jan.2

   Marbles t o s  s   e  d

  from m a  r   b   l    e

 co u  n   t   e   r    s 

 Peb bles 

    f a ll

   fr    om

 e   a     rs .

Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir

             to come home

                      is to lose

                         motive. »

Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander

            t he se n se s .  »

When

     lilies petal

       do you   glue

       t h e  s h r a p n e l  

   back   onto 

the bulb ?

Bold people 

« fleurer à la chance

   of dis in tegrat i on . »

Masterwork;

f o r mu la f o r 

perfect dissociation.

A new world, A new 

                       color

    Zenith opposes

          the path we

                      take

to our core.

And our earth,

       small orb, 

   a child’s toy

rests in the

hands

of whomever

didn’t drop

i

t

.

Jan.3

My heart is

frozen again. It’s

too scared to go 

forward. And I’m

tripping on its strings;

violin wires, in the key of 

high e. It’s petrified permafrost, 

drifting along open sea.

A shrill ship bow,

stern and true,

scrapes off more

music than it

can chew. Now

sink. There, that

feels good, doesn’t it?

To think, you thought 

this voyage would

be simple, and

your vessel

wouldn’t

break.

Icebergs are

grand gestures

of love; not your usual

dowry, but it’s me.

And, you say

we’re a we.

So the least you

could do is learn to 

sing on key. Perhaps,

the resonance will 

shake just right.

And we’ll wear

beautiful

rings.

Jan.4

Bubble-born

Ballooned-brain

Snow-flake

Clean, transparent

Charred, awake

Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)

Blood-bath (not made for fishing)

Sun-soaked

Pop-trash

Wasting time,

Stayin’ alive

Betty Crocker croaked

You shouldn’t smoke

Right to live

Right to die

Silly, we all know how to lie

I can’t help but feel

somebody’s watching

Tie it together for me, would ya?

In a pretty bow? I

don’t know how to grow, I

don’t know where to go

from here. I was never

punctual. So, spare me

the lecture. I want to cry

when I need to cry.

I need to run

when I want

to run.

So stop

trying to 

suck me dry.

I’m dripping, and 

I won’t apologize for

the passion I lost on your

floor. Because I’m a bubble-born

Snow-flake, too good for you, too 

good-for-nothing. But, this is a new

year. There’s always a new generation

for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate, 

and focus on truth. I’ll get off the

soap-box, if you do too.

Jan.5

I can still feel still feel

these words these words

breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth

I would steal away away

sipping echinacea under snow under snow

I harvest mud mud

clinging boots boots

in the dozing sunlight sunlight

a shier blue than my spirit my spirit

what narcissus would give his own give his own

mirroring passion is easier is easier

than creating it from the thin winter air winter air

is still in my lungs in my lungs

wherein lies my tie my tie

to my core my core

idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes

February was an icebox left open left open

it whistles my name my name

that I almost forgot almost forgot

Jan.6

Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup

We Overflow with the Day

Leap into Cocoon

Jan.7

Figures of black

running from the mirror

that is a lake,

under moongaze.

Bow to her, offer no fear,

feed the earth your tremble; your shake.

Don’t get near

her milky haze.

You’ll be lost in hair.

Her braids are no road; it’s unclear

how one makes it back

through the mind’s maze. 

They call her Eau Claire,

her children, her deer.

The ink stains; figures of black.

Naked

I’m (a puppeteer) in this game, you see.
A God (amongst men) the planet, my stage.
You have (my) props, reciting prophecy.
Fallen (heart); I promise I will salvage.

When (people) realize what they’ve done they soon
will (witness) a world consuming itself.
Never (again) can actors break to
virtuous (flames) in fertile forest spell.

But (coded), lost, boy we have had our share
of (time) together, now I will leave you
alone (prophetic) child without pair.
A numbed (mind) which blood and roses has wrought.

Porn, poisoned, (perfect) love of every kind.
Your hand, (her) hand in marriage will be mine.

Leon:
call me jelly fish
I have seen this all before
Roy fits not on ark

Mary:
accept these germs, child
devout consummation; wished
‘God’ breathed life through me

Hisako & Selena:
Love bleeds from the skies
end
: sans eyes, sans, womb, sans tomb
hold my hand, my love

Initially conceived as a college art project, my friend Alexis & i decided to team up and create a theme Poeticle inspired by three novels in particular from a Contemporary (American) Novel course: Apocalypse Narratives, Dystopia to Dawn (shout-out to Dr Konkol). We focussed on Oryx and Crake by the esteemed Margaret Atwood (the Handmaid’s Tale), Galápagos by the endearing Kurt Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse Five), and White Noise by Don Delillo. All words were carefully selected to reflect certain themes within the course; ecological/biological disaster, war, marriage, reproduction, genocide, queerness (ie: the future is queer), and transhumanism (ie: the intersectionality of being post Earth, or post organica through the processes of implementing technology beyond the imagination…) The chant and notes of the synth and harp in the background strike a Tristan chord, which was a large theme explored by Lars VonTrier’s Melancholia. For that reason, the violin and mandolin dance between a brief ‘leitmotif’ from the film’s repeated exert of the opera Tristan und Isolde by Richard Wagner.

“For White Noise, by Don Delillo, we chose to print quotes very important in regards to death, art, media coverage (the shooter from Iron City who wanted fame, and the toxic event), and make them into black-out [poems]. 0 represents black and F represents white. The value F is also reflected in the very fact that a Tristan chord’s first note is F, in a sequence of four notes. The visual representational gif is a mirror frame with no glass to reflect[.]
Humans are
born naked, and die naked.
To reveal our truths previously unseen, is to become naked.”

Full Artist Statements (pdf’s):

Fey  ~  Alexis

Sighs Are Pollution − poeticle 2

 

*(Listen to the stars scream
i’ll paint the night with our dreams
& wander alone)

It’s the run-around
All these silly games we play
i forget the rules

Dream inside of me
Now rock the boats back & forth
Pierce skies blue with tongues

My eyes: microscopes
Memory is the master
Motion darkens fate

Cadence in our feet
Call & answer our machines
My soul is rubber

Yang is the city
i look back & turn to salt
Yin is the country

Collective lilies
Sweat glistening on pavement
Gull feathers are brooms

Your silence is full
Puddle jumpers; hydroplaning
Wind fighting water

*

(Step on the ruins
Stop waiting for their green-light
Sighs are pollution)

The focus of this poeticle is more four-four time rather than the abstract meter (12/8) of poeticle I, An Offering For April. 4-4 is both a metonym of vehicular travel (specifically, by truck, jeep or off-road ie; off-road capabilities) and a time signature. i intend to draw connection between power, intention, and moving forward; especially through time. 4/4 is a time signature of our heartbeats, our walking & dance pace. There is a teetering with the odd format of the haiku in contrast to the metrical constraints of the music. There is a disconnect between what is box-like and humanly comfortable (4/4), and what is offered as spherical or logistically circular, non-linear, in-definite, or feminist in thinking (examples here). Similarly, i feel a disconnect in dualist ideals of what Western philosophers would call the human condition and what they consider important to pursue or indulge, and the need we have for power, choices, roads, etc. This poeticle is about teetering between forward, backward, side to side, and is to question the distinction between direction and reflection.

gif from instagram (@ravenandmoth)

“The fork in the road,” is represented by a pulsating circular orb. Circulation is another word for traffic, in French. Traffic is a divergent word; from human trafficking, to the distribution of goods, to boat and car flow and circulation. Circular or spherical objects have no definite boundaries. The Earth lacks them as well. This is a frightening concept, and some often feel trapped (yet others comfortably adventurous) when we have no boxes in which to fit, so the same people might subconsciously create boxes, little spaces and comfortable homes to settle into… Playing with structure and contrasting it with freeform musical interpretations of rhythm and melody are interests of mine. i hope your mind expands like the raindrop in the center of the gif above, and grows even bigger. Thank you for reading.

An Offering For April – poeticle I

Track available for purchase via raven&moth on bandcamp

Inspired by Gertrude Stein‘s stream of consciousness style of writing, each morning for 12 days i awoke & marched to the bathroom to write a haiku. i attempted to reign in on meter, time signature, & opening up interpretation even further with video. In doing so i hoped to harness some fleeting humanity out of the spirit i have been ignoring for the sake of pressing onward into what feels like a long pause before the plunge.

It is not that i am not content.. but rather, i have experienced all of what has been offered to me. So i sought to experience more. This is my Offering To April; my worries, my ecstacies, & trappings of the mundane. For them, i hope to receive freedom, fruition, & relief.

This poeticle will be further analyzed on my academic page, recently created.

introduction

my name is Fey.

my mother says she raised a child of the 1960’s.

sentient physical and cognitive senses combined (art) is my spiritual calling.

i am not opposed to being of service to, & considerate of others. my goal is not shallow connection, but to dive deep into the world without fear. to never shy away from the gaze of a stranger unless disrespected by it.
i believe all manifestations of energy and matter are equal in intrinsic value,

Intrinsic value is the value a thing has — not as a result of it functioning as a means (not for what it can lead to [or satisfy]) but — in itself.

 so → i believe every form of life & the objects found in our universe are important.

there is a necessity for all matter:everything serves to further. for the sake of all sentient,
i believe one must not only take care of other humans, but of the planet we inhabit.

i believe the planet should be respected as a mother. i believe this terra is her (& thus our) home. we are her children who were birthed from her waters inseminated with energy from the central star she circles.

i do not claim any hierarchy of sentiency (based often on ‘biological complexity’ such as plant vs. animal). i only hope all forms of matter are revered for their individual purpose regardless of socially constructed agency or authority.

colorism (racism), nationalism, & sexism (including homophobia, or fear of feminine/masculine binary not existing) within the human race is a disease of self-hatred & anti-love.

to kill is to take energy from another;energy is a presence & opportunity for experience (+ pleasure) in our bodies that we call life. do not take a life. it is no one’s to take.

let’s create. let’s come together. let’s not destroy, or lose, the tether we share to the ground beneath our feet. one could venture it is all that we’ll have for a while.