Ink and Feels

“Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

.
I’ve stolen dreamed words
out of Borges’ mouth
and written us on my skin.

In the book of us,
your words are drummed to song
I dance into ink and feels;

there (in the wicked wild)
I am verse with you,
there (in flawless chaos) I
become your curiosity,
there (words are always
made of you and me)
quieted only by kisses.

Remember that kiss,
the one that lasted until you knew
the flavor of my mouth by heart?
I felt it, during a dance
of flesh and soul,
while my eyes sipped a mountain
of snow and summer and you.

I’ve stolen words
out of a book of peace and hope,
and popped them into my mouth

while the world watched
and smiled
happily, seeing me

being me… with you.

.
Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.
the poetic images… that birthed the poem

 

It’s Not Insane to Want

“There is something about words… manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.” ~ The Thirteenth Tale

.
I watch her,
this girl who’s all me
and not me at all,
and I wonder…

Do you know what’s happening?

“Of course, I know”,
she says
to the world.
“And I understand that
it is insane,
BUT
I want more.”

I hear her speak
with such familiarity,
and I wonder…

Do you know how dangerous—?

She stops me before I finish
asking, faces him, and says,
“I’ll rock
your wilds mine.”

She believes her every word.
I know.

You see,
he writes lies she loves,
and well-told stories can turn

fib into (wanted) fact.

I know
it’s not insane to want
to rock wild words real.
So, I watch

and wonder…

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– An Instagram reader messaged me to say, “I really like that your little poems always look like you put a lot of work and time into them.” I told him, “That’s because time, thought, and effort goes into them. But no, it never feels like a lot of work.”

I was asked for “an actual erasure blackout”; meaning that I was to take an eraser and, well… erase the words I didn’t need. The page I chose snickered at my erasing efforts. So, I grabbed my fruit knife and knifed away with gusto. I think the drastic measures add to the intensity of the poem bit—the “more” is made stronger by it.

No sharp tools required. But I like what the rocks and the red do for the “wilds”.

I used sandpaper to create this erasure poem, out of the following passage: “And the writer’s pangs arise, not from dread of what lies after death, but from the thought of leaving a husband she loves and children half-reared”, from On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978, by Adrienne Rich. The sparkles are eyeshadow. I thought it went well with the lies (and her blinded love).

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform