One hour given back
though it is not really so
we convince ourselves
slumber a tad more
and resist the work we have to do
everyday we resist
I cannot not sleep past six
it is my fate
to be up way past anyone's inclination
and awake before I can call
friends family
old lovers
lovers not quite yet
everything is soon
do we process faster because we are older?
or do we stop processing as we age?
nothing beautiful about that
the lack of process
the absence of a well thought out plan
(Iraq)
and here we are in the autumn of our choices
alone
and awake long before dawn
winter
and no sunrise to admire
dark is the weapon I most fear
light makes me unable
to process
things beautiful
huddled here in this room that too many have fucked in
hotels are inhospitable
sterile if they are clean
unbearable when they are filthy
people paid to smile
sometimes I smile back
more often
I walk away
my body is ready to leave this place
how I miss the comfort of my flat
but how I love doing well what I have to do
having to do the thing I love so well
the road is seductive
and I am alone
open to the effects of rain
water
and women
songs on the tongues of girls with poems in their pockets
sometimes on the phone
this singular existence
is
precious
whatever that means
and I am up and packing
almost ready for the place named after a man who changed the world
Bethlehem
and I wonder if Christ thinks of such things
returning to a place that killed more than his body
a place that still murders in his name
I suspect I will ask him when I see him
perhaps in my other life?
Staceyann
and the day stretches
beautiful
ahead
today
I want to think of things
that give me pleasure
vibrators
wit
conversations that dip salacious into midnight
mothers who stay
fathers who come back
and wishes
that come true unwished
for
today I will think of crabs
and bacon
and all we shared
and why we failed
so miserably
I will think of the face of a girl called Larah
in Cologne
she looks just like me
only more beautiful
my sister
I will think of Suheir
and Issila
and Georgia
and how the friendship of these women warp
sturdy around my form that hints at frailty
do not underestimate me motherfuckers
I am never going to die
maybe
I might opt from this lifetime
only to delve wicked in the pleasures of the one to follow
I am eternal
because my grandmother was here almost a century ago
still here
she is all lines hands and face
all gratitude
for her breath
my grandchildren will be here
long after these politicians are dead
you cannot erase me
permanent ink
these poems will live
past my understanding of life as we know it
tea and rice cakes
with seaweed
I am invincible
when I am not afraid
for at least seven minutes a day
I vow my bravest self
and stand steady in such fire
then I survive the hours
remaining
fear turning knife inside my dreams
I will not leave
will not leave myself
will not sing in a voice void of sincerity
if I am broken
then the notes will crack
and they will be beauty
and ragged
and torn
I will say what I know to be inside of me
I will not pretend
I am whole
and in pieces
I am only human
I can only be
me
Staceyann
five days in one place
I simply have no idea what the fuck I will do with myself!!!!!
shopping
the curse of 21st century America
and Germany
and South Africa
and Jamaica
perhaps some shoes
socks
definitely socks
with dots and stripes and frogs
maybe turtles
I love turtles
and pens that write outside
the black and white
the elections
the poems
maybe I will buy new words
these seem to only work
sometimes
a dictionary perhaps
something pretty
and wordy
worthy of a place by my bed at night
I am in love with the way words
turn pretty into phrases
into whole sentences
that could change the world I live in
change the way I see
beauty
and songs
I want a million songs burning holes
into my ears
I want to sing
and dance
and carry one poem to orgasm
each night
I want to be brave
and mark the futile into minutes that matter
I miss my old loves
and I am wide open for what this one will bring
what it will force me to leave behind
nothing is promised she reminds me
and I am alive with such sounds
pleasure rushing liquid
over hands
and feet
and all the little parts of why I could never understand
why people listened to me
why they never heard me tripping over myself
to understand
why I was never really popular
before these poems
and these lights
and me under them wishing I was under the covers
with my own fear
but these skinny calves won't let
me
furl insect under a blank leaf
there are poems to be written girl
battles to be drawn
quartered
and made into wars
I will fight for anything that moves me to action
silence is my greatest weapon
I am still learning how to use it
fast and fury flailing from arms
and legs carrying me flying
feet first towards
freedom
in love
and these narrow hips that keep me moving,
Staceyann
violent and beautiful in Syracuse
I am humbled to be
breathing under the hand of such splendor
from a hotel room
I hate
disdain the sameness
the fake familiar of rooms other people have fucked in
everyday
I am presented with these white
biege
sheets that look like the ones I slept in two cities ago
and suddenly the sun blooms naked
and lazy across the hazy sky
and the window is the only place
I want to be
hold this moment
it will never hold you again
speak in full tones
echo the timber
of these rays falling vulnerable
and I am human
and breakable
and today
I am aching to be better
an old lover understands
only because she has known me too long
argued with me
for ages
and the red seeps away
dragging the orange
the pale yellow
the silver lags
painting the tops of buildings white
shades I wish I could smear on canvas
but I am only drawn to the rearranging of words
images make me
silent
chairs
beds
desks and pillows
comfort created
achieved in the lamp of these needs hidden
and stretched translucent
I wish I was better with people
more polite
I am better with cloaked words
and lonely sunsets
sumnambulist
I lean against the glass and stare
not even the moon holds my tongue so certain
and I am inches away
from Ani
Di
Franco
and her poems melting songs
and when she sings
it is right that I am alone
inside my skin
among all these voices
tramping brave over this new terrain
syracuse
and I don't know where I will be tomorrow
perhaps Providence
and it might be fate to be headed to a place with such foresight
drunk on my own sorrow
wallowing
but still breathing
keep sending me words
I ingest all I can,
Staceyann
...Redbank
the cities pass through my body
cartilage
tendon
bone
breath pushing words like shooting stars
and the poems
present whole galaxies
the universe is a long sigh
and I can only sing
small tunes
large instruments tire with improper use
so I try hard
to play these strings with grace
pluck the plenty
and ingest the full
carefully
I am green shirt
soft like the way I want my own cheek to rub
yours
grandmothers
women are so soft when they are breathing
kiss me
and I will always place my mouth against your ear
listen to what you hear
always
I am hungry for the road stretching
always
I struggle with these muscles
moving against will
and it is only desire that keeps me turning
one leg after the other
I dance and read poems
and make metaphors in my journal
and I am so twisted in the long narrative
of me
and these hands
and what we will or will not do
Today I was mostly silent. Slept a little and ate less. Today I am tired. Today I will pull myself up by ribbons I remember from girlhood. Today I will say words I wrote to people I do not know. Today I am grateful to be alive. Today I wish I could be alone for
48 hours
today. I will think. of tomorrow. and dream of next week. Tonight. I will make a fantasy of my own webbed feet. I will grow. speak.
fuck myself
into believing. Today I will not lie. I today. I will create truth. make the wall disappear. today.
I am my own best thing.
today
I will lick the backs of my own ankle
and revel in the dust of my own journey
toward self
knowing
today
I will hold my older cunt up for victory
make my own coming
the skeleton
of a becoming history
In love,
Staceyann
this week is about writing the show.
the process is interesting. one week to get the show up and going again. the process is pretty hard. Good but hard.
hot and non-distinct.
the morning ekes
a lethargy
I should go to the gym
should buy weights
or something
to offer pressure from the plump air
the hotel room is the worst invention
we will be traveling by bus
so the days won't be much diiferent
still traveling in my pyjamas
my hair a wild poem
breaking where it wills
where it wants to see me in color
I love the idea of travel
hate the particulars
love the faces you meet in Denver
the hearts in DC who made you sing
I love the brash open space of travel
wish I could tell you how
love the sound of new places
the accents
the fingers of babies reaching up for my hair
wish you were here
Staceyann