ShailaSays

To Whom It May Concern

11 Mar 2012 Leave a Comment

by shaila in Poetry

Elaine, darling

Claudia,

Jimmy!

To no-one and everyone,

You cops will want to know

why I did it.

 

Here goes.

 

Kenneth J. seduced me

made me pregnant

refuses to help me.

I loved the children dearly

and could not see them suffer.

I am scared.and

I am tiredand

I cant take any more.

I married the wrong

nag-nag-nag

and I lost my life.

 

I am not insane.

My mind was

never

more clear.

I know what

I am doing.

I am a profit at my death.

I…

 

I must have been born to suffer…

 

…I need towrite a poem

i will name iti am not a fag

 

I am not a fag

You are the fags

Remember that

I am a person

You say faggot faggot queer queer

but you don’t know anyting

I know that you are stupid

assholes and that is more than you know

I…

 

I need to go to a Dr.

but I am so afraid.

I am so cold.

I have wanted to be

dead for

so long.

I loved this house once

I can’t stay here.

as you know,

I get tired of everyone

after a while.

 

May her guts rot in Hell—

I loved her so much.

 

I am going out—

and I hope it is out—

Nirvanha,

I think the Bhudaists

(how do you spell Bhudaists?)

call it

which is the word for

“nothing.”

 

I could wish

that I had,

for my goodby kiss,

a .38 police special

 

The neighbors may

think it’s a motor backfire ,

but to me she will whisper—

“Rest – Sleep.”

 

Please forgive me.

 

I am going to leave you forever

because I am too sick

to go on anymore.

To love you as I do

and live without you

is more than I can bear.

 

This is the best way.

 

Cathy—

don’t come in.

Cathy don’t go

into the bedroom.

 

Don’t be sad.

I am happy now.

 

Though I am about

to kick the bucket

I am happy as ever.

Give me liberty or give me death!

 

It has been a long day.

The sun is

leaving the hill now

so hope nothing else happens.

 

I love you all.

Love,

Your loving daughter,

Elizabeth

Mary

Daddy

Mommy

Bill.

 

P.S. Please forgive me.

 

**This was a found poem composed of real people’s last words in suicide notes. No disrespect meant by this poem; I wanted to highlight the ultimate similarity of the feelings experienced and by the thoughts (the pain, the anger, the hubris) shared by so many individuals that take their own lives (may they rest in peace). If you’re interested, here’s the sources:

-          http://www.well.com/~art/suicidenotes.html

-          http://www.suicide.org/suicide-note-of-a-gay-teen.html

(all misspellings and typos in the poem were intentional and verbatim from the notes)

Perfect Lovers

10 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment

by shaila in Poetry

“When people ask me, ‘Who is your public?’ I say honestly, without skipping a beat, “Ross.” The public was Ross. The rest of the people just come to the work.” Félix González-Torres when asked in an interview who he was trying to reach with his artwork.

 

‘So-mel-YAY’ you slurred.

Laughter, I drank—

a vintage in a crusted bottle

a stain spreading.

(We didn’t know just yet)

Hot breath

on sides of necks

and tops of desks.

The sticky sweet

of your sweat

and your tongue

wetting mine.

 

‘Such a strange bird’ you cooed.

Arched, I came—

a child in a rainstorm

a kitten lapping milk.

(Poison, I drank)

Chilled darkness

in your bones

and on your clothes.

The settling silence

of your sickness

and your hand

holding mine.

 

‘I would marry you’ you’d sigh.

Crying, I imagine—

a house in the suburbs

a family of four

(If only, if only)

Soft ash

in plastic bags

and on museum floors.

The light blue

of your memory

and your life

leaving mine.

 

I set my clocks back an hour or so.

A creak of bones.

The tick and click

of hands moving

to erase you—

to remind me:

In time,

                  all clocks fall out of sync.

~

An Ekphrastic poem using Torres’ “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) 1991 –> http://www.moma.org/collection/object.php?object_id=81074

I Read it in a Local Paper

28 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment

by shaila in Poetry

It was

morning/afternoon/night

It was

accident/sickness/unknown

It was

so sudden, so

unexpected…

We hold hands in remembrance

and hold our heads at night

and cry ourselves to sleep

and wake ourselves from dreams

that seem too cruelly

similar

to the lives we once led.

We wear our veils and caps

and coats and cloaks

and bathe ourselves in

black, hoping,

somehow

it might bring them back.

(If only for a night)

We write our cards

and take the shards

of hearts and lives that have been

shattered,

and promises

that once mattered

so,

so little (in the greater picture)

become their last words

and last wishes

and final sentiments.

We close them in caskets

and [brackets]

and confine their lives

to a few short lines

in your local paper.

And we don’t like it

but we must

must

must go forth

and think of them only

as that extra line you

paid for, just to mention

their love of

cats/dogs/moms/ice cream

(what have you).

Because.

Because dare we remember

them in entirety,

the wholeness of beauty in life

it won’t bring tears;

it will bring us to our knees

and we will fall

and we will break.

So we take pieces of them

and scatter them

into a childhood drawing

and a favorite rolling pin

and that hideous jacket

you loved to hate.

And when we feel

as though we are

completely alone,

we open up the local paper

to the earmarked page

(you’ve been waiting all day)

and you sit

and you read

and you cry—

for Them,

for You

for Us.

(We are not alone)

Untitled (appropriately so)

24 Jan 2012 2 Comments

by shaila in Poetry

I gathered my thoughts

in a moon basket I held

close to my chest—

the cage that holds my heart.

Meticulously, I swept through

fields of phrases

and winding words

and carefully hand-picked

a bouquet, just for you.

~

You told me you loved me once.

I thought it a dream

maybe wishful thinking

but the very lips

that whispered fondly into my earpiece

(Are you still awake?)

set my tired tongue aflame

with hundreds and thousands

of phrases and praises

and jumbled punctuation

punctuated (every so often)

with a word or two.

Suddenly, the

seeming vastness

of the English dictionary became

constrictive.

I, myself

leather bound–

haphazardly closed

and stowed beneath the coffee table (Gathering dust).

How does one simply…

summarize the feeling

of the vision:

a thousand swooping chandeliers

through a glass roof lit with the fire of the sun

(we provided the color, you see)

of the sound:

echoing troubadours and minstrels

plucking delicately at heart-shaped mandolins

(you sang to me once, you know…)

of the taste:

Microwaved strawberries

ripe and bursting, sickeningly sweet

(A stomachache— too much of a good thing?)

of the touch:

palms slapping palms

and the distinct scratch of bristles upon paper

(I still have the faint acrylic on my pants)

…to summarize the feeling

with I love you’s

and semi-personalized slogans

(you’re the only one for me, [insert name here]).

It seems cruel, really

that through all the years of human

existence,

of the anthropic experience,

that we reserve so few words

for such vast feelings.

That I must settle

for trite statements

and prepackaged sentiments

to convey

what I’ve always wished to say.

(so it goes, so it goes)

Here I go–

I love you, too.

…

…

‘…I don’t know when, it just happened.

I’m sorry…

I’m sorry.’

~

You scattered the thoughts

In the moon basket I held

close to my chest—

the cage that imprisons my heart.

Messily, you tore through

fields of phrases

and winding words

and carelessly threw out

the bouquet

I once gave to you

(and with it, my love I suppose?)

 

God’s Grand Scheme

12 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment

by shaila in Poetry

She’s got cobweb eyes

and littered smiles

and dirty nails

and crackly bones

and ugly clothes.

He’s got greasy hair

and half-assed eyes

and lying smiles

and those dirty lies,

they just creep up on you,

don’t they?

And we’re mud people and

we all melt under

the heat

of the moment

and in the flame

of the songs we sing

and the drawings

we scratch

into table legs

and paper plates.

His voice makes your

skin crawl

like silverware on a plate

or fingers down a chalkboard.

Her touch makes your

stomach retch

like hot garbage

splattered (a careless toss).

You’re a goddamn saint,

aren’t you?

Their poor

filthy

worthless

lives

they just can’t reach you,

can they?

They just can’t scratch

and itch

and pull

and tug

at you.

(Darling?)

You’re not special.

We’re all mud

and blood

and roots

and worms.

We’re all shit and piss

vomit

and

sour kisses.

Dear,

we’re all mediocre at–

Best learn to respect

and find your place

in this line-up.

Because honey,

we’re constantly being

judged and chosen

by a blind man

guided by heretics

and officers of the law

and Pimps and Ho’s

and that suburban dad

who can’t keep his dick

in his pants

or leave his work at work

(she likes it on the bed so

so, though).

Fuck the saints and the sinners

and the beggars and choosers

and the winners and losers

and pints and quarts

that measure time

(constantly equivocates

instigates

irritates)

fuck it

I can’t think straight.

There’s a creaking in your bones

and we’re pretending not to hear

(but creaks and clicks and ticks

are so very related)

In the grand scheme of things.

10 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment

by shaila in Poetry

An Exercise in Smell:

Salt and musk

In your bed,

off your brow

dripping off your upper lip

into an arched back

and cupped hands.

Grass and dirt,

visions of rolling greens

and four-leaf clovers

wrapped in your sweaters

and undershirts

as you wrap yourself around me.

Fresh scents

covering the chemicals

in our hair

and on our clothes—

baby powder and Springtime.

An Exercise in Taste:

cool peppermint

from black dishes

and from gum packets

slipping

from my tongue

to yours.

Whipped cream

melting

—on me—

between your teeth.

Tropical fruit

slightly warmed

saturated with flavor,

taking us from Winter

to the sandy tropic beaches

and to honeymoons

and future vacations.

An Exercise in Sight:

In short,

you fill my vision,

become my sunrise

and my moonlight

and my crashing waves.

An Exercise in Touch:

Roughness—

sandpaper

on my cheek

counteracts

soft

acrylic lips.

Slippery wooden floors

and lumpy mattresses

provide backdrops

for our greatest acts.

The warmth

and the bones

and the muscle and sinew

all neatly packaged

(& still, I feel your heart beat).

An Exercise in Love:

Because of you,

filling my senses,

my taste, my touch

my sight and scent…

because of you,

I feel whole.