Thursday, September 30, 2010

New poem

Slumped over in cars
You are still on the circuit
And you continue to lie
Like a napkin in his lap
Halfway on fire but sometimes
Barely moving
I wanted to feel electric
I wanted to claw my way up his leg
Feral but maybe could be tamed
A man who can’t stop running
Looks happy go-lucky
But really he’s dumbstruck and tortured
By his own legs
Caught in a spoke
And still on fire
Let’s get to the crux of the matter’
You taste like burnt cigarettes
And you writhe in your own spoiled clothes
Your sweat is pounding through the sheets
You get wet and make a mess of his backseat
I was looking through the barrel of a gun
But could never find the trigger
Except between my legs
And everyone else was having more fun than me
I make faces, shake the dirt off your jeans
I am crooked and a little bit jealous
Of the conquests you seem to collect
My fangs have dulled with age
But I can still take a bite out of your heart
Like an apple, the juices drip down my cheek
I was staring at you in the backseat
Aggravated at the speed of my lips
How slow it seems before they find the words
You were black beauty, snow white
And I was green with envy
Wanted to put a stop to the pop
Of your knee caps against the cement
Wanted a little more pain inside my own brittle bones

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Dessa Rose by any other name...

Am currently reading Dessa Rose and am becoming more and more interested in understanding our sordid American past. I do not seek to understand the slave trade to unearth the reason behind such inhumane brutality or to find a rationale in the way it made the Southern economy of the 19th century thrive. I am reading it, because I want to fully understand the things that weren't spoken about in any of the history classes I was forced to attend. What I am becoming aware of are atrocities so brutal that it is difficult to comprehend that humans were capable of torturing one another in such unfathomably evil ways. Knowing that America, a country that has gained recognition for its supposed freedom, has allowed such awful things to happen on its soil makes me profoundly sad. I hope to be able to smash racism but I know I cannot do it alone. Perhaps while I am at it...someone who will join in and help me smash patriarchy as well.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Metal Mags

I saw MetalMags at BAR in New Haven over two years ago but sometimes I still get this song stuck in my head. I think she is one of the gems of the East Coast who should get more credit for her creativity and non-conformity.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

For what it's worth...

I've been drinking seltzer with lime slices in it and find it to be quite refreshing. In other news I am back in school for another (hopefully productive) semester as one of the oldest under-grads I know. I am taking Chemistry and African-American Literature and have started reading "Incidents of a Slave Girl" by Harret Jacobs which has floored me. I suppose every caucasian person has experienced some form of "white-guilt" at one time or another. I must confess that although I was always aware of the atrocities of slavery, I had never read such a personal and heart-wrenching memoir detailing the horrific everyday life of a woman born into slavery. It got me thinking about the theory of the "invisable backpack" which is basically a metaphor for the unspoken priviliges that white people experience simply as result of their skin tone. I also began thinking a lot about a study I read about prejudice and how deeply it is engrained in the human psyche :,8599,1870408,00.html
It scared me that people who consider themselves not to be racist behave in a manner that is anything but when tested. I think we all hope to be open-minded but it is important not just to be a humanitarian "in theory" but also in pratice.

Peace love and rock n roll
Zoe A.

Monday, September 6, 2010

I don’t believe in 25
The magic happens at 16 and possibly 17
a quick flash from a disposable camera and then it’s over
left-over Chinese food and spilt milk
this is what I will leave you with
when I leave your house
the crumbs on your fire-escape
a trail to nowhere in particular

If someone had warned me that I would wake up
And suddenly feel old before my time
In a car in the middle of the highway
Bumps and clanks me around
And I am so far from the womb I came from
So far from the shrill cries of teenage angst
And whatever it is you people do nowadays

Once I wondered if I’d grow up to be a brighter bulb
And platinum bombshell queen of the underground
I grew up scared
I was a tiny scratch on your record
A whisper in the trees
A voice so hoarse and soft
Only your flesh knows the words
Your mouth cannot fathom

I told her that she’d begin to grow up
Just like me
If she made all the right mistakes
The ones with boys in cars
And the ones where she picks up the wrong thing
Smokes something
I knew there’d come a time
Where she’d wake up with a buzz
In her ears
It would seem
But the flicker is gone
And the static remains
Adjusting the bunny-ears on an old television
Nothing makes sense
Everything would fall like white snow
On a black screen
One day she’d wake up—thirty
With bills to pay and an unclean kitchen
One day she’d learn to pray
Hard and fast
Wake up in a pant—
“God grant me the serenity…”
One day she’d wake up in a haze of
Soup cans and one word answers
But nothing can be explained
Or solved or fathomed with one word

I was always my mother’s daughter
Her skin- alabaster white
I’d always aim to please
Bend and twist to suit her needs
I’d lay flat on the floor if she needed to walk over me
Once I wrote the melodies
You play on repeat in your heart
An over-used music box that knows the song
Slightly off key and a little bit delayed
My mother is magic and too big to fit inside a poem
Or a hallmark card
She is black boots and eyeliner
She is brash and spectacular
She knows all the answers
And she is nothing like me
Scared and shy, pretending to be

-Z.A. 2010

Thursday, September 2, 2010

New poems at 3am magazine

Two poems of mine are up at 3AM MAGAZINE---