From after the war
you have to think about that,
it was that many years already.
All the doctors were not there after the war.
It’s not like today;
You have something and you go to a doctor
and he does something to you.
In that time there were no doctors.
Alright?
So the first time he operated,
he destroyed all this here.
(Motioning to the throat)
The vocal cords.
Was it tonsils?
No.
They took those too.
They took mine too.
You know how they do that?
They got with spoon and
hucked it out, like this
(A violent scraping motion)
Im telling you.
That time,
a doctor was not a doctor.
After the war,
they did not have proper
instruments. Right?
Just took what they had.
This is all damage.
The scar tissue
(Motioning to the throat, again)
Horrible. Just Horrible.
So from that time on,
she had sixteen
operations already.
It always came back.
It suffocates her.
They have to go
everyday in
and cut everything.
Clean it out. Alright?
It is so much she
cannot breathe.
And then they go deeper
inside, get that out.
It suffocates her.
Terrible.
She suffers.
Ah, gives me the creeps.
you know that?
I lost you to trees that summer,
you swung from birches,
as I dissected the residual bark,
in the life line of your palms.
I watched you twirl in the falling sun,
Chasing your spontaneity.
Trailing behind to collect,
your dropped curiosities in mason jars.
To over-examine like suffocating
lightning bugs.
Your calloused feet stained with grass
smiled at daisies.
As you skipped the light fantastic,
over affliction.
You whispered the colours
you felt the wind
paint your skin,
as I silently scripted,
to quiet fear of imperfect reception.
Your cat eyes composed,
Chimerical Prisms.
As I sat grinding lost translation,
your rose coloured glasses advised,
“Réve en rose bébé”
“Ma Chouchou.”
I am Bailey,
” I am 22”,
” I am Fort Collins,”
I am Lost,
I am an Instrument.
Be an Instrument, life’s instrument,
Only worth what you yield.
It snowed today I walked…
Through the slush,
Slopping and crushing the death of the last snow storm.
Sloshing beneath my boots, thoughts of home, of texts, of silent.
I am a vessel. Reminded of days when [things] were simpler.
A day of Justice League
lunch boxes,
Spiderman thermoses. A Better time.
I was free then.
Dancing free of the constraints of life symphony.,
I wasn’t just an
Instrument.
I was the music.
“Red White Blue,”
Colors that comsume me.
The Mean reds,
Hitting always hitting.
Harder, destroying my sensibility.
The blues,
Dwelling and solitude,
Trapped in the desert of my mind,
The ghostly whites,
Fear. Fear that I will never be enough,
Fear to be buried and forgotten,.
“Its not easy to know what is true for me or you at 22, but I guess I’m what I see and hear and feel”
Fort Collins Colorado.
Lifes humdrum. Decent friends, a home.
Dreams, of
Afar places;
Exotic,
Potent,
Dangerous.
But Fear.
Fear keeps me from it.
Chains me to my music stand. Playing for everyone else.
To experience everything you must drop everything.
You must be the music.
Not the device.
“The color of yellow, the color of purple”
Yellow,
The color of your memories
Purple,
The color of missing you.
“On 9/11/2001”
A classroom. MR. MAC. Social studies. Current Events. Television ON. Breaking News. Mass Hyseria. LOCK DOWN. Frantic parents.
Save The Children. They are the Music.
Let them Play.
Only Children “Only Bullfighters live life all the way up.”
–The Sun Also Rises E. Hemingway.
“My home town is” A wasteland.
South West art, and old people.
IT smells like cabbage.
Where is;
The wild frontier
The exploring.
Dilapidated. An end to the exploration, the end of the American Dream.
Red White and Blue:
The fire in your left eye,
The flow of your skin,
A Frozen tongue.
America Where Are You? Come Home.
“For Christmas I want” a solution for my Lacanian Lack.
America you are wealth,
America you are poverty,
America you are the dream.
“ Ten Years later 9/11/2011 I am” 22.
I am lost, I am lacking, I am terrified, I am the American Dream…
America as I learn from you, I guess you learn from me.
I am your history. I hold the pen. You are my creation.
I am the Instrument.
You are the music.
Dance.
I own you,
[yes], all of you.
Each shred, at my disposal.
[ ] is mine.
I keep a jar,
a jar of hearts.
Sealed in my ice box.
.Frozen Sentiment.
I defrost them at times,
to pump shriveled affection.
I stash a hoard,
a hoard of hands.
Piled beneath my bed.
.Mounded Excitement.
I handle them,
to shiver past temptation.
I fill a vase,
a vase of voices.
Displayed on my window sill.
.Saturated Instrument.
I release their muzzle,
to hold lost translation.
I am Requisition.
[ ] are mine.
[no] Escape.
Let me self-identify:
Narcissist
…You are my Primary Narcissism.
Ars Poetic:
Poetry is [Nothing]
Everything.
A silent messenger,
Speaking loudly.
Simple,
[Not]
Poetry is [Paradox]
A slab of watery granite,
A faithful mixed purity.
A momentous loyalty.
Elusion.
Rusty spoons and black holes.
Line break and white noise.
: Poetry is :
A freckle
On the Epidermis
Of truth.
I am the dance commander
