Saturday, May 28, 2011

Me to Belong or Belong to Me

This city used to roar through its belly back when all the buildings were less and sienna,
when the copper was copper and everything was the shined penny promise of Lincoln's cheek bone,

when women, if told the word Vegans, would ask if that was the name of a savage tribe in a new world.

One that turned their healthy belches of stone gild industry into one white gallery that holds one piece of art, a chrome sphere with a protrusion, and not even the savages know what it means.

But they take guesses in their coffee shops, in their billboards, in their micro micro mega metropolis confusion.

Yes, this city still roars, but only through its nose. And yes, I am also confusion.
Every doorway in this city lets me in and quickly spits me out onto its stoop. Tells me to curl back into myself until I'm my own baby.

If Walt Whitman rode that ferry into the city today, would he tell us wonder and patriotism with double question marks and emoticons?

In the spirit of rejection, I'll take a tour on a double decker bus, armed in a bright plastic poncho. I reach, high five every stop light craning past, because no one else pays attention to them.

And in this lack of reverence, stars don't live enough to report their deaths and coruscate the city.

In this lack of reverence, the tour guide of this bus sings a half-heart America America to the lit up Empire State Building,
a daily routine, as it stands in competition with everything else she'll sing to tonight.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Fins and Ends

The school year is over. I don't even look the same as I did when it all started. Don't know what state I'm sleeping in tonight. Hannah gave me her "I only sleep with the best" t-shirt before saying goodbye. I should write country songs.

Theory of Generations

You're it.
You're it.
You're it.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Gallery Piece

My poetry is in Scholastic's online gallery. One step closer to getting published in Best Young Writers.
The link isn't working, but here's a picture of one of the poems on the page they made for me.

Woo. Two days left of school. Princeton on Friday. New York City/ Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Ceremony on Saturday-forever.

So much all the time.

Monday, May 16, 2011


My English class kills most if not all of my creativity. My final project begins with the protagonist falling asleep and ends with them waking up. Embarrassing. Whatever. That class is over. Even though that class wasn't really a class in the first place, rather the hour and a half that Hannah and I walk around the academic buildings while eating bananas or sit in the rec room watching Maury and while eating bananas. Anyway, here's the video

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Chest Full of Peas

I workshopped my friend's poem the other day. One of his lines:
"And a woman could cry into the ocean,/ the waves rocking a boat the way she breathed."
Kid's got game.

I had my collection of fable/prose poems workshopped yesterday. They involved deserts and utopias and Gaudi and ghost towns and loving and geese and Juan Ponce De Leon. My classmates weren't too thrilled about them and gave really vague advice. But my teacher freaked out and said that I was the only writer doing real art. Shakira Shakira.
Then she compared my poems to a "beautiful cedar chest filled with peas", and I was lost all over again.

I'm working on video project for my English class.
So far it's pretty rough