The Performance Artist

August 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Performance Artist

Simple tempered she steppedĀ 
from the limelight
her delicate fingers
dipped in crisp chocolate.

They cracked
like her fingers were cold vanilla ice cream.

Everyone Cried.

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This poem Needs work

August 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

When a butterfly flaps its wings…
we say nothing

What I say is never heard through brick walls
covered with plaster.
My voice clogged with decayed leaves
of ancestors I never met,
rules placed before asking
and silence filled with white noise.
It is never quiet.

I thought you said something.

Although we walk together our hands never touch
we placate emotions like mimes in boxes-
ticking to our own clocks
different time, never together-never in unity-we are
the individual!
We believe this-
the moving box with flashing pictures told us-
“this is truth-
the individual only fights for self! Only the self succeeds!”

Hand in fist hits a plastic table rattling
cardboard skies propped up by two-by-fours
and the man in the suit speaks
the truth
because he says it’s truth-
the woman blonde and bubbly
smiles from the box, says
“Some have died today-but it didn’t effect you,
have a nice day.

And seated on stones in our mime boxes
we applaud but no one hears us.
we don’t care
because inside, here, we can’t
feel anything.

beat, beat, a pulse
my heart?
I think, beating, ringing, crying
in my ear
I place my hand to a clear wall
I hope our palms will touch
but you don’t see me
you are applauding at the flashing lights
I say something but I am never heard-
I can barely hear myself-
they trained us well
from the very beginning
on carpeted floors, necks arched
looking toward tele-gods
we are never enough
and we applaud in silent boxes
but I think I heard you speak
once
and I am afraid
I am forgetting your voice-
your true voice.

Where Am I?

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