Friday June 1, 2018
From a L’Oréal ad
Go paint yourself red and stand out in a field telling ghost stories
This is how you will terrify yourself into standing
Go paint yourself yellow and swim in the ocean like a giant bee
This is how you will see under the coral and into the sweet
I don’t know the rules to this game so I just made them up
I don’t know what painting yourself will do
Maybe make you feel like a real human
Humans are the only ones who can paint themselves
who can write poetry
who can throw things
We were built to throw things
I will go and paint myself the colour of a Louisville Slugger and then throw a hard ball across the grass
This will go over well
This is what we are meant to do with symbolism
Real humans muse about the throwing configuration of our arms
Of anything else we choose to launch
Monday June 5, 2017
A business card
The skin is smooth and ready for art. Kat slips off her robe, overrulling the knot in her throat trying to tell her to run.
“I am art”
“I am enough”
She is standing in front of a collection of new eyes. She reminds herself not to see them. Not to look directly at them.
“I am art”
“I am enough”
Kat lays herseld down on the cushions and waits. The instructor hasn’t said anything yet. No one has. Everyone watches. Nobody moves.
Finally a voice cracks in the back of the room, letting the light in. Kat hums her panic away, steady, low.
“I am art”
“I am enough”
The first brush tongues her hip skin upward into a smile
Monday September 21, 2015
from a dramaturge’s notes
I stare into the mirror, I am naked.
I hear myself say.
I am naked.
Am I ashamed?
Do I need clothes?
Paint me something good.
I hear myself whisper to myself.
I want layers of art. Not fabric.
Paint my heart, thumping.
And I do.
Paint my lungs singing.
And I do.
Paint my mind growing.
Paint my skin softening.
Paint my posture straightening.
Paint my arms strengthening.
Paint my smile more genuine.
Paint my eyes brightening.
Paint my worries lessening.
Paint my self-consciousness subsiding.
Paint my risk taking.
Paint my understanding.
Paint my learning.
And I do. I do.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
overheard on the street
compare her to the sky and she’ll melt before your eyes
with a softness in her curl
a smile unbeknownst to her
Draw her like the sea and she’ll grow until she’s free
with a calmness in her song
wisdom there all along
Dance her like the sun and she’ll be your warmest one
with a lightness in her face
shining in the world’s embrace
Love her like the night and she’ll always hold you tight
with a mystery in her touch
radiant gold-speckled hush
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
From a text
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Sydney says, eyes round as fried eggs. “I sorrrrrry!” She wails, throwing her arms around my waist, wetting the front of my dress. “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. “It’s fine, sweetie.”
She’d been painting on the floor and had used one of my grandmother’s bone china tea cups to mix her paint. Acrylic. She’d asked for acrylic paints from her aunt Kim and Kim always obliges, without okay-ing it with us. “Really?” I’d hissed, taking off my party hat. “That shit stains!” Kim had smiled apologetically and said, “I’ll tell her to keep it on newspaper.”
Sydney and I tried to get the paint out of the teacup but it was forever tinged green. “Why don’t you just turn it into a planter or something?” Kim asked. “I liked to drink tea out of it, that’s why!” I said a little too enthusiastically.
Sunday February 8, 2015
We were at this line, standing on a cliff looking out into the entire world. We could see all the sadness, because of all the possibility. We could feel the stars shedding their light for us to soak up if we had enough space left inside after all the room we made for darkness. Deep down we had a fixed price for what we’d pay for happiness. We were told that we needed to buy it. We were told we needed to hide it. And at the same time we could hear all the first laughs of every perfect infant. We could paint courage and intimacy with a brush so soft we could swear it didn’t even leave a mark… And that’s why we stood there. On the edge of everything– and not knowing one single thing to do.
Thursday January 30, 2014 at Balluchon
He starts anywhere and finish somewhere else. That’s pretty much the only method to it. And he doesn’t sleep past nine twenty. Anyone that sleeps past nine twenty is labelled “lazy”. When he chooses his canvases he looks for the ones with flaws, he chooses those ones. The same with women. If they appear angelic, likelihood is they’re hiding something. When he stands before the large square of white, he closes his eyes and pictures the Rocky Mountains, their majesty, and it helps him take himself less seriously. Sometimes he starts in the middle. Sometimes he finishes there. The same with sex. The same with eating a pomegranate.
Saturday December 28, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
Like a baby’s face,like a sky’s blank slate, like a call in the wild, like a fresh wall of paint, I’m your sinner, you’re my saint.
I can’t cause these power outages to last longer.
I just keep seeing myself in the mirror and I know it’s clearer than it was before.
With the lights out I know, that my problems are gone, so I keep myself in the dark dark until I can understand my mark.
On the world.
Just a big splatter of poetry. I put on to you so you can see.
My life is a coiled up wire that is exposed and could explode into a million sparks of gold if I let it. If I’m not careful.
Clean minds like to clean mine, all my troubles go and into the black hole they blow.
I know I know. I can’t keep the image staying untarnished cause I just like finger smudging and floor rumbling.
They try, they try. But I’m alone most of the time and I can’t hear, what’s inside, I can’t hear all the pride I store away.
They try to keep my anger at bay.
Wednesday November 27, 2013
a poster in Kerr Hall
When you walk in you feel immediately at home. It doesn’t matter that the stairs need sanding. You’ve never lived on your own before. In the kitchen, you smile. Sure, the floors could use a good scrub and the walls have scuff marks. Okay, you wish that the living room wasn’t grey but you just heard about a cheap paint store where there are leftovers from the biggest and best paint jobs in town – The Opera House to the Shangri-La Hotel. You hear the upstairs neighbour calling to her child. “Lunch!” You walk into the bedroom and your breath catches in your throat. Blue walls with gold baseboards, not muted gold, bright, shiny, sparkly gold. Marisa, the landlady, her red fleecy zipped up under her chin, laughs. “The last tenant, she was a leetle crazeeey…” You sit down on the floor and you cry. Marisa rubs your back and you apologize and you say you’ll take it. You say you’d like to move in on Monday. You say that you need this place more than anything, that you’ve been couch-surfing since September and you’re going crazy. You don’t mention your cat. You wipe your cheeks and Marisa hugs you and says she’ll call your references and if everything checks out it’s yours.