Gregarious Expressions

for anonymous

The spring’s fresh green buds would sprout undetected
under fall’s crumpled fists
had nature not released her spent leaves to the wind,
revealing the minimal elegance of bare winter branches.

It is tempting to hold on
to let the newspapers of our past pile in the corners so high
they bleed out into the middle of our rooms
cluttering our present so densely we cannot find our away through to the future.

We are scavengers bringing home every desperate scrap of affection —
all the love and attention they never gave us when we needed it.

You don’t want to go in there
such a mess I’ve made inside.

Faded curtains drawn so as not to see the dust
clinging to boxes of defenses we cannot bear to throw away
and wishful souvenirs of things that never happened.
Buried up to our necks in reservations.

You are not the image your mother tried to make for you.
You are not a klutz
who has no common sense
who can’t tell her left from her right
who always has her face in a book
(as if that were a bad thing.)
You are not the braces, bad hair cut and acne scars.

Ok, so maybe you are a bit of a nerd
and you can’t hold Utthita Hasta Padangustasana (Extended hand-to-big-toe pose)
So what’s wrong with that?

You don’t need to remember every trauma
every dirty look
every bad name
every promotion you didn’t get
every time there was no one there to hold you while you cried
every time you found the courage to stand up for yourself but got pushed back down anyway
the shame of shabby hand-me-downs and clearance rack couture
the stupid mistakes
the things you shouldn’t have said.

When you got your period first and the other girls at camp whispered about the tampons in your suitcase
the days when you thought you might never see him again
the days when you didn’t think you were strong enough to take it anymore
the time you drank too much and he date raped you
the time you drank too much and he date raped you
the time you drank too much and he date raped you
the time he ripped up a condom package in your face because it had been a month but you still weren’t ready
the night he picked you up and threw you across the room because you didn’t love him as much as he wanted to be loved
the time you drank too much and drove home when you shouldn’t have because you didn’t feel safe
every time he didn’t know he loved you until it was too late

every time you moved and had to start all over again
and you told the kids you hoped would be your friends where you had been
and they told you to stop bragging and walked away
Or that time in fifth grade when the boys told you to call Thor’s might hammer “maboner” instead of Mjolnir
and you did because you didn’t know any better
and you wanted them to like you
you wanted to be in on the joke
you wanted to laugh with them instead of being laughed at
but it turned out they just wanted to make fun of you.

Beyond driving home a point in a poem about emotional hoarding,
this memory is garbage.
It will never come in handy.
It will not make you stronger or braver or less vulnerable to future attacks.
It’s time to throw the motherfucker out.

The fissures running through your heart like earthquake fault lines
are not less likely to rip open if you stand there staring them
frozen in the fearful shadow of yesterday’s pain,
remembering the why not over and over again
trying not to feel anything new.

There is no get out of suffering free card
death is the only exemption
maybe
unless what’s next is worse
and you come back without the benefit of the hands you didn’t use
the dreams you failed to pursue
the chances you didn’t take
the love you failed to give.

Drag your bags of exhausted excuses to the curb
and make space for truth to stretch out.
It doesn’t matter who you were:
become who you want to be.

–ag

He asked me how long he had been asleep,
but I wasn’t counting the minutes.
I was listening to his struggling breaths
fighting in vain to relax into an effortless rhythm.

The last thing he said before slipping into silence was,
“I’m so tired,”
So why not just let him sleep?

I could be still for as long as it took
with his chest against mine
the beat of his heart so forceful I could not hear my own.
Stretching my leg down the bare length of his body
with subtle care not to interrupt
this much needed rest he wouldn’t let himself have on purpose.
It didn’t matter how long because I would be still
as long as he needed me to lay with him
in that mid-morning peace.

I thought about the kittens curling up together
for warmth and for comfort-
this is what animals like us do naturally.

I thought of weekends at The Lake,
afternoons when we weren’t allowed in the cottage
while adults were napping.
In the back of my pubescent dirty mind –
(I had already watched soaps with Grandma after school
We had already discovered Mom’s Playgirl magazines) –
I assumed nap was a code word for fuck,
that sleeping together meant sleeping together.
You can’t fool me with your biblical knowledge.

But maybe they really were just tired,
up too late around the bonfire the night before
maybe even hungover,
not quite ready for the hair the dog.
But probably, it was both.
A break from the work of landscaping and barbecuing
and a little afternoon delight to relieve the stress,
climaxing into a shower of Zzzzzzzs
a slip into sleeping serenity for as long as it might last.
No need to set an alarm
or count the minutes.

-July 3, 2015
ag
  

“In the beginning you improvise only the order of the details and their rhythms. Then you change the order and the rhythms and even the composition of the details. This must not be premeditated, but dictated by the flow of your own body. You must find this spontaneous line of the body, which is embodied in the details and goes beyond them but which at the same time maintains their precision. If this precision is absent, then it is useless and the result can only be a sort of prisoner.”

(Thanks to Mike Daisey for the recommending the video!)

I recently recorded a couple of poems I’m thinking about performing on Saturday at a Breaking Ground Poets benefit event in hopes that listening to the piece over and over again would help me memorize the work so I don’t have to stand up there reading from a piece of paper. Even the smallest piece of paper is a barrier between audience and performer.
I’m not sure I’m going to be able to reach that goal but after posting the recordings because what the heck, I made them, I found I’m getting an unexpected warm response from people who’ve not been so inclined to comment on my written posts. I think I’ll record a couple of more pieces before the week is out, maybe asking those who can’t make the fundraiser to consider making a donation to the BGP Brave New Voices travel fund. -ag

The journey is not over.
Gotta keep moving forward the rest of this life.
But a pit stop at the tops of molehills
to celebrate the miracle that we are alive at all
is not only excusable;
it’s endorsed.

They say it’s not about winning
just doing your best —
when the world is trying to silence you
sit you down
shut you down
put you in your place,
not being ashamed to exist is victory.

Success is learning not to shy away from the sound of your own voice
not wincing at your distorted reflection
as you pass through the glass and metal cityscape
ebbing from and flowing to Sisyphean wage slavery.
Graciously accept the compliment
even though you don’t need his affirmation
because you nurture and love yourself now.

I’m not afraid of death,
only not having lived enough.
What is enough?
Is it ever?
To live with enough curiosity and awareness
enthusiasm, applause and hope
enough courage, love and forgiveness –
that is enough.

I’m not afraid of making mistakes,
dropping and breaking your precious vase,
but rather, not brushing up against the boundaries
not getting close enough to smell the
burnt popcorn dumpster fart skunk vomit
burnt hair morning breath of failure.

Better to trip and fall; scrape knees and cry.
Better to jump in the puddles;
wander off and pick flowers on the
dangerous paths our mothers warned us about
and make awkward wildflower and weed bouquets
that wilt before you get to Grandma’s

than remain dry and unsoiled
unbruised in your safety bubble
not leaving a mark
sneaking nondescriptly away,
no evidence that you were ever here at all.

-ag

Is it feasible to say,
“I know what I’m doing is wrong, but to not do it is even more wrong, so until another option emerges, c’est la vie?”
Or is that just cowardice and a desperate attempt to justify ethically-flawed behavior?

Does it make sense to say,
“I deserve better but I’m not into deprivation either, so I’ll take what I can get for now until a better offer comes along?
And is this reasonable compromise or settling for less than I deserve?

Don’t want to undercut myself but is pricing myself out of the market any more honorable?

Who sets the fair market value of a freewheeling 43-year-old divorced under-employed female writer/artist mother of two teenage girls in 2015?

-ag

“It’s about the terror … the terror of being found out.”
“…we all have ticking away within us something we fear will badly harm our reputation if it got out. Maybe our secret is actually nothing horrendous. Maybe nobody would even consider it a big deal if it was exposed, but we can’t take that risk so we keep it buried. Maybe it’s a work inpropriety or maybe it’s just a feeling that at any moment we’ll blurt something out during some important meeting that will prove to everyone that we aren’t proper professional people or, in fact, functional human beings.
I think even in these days of significant over-sharing we keep this particular terror concealed like people used to do with things like masturbation before everybody suddenly got blasé about it online. With masturbation nobody cares where as our reputation – it’s everything.”