Ripples

Her nose relished the taste of steam as she settled into the bathtub, and felt the caressing heat of water soaking into her soreness and carrying it away like a colony of sea ants on a mission for ache-food.

She watched the water flow in to accommodate her shape. Her thighs and breasts were islands, her stomach a great sandbar between them, her hands and feet ships sailing and docking alongside them, her hair a forest of reeds and seaweed. Every breath she took sent a triad of concentric ripples out  onto the otherwise still surface of the water. Every inspiration was a suspension; every expiration released energy out, rippling, rippling.

Suddenly, she was struck with the idea that she could move the water, push it, make an impact, make it express her.

She started slowly, swaying subtly, watching water slosh to and fro as she willed it. Shifting up gears, she pushed the throttle and threw water and flesh around like a failed juggler in a butcher shop. The movement became increasingly chaotic until she realized that she was no longer so much moving the water as it was moving her. In her climb to power beyond her capacity, she'd been overcome by a force that just dared her to mess with it.

She threw down her guns and threw up a white flag, and her body swayed to a stop as the water regained its composure and smoothed down its hair, ever so slightly ashamed of what it had just done. When they were at rest, both agreed to never revisit that moment again; but each secretly remembered how hard the other could hit, and nothing was ever the same again.

And the only witnesses to this moment of violence were a water spout that could not see, faucet handles that could not speak, and a towel that could only hold one of them.

Derivative

Every time I write anything,
a voice in the back of my mind
in the red velour and gold cord box seat
shouts "Derivative!"
while another says
"Well there's certainly nothing integral about it!"
because apparently my inner critic
is Statler and Waldorf,
and my high school math teacher,
all at once.

But the thing about "derivative"
is that it's only self expression
that gets that label.
Destructive things are negative tropes,
harmful things perpetuate stereotypes,
cruel things need to end;
but love poems and songs about beauty are all
"derivative."
So really, there's no harm in it at all.

Think about it.
If I write a poem about beetles and cars,
or a girl in a bathtub
and someone says
"It's been done,"
that doesn't make me any less unique
or my contributions any less valuable,
or my words any less valid.
It just means I found my own way
to the same conclusions as someone else
and can now share that thought bubble
as equal partners in creativity.

When you and your neighbor end up
unknowingly exploring the same theme,
it just means that theme was worth
the extra effort of exploration.
So of course all great works,
all heartfelt works,
are derivative.
If they weren't, they wouldn't be all that great,
would they?

So next time Statler says "Derivative,"
I'll thank him
and present Waldorf with a calculus textbook.

Parking Lot, 9:47pm

A sea of beetles at my feet
iridescent blue and orange
under the crude oily grime of city streetlights
sitting waiting in their hard shells
but one wrong move
and their liquid insides spill onto the concrete

I think they realize that
because they aren't moving
but I can feel movement
a quiet storm of energy
beneath a plexiglass exterior
restless lymph
swirling cytoplasm
a great big secret
a kinesthetic mystery masked
under solid simplicity

I wonder if they know
how beautiful they are
as the train rolls on into the night.

Try?

i’ve been told that in a perfect relationship, you always have to try.

try your hardest, and if it doesn’t work out, your hardest wasn’t hard enough

or maybe your hardest just wasn’t enough for them

so just wait,

someone will come around who only needs your hardest

but he doesn’t try

he never tries

he just wakes up every morning

and speaks

and walks

and writes

and dances.

but when he speaks, his voice rumbles through the air and its resonance shakes away whatever vapid thoughts could pervade the space and replaces them with brilliance;

and when he walks, he doesn’t move over the earth, nor does the earth move under him, but it moves with him, and they exist in almost perfect symbiosis, so that the earth invites me to move in their rhythm so sweetly I can’t help but accept;

and when he writes, his pen lets forth the most beautiful words I could ever read in curling wisps of sweet verbal smoke in a closed room, swirling through the air for ages before it permeates my clothes, my brain, my hair, my being;

and when he dances, every step is like a kiss

and every kiss is like a dance.

but he doesn’t try

he never tries

he merely does

and he knows not what he does to me

New Poem!

Hey everyone! It's been a while since I've written a poem all the way through, but we shall wait no more! This has been a particularly eventful week for many reasons, but one lovely moment of it inspired a poem, not because it was the height of the week/weekend, but because it's the only one I can put in words and still feel I'm doing the occurrence justice.
So with that in mind, here's my newest poem (after heavy edits to spare you all the corniness of my thoughts), which is as of yet untitled:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

months lost, wandering

spiraling from corner to corner of the mind

a labyrinth of sound and pheromones with dead ends abounding

and yet suddenly

we stop.

the world slows down to a lilting half speed

and i can smell him in my hair

and i can feel him type through his shoulder

his words spilling out of him

our words spilling out of him

his whole self undulating with our story

underneath my head

as i listen to his voice rumble through my earlobe

a soft, strong hummmmm...

and there are no preconceptions

no pre-ordained paths

only stories

only comfort

only warmth

only him close to me

typing

living in his words

both of us living in his words

our words

and the fog lifts

the walls disappear

there never was a labyrinth;

there never was a game.

there were only the walls i imagined;

there is only warmth,

only comfort,

only stories.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So the question/thought that goes with this one is this: Tell me about a time when you felt like your entire conception and belief system concerning relationships and love and romance and all that fun stuff fell apart. Or tell me why it hasn't yet, if it hasn't. Or tell me about a beautiful moment where all of a sudden everything made sense again. Or just say hi!

Thanks, and I'll be back soon with new stuff!

Art Post #16: Greed

It's Friday/Saturday! So tell me, Internet, what the heck is this guy doing? How did this come to be?

Leave your stories in the comment section, and I'll send you all my love!

Art Post #15: Radioactive

Art again! Fun Fact: Bananas are the most radioactive of all fruit. There are naturally-occurring potassium isotopes all around us, and they get integrated into the gooey tasty bits of bananas more than any other fruit.
So who's at war, and why? And why drop bananas? Leave your story in the comment section! :)