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Topic: Tenda's poems  (Read 19283 times)
Permalink  •  February 06, 2013, 11:12:54 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #15 on: February 06, 2013, 11:12:54 PM »


Pore over my stomach like a shark's
To find everything I've tried and failed:

I'll line my dozen medications up for you,
Walk through why each one failed before
Expressing doubt about the dopamine hypothesis;

Antipsychotic, neuroleptic,
Historically the major tranquilizers --
No one can tell me if I'll ever get better,
Stop having to cope with visions and
Soothsayer roommates that persist
Despite best efforts --

Increasingly catatonic, staring into space,
I'm forgetting what life is meant to be like.
I go over my own poetry, pick out the
Recurring themes and imagery:

Rising water, unresolved memories,
Undercurrents of wannabe violence;
I'm not just stressed, I'm angry
Having been saddled with an unfair burden
Then ridden to exhaustion;
No one deserves this,
And for once I'll muster the self-worth to say
I don't deserve it either.

But illness marches on: I'm stranded,
One floor below the real
With a heap of broken ladders.
This is how I build my life,
Matchstick woman -- broken pieces
Aggregated to approximate

Something functional
Despite every part being trash,
Every ounce of effort required
Just to put the two of us in alignment;
But what will we talk about?

My self hurts,
It's unfair,
And the whispers remind me

Things are only going to get worse
Before they get better

Permalink  •  February 11, 2013, 12:01:14 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #16 on: February 11, 2013, 12:01:14 PM »

These paths are too well-trodden,
Games too played-out;
I made a commitment to change
I can't deliver on,
Back to sitting in the apartment
Hamstrung by the exhaustion
That comes with this kind of life:

Too scared or too tired,
Too insecure or too unsure,
Cursed to blaze new trails
Because the women that came before me
Succeeded in being invisible
While I at best flicker in,
Flicker out,

Safe for the better part of the day
But subject to the absence
Of the most common courtesies
With a calculated surety --
There's always going to be someone --
And without friend or family to fall back on

I fall back on the old habits,

But wonder how this life ever previously sustained me --
Lonesome and amazed that
I've invested more than a thousand hours
In not just one but multiple computer games
While all those intermediate years passed by;

I want something more fulfilling now,
But I'm too ashamed and beat-down to
Step up to the plate ... too
Easily dissuaded, too easily outmatched,
Lacking in whatever vitality it is
That drives the common and the cis
In both the day-to-day and ambition.

Where to go today, alone?
Safer and warmer inside,
Less difficult decisions to make
That loom over me not only
As choices

But the absence thereof --
What are they? What are my options?
What do people do?

I don't want to sit here
But I don't know where else to be.
I don't want to face the future,
But the future's staring me down;

And it nails me, squarely,
A short and neat sum:
Broken-hearted coward on the fringe
Of personhood, denied any
Dignity or admiration
By the twin demons pinning me to the wall:

Present compromised by past and future,
I'm belly-up and waiting for the
Strike of the hammer;

Where to go today?
Nowhere, nowhere,
Nowhere but another day whiled away
Buried deep within myself

Permalink  •  February 11, 2013, 08:18:18 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #17 on: February 11, 2013, 08:18:18 PM »


When skeletons drive cars, you're always at risk of
Rubbernecking unless you adjust to it --
Accept there are devils in the passenger seat,
Listen calmly and dismissively

Two hands on the wheel

To avoid what you're already, always afraid of,
The deathblow,
The wrong stimulus at the wrong moment
That shreds your body how your mind already is.

There's so little time to react between the onset
And the transformation,
Realization that you're hearing something
When there was nothing
And trying to puzzle out whether it's there
Or not, and it never matters
Because you can't grip tight enough,
There's no way to turn it off once it's started:

A few seconds of believing
It's just your neighbor's television
Before it's changed into something
You can't qualify or believe,
The news really can't be talking about me
And how badly I fucked up my day,
And it would be bad enough if it stopped there

But tuning in, your throat tightens,
Ensorcelled by the compulsion to listen
The whole world is whitewashed
By voices turning into mingled screams and
Cacophony, an intensely loud
Collision of metal on metal
You don't even waste time trying to rationalize
Is anything other than the unreal's

Aural dictation, imposition by a faceless,
Purposeless will that's possessed you with
Deep roots,
Tapped every autonomous system,
Deprives you of a world where
Things happen only for a reason;

Correlation breaks down,
The purposelessness spreads without check
Crushing ambition and self by the by;
Effort spent is effort wasted when
Your senses are subject to the whimsy
Of a nothing,
A non-entity that nonetheless
Bellows, issues orders,
Carries out due punishment
When you fail to live up to its impossible standards --

If you could only see what these eyes have seen,
You would be miserable, too,
Hoping only for the one cure reserved our unfortunate lot;
The merging of the real and the unreal,
Unfettered psychosis,
Too far-gone to angst or pontificate
On the sadness of your station
And why, God oh why,
Your illness ever had to come to be

Permalink  •  February 26, 2013, 03:08:01 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #18 on: February 26, 2013, 03:08:01 PM »

Some dreams lie close enough to the heart
To shield it, ensorcelling all the viscera
With an invisible, unbroachable gossamer;

One device, one thin sheen
To keep us alive when all
The world comes bearing down,
At every juncture where we're left

"Why is it anyone else's dream to put my own to ashes?"

I don't know where hateful people come from.
I don't pretend to have an inkling, or the start of an
Answer for why some things happen to some people --

Or for that matter, what makes some of ourselves
So hateful from time to time that we become our
Own roadblocks, and make light of
What's kept us on our feet the whole time.

I think I've forgotten, too many times,
Where I slipped and it was someone else that caught me
Whether they outspokenly opposed my dream
Or supported it. It and I
Survived thanks to intervention,
Knowingly or not, begrudgingly or not,
And too many times I've
Missed the forest for the trees
(Too, too many times)
And forgotten to give credit where credit is due.

Thank you, mom, dad, and otherwise;
And thanks to all the inscrutable,
Blow-turning forces I won't ever be able to comprehend.

Permalink  •  June 26, 2013, 04:54:18 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #19 on: June 26, 2013, 04:54:18 PM »


I’m cupping new growth in the mirror, envisioning the
Inframammary fold before it’s there; just
Budding fat now, no ligaments, I lack
Connective tissue but
Things are coming together —

In front of the mirror I’m holding onto feelings I couldn’t
Cognit before they came, because I couldn’t know
How this would feel;
Hand-wringing beforehand, because I knew she would ask,
I’m wondering just what it means
To change the structure of your brain.
I’m carried away to that time I fell and hit my head in the shower,
The euphoria that comes with traumatic brain injury

Maybe this won’t be so bad,
If I’ll even be able to remember; can the person
Measure the distance before her,
Between herself and him,
Or do I get lost in translation,

The motion forward I presaged living my long
Prelude to these moments

Surreal and lonely,

I’m becoming what I’ve never known
But only imagined and even if I put the needle back in,
I couldn’t draw the injection back out.
That person is shriveled, as shrunken and dead as the
Leydig cells and their round,
Hanging prison,

My chemical cord wrapped tight around the balls
I decided needed to come off
Without ever thinking just what that would feel like

30 minutes before an appointment,
Anxious and depressed,
Somehow infused with the inkling that
Today is the day she’s going to ask,
“Do you think you’re ready?”

I’ve structured my response into three parts when she does:
But I honestly don’t know, and
Because I’m scared of finally being happy.
It’s only occurred to me then,
At the instant of decision,
A change in velocity after so long
Holding myself back

That I’ve actually wondered what it’s going to be like to be
Something different than what I am.
I don’t know if I’ve just overlooked it,
I don’t know if I just never thought it would come;
I don’t know if I was just afraid of it,
And the unavoidable answer that,


Maybe I’ll remember,
Maybe I’ll stay the same,
Maybe I’ll be so different I can’t tell,
And maybe I’ll get it wrong after the fact, anyway,

And who could tell me otherwise?

In a hospital room, stripped of my clothes and identity
I’m burying my face in my arms and feeling
More intensely uncomfortable to be seen
Than I ever have before in my life. It’s become so much more visceral,

So much more fundamental to who I am
That I am


Permitted to be what I am,
That this is more unbearable than anything I’ve ever known.
There’s been this bottom-level change,
I’m wearing these clothes today not because

Back then, this is how I wanted to look but

Today, this is just who I am. Something’s changed,
A commitment that’s solidified,
Become codified when estrogen imprinted itself
Onto the dura mater, and
A minority of white matter atrophied
For gray;

Will the expansion of Wernicke’s area make me a better writer?
Having compromised the parietal lobes,
How am I going to make these measurements,
Traverse the folded, creased road
Between then and now?

It’s racing through my mind in the brief space
Between a formal assessment that grants me a letter
Dr. Pittaway won’t see me without
And seeing him,
That collection of hearsay online we’ve compiled into websites
Titled ‘The Transgender Roadmap’ and likewise,
Conflicting literature about whether

Cross-gender hormone therapy can result in changes to
Sexual preference,

Whether I was entitled to call myself a lesbian before
Or if I was just

Temporally straight

And what am I going to be tomorrow?
Conflicting literature about whether

The pelvic bones turn out,
Or whether their fusion at puberty was the last change possible
And this feeling I have of an

Out-turned bone
When I brush my hand over my hip, ...
Lying in bed breathing easy, slow,
Relaxed for the first time I can remember, ...
Has always been there or not;

And I know.

I was right, and I was wrong, to be afraid;
Because today I am sundered,

But from what,

I can’t ever know again.
« Last Edit: June 26, 2013, 04:56:23 PM by Tenda »

Permalink  •  June 27, 2013, 07:42:04 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #20 on: June 27, 2013, 07:42:04 PM »


I have nagging doubts about the status of transversals:

Claiming to be something I've only intersected,
So reluctant to be the arc and unwilling
To be called tangent,

Reduced in a world of division
And given
The option to fall back on what I've been

Moving away from

Or take up the mantle of that

This series of homonyms that begin trans-
And pin down people in motion
Describing them by that motion
Naming them according to this motion

Deferent to destination

But ready to recall the origin in self-defense
And reference
The birthplace, birth names, past biology
Inferred through histology
Tracing sampled observations, cells
Reversed to the mast and infancy,

I'm just so sick of my past being inclusive to my present
When arriving where I am is so deliberate, and the journey so arduous,
But it's so arduous for you to take me at face value
When I'm


Asking you to abdicate or accept me and ignore the transit,
Humor me

And forget what you might infer,
Just listen to what I'm telling you
As if it wasn't so hard to grant me the ownership of myself I'm pleading for,
Myself deferent at the last and unwilling to assert,
Take up steel for the idea
I'm something you're already up in arms I'm not
When I could just

Walk away,
Homely seeking home
Insistent it's there somewhere,
A place for me
Where the transversal terminates
And we can double-back together to the place
I said I was headed,
Dwell in agreement
At the double-destination I was destined to

Congenitally, by no fault of my own
Though you'll hold it against me
Like it wasn't presaged or integrated,
Ignore the area beneath the curve because,
Oh, that's too difficult
When just keeping me at arm's length instead

Serves so well to define the small, comfortable world
You don't want to believe can be

Permalink  •  June 28, 2013, 12:08:17 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #21 on: June 28, 2013, 12:08:17 PM »


Run out like the world runs away from me,
Slips between fingers when I'm not slipping between
Cracks on a blanket, the craters formed
When we unfold the bloody linen after-the-fact
So there's something to sleep under,
Better than sleeping bare and naked beneath
What put you there, underarm property counting hours
You tied a three hundred dollar coefficient to
Just to be bearable
Because you can infer a kind of self-worth from being
A prized possession not everyone
Can afford, it's so nice to be able to turn away
Someone after you were turned away
Like your eyes find the wall, press against it
Like you found something that can prop you up
Against an inequity you'd rage against
If you didn't believe in it yourself
And count the seconds,
Count the minutes, count your hours
Counting on being paid after the fact,
Just wrap yourself up in the poetic device
You wrap around the ring on the nightstand
Before you write it into two poems
No one will read but yourself
When you're trying to create the illusion
Some distance really has come between you
And those days, that person,
These feelings, that linen, those shapes
You saw from afar and thought were so shapely
When you weren't wrapped up in them,
Saw the mountain without looking up out of the
Valley, canyon, the reverse precipice
Pinning you down every moment of life
Waking or undead, because the inglorious
Don't sleep, they stagger between
The bus and metro stops that earmark the
Last place they're going to want to remember
Because you've come to attach so much beauty
To the mundane things you just absolutely aren't,
Those little things you can't ever be
Because you were born running,
Hit the ground and run away from me like the water
Hits the drain and vomits up the blood and broken hair
That rinses off every time I hit the water, just so
To wash off that smell I'm just so sure
Can just get such a good feel for me from a
It doesn't matter you never get close to anyone
When they're pressing down on you so hard from afar
Like those mountains fall out of the sky
Raining hard on a pilgrim
Who crossed one line
Too far, too far from home and the Sandy Hook
You'll glass over in the final blasphemy
When you take all of these things
You internalized
And turn the glance outward, for once,
To show the world two black eyes
And whatever color your heart's turned
Before the outpouring hate
Turns every river in the world into one red cataract,
Breaks on the beachhead,
And you laugh to feel so relaxed
While all the world crumbles
Underneath a burden you carried so lightly,
So gaily, for so long

Permalink  •  July 21, 2013, 10:54:13 AM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #22 on: July 21, 2013, 10:54:13 AM »

I wrote a poem about my love


In the fold of your wings I remember something
Previously distant beyond recollection,
Absolutely lost without hope of recall --

An emotion gone, blasted into formlessness
Or repulsive mockery
By the long shelling of my embattled life;

I never thought someone could rise out of
The world I shied away from
In such brazen deference,
Such total disrespect,
Teaching me to be happy against my will
And the heavy curtains of protestation --

That anyone would take their time out for me,
That anyone would fight for me,
All the much more when I was past the point
Of fighting for myself anymore.

And now I'm happy here,
Not just with you but in my own company too;
Your glowing warmth, the firespout love
Reflects pink and red on the skin
That was so long cold and pallid, callous,
Indifferent and emotionless --
Every part of my body shines with the beauty
Put forth for you, reminding me of you,
Silhouetted always by what you saw in me first
And your smile that pulled
The mirror image out of me.

Still, I'm treading water in a flooding room
Whether or not you lift and buoy me;
There's refractory depression,
There's always that fatalism within arm's reach
And the low-hanging fruits of self-sabotage
I've gotten so, so accustomed to;
You struggled to believe I would choose to be unhappy
Just because it was comfortable,
But living above the world
In the dragon's claws
I just have these conflicting ideas about what security even means.

I think that it boils down to investment.
Deriving security from your pledge to be it takes something from me too,
Requires going out on a limb
That's never failed to snap beneath me before;
The security of my dark and empty room is so much more effortless,
Just omnipresent and suffusing me so easily
With the chilly ennui that doesn't even provide to
Care at all
That it is what it sadly is.

I don't know where I'll end up.
Right now, I love being happy and in love,
And I'll keep my fingers woven with yours
As long as I can, soaring over the throat of the world
Eyes-closed but smiling, terrified you'll let me go but
Fighting again,
Fighting today to remain convinced you won't

And we'll just fly on, until I take flight beside you,
And all the water of the ocean entire beneath
Will bubble and roar
Bereft of menace,
The threat of drowning removed both forever
And for the first time in my life.

Permalink  •  August 25, 2013, 10:39:17 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #23 on: August 25, 2013, 10:39:17 PM »

It's amazing how everyone looks past me,
Electrifying standing in line to get into the bookstore
Wracked with anxiety same as it ever was,
Same as it ever was,
But there's no second glances today --
There's no judgment, no inference or
Burning condemnation
Behind all those eyes that just track


And move on past me as if I really am
Just as invisible,
Just as unremarkable as every man and woman
Standing in this line

Probably not wracked with the same anxiety I am,
Not trained by hard knocks,
Unaware of the jargon definitions of "clock" and "stealth,"
People who haven't felt the need to weaponize mirrors
As tools of self-defense
Critical to quality of life in a way so distinct from
The way they preen themselves

But they're probably not electrified
This same way either,
They're probably not elated or ecstatic
To mingle
Without being obliged to mingle,
Fitting in by fitting in without having to ever


I am anything,

Being myself an assertion,
An assertion that goes unchecked and unquestioned,
A sensation I honestly never expected to feel;

I've railed against God and the Devil
For what nature did to me,
Begged recompense because my stack seemed short,
Hand of cards lacking --

But now I'm finding payoff.
And it's often payoff the genetic genders
Will never feel
And couldn't comprehend,

And it's alright. I'm happy to be transgender,
Understanding now my love of self
Was actually broadened in scope at birth,

So that I might not just this day love being a woman,
But love being something more special as well.

Permalink  •  August 29, 2013, 12:22:35 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #24 on: August 29, 2013, 12:22:35 PM »

*The Dreams I Have*

It was the best time to be alive,
Watching every alarmist broadcaster I hated
Become lovely, turning their digital designers
Over to the masturbatory fury
Of illustrating the narrow-shot

Where the eye of the hurricane
Passes right over the top of the Empire State Building,
Where the Army Corps of Engineers
Failed again, levees break,
And all the quietly-detested parts of Manhattan
Disappear briefly under the waves,

Rise anew primed for reconstructive gentrification;

Deepwater Horizon inspired my hydrocarbocane,
That Danik turned into an eighth-level spell
In my trite fantasy prose so Haep-Kiru

Would have his, you know, opportunity
To flex that one talent I gave him
In the foreshadowed conclusion to a years-long
Dream-printed arc,
Saving the world in conjunction with Koranos

Who wielded a sword, in a dream,
Borrowed from another dream
Featuring me instead of him,
Where a psychic worm buried deep inside my head

Radiated outwards

All my thoughts and superpowers,
Ruining that super-great one I had where
I appeared on a dance contest reality show
With a _beautiful_ girl
Who I loved to hold hands with

And whose mother _loved_ me

That got so much worse when my hidden parasite
Tuned the world airwaves into
What was hidden under my swirling skirt
And the newspapers worldwide
Into truth-telling tabloids

I couldn't deny

When the whole world's inhabitants had a red-phone
Directly into my shame.

Conquering the worm gave me unused fodder,
Material I could transplant from one dream
Into another
So that my heroic alter-ego had the device necessary
To enact his deus ex machina
Against the deus plaguing his world
I'd only borrowed from Richard Garriot, anyway.

The long-running fetish dreams faded into obsessions of motherhood
As progesterone weaseled its way deeper into my brain,
Recurring, awful, titillating visions of
And a uterus full of insect eggs,
Hatching into gentle-fingered, woman-faced spider brood
Suckling on swollen tits
Going unused in the real world
Prior to weaving "thank you mommy" through sunlit branches

In a scene I only feign detesting so that it's appropriate to mention
In conversations inappropriate anyway,
Cementing my reputation as the detested attention-seeker
No one pauses to reflect on the motives of
Or why she'd really have those dreams she really has.

I gave into dream pressure,
Began incubating an egg underneath me while I sat or slept
I only took from the fridge

But that I convinced my friends was fertilized

So that my pathetic ruminations on motherhood
At least seemed heartfelt, and maybe hopeful,
Instead of mere ventures

Into a corrupt daydream,

All of the sensible feelings cordoned off
By what separates me from you,
The sleeping ministrations of my heart and mind
As diminished and reduced
By the waking shame
Baked into my core by my daily gulf,

That I'm retreating into,
And progressively reluctant to leave.

I can throw away this egg in another twenty days,
Tell my friends that this one was a bust but
That three-and-a-half-weeks will see me a mother,

Convincing myself audibly as I turn off the bedside lamp

That it actually is, possible, though,
Because I've seen tabloid stories that women making omelettes
Cracked fetuses into their pans.

And so I sleep and dream frozen,
Perched on these errant hopes I pulled from the bottom-shelf;

Never crush the egg,
Never stop believing

That the dreams the world left me with may someday
And my deplorable existence
Somehow find life between my loins.

Permalink  •  August 29, 2013, 01:49:09 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #25 on: August 29, 2013, 01:49:09 PM »

posting the above to my Family Facebook was the best thing ever, except people will probably think that this is all metaphor and I am not actually incubating a store-bought egg with my ass on the impossibly improbable hope it will hatch into a chick rendering me a mother

incubating that egg with my ass every minute of every goddamn day

Permalink  •  August 31, 2013, 01:07:30 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #26 on: August 31, 2013, 01:07:30 PM »


Every day is burdensome,
I’m getting more and more eager to sleep
(Perchance to dream)
That the excitement mounts
Earlier-and-earlier in the day,

4PM, getting psyched
For my bedtime routine
Of playing out my favorite fantasies
Before gripped by slumber;

I inserted an intersex woman into the universe of
Final Fantasy 6,
Play out her rejection and the
Slow-coming kindness she receives
With eager, eager, eagerness —
I’m living out the life of someone
Harassed for something more concrete than what I did,
Being born an other-kind
Without the philosophical trappings of
“Well, no one owes you acceptance,”
“Because becoming a woman was the choice you made.”

My eponymous alter-ego is handicapped,
Had both her hands pulped by
An overzealous empire
And struggles with the tasks of daily living;
The doctor overseeing the hospital where she stays
Helps slip her shoes on,
The nurse who wipes her down to approximate a bath
Is privy to her secret shame —

There’s something so attractive about being
Definitively fucked-up,
Getting to trace without doubt the reason people despise you
Back to a birth you didn’t control
That I wish the strangers of my waking life
Could submit to.

I just want to be vindicated,
I want to be told I was given the rough life
But really,

What does anyone gain from shitting on me because of it?

I always struggle to understand why people
Choose to be cruel,
And what place it has versus the antipode
When you’re being cruel on the basis
Your subject made a choice they never did,

But you made yours, didn’t you?
There’s this growling hate inside of me,
My one claim to beg of unconditional justice
Is that everyone who chose hate
Be punished commensurately,

That everyone who chooses to hate me
Suffer sleepless nights
The same as I do,

But myself at least resting confident,
Heartfelt believer that at least I made the right choice,
Making well on a birthright,
While their own lives are just the handiwork
Of having chosen wrong.

Permalink  •  September 03, 2013, 07:50:30 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #27 on: September 03, 2013, 07:50:30 PM »

this is about my sister's miscarriage and very personal to our family situation, and no one here will understand it, but I am posting because I like keeping all of my poems in one easily-remembered place

something about somebody about something

It felt like an impossible situation,
Every inch of exposed emotion sure to be interpreted
Wrongly, as misplaced or inauthentic,
Because I didn’t,
And am sure she couldn’t imagine why.

It was the first time in a long time talking to my mother,
And we both cried,
But it didn’t feel dangerous in the same way.
I never thought, either,
My mother would understand the full breadth

Of how it was affecting me,
The emotions underlying the sympathy and

I’m always coming back to something I read once,
That people only ever cry because they can
Relate something back to themselves

And that ‘tears of joy,’ pity, or sympathy
Are really never as simple as such.

But I can’t wear that author’s aphorism on my sleeve,
I can’t tell that story every time I tear up
Or even expect the person whose tragedy I’m co-opting
To give a shit
About venturing guesses
Why the party leaving the voicemail would be so utterly,
Obviously choked up.

And I never expected a callback, anyway,
And I didn’t and don’t expect a day will ever come
It could come mentioned by-the-way
In a conversation casual or on another topic,
Some organic conversation between
Equals and
Beleaguered women-at-arms
Worn low and thin
By the same arbitrary, and unkind world

Eager all the same
To find unity in difference,
The bridge that was never there
Exposed when
All of the combined tragedies are sloughed off,
Investigated casually,
And revealed for what they were.

It always feels like an impossible situation,
And feels more and more like it’s grown into an
Unbroachable gap,
Because the distance between us poisons the notion
To the point of mortality

And now I can never say, we lost something,
Even if you lost something immeasurably worse,
Without just coming across like a bullshitter at best,

And more probably something worse,
At likelihood.

But I lost a part of you,

That feels like a large enough part
That now the gap can’t ever be bridged,

All besides the possible parts of myself
Vanished likewise into the ether,
The parts of family,
The parts of a more whole family,

The this-November and
Expectations we shared,
That we all lost,
Alongside you losing more than ever seems
Can be filled

To the caprice
Of a natural world you understand better than most,
And yet tragically,
Only served to underline the notion no man or woman can be master.

Permalink  •  September 09, 2013, 11:23:47 AM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #28 on: September 09, 2013, 11:23:47 AM »

I fell in love with the word 'synchroneity' when I learned,
Despite spell-check's insistence,
It wasn't just something I made up.

I'd later link it to Jung's concept of
Synchronicity --
A tender pejorative like all his other neologisms,
The gentle ministrations of a son
Trying to make amends with the world
For his father's misgivings,
Wrapped up in repairing a hurtful worldview
Only through which he could ever
Show the world his own:

Typical, I always thought, father-son relationship.

The only photographs of Jung that stay with me
Are those old ones,
Ones from his 'youth,'
Bowlered man in a black suit,
Backseat of a black limousine,
Jovial and chortling in the company of men
Engaged in lenscrafting,

Intent on shaping less-imperfect ways to see
This one Earth we've all been tethered to.

Synchroneity for me was always intrusiveness,
The painful addition of past events
And seemingly inexorable futures
Upon a present that labored under the weight.

Synchronicity was always the attached rationales,
My baseless insistence

All those past events,
All those inexorable futures,

Were predicated on causal events
I could never see or investigate
That nonetheless put fingertips to the clay,
Handed clay off to the kiln,
And lay immutable beyond the reach of my own
Scrabbling, diminishingly pliant grasp.
Over time, things only became more fixed,
A gear chain settling out of

Mixed cogs in a black velvet bag,
Watchmaker absent,

All my yet-unlived experiences
By this haphazard arrangement, arising from chance,
As tooth found tooth
And everything grew inextricably,
Chatteringly connected. My own teeth clenched painfully

Under the care of Freud's cocaine,
Digesting Alan Moore's colorful treatise
On how a smart man
Making only perfect choices
Can outwit and outmaneuver God.
I'm ecstatic first experiencing the only graphic novel
Hugo would ever commemorate,

Remiss reexperiencing it in synchroneity
When a shitty film adaptation is released,
And Moore's inspirational missive to me
Has been transformed into a vindication of

Moral absolutism

That panders to the rest of my generation,
Young men with choppy sideburns
Lining my dormitory hall
All-too-proud to fail the reinvisioned Rorschach Test.

I'm caught in a Gordian Knot of simultaneous vices
And vice grips,
Every ray of light splayed across my retinas
By past and future,
Every man and woman I meet
Overlain with the silhouettes of those I've met before,
Helpless to do anything other than


The brutality and the callousness,
Rejection and
Those destitute hours and days,
Stronger hands holding me down at the

Wrists I pine over
In pre-sleep rituals
Reciting things I love about myself,
Those slender wrists I thanked God for

Holding me down,
Stronger hands than mine
Pushing me across the face of the clock,
Watchmaker absent,

Explaining in junior-year homeroom
What an 'horologist' is
Because I needed a more pretentious way
To explain the already-pretentious idea
I want to be a watchmaker,

That idea pregnant with all those same
Rationalized causalities
Swirling behind my eyes sitting in
Junior-year obstetrics class,
The elective nobody else understands why I took

When for me,
I never chose to take it,
I was only acting out my pretension

To pretend to

The profession no one will ever lay claim to,
And about which Jung will sing me to sleep,
Symbols on the nightstand,
Whispering a five-syllable safety word in my ear
More impregnable than what Jeremy invented
And subsequently ignored --

You're wrong to see through their actions
Towards mechanisms that compelled them,
Jung whispers:

But it's so utterly human to do so,
So let these clockwise arms cradle you:

The southern continent was a myth,
Counterclockwise motion is a fairytale,
And notwithstanding that you are
An omnipresent watchmaker,
Sleep soundly,
Because nobody ever is.

I work with lasers but can't figure out my oven.
  • I work with lasers but can't figure out my oven.
Permalink  •  September 14, 2013, 05:15:59 PM
Re: Tenda's poems
« Reply #29 on: September 14, 2013, 05:15:59 PM »

Can I just say all of your poems are just complicated patterns of 26 letters and that's p.cool

"Always remember, stay flappy" -Soaprman 2014
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