spoken word – Accepting This

Because of a Mustard Stain

I missed you the most
when I put on your plaid denim shirt
looked in the mirror and saw a mustard stain in the reflection
It made me think of hot summer days and eating hot dogs
Visions of you laughing and stirring potato salad flooded my mind
and I wanted you to be here again
I wanted to run to the freezer in the back room and grab
a popsicle to soothe the flushed feeling that fell on my face
at the thought that you cannot be here again

Your absence brings an ache larger than a missing person
When you left here you took an entire era,
my childhood was wrapped up in your existence
showered with boston cream pies and birthday cakes
I want to give to others the way you gave
I want my home to be like yours

The beginning days with out you were sticky
and frozen together by winter air and an odd adjustment
to a different kind of living where my worries of you would be
extinguished by melancholy peace
The days ahead will be riddled with thoughts of you,
the desire to talk with you

I’ve been dreaming of you nearly every night,
reminded that you are now more than alive
let the reality of heaven steal away the gloom
the empty moments where I miss you
The knowledge of your state produces a
joy greater than pain
a fragrant contentment like the scent of your
leftover laundry detergent

Our apartment is now home to your old
windowsill plants,
They traveled with you from arlington to amissville,
back to arlington with me and soon to amissville
again they will be
Irony is alive in this life,
we go from child to later become childlike,
with the weakening of bones and the
deterioration of strength
You had so much fear but you
held fast to your faith

I believe I learned how to truly pray because of
my prayers with you
kneeling down beside your bedroom chair,
holding your hands in mine
hearing the heaviness of your lungs pulling in
a breath, and the most holy name rolling off of your lips
you would whisper his name “Jesus, Jesus”
you said his name like a friend,
like the comforter he is
and I would pray as your whispers became the chorus,
God let us see beyond circumstance
let us trust beyond capacity
let us be near to You more than anything

I learned that prayers when you are sorrowful,
prayers when you are sick, can be uttered with
desperation and met with surpassing peace
Just say the name, “Jesus, Jesus”

When you were overwhelmed with suffering,
body fighting the pull of death
My mother said that just as entering the earth is painful,
so is leaving it

The difference here is that the life to come after
won’t be one of peaks, highs and lows
No, the life that is to come is incomparable
I think God uses contrasts
He shows us the darkest pit to reveal the truth
of the most glorious heaven

On the night that you left,
my terrified anger mellowed out into a deep trust,
my husband said that we could do one of two things;
question why a good god would allow suffering like this
or thank our good god that it doesn’t end like this

Thank you Lord that this is not the end
Thank you Lord that you said “Come to me
weary and burdened, and I will give you rest”
We are weary and burdened, you will give us rest
She was weary and burdened,
you took her from this life to the next,
The heavens are rejoicing and
every sweet memory declares your sovereignty

Old Has Gone

It is in the sweet moments of peace,
the swift glances of understanding,
the comfortable silence

It is in the slow mornings,
the continuous car rides,
the cups of hot coffee

It is in the smallness of this too large life
that I’m caught up in the awe of you
and the gratitude of knowing that you are for me always

It is in the change and complexity of this newness,
the melancholy movement of time,
the habits that are forming and the ones we’re trying to let go

It is in the subtle suggestions,
the casual reassurances,
the new notions and knowledge

It is in the consecutive days spent by your side
that I can dream of a whole life defined by goodness
and my past guilts and preconceptions slip into oblivion
and all of who I am is known by you, loved by you

This is a new kind of freedom, one that I thought impossible
this is a different kind of being, one that is aware but not condemned
and as the days go on in mundanity, or the years pass through us like a mist
my soul is solidified in the symbolism of this affection
The old has gone, the new is here

A Phone Call Love Poem

I’m getting married in forty-eight days, so I think it’s about time for a love poem…

I’m currently in another bout of “minimalizing”
Feeling hopeful and encouraged, desiring to fill out the parts of life that are lacking
and empty the parts that are overbearing
And then you call, I answer the phone to hear your voice
Inexplicably wonderful, the tone of your stringed syllables create comfort
You’re telling me about this new coffeeshop you have just discovered
In a place where we often speak of the voids, you’ve found something good
And you tell me how much I would like it
talk about the high ceilings, the marble countertops and the natural light
and you tell me that you want to take me there
and I say I want to be taken,
You can hardly catch your breath as you stumble through all of the details
that you want me to know before having to go
You’re miles from me and I miss you
and seeing you tomorrow is never soon enough
You’ve arrived and have to get off of the phone now
You tell me you love me and it’s believable
You are honest and I know you
and when the silence of my room begins to take over
and the faint music lingers to the left of me
and my room is a mess,
all I can do is thank God,
this God of the universe who has allowed me to know you
to adore you and to be admired by you

The world will tell me that I need more, that I don’t have enough
but you are my world and with you, I have everything
Let this gratitude of your presence be an everlasting decision
not a fleeting feeling,
you are more valuable, more tangible, more incredible
than my words could describe, or all of the world’s offerings,
you are more enticing than
any place I’ll travel
more precious than any amount of days I have ahead,
I’ll keep on answering your calls, my dear
and I’ll love you for all of my days, my dear

Still Intact

Let my words be large, let them overflow because my
Dreams are saturated and enlightened and I need to grab
on to something now

The man I love told me that my emotions are compulsive but my actions are methodical,
so let that be true, let me feel deeply but act in patience, in worthy commotion
I want to give, that’s the core of it
he said being selfish is exhausting and
everthing in me agrees

My heart is breaking and simultaneously being repaired,
each moment of realization that she is decaying
and too many things are toxic, and challenging
my heart sinks beneath the surface and succumbs to
hopelessness and then it rips its way back up to the
light again, strapping itself up with encouragement
My God is Greater, my eyes seek Heaven, my soul knows rest

So rolling forward with bandages on wounds, regaining strength with
Each new hope and possibility (solely found within the realm of
believing) I take my thoughts and I marinate them in truth and I speak
them back to myself as best as I can

I spent five days wandering hospital hallways,
I saw the brittleness of reality and the opposition of health,
And then I spent five days on the road, traveling with a dear soul and
I saw the world in ways I never have before
and even in new perspective I can get swallowed up in old trains of thought
and even in virginia mountains, tennessee alleys, and texas deserts
I can see that I am small but the desire to live greatly is embedded deep within me
I know that my sentience is only developed through experience

To live greatly does not mean largely,
no, I do not need more than I have
To live greatly means to live in empathy,
to live with kindness and a capacity to see differently,
to live with flexibility, I have my dreams but I’ll be alright if they
are taken from me
To live greatly is to live selflessly, to stop saying “God make something of me”
and to begin to live in the identity that He has already given me
Free, adored, consecrated, new

I am new each morning because of His redeeming glance towards me,
and how can I avoid speaking about this grace in my poetry?
It is the greatest thing, and with all of this ridding of the unnecessary I am left
with the bare bones of life and my God is the spine

My grandmother has called me her Rock, but I am a small stone
her life has been full and I try to absorb
every sound that echoes from her,
from the spoken memories of her Italian childhood,
to the movements that she makes
when the sun is first rising, and I can hear her slippers shuffling
through the crack of the door of our shared bathroom

Time is fleeting and my small revelations of existing cannot slow it down,
with an aching heart I’ve read love letters of past lives, I’ve watched new
uncertainties develop, I’ve seen injustice rise up like a plague,
I’ve gotten swept away in worry, doubt, and fear
and through all of these things, Time is fleeting

Let my heart break and be repaired, the days will follow as they always do
let my shaky voice settle in the confidence that this place is not our final home
let my prayers be consistent and ever reigning over the temptation to stay discouraged
To live greatly is to live overwhelmed and still intact

When the clouds roll

There are large black crows outside of my window every morning and every evening,
I catch a glimpse of them swooping past out of the corner of my eye
It is strange outside, humid and muggy
the clouds roll over the tree tops and down by their roots
the gravel and bricks have taken on a darker shade
Wet like the sky

My world has been changing lately,
weights lifted and others added on
the responsibility that comes with knowledge has the
ability to sink to the center of me and dwell

Nothing is very certain, not one thought is ever solidified..
and then, I think of you
In every new ideal you give me patience
in every new anxiety you hand over peace

Slow and steady, that’s how I’d rather live
yes quick to be quiet, quick to be kind
but I can do with out the immediacy of a strained life
The nervous tension of expectation will rise before
the contentment of a satisfied heart can settle

Leave me with words, and carefully brewed coffee
leave me with souls and the ease of conversation

Speaking of souls, my social anxiety had a better grip on me before
you, now I can almost approach each circumstance selflessly,
I’ve got everything I need and it seems that notion lightens
the impending judgement that I once felt accurate and overwhelming

My fear of misunderstanding is steadied by your
willingness to understand me, by your stubborn rejection
of allowing a night to end with out resolution
You investigate my mind with tact and endurance,
sifting through surface emotions and wrestling to the core
You give my inadequacy an undeserved second glance,
and come up with words that restore my identity in it’s most
strengthened and beautiful state

When I lift my fingertips to the curves of your face
It is to test if your silhouette is a reality
I’ve felt desperation so deep within me,
this fullness can feel foreign and leave me doubting
but joy in the morning has conquered over my weeping

When the clouds roll and the threat of mundanity
gravitates towards me, I will remember the
way that stillness makes a moment memorable
the way that intentional thinking can
tranquilize the anxiety stirring up within me,

And I will think of you,
and I will resign myself to an assured disposition
that allows these thoughts to be enough for one poem
that allows these thoughts to be enough for right now

Sick Of’s

I’ve gotten in the terrible habit of
Determining my self-worth depending
on the collection of feelings from that day
It turns into a stampede of pleas
of ‘I’m Tired’s and ‘I am Sick Of’s

I’m tired and sick of myself,
of the way I slink back into
thoughts and feelings I have
once been determined to let go of

I know you’ve heard
that letting go, is the hardest thing to do
but I don’t think you’ll quite believe
how impacting and distracting it can be
until it’s the only thing left to be done

These days run into each other
like children playing tag,
stumbling over hours with
disorganized footsteps,
all my heart desires is
Rest and more rest

Seeping, sopping, wet fears
and insecurities making their way into
my dry head – this is more than I can shake
off, so much time to be aware of

My conscience won’t let me leave my words at that
there’s an everlasting guilt when I express raw sorrow with out
some sort of reconciliation,
But today, embedded in the overcast air, there is
a lingering stillness that I cannot form into
words, cannot string together with vowels

I’ll let my persistence in seeking
lasting comfort be enough of a declaration before dawn
I’ll dismiss my racing thoughts
for the sake of getting something done

The ache, it grows until there is no room left
it stretches across my chest into my throat and pulls at my neck
This evening, I am lacking
in a vocabulary to rid my mind of muck and mire
sometimes there’s nothing more to be said

projection

image: digital photography with a physical projection on the model, katelyn rebelo.

what’s inside of me?
a whole world to see
and we’ll joke about all of the places, we’d rather be
what’s inside of me?
a student will stand, claim another grievance
why can’t we all be friends?

what’s inside of me?
a whole world to see
and we’ll waste away with images all over us
but never inside of us

take a part your sorrows with your hands,
leave them out for your angels to consume for dinner,
or your demons to say, “i’m here for you, sinner.”

what’s inside of me?
an eager await for the next page
that provides a slow claim over my future
but I don’t want to be corroded by these things
what else could be inside of me?

see, it takes a while to feel again
after you’ve kept yourself from feeling at all
because there’s not much time to settle and really discover
there’s really no time to create anything at all

we’re here one afternoon, and gone away with the night
but there’s something inside of me
that’s fascinated, by vast open spaces
and hearts carried by hollow bones, and long faces

and music, too sweet to be let go of
what’s inside of me
something more than I can feed
something more than words and repeated christenings

this was intended to be about adventure
and things like maps and compasses and the grand canyon
and hiking mountains

like most things, it’s become overwhelming
but i’ve got something inside of me that’s
craving and crying, saying “don’t let go of me”
because it gets boring, being sad
it gets heavy, being mad
it gets me going, this anxiety
it gets me wrong, i’ve had enough of these things

so here is the adventure- i was talking about,
here is the freedom, i can see it,
not for long
but for now

what’s inside me?
project it onto me
what’s beside me?
let me feel everything

said I would sleep early

let me amount to something
be lifted off of this mountain of nothing
let me amount to something!be able to make decisions or something!
switch my soul to the passion and words
empty my heart of impurities and distraught
car-rides-they-take
me out of my own
let me amount to something
be ridden with hope or something
be gracious and bold, or all of these
together
let me amount to something
before I dwell in this hunting
I hunt like the hungry and the poor
you can take my words, please take my words make them fit your situation
mold them to your own temptations
and I’ll let them be to me, what they are,
what they were written for
to get rid of these thoughts
to amount to something,
let me amount to something

leave me alone in my bed
leave me alone in my head
let me allow myself to
for once exist in contentment
to ignore my justifications- or need for them

tell me it is alright
to know the time has gone by
and to see it all spread out on the tables
and to feel raw
knowing it is going and going
and will we ever amount to something
more than compulsive thoughts and dust and nothing

let me amount to something,
tomorrow I will wake and be the same
sleep and be the same
dream and be the same
but in all the similarities I have changed- and maybe
I will amount to something
be bold and gracious
and content-
or something.

raw feet

oddly numb behind my aspirations tonight
oddly terrified of the upcoming weeks
of christmas time and lights and these things that used
to be so sweet
greatly involved in my own mind
in my heart i can see your smile
and in my bones i can feel the way
our raw feet used to slap the cold concrete
on grandmother’s front porch
imagining they were all
out to get us
and now we don’t have to pretend
now we choose not to hide
but only indulge ourselves in this place
much similar to a beehive.
(say it like this- bee high-ve)

and i can taste in my mouth the tart reminder
of loss and what else can i say
of it

my legs covered in black cloth and my chest soaked in an ocean blue,
everything only lasts for a moment
the moment is present and soon far away
but my existence is a gathering of these segments
mixed up and bound by yarn, clothes-pins, and photographs
with rounded edges

my reflection becomes unreal, forming a two dimensional excuse
to move and watch the shadows change the pigment of my face
and i feel my bones again,
raw feet slapping the cold concrete.

falling people

unintentionally adjourned my own sorrow,
dove into a tragedy that could never be forgotten, not today nor tomorrow
and it was covered in smoke and billowing clouds
dressed up in people, the colors of ours

i did not mean to open this door,
would have closed it but now i know more
this is where god becomes real to me
in the falling people and catastrophe

i play mind games all day long
my heart tugs at these filtering thoughts
fall into obsession with image and possession
of a history so plastered with loss

and this is when god becomes real to me
in the echoes of despair and despondency
in the trapped mysteries and wanderings
how can He not be true,
what else would there be
keeping me a part from death and the dark
from spilling out of my own skin

it takes heaviness to feel a difference,
and this difference I am desperate to know
i travel through numbness and awe,
passion and i am stripped now, i am raw

but this is where my god becomes true to me,
inescapable and unfaltering
stack me up against falling buildings and ideology
my god has never been so real to me

tangible and whole,
i am incomplete and alone
merciful and strong,
i am bitter and wrong

stack me up against falling buildings and falling people
up against stealing sadness and sores
up against ache and mystery
His love is enough for me

i can no longer hold,
all of these weights in my hands
dragging around me, are my burning stars and
bottled up sand
can no longer break,
or become more broken
stack me up against heat and rising trials
cut off relationships and empty miles
nothing will cause me to believe
that my god is inadequate,
that He is not enough for me.

Middleburg

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/50799935″>middleburg</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user12739646″>lissy tropea</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>

a quick stop-motion film I made. Layered one of my poems “Confinement” onto it, along with Karen O & The Kid’s “The Food is Still Hot”.

BITTERSWEET BENEFIT

Come out to Chez Billy (3815 Georgia Ave. NW. Washington, DC. 20011) this friday, October 12th, to take a stand against child-sex trafficking in DC! From 7:30-10 we will gather to support organizations working against sex trafficking. Get a free issue of Bittersweet’s Fall Zine, listen to a spoken word piece, and view local art for sale! All proceeds benefit the organizations, check out http://www.bittersweetzine.com/2012/10/oct-12-bittersweet-benefit/ for more information!

I will be selling cyanotypes of the images I contributed to this issue of the Zine. Hope you all are able to make it out!

confinement

everything within me wants to claim its independence
independent guilt, independent belief, independent love and anger
everything within me wants to spill out onto this carpeted floor
wants to let go of hope and faith and all things good
everything within me wants to crawl up from the bottom of my spine,
make you change your mind,
so exhausted from these tragic feelings, gathering up in spite of my will to be joyous
everything within me wants to spend, spend all time all effort
I cannot continue to live like this
cannot continue to watch my life drown like this
for weeks now I have felt that same thing lingering,
like a scar I cannot shake
I stumble over these thoughts like pages in a book needed to be read, but never understood
can you understand me now?
can you see my estranged hands pulling and pulling on the outskirts of
these hopeful encounters and inspiring images
trying to squeeze the life out of them,
swallow the last drops of redemption and
soak up any goodness left

pressed by time and duty
i can handle no responsibility
again and again i have met myself here,
this place lacking cooperation and
everything within me wants to pour into a glass
gathered and together, finally.. at last.

If you love someone

I may be misreading it all,
translating simplicities into complex ideals
but obliviousness has never comforted me
nor has ignorance seemed a suitable excuse.

If you want something,
if you love someone
then find time in your
mind and your soul and your separate world
to make them know it.
to finish it, no longer saying “I swear I show it”.

I’m exhausted from to do lists and objectives,
however, I want my objective here to become lucid by the end,
unlike an abstract in literature, more like a bold red in a sea of white.
I believe in passion and falling,
I believe in everything that makes it harder to live,
but makes it all the more worthwhile.

I dream vividly and excessively,
and yes they may be gory, visions consisting of loss
and burning buildings
but when I wake up and find myself alone and sheltered
I consider myself grateful, and humbled, and
daring to dream in a world full of broken things
again, and again, and once more.

so inspired by passion I simply ask you to be the same,
and if you no longer find it exciting to take the time to
honor me and make up for lost presence
then you’d be doing me a favor,
just say see you later,
and leave me be with my hope and feverish feelings

I think more than I do,
I say less than I should
I write these words like a child, letting go of a handful of balloons,
one by one, watching them take off into an amiable gray sky
holding in tears because I know I’m the one who told them to fly.

fail me, nor falter

see, it all began when I was young
when I first realized that this world was much bigger than I was
and from then on the idea progresses
into a short story, a novel, a trilogy, never ending.
I’ve realized these insecurities around me,
the shaking ground and towers falling
and when you grow old within a century,
your memories amount to millenniums and broken things

and my ability to separate the tragic from the reality
has fallen into an incident of disbelief
in comes the breeze from the fall it keeps getting dark,
and darker
and along with all the shades of green
my heart endures small scrutiny
and I know these anxieties will never fail me, nor falter

Phil Kaye Spoken Word

for the sake of travel, for the sake of life

let’s go to the big city

let’s forget about our jobs, and the concept of money.

let’s take the car, and enjoy the drive

even if it lasts our whole lives.

because today the pastor talked about the end times,

and he referenced our monsters and troubles,

and the monster i saw was huge indeed

but instead of ten horns he was wearing a cloak of habit:

habitual anxiety, habitual boredom, and habitual lack of joy.

let’s go to the towns with character, and if we can’t leave in the morning

we can make our own towns have personality tonight

let’s decide to love our lives, and be able to reply with a different saying then

“it’s alright”

let’s stop hesitating to discover, to emerge ourselves in cold water,

for once let’s be extreme, and even if it turns out bad let’s not lose sleep.

and i say this because i’ve got big dreams,

i say this because i love good feelings and the way this heat has inspired an

art of living.

so you go and i’ll be happy for you,

but i won’t wait for my “time”.

if i can’t get out now, i’ve decided that this is my “prime”,

because each morning i wake up and each night i lay down,

i’ve noticed my time to be filled with empty minutes, empty hours.

so i’ll sit with the boy all by himself,

i’ll open the windows and turn off the air,

i’ll pull out the paint and put up my hair,

and the only thing i’ll wait upon is the word of my god,

and the rest i’ll take on with insight and excitement,

hope and enlightenment.

busboys and poets

this past february I had my first poetry reading experience at Busboys and Poets at 14th and V in DC. these are the two pieces I read if you’re interested!

Tangled Hair

I want to feel some type of release from the heavy feeling.

Want to know some kind of accomplishment before I soon fall into this

temporary coma named sleep.

I’ve got bits and pieces of myself scattered across virtual pages,

I want to find myself complete in one place, in a simple location I want to be able to come

and recognize my identity at its prime.

Letting letters fill the space in my mind where nothing hides,

because behind each corner is emptiness now,

when you open each door there stands a dark silhouette,

nameless and empty listening to the songs they’ve played and I’ve heard.

Fragile; I wouldn’t demand a glass case for this wanderer in the corner of my mind,

because this silhouette is often thrown down and stepped upon, often bound up and wept on.

Because the tears that roll down your faces, and the tears that roll down mine, are no less rolling

down the outlined identity in my head.

I never intended to make sense, but now I’m confusing myself,

there are steps that one must take to feel a sense of triumph,

and today I have skipped every other stair.

I’ve become like the girl on the playground, the one with the tangled hair.

Her Old Paints

A hardened layer of paint coated the small tubes,

cracked and delicate like aged skin,

I thought of your face laid in the casket.

Leftover thinner glazed the container,

leaving a sticky residue like the sorrow,

which has coated my mouth time and time again.

Their caps didn’t give into my pleading,

Ignored my high hopes and beseeching.

Difficulties and complexities aside, we are all the same.

Behind these masks we hide, pretend to be selfless but found out by shame.

tied up

i’m tied up,

my limbs and my tongue and my abdomen, twisted like a sad spiders web

i’m tied up,

from the inside out i’m weaved and stitched like a hand made gift and

i’ve seemed to have lost my starting point, where the needle first pulled through the fabric,

i’m tied up,

knots have been made where they weren’t supposed to be and

i’ve found myself once again, wandering.

searching for a place where everything is clean,

where purity overrides the tainted innocence of one’s life.

and i’ve said it once before, “look at all my clothes upon my bedroom floor!”

and it’s not the first time i’ve noted the mess in my mind,

but this time,

i’m tied up,

like a field of tall grass tangled around ankles and toes.

i’m like a tree trunk morphed from years of stories

untold, and here comes the exhaustion and it hurts,

the way i’m tied up and cannot break free from these

vines covered in thorns.

to discover where it first began would be a task I would never finish, not in the amount of years counted on one hand.

to reveal the moment where I could’ve stopped it all,

from creeping around me and tieing the bow,

would be like the mention of death in a hospital,

cold and frigid, wouldn’t help anything after all,

because i’m tied up in a place I hate to be,

but these ropes will have to lighten up, eventually.