She is all dressed up, and sits next to me
Because she cares about me
I didn't tell him at all, because
I don't care about him at all
And I think he might stop me.
The room is neutral-colored, like my mood
And I realize she must leave
Even though we love each other.
The time goes slowly. I want it over and done.
I try to stomach half of a sandwich I bought at a gas station
Because I was told somewhere along the line I had to eat.
I half-heartedly glance at OK! and Star and People
Each with images of what a woman should really be doing
I see the other women in this room
Later, the basketball player and I and another girl who asks
the nurse to stop telling her the details
Will recline in chairs with heating pads
Sipping on apple juice and eating crackers
As if we were lounging in beach chairs eating tapas and drinking white wine
Except the others have been swimming too hard or eating too much
Because their cramps are more severe
While I have been waiting on this moment and relax for the first time
Since I realized it three days ago
And the passerby who haphazardly fired his gun without telling me
Didn't cause me to bleed as much as they told me I would
And the sky seems sunnier now that my eyes are refocused
And the air seems clearer now that I am no longer stifled
And my mild-tasting toothpaste tastes like itself again
And though the ignorant billboards seem unnecessarily personal now
The only one who gets my life now is me
I take a dozen trips around the country that first year
I sometimes tell one more person a secret
And though I have not told my
would-be assassin how close he came to taking my life
I have forgiven him
Even as his bullets continue to find their marks in others.
And though I believe those neutral-colored walls protect me and
the cloak they provided still shields me
She remains the steady presence, the unwavering if unsure support
And she sees right through everything I try to say
Without my having to say it at all.
7/13/09
For Neda, from Iran
It was just supposed to be ordinary.
A simple day in the American Midwest
where we're all worried about the simple things
like money, like our jobs
like what's-that-loud-noise-outside
like why-is-this-weather-so-shitty
and we get so caught up in easy laughter and mild annoyances
that we didn't notice when
the YouTube screen told us we weren't ready
that our days were not preparing us
and we bristled at the suggestion
and impatiently clicked
and thought to ourselves that we might not have seen everything
but we certainly were ready for anything
and because an online video site thought us inferior
we had to prove them wrong
and suddenly we have found ourselves looking at a woman stagger back
and be gently lowered to the ground
and, saying nothing, rolls her eyes unnaturally to the side,
the side to which her head has drooped
and while people around her are shouting
and placing their hands on her neck and chest
and staring, and shooting video,
blood has begun to flow out of her mouth
and down her cheek to the pavement
and the shouting has become louder and more insistent
and the hands on her body have become more numerous
but no more useful
and by now, the blood has streaked her entire face
so that she is forever recognizable
and there is a large pool of blood on the street where she lies
in this crowded Iranian city
whose name no one will remember
but whose face will for many years be streaked with blood
but even though I have seen the video only once
it has burned images into my brain that are not easily erased
like blood on pavement
like eyes rolled sideways in death
like streets filled with strangers trying to stop the blood flowing from
the holes in your body
where a paramilitary drone shot you dead in the street
and though our countries are far away
and what does a Midwesterner know
about the deserts and the food and the art and the music
and it's not a big tourist destination, anyhow
and we're only supposed to be paying attention to that portion of
our world if your government suddenly gets mad at our government
and wants to blow us all into tiny little pieces;
even give all of that,
I feel that we have a shared hurt
you, for your final minutes bleeding on the pavement
me, because of my shame for watching it
stomach twisting at the sight
eyes unwilling to pull away as I gape openly at
the demise of a fellow human being
and I think is-this-what-it-is-like-to-be-shot? --
It's nothing like the easy unconscious death of the movies --
and why-is-there-so-much-blood?
and I fault YouTube for broadcasting that knowledge to me
and I chastise the people who filmed it
for being so used to seeing that kind of thing that it
must have been second nature to automatically pull phone from pocket
upon hearing the shot
and I wonder why it is that the paramilitary picked her out of the crowd
or if she was in the wrong place at the precise moment
or if the shot was deliberate
and whether the shooter was caught
and I remember reading an interview later saying
yes-he-was-caught-but
and I know the "but" means the cops are too crooked to be trusted
or else street justice befell him
and either way, none of it erases the blood in my mind
or on the pavement
and now I'm angry at myself
for trusting that I would be ready to see death
in all its untimely, unapologetic horrificness
because I was not.
It was just supposed to be ordinary
like my-computer-froze-again
like another-round-of-layoffs-is-coming
like the Cubs losing is the day's biggest bummer, but not super unpredictable
but today, I feel my chest burning
and my eyes rolling
and my lungs filling with the blood
of a thousand Neda's
pouring their blood out onto the pavement for me to see
because if you don't look for it, you won't see it
and if you live where I live, you can go around blind
but in Iran, neighbors step over your bloodstains
and I finally am ashamed one last time
as I think of myself in that situation,
walking down that same street
like it-could-have-happened-to-me-but-it-didn't, and feeling strangely relieved
because it's in our nature to avoid death
and the moon looks down on us all tonight
and the people will continue to die nameless and faceless
to the bulk of Western civilization
and that is how it must be, I shout to YouTube,
my fingers shaking as I navigate away
from the river of blood on my screen.
A simple day in the American Midwest
where we're all worried about the simple things
like money, like our jobs
like what's-that-loud-noise-outside
like why-is-this-weather-so-shitty
and we get so caught up in easy laughter and mild annoyances
that we didn't notice when
the YouTube screen told us we weren't ready
that our days were not preparing us
and we bristled at the suggestion
and impatiently clicked
and thought to ourselves that we might not have seen everything
but we certainly were ready for anything
and because an online video site thought us inferior
we had to prove them wrong
and suddenly we have found ourselves looking at a woman stagger back
and be gently lowered to the ground
and, saying nothing, rolls her eyes unnaturally to the side,
the side to which her head has drooped
and while people around her are shouting
and placing their hands on her neck and chest
and staring, and shooting video,
blood has begun to flow out of her mouth
and down her cheek to the pavement
and the shouting has become louder and more insistent
and the hands on her body have become more numerous
but no more useful
and by now, the blood has streaked her entire face
so that she is forever recognizable
and there is a large pool of blood on the street where she lies
in this crowded Iranian city
whose name no one will remember
but whose face will for many years be streaked with blood
but even though I have seen the video only once
it has burned images into my brain that are not easily erased
like blood on pavement
like eyes rolled sideways in death
like streets filled with strangers trying to stop the blood flowing from
the holes in your body
where a paramilitary drone shot you dead in the street
and though our countries are far away
and what does a Midwesterner know
about the deserts and the food and the art and the music
and it's not a big tourist destination, anyhow
and we're only supposed to be paying attention to that portion of
our world if your government suddenly gets mad at our government
and wants to blow us all into tiny little pieces;
even give all of that,
I feel that we have a shared hurt
you, for your final minutes bleeding on the pavement
me, because of my shame for watching it
stomach twisting at the sight
eyes unwilling to pull away as I gape openly at
the demise of a fellow human being
and I think is-this-what-it-is-like-to-be-shot? --
It's nothing like the easy unconscious death of the movies --
and why-is-there-so-much-blood?
and I fault YouTube for broadcasting that knowledge to me
and I chastise the people who filmed it
for being so used to seeing that kind of thing that it
must have been second nature to automatically pull phone from pocket
upon hearing the shot
and I wonder why it is that the paramilitary picked her out of the crowd
or if she was in the wrong place at the precise moment
or if the shot was deliberate
and whether the shooter was caught
and I remember reading an interview later saying
yes-he-was-caught-but
and I know the "but" means the cops are too crooked to be trusted
or else street justice befell him
and either way, none of it erases the blood in my mind
or on the pavement
and now I'm angry at myself
for trusting that I would be ready to see death
in all its untimely, unapologetic horrificness
because I was not.
It was just supposed to be ordinary
like my-computer-froze-again
like another-round-of-layoffs-is-coming
like the Cubs losing is the day's biggest bummer, but not super unpredictable
but today, I feel my chest burning
and my eyes rolling
and my lungs filling with the blood
of a thousand Neda's
pouring their blood out onto the pavement for me to see
because if you don't look for it, you won't see it
and if you live where I live, you can go around blind
but in Iran, neighbors step over your bloodstains
and I finally am ashamed one last time
as I think of myself in that situation,
walking down that same street
like it-could-have-happened-to-me-but-it-didn't, and feeling strangely relieved
because it's in our nature to avoid death
and the moon looks down on us all tonight
and the people will continue to die nameless and faceless
to the bulk of Western civilization
and that is how it must be, I shout to YouTube,
my fingers shaking as I navigate away
from the river of blood on my screen.
7/6/09
Merriam-Webster
I think these words are too much for some poets to carry
Maybe get yourself a Merriam-Webster's dictionary
So you can find out the meaning of "apothecary"
or "tributary" or "establishmentary" or "visionary"
Just because your pen can form crude representations
of letters forming something you heard
Doesn't mean your vocabulary is rich enough to spit $10 words
If it's more than three syllables, you'd better look it up
You can borrow my thesaurus, it's all tore up
Now I don't begrudge your lack of education
Because I know public schools in this nation
employ several forms of social and economic discrimination
And familial and societal pressures sometimes favor your
elimination rather than your graduation
But I've got a deep appreciation
For those who enjoy engaging in verbal altercations
If you're not feeling scholarly, don't worry --
I don't need a doctoral dissertation
But forget about the nasty poems
Give me cranial penetration
If you only talk fluff might as well be verbal masturbation
And my only sensation is boredom
Look, do me a favor and pick up a book
Because your words are so dumb
You took phrases that sound good and put em in a blender
and shook
But that's no fun
I want every piece I hear to make me think
I want each turn of phrase to take me over the brink
But make it succinct
Say your piece, don't take all day
And if you see me yawning
Go look up the word "blase."
Maybe get yourself a Merriam-Webster's dictionary
So you can find out the meaning of "apothecary"
or "tributary" or "establishmentary" or "visionary"
Just because your pen can form crude representations
of letters forming something you heard
Doesn't mean your vocabulary is rich enough to spit $10 words
If it's more than three syllables, you'd better look it up
You can borrow my thesaurus, it's all tore up
Now I don't begrudge your lack of education
Because I know public schools in this nation
employ several forms of social and economic discrimination
And familial and societal pressures sometimes favor your
elimination rather than your graduation
But I've got a deep appreciation
For those who enjoy engaging in verbal altercations
If you're not feeling scholarly, don't worry --
I don't need a doctoral dissertation
But forget about the nasty poems
Give me cranial penetration
If you only talk fluff might as well be verbal masturbation
And my only sensation is boredom
Look, do me a favor and pick up a book
Because your words are so dumb
You took phrases that sound good and put em in a blender
and shook
But that's no fun
I want every piece I hear to make me think
I want each turn of phrase to take me over the brink
But make it succinct
Say your piece, don't take all day
And if you see me yawning
Go look up the word "blase."
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