music borrows a body

Jazz Blog Post

Songs that have been lighting me up recently (and loosely inspired me to write this small morsel that began as a reminder/gush of admiration for how modern poetry has taught and is continuing to teach me to throw over my old notions of what *proper* writing is. From there, it sort of devolved into a little rumination on how we experience all life through limits – such as our bodies or really anything that exists in the world – and how even art must obey this creed either through noise or material objects):

“Smoking Section” and “Los Ageless” by St. Vincent 

“Francis Forever” and “Crack Baby” by Mitski 

“Lady Day” by Frank Sinatra 

“I’m So Afraid” by Fleetwood Mac

Simple-Line-Dark-9

But the no rules, the no structure no gimmicks no innovation or uniqueness committed in the *right way*. Freedom. Its clean conic inhale and divine snap. Clean, like dust swept invisible. Perhaps I can now see the page as some writhing globulus deity and not fear its judgement. Like heat waves, mud. The uncertainty, infinite and molten silk, prison wide as me, I now want to see every shape natural and manmade as confinement. Even music, noise, is pitched to us in silicone casing, sound’s crosshatch hairs burning up themselves with fuse-like obedience, how they branch, trailing parts fading proofless, fading until they’ve traveled to and reached that finger-tip needle cell tower, punctum where that last rioting grain of them can still be heard. Extending past themselves to absence. Until they’re through with themselves or the shapes.

Here is what I’m trying to say: I’m no different from them, the notes in a song. My body is filled with color to define my casing, where my lines stop and every space without me in the world starts. My skin, my fizzling constellation web, my atlas perfect of every square inch the world can touch me and I would feel them. And the one-thousand miles twisting rope in me I can’t feel. Terrifyingly foreign. I feel tar rivers braiding, sewing through the reptile gaps to an eyeless rhythm, like the slide of muscles in a body sighing, the rhythm like echoes from the womb. These invaders, no more akin to me than the blind meat-inflated carnivores of the deep-sea are akin to fish. But I accept. All of it. Every bone and arrowhead, crystal and feather,  in this museum. My inventory can be numbered, and I know that number is small, feels like a false narrative. I accept. All the unseen monster fish breathing in me and keeping me alive too. I adopt them and give them names. Because what else in this world can I claim as me other than the body I feel in? I can only ever talk about sight in relation to seeing through my eyes. But without? Can I ever receive something unsealed?

 Imagine a bodiless sight, not of this planet or any, something closer to a galaxy’s yawn, dreams, the steeping kaleidoscope brew appearing only when balled fists press gently on lids. Careful not to fall through that color like infinity. Like never was and never again.

And soon. A day I’ll see unbridled, aidless from light. 

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wisdom teeth

Blog Post - wisdom teeth

Think of a party, everyone shivering in swallowed lamplight or, the music. Thin, unpunctured here. Bodies moving like excuses. This is not yet forgetting, this is only a mouthful of blood. Like a startled wait, this yearn wrung through teeth. Like a muscle unlearning itself in whiplash and the slow leaving too. It is simple: only this waiting-room, feathered march of anesthetics, falling through the hollows of a name.

 

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august

 

//

Brimming with their secrets, the way everything is the answer, opaque and boundless until you split it open and swim inside it. Take refuge, pitch a tent. Drink in until every inch is uncovered, until every breath bruises. It cannot be without limbs to seal it in.

What I want cannot be contained.

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“life rocked me, ultra-softly”

They should love me.
I mean, maybe they do, but I don't even know what it is.
You spend your whole life thinking you're not getting it, people 
aren't giving it to you.
Then you realize they're trying and you don't even know what it is

Mad Men 

In celebration of Lana’s new album dropping, I’ve decided to make a guest appearance on my own blog — I say this because it’s been ages since I’ve glanced around my corner of the web, but now that I have, I felt the site in need of a pretty drastic update, as I had out-grown the moody and, well, let’s just say it, “emo” look of the past era of “Kateri’s Theories” (for those of you who have stuck around, I hope you like the changes I’ve made to the blog’s appearance!).

Now that I’ve dusted off the cobwebs, I think a brief update on my life and writing is in order:

This past May, I was lucky enough to have one of my poems — and a personal favorite of mine at that — published in The Adroit Journal. You can find the poem here, but I urge you to read the whole issue. They always make real stunners.

From a birds-eye view, however, I haven’t been up to much in my personal life — just running around with friends, desperately trying to drink in my city, my room, who I’ve tried to be these past few years before I ship out to college and grow apart from the Allen, Texas me.   I want no detail lost, and yet I feel I’m missing something, there’s a gap. I need to know what it was we were all chasing, who we were then, what sort of image we were playing at.

There’s something about every space I’ve visited in my city, how it contains a disconnected and jangled mess of the pieces of me from the different eras of my life; I feel like there’s a conclusion about myself I need to grasp before I leave forever, before I grow so far apart from this version of myself, but it’s difficult to realize what “it” is when all my emotions feel glossy and trodden. But I think at the end of any year, I always admire who I was striding into it, when I was free-roaming and less self-aware.

I was jolted recently, however, by a quote from the AMC series Mad Men, pictured at the beginning of this post. I’ve undergone countless exhausting inter-personal and relationship issues this year alone, and through it all, I’ve been left with the impression that I’ll never be loved in the capacity that I want, by the people I love. This quote, in contrast, pushes the issue back on the subject, making me realize that maybe people really are trying to understand, to be a part of my life, and maybe the true problem rests in me relying on others to fill the lack I feel in myself.

In closing, I promise that I’ll have a more organized, substantial post up soon. In the meantime, enjoy the dazzling music of Summer 2017!

 

 

 

 

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evenings from my bathtub

And from the gutted ivory I birthed an immense quiet. In the lateness, the walls and the tiles stretching, sinking into a greater configuration. There were the hollows beneath my tongue, caverns deeper than moons, than the ends of god. Here, there’s always a burial of feeling, the weary moments passing through into the parts of me that span everything, a misty patched space broader than my fingers or the small streams of blood. The body is stunted; most of what I feel and know exists in the air, in the crooks of imaginary space. So many things endlessly tumbling and traveling through one square-inch of skin. All this found through a bullet wound, the opposite side of a name. metro

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publication news / quick reflection

Hello all!!! Long time no post and I apologize for that. My life has been extraordinarily hectic this year – courtesy of that unique comb of schoolwork + college apps – but I just wanted to stop by for a second to update everyone on some publication news and to post a short journal entry I made a few weeks back.

Anyway, two old poems of mine, “Tennis Shoes” and “Froth skies, bloody snow”, are featured in the 6th issue of Elsewhere, which you can read here. Please go check out all of the lovely works in this issue (not to mention that it was released just this afternoon!!!).

I promise that in 2017 I’ll make a greater effort to post on this blog weekly. Much love xx

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two poems

Kiera

(you may recognize the earlier versions of these two poems as two separate pieces that I’ve already featured on this blog. I was unsatisfied with them, however, and some heavy edits were in order, so here they are, complete! – hopefully I can finally leave them to rest as is.)

Wild Salmon

Tongues thick, the pink of my elbows, my knees. Sometimes the white tennis shoes leaked, the grass in the backyard ankle-high. When the pavement skinned me I lost nothing. A day swollen and full-mouthed, festering with light. A day with our palms stretched like cow hide on the overpass tarmac, waiting for the sky to birth crows, for the year to tip sideways and spill into clouds of yolk and grey. Low lights at night, something under-tongued and drowned, a year spent waiting for you to turn me small in your mouth. A car slid down your avenue in blue haze, radio blaring, and its meaning fell through me. When will this stop being so heavy? I drop everything I know into the basins of my thighs: years are lost in me. A subtle teething, bright rot of morning: asphalt heat weaving webs around our shins, how this only means something now. And the last night walking home with shucked legs, wet clothes, feeling like something was catching up to me, waiting for it to crash headlong into my back. In memories, I go half-deaf. In memories, I am quiet. Swimming through empty rooms in a body of sight. I see us strawberry picking, laughing from our bones. I watch the super 8 footage of your birthday, every movement an impossibility, everyone shivering in swallowed light, bodies excuses. This is not yet forgetting, this is only a mouthful of blood. Like a startled wait, this yearn wrung through teeth. Like a muscle unlearning itself in whiplash and the slow leaving too. It is simple: only this waiting-room, feathered march of anesthetics, falling through the hollows of a name.

Froth & Pulse

I. Sometimes, blood on fresh snow like an opening. Sometimes, the apartment stairwell back-lit, hallways laid bare for miles, tunneling throat. The woman next door presses her palms to the floor in gold-light, feels for pulses below, comes up empty every time. The dead dogs humming. The rise. Blue movements: telephone static, someone thumbing a bruise. Too much on either end. The glow & pulse of the tongue: my mouth as wide as this room & just as empty.

II. You walk into my dreams in marrow light. A sky froths and stutters over children skating on a frozen pond, spits up ravens that curl and shrink. When we were children, a sled crashed into an oak and blood spilled cotton-soft. Words shatter this type of lightness. But in this dream, it is my body splayed over the ice, palms sacrificing themselves to the sky, an empty threaded pulse. You walk past me and my eyes cloud until I’m blinded and the scene repeats.

In the years afterward, people will stand here without hurting and never know.

 

 

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