Sunday, November 6, 2011

Find Yourself


I have heard your story,
I have heard you loud & clear
Scars like an abyss
With no visual markings
Trust has withered away
Like a raisin in the sun
What he has done
Is unforgivable
And some days
Seem unlivable

I hear you miss,
I hear you loud and clear
I see the way these boys
Play Russian roulette with
Words like spiked bats
Swinging aimlessly
Using your insecurities like a piƱata
Trying to break you open
Till your warmth, care & love
Hit the ground

More times than not I have been the one
Trying to pick up the pieces
And somehow make it better again.
Sometimes only trying to be a friend
Sometimes trying to be more
Sometimes feeling so distant
Than it would be better to write
Than fight to have you closer.

Your story is like so many others
Ex girlfriends, ex flings,
Mothers, daughters, nieces, cousins
Over these years I have tried to make sense of it.
I have tried to understand.
It is so easy to blame him
So easy to tell the world what a monster he was.
So easy to not look inside yourself
And understand your self worth.

Motherly instincts tell you to nurture
To care for
To put band aids over wounds
And make it all better.

So what if he had no car,
No job,
No direction,
No drive,

SO what if he sold drugs,
Had a criminal record,
And a few go to girls on the side.

He had enough swagger,
Enough confidence,
Enough of that “fuck it” attitude to
Show you that attention you needed. 

How strong are you?
How many dates did you wait
Till legs spread open
Exposing the vulnerability
Of the need to be wanted, embraced?
How many times did you let him use your body,
So he could get his and you could not get yours?
How many times did you let him borrow,
Using your kindness for weakness?
How many nights did text messages go unanswered while
The other side of the bed stayed vacant?
How many times did you feel like you felt before you met him.
Alone.
How many times did you stand up for yourself and say no!
How many times did you repeat the same steps with the same kind of guys?

There are boys and there are men.
 There are those types that will talk to anything with a pulse
Those who exhaust energy into seeing how much ass they can pull
Those who’s money goes to addictions and escape
Those who never took time to understand their self worth,
Those are the one’s we call boys.

The one you’re looking for might not be as attractive,
Might not have tattoos and piercing & the newest bummy fashion trend.
Might not be spending endless nights at the bars & clubs searching,
Might not be out screaming for attention out in public.

If we are suppose to be reflections of one another
Then you are no better than the one’s you choose to keep company with.
I ask all you girls, young women,
How much is your self worth?
How much do you love yourelf?

I know it’s hard to be alone at times
But to be your own vehicle
Is something we all deserve to be.
Find yourself, before you find another
Because those who are already found
Will never leave you feeling lost. 


-Poem by Iain "Emic" Watson

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A Letter from my Cousin Miguel Angelo


Dear Marvin,

I used to get all kinds of mail,
Shit I actually wanted to read
And some that I could give two shits about,
I used to get so fucking annoyed
By Auntie Rita sending me these Christmas cards,
They were family pictures taken in the
Back of some department store
Over a woodland set that looked almost
As phony as their forced, uncomfortable smiles,
Which made them all look more like they
Needed to pinch off a fat loaf
Or they were being held captive by terrorists,
Than they were actually happy to pose as a family,
Still, I found these picture Christmas cards to be mocking,
Like I should feel bad about myself for being
Selfish and juvenile
Because I didn’t a family of my own to corral
Against their will in the back of a Sears
And have them sit still with artificial smiles,
More sterile than a hospital,
And crooked glares like wax sculptures
Housing vapid, emotionless eyes…
But then all I got were bills, bills, fucking bills,
And I longed for those far gone days
When I still had the luxury to be annoyed
By Auntie Rita’s nuclear family’s mocking gestures,
Shit, these days I wish I had a luxury period,
See, it started off like this:
I’d get a bill, then I’d pay it off,
Then I’d get another bill and I’d pay it off,
Then I’d get billed for paying that bill
Over the phone,
Which seemed ridiculous
To get charged thusly,
But then I couldn’t afford to pay my bills
So I filled out one of those too-good-to-be-true
Credit card offers, so that I could pay off my bills
And then I’d get a bill for that,
And soon enough I was inundated with so many fucking bills
That I started hitting the sauce
Pretty regularly to ease the stress,
Then it was impossible to afford my credit card bills no more,
So, then I said, “Fuck it!
I never want to see another fucking bill again in my life!”
So, I set out on the road to lead a wandering lifestyle
Like Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu
Or Christ,
But, I ran out of gas before I even got out of town,
So, I parked the mother fucker by the river,
Put it on an easy listening station
And tried to get some shut eye…
Well, when I awoke there’s a fucking ticket
Shoved under my damn windshield wiper
For parking illegally…
God Damn it was I steamed,
I was so fucking pissed I started having these,
Like, ridiculous fantasies of wringing a police man by the neck,
And in a gesture of uncontrollable rage
I pushed my fucking car into the river,
And I tore off all my clothes
Deciding I wanted to possess nothing forevermore,
Nothing but the skin on my bones
And the fire in my heart,
So, I jumped into the river, naked as a jaybird,
Wishing to be cleansed,
To be newly reborn,
Baptized once again
Pledging allegiance to only the God inside,
And for the first time in my whole life I felt replete with joy,
But then just as the sun shone down on me,
And birds seemed to chirp in this symphonic,
Triumphant sort of way,
Suddenly my bastard car begins to actually sink into the river,
And it pulls me down into a spiraling tunnel
Of waves and bubbles,
And I smash my head on a rock as I reach the bottom
And it was lights out…
When I came to I found myself washed ashore,
So, I pulled my creaking bones from off the ground
And realized I had settled right next to the post office,
And then it just hit me:
Not only was it my duty, 
My calling, 
My office,
To rid myself of this virus
Known as the United States Postal Service,
But I was destined to do my world a service
And free it from the bondage of packaged mail,
So, I decided that I was going to hijack
One of those shitty postal trucks
That have the steering wheel on the wrong side,
So, I approached a postman,
And he saw me with my hands out-stretched,
Grumbling and speaking in tongues,
Telling the mother fucker I was going to wring his neck,
And he just looked down at my hands
That were curled up like a s zombie’s,
And then down at my gleaming chest
And my balls and cock that were flapping about
Like a living, breathing game of crochet,
And, he just ran off screaming
While I put the mail truck in gear
And peeled out,
When the petrol had worn out
I found myself in the middle of the desert,
And once I came to a clearing
I unloaded all the mail,
Staring down at the city below,
Watching the silent buzz and crack
Of casino lights at dance,
I could just feel the cries and misery
Of those people down below
Who for far too long had been locked
Inside and invisible prison,
A prison at once self-imposed
And forcibly fed,
So, I decided that I would create my own
Shining example,
My own fortress on the hill,
Thus began my campaign
To rid the city of its mail,
I hijacked mail trucks at the airport,
I held up mail-carriers at gun point
In front of mid-century homes
With white fences, and groomed green lawns,
While ankle-biting dogs bounced up and down
As I forced the mail-carrier to disrobe
So that I could take on the enemy’s dress
And become a vigilante in disguise,
Taking them down from the inside,
I began to walk my own mail routes,
Emptying mailboxes along the way
And replacing car payments,
NV Energy service interruption notices,
And student loan 30 day late notices
With love letters that I had composed myself,
“Ms. Norris, shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more sexy, more violent than a storm…
In my pants!  Boom!”
All stress and headaches became laughter and smiles,
I exchanged catalogues from J Crew
With vegan brownies home-cooked with carob and fresh mint,
And still the love letters flowed:
“Shawanda, lay your sleeping head, my love,
Animal on my faithful charm,
Unzip my pant, don’t shy away,
And sucketh on my third arm!”
Eventually, I had amassed enough useless mail
To begin construction of my palace,
The first floor was built on
Images of Ed McMahon
And mail in forms for personalized checks,
The Second floor was built on student loans
And car payments,
While cleverly utilizing coupons to
Papa John’s and Little Caesar’s as wallpaper,
Of course mortgage payments
And foreclosure notices rounded off the third floor,
But not before I installed an attractive balcony
Using Aunt Rita’s Christmas cards
To stylize the columns,
And so I sit and wait,
Watching down below,
Occasionally I slip down to distribute a poem or two,
But mostly I just wait,
Letting the frustration swell like the tide,
Letting it manifest organically,
But I can feel it coming, so subtly in breeze,
Like a distant howl, or impending storm,
Not quite here,
But I can hear the rumble,
Like a stampede or a drove of drones.

Reno, NV 11/03/2011 7:26 PM