unfolded

Remember when we were younger, and
we used to think our teachers lived
at school? I always pictured oversized
desks where they could fold themselves
up at night, packed nicely in among
their books and pens and apples. This
is how I envision you - folded up inside
my cell phone, your voice coming from
somewhere among the buttons and wires.
Occasionally I'll open up the
back and peer in, wondering it you're
really there - longing for the day
when you unfold yourself from within
and come to me. You will unfold to me,
only to be folded again into my arms,
and I'll no longer have
only your words to keep me warm
on days that I am feeling lonely.

songs my mother gave me?

I decided that, for my mother's side of the family, I may put together a group of my poetry, about my mother, and her passing, and give them to my aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I think they will appreciate the sentiment, and something tells me it might help some of them push through and do the moving on that is so necessary in times like this. I plan on titling my collection "Songs my mother gave me," cliche as it sounds, only because I hammered out the following introductory poem (and I welcome constructive critique - is the meaning clear? does the metaphor work?). It is slightly cheesy, perhaps, but I think it serves its purpose, and my family will appreciate it:

To the Reader:

The time to sing is now -
Our grief slowly lifting, the tears painted over
with all the smiling faces of those she left behind;
It's true, she's gone - but
when the time comes, we could all lament
that we, too, were plucked early from this life,
forgetting that the most important purpose for us here
is simply teaching other people how to sing.
And my mother, she taught me many songs.
These are songs my mother gave me.

a poem of silence a la e.e.cummings

m (fa (words) il) e

wordless

We speak, therefore, we are -
all space and body is lost to us,
and we, the word-wielders, the wordsmiths,
shouting "love" across great distances,
wrapped each night in proverbial arms --
we, built on words.
How odd, for us, to desire that moment
when words disappear.
When the touch of your hand
and the warmth of your flesh
becomes the wordless opening chapter
to the book of my happiness,
and we become the text, realized,
and relish the moment when we
don't have to say anything, at all.

inner rooms

There's something quietly romantic about the thought of you.
The halls of my mind, my inner rooms, become porticos, breezeways.
I become large, doors to you opening, I realize my space and my
potential and connect with you in the very stillness of our words -
and real distance, and real time, and all the corporeal distractions
that people think should matter more, tend to melt away - our bodies
melt away as we become just voices, spirits, ideas, imaginings,
perfect golden beings walking hand in hand along the sunlit
porticos and breezeways that link my inner rooms to yours.

love can build a bridge.

I remember middle school, singing songs
our parents taught us,
no longer swinging on swings but holding on
to everything the older kids taught us was cool.
The wiggers, the skaters, the preps, the freaks.
The misfits. The marginals. The empty spaces.
The empty chairs. The kids that wanted,
but couldn't. The glass window separating us
from the haves. The have class. Have style. Have
friends.
I suppose, looking back, that I can be greatful
for fortitude.
I can appreciate me now, for the me I was so long ago.
Then why do so many people assume the position
of complete regret, for the years
they spent in solitude?
Those of us who couldn't laugh our way
through puberty
look back and attempt to erase it, and make those empty
spaces
and empty chairs
an empty memory.
Perhaps it's true that I can learn and grow.
I know I did.
Regardless of seeing how far I've come...
Does anybody like to look back at where they started?

Spatial dimensions and overheard conversations

"the words of built space, or at least it substantives, would seem to be rooms, categories which are syntactically or syncategorematically related and articulated by the various spatial verbs and adverbs - corridors, doorways, and staircases, for example - modified in turn by adjectives in the form of paint and furnishings, decoration, and ornament .... Meanwhile, these 'sentences' - if that indeed is what a building can be said to 'be' - are read by readers whose bodies fill the various shifter-slots and subject-positions; while the larger text into which such units are inserted can be assigned to the text-grammar of the urban as such" (Jameson 105).

If you know me, you'd know that such examinations of the textuality of space really enthrall me, and caused me to pause my rigorous reading of Jamesons' mammoth text, to sit back and examine the text of my own surroundings. If we're to render the space a text, however, we would have to examine the actual text that exists in these surroundings - namely, overheard conversations of my particular location.

Sitting in Panera, Jameson's lecture on the capitalist notion of post-modernism as it relates to space and architecture is remarkably telling. Panera's text is an incredibly sumptuous and inviting one - yet one that speaks to that certain economic bracket that is a step above fast-food, and, perhaps, a step below the average sit-down gourmet restaurant (after all, Panera is anything but dimly lit). The menu speaks to those who wish to eat healthily, which unfortunately, in our consumption-driven society, speaks once again to a higher financial bracket. Strange, how health becomes a commodity. If the text of the place, and its advertising, invites a certain financial bracket of capital wealth, this might be reified in the conversations I've overheard while sitting silently in the corner, munching on my four-cheese egg souffle and whole-grain bagel, sipping on my coffee.

At one table, a family of four (man and woman, of course, with two children), were visiting with who appeared to me extended family. All well-dressed (must have just come straight from church - amazing how church-dress exhibits its own examples of capitalist commodification...). A few things overheard, regarding Christmas:
Wife: "I need to get some new shoes" (shoes current state of shoes)
Extended relative: "Oh! Yes, you do!"
Wife: "I've had them fixed once before, but I don't think they'll last much longer"
Husband: "And we just went to Harold's to find some - can you imagine some of the prices on those shoes? And I consider myself having a decent job!"

At another table, I noticed two women discussing church matters, and they even prayed over their food. Their conversation seemed to center on helping some person with one thing or another. Now, I'm not against religion. I'm not against church. I'm a spiritual person, and try to go to church when I'm able. So allow me to attempt this into an objective critique, relating to the spatial implications of the clientele. They are extremely well dressed, and the tone of the conversation allowed me to speculate that they occupied a privileged place in society. The religious connotation of Jameson's concept of po-mo and capitalism sends my mind spinning at this point. I just overheard "The church told him 'we're not getting enough new people, so you're out of here'," regarding someone apparently responsible for a budget, or "revenue." How telling is this regarding the importance of commodification and capitalism within our very religion?? Commodification of religion within commodification of image, within commodification of place/people/wealth/space. The language of Panera does, in fact, reify the notion of commodification - proven by the clientele that surrounds me.

As a disclaimer, I know it's rather odd for me to be eavesdropping in conversations. But, reading Marxist theory, the mind is prone to search for any and every distraction possible :-). And, of course, this doesn't ring true for everyone that comes in here (I'd love to consider myself exempt, but I'm not sure if I can). Just some interesting thoughts I thought I'd write down, so I wouldn't forget I had them ;).