Resistance

Resistance

I was 12

With round framed glasses

Attempting to become my own version of Vanessa Huxtable

All straight A’s and one-liners.

I was sprawled out on the rug

My face in a book -

Goosebumps or Babysitters Club or something with a choose-your-own ending.

In the suburbs,

I’d never heard a gunshot

Never kept the oven door open for warmth.

And a bang on the door startled me

Even though we had a doorbell

(because why would they ring the bell if they could pound on the door)

They were

Looking for my brother

I remember smiling

Because not too long ago

It had been “people in your neighborhood day”

And I knew all about the good men in blue

Who would help me get home if I lost my mom at a street fair

Or could make sure men in vans didn’t follow me home from school

But they didn’t smile back

At 12 year old me

Or say please or thank you

When I said he wasn’t home

Even though I could hear WuTang blasting from his stereo

My first act of resistance

And as they made their way down the front steps

I swear I heard one oink

And saw the other’s pink spiraled tail twitch underneath his slacks.

A Poem for the White Boys

I am an owl

But you’re a day walker

My voice is familiar

But before you

I

Am

A marvel.

A rare bird

With eyes beyond understanding

And vision surpassing the scope of your own

My dark feathers camouflage me

But my hoot gives me away

Let your eyes adjust

And suddenly

There I am

Quiet and still

I

Intrigue

You

My scent creeps around the glass

            Between us

and calls to your insides

Your fun-sides

Your oh-i-want-to-touch sides

A little bit of new car,

sweet almond, and Mommy

Excitement, baked goods and some old familiar comfort

A newness, a freshness

A sweetness

A meekness

Its tickled your nostrils and you can’t turn away

I am your sweet songbird

Who sings like a lullaby

A chant. A prayer

Soothing, calming

Inspiring, uplifting

Soul stimulating

Mind titillating

Dream infiltrating

Strutting through your thought bubbles

Leaving footprints where there were none

Disturbing the sand

The waves just washed blank

With tracks that lead you in circles

But never back home

                                                -A. Emme

                                                       2011

Watch and Explore

Excavate my poetry

Dive into my prose

I want to give you more of me;

introduce our souls.

I'll dance on top of tables

You'll watch me from below

I'll strip down to the barest me

Slow, slow, slow

11.11

Just A Glass Full of Whiskey

I thirst

            And so I drink

I sip

I gulp

            And then I buzz

                        I flutter over to a dollop of pollen

                        I inhale and fly away with little crumbs

                                    Of kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate stuck to my skin

I taste

I swig

            And then I hum

                        I start a quiet song at the back of my throat

                        And make a little ditty between my sweet lips

                        I feel the song into a symphony

            So I dance and sway and dance

I dip

I dribble

            And then I stumble

                        Just a little, but enough for someone to see

                        Raise an eyebrow, shake a head

I dive

I plunge

            And I crawl to pleasant memories

                        that aren’t really there

            I smile at demons

                        imagining lost lovers

                        clawing at friends whose faces I don’t recall.

I float

            I soak

And sink

            Down. Deep to the bottom

            A smile askew

My flushed cheeks

            Hold up leaden eyes

                        Lopsided

                        With no disguising powers

                        Nothing is hidden

I steep

and my insides ooze out from the pores

I thought had been plugged up.

They seep into melted ice.

I am brewed

I hold out the glass

And offer you a drink.

AmandaEmme

2011

Create

i have written
i write
i am a writer

...i am writer.

“El Creacionismo”

A little God.

Un pequeño Dios.

Vicente says that he’s a little God

and so I want to be a little God, too.

To create.

My job under this title that I have given to myself

      a poet

Is to

      1^st, create

      And then create

And later continue to create again and again over and over and over

Tiny birds that chirp sweet songs and fly in lines

One behind the other

And only rest to bathe in tiny puddles

Hidden within the clouds

To create images that move and sway

within wooden frames on accent walls

in homes fashioned after IKEA pages

rented by Tyler Durdens in cities everywhere

      (before the explosion but well into the insomnia).

And tired eyes will watch my creations jump down

and dance about the floors

because when I create, I do not believe in limitations.

Those, I save for my own life,

my own days

walking in squares, turning sharply at corners

and tripping over cracks in the pavement

pausing but not retarding the prospect of creation.

CREATE

To make

To have something become

In the palm of my hand,

By the stroke of my pen,

In the midst of my thoughts,

Pushed through the gaps of my teeth,

By the strength of my tongue in the still of

His night

, underneath

His full moon, in

His vast blue black sky, on

His grand green-hilled Earth.

And I have seen those hills and

with hands stretched high admit that

I am a little God in only

The greatest exaggeration

The fullest inflation

The littlest and whitest lie.

What are my trees that grow melodies which can be picked

and juiced into lovemaking soundtracks and college night anthems?

What are my blue cheese moon flowers that grow in hidden fields

behind hidden castles for the perfect guilty pleasure midnight snack?

What are my bubbling frothy cappuccino-foam snowmen

or my honey swollen tears for comforting a crying mouth

Next to His ocean

            that waves to the shore and then swallows men whole with no apology?

Beside His woman

            Who takes in man, keeps him warm, inhales his seed and grows a life?

Alongside His rain, that feeds the thirsty land and

      His winds, that blow over trees 100 years rooted in

I am…                        just a poet

a photographer who tries to capture an image with colorful metaphors and alliterated metonyms.

a painter whose paint can blend a million times and still miss the exact hue of the original.

a sculptor whose chisel just can’t tap out the bump in the nose.

a potter with shaky fingers and a lopsided rim.

What I’ve created is mine, imperfect and flawed

Far from the work of a God

But

Words on a page

An image in your mind

A feeling in your <3

A whisper in your ear

A tickle on your skin

A kiss on your forehead

A kiss on your mouth

A hand to hold

A pacifier

An homage to what’s great

A tribute

A plaque in a walking garden

A statue erected on a street intersection

A fountain of cherubs with tiny full bladders

A monument. An anecdote. A dedication page

A re-creation.

A poem.