Thursday, December 1, 2011

Old McDonald (is dead)

I know your name isn't
"McDonald" (My mother says
all she remembers is
"John" and that your
last name was not McD)
but that's what I remember
repeating to myself as
this tiny preschool spinner
when my brother and I sat
in your garage-art-studio
in a summer of early 90s.

I remember you were
towering and you had a beard that
I would call a marker
of a bear in later years
when I would try to trace out
in sculpting emotions in clay and
found objects.

I don't remember meeting you
more than once.

The motorcycle parts that fanned out
like a chart of the
cycles of the moon over
your desk where you sat to
talk payment for
that painting of mother in
neon cups whose
eyes cut flat. The
smell of grease and
the dust thick with oil
never escaped from under my nails.

10 years later I realized "your" scent-shape
formed under my hands as
I crafted a shape of myself
in other people's throw-aways-
how long did you shape my
busy sculpting before
I thought to ask my mother
for your name? Your history?
Your life?

I wish I knew where you are buried.
I wish I could bring you
one of the little things
your scent-shape built in me.

But a child's Old Mcdonald
is dead.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Words that don't need voices

Best experiences of friendship
are ones we build ourselves,
without oversight of
other people’s expectations.

My best moments of friendship
have been the ones that
we each do
our own thing in the room

and on some good thought or idea
imed each other from across
the room and
taken joy from that simpleness

Of communicating in our langauge
instead of “out loud”. typing
words that
don’t need voices

Written for Lydia at AutisticSpeaks.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

You write a thousand brilliant
violent words and
your pretty fierce destruction
makes a thousand little movements
around your face
and every lovely frustration
and little pleasant pains
in these words your lyrics
in your little place.

(Those delicate chimes we call your voice
make all the world seem base beside
the way such gentle deep lashings
can break.)

be careful rabid heartsick
power fuelled and
un-alone one who spits out
the words that make me want to bring
you home and I
wish I could be the one
to find your secret places
as I bring you into mine
until I break.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

In response to a statement on class privilege that happened to be ableist

[Image is text on a slate: “I do not care what you drive, Where you live. If you know someone who knows someone who knows someone. If your clothes are this years cutting edge. if your trust fund is unlimited. If you are A-list B-list or never heard of you list. I only care about the words that flutter from your mind. Ther are the only thing you truely own. They are the only thing I will remember you by. I will not fall in love with you Bones and Skin. I Will not fall in love with the places you have been. I will not fall in love with anything but the words that flutter from your extraordinary mind.”]

Okay, I get that
You are giving a valuable lesson
about class and love and all that
shit our society builds burdens out of.
I get it, I do.


When you reduce people
and what you are able to love to
words “fluttering” out our minds
You are building a system based
on mindless Ableism-
Demonstrating your “able-minded”
Typical processing privilege.

I can never claim to know
where when or how you learned your
words, your language, that which flutters
out your brain into things so easy for a
world in which you are “normal” to Understand
and to get meaning out of.


That doesn’t mean I can’t tell you
EXACTLY how much bull shit it is
to assume that’s how I or Anyone
else gained language, How we think
how we process our world.

Let me tell you how
when I speak it is with borrowed words
trying to figure out what must be said
to communicate the WORDLESS NESS of
the thoughts and concepts in my mind.

I am not an empty void in here- I have amazing
Twisting, entwining, and vast thoughts which
I may NEVER be able to fully translate into
your “word language.” Years of trying mean
I have images of words trying to dance with
the pure thoughts I have- a brutal habit
that allows me to survive your world
with my apparently non-“extraordinary” mind.

So don’t reduce me, my thoughts, my feelings,
my being into words.

Don’t do it to the
random passer by, don’t do it to the
young man who desperately tries
to make up for translation brain errors
by assuming that gaining xyz will
allow him to pass in a world that
would call his inability to articulate
all his thoughts properly as
Vapid, or as sheep like.

Don’t do it to the girl who can’t speak
at all, and wants the status her lack of words
denies her while she taps at
her Assistive device to let you or her
friend know what she wants in her
coffee order.

Is it wrong to value people based on
class markers? I’ll be the first
to agree with you there in my
woman-formed body and torn
thrift store dress.

But my agreement with that
doesn’t mean I won’t
call you out on your own shit.