To the Flame

Our limbs

flail and stretch

the membranes

of these crowded

corporeal cocoons.

Our bodies

are pressed

breast to breast,

antennae-arms entwined.

We grapple,

feeling each slick

segment

as we complete

this courtship

of devotion.

Our teeth

scrape in gentle

gnashings,

our tongues

coiled together,

our legs lashed, a

True Lover’s Knot.

We are

a nighttime creature

but full of luscious

blushing colors, we are

warm and vital, a

pulsing, fluttering

heart that

seeks the sticky core

of this fleshy

conflagration.

Our breath

is ablaze as we

trade it

from mouth to scorching

mouth

to abdomen

to sparking hearts

and then beyond,

rapture bound.

Walk

You breathe ready

Snorts and fervent grunts

Rump smacks the floor thump

Tail beats an impatient cadence

On the dull door frame

Leather in my hand

Flat, warm, animal, binding

Click-clack

You pace, a yearling at the gate

Grousing like a hinge long neglected

Click-snap

Tether in my hand

Dingy doorknob in my hand

Cold release

A slam shakes the parting wall

And we are off

Like an arrow whistling

Or a hawk loosed for the kill

Off like Atalanta

Who never wanted doors or houses

You are all go

White feet flashing

Through nursemaided yards

Each miniature meadow

A verdant coffer

Bursting at its seams

You are all stop and go

Muzzle tip a passport to the surging world

One breath and all journeys

Are revealed to you

You glimpse the passage of the postman

And every roving stray

You know the deepest yearning

Of every fellow beast

I hold your leash

Close, a tourniquet

But you know

I’d really like to see you

As you were

When you were young

And prowled in packs

And pronounced

Your wailing compact

With the moon

Ghazal (Poem Love)

Morning comes. She sits to write a poem.
Raptured now, she dwells within the poem.

Plumes of feather snow that mute the world let
streets rest wrapped in peace that is a poem.

Put your hand upon my rising chest and
feel in your cramped heart my fondest poem.

Children swallow squalor. Parents, helpless,

murmur grief that punctures like a poem.

Words assemble here, but they strive still to
fit the mystic form, becoming poem.

Wow, okay, coming back to this thing after what, at least a year, I'd really like to delete those early posts b/c seriously, pretentious over-crafting much? Also I just don't think I sound like that anymore, not a lot anyway, but I decided to let them stay because I need to take responsibility for my past selves and it might be interesting to watch my evolution as a blogger and blah blah blah. Moving on.

I'm currently taking an Intro to Psychology class that is driving me INSANE. It's not the subject matter -- I love psychology for reals, like if it were possible for psychology and me to go skipping hand in hand down the shore and then have a long talk about why we both adore Farscape (and you totally know psychology would be into that shit) whilst feeding each other Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby before it was bought out by Breyer's and therefore tasted better, I'd have been there done that by the age of 22. I'm so psychology's bitch that I've taken two other extremely similar classes, but since I didn't manage to pass either of them I'm stuck in a Groundhog Day of the experience. Except not, because the class I'm currently taking is nothing like a real psychology class. The teacher is so horrible, he shouldn't be teaching anything, least of all psychology. He informed us on Day One that psychology is not a science, which hey, fine if that's your personal belief but maybe you should find another subject to teach or at least SHUT the hell UP with your opinions that directly contradict the text. Then he told us all about how Jesus is one of the founders of psychology, and Jesus was definitely supercool and I'm all for syncretism, in fact my personal philosophy includes quite a bit of it (emphasis on the word personal), but I can do that just fine by myself, thanks.

Lessons Learned in School

Lesson the First

The Background:  I’m currently taking a class called Relaxation Techniques.  The TA for this class is a 22-year-old Sports Psychology major.  He’s pretty, athletic, amiable – your typical jock.  I like him, but 22-year-old me would’ve written him off without a second thought.

The Setup:  At the beginning of each Relaxation Techniques class, my fellow students and I line up outside of the Mat Closet.  The closet contains (you guessed it!) gym mats for us to stretch out on while we practice relaxing.  TA Dude stands in the closet to hand out the mats, which come in two colors: pink and blue.

The Story:  I don’t see the point in jockeying for front of the mat line (we don’t start relaxing until everyone has hir mat and TA Dude locks the closet anyway), so this past Wednesday I brought up the rear.  I watched as TA Dude, holding a pink mat in one hand, went out of his way to reach blue mats for the two guys ahead of me.  When I presented myself at the closet, sure enough, TA Dude handed over the pretty pink mat.

Why did TA Dude ferret out blue mats for the young men, only to dish out good ol’ Pinky when I showed up?  I’ll give you two reasons, and each one rhymes with n00b.

Four years ago this event would’ve set me fuming.  I can practically hear my younger self’s inner monologue: Why do I get the pink mat?!  Because I’m a chick?  I don’t want a pink mat!  I hate pink!  Those guys got blue mats!  Was that pink mat going to make their balls shrivel up and disappear?  Fuck that!  I’ll make their balls disappear and I don’t need a girly color to do it!

But four years will teach you a lot, including the importance of picking your battles.  Will that mat make me break out in a severe case of pinkness poisoning?  Of course not, and it’s really not worth a second thought.  On Wednesday I accepted my pink mat with nothing more than a rueful smile.  I also accepted that TA Dude conforms to gender stereotyping norms, and I only felt the tiniest bit of dismay.

The Point:  So.  Today.  I’m in my usual spot at the back, watching the students ahead of me get their mats.  Just like on Wednesday, there are several guys in line before me.  TA Dude grins and speaks a few words to each of them as they approach.  I can’t hear what he says but I can guess: “here ya go man,” “there’s yours,” “one for you,” etc.  Now I’m almost to the closet, there’s just one guy ahead of me.  TA Dude has a pink mat in his hand and I know exactly what’s coming.

And then he gives it to the guy.  The guy in front of me.  TA Dude smiles and tells the guy, “You get the pink mat today.”  And when I’m up I get a blue one.  Grinning crazily, I thank TA Dude and proceed to the most relaxing class I’ve had yet.

The Lesson:  Anyone (and I do mean anyone) can surprise you.  The sorority girl is a lesbian.  The frat boy plays D&D.  The Republican is pro-choice.  The hippie never does drugs.  Sometimes people surprise you in the best ways possible.  That happened to me today, and I can’t think of the last time being wrong felt so good.

What's In My Name?

  My first name, Danielle, is the female version of Daniel.  I never had a problem with my name when I was young, unless of course I heard it coming out of my parents’ mouths in less-than-dulcet tones.  Then in 7^th grade Language Arts we did a “What My Name Means” project.  And what does mine mean?  God is my judge.  As in, judged by God.  As in, “Lions didn’t eat me because the big man upstairs thinks I’m awesome!”

  Great.  First of all, twelve-year-old me really didn’t want to conceive of God as constantly judging her like some creepy voyeur totting up sins on his clipboard.  Shouldn’t God have better things to do than watch a kid shoplift cigarettes?  Besides, I’ve always been my own worst critic – I didn’t need God sitting in on the panel, too.

  Then there were my name’s Judeo-Christian roots.  The name “Daniel” was created by early practitioners of this faith, one that still exists in countless forms and continues to work for millions of people.  That’s super neat, except said faith ceased to float my boat around age twelve.  Maybe my departure from Christianity had something to do with that whole creepy-voyeur-God thing!  Listen up, future spiritual leaders: likening the divine to an omnipotent, unforgiving Santa Claus isn’t the best way to get a preteen girl into religion.   (“He sees you when you’re sleeping, and if you’re not sleeping right you’re gonna BURN BURN BURN!”)

  Finally, my name was of male origin.  Please!  I couldn’t even get a fucking name without having to wrest it from the grasp of the patriarchy?  Having recently immigrated at to the fearsome land of puberty, I already felt my “boy’s name” chafing the angry feminist who lived somewhere in my soul.

  Here’s the thing though: despite all of my objections, I never wanted to be called by any name but mine.  Not Dan or Danny, not my middle name (that’s another story), and not some random name I plucked from books or my dreams.  I am Danielle; it’s always suited me.  Eventually I did some thinking about my namesake as a Biblical character and realized that Daniel is intelligent, loyal and honest.  He’s stuffed with personal integrity and never runs from a challenge.  In the lion’s den, Daniel is saved by unwavering commitment to his beliefs in the face of overwhelming opposition.  So really being named for someone like that isn’t so bad.  Quite the contrary, in fact; from my current perspective, emulating him seems a lot more like an aspiration than a chore.