My Baby is the Bees Knees

Poets lie.

They say,
Time stands still for lovers
but if that were true
why can I never
get my fill of you?
and the honey
that is meant for bees
that drips to rings
on fingers
that aren’t enough to count
how many ways
I want to fuck you
I want to love you
to spread like honeycomb
your pretty thoughts
your pretty lips
around us
and call it home.

Tell me you feel the same
and flowers will bloom
drawn by mighty artist hands
that clip stems
so we might climb walls together
in an adventure
past graffiti-covered el tracks
and fields that make the world grow.

Poets lie.

They say,
forever means forever
but all leaves wilt
and quilt the ground
under Queenly steps
and your body in the here and now
let me bring you along
until it’s time for you to fly
on wings that I will worship
in the many ways
I want to fuck you
I want to love you
to spread like honeycomb
your dangerous words
your dangerous touch
around us
and call it home.

12 Steps to Recovery

1. No one ever makes the coffee just right. Believe only the person who shows your beauty reflected in eyes because empty cans of words have been thrown at you since before birth.

2. Brushing your teeth isn’t enough protection for the insults and injuries that people walking too closely seem to bring.

3. Sometimes not leaving the house is the only way to recognize your own heartbeat because the wilderness threatens to eat you alive without warning except those found hidden in bus stop advertisements.

4. Skin gets tougher after running marathons of traumas past smiling faces who offer platitudes of chins held high and lies about never fucking up.

5. Though gravity hurts, it can be your best friend; nothing is more honest than a force that survives all tests and continues on the path without seeing who’s following behind.

6. Trust the adrenaline rush that causes lumps in your throat and winged thoughts low in your belly. It’s not just why you were born, but what makes the blood stay in your body.

7. Imaginary friends never actually leave your side, but prefer to play when the yardstick reads adulthood, donning armor and carrying dream catchers made of their feathers and pain. Don’t pay them with loose teeth under pillows, but with nods to the mirror every waking morning.

8. Falling forest trees and brightly colored flowers are loud and smelly without human interruption. The labels of others wash off with a little attention and a lot of Goo Gone.

9. Make mandatory celebrations with banners and greeting cards for yourself putting one damn foot in front of the other. Gift baby step awards for every blink and breath that fills your lungs.

10. Reading between the lines of heavy textbooks will tell you more than any parent or teacher because art cannot be held by stiff borders, but within the soft edges of your lips.

11. Holding your own hand isn’t weak but sweet because the shoulders you’ve tried to lean on snapped before you even arrived. Why not try to be the trunk of a tree that can give and give you everything?

12. Taking up space can be liberating when the world has showered you with bee stings and duct tape, but staying small when surrounded by the ocean can be the softest place of all. 

True North

My soul was born
with a hole
stitched and patched
by miracle surgery
waiting, just waiting
to be wrapped
in the shirt
you wore and left under my pillow
so I would feel your warmth
to save me
from a dreamscape
I cannot escape from
to feel as covered
as the space between our bodies
which makes my stomach growl
with only the memory of you.
It’s not as if
I don’t have other thoughts
to occupy my mind–
the light of the moon
the great big room
how your fucking skin feels
underneath my hands.
My god,
I want to learn your body
without words
from the arches of your soles
to the arches of your eyebrows.
My god,
I want to hold your voice
without pauses
at the end of every sentence
and at the end of every dream.
You are stunning;
I can’t hear my heartbeat
because I lost it in the lobby
of your apartment building
late the other night.
It seemed safer there,
where you couldn’t hear
the stuttering start
to each nervous glance
of eyes
that remind me
of the earth sign
I was born under.
It hurts to say this,
but my soul
was whole
stitched and patched
by miracle recovery
waiting, just waiting
to be comforted
in the bed
you slept and left under the open sky
so I would feel your soulful love
to propel me
to exultation
I will achieve
to feel as alone together
as the space between our bodies
which makes my stomach growl
with only the desire to swallow you.
It’s not as if
I don’t have other thoughts
to occupy my mind–
the light of the sun
the great gravitational pull
how your fucking heart feels
underneath my own.

Performance at the Fine Arts Building, Chicago

Spoken word set by amanda owens – aoawaywego – at the Winter Celebration at the Fine Arts Building downtown Chicago on December 13, 2013.

Performing:
if I had to be inspirational
My Sky Map
Softly, Sweetly.

heartache

I planted seeds outside our cardboard house
so when you came back to me
it’d look happier
than you feel. 
I want mountains to shake
when you fuck me
and the dew to drip onto our bodies
that the fall leaves don’t hide so well.
It’s as if
your voice can cause an earthquake
in the deepest part of my belly
before others know
you’ve even arrived.
Yet I carry the weight of our love
between two fingertips
so it can fly away at anytime
and return all the better.
For there’s no poem
like the one 
your lips lay on my ribcage.
Trembling,
I ask you to stay there,
to come home
and marry me beneath the flowers.
Let me kiss inside the creases
of your fears;
the air will do them good. 
We’ll plant them outside our cardboard house
so when you come back to me
you’ll feel
you’ll feel

free.

 

Definition: Sex, time, money, parenting, comfort, addiction, or security

Left like the borrowed microwave
My dignity,
Scattered
When you fucked me
Attempting to replace my depression
Increasing only heartache
And leaving me alone
To cut
|     Cut
|     Cut
Myself on the bathroom floor
Feeling proud
A stroked ego
A sedated libido
All I want
All I want
Is the free
|     In kingdom
Is the grace
|     In purposeful
Staring at me,
Caring
Alluring
Left like scissors against my skin
My mind,
Dull
With more activity
Found a note on the sidewalk
A Mary where the paint peeled away
A broken license plate
Covered in vines of leaves
Eaten through by those little green bugs
With little regard for anything else
The smell of fertilizer and waste
Relatively problematic on such a sunny day
Incomparable
As my friend rots away
Behind bars
Black face in the wrong place
To own, not for rent
Almost crippling guilt issues
And the dedication to a book
Where I resolve all of your problems
And none of my own
Wearing fairy wings and a prince crown
the rule dictating I listen to the adult
And god’s law
The three year old with better taste
Scoffing at the radio playing Katy Perry
Instead, allyouneedislove
Engaging in discourse
I sometimes wonder,
How can love be all we need
If it’s constantly measured differently?

Love Letter to Myself

This was inspired by reading Stacy Bias‘ blog post about writing a love letter to yourself… which I write more about being body positive, here.

Amanda,
Hippie, Free Spirit, Daughter, Activist, Friend, Lover, Advocate, Survivor, Body, Queer, Traveler, Human, Student, the list goes on,
but sometimes you don’t know who you are when you look in the mirror.

That small voice in your head?
The negative one…
yeah, that one.
Tell it to be still.

You are beautiful.

You are strong and motivated. You can see that in those bags under your eyes from losing sleep over how you can be more of an activist. There’s always more to do and be and think and see, but you are doing everything you can do. 

You are strong and motivated. You can see that in your tired legs and big, beautiful thighs that are more muscled from biking daily. To the ridiculous saying of thunder thighs you decide to dance in the rain.

You are strong and motivated. You can see that in your odd tan line that speaks of sundresses from playing at the park while nannying. Because you know that tanning booths are dangerous and being pale in the winter is honestly earned, just as your uneven lines in the summer are hard-fought-for.

You are heartfelt and inspiring. You can see that in your tummy, your “pooch” as your sister called it when you were barely 14. She wanted to get rid of hers and so did you, but now, you know that sucking in is kind of ridiculous. Because your tummy is you and you are your tummy. It’s even fucking cute.

You are heartfelt and inspiring. You can see that in your boobs that you are so proud of, wearing your low-cut shirts, because you like the distraction from what other flaws you are afraid you have. You don’t have them. be still, small and critical voice, stay small.

You are heartfelt and inspiring. You can see that in your tanned-over scars on your legs that remind you daily of depression and how you overcame it, welcome it, challenge it, and say fuck you, I am waking up and walking out this door anyway. 

you are beautiful

in the tears you cry on the floor
in the words you write silently
in the songs you sing in the shower
in the love you make with your partner

You will not apologize for your body, just as you will not apologize for the work you do, for the supportive community you want to create.

You are more than your body image and your body image is more than just a body. You choose your image, Amanda, you choose you; you do you.

Abstract Art

Folding into your body
Like curving into a worn armchair
That’s been in the family for years
Witness to first steps, first words
the last fight, the last breath
And I whisper into your hair
youaremysunshine
myonlysunshine
youmakemehap–
Until the tune loses sounds
And the tears cried are not my own
Dripping on the white tile
Of your bathroom floor
Running rivulets: progress barred by a small rug
That serves no purpose, really,
But to keep our feet
From the slight shock of cold
in the brisk morning air
Air that fills my heart
And mind and arms and hold
The swaying movement
An indicator of my irrational
nightmares that begin
with love making but end
In your arms around me
In a straightjacket
Pressed and fitted for the future
That is not only uncertain
but inconclusive
My dream journal wide open
for you to see how much I love you:
iloveyoumorethananything
Yet I’m scared I fucked it up
Because I talk too fast
I moan too loud
Overambitiously
I plan our nights out
While I plan our wedding
Because this innate ability to care
Has turned me into my mother
Anonymously
Naked nap time on your side of the bed
So the fire in my belly
Is renewed with each communion
A lightbulb on every step you take
In the room I currently occupy
like a bad love sonnet
Or an even worse hollywood chick flick
The words so fake
The smiles even more
Except in this story-tale
No fairies run free
and it doesn’t get better over night
Except in this story-tale
Our hearts run free
and we get to do it right
More than this.
I’d really wish I could write you a letter
Of the hope displacing the fear
Of being broken, broken
Glued together by myself
The pieces outlining a sculpture
Created by him, him, and her
Their actions, their words
Don’t define me but impact
Greatly.
And here you are,
The final puzzle piece
And here we are
The completed masterpiece

My Calvin Klein Model Left for England

Every moment of every day
Cataloged
Follow me on Twitter
Trace my steps with Facebook
Answer each of my texts
Brilliant
And beautiful
Engaging
And captivating
Are you.
Got a beat going
That I wish I could rap to
My girl’s so hot
I got more than I asked for
I want to build a fort
Then make love with you
Under the red-sheeted canopy
This is not a metaphor,
I really do dream in beautiful colors
Passing by North Winthrop Ave
Thinking of beauty in
Pinstriped pants
And those high top shoes
My Calvin Klein model left for England
And I’m alone,
Running on kisses and wishes
Please come down from the mountain
And step down from the pedestal,
All I want
Is you.
Can we bask in the sun at Foster Beach
And plan to raise a gender-free child
Constricted only by our own political beliefs
And strong social convictions?
Can we devote our time and energy
To learning every freckle, every scar
Of one another
While pledging to build a better community?
Idealistic
Optimistic
You’ve turned my page
In the sunlight
With our feet propped up against the ol’ giving tree
Paper airplanes
Messages in bottles
Pretty, pretty pictures drawn in crayon
Coffee at Winston’s
Not eating animals
Why does every thought
Come back to you?
I wish to keep you all to myself
But the world needs your
dislike of umbrellas
and Mitch Daniels.
Please,
Sail home to me.

To my Blanket-Stealer

I never noticed how empty my bed was
Existed
Untouched
Until you weren’t there
You swept in and upturned everything
I wish I was an artist,
To paint the shadow below your chin
As the city street lights stream through the window
Dark in my studio
Except the glow of your fair skin
And unbelievable smile
You can bite your lip
And I come undone
But you have to know this.
I wish I was an artist
To paint your perfect breasts
(Yes, I said breasts,
Again;
I’m a terrible twenty-something.)
And sculpt those perfectly kissable lips.
But I wonder, if any artist would be skilled enough
To capture the passion in your voice
The fires you light
The dreams in your eyes
I wonder, if it would be even possible
To draw your eyelashes so faint
across smooth cheeks as you sleep
To record your sweet breath
Rhythmic and soothing as you sleep
Each time I wake, I question if I’m still dreaming
Each time I wake, I struggle to close my eyes again.
You’re more beautiful in the morning,
Did you know that?
In the quiet time,
When it’s just you and I
You can steal my blankets any night.