Tilting At Windmills
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
If you ask me, the world’s just a series of Rorschach tests.
People and places are nothing more than inkblots,
in the dreary office of the universe.
They say God has a sense of humor.
I’m not sure what He had in mind, when He was spilling so much ink,
but I bet it was something impulsive.
I bet it was like a film.
The lead actress has gorgeous blue eyes;
that’s why everything’s blue when it doesn’t have to be.
A friend once told me, God is a withdrawn rock star.
It made perfect sense to me because we all know Jesus was an introvert.
Sure he hung out with whores, but he found it draining.
Sometimes, people are draining.
When I look at the inkblots, all I see are combinations of giants and windmills.
If I had to guess, I’d say the hybrids are morphing into giants,
so I’d better prepare for battle. I’m on the side defending virtue.
Sometimes, we can only define things based on what they’re not.
That’s how I know prosaic injustice is a coddled masochist:
self-entitled, yet devoid of self-respect—
icing the same bruises that once made her toes curl.
My toes always stay straight, and they are marching
into this inky battle that no one else can see.
The Excelano Project Presents: Inverse
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Announcements
Greetings, friends! On behalf of The Excelano Project, I’d like to invite you all to our fall show: Inverse. The show will be this upcoming Friday and Saturday. Look for us out on the walk later this week.
The Excelano Project Presents: Inverse
Friday, November 5 and Saturday, November 6
Dunlop Auditorium, 8:00 p.m.
Tickets $7 on the walk, $10 at the door.
Contact us for group discounts.
Starfish
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
Make worlds with me. My hands have grown lazy, and these potential worlds crave the touch of someone foreign. I’m not satisfied, and I won’t be until you do whatever I ask. Mold my creation. The corners are uneven and yellow and cold. Take in the smell of Sunday school leisure. Taste the saltiness of my skin. It is no different from clear crystals on goldfish crackers swimming in paper cups. Napkins do no good here. There is nothing to wipe, nothing to fall into your lap, except for everything you never expected. Isn’t it wonderful that our expectations are not causes; they are foolishness in retrospect. Look back with me. Look back to why you are the way you are. You never would have called it that. You might have called it your past, your memories, the things you couldn’t control. What you’d fast forward to get to the good parts. Stop worrying so much. Take everything in, let your feet dangle without fear of castration. Real men don’t have to touch the floor.
Thoughts from the Crowne Plaza, or “This Is Not a Love Poem”
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
I lied. I didn’t mean for untruths to slip from my lips; I just couldn’t help it. The shape was so effortless, and you always said I was too quiet. You’d never know the volumes my hands speak as my voice unfolds into your ears, groggy yet manic. Maybe you can hear my hands through the telephone the same way you eavesdrop on my smile. I never gave you permission: to look me in the eyes, to be polite, to see shades of green in every multiple of three. Complete the picture. Treat me like I don’t exist. Did I disappear, or was I just never born? It’s up to you. But as long as I’m not around, explore what you could have been. Dance to love letters meant for others, sweaty and intrusive, to the beat of explosions in the sky. Trade hope for happenstance, and never forget to sing your own back up. Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes, which means I’m here in some capacity no matter what you say. So it isn’t up to you. I guess I lied. But at the time, I meant exactly what I said.
