Messages From My Head

Untitled

Wed, 05 Dec 2012 00:35:01 -0500

I peel off my clothes
and let them fall to
the floor, free my
wrists from their
jewelled cuffs,
release my digits
from the curve of
their rings, unclasp
my hair, let it fall freely
in tufts and tangles
over my shoulders.

One hand rests
across my belly
as the other traces
a nipple and then
a breast and finally
pushes gently but
firmly on the knots
of my neck and
releases the tension
of the day. I look in
the mirror above the
waste-high countertop
at the trails imprinted
on my skin from the
subtle pinch of my bra
and squeeze of my
panties that throughout
the day have left their
mark on my skin. Tiny
whisps of hair circle my
nipples and my breasts
look as if they are
sighing in relief after
finally being freed from
their cages. My thighs
seem to breathe as I
move, unconstricted by
cloth or convention.
Moving my head slowly
in a circle as my hands
squeeze and tease my
skin, my neck cracks and
I glance in the mirror as
my collar bone pokes
through the skin. I bend
down to turn on the
water, peaking over my
shoulder to sneak a look
at my ass in the mirror.

I let myself love myself.

After my shower,
my eyes bleed black lines,
shedding the mask of the day.
I splash cold water on my
face and shove my skin into
a towel like sushi waiting to
be devoured.
The spell is broken.
My body is but a thing
to hide, to be ashamed of,
to want to change:
my thighs are fat, not free;
my breasts sag, not sigh.
My hands clutch my towel
afraid to wander;
my hair clings to my skin,
afraid to be free.

Just like that, I am afraid to love myself again.

Graduation

Sun, 08 Jul 2012 22:06:00 -0400

Some days are too hot for poetry.

The heat of the sun melted the poise from my pose as the sweat dripped down the curve of my spine and hit the ground where it immediately evaporated into thin air, as if it never existed.
I stood in line for food at the party, wiping sweat from my brow with a multicolored ‘congrats grad!’ cocktail napkin. The votive candles burning beneath the trays of cavatells and breaded lemon chicken from Dino’s paled in comparison to the heat of sun sneaking in through the windows at the Italian community center on the outskirts of Cleveland City Proper. Dino had overcharged, my cousin had told me—“18% service charge and 6.5% tax!”—but the food didn’t disappoint. Except the scalloped potatoes. Everyone agreed they were missing something.
“Salt, these need salt”, they mumbled, as they stuffed their faces anyway.
I filled my plate and my short clear plastic glass half full with bitter white wine.
White wine was a terrible decision. I should’ve stuck to water or beer.
I watched as my younger cousins snuck drinks from the keg, their arms tensing and releasing with every pump of the tap. The man of the hour walked around in light khakis and an accidentally tight black t-shirt, decorated in the front and back with sweat and powdered sugar from the pizzelles. He told me earlier in the day that he was pissed about his shoes. His mom made them wear him. I told him he looked very grown up. I told him white socks with black shoes made him look silly. He told me he didn’t care.

Later, the heat broke. The crowd of cousins practiced self-segregation and migrated outside to the bacci courts, lit by the moonlight. The lamplights were out and couldn’t be turned on, we were told. “That’s okay”, we said, “Just keep the paulina out of the shadows”. My dress dragged along the sand of the court, leaving a trail easily tracked if need be. Three courts were filled with players of all ages throwing heavy green and red balls as close as they could to the tiny paulina. Other people sat on the benches around us, chatting, drinking from plastic cups, fanning themselves in the still hot but much cooler summer night air.
The poetry came back as the dance of the evening progressed. Babies running around on wobbly feet somehow evaded injury while adults gathered around coolers filled with beer like animals around a watering hole. Slowly, the crowd thinned until it was just the family, and those friends you often forget aren’t family. “Who is sober enough to drive?” we all wondered, as we filed into separate cars and followed separate roads and retired to separate houses.
The next day, the stragglers from the night before met to finish the leftovers. “I always order too much,” my cousin mused. The house was too small for the half dozen foil pans filled with chicken, green beans, and cavatells that overstuffed her fridge. The potatoes, the ones that needed more salt, were somehow all gone. A pool in the background took seven hours to fill with a house hose. Water had been lost—from splashing, from the sun—but wasn’t refilled. The out-of-towners departed, some leaving behind a kid or two for a week’s visit in Cleveland, until next weekend when we would all reunite for a birthday party. My belly was too full and the heat was back as I slouched in the stifling heat of my brother’s car on the ride home. He cracked window and lit a cigarette. I closed my eyes and tried to find something beautiful in the moment.

Some days are too hot for poetry.

-J. Rendi

Soft Science

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 01:22:00 -0400

I notice the science of my body:

the way the drops of water disappear after a shower

without even a sign or a sound, evaporating into thin air

just like my 3rd grade teacher described it;

or the way my skin, my biggest organ, stretches over my hip bone

to create a shape that soda bottles and hour glasses mimic

in attempt to catch the greedy and hungry and watchful eye

of their marketer’s most faithful consumer;

when the curve of my breast was tanned to a burn,

a darker auburn than the rest of my skin, until it peeled away;

never following the life cycle of the sun-killed skin far enough

to its new beginning.

-J. Rendi

*this is a rough rough work in progress!!!!*

Messages from my head: 1. There’s a man on the tube wearing dark plastic sun glasses and a furry...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:02:00 -0400

Messages from my head:

There’s a man on the tube wearing dark plastic sun glasses and a furry eskimo hat on a fairly warm day in spring. The earphones wedged into his ears underneath his hat’s ear flaps are connected to some unseen gadget that whispers something sweet into his brain that makes him comfortable enough to mumble nonsensical phrasings punctuated by swear words into the otherwise stuffy and silent underground air. He straddles a tall boy of cheap cider between his knees on the seat. I stand in front of him for awhile before a seat empties across from him. We make eye contact over the book I’m reading and I glance at his lips which are sparkling at the corners with a wetness most often assumed to be alcohol, or spit. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a biker’s pair of leather gloves, shining black and red in the fluorescent train lighting. At King’s Cross, he stands up, preparing to offload himself and his heavy thoughts from the train car. His mumbles become louder, both more audible and understandable. No one makes like they’re listening, but we all hear him as he disjointedly complains about the malicious murders of one of the poor indigenous populations of the world.

Maybe he’s got a good reason to be crazy.

My favorite part of a rain shower in London is right after it has let up but the people of the streets haven’t realized it yet so they string along under their sea of umbrellas; some in a rush, some moseying about, some with discount umbrellas on the brink of death—ones that blow up when the wind is too strong and get stuck—some with umbrellas that slump over their broken skeletal system, barely keeping them dry when the rain is really falling.

Perhaps though those with the dying umbrellas are also the first to realize the rain has stopped.

Even those who look like they’ve got it figured out have no fucking clue what they’re doing.

-J.Rendi

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SO MUCH LOVE THAT I MIGHT EXPLODE being a lover calls for a lot of...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:00:12 -0400

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SO MUCH LOVE THAT I MIGHT EXPLODE

being a lover calls

for a lot of sad

ness and it falls

quickly from my

head to my heart

and then weighs

me down in the

tips of my toes

and i float along

appearing as if

i am weighted

by nothing at all

but really the love

is holding me steady

and keeping me

centered and awake,

pulling me under

and keeping me a

float at the exact

same time. love

hurts. i feel it in

my heart and in my

breaths and in each

step that i take on

those love stoned

toes of mine. but

it feels good,

ultimately, to love

so much. because

what else is there

but love?

-J. Rendi

The Last Laugh My dad was in a coma for 4 days before we took him off of life support because he...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:56:00 -0400

The Last Laugh

My dad was in a coma

for 4 days before

we took him off of

life support because

he had no brain activity left.

The night after the life-improving brain/ear surgery that led to his death, his conscious state was altered and they performed emergency surgery to drain his brain.

They shaved off

his beautiful thick

head of hair and

placed a tube in his skull.

Later on, his heart began to fail.

They performed CPR

for 45 minutes

in the middle of the night,

breaking 3 or 4 ribs.

He was all alone in that room.

When we took him off life support, we sat with him, my brothers, my mom and I. The rest of my family was outside in the waiting room.

When he finally died,

when the machines turned off,

I cried and cried and cried and

hugged him one more time.

He snored.

I laughed.

-J. Rendi

sometimes my life feels like a dream we lived in tents and traded stories through thin plastic and...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:48:00 -0400

sometimes my life feels like a dream

we lived in tents and traded

stories through thin plastic

and tie dyed sheets. when

the winds blew, their tent

fell down. when their song

ended, we started ours.

we melted crayons with candle

wax and fire while the others

slept. we smoked trees and

ate peanut butter and jelly

blue berry bagel sandwiches

with heady caps on top.

heady cereal bars for

breakfast and a gatorade

for lunch, we lived fast.

bianca got to the rail

and left jason to fend

for himself. courtney carried

around a cactus and zak

got weirder than weird,

weirder than everyone

except aj. betsey was the

queen of the lot, the sexiest

milf for miles, while cody

watched simpsons in

an air conditioned room.

johnny turned into a

demented grandpa at

night, sneaking around

shakedown, suffering through

the sounds of shrieks from

wooks long past their prime,

to find our old friend molly,

cause we were hangers-on,

not wanting the magic

to end just yet,

while michelle and i

smoked more trees

and stared at stars

and talked about

how lucky we were

to know that sleeping

in tents and trading

stories through thin

plastic and tie dyed

sheets was all

we ever really needed.

-J.Rendi

I Drank You Up I tried to sleep beside you but I couldn’t. I was rested in the morning anyway...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:43:00 -0400

I Drank You Up

I tried to sleep

beside you

but I couldn’t.

I was rested

in the morning

anyway when

I woke up to your

morning routine,

but all night

I drank you up.

As we were falling

asleep next to each other

you said: I wonder if i’ll be here tomorrow

and I said: where else would you be

and you mumbled I don’t know; wherever you go when you die

and you wondered aloud

where we go

when we die

and we decided together that: you don’t go anywhere,your body just disappears and your energy wanders around, much like you used to.

The next morning

you left for work

and I stayed tucked

in your bed, naked

against your sheets.

I wandered around

the place where

you live with

my body and

energy both

and I touched your

The Blue Planet

and Star Wars

boxed sets and

laughed at your CD

collection featuring

The Best of the 80s

and some Vampire Weekend.

I made a cup

of tea in your kitchen

and smoked a spliff

on your balcony and

read the note

on your fridge that went: you don’t know you don’t know you know you don’t know you know you know you don’t know

printed in chicken

scratch on a ripped piece of

loose-leaf paper.

I drank you up,

even when you were gone gone gone.

-J.Rendi

Today is a day (I can tell) that is going to suck me dry ‘til I’ve nothing left but tears. Oh...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:38:00 -0400

Today is a day

(I can tell)

that is going to

suck me dry

‘til I’ve nothing left

but tears.

Oh well.

There is always

tomorrow.

and the next

day and the

next day after

that day.

but today.

Today is gonna

suck me dry.

-J. Rendi

Because of this Poem I Missed the Bus Have you ever heard the screech and scream of iron on iron...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:37:00 -0400

Because of this Poem I Missed the Bus

Have you ever heard

the screech and scream

of iron on iron as the

tube rushes past

on a Friday morning in London?

I have been spoiled

by the sounds of the cities.

In prague, the streets

were hushed, blanketed

in whispers by an

Eastern European sensibility.

At Old Town Square,

the tourists (myself included)

snapped mis-composed photos

to try to capture not just

the light of the place

as it is reflected and

absorbed and bounced

around the gothic churches

and war memorials

but the feeling of being in two places at once—

or rather, at the corner of two places as they meet—

the past and the present.

At night, the trams

pulled around,

carrying few tourists,

mostly locals,

to their evening destinations

likely filled with good cheap beer

by the pint and the mumbles

and cadences of friendly conversation.

I listened for the familiar

iron-on-iron screech

to which I’d grown accustom,

but it never came;

the trams were quieter here, too,

like the people.

In Amsterdam,

whatever sounds

vibrated in my ears

as I exited the train

into the streets of the city

were washed out

by the overwhelming

sight of bikes upon bikes

upon bikes.

This vision of infinite

bicycles filled my brain

with a feeling

of pleasant sound

and the pleasantries

exchanged between strangers.

So, whatever sounds

the city made, I cannot remember

because my brain was

too busy remembering

something else—

the song of the sight of infinite bicycles.

At night, girls

perched in windows

frowned and pouted

and by day, girls

on bicycles with dogs

in their baskets—

like Dorothy in Kansas,

but in color—

smiled and pedalled

past coffee shops

filled with excited tourists

and sad locals,

all of whom would

be stoned soon.

In the morning,

the city was abuzz.

Bike wheels turned,

taking precedent over

the thick rubber

tires of the automobile

while pedestrians

overtook streets

lined with fry vendors

and candy shops.

I hated to leave so soon,

tired and stoned and hungry,

but I somehow longed

for the harsh

sound of iron on iron in the morning.

The pleasant buzz of Amsterdam

made me sleepy.

It made me lazy.

As I went from foot

to train to plane

to bus to tube,

crossed country borders,

explained my purpose of

being where I was

in muted monotone,

had my passport

stamped and stamped

and stamped again,

my brain turned to mush and

could barely even register

the screaming screeches

of iron on iron that

I so longed for.

Instead, I ached

for the comfort

of my industrial bed.

But when I finally arrive

to my room, I turn the key

and hear its click.

It is mid-afternoon

so I close the shades to

shield my eyes from the

sharp sun, but open the window

because my brain pined for sound.

This time, instead of

iron on iron screeching and screaming

on a Friday morning,

or the blanketed silence

of the people of Prague

or the whimsical squeaks of

the infinite bike wheels in Amsterdam,

it was the lull of a lazy

Saturday afternoon that rocked me

to sleep and dulled the aches in my brain.

I am spoiled

by the sounds

of the cities.

-J. Rendi

Something Beautiful

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:36:00 -0400

I have this little pact with myself: whenever I am feeling shitty, I force myself to look around and find some beauty in the moment. Usually it’s something like this bit about a bottle on the tube:

I’m a nanny for a 17 week old Russian baby with the brightest blue eyes and the chubbiest pale cheeks. She is the biggest infant I’ve ever known. Her parents love her and each other and they are young and smart and entrepreneurial and attractive. This job makes me yearn for a life like theirs one day, which is terrifying and draining and stimulating all at once.

So anyway, I’m on the train, and I’m feeling this post-terror drain and this late weekend evening jealousy of all the fun-havers around me.

Everyone around me was way happy, drunk, going out for the night, some of them were acting stupid. They were too much for me; I was feeling sad and alone and they were making me feel more of both.

I kept closing my eyes and counting to ten and taking deep breaths, but it wasn’t working none too well. I kept trying to calm my heart, align my attitude with my breath, but it wasn’t working.

But then I heard this weird clink under the sounds of the iron on iron screech of the tube.

It was this clear empty glass bottle, in the bank between the seats and the windows, ya know, in that place where people put their newspapers when they’re not reading them. It was in the bank in front of me.

And as the tube went from Kennington to Old Street, it tink-tink-tinked back and forth and made this sound that I knew no one else had noticed. Sometimes the speed of the train caused it to be still, but other times, it rocked back and forth in the soft curve of the bank.

I stared at it, listened to its frequency that just squeaked past the frequencies of the train’s screeches.

And then I didn’t hate everything so much. I felt a natural little smile creep onto my face, and I didn’t mind so much everyone’s happiness or drunkenness or stupidity.

I used to write them down, but in a bunch of different random notebooks. One time it was me in class, and I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t take the monotony in my usually spritely and charmingly flamboyant professor. He was Greek and chubby and endearing and excited about his topic, which, the latter, is all you can really ask for from someone trying to impact some sort of knowledge upon you.

I looked up at the ceiling and saw this lady bug continually flying into that white cardboard shit of a ceiling they have in institutional buildings. It just kept flying up and hitting its head and body and succumbing to gravity a bit, falling for a mili-second or two uncontrollably until it realized it had wings again and could flutter back up to do it again. And then, again, it flew up and hit its head and its body and hit its head and its body and hit its head and its body—like a mosquito to a light but minus the “ZING” and death in the end.

But i almost feel like the ladybug’s fate is worse, ya know?

‘Cause what if it never moves on? What if it gets stuck hitting its head til its death, not realizing there is so much more to the world besides the bright light waves of the white ceiling? What if they get stuck, because that feeling that came after slamming it’s body against this large white expanse of space—that feeling of falling and failing and chance and lack of control—just kept pulling him back and pulling him back.

Trapped.

That’s not really beautiful, is it?

-J. Rendi

Twenty-Won I find myself at twenty-one acutely aware of the sips I take, especially during my...

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:23:00 -0400

Twenty-Won

I find myself at twenty-one

acutely aware of the sips I take,

especially during my darkest

battles with sadness and self-hate.

Your father was an alcoholic, you know.

You need to be careful about these things.

What mother fails to mention

was his crippling depression

or his adventurous lifestyle

or his utter happiness

or his terrible pain.

He was so much more

than his alcoholism,

the alcoholism that

he triumphed over

and conquered during

most of my life.

He was a recovering alcoholic, to me, always.

A sponsor to those struggling.

A beacon of light for those in the blackest darkness.

Anyway.

Today I found myself

in a staring contest

with a half drunk

bottle of wine at two

in the afternoon,

all the while picturing

my father’s dead

and decaying body

rolling over in his grave.

We hit a stalemate,

the bottle and I.

A few sips here and there,

but in the end,

the bottle went unfinished.

In fact, I’m staring right now

at a half drunk glass of

South African white wine

from this afternoon.

So who won? Who is winning?

Earlier this evening

I went to the pubs

with a few friends

and had a few pints.

Who is winning? Who won?

-J.Rendi