I wrote this poem in my last class ever as an undergraduate at UMass a year before I was married. It’s about the idea of marriage and the path to and from it. It’s written in arch form – ABCBA.

12/10/09

I’m doomed cause I’m so close to perfection
with nail in one hand and stone in the other and stone in my chest and I’ll use all three if I hear the words “brood of vipers” once again.

Father morning and mother rising sun
will you marry me to harder words?
so that I could shed the shit that I call right, and be left
with what I don’t know, what I haven’t been.

To say that you bring out the materialism in people would be an understatement. But the fault isn’t all yours. I think we can both agree that a certain dark Friday is quite helpful in getting people into a frenzy. For a while I thought that the reason you’re such an idiot is because of the consumerism that comes with the celebration of what you represent. But after much thought, and conversation with a few people, I want to say that I don’t blame you for promoting materialism and consumer-lust. At least not as much as I used to. Partly, this is because I know I participate, even though it makes me cringe that I am one of those schmucks. I’m not trying to reason away my guilt, but just point out that your consumerism isn’t what drives my animosity. The other reason I’m not blaming you for consumerism is because there is a much more dismal and corrupt ideal you represent.

Did it ever occur to you that someone’s been talking bad about you behind your back? Some days it seems all the world is, with their smiles and hand shakes, saying stupid things like “Merry Christmas”. But when they come home, does not everything change? Christmas, my issue is the insincerity you bring out in people. We can all pretend that you’re awesome, and that we’re all happy and joyful for you. But really, are we? Aren’t we all bitter and discontented? Why should I fake it like everyone else? I’d rather be authentic.

See, when I was growing up, a huge part of my life was going to church with my family. And on Christmas, this meant at least a 3 hour service. On your day. Now, this is not as awful for you as it is for me. Let me explain.

Going to church was alright, a bit boring. It was in a language I was slowly losing. I didn’t really have any friends there, people looked down on me. It was okay because I understood that partly, church was a personal experience, what I took out of it. I could write a letter to church, but church is not the problem. After a 3 hour Christmas church service which had become a secluded and personal experience for me, I would come home and experience family life on your day. One would hope that the day could be salvaged somehow. But why not let awfulness roll down like an avalanche? I don’t know why, but this is the way it was. Dad and mom had a horrible relationship, and how it poured out on your day, consuming our meals and conversations. And so, from church, a place of celebration of a birth to home, a place of celebration of the self. Do you see the disparity, Christmas? I think church would have been better would you promote continuity and confession, but that’s too much to ask, right?

And every year, you would remind me, Christmas, how hard people could wave the flag of fraudulence. Church represented one thing, preached it, people pretended it, and masked themselves. You showed just how fake people are. You know, if you had never existed, this might not be. But I’m not that naive. It’s just that you happen to bring it out in the worse ways, especially matched with what you proclaim.

I hope I’ve explained myself well. I could write more, delve deeper, curse more. But I woke from an awful nights’ sleep, and can’t quite get my thoughts together. If you’ve any intelligence, you’ll notice the hypocrisy right away.

Well, I’ll be sure to dislike you next year. But maybe you will be redeemed, if you will allow yourself to be. And maybe redemption is a greater and stronger avalanche than you’ve ever hoped for. After all, isn’t this the reminder you supposedly bring?

With the Greatest Sincerity,

-Kirill

So, I wrote this right before I began working this summer when I was thinking about the death of relationships, circumstances, and people, and the noncompletion (if that’s a word) of it all. I wrote it from the perspective of the pen I used to write the original poem in my notebook, as if the actions that I was giving my hand to create the text on the page was not actually happening, but the pen was leading my hand, and allowed me to take over during the parts in quotations. At some points, the pen is writing in the present, as it is happening, and at others it is an explanation of what will happen, or what has happened before.

Untitled #0

Cap on, cap off
and pressure

“The King of Pop just dropped”

lifted
I’m so useful only when you hold me
so truthful

“summer help and some are not”

tapping on, again

“Loretta – she’s still quietly near and I’m scared that I’ve given more than I can take back”

I’m patient eternally,
or at least until I decompose

“trying another, I miss my families, the Spirit of Ecstasy is gone along with the car”

close
and throw me when you’re done you faithless
I’m helpless
this is an ode for your hand and my best friend
understand that I understand
and I let loose for you my black blood
when hope seems slim
and downcast is the time.

I like Jay-Z. I think that he’s a really good artist. But he reminds me of me. So I don’t listen to him.

Clarifier: I don’t think I’m like Jay-Z in most ways, but what I wanted to convey was the way he thinks and then puts it into song, and how that pertains to me.

Untitled #2

Hova once said it:
“You know I – thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em
Cause I don’t fuckin need em”
But I’m screaming cause it’s me I’m seeing
Yes I confess he’s the god of truth
Bow down, low low,
And I feel as if I’m captured by more than a camera
greater than a feeling.
Jesus it haunts me
Or is it this country?
Privy to their loneliness and my parade
Flaunt it like a summer dress and what’s under it
Permeating and protruding,
I don’t see this ending well.

My soul is cast down within me; therefore I remember you.

More and more I’ve noticed that all I’m filling this blog with is poetry. I think if I counted, I would have about 150 poems total. Does this mean I’ve made it? Probably not, because poetry is not my lifestyle but just an extension of brokenness, or anger, or depression, or unreturned … something. Rarely do I write poetry when I’m in a good state.

I used to write poetry for a special girl way back when, but since then I just haven’t had the motivation. I think there’s something significant and beautiful in writing a poem and not having to explain it to anyone. Showing it but not explaining it. Because you know that the other person will either draw some other deep purpose from it apart from what you intended, or that the other person will understand it the way you do. I’ve experienced the latter before, and it’s amazing. I’d like to relive the moment when I’d create and not have to explain myself. And the undermining issue is that I just want to be known. I think it’s a mix of egocentricity and neediness. And immense depth.

So this is me wanting to be known. But a past me. Retro. Like watching Larry Bird play ball. But not really.

Email Deletion?/Finale – 3/22/07

Is this what healing is,
or is this me feeling another woman’s kiss?
I guess I’ve learned a few,
too much, and not enough the answers
will never hit me,
ever will they float on high,
and disappear like your soul
and is this me whole?
I think the wiser
is to know when to stop,
lay down your guns,
I said that I was done, hun.
Sites, and words,
and names are all too many,
and it’s easy caught myself the other day,
it was today I guess the choice
is still your own,
because leaving was easy,
but coming back ain’t so breezy,
is it?
I think I’m doing this again to myself let
it all fall apart after
pulling it together,
I don’t know whether I should do
what I should do,
what should I do?

cause never again,
but you won’t know the smile or laugh that I had planned,
a single call is all it takes as he descends upon his bed,
instead another, better heart,
congratulations, your propeller’s fixed,
this convalescence I’ve brought with me
to convey a single thought
time is key,
yes this I see
consider it a bit of both,
a close control for freedom’s reign

Turn this song up till your ears bleed,
and then you’ll see and I’ll believe
that when you call at night
it’s truly you not her,
and then we’ll talk and then we’ll walk in stride,
as feet they pain to run
I’ll drive my car without a thought and pay attention to the lights
and stop signs
so please, just try
don’t cry
before I know what’s going on,
I’m out the door,
cause this song will burst your head,
and you’ll be dead, but you will live
just not inside my head.

Some I didn’t want to reveal to people, some I thought were not a picture of who I was at the time. But I think they all speak of my nature very well. So I’m publishing them posthumously. At least after the death of those experiences which I wrote about. So maybe this post is like the Christopher Tolkien to my J. R. R, Tolkien experiences and understandings of the world which I lived in.

Brittany Fritz – May 4th, 2009

I was in my Philosophy of Existentialism class the other week, which, I think, we can all agree is a bunch of bs. “Freedom and the absurd is me not doing your final paper, and writing about that”. Eat that, existentialism. Anyhow, I was remembering this 14 or 15 year old girl that I met about 4 years ago. I only interacted with her for about a couple of hours for maybe 2 or 3 days. But I remembered that she was an intensely exuberant person. So I wrote this during class.

4/24/09

“Is Brittany Fritz still laughing?
and happy?
with her cast of a leg
and her ice-cream in hand,
she’s like summer
blond and no realization of the future
so stories unfold and role out
filled with child-like demeanor.
Carry on, Brittany Fritz,
into autumn and further
keep quiet no longer than death does require
so subtle your limp, so grand is your jump.
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No Title – March 30th, 2009

Silence is a scary thing. I want it because I’m constantly surrounded by people. But I also have it, and I don’t know what to do. As the phrase goes, I’m scared shitless.

“Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.”

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No Title – December 25th, 2008

I think I might be somewhere between the Grinch and Scrooge. I don’t care for Christmas trees, nor do I care for presents. I don’t care to shop and get the best deals, and could not care less about the Christmas spirit, lights, or having a white one. I say “Merry Christmas” to people just like people ask me how I’m doing without caring for the answer. I just do it because it’s polite. And I won’t until someone else does it first.

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No Title – November 24th, 2008

Sacrifice. The more I think about, the more I realize how the word resinates with my experiences. It permeates in so many facets of my life and my history.

For what is sacrifice? I recently had a chance to tell a bunch of people who were willing to listen what this one word means to me. How it flows through me and in me and around me. It’s so consuming, but sometimes I’m resistant. For sacrifice, in the way that I have breathed it, must be done consciously, seriously, meaningfully. And it involves the giving up of something for the sake of something or someone else. It means to lose in order for there to be a gain.

So where am I? Am I the loser, or the gainer? God keeps revealing to me the ways in which I’m the gainer, and in ways in which I can become more of the loser. I’ve gained the ultimate because one gave up the magnificent. But I’m stuck on this idea of being sacrificial. Do I sacrifice consciously, and if I do, is someone gaining? Are my friends gaining?
____________________________________________________________________________________________

No Title – October 27th, 2008

I’ve recently been thinking of the word “pursue” and all that it involves. Or maybe, the word has been thinking of me, and I just keep noticing. I was talking to a friend this past week and romantic relationships came up and the idea of pursuit. What does it mean to be in pursuit of someone, to pursue someone, to be a pursuer? I don’t think I really know. I don’t think I’ve pursued a woman. Ever. No, really pursued a woman. Not to say that I didn’t try in my past relationships.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

No Title – Date Unknown

I confess my pride:

Let me hear you say it

loud and clear

proud to hear

undoubtably happy

and growing quite bigger

taller

better

newer

redder

cherrfully smiling

don’t you see?

I’m simply the greatest

it’s all about me.

For some reason I couldn’t sleep long tonight, so I got up and wrote this.

I’d like to die in a Die Hard style,
get peppered by an uzi or get smashed by a truck as I’m driving to do something important,
something worth it,
or as I’m racing away from the mob I’d run my car off a cliff bloodied and victorious
I’d die fighting a shark or falling from the sky and all my chutes don’t open
lose both arms and die killing a martial arts master who’s looking to kill 20 children
I’d win because I’m just faster
or block a bullet with my head that’s heading for someone I love, or even hate
yeah, then I’d go out on top
and not a diseased cripple lying in bed
Not beded and bended in ways I can’t control and can’t understand
Or maybe get smushed when I’m lifting 10,000 pounds with one arm at the gym,
and I’d watch it fall on top, and it would be a memorable time,
I’d run from the cops because I know I could get away, especially UMass pd,
and be on camera for the world to see as I battle a giant snake that bites off my head as I slice it in two,
or maybe I’d play the guitar so hard that the strings would pop off and the impact would put me in a coma that lasted for only 6 minutes,
then I’d show up Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton and all their talented kids that mimic their styles,
I’d drink the best tasting tea and die because it’s so good and so hot,
right there on the spot I’d collapse knowing that it was the right amount of sugar and milk,
it’d be so quick that the cup wouldn’t have time to fall from my happy hand,
it would be a good story to tell.

I’m a broken hand
a chair with no legs
cracking and peeling
a wall with no ceiling or windows or doors
like a rusty bolt at the bottom of the coffee can
I’ve failed many.

I’m 20/20 vision
a tile on the floor holding corners and sides
grass no greener and plate no cleaner than I
I’m a toy that’s remembered
continuously and curiously studied and read
satisfying.

Hear me clearly
I speak this warily
fuck the easy way out
I’m disagreement and indifference
a project of religion
nice suede caught in the rain
fine plaid worn like it’s 1978 and I’m British
I’m the hook that missed the fish and caught the whale
inhale deeply mouth and lung
I’m able, rescuer.