Desmene M. Statum

If I wanted to be nothing
I would have stayed in Alabama
probably married some no good johnny
baked myself a tasteless pie dream
I would have chosen selfishness
and raised my daughter alone
God, I would die
just to see her face
that would have been easier
than giving her away
and continuing the cycle
I was determined to break
teen mother with emotionally
unavailable father
Sometimes the hardest thing to give away
is control

If you are happy
you know
nothing can touch you
but wind
Libra’s daughter and her deviant lover
worshipers of melody
seeking a paradise
Singing two-fisted whiskey love songs
about fire eating eyes
to eighteen-wheeler emotions
Consuming each other
one gives to feel whole
the other takes to fill a hole
Each thinking
they lack something
necessary to live
They define their happiness
by the validity of touch
Void, devoid, and, afraid
selfish
both guilty in someway
not ever really knowing
what feels good
All they have known
is their conditioning
the constant paranoia
of lack
of never amounting to
more than an addiction
They construct a universe
of guilt, of right and wrong
and this is no place to live
Tangible intangibles
paradoxes of reality
pretending its paradise
Instead of making love
and making light
they mutilate their own hearts
and exist in a continuous state
of darkness and emotional disfigurement

When I was 18
my boyfriend and I
bought a trailer
and moved in together
This was after my daughter was adopted
during that time
I obsessed with an everyday life
couldn’t save myself from thinking
that my sacrifice was for nothing
I couldn’t let go
my thoughts of grandeur
that my purpose was something greater
than working in a day care
living in a trailer and
never having an education
Over and over
it burrowed into my consciousness
conquered my reasoning
After weeks of self loathing
I made a promise to myself
Then I burned that trailer
to the ground
and headed west

video by James "Bear" Rodehaver
audio by P.A.O. Productions

He stood like the sunset
long-legged rays of approaching darkness
stretching across the horizon.
He was the yellow-blossomed Texas Cacti
nice to look at,
get too close,
become pierced
by the addiction of needles.
His hands were mapmakers discovering my body
and no matter how much ocean I put between us,
his desert was in my heart.
Eyes like forbidden water
broken glass reflections of
his shadow, his silhouette, his darkness
an unknown destructive loneliness.
My Prickly Paw sweet soft flesh
impaled by stinging needles
changed by his wasteland tongue
both sides of his mouth talking
the convoluted truth
more dangerous than a bonfire in August
He stood like the shadows of the golden hour
a man’s torso and chestnut horse
calling Apollo across the sky.
The arrogance of Cancer
his arms’ goose down fur–the burnt cinders of a million hearts.
Stirring my scorched desire
Cross-eyed godless lovers,
mapmakers discovering mountains
of ice and ash.

The Deep Ellum of my day
was something else-
an indispensable lesson
of self-discovery and history.
But, even more so in the day
of great ones who were
inspired and moved
in the streets and alleys
of Commerce, and Canton.
The clever deviants,
writing guerilla poetry
before I was less than a whisper
in my grandmother’s
ear.
If asked to censor themselves,
they would have spit
in your face;
the fluid of an artist
offended by censorship.
Indigent bohemians
punk rock angels
banding together, poet gypsies,
working behind the counter
of Inwood Theatre
so they could eat
and see free films.
Minds Clouded by the legacy
of insanity
24-hour candy flippers
day before and after trippers
the-kick-the-shit-out-of-you
in Deep Ellum Live, woman
with a shaved head and
four braids coming from
her neckline.
Inauspicious female
impressing
my fifteen-year-old self
tossed about
in the middle of a mosh pit
at a bad religion concert.
My first time out all night
first girl scout cookie shot
Texas inkblot…
Yeah man, those guys
would have read this poem
naked at the top of their lungs
covered in vomit
tripping their balls off
or better…
As much as I would like that,
it is not their time anymore,
and I’m too old for this shit.
All I want to do is write a poem.
Censorship?
Rules in a
no rules game?
Double standard
double Entendre
modifiers
amplifiers
echoing voices of lost generations.
Because our roles models,
are dead, dying
or worse…
Sold out,
that can’t be what happens
when you break
out?
What’s this game about?
Are you telling me I have to
change my story to fit your family?
Oh, happy little life we lead
successful expendable incomes
then they breed.
Expecting art to become childproof?
Collective expense experience
collateral damage in the minefield nightmares
of Picasso dreams.
How ignorant
sheltered bigots
can’t stand to stain
those pretty white
curtains
in $500,000 coffins.
Are you telling me that
as long as I stay behind
the register, take your money, and
not open my mouth,
or interrupt your cell phone
conversation
during our transaction;
you will look through
that plate glass and smile as you take your
ticket to the show?

I have been to your garden,
listening as the water falls
over rippled Terracotta walls
I have felt the flow of water through granite
hearing only movement whispering to birds,
and the chatter of children.
I have felt the sculpture of clay
moving over my body
defining my toes and feet
modeling my breasts
carving my eyes into eternity’s heart.
I stand watching you,
watching me,
and when you turn your back and leave
I sing prayers for you
so that you may be blessed
by skillful hands that guide through the universe
I am no less than geometric algorithms
no more than the fissures of gilded
bronze, silver, and gold.
I am the imagined
where dreams and death are made, separated,
and given to creation.