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Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Let's Make Love

The inconvenient truth is that I’m a hopeless romantic. 
An insane, 
poetry writing, 
long dress wearing 
reckless hopeless romantic. 
The kind that finds a Nora Ephron film life affirming. 
And I’ve never seen a happy relationship in my life. 
The only kind of love I’ve ever been witness to is a glorified form of settling. 
But damn I want to love you with every piece of me, 
every molecule and vein. 
I want to dance to no music 
and lay next to each other naked
just skin to skin
Because it never feels like falling. 
It always feels like skydiving. 
I’m up so high that as I soar downward 
I am alive for the first time. 
So let me crash. 
Crash on your couch. 
In your memories, into you 
so fast and so hard 
that that our love will be a crater 
the scientists will study, 
a pseudonatural wonder. 
Let’s make history. 
Let’s make love.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

An Explanation

Bryn scurries to class
Leaving me once again alone with
Bennett, the long term boyfriend
A sludge of mixed schedules, run-in and intos
and the fact he’s in love with my roommate
have drained all typical small talk for our
strangely large amount of private moments.


So how’s your love life, Ariel?


I guess we’ve come to this.


It’s ok. The usual.
Oh, you have one?


The accuracy of it’s statement makes me
unable to take insult to its subtext.


Well…
i like guys.
Tall damaged deep thinking guys
Who like skinny jeans
and ironic notes
and poetry
which i write.
and they read every line
inserting themselves between them
and sometimes they’re right
but usually i splice shards of sensations
with moments and men
fossilizing ephemeral feelings
that rarely fit anyone’s truth
even my own
the stew simmers
bubbling my blood vessels
and leaving my fingers clawing across my shell
because soon enough
they think the poems are about them
when they’re really about me
you doesn’t mean you
it’s just an energy
fleshed out air and atrial migraines
and when i rhyme to him
it’s either fictional
or about things
i’m not ready to admit to myself are true
so i write more
and they leave
and i write more
and they return
and i write more
and they yell at me
and i keep writing
until there are no echoes of boys or syllables left
just a giant X
crammed in crimson across this love corpse
you're asking me to describe
but i keep tripping
over subtle stubble and unsilenced sensitivity
hoping that one day
i will plummet so hard
that my pencil shatters
leaving me with something more than material.


I don’t think a lot of people have that problem.


Me neither.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Cool Hipster Garbage Soup

I’d pay a million dollars for a piece of your breath
A slice that was just inhaled for me
air that escaped with your lips with mine on your mind
I want to be the one to thin your skin
because that would deny more distance between
my hands and your heart
i want to touch you
wrestle my fingers through your cool hair
slide em across that cool jean jacket
and whatever cool hipster garbage soup of the day
you’re wearing


because you know i love that shit
because maybe emotional unavailability turns me on
I want a parking spot someone else is in
and will wait outside it for that extra fifteen minutes
if it looks like she’s leaving


you said you’re too postmodern for love
well i’m too post the modern
past these daily scams of romance that burrow into our social media
tell us to communicate with each other
but not ourselves
selling temporary as an asset
and connection as collateral
i’ll shut you up
tell you not to be another one of those artsy damaged boys
who’ve left my atria out to rot before
but i really mean don’t be that obvious about it
you never go out for the drive
when you see the collision down the road
shrapnel
shards of windows
glasses of tires
rubber rushing across the tar
i never see the blood
just the steel
as if i was never inside of it at all
it was just a piece of me
a borrowed body filled with fluid affections infecting
like gasoline pouring through veins
because i’ve been conditioned to see love as merely fuel
for art or gossip
precious somethings than qualify me as wanted
so i  twist my wheels forward
pretending i will reach the horizon
but baby i want to collide with you
crash pieces of myself against your flesh
eroding my hard skull
to break through some of my thoughts
i don’t want to think
i want to fall through you
wander behind you
let me be your shadow
drag me across the ground
just let me grip you by the heels
and follow you through the universe
throw the crinkled balls of feelings
at me
ill try to catch enough of them
glue bits together
until the shreds
shape the man i want you to be
or at least i want to have


if you’ll have me.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Color Coded

when i first asked my mom if i could do slam poetry
she told me it was just to keep black kids off the street
for a moment i felt envy
green stirring through my veins
because the conflict in my story wasn’t good enough to be told
but then i woke up
i realized how fucking selfish i was
and this was not the place to win back my narrative
because how could words be unreadable on my ivory pages


i came up with these lines months before Ferguson crumbled
and locked them in for weeks after
because i was afraid i would offend the good people
that this poem would profit off pain i am not entitled to
but yesterday anya told me
because i’m white i must write
i must speak up
because i have the privilege to be heard
because if poetry is supposed to keep black kids off the streets
maybe in those 4 hours Michael Brown’s body decayed on a blacktop
there wasn’t enough spoken word
there were no words spoken
because no matter how many times Eric Garner recited
I can’t breathe
the snaps only came from his lungs
my entire life i disobeyed my mothers orders
spitting poems instead of reciting them
because i was born with the power to defy tradition


for the first time i am terrified to write a poem
i am afraid to snatch a pencil from more deserving fingers
to appropriate someone else’s story


so i’ll just tell mine


i was always taught that less melanin meant more
but in the warsaw ghetto whiteness didn’t multiply bread in grandma’s hands
didn’t fill the garbage can she where got dinner
i’ve been told i am so different, better
but did my ancestors’ skin make them prouder slaves in auschwitz
were the jews forcibly birthed through sewn labia born more dignified?
ashes are raceless
all this white supremacy was reduced to gray
but at least our refugees became survivors instead of thugs
today they burn down temples in Paris like crosses in South Carolina


mom, do you really think we’re so above them
because the fire that slaughters us comes from rockets instead of guns?


being white
didn’t revive my deadbeat dad
didn’t stop the house from burning down
didn’t enlarge the hotel room
or shrink the boys who poured pennies on me shouting kike
what gives me the right to stay silent when police go free
and complain that Josef Mengele retired in South America
how can i criticize the nations that stuffed us in cattle cars
and sent us to slaughter-camps
when i can brush this off as someone else’s problem
will i be the next american generation who tears off my skin
so i don’t have to face reality
gouge my eyes to grunt i didn’t see shit
because i become the target
not when they see my skin
but ask for my last name?


the reason I’m so privileged
is because a nazi split open my grandmother’s legs
my beautiful blonde hair is the ugliest part about me
so if you think minority means deformity
then i guess you’re right
because i only have one finger for you


black lives matter
and we shouldn’t have to put a hashtag or race in front of it
because
lives matter period
and sometimes we have to remind ourselves that
by seeing our corpses next to each other in the mass grave of oppression


and ill tell you something
my mother comes to every poetry slam
and will the first to applaud these lines
not because i changed her mind
all these words were in her
i just had to rearrange them
release syllables in her heart
trapped in a rip cage laced with false pride
to  remind her that
although only love is colorblind


poetry should never be color coded.

Monday, December 8, 2014

After Ever

i did not love 
you                           
the night you 
were mine                           
it was after i left your bed
my heart settled in your sheets.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Monday, November 10, 2014

Horny Poem

I’ll give you a choice.
You can either take off the beanie, or wear nothing but it.


These are the lines I practice saying to you in my head
When I see you in your seat
I can’t help but picture you in my bed
I know how I’m supposed to be seen not heard
But would you rather these words be read?
Wait, let me set things straight


This is not a love poem.
This is a horny poem.


Because baby you turn me on
Get me hot and sweaty like  a marathon
And make me want to take things off
Like that fucking beanie
Hipster I want to make your hips stir between me
Is that line inappropriate?
Because I wanted to follow it
With some crazy shit I want you to do with my nipples
Yes I said nipples
I mean I’m almost 19
And boobs are hot
Or so I thought
When I wore my special bra today in class
You know the one that doubles my Ds
Well honestly I’m already there but today I swear they looked like Es
Probably because you’ve enlarged the size of my heart
Are you studying biochemistry?
Because you’ve incredibly and endlessly
Recharged my hormones to ecstasy
Heavenly, heavily, and aggressively
Transforming me to those dreadfully helplessly enemies
Who let guys reduce their density
Leaving me floating
Supposing if D = M / V
You are massively reducing my volume
Because I actually can’t eat around you
My stomach has become a game of cat’s cradle
I’m not able to digest
How obsessed I am
With your chest
And how I’d like to press my bare one against it
Shit I want you to walk me home then come in
Pin me down and kiss me
Not with your lips
With your mouth
But these words are replaced with doubt
As soon as we come out of lecture
Because I’m sure you have better places to go
And with cooler girls to be
I watch you bike away
And say these words to no one
Except me.

. . .

. . .

Contact

Ariel is available and interested in anything creative!
For spoken word performances & workshops, web & graphic design, or other writing/film projects please contact via email at arielsob@usc.edu.
New York & Los Angeles work preferred!