Thursday, September 29, 2011


fall is here.

i, for the first time since i moved from atlanta, have made a life-altering decision. i'm breaking up with ballet.

not everything about it, i still want to take class and love the art and above all i want to teach and own my own studio... but i can finally say after years of being bound to it, i am not a ballet dancer. i'm not - i haven't been for a million months. i walk around in a shell of what i used to be, and every time i say it out loud, i believe it less.

i want to teach.
i want to be married, i want to have kids, i want to do all of these things in a town that will allow me to do so without bringing my cat-claws to the table. because i'm tired; i'm tired of this lifestyle.

i don't want to keep living with my head barely above this new york water. i love this city, i do. but at what cost? does everyone who's an artist and not willing to brand their name to their ass struggle this much? are we supposed to love the struggle because the fleeting moments of beauty are too precious to ignore the fact that we can't afford to have things in our refrigerators besides soy sauce and a jar of pickles that your ex gave to you as some sort of compliancy gift?

i talked to my manager last night after we closed, just the two of us and a rat scrambling around on the floor of my restaurant. over wine, he asked me, "what is going on with you?"

to which i could only say, "i'm done."

i'm done. i'm done with men who think it's okay to slide by doing only the things necessary to retain a garden that grows one vegetable. i'm done with wanting to be prima assoluta... i have my memories and pictures from when i was young, vibrant, and at the top of my game. i'm done with needing to be this maintstream, famous person.

i just don't care anymore.

i want to have my own studio and give my love for movement to others... i want to study gyrotoniks and become a trainer... i want to have children and live in their moments and grow old with someone who can teach me how to be a better person all the time...

i'm lucky to have found the things i have in the past couple months. i feel like i have found my heart, which is quite possibly the most elusive things that i have been searching for, for years.


Tuesday, September 27, 2011

oella avenue

a thought occurred to me,
which was,
"maybe i should write you a poem"
and then when
(as i'm doing it)
it happened
i realized, "oh,
wait, i write you one
every day"
with my skin, no
matter how often you
get to feel it
and no matter how
many hiccups i have
it still all means the same:
me, and
it's a painting, a


Sunday, September 11, 2011

the 11th sucks forever, thanks

to everyone affected by the attacks a decade ago (oh my shit, it has been that long, hasn't it), i can only say i'm so sorry for your loss. i was in college, in tallahassee, forever away from the devastation and destruction it caused this city i have grown to love so much.

i saw a movie a friend was in, about walking the city at night. the videography was stunning; the city was a character in the movie, millions of lit eyes staring out over the rivers and streets and it's inhabitants inside it's walls. it's lonely sighs as the night wore on, forever locked in the mystery of romance and intrigue of possibility for it's people.

this city is it's own person. it has provided the idea that things are possible since the dawn of it's first buildings and watched the years progress in it's rocking chair, watching over us like a cotton-soft grandmother drinking mint juleps and reminiscing of her past. i feel safe in this city, and i refuse to allow the disgusting decisions of a group of heartless religious sheep reshape that.

those people that tried to break new york and america by their cowardly actions of kidnapping innocent people on their way to family, business meetings, or vacation will forever get what is coming to them, in this life and after. one day, they will feel the towers coming down on them and the fear as their flesh burns and what it feels like to asphyxiate in poisonous gas. you will die a thousand awful deaths with those people's stolen lives over your heart, if indeed you have one, and if indeed other americans haven't found you yet.

retribution will happen.

but in the meantime, i lend out my heart to the people who have lived on in the wake, to the people who died trying to save the victims, and to the victiims themselves. i love all of you and i hope in some way, this may bring some comfort.


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

a very very private person

if you don't like it
don't read it


Monday, September 5, 2011


well, now i just don't
want to write today, these
words that
exist whether i write, or
it's gloomy out, (but
it's a holiday! oh, boo)
and my temporary hideaway
has seem to worn
as certain types of softened
skin. now,
i will do those things,
hold my tongue and
unfurrow my fingers from
one another. because after
all, a gloomy day should
have a little bit of writing,
wouldn't you say?
so paper it is! to
pack away, to blur the
ink, to muddle it's voice.
i guess the words, they
get written somehow,
either way.

(happy. gloomy. holiday.)


Saturday, September 3, 2011

it's gradual, i'll get there

what's hard? thank you's are hard when you are biting your tongue but i'll try to mouth it out anyway... it's hard thinking you are too dumb to stand up for yourself, as beautiful as you are. and just thinking that, as i'm talking to you, because i think you're more, so much more than what you have presented to me as the school project. it's hard watching what you do to me when i passed you the other night on the street, i was in a cab and you were rolling a cigarette and time stopped and i couldn't believe my eyes even though my throat felt it; my throat knew what was up. it's hard knowing that you're living a simple southern life that allows you to be lazy and quote-unquote "successful" in you're own right; it's like that family guy when stewie says "the george lopez show only perpetuates that george lopez is funny" that's what i feel about you. your bullshit lies and blue-green eyes don't sweep the stupidity you've offered under the rug. and another thing. who tells someone that you're moving to the acrtic to basically show up on your doorstep uninvited, and all because you were "selling your truck" which i don't believe for a second because i don't believe any of the candy sweets that fall from your lips anymore, no matter how beautifully you try to adorn them. you with your nervous twinges and "secret" hinges, with the hands you so GRACEFULLY let down that day on the couch. you who came into my house and slept in my bed and listened to me love you for hours but when it came down to it, he was just too something to let go. i guess that makes me too easy to let go, too soft to hear, just all the bad "too"s that you could think of, that's what i am, i guess. you are selfish and your words were drenched in honey, the sweet NOTHINGS you let through to the other side of those swinging doors in italy. you taught me about leather, about what happens to it when it's not bound properly; the belt broke. so take that metaphor cause it is the best one i can compare to you and me. hmph. the other side of what? i'm saying as i look into my past through words inked on loose papers bound on a string (irony - that's how i feel about you and me too). the papers have started becoming unbound. so has my patience with you and with me for loving you so hard. you are a beautiful woman, but you're too weak to move (and i mean move not move, and you know what i mean). you're a talented man with no meaning; the one that made me cry, like for real cry, sobbing and heaving, ribs cracking. you have a mountain instead of a molehill and you're really not all that great but the bedroom walls loved us, the way i thought you loved me. you sing me whiskey poems and lure me to bed with perfume i can't somehow resist. you're a girl that refuses history, and puts cd's on repeat, even though the song is just awful. it's hard to see the things that make me sad for life so i'll show them to you so you can keep me company with what i think about when i think of you. and these, how i love to counterbalance and why you have made me feel what i do when i think about the things that make me sad... these, the ones what open me - walking in amber, drenched in dusk, staring into eachother with smiles brighter than colgate could ever imagine. how good the wine tasted when we were both in on the secret, how the rest of it stopped mattering the way it does now for some reason. "this is my first time doing this, i hope you don't... um..." i said to you, into winter snow, warm with candles and youth and lust. "this is my first time doing this, i hope you don't... um..." you said to me, mouth muffled in coves of sheets and humidity. his sickness wouldn't have been as easy without you, and i should say thanks at some point i guess, cause your misery kept me company. the snowstorm was magical, holding hands and finding our way between warehouses, trudging through and through. i love you. but i'm bruised, and you should know, cause i deserve you to. i'm sure my list is longer but i can assure you i have tried to bite my tongue and turn my head and hold my hands together when i talk and avoid your eyes or the thought of you near me or inside me and i promise that i will continue to do so cause when it comes down to it, you have inspired me and i have to thank you so i am even though it may seem like i'm not. but i am. thank you. ~k.