little girl lands

tragic cliches or pulling out my teeth like stars
read me if you do/n't care

Text Post

sitter sitting (a thing in progress)

A False function illuminated by the same false Truth known as hope,
Inquires  in age of adolescence: “why is the sky so blue?”

I lack the courage to reply, or maybe I just can,t recall, so I lie: “god made it that way”- as I return to something not so new.  in age of adolescence: “why is the sky so blue?”
“What’s god?”
…. Shit. I would rather describe sex.

A teacher once taught me to unfold thoughts like fabric and things. So I’ll try because sitting here before this four year old  boy - eyes wide - probing me about the reason for air, itches my organs so painfully that I want to run (but I am his babysitter)…

What scares me the most , like it always hurt, was not a promise disguised as faith, but a final chapter. It is in this shared and solitary vibration that  we spiral down. In a sea of collective questioning, we gaze at each others reflections. We guide boats with our vision of the past present and future
Tense.

We float, harmoniously, amongst a sea of rebels. Spilling stories onto each others naked body parts, hoping to comfort the soul by grasping at skin. And- just when we believed it to be like it could never have been, we crash or implode or simply disappear. Disaster. How queer. How painful and odd. Everything about an instance of sudden wow tastes as familiar as it is strange. And so we bite, and cry and stray and pray and gag until all our tongues are sore and the body has no use. 

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Text Post

an observation on observation

My how the little birds fly when softly the telephone poll that is their branch is shaken.

 

They quake and break and flake as one by one they are awaken.

 

Not a sound goes by - not a breeze, not a hum.

Not a wink goes uncaptured in this sterile aquarium.

 

And suddenly the birds all start to babble for fear their thoughts are  dust and drabble.

When out of nowhere  appears the  sky

And out of nowhere they  begin to die.

 -RBR

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Text Post

I woke up and made a promise to you. I woke up and said: I am writing this to you from the edge. The place where I fry eggs on Tuesday mornings and rest the dead memories of our after years down for a long cold nap. This is the deep dark precipice The space of “how are you’s and I don’t cares” The space of empty prophecies dressed up as wet cows. The space for you to fall, and drawl, and weep and keen. This is somewhere in between. -RBR

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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
11 Plays
Rebecca Berkman-Rivera
the church bed

The Church Bed

    by Rebecca Berkman – Rivera

“Bear witness to this lost cause” murmured someone from the back.

The church was long and vapid, like the guts of a sparrow.

The men wore coats of raw hide, and black velvet suits with long silk scarves to cover their heads from the vomit and stench of the crowd: they were true aristocrats.

“Beware of the men with no heads” my mother had said. And now here I stood a headless cowboy myself facing death before them.

“He ought to burn in soil. Smoke him out for his sins.” another shrieked.

This was not the end I had supposed. This looked nothing like what I had daydreamed long ago in the back of my father’s van as we drove across the borders, in some sort of exile.

To be honest I had always thought my end would look something apocalyptic, like a sudden halt in free will: The mass collapse -a heart attack that ached of common good. Instead it looked something like this:

I lit a match sometime in my twenties and never let it go.

I waited for the slow burn to wear off: and saw that it never would.

I quickly learned that my brain was some big metaphor,

and being human,

went off in search off what that could be.

On the path to my journey I found someone who ripped my heart in two:

but I figured I still had a heart and kept on my way.

Next I came across a dying bird: a sparrow of some sort, dirty from city streets - sad from lack of oxygen. As I watched the creature gasp for life I discovered I was useless and moved away. That was right before I came to a bridge, of course, which crossed over a large purple stream, this could only mean one thing, this could only mean…

                                                                         And I jumped for fear of falling.

Below the waters edge I could hear the voices of others and decided this was good. So I stayed, and on my path toward knowledge I felt comfort and let go. I thought there’d be more courage in the end and less water.

“You were our only hope – our saving sun? What happened?”

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St. Marks - JULY 2010 View high resolution

St. Marks - JULY 2010

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I scrape across these ragged edges of text as if they were the sea – bottomless, capable of the most massive amounts of human emotion – and then I come to a stop. Like so many moments before. It’s subtle this time – unlike the last when my feet came screeching to a clamorous halt and I gave myself this headache that lasted for “like 90 days – no joke.” This time I slide. Sliding is funny because you don’t feel the end and it doesn’t bite. Sliding is like laughing, or yawning. Or jumping on a giant trampolene. Sliding is sort of like understanding – with out all the neurons and the key chains jingling in your ears. I like sliding- softly slowly. I envision myself like this – slopped up in a bowl of milk – maybe I’m the cereal? but my sides don’t feel hard. It’s okay – I still know where I land, and as I approach I chant to myself: “I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care” as if those words alone will keep me there in that black milky abyss. as if my refusal to relate could stop the cycle and time would finally be on my side – for once. “we had a date” we all have a date – or once had a date. and will expire and renew expire and renew until this vacuous current takes pity or gets bored. and this is the lesson we all want to teach and preach and send like bullets into each others brains or hearts until someone learns to listen. But what a waste of time… “enjoy the ride” says some slogan on someone’s beat up van, scarred with years of wear and tear from adventures and late night contemplations – evidence of a body’s experience. “if only I could get me some I could, I would, I could.” I don’t think I’ll ever understand why these words don’t matter. Why no matter how furiously I scrabble to the beat of my own drum, someone elses clock will be keeping time and my rhythm will never truly be mine. If we are all elemental then why doesn’t somebody throw a tornado on my ass. Tear me up? Make me swear and wince and care? It’s time for demolition. It’s time for someone to support my superstition. It’s time for what I see and what I feel to match up- paint a picture of me. Maybe include something true: some friends, a heart, a family. But the rest could be lies. Make it pretty I don’t care – as long as you make it something rare.

I scrape across these ragged edges of text as if they were the sea – bottomless, capable of the most massive amounts of human emotion – and then I come to a stop. Like so many moments before.

It’s subtle this time – unlike the last when my feet came screeching to a clamorous halt and I gave myself this headache that lasted for “like 90 days – no joke.”

This time I slide. Sliding is funny because you don’t feel the end and it doesn’t bite.

Sliding is like laughing, or yawning.

Or jumping on a giant trampolene.

Sliding is sort of like understanding – with out all the neurons and the key chains jingling in your ears.

I like sliding- softly slowly.

I envision myself like this – slopped up in a bowl of milk – maybe I’m the cereal? but my sides don’t feel hard.

It’s okay – I still know where I land, and as I approach I chant to myself:

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care”

as if those words alone will keep me there in that black milky abyss.

as if my refusal to relate could stop the cycle and time would finally be on my side – for once.

“we had a date”

we all have a date – or once had a date. and will expire and renew expire and renew until this vacuous current takes pity or gets bored. and this is the lesson we all want to teach and preach and send like bullets into each others brains or hearts until someone learns

to listen.

But what a waste of time… “enjoy the ride” says some slogan on someone’s beat up van, scarred with years of wear and tear from adventures and late night contemplations – evidence of a body’s experience.

“if only I could get me some I could, I would, I could.”

I don’t think I’ll ever understand why these words don’t matter.

Why no matter how furiously I scrabble to the beat of my own drum, someone elses clock will be keeping time and my rhythm will never truly be mine.

If we are all elemental then why doesn’t somebody throw a tornado on my ass. Tear me up? Make me swear and wince and care?

It’s time for demolition.

It’s time for someone to support my superstition.

It’s time for what I see and what I feel to match up- paint a picture of me. Maybe include something true: some friends, a heart, a family. But the rest could be lies. Make it pretty I don’t care – as long as you make it something rare.

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jibbety jive jabber (or pulling my teeth like stars) Fucking shit. Always a good way to start a play or a movie or whatever this is. Because fucking shit implies catastrophe does it not? - at least a state of heightened emotional reality. making it more easy for me to transport you to this realm of destitue solitude where my words have no feet and my eyes can’t hear. to a place of total ignorance and unabashed cliché. this is the part. right here. where I must paint the picture for you. if I must as I must. messy – with all the colors in my palette. and if you hate it fuck you. I didn’t mean that – sorry sometimes- I can be so immature- sound so mature but still be the opposite. As I sit here hoping my creations will be somewhat legible and hold the key to understanding between you and mean, I can’t help but yearn for some other cohesion. Rip the stars from my teeth and the lines from my face – beg mother earth for her sister back, her brother back, her lover back. I saw a really fucked up movie last night. Yea I did, And I write to feel free – I write because if these thoughts escape me if they run like they so often do then I have only this and this is not enough has never been enough its too rough too tough to scraggly edged and watered down. I write till my eyes go blank and my fingers take control dictating all that is before me. And yet I know the truth: soon we won’t even have this accessory this cliché keyboard obstacle of a thing soon thoughts will form words all on their own and their will be no need for artistry for craft or will there? The veil will be raised and there will be no more bullshit protocol no waiting in line thoughts will be things and there will be no step of manifestation time to be convinced and all that talk. There will just be jive jibbety jittery jive. And most will be bullshit. Okay all will be bullshit – but among that clatter that chaos there will be something useful truthful real – and yet as soon as you name it, the thing, it becomes as false as all the other crap,. So here we are you and I in the puddles of our current chaos a verbal diahreeah of all the agendas and ideas – and still we swim.

jibbety jive jabber (or pulling my teeth like stars)

Fucking shit. Always a good way to start a play or a movie or whatever this is. Because fucking shit implies catastrophe does it not?

- at least a state of heightened emotional reality. making it more easy for me to transport you to this realm of destitue solitude where my words have no feet and my eyes can’t hear. to a place of total ignorance and unabashed cliché.

this is the part. right here. where I must paint the picture for you. if I must as I must. messy – with all the colors in my palette. and if you hate it fuck you.

I didn’t mean that – sorry sometimes- I can be so immature- sound so mature but still be the opposite.

As I sit here hoping my creations will be somewhat legible and hold the key to understanding between you and mean, I can’t help but yearn for some other cohesion.

Rip the stars from my teeth and the lines from my face

– beg mother earth for her sister back, her brother back, her lover back.

I saw a really fucked up movie last night. Yea I did,

And I write to feel free – I write because if these thoughts escape me

if they run like they so often do then I have only this and this is not enough has never been enough its too rough too tough to scraggly edged and watered down.

I write till my eyes go blank and my fingers take control dictating all that is before me. And yet I know the truth: soon we won’t even have this accessory this cliché keyboard obstacle of a thing soon thoughts will form words all on their own and their will be no need for artistry for craft or will there?

The veil will be raised and there will be no more bullshit protocol no waiting in line thoughts will be things and there will be no step of manifestation time to be convinced and all that talk.

There will just be jive jibbety jittery jive.

And most will be bullshit.

Okay all will be bullshit – but among that clatter that chaos there will be something useful truthful real – and yet as soon as you name it, the thing, it becomes as false as all the other crap,.

So here we are you and I in the puddles of our current chaos a verbal diahreeah of all the agendas and ideas – and still we swim.

Posted
Photo Post
i tell you that i care and that i have fears too. you say it doesn’t comfort you but ask “like what?” anyways like running in sand and shadows on the wall. like losing all of my words… thats a big one. i wish you would says its okay. that i would always have giberish and our secret language made sitting in trees - eyes fixed on a fading sky. but your scared too: “of stuff” of what stuff?  “crabs. and snakes. and the world wide web.” why? “too much information.”  i am laughing. now i’m unsure.  is there more information than there are words? is there information without words? “Of course dummy, we don’t need words to see.” I nod as if you’re right, but I mildly disagree. We’re sitting on the sofa. Sitting as we always do. I try to forget - as I always do but words pop back into my head: words about things, about people, and memories, and groundhogs  “why groundhogs?” Never mind, i say. I’ll keep my words for now, and tell you that i’m sleepy.  but i dont move and you turn on the tv. i want to go write a story - but i may accidentally slip and write about you, and how sometimes you remind me of my father - but that would be weird. I know how i mean it - but my words may actually confuse as they cross my head to yours- or even worse a strangers. instead i sit here - eyes closed. “what about squirrels?” huh? “ain’t you scared of squirrels.” bats. oh…. oh. clean skylines, clean windows, clean crows. i knit my fingers carefully between yours. but i can’t let it go: i’m restless. Your scared of the world wide web? it makes me laugh again - so hard I  fall of the couch and hit my head. still laughing: who calls it that - the world wide web - it’s like dr.seuss! Finally you laugh too - crinkle nosed as always. may we always have these accidents. View high resolution

i tell you that i care and that i have fears too.

you say it doesn’t comfort you but ask

“like what?” anyways

like running in sand and shadows on the wall.

like losing all of my words… thats a big one.

i wish you would says its okay. that i would always have giberish and our secret language made sitting in trees - eyes fixed on a fading sky.

but your scared too:

“of stuff”

of what stuff? 

“crabs. and snakes. and the world wide web.”

why?

“too much information.”

 i am laughing. now i’m unsure. 

is there more information than there are words?

is there information without words?

“Of course dummy, we don’t need words to see.”

I nod as if you’re right, but I mildly disagree.

We’re sitting on the sofa. Sitting as we always do. I try to forget - as I always do but words pop back into my head:

words about things, about people, and memories, and groundhogs 

“why groundhogs?”

Never mind, i say.

I’ll keep my words for now, and tell you that i’m sleepy. 

but i dont move and you turn on the tv.

i want to go write a story - but i may accidentally slip and write about you, and how sometimes you remind me of my father - but that would be weird. I know how i mean it - but my words may actually confuse as they cross my head to yours- or even worse a strangers.

instead i sit here - eyes closed.

“what about squirrels?”

huh?

“ain’t you scared of squirrels.”

bats.

oh…. oh.

clean skylines, clean windows, clean crows.

i knit my fingers carefully between yours. but i can’t let it go: i’m restless.

Your scared of the world wide web? it makes me laugh again - so hard I  fall of the couch and hit my head. still laughing:

who calls it that - the world wide web - it’s like dr.seuss!

Finally you laugh too - crinkle nosed as always.

may we always have these accidents.

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photo by Mary Amor View high resolution

photo by Mary Amor

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Photo Post
Galantly the fireflies make circles in the sky. They brave the winter forest like ants upon a tower.  We are still and meager like them - often confused by the changes in season. Our fate is just as shiftless - or shifting- one or the other. In the glow of their aftermath neither really matters or needs to make much sense. There is only pause and matter. Delicious light. 

Galantly the fireflies make circles in the sky.

They brave the winter forest like ants upon a tower. 

We are still and meager like them - often confused by the changes in season.

Our fate is just as shiftless - or shifting- one or the other.

In the glow of their aftermath neither really matters or needs to make much sense. There is only pause and matter. Delicious light. 

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Childhood fishes. childhood wishes: haunt me like gold. Summertime nightmares haunt me like squirrels in the backyard. Shutters like the ones on his backdoor creep up my spine as I recall the summer home I never had.  Ode to a white picket fence. Imagined in detail - a garden with carrots, and beats and friendly rabbits who invite me up for tea.  The magical treehouse we built together beside windows in the sky. Starlight starbright first star I see tonight. Wishes made in glee.  Wishes made in hate. Wishes made for me. Kites, Towers, Fairies.  And secrets by the pond. Secrets about god, and light, and ice cream sandwiches. Hopes and dreams that fade and glow - hold on tight, hold on tight, first star I see tonight.

Childhood fishes. childhood wishes: haunt me like gold.

Summertime nightmares haunt me like squirrels in the backyard.

Shutters like the ones on his backdoor creep up my spine as I recall the summer home I never had. 

Ode to a white picket fence. Imagined in detail - a garden with carrots, and beats and friendly rabbits who invite me up for tea. 

The magical treehouse we built together beside windows in the sky.

Starlight starbright first star I see tonight.

Wishes made in glee. 

Wishes made in hate.

Wishes made for me. Kites, Towers, Fairies. 

And secrets by the pond.

Secrets about god, and light, and ice cream sandwiches. Hopes and dreams that fade and glow - hold on tight, hold on tight, first star I see tonight.

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Waiting. Waiting for hours. You on the old dusty stairs.  The one with the iron swirlies. And me on the bench, wishing I was next to the radiator in my corner. How I yearn for my corner. Cozy as a mouse- you might say- might choose to say. “How delicate it is this freedom of choice” you remind me. Words are a choice.  But I still speak carelessly when you’re not around.  View high resolution

Waiting. Waiting for hours. You on the old dusty stairs.  The one with the iron swirlies. And me on the bench, wishing I was next to the radiator in my corner. How I yearn for my corner. Cozy as a mouse- you might say- might choose to say.

“How delicate it is this freedom of choice” you remind me. Words are a choice. 

But I still speak carelessly when you’re not around. 

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We sit enjoying this moment. “Are you enjoying this moment?” I whisper. Smoke clears the airway between us. I smudge what looks like dirt on your rug. My feet are cold.  “I can’t sleep” I tell you. “So share something.” You say - “a memory” I pause, and reply: “Back then. In the days when I slept with the lights on.  I remember thoughts - like the ones i’m having now -  streams of syllables - always going. never slowing. I remember, ketchup and chinese food. Songs that went on for days. Jokes between us - me and my imaginary friend. Buckets full of frogs I’d catch. Caterpillars and centipedes. The TeePee my mother built as a tent. Igloos - made up on my living room floor. Tea parties (minus the tea). I remember a time when my father would cradle my toes. So small.  I remember  what it was like when television was a privilege.

We sit enjoying this moment.

“Are you enjoying this moment?” I whisper.

Smoke clears the airway between us. I smudge what looks like dirt on your rug.

My feet are cold. 

“I can’t sleep” I tell you.

“So share something.” You say - “a memory”

I pause, and reply:

“Back then. In the days when I slept with the lights on. 

I remember thoughts - like the ones i’m having now -  streams of syllables - always going. never slowing.

I remember, ketchup and chinese food. Songs that went on for days. Jokes between us - me and my imaginary friend. Buckets full of frogs I’d catch. Caterpillars and centipedes.

The TeePee my mother built as a tent. Igloos - made up on my living room floor. Tea parties (minus the tea).

I remember a time when my father would cradle my toes. So small. 

I remember  what it was like when television was a privilege.

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