Codeswitching 2

Je peux speak
in two languages
but you told me
"no."
I can choose
ma vie
ma langue
mes phrases et mots
mais tu m'a dit
"stop."
Pourqoui?
Why do you want
moi de choisir sauf un?
Why do you want
to imprison me?
I can choose
the melody of my life
le chanson avec lequel
je chante.
Et ce changement des langues
in the middle of sentences,
it's not because I am incertain;
c'est parce que the right words
are in another language,
une autre chanson.

MIKA

He sings -
bright and colorful -
like his videos -
like a magpie.

Bubblegum Lollipop
to keep for your feet light
in this heavy world,
to remind you
"love only gets you down"
even Underwater.

He's a dancer
who can Blame it on the Girls
as easy as the Good Guys.
His talent is plain to see,
to love.

Mon cœur,
MIKA le fait Boum Boum Boum.

He makes me smile,
the thought that he is human,
which he shies not from
as he dances about his messy room
for all to see.

I'll remember to live for glitter -
not you -
that We are Golden.

And if all that fails to cheer me,
that joy in his own art,
that care across mediums,
if I cannot be distracted,
I'll turn to his song Grace Kelly
and refuse to care
as I revel in inconvenience.

The simple act of dancing about my room,
singing notes at the top of my lungs
that I'd never let another soul hear,
cheers me more than anything else I know.
And I have a Happy Ending

The post-Thanksgiving graze
means destroying the structural integrity
of the remaining large hunk of meat
to get the bits you
really
want before Dad
and his laser focus and ninja skills
zeroes in on
exactly
what you had planned to eat.

Mom Skills
are finding what you lost.
Dad Skills
involve eating the leftovers
just before you remembered
the Brussels sprouts were roasted with bacon.

Curled up with my family-
happy,
content,
and filled with good food and memories-

thanks
thanks
a thousand times thanks

How strange is it,
that you are long gone from my life,
but I still feel your touch?

I keep thinking I've shaken free,
only for something
small
to remind me of you.

I'll smile,
fond and sad,
over a friendship that lifted me high
and a romance
that left deep grooves
in heart and mind.

Five years after you told me to-
almost six-
and I've finally come back
to that old language site you shared.

I hated it then,
when trying to learn Russian
(and I still am),
so I used it to review French
for maybe one year-

and now it's the one site I know of
where for free
I'm getting Hindi lessons
after learning more Gaelic from a different site
than you ever taught me.

Tá súil agam go léir do dónna arán,
you bastard.

The snow sits heavy
on the branches,
weighing them down
with its surprise.

The sun rises,
and its life-giving heat
breaks winter's first spell,
melting the snow bit by bit.

If you are not aware,
your ribs will get in your way
if you try to cut out your heart.

I wish there was something
I could come up with
to make that a wonderful metaphor,

for how awful is it
that I am stuck with emotions
I don't want to feel-
and no one wants me to feel them anyway.

I don't know what to do-
determined thinking
usually has gotten me out of this problem.

I can't keep stepping forward
pretending everything is fine.

but I can't face this,
an enemy I cannot win,
for I don't pick battles I'm not sure of.

So I'll run,
like a doctor,
like a madman,
reaching for stars I'll never see,
for dreams I don't deserve,
lying through my teeth,
but I don't know if I'm lying to me or you.

How tonight went:
-ran lightboard perfectly
-finished ZNMD
-did not talk as much as usual
-show was getting judged and pressure was high
-started Pardes
-finished Pardes
-sat through response slowly fading
-remembered in one flash
       what i wanted to forget
-fell to my knees
       doubled over
       sobbing
       in my driveway
-picked myself up
-shut down
-wrote this poem in a friend's kitchen
        where i will soon write more

Tonight's plan:
-run lightboard for the show
-finish watching Zindagi Ne Milegi Dobara
-talk about the above over headset
-especially Hrithik Roshan
-a lot
-start another Bollywood movie
-finish the show
-go home
-drink
-cry alone, lonely
        for I am alone
        and there is no way to change that
        and no one
        who would want to do so with me

Bollywood

There is a magic,
to cinema,
which is the whole point I suppose.

A story woven
in colors, lights,
words and music-
and you forget
what you don't want to remember.

How beautiful,
how full of life and color,
and things I need
is a good Bollywood movie?

but how dare it
make me believe-
for even one second-
that dance and music
can actually be a part of my life-

that there is joy to be had with strangers,

that someone can look at you
and see God-

and I realize to my horror
my escape from stress and sorrow
has only made things worse.

I will preface this poem
with the statement
I am inebriated
(but the play opened tonight
and we had the cast party
and I have nothing until noon tomorrow
fight me)

I got to my driveway,
safe,
sound,
and still pleasantly warm
to a two-pointed buck
a few feet out of the woods.

He met my eyes.

We chatted,
or at least I rambled
in a shoddy excuse
for an Irish accent.

He flicked his ears a lot.

I'd consumed too strong a beer
to be out long
talking to deer
so I made my farewell.

He turned away before I did,
striding towards the darkness of the woods.
Bit by bit,
shadows swallowed him up,
even the bright white of his coloring underneath.

I had an honest to God
Disney Princess moment.

Writing angry speeches,
that will never be made-
tirades that stay in my own head

tempered,
they might change things for the better-
if I had the courage to say them