It's just super ironic (?) that this is the song of my nights here in Blue Lake. And in the least depressing way, this may be why I am hesitant towards relationships. I sometimes also feel really super lame when lyrics describe some part of my life, but that's really why I ever really got into writing poetry in the first place. So I should stop looking down on that as a bad thing.

On another note, tonight's walk home was the best. Maybe better than steam. Maybe better than walking backwards at Lake Arlington. Maybe even better than standing on top of Lake Michigan.If you can belt "I got dreams to remmmemmmmburrrrrrrr" at the to of your lungs without shedding a tear well then, good for you. A sleepy little town called Blue Lake reminded me that I do have dreams to remember. And sometimes it's artsy to deny yourself love. Or what you think you need to deny in order to be successful. I'm only 22. None of this should really matter.

I climbed a fucking waterfall yesterday. I can't wait to show Dan, Adam and Jon.




Sometimes my heart pushes my ribs and I imagine what it would be like if I didn't take this place ticket home. You're a mighty citizen of the world.

-slm 

Mighty Citizens of the World

Sometimes my heart pushes my ribs.
Sometimes I want to skip clown school
and take your suggestion of "just driving-
north."
Sometimes I just want to go to Moonstone
Beach with you again and honor the
crab or sand-dollar or whatever it was
that Alyssa killed.
How I want to speak to the waves
Hear the puckering bubbling of all
the air sockets of shells blended
into the black rock.
I want to tell you about the V
shaped scar below my bottom lip and
the scars between my legs.
How fingers fumble through denim
mouths and fish blood.
How I reference skin and
helix curls.
How sometimes I just need to
write down my thoughts and
pretend it's poetry.

-slm

Because it was asked of me.

1. Tina Mata
2. Andrea Levey
3. Daniel Malsom
4. Ashley Bossard
5. Jessica Kyle Link
6. Jon Tracey
7. Adam Barnett
8. Julianna Magana
9. Georgia Hionis
10.

I don't even think this is "right." Somehow I thought that by doing this I would feel or be better. I just kind of feel bad. Maybe even an asshole. But this is me. I just have so many people in different facets that are so important to me in some way. Important now? Or important then? I want to put Alex, Mike, Sean, Bety, Bryan, Zack all up there, but in different ways. In different times. Maybe not even as number ten's. Even with these nine people I don't nearly make enough effort or time to stay in contact. I just feel like a more terrible friend. Nostalgia for the present. But I can be o.k. with fully believing that these nine people are instrumental in the shaping of my life then and now.

-Sonja

TITLE

of upcoming pieces

1. Des Moines, Sarah
2. Allan
3. Rob
4. Jose el Payaso
5. Scott
6. Arnold
7. Reno Sarah
8. Trevor, Dylan, Natalie  

And I think I'll call the collection "Name." And I know there is no way I'll get done writing this collection before school starts. But maybe I'll make it into a zine or something. Who knows. But I think I would really like to write a collection titled "Name," and go from there. And it's about damn time I get back to writing. It will probably be the only thing to keep me sane 'round these parts. And out of trouble. Cause I'm going to smoke sooo much dank bud, bud.

-slm

The Story of My Uncle Juan, Uncle Tony and Two-Face

From Thought & Tina

           Uncle Alfred had just given them notice. They were in Texas. In Sometown, Texas. A Texas that no longer remained Mexican, Spanish or French. Back then, Uncle Juan and Uncle Tony continued only to speak in Spanish. They didn’t worry. The windows to their rusty blue pick-up truck were already cranked down by the time they stopped. A billboard in the distance held a faded dark cowgirl winking and wearing Larry Mahan’s. Two-Face had just farted. There was no wind. Uncle Juan, Uncle Tony and Two-Face were lost and miles from Anytown, Texas. And Texas remained dry.

Uncle Juan kicked a clay rock. Uncle Tony took off his glasses. He could barely see Uncle Juan’s outline in the distance and Uncle Tony would never make out the dust bursting off the tip of Uncle Juan’s boot. Two-Face circled the truck several times looking for shade. Uncle Tony kept silent and adjusted himself on a large rock.

“I can’t leave you,” Uncle Juan said, hooking his thumbs into his pockets.

“You can,” Uncle Tony said, his weight digging into his elbow.

“Tony. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Si.”

“Jesus Christ man. Lose the attitude.”

“What d-do you want m-me to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Always n-nothing.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Hours passed.

            They sat not in silence, not in whipping wind, but in tumble weed thoughts.

            Uncle Juan wanted children. He knew though, that that was no longer an option for him anymore.  Out of seven, Uncle Juan was the third oldest and the family kept producing girls. It was in Texas that Uncle Juan believed he would find love. A love that would make him tamales and remember the good times.  He believed that someday he would get married and that a good woman was still, out there, looking for him too. But it would be in Texas that Uncle Juan would branch out in every direction looking for work. Uncle Juan became a collector of odd jobs. He did everything from boulder moving, to roofing to siding. They paid rent and kept Two-Face downstairs. Two-Face rarely saw upstairs, let alone the sunlight. It wasn’t enough.

Uncle Juan, Uncle Tony and Two-Face were kicked out by Uncle Alfred, because Uncle Tony broke the fridge— leaned his whole weight on it one too many times. Or so, Cyndi, Uncle Alfred’s daughter, said at Uncle Juan’s welcome home party. She claimed that Uncle Tony didn’t have the discipline to eat his own food and that Uncle Tony was depriving her and her three children of their food, space and breath. But Uncle Tony did have the discipline for some things in life, because he simply had the hours to himself to do— whatever. It still wasn’t enough.  Uncle Alfred folded his arms in the basement doorway and said, “No más.” Uncle Juan, Uncle Tony, and Two-Face packed up soon after.

Uncle Tony sat in constant comfort, but once he started walking he’d gallop like a horse on linoleum. It was never wise to walk behind Uncle Tony, because he would get easily spooked and trot far too fast for his uneven legs to keep up with the momentum.  He often slept with sneakers on for this reason and kept them laced up at all times. When Uncle Tony was first born they told me that the doctors in San Luis Potosí kept saying polio, polio, polio. But it wasn’t polio, just some other complicated name that no one, but Uncle Juan cared to remember. No one talked about the future.

Uncle Juan kicked another rock. The toothpick between his teeth snapped as yet another truck flew by. Uncle Juan turned and walked toward the billboard. He sighed. Uncle Juan wanted to take off that dark cowgirls boots and slide his hand up her arch, past her heel and gently up the back of her leg. Kiss her thigh and remember that he loved someone. But, the fact of the matter was that Uncle Juan wasn’t going to love anyone. Uncle Juan wasn’t going to have children. Uncle Juan wasn’t going to leave Uncle Tony and Uncle Tony wasn’t going anywhere soon and no trucker was willing to take all three of them. It was Uncle Juan’s dark Mexican skin that kept them from stopping. It was Uncle Tony’s legs that kept them from stopping. It was Two-Face’s accidently cropped tail that kept them from stopping. Uncle Juan pulled out the broken toothpick, flicked the smaller half away and began to pace.

The sun had shifted and Two-Face started to growl. “What’s the matter Two-Face?” Uncle Juan said. “Come here.” Uncle Juan reached out to Two-Face and his fingers were pierced with Two-Face’s grip. A sting raced into Uncle Juan’s heart. Even with two swift kicks to the side, Two-Face wouldn’t let go. Uncle Juan felt his forehead get hotter and his breath clenched in his throat. His eyes bulged and his teeth began to splinter apart. Uncle Juan and Two-Face met each other’s gaze. Uncle Juan saw the ends of Two-Face’s mouth curve up into what looked like a smile, but Two-Face’s teeth were still digging into his flesh. Uncle Juan spat out the remainder of his toothpick and raised his boot again, but as Uncle Juan went in for another kick Two-Face simply let go. Uncle Juan’s first thoughts were not of rage or revenge, but rather the question of whether or not he believed he had just seen Two-Face smile at him— a smile that looked almost human.

“Are you O.K m-man?” Uncle Tony said. Uncle Juan said nothing as he pulled a handkerchief from this back pocket and tied it around his palm. “Sorry, I couldn’t d-do anything.”

“¡Ay Dios!” Uncle Juan shouted as Two-Face whimpered. Two-Face fled to the shade of the truck.

“Two-Face thinks we’re going somewhere?” Uncle Juan kept staring at his plan. “Debíamos haber matado esa bestia cuando teníamos la oportunidad.”

“¿Qué dijiste?”

“Debíamos haberlo dejado morir en ése sótano.”

“¿Perdón?”

“Nos echaron a patadas por causade Two-Face.”

“No hombre. Era ti.”

“No. Esta vez, no.”

“Si, hombre. Era ti. Siempre ti.”

“No. No digas eso.”

“Siempre es ti. . .”

“¡NO! ¡NO DIGAS ESO!  Esta vez, no. ¡ESTA VEZ FUE YO!”

“Desde que Abuela murió. La prometí. La prometí que te cuidaría—“

“¡CÁLLATE! ¡LO SÈ! ¡LO SÈ!”

“David, no. Ni Robert. Ni Jesús. Ni Joey. Pero yo. Yo lo hizo—”

“No puedo respirar. ¡Cállate! ¡CÁLLATE!”

“Ni Dios. . .”

“¡LO SÈ¡ No más. ”

“Siempre era yo, luchando porti. Dedicando mi vida porti, hombre—”

“¡BASTA! ¡NO HABLAS! No más. . .”

“Y nunca hacías un carajo. Ni una sola vez en tu vida hacías algo.” Uncle Tony sobbed uncontrollably. Uncle Tony could taste all those years of hatred leaking into his mouth. All those years that Uncle Juan hated him and his uneven legs. “¡Cállate! ¡NO LLORES!” But Uncle Tony couldn’t stop crying. Uncle Juan’s hand pulsed.  Uncle Juan could taste all those years of hatred too and the taste hurt. Nothing was going to silence him. Uncle Juan looked down. Two-Face was sitting next to him. A rock waited in front of Two-Face.

“No más. . .”

                     

***

                      Uncle Juan dropped the clay rock. Uncle Tony could barely see Uncle Juan’s outline in the distance and Uncle Tony never did see the dust bursting off the tip of Uncle Juan’s boot. Two-Face circled Uncle Tony several times. Uncle Tony laid there in silence and watched as Two-Face smiled at him before catching up to Uncle Juan’s side.

-Sonja 

----

 AN: The spacing is really off in this piece. I just copied it from a word document and then the actual layout of this blog makes the text space shorter, my apologizes if it reads weird.  To date the best piece of writing I think I've done.

I don't think I was really ever on a path.

A lot of good guest artists and performance just fell into place one right after the other. Drew Richardson (Drew the Dramatic Fool), Bill Bowers (Mime), Drew again, and then Sha-Sha Higby. Each of them I took a piece here and piece there. When Dell'Arte happened, it was just kind of like "Well let's see what's down here." Like I was going down a grocery aisle. And I went for it. And I got in. Pair that with the guest artists before, during and after and well it just looked like something fun to do.

Truth be told, I don't think I want to be just a clown. It's really freaking hard. And I know and understand Drew has worked on his many skills for years and years, but his dedication to that art form is just something I don't have yet. I want to be a Neo-Futurist, F-Wordian, solo, stage-combat certified, vulnerable theater artist. Or something like that.

I realize that I don't have the discipline to be a theater artist. It really annoys me that I know Dell'Arte will kick my ass. I don't want it to. But I do. I don't think I'm making sense. I just want to be prepared and I'm not. I think I also have ignored it for a long time, I intentionally shut it out of my mind, but I don't think I am a leader. I think I follow really well. And sometimes I don't take direction well. I want it to be because I don't understand it, but it's really because I don't like it. And that's why when people like me exist in this career field, we create our own work and do our own thing. But now that I don't have OU, F-Word or DS to back up my endeavors-- pretty much a forgiving audience base, I'm really not that great.  And I guess that's scary.

I also kind of believe that I'm not that adventurous. I don't like getting into trouble. At least when it's not on my terms. Like breaking into the Forum Theater to perform F-Word's sex show I'd gladly taken any consequence that might have been dealt out if we got caught. But breaking into the Ridges, hanging in Culver's parking lot after closing hours, seeing if we can sneak into the movie theater, I just don't want to get in trouble anymore. I don't want to feel stupid is the other part. I'm completely confident taking the train and walking within the area of Ogilvie Transportation Center, but I hate getting lost. It's not fun for me, because I get scared and don't want anything bad to happen. Only in Athens would I dance like Adam at Casa. I knew people there that would find it funny. A safety net of people to walk back to after the event. I don't have the confidence to be alone. But I can walk anywhere alone.Because I'd pop in my headphones, walk with purpose, everything was intentional. I was cool.

People think I'm really outgoing. I think I over compensate about how awkward I actually feel. I've asked like three guys out on and off stage in front of the entire cast of DS, because I can stun them with that kind of event and not total strangers. Attention just came to mind.

I just want to be someone that others want to be around, yet not necessary want /to/ be. I think more than just the money part, indiegogo has given me the permission to be held accountable to every.single funder. Because I am at Dell'Arte on their dime and donation.  I really hope that will give me discipline and focus my attention. I'm scared because I'll be shutting off a lot of my habits, desires and fears off in order to succeed. I'm denying myself finding a new relationship out there, junk food, my car, pretty much anything that will not make me work as hard once I get out there. I'm changing my insides so that my outside, I guess, will be just a little brighter. I'm starting tonight. At 10 o'clock I'm going for a run. I don't know how long or how far. I'm headed West, though.

-Sonja

OBSERVATION OF INLOVE #2

You’re in love with the yoga instructor.

I know this because you invite her over

for private lessons.

But you’re already certified.

And when you go to class, the beginners class

the next day, you say

‘namaste’ with a smile. 

-sonja lynn mata 

Note: I've been really fond of this idea of 'Observations of "inlove." ' I find that first one is more successful than this one, but like I said, I like the form and will therefore continue to write these observations.

FLOATING GODDESS

Written almost one year ago to the day. Almost. 

---

 

At Dow Lake the gang broke into two:

leaving me with Lauren.

She wore a polka dot bikini and

waddled to the lake first. I followed,

but plunged under as to avoid—

whatever.

I soon surfaced. Lauren on her back.

Floating. Floating like a Goddess.

Her cherry lip puckering. Blowing bubbles.

Her fingers white and waking. Even

Her forearms white too, but like smooth stones.

And I copied her to hear

what she was hearing.  I heard my heartbeat, my breath, my pluse

But I

did not feel like a Goddess.

-sonja lynn mata

KNEW. (Revised)

 Read the rough draft here. Even though this version isn't the final version.

 

--- 

I’m swirling a sip

of some wine

in a wide mouth Manson jar—

and we are still

breaking up over two day old

birthday pizza.

Then I said, “I tried

to drink an entire bottle of wine.”

But I had a performance to remember.

You asked if I slept with your brother.

So I stopped

on the fifth pour— when my face got hot

and I could just barely see

the script.

After the show,

I ended up burning your socks

and set of paintbrushes.

And even more in that fire,

I knew what I had done too.

-sonja lynn mata

In My Bedroom

Not a response to In Your Bedroom.

---

When I'm in my room I imagine Kurt Cobain hanging halfway out of my closet.
How I house heroin addicts, but how I am not addicted myself.  Because it's some attempt
to be better than everyone else.

And I flipped over my bed, because Kurt wanted to make a fort and hide-- like me-- from Love.
And anybody else we could love and could not love.

We wanted to be astronauts together, but astronauts couldn't have
dye jobs or day jobs. And we traded pogs, pills and amunintion. We traded
paintings of flipper babies and poetry about moon pies. But then the asshole decided
to become a musician.

But I wanted to stay a child and become a clown and join the fucking circus.
The joke is always on the one you least expect it to be.
When I'm in my room I imagine Kurt Cobain hanging halfway out of my closet.

-sonja lynn mata

DATING SERIES

A series that I am forever working on.

To read what it would be like to date me, Sonja Lynn Mata, click here. <--- Also a work in progress.
----

DATING AN ACTOR

Dating an actor is a knock at the door.

And it’s his look. With his gestures inwards.

It’s a twisted program

spiraling the names of past co-stars.

Each one a sense of truth—love

(d).

And it’s an embrace--

a weight dropping to the floor &

rolling under the piano forming

scattered limbs and splattered helix hair.

It’s a rough hand searching for a denim mouth,

fumbling with left, right buttons &

right, left zippers.

And it’s an impulse—

an energy leaving your fingertips,

out of my place & directed across the curve

of my hip.

It’s a repetitious phrase. &

a slinging of text. It’s taking a breath.

Its your words unscripted,

but still sweetly projected.

It’s squeezing together knocking knees and curling elbows.

But it’s a moment not taken in because I am watching

the dust float between the lights &

desiring names like So   , Be  , Me    .

---

DATING A POET

Dating a poet is a borrowed book.
And it's his book. With his name.

It's a complied list of micro fiction
whispered into a collarbone. Hoping
that condensed conversation will heal
the fracture.

And it's a spine--
a lanky alignment breaking at the arch,
forming sky breaking ribs,
breathing harder and softer, softer till silence &
elbows still digging into a collage mattress.

It's socks kicked off and
helix hair gliding off the shoulder. &
watching it fall together.

It's tracing my hip. &
tugging on each others belt loops. It's a graceful lowering.

But it's something never intended &
our pair of lips only part at the sound of a phone
vibrating & it's louder than our
sucks and slurs.

Louder than my desire to stay. Louder than wanting to turn

your sweatshirt strings in my fist & to tongue your gap.

It's my humiliating longing for expectatings-- &
for poems titled with our name-- even if it's something
generic like   ssa, S     a, or  a       .

---

DATING A MUSICIAN

Dating a musician is something not intended

And it was you. With a subtle wonder.

And I said “yes.”

And it’s unlike dating an actor

And it’s unlike dating a poet.

And we are back—here

in my room, our index fingers

the only parts of us

together.

And you are tapping on my ribs

like they were keys. And you are

nuzzling the side of my neck like

I were the grill of a mic.

And it was you—

back at the show— a realization

that in this moment I am not your lover &

that you belong to everyone else there.

And your attempt to save the set is

by giving me an autograph on my chest,

but my legs are tired.

And I fall out of your wires

but you follow me into bed. Still

whispering lyrics into my ear.

---

DATING A SECOND MUSICIAN

Dating a second musician is a missing a tribute night.

It’s making up for it

the next day— lunch included.

And it’s unlike dating an actor

And it’s unlike dating a poet.

And it’s unlike dating a first musician.

And we are back—here

in my room, our index fingers

the only parts of us

together.

We are squished in a twin sized bed.

And you are fingering my denim mouth

like they were strings.

But

it was him— like before

back at the show— a coming out

that in this moment the scratches on your hand

were from my zipper.

And your attempt to save the set is

by giving me an autograph on my chest,

and adjusting the movement.

And I turn my hips away

and you hold me even closer—still

cradling me like. . .like. . .like

-sonja lynn mata