That you can stand on top of Lake Michigan.
That you can roof a toaster without the use of your arms.
That you can walk backwards for over two miles with a kid named Dan.
That nostalgia is for the present.
-sonja lynn mata
4.12.2014
4.11.2014
10.30
My fish is dying.
It’s been weeks and it won’t die.
I wonder if he would be happy
if I ended its life.
If I tossed him into Lake Michigan like
how I would want to be tossed into
Lake Michigan. Beneath substrate,
beyond sound.
My fish is dying and I want to die.
But then I’d have no one
to toss him into Lake Michigan.
-sonja lynn mata
It’s been weeks and it won’t die.
I wonder if he would be happy
if I ended its life.
If I tossed him into Lake Michigan like
how I would want to be tossed into
Lake Michigan. Beneath substrate,
beyond sound.
My fish is dying and I want to die.
But then I’d have no one
to toss him into Lake Michigan.
-sonja lynn mata
4.10.2014
9.30
As I open the fridge
I realize that the only thing my mother has brought are a stack of lunchables.
The kind without the juice pouch.
it’s not that I don’t lover her, just I’m disappointed in myself.
This house smells like farts.
Or maybe I just haven’t showered in a couple of weeks.
I just never want to leave the bubblegum laughter of the city.
It is something to love.
Something not to leave.
Something you just can’t be disappointed in.
-sonja lynn mata
I realize that the only thing my mother has brought are a stack of lunchables.
The kind without the juice pouch.
it’s not that I don’t lover her, just I’m disappointed in myself.
This house smells like farts.
Or maybe I just haven’t showered in a couple of weeks.
I just never want to leave the bubblegum laughter of the city.
It is something to love.
Something not to leave.
Something you just can’t be disappointed in.
-sonja lynn mata
4.09.2014
8.30 CERMAK ROAD
I’m sorry I never forgave Stephanie Mills
for painting my ceramic bowl in elementary art class.
It is the reason why I cannot pronounce Cermak Road.
I’m sorry I always gave you the ugliest blankets and all the grape
flavored popsicles that matched your hair color.
I just wanted you to like me.
So please come back.
I’ll be waiting for you at Ovaltine Station.
-sonja lynn mata
for painting my ceramic bowl in elementary art class.
It is the reason why I cannot pronounce Cermak Road.
I’m sorry I always gave you the ugliest blankets and all the grape
flavored popsicles that matched your hair color.
I just wanted you to like me.
So please come back.
I’ll be waiting for you at Ovaltine Station.
-sonja lynn mata
4.08.2014
7.30 CHICAGO STYLE PIZZA
I know the type of person you are.
The kind that will rip out my long hair
during sex. You are young and smell
even older than you look. You
are just another pizza delivery boy
that I have fallen in love with.
You speak tonight.
And tell me that you can tell
a lot about a person by what toppings
they put on a pizza.
Pineapple for adventure.
Bacon for lust.
Cheese means you're afraid to move on.
And tears, you say, are no longer
on the menu.
-sonja lynn mata
The kind that will rip out my long hair
during sex. You are young and smell
even older than you look. You
are just another pizza delivery boy
that I have fallen in love with.
You speak tonight.
And tell me that you can tell
a lot about a person by what toppings
they put on a pizza.
Pineapple for adventure.
Bacon for lust.
Cheese means you're afraid to move on.
And tears, you say, are no longer
on the menu.
-sonja lynn mata
4.07.2014
6.30 CHICAGO IS NOT ATHENS,OHIO
When we sleep
I imagine our bodies lifted up
out of our beds
into the night sky, barley beyond
rented roofs and chimney tops.
I imagine the wind pushing us
closer together.
I imagine how I could sleep next to you.
How I’d fit in the sky.
But it is only somewhat romantic
that even though you are only two states away
we can go to bed at the same hour. And I
have always hated your cold feet.
-sonja lynn mata
I imagine our bodies lifted up
out of our beds
into the night sky, barley beyond
rented roofs and chimney tops.
I imagine the wind pushing us
closer together.
I imagine how I could sleep next to you.
How I’d fit in the sky.
But it is only somewhat romantic
that even though you are only two states away
we can go to bed at the same hour. And I
have always hated your cold feet.
-sonja lynn mata
4.06.2014
5.30 PAY TO PARK
I’m sorry I left you,
but the meter ran out.
And I didn’t want a ticket.
I can only hope that you
now know what it felt like
coming back home to that empty
Logan Square apartment
we once shared.
It felt like a meter.
That I had to pay to park.
Today I just ran out of quarters.
- sonja lynn mata
but the meter ran out.
And I didn’t want a ticket.
I can only hope that you
now know what it felt like
coming back home to that empty
Logan Square apartment
we once shared.
It felt like a meter.
That I had to pay to park.
Today I just ran out of quarters.
- sonja lynn mata
4.05.2014
4.30 GRIFFIN
GRI are the letters
that use to spell out
GRIFFIN. Provide you knew
exactly where to knock.
Spray painted red then black
to hide some Latin King graffiti.
I don’t know if it was the Latin Kings or not.
Or if this was the nice or bad side of town.
Only that I hate brown doors.
And I have an unhealthy habit of
barking back at little dogs in parked cars.
But no transaction through the mail slot ever lasts
long enough.
Only that Griffins eyes are red
and then black.
-sonja lynn mata
that use to spell out
GRIFFIN. Provide you knew
exactly where to knock.
Spray painted red then black
to hide some Latin King graffiti.
I don’t know if it was the Latin Kings or not.
Or if this was the nice or bad side of town.
Only that I hate brown doors.
And I have an unhealthy habit of
barking back at little dogs in parked cars.
But no transaction through the mail slot ever lasts
long enough.
Only that Griffins eyes are red
and then black.
-sonja lynn mata
4.04.2014
3.30 DIGGING FOR KETCHUP OUT OF A BOTTLE
I close my eyes to see it.
My mother is smashing hundreds
of ketchup bottles over the dining room table.
The mahogany one.
The one Uncle Chad spent over 700 hours carving.
The one where he lost the tip of his first two fingers
to the jigsaw.
How he told my brother and I that if he ever caught us
playing power tool operation again, he’d hack off our whole arms himself.
It is the one we spent every Thanksgiving reminding our family how thankful we are for the bottling plant down the road.
But tonight or maybe last night it was rumored that Paul Mitchell threatened to burn down the factory.
The whole town came out for the arrest.
The whole town donned rain boots
The whole town painted in genetically modified tomato.
Children splashed in it like it was rain and made angels as if it were snow. I guess my mother wanted to recreate the whole scene hundreds and thousands of times over.
My mother is still dressed for work. But none of it matters anymore, because ketchup moves at a glaciers speed through the dog door and in the direction where we keep all of the farm equipment in the barn.
She is not crying or angry, just sort of sobbing.
Tonight I don’t care.
Every splash of ketchup that lands on my jeans the more it becomes clear that my mother is digging. Digging for the life she buried in every bottle of ketchup she spent 35 years bottling up. I don’t feel sorry for her. Only for my dog who is too scared shitless to come inside.
When my mother walks over and kisses my forehead I just feel out of place, like those photos of families above the fireplace on television.
Her nose getting in the way, she tries to hug me. I let her.
Her flesh farts and I remember that I am leaving on a Megabus for Chicago in the morning
and that it may never come.
Not until the breeze carries away our tomato town.
Not until the river floods away the steams and seeds.
Not until my mother stops digging away for ketchup out of a bottle.
-sonja lynn mata
My mother is smashing hundreds
of ketchup bottles over the dining room table.
The mahogany one.
The one Uncle Chad spent over 700 hours carving.
The one where he lost the tip of his first two fingers
to the jigsaw.
How he told my brother and I that if he ever caught us
playing power tool operation again, he’d hack off our whole arms himself.
It is the one we spent every Thanksgiving reminding our family how thankful we are for the bottling plant down the road.
But tonight or maybe last night it was rumored that Paul Mitchell threatened to burn down the factory.
The whole town came out for the arrest.
The whole town donned rain boots
The whole town painted in genetically modified tomato.
Children splashed in it like it was rain and made angels as if it were snow. I guess my mother wanted to recreate the whole scene hundreds and thousands of times over.
My mother is still dressed for work. But none of it matters anymore, because ketchup moves at a glaciers speed through the dog door and in the direction where we keep all of the farm equipment in the barn.
She is not crying or angry, just sort of sobbing.
Tonight I don’t care.
Every splash of ketchup that lands on my jeans the more it becomes clear that my mother is digging. Digging for the life she buried in every bottle of ketchup she spent 35 years bottling up. I don’t feel sorry for her. Only for my dog who is too scared shitless to come inside.
When my mother walks over and kisses my forehead I just feel out of place, like those photos of families above the fireplace on television.
Her nose getting in the way, she tries to hug me. I let her.
Her flesh farts and I remember that I am leaving on a Megabus for Chicago in the morning
and that it may never come.
Not until the breeze carries away our tomato town.
Not until the river floods away the steams and seeds.
Not until my mother stops digging away for ketchup out of a bottle.
-sonja lynn mata
4.03.2014
2.30 BLUE
If your eyes cracked
will they leak
the landscape?
Or refract
your sunflower eyes
to yet another blue winter
in this city?
This tent was meant for two.
But once your hand stopped
gripping the spray can,
I knew you didn't love me anymore.
I told you
that I only talk so much
because I was trying to
replicate what a single
touch could do.
To remind you.
To pause you.
Because this blue winter
would pass too.
You broke up with me,
over and hour ago and
it's still snowing.
Your knit hat is wet, because
you won't come inside.
This tent was meant for two.
I remind you of this.
But only a small pass of breath
continues to escape from you.
I try to remind you of the Lost Coast.
Of the drift wood.
Of the lighthouse.
Of those stars.
But I hadn't realized
that I was turning blue too.
In the morning, the city
had swallowed you whole.
Leaving your lips blue.
And me,
with a tent for two.
-sonja lynn mata
will they leak
the landscape?
Or refract
your sunflower eyes
to yet another blue winter
in this city?
This tent was meant for two.
But once your hand stopped
gripping the spray can,
I knew you didn't love me anymore.
I told you
that I only talk so much
because I was trying to
replicate what a single
touch could do.
To remind you.
To pause you.
Because this blue winter
would pass too.
You broke up with me,
over and hour ago and
it's still snowing.
Your knit hat is wet, because
you won't come inside.
This tent was meant for two.
I remind you of this.
But only a small pass of breath
continues to escape from you.
I try to remind you of the Lost Coast.
Of the drift wood.
Of the lighthouse.
Of those stars.
But I hadn't realized
that I was turning blue too.
In the morning, the city
had swallowed you whole.
Leaving your lips blue.
And me,
with a tent for two.
-sonja lynn mata
4.02.2014
1.30 SELF WORTH
In honor of National Poetry Month and my soon-to-be publication on 'Chicago Literary Map,' I will attempt to write a poem every day for the next thirty days. My theme for the next thirty days will be one word. Chicago. Please continue to look out for my writings. Enjoy the city that I may or may not romanticize too much about.
Below is a recent writing that I wrote and auditioned with. It is my attempt to understand musicality, transitions and the ever-changing style of slam poetry. It is meant with to be read with a voice, perhaps a mic, but above all an audience, in which, we both share time and space.
***
What is self worth?
How do I measure self worth?
In inches? In miles? In cups of coffee?
This is no seasons of love!
This is Chicago!
But I was born and bred in the Hispanic slums
of the Northwestern suburb of Wheeling-
to a dark man and pale white
Boston accent woman.
What is my self worth?
Too dark for the Cookes,
too pale white for the Matas.
I didn't speak, play Frisbee, or fit in.
Hair too long
Eye brows also too dark
But teeth
Teeth bright pale white
Costing a pretty $400,000 pennies.
<at the audition I started improving at this point>
Is this my self worth?
Tally the injuries
Tally the broken hearts
Tally the broken bones
All get you ended up in the hospital
But only those that are self inflicted do people ask. . .
Have I ever really loved someone?
Because the someone I loved
committed suicide when I
was six. Picked up and checked out.
I don't know how much funerals cost at six years old, but
self worth isn't measured in pennies then.
But I count the pennies
NOW
Because
My education is the most expensive thing I own
and no one can take it away
Only I can give it away by allowing
my self worth to admit and do and say
that it's only good enough
for a minimum wage job
I am told I am generation
X,Y,OBESE,ME but I was
before the NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND era,
But I'm still not ahead.
Is this my self worth?
I am one year older than my ATC score
I am dumb as shit!
But this is MY self worth!
So when adults and children
and fucking grandmother
ask
"What are you going to do with that degree?"
I'll scream NOTHING! Because
This isn't my self worth
I want to be a clown when I grow up
I want to laugh
in every language
and sign off key
I want to guess heads instead of tails
because I'm going
Forward
and that is all
myself is worth!
-sonja lynn mata
Below is a recent writing that I wrote and auditioned with. It is my attempt to understand musicality, transitions and the ever-changing style of slam poetry. It is meant with to be read with a voice, perhaps a mic, but above all an audience, in which, we both share time and space.
***
What is self worth?
How do I measure self worth?
In inches? In miles? In cups of coffee?
This is no seasons of love!
This is Chicago!
But I was born and bred in the Hispanic slums
of the Northwestern suburb of Wheeling-
to a dark man and pale white
Boston accent woman.
What is my self worth?
Too dark for the Cookes,
too pale white for the Matas.
I didn't speak, play Frisbee, or fit in.
Hair too long
Eye brows also too dark
But teeth
Teeth bright pale white
Costing a pretty $400,000 pennies.
<at the audition I started improving at this point>
Is this my self worth?
Tally the injuries
Tally the broken hearts
Tally the broken bones
All get you ended up in the hospital
But only those that are self inflicted do people ask. . .
Have I ever really loved someone?
Because the someone I loved
committed suicide when I
was six. Picked up and checked out.
I don't know how much funerals cost at six years old, but
self worth isn't measured in pennies then.
But I count the pennies
NOW
Because
My education is the most expensive thing I own
and no one can take it away
Only I can give it away by allowing
my self worth to admit and do and say
that it's only good enough
for a minimum wage job
I am told I am generation
X,Y,OBESE,ME but I was
before the NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND era,
But I'm still not ahead.
Is this my self worth?
I am one year older than my ATC score
I am dumb as shit!
But this is MY self worth!
So when adults and children
and fucking grandmother
ask
"What are you going to do with that degree?"
I'll scream NOTHING! Because
This isn't my self worth
I want to be a clown when I grow up
I want to laugh
in every language
and sign off key
I want to guess heads instead of tails
because I'm going
Forward
and that is all
myself is worth!
-sonja lynn mata
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