Where is my representation?

So, I'm thinking about the Boston Tea Party. If I remember correctly, the slogan was, "No taxation without representation," or something like that, and by "something like that," I mean to say that this was most certainly the slogan. No taxation without representation. I'll say it again. No taxation without representation! And now I'm wondering about representation. Sure, there are senators and representatives from my state, and sure, I get a vote, but I wonder, who is really, and I do mean really, representing me? I mean, who is representing me as a grad student living in Louisiana at the poverty line? Who is representing me as a woman who was born in rural Pennsylvania? Who is representing me as an artist who sees beauty in everything, while still knowing that all beauty is subjective? Really, who is representing me? Those people in Congress are so far removed from me and my life that they might as well be the characters in a fairy tale. And the President, well, I definitely don't think he can relate to me in the way that I would like to be related to. And here's the thing: I can write letters to these people, my representatives, until my hands cramp up, but the only people who will likely read those letters are over-worked and under-paid interns. And these interns will likely throw my letters away as soon as they have managed to type my address onto a form letter thanking me for my initial letter. And this form letter will then be mailed to me post haste (or not). But really, who cares about me? About what I want? Who is standing up for me on Capitol Hill saying, "Well, there's this woman named Savannah who lives in Louisiana, but was originally from rural Pennsylvania. Did you know that she knows how to milk cows? Anyway, she's an artist and a graduate student and she's living at the poverty line. She's just struggling to get by. And so, as we consider this debt deal, let's keep in mind how our decisions might affect her life. Will she be able to continue going to school if we do away with subsidized stafford loans for graduate students? Or will this put her in a position where the debt of graduate school buries her? We don't want to see her default on her loans, or anything. So, while we consider this, can we keep her in mind? Thanks." But really, I know that there is no one on Capitol Hill who is standing up for me. And so I guess now I'm wondering, is this just another case of taxation without representation? And if it is, what can I do to be better represented?

As I drove

It has been raining off and on for days now, and so there is a perpetual fine mist about the air. I hadn't noticed the mist until I was driving back to my apartment sometime just after midnight tonight. I rolled down my driver's side window to let the Louisiana night into my car. The muggy air slid over my face like a wet, warm blanket. The roads were empty except for roadkill and the occasional car, and in complete honesty, I was happy for it. My mind was free to wander as I drove. It wasn't until I reached Antioch Road that I realized that the air was full of visible water vapor. My lonely car drove down the road, dodging the muffled halos of light from street lamps that lined the nearly straight piece of pavement. A beautiful, whitewashed fence stood guard over open fields that stretched into the darkness of the night. Something about this place, this road, these muted orbs of light, this proud fence, made me feel like I had fallen asleep and woken up within a dream. It was so beautiful that I had trouble believing that such a place existed in real life. Even more interesting was the way that driving down this stretch of road made me feel as though I was the only soul on Earth, as though no one else existed and I had found the Garden of Eden. At the same time, I felt connected to this place, like I was reliving a memory. It was a strange experience to feel as though I was in a dream, while simultaneously feeling as though I was experiencing deja vu, as though I'd been here before. And for just a second, that strangeness made the world a magical place full of merging potentials and memories.

Old Poetry That Should Win Me The Award For Disturbingly High Amounts of Post-Teen Angst

Silence for J. Alfred Prufrock

From the oil slick ocean
To the dark pebble beach
The mermaids, they watched
Singing each to each
When along came the man
They despised above all others
Stumbling distantly down the beach
Dragging a woman behind him.
The mermaids grew quiet
Watching with somber disdain
As J. Alfred Prufrock shook the woman
Who cried out in pain
Then through the yellow fog of the October night
The shining gold orb, like a dead man’s dull eye
Appeared from J. Alfred’s pocket, his faithful watch and chain
As though holding time could possibly save his life.

These mermaids, they watch him with muted disdain
As J. Alfred replaces his watch and his chain.

Then frantic and panicked he pulls up a sleeve
Checking the time pieces on each arm
Four by four
Then sounds the alarm:
Time is running out!
Does he dare to eat a peach?

Thirty-four women he’s brought to their sea.
All of them he fears.
All of them he needs.
Each woman comes from the dark London streets,
From dirtied, wooden shacks
Where frescos by Michelangelo are tick marks on walls
Counting lustful engagements.
Tonight he won’t be alone
For time is running out!

He must slash their throats,
Soft flesh surrounds the gaping wound,
As they gurgle and tremble
Beneath the bleeding moon.
Then to the sea he tosses
The bodies, still murmuring with life
And he watches gleefully as the sea
Steals their last breath.

Their lives to save his own.
No, tonight… tonight he won’t be alone.

“What pollution is this?”
The mermaids, they screech
As from tar black waters
They pull the pit of his peach.

In his loneliest nights, J. Alfred implores them
To sing him a song,
But the mermaids deny him
Casting their angry eyes across the sea.
So he sings to himself,
Crooning songs of the utmost despair,
His anthems of drowning, death and decay
Like the Devil’s soul, bared
Touch the ears of the mermaids
Like ice picks to eardrums.
The mermaids, they dive deep down
Cursing that J. Alfred, the Ripper,
Had ever come
To their beach.

Knight in (Shining) Armor

Sobriety was never his strongest suit.
Intoxication was in his armored flask.
He rode the White Horse down the road
It was three years gone before he even looked back.

Once clear blue eyes, now murky pink glazed,
Stole my heart and swept me off with him,
My knight in (shining) armor now wears
Armor, like his eyes, darkening and dimmed.

Selfishness has become his constant shield
While addiction is the dull sword he waves
He’s forgotten to care for other’s souls
As long as the source of his ailment is safe.

And me, the lady he swears he loves
In his moments of sobriety,
I question how he can care for or love anyone
When he lives his life so selfishly.

Oh, there was a time, his lifetime ago,
When he was my knight in (shining) armor,
But as intoxication tarnished him
I realize that he is my knight no longer.

I wait in my tower patiently,
My tired blue eyes watching the end of the day.
The sun is setting on this fairytale nightmare.
His armor, not shining as he staggers away.

The Faceless Man

And the faceless man walked on
Rustling the hanged bodies in the trees
As he walked through the forest of
The Dead
In search of me
Muttering:
Running out of time
Running out of time

In search of Goodwill Industries
To recycle my belongings
God said to give up
Worldly possessions
To prove devotion
Mantra repeating:
Running out of Time

Like a Buddhist monk
Meditating to find
Heightened Awareness
I search for Jesus
In my dreams
But the Grinch swears that
He’s dead
Hanging in a tree
With a swollen face
And pecked out eyes
Because I’m running…
Running out of time

With Jesus dead
Is there salvation?
I ask the green, green Grinch.
He smiles his Grinchy smile
Running out of Christmas?
Stealing Christmas?
Stealing Christ
Out of time?

And so I run
Back in time,
To a place before God
Let Jesus die
In a tree, in midwinter
Where the faceless man,
Hooded, cloaked reaper,
Stands and waits for me.

Wagging a long finger
He sneeringly says,
I told you that you would
Run out of time!
And you have.
Oh, you have!
Gleefully stated:
You’ve run out of time!

The Silence of Us

It’s like the wet snow falling
Muting my crunching footsteps,
So that my ears hear nothing
But the deafening ring
Of quiet. And so that my eyes
See nothing, but hazy white.

All of this nothingness, hanging
In the air around me,
Well, it’s like wet bras and panties
And other unmentionables on a clothesline
In the rain.
Rotting and molding and festering
And stinking.

Especially the stinking of the words
That got lost somewhere in my throat
Choking me like a piece of food
Lodged halfway between my mouth
And my stomach,
Causing my eyes to tear and bulge,
Unable to even whisper that
I might be dying here.

Warring Factions

The embers
Illuminate our faces,
Set like stone.
And the fire burns,
The way an angry sun would kiss
No words will be uttered tonight.
The silence hangs thick
As a wet blanket,
Threatens to extinguish
Us.

Wanderlust

Feeling that wanderlust again
A nomad by nature, and in my own skin
Still not quite happy in this world,
Like it’s time to shed this shell, serpent that I am
There’s something missing
Something crucial, like the difference
Between Transubstantiation and Consubstantiation
Forget that the principles are identical in the end.
It’s enough to claim a saved status for one
Leaving the other damned
And somewhere purgatory waits for me
Turn the cards that fate lined up
Not quite sure how to interpret the images,
But he tells me that I’m on my way
The stars don’t lie
How could they without mouths to speak?
Follow the North Star to destiny’s path
Quench my thirst
And leave this place behind.

Defining Your Perfection

Considering the fact that we are perfect for each other
I wonder if you know what perfect means?
While you are busy treading on me, doing as you please
I emulate the Hell in which I live.
And in rare moments of earthly Purgatory,
I am transfixed by the artist's eyes, not yours.
They are the trustworthy color of faded blue jeans,
Worn down by years of wear and tear... and caring.
Oh, and how the artist cares for me!
There is a connection for us to plug into
Like the last puzzle piece fitting into the seascape.
We are artists and prisoners of tortured lives together, yet apart.
Common ground is large enough to run upon it,
As though we were two halves of the same person, incognito.
When I lose focus of the artist's eyes
You are again drilling holes through my soul.
What about this is perfect to you?

Dying Embers

Dying embers like molten lava
Flowing into the pit of the bonfire
Set the mood
Imagine that it is only wood
That burns in this pit?
Imagine?!
And so I watch the wood
Turn from a solid to a liquid
Burning away to nothing and
I wonder where you have gone.
Looking away from the fire
Is little help.
Smokey dark night.
And then I see you.
I love you, you know.
You don't reciprocate.
It's the end, you say.
Wish I could explain it
But I can't.
Instead we go home
Climb inside of our warm bed,
Two warring factions
Lying side by side
Angry in the dark.
No sweet talk.
No touching.
No "I love you"s.
The only thing here is anger and distance.
Lying here in this bed with him,
Is the first time in my life
That I've ever felt so
Utterly and completely alone.