I posted this photo on Twitter earlier this year, but I also wanted to post this awesome piece of work here for posterity. It appears on the Integrity House rehab center building. This side faces Broad Street.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
A Matter of Record
StandardEarlier this year, I visited the neighborhood I lived in as a young child (see my poem, in search of a play). I hadn’t been there since the family moved from there. I knew the house was long gone–replaced by highway–but I didn’t expect what remained of the residential area to be so quiet, worn, and tired. But life indeed goes on.
All photos by A.D. Joyce.
The street abruptly stops short here now.
My old house would have been on the far side of the highway.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
Vote for Stammer
StandardI talked about the film short Stammer in my last post. Now you have a chance to see it yourself and vote for it as best drama in the Tiny Film Festival!
Simply visit this link to watch the film. To vote, you will be asked for your name and email address. You are not required to join the site or opt into anything.
So please vote for Stammer, written and directed by my cousin, G Curtis Wilson. Also, check out the rest of the site. Lots of interesting films and information for aspiring actors and filmmakers.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
Film short: Stammer
StandardFilm buffs, if you are going to be in the New York area this weekend, you might want to check out the Reel Sisters 2014 Film Festival. One of the films to be featured is a short called Stammer, directed by G Curtis Wilson. Here’s a description:
Still from the dramatic short film Stammer
“An accident, a gun, and a moment in time creates an opportunity for a woman to end her abusive relationship forever. Will she take it?”
I have to say, this film is an intense ride. Not one second of its six-minute running time is wasted. It’s a real gem, and I’m not saying that just because the director is my cousin! (I wrote a poem about him here.) A couple of weeks ago, Stammer was named the Best Drama Short at the Atlanta Underground Film Festival.
There’s much more to come from G so stay tuned …
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
you slay me
Standardwhen i say
you slay me
i mean
you lap my soul of steel
with your razor tongue
sending flinty sparks flying
until my body
catches smokeless fire
then you
put me
out
and when i say
out
i mean
Jesus
my eyes
crying
cold
air in my lungs
and your
name
your
name
in me
drowning
and
who am i
when i give in
to you
and what
does it mean
i want
my candor back
too late and
you laugh at me
wondering
if I could get
lost
in your eyes
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
Small Talk
StandardNice weather we’re having
Not that I can see beyond your eyes
But it must be warm
Light sweat all over me
Mouth as dry as the Vegas strip
Not sure what I’m talking about
But you’re smiling so it must not matter
It doesn’t matter to me
I’d stand here with you in a violent storm of hail
Giddy and bleeding
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
The Beginning and the End
StandardIn my early memory,
You were there
And then you were not,
I think.
And after you left,
The space you occupied
Was invisible
Except for a smell
Much like
The inside of a freezer
When there is nothing in it.
Your space smelled like
The cold air with–
I think–
A hint of aftershave
Hovering over/erasing
The faint aroma of something unsavory
(I’m not sure what).
But coming from that space
Was a smell that left me catatonic
(A state that is not quiet nor still,
But thunderous and quaking with
A single thought flapping
Faster than a hummingbird’s wings–
Too fast to form meaning into words).
My thought was a question
Winging so hard
I could not move from the spot
Next to your empty space.
With each flap,
The rift between heart and soul
And the rest of me
Widened and deepened with the knowledge–
I was too young to understand–
That you did not love me
The way I loved you,
That, in fact, you hated me,
And your aftershave covered
The stale smell of
Cigarettes and alcohol,
A smell so permeating and near
It seemed to come from me.
The weight of your smell
Was shame covering me
In a manner I can’t recall.
All I know is,
Everything begins and ends
At the point where
You left your cold spot empty
And I was lying next to it
Loudly shaking
In unmoved silence,
Disillusioned and transformed
By a father’s drunken violation,
Wondering what had just happened,
What for, why me
(Who loved you).
From my e-book, Like. Love. Hate. available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
object permanence
Standardfrom the
let’s not talk about me
let’s talk about you
school of thought
she’s a grown-up who never learned
object permanence
with a focus on you
she plays peek-a-boo
with her tongue as she dresses you down
and turns a lazy eye away from introspection
never wondering why she can’t feel her life
and why her body is not her own
and why it matters that everyone like her
her skin is dry to flaking
but she sweeps the dust
under an empty bed
and never says a word
to her shrouded mirror
oh what a world
what a world
where nobody loves us the way
a mother should
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
Singing of Freedom
Standard“The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.”from “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou
Although the world experienced a great loss with the death of poet Maya Angelou yesterday, I find it impossible not to celebrate and be grateful for the beautiful example of her life and words.
She spent years as a girl refusing to speak due to guilt over heinous crimes she did not commit. But she eventually decided to emerge from silence into a life of self expression in the arts. She spoke about personhood, womanhood, and race in a generous voice that allowed all of us to share in her strength.
She sang for freedom. She sang for all of us.
Quietly,
in staccato,
the butterfly
sings of freedom,
too.
Maya Angelou: Thank you and rest in peace.
Maya Angelou 1928 – 2014
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
An independent love
StandardEven on a good day
it’s hard to describe what I am
or impose upon myself a metaphor.
To say I am a projection or a hologram
presumes I really know what those things are.
I could say I am the gelatinous goop
of butter and spices hanging off
the leftover chicken in the frig.
But that would be too solid.
I could say I am a shadow leading my shadow,
or at best, a visitor from an
alternate world, separated
from everyone else
by the thinnest of transparencies,
pretending I live among the people—
that is, assuming I know myself well enough
to impose even that hint of a shape.
But I don’t, not any more than
I know how to explain this love I feel,
having accepted the fear
that there is no turning back,
whereas everything else is open ended
and this is complete.
I used to know what an apple is,
but now I don’t.
And what I once thought was love
was only its metaphor,
an approximation of what it could be,
words connected by varying shades of gray,
satellites to this love, which is independent
of anything else that has ever existed—
independent of the words for it,
living in its own universe of absolutes
where there is no such color as gray.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
A. D. Joyce 