Tuesday, May 25, 2010


You are too busy
For scenes in which you are not the star.

The scene,
the way of every one before,
set up, pent up, written as a score.
Do you forget your lines,
or is the awkward pause
A dulling of your sentiment,
and apathy
your cause

I do not-
let this continue...
slaughter of my main character,
my hero/heroine

Your acting is too real.

You hold your glass with the ease of a lush
dangling from your hand.
Let the liquid spill,
as if to say,
"there is more,
there is always more".

you carry yourself light,
small movements
feather-wisp and plush.
You scan the room balanced on the tips of fingers
You catch an eye, a smile, a darkness lingers;
and off you go.

You grabbed the brass ring-
held it high.

Despite knowing that within the blink
Out will pull the anchor,
unplug the patched up holes,
and, without a fight, you sink.

Read your lines, memorize
Remember the scene
the smoke-filled screen
the mirrors reflect the story
of the plot
of the script
behind your eyes.

You poor,
poor thing
I cannot imagine
The utter devastation
of playing this character every day.

It seems
that the reviews are good.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Our Own Storybook

For My Son, Callum.

Before I close the storybook tonight,
Let's paint a picture now of what we read.
All the colors that exist in sight,
Or all the ones that don't exist instead.

Possibility is limitless to you,
Of that I will make sure, don't ever doubt.
Pursuing whatever you may feel is true,
Whatever makes you laugh, or dance about.

So many things I want to paint for you,
We must invent the colors to begin.
The greens, the blues, the red, the yellow hue,
The unique and rosy paleness of your skin.

They don't know the magic that we know.
For I have taught since you first began,
Outside your eyes the choices always grow,
Hold the paintbrush steady in your hand!

A wealth of trees, of sky, of nature green,
Water rushing beyond some twisted scape.
Pages upon pages is the scene,
The storybook where you and I escape.

I'll be your co-artist, and help you trace the lines,
The boundaries through which your days will rush.
Until my own are gone, the times
When my withered hand can't hold the brush.

This story is forever, always you,
It's pages will brittle-crack, but remain there
Until the days when you yourself are old
Your eyes all smiles, your head so white of hair.

You'll pass it on with care to your own child,
Removing the splinters along your way,
And begin to paint again; and all the while,
Knowing that this moment cannot stay.

Together you will carry on our story,
Amazing tales, even after I am gone.
But go back a page, or two or three,
And you will see my character lives on.

©Teri Drake-Floyd

(this was me)

I am
misanthropic, catastrophic,
formulaic woman
gigantic in spirited form,
the soles are worn,
I've walked many roads
kissed many toads
a frog or two,

I'm the things that never existed,
your version of me twisted.
I stand beyond the cliche -
I stand a little taller
every day.

A brief break in the monotony
I try to be
What I will be -
Its never easy
to balance on the tops of your feet,
your labels sticking on so well,
as if glued,
slapped on so crude.

I never knew
(you never knew)
(that this was me)
that this was you.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Religion, Women and the Patriarchy

So anyway, last night I wrote this paper for my Intro to Feminism class. I am so loving this course. I thought it might suck, because I took Intro to Women's Studies last semester, and I knew they'd be similar, but this one is so much more interesting and thought-provoking. At the moment we're studying Marilyn French's and Mary Daly's theories on why Women came to be subordinate. I'll re-cap:

Marilyn French believed that Women's subordinance began with the first Human Societies. In ancient times, the people attributed life to 'Mother Nature'. They viewed the earth as their Mother, and believed that she gave them not only life, but nourishment as well (in the form of crops, rain, and the like). Early humans existed on what Mother Nature had to offer, and they worshipped her with thanks and appreciation in return.

Well, a time came when Mother Nature seemingly stopped doing her job. Maybe crops withered, or there was a flood, or perhaps a drought. French believed that due to the inconsistency of Mother Nature's 'offerings', that mankind began to take matters into their own hands. Through cultivating the soil (perhaps the earliest act of rape?), learning to tell time, gauge days and predict weather, man began to have a bit of power over Nature. He could control his own destiny and provide nourishment and protection for himself. French believes that slowly, through conquering and learning to manipulate the earth, early man began to have a bit of a 'God Complex', no longer worshipping and revering Mother Nature.

Where do we come in? Well, Mother Nature was seen as a life-giver and a provider of sustenance. Through our bearing of children and the act of breast-feeding and child-rearing, we fall into that same category. French's theory suggests that men of early times came to equate their female partners with Mother Nature, who they found inconsistent and dissapointing. Through these feelings, Women began to be viewed as subordinate.

A woman named Mary Daly had a different theory. She believed that Women's subordinance could be directly related to Religion, or more specifically, the triad: Judaism/Islam/Christianity, with Judaism being the main focus. She stated (in a somewhat blasphemous manner!) that the God of Judeo-Christianity was on the ultimate 'power trip'. As it suggests in the Torah, Koran, and Bible, God often stated how powerful he was, how omnipresent, how he 'knew everything, created everything, and was in charge of everything'. Anyone who reads these sacred texts cannot doubt that the Christian/Islamic/Judaic God was displaying 'power over' humankind.

God himself chose to dwell away from his human subjects, being 'not of this earth' - in essence, the farthest away from humankind as he could possibly be. This suggets that God is the subject and man the 'other'.

But the interesting part is this: Adam was created by God, and Jesus was apparently the son of God. Also the Bible says that man was 'made in God's image'. Because of these things, we naturally equate God with Man. Most even picture God as a man. So if God = Man and Man = God, where does that leave Woman? An afterthought. And as a 'giver of life' and 'nourisher', she is still equated with Mother Nature. God has stated time and again in sacred texts that HE is all-powerful and he is the supreme creator of life. Does this manner of speaking mean to put Women on guard, by saying, 'you might be able to give birth, but I'm still the supreme being'? Daly's theory suggested that the seemingly male, power-loving God of the triad is solely responsible for Women's subordination, by implying that she's irrelevant and has 'false power'.

Both theories are absolutely fascinating. I personally (and this may surprise folks seeing as I'm a Religions Major) find French's theory more plausible. It isnt that I find Daly's implausible, per se, it's just that I think by the time Judaism formed, and then Christianity and Islam, Women's Subordination was already in full-swing. What I do find possible is that both theories could co-exist. Perhaps Women first starting being persecuted due to French's theory, and these attitudes and feelings carried on down the years until ancient Judaism begun, and those views carried on into the Religion, flavored the views on God and were written into the Torah (and eventually, the Bible and Koran)."

Just some thoughts and ideas I had while in my Womens Studies class.

Homage to a Tumor

A malignant
of the heart.

It's the spring of my life, the winter of yours. It isn't for me to decide, it isn't for me to abide the very callousness of your nature, your reverence for the bleak, the dark, the damaged light. The scales tip, we all fall down sometimes. We have our crosses to bear, and those of us who do it trying to creak out a grin don't do this out of weakness. We do it out of strength. It isn't always easy being

cheerful, amazingly upbeat
and optimistic,
but 'whatever gets you through the night'
is quite alright,

So long farewell auf weidersehen goodnight it's not alright the way you curse and moan and fight, the way you suck out all the light, the way you never can decipher wrong from right. I take a leave of absence, a hiatus, from your stream of conciousness, so heinous,

so cruel and cold
You think it's being bold.
It's really just casual infrequent
slaughter of a character.

My character.

My myth, my legend, I came across a sea to find you, or so you'd like to think, your mind being on the blink, you can't see for your eyes, the danger lying within just out of arms reach you try to grasp, I'm out of reach, because you push with the tips of your fingers, you push as you clench, you push away as you draw in. You draw

circles of omnipresent procrastination
the ever present sheet of paper with lines too wide
the pen too narrow
your heart too soiled and solidified in it's rage
against the dying, dying of the light
to quote again

You never quote
For thoughts that aren't your own
Have no resonance

No voice.

No voice like your own,
no hands like your own,
no heart quite like your own.

Closing time, farewell goodnight
to all the little things that creak about the night
(it's dark inside your chest,
the beats play out a tune)


Intro-spective spectator sport - the mysteries beneath the lashes of dreams, the flights taking wings, the sands of time the reason of rhyme, you flip on a dime -

Ill cloaks itself in gauzy feathers, black and inky, souless red, the wisps of a deep burgundy rooted self hatred, self loathing, posing as something, a goddess, an angel, a sex filled raging borderline amazing :

A nothing, in case, encased in therapy...

You stare upwards at clouds, drifting away, the sky your shelter, but it gives way. An endless prayer on your knees
The rain falls, in drips, in drops,
down over the tips of the tops of the trees,
And standing is a privilege,
until you fall.

Christmas in July

The world is such a strange, strange place.

In my surreal weekend I watched people scramble and fight over $2.96 DVDs at Walmart. Later, on our small motel TV, a heavily made up newscaster promoted a parade by telling me that 'tis the season for giving'. I saw no giving. Only women scratching each other over 'Pretty Woman' and 'Lethal Weapon 4'.

If I give you my cynicism, would that be considered a gift?

I find it a impossible that we start our children off with some goofy tradition of Santa Claus - a big fat man who somehow squeezes his ass through your chimney (even if your trailer, apartment or houseboat doesn't have a chimney) and doles out the very present you wanted just for you because he's ho ho ho so happy to do it. On account of the elves and Mrs. Claus and whatnot. Then a few years later, just as we delivered out such dogma, we snatch it away. ha ha. I was the one giving you those presents all along. Thank Daddy for his fine performance as Sir Klaus on account of his beer gut and cheap fabric I got at the after Thanksgiving sale at Walmart.

Santa Claus is fiction. How could we believe otherwise. I mean, c'mon. A fat man in a red velour suit who jiggles like a bowl full of jelly and gives a bunch of brats bikes every year at the same time.

THAT would be impossible.

What IS true, however, is that this guy was born in a stable who later grew up to be mightier than Zeus and was resurrected and will only save you and I if we accept him into his heart, but oh there's a catch! You have to drink wine that's been blessed and wafers that have been blessed and play pretend that you're at a cannibal tea party and drink his blood and promise not to fuck or be gay or ESPECIALLY be gay AND fuck, and you have to say things like, 'praise Jesus' and hold your palms out with your right hand raised whenever you listen to certain music.

You know honestly, I think the REAL miracle of Christmas is how two slaves from Egypt could have such a snow white baby.

An even bigger miracle still is people haven't figured out that Adam and Eve are metaphors for those two big apes dancing around the giant white bar in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Thank you. I'm here all day.