the louderARTS Project

Gabrielle Bouliane

Gabrielle Bouliane is a Seattle spoken word and Slam artist who has been a tireless organizer and performer, appearing in hundreds of live shows around the country in the past five years. She was a member of the Seattle Slam Team in 1999 and was the Volunteer Coordinator for the National Poetry Slam 2001 in Seattle. She is the founder of LivePoets.com, the largest collection of slam poems available freely on the internet. She also founded and directed Slip of the Tongue Performance Poetry Ensemble, a seven person ensemble, which opened for The Last Poets in the Seattle Poetry Festival 2000. Her work is personal, evocative, and passionate, telling her story in such chapbooks as The Single Girl's Guide to the End of the Millenium, Bittersweet: Dark Chocolate and Cheap Red Wine, and The Bitter and the Pale: Tales of Lust and Longing, Smoke and Seduction. She is also, in every sense, a redhead.

nashrambler64@hotmail.com




This isn't really about you

Your hands are a gift unlooked for, two trembling birds searching for a sky
in my skin, finding it like North in their flight toward whatever home we
are always driven to seek. And my heart aches to be an open cage, to be
pried wide apart for you to see, it's hollow enough inside for a flock of
your fingers to reside forever against the delicate burning flower of my
unrelentless heart.

One night, I looked into the lake of your eyes, surprised by the size of my
own startled sighs. I realized that it's not pain or remorse I carry, it's a
force beyond what I can restrain. I try to contain it with 9-to-5 and
organize, I do my dishes instead of fantasize, I cook and clean and file and
sweep just to keep this beast inside me asleep because this passion that
resides has already devoured innocence once. I tried to contain it, silence
its howls, but your hands have found the key to its cage, I can feel it
awaken, killing this woman who has killed her rage by trying to forget that
my pulse once lived at the base of my throat; that a glance across the room
once soaked the inside of my thighs, forgot exactly which muscles in the
small of my back rise to make my hips meet the night; the beast is hungry,
and impatient, this is the animal inside they see when they say, "you are
sexy," not beautiful, but sexy, they see just the barest hint of the smoking
jungle of the heart of my darkness, and no intrepid explorer has planted
their mouth at the tree of my spine, has not scaled the mountains of my
breasts to leave behind some sign, this country is deadly to the unready,
but this not what I came here to say.

I came to say, thank you for showing me the way. With your hands, and the
gardens of your eyes. And for however short a moment, rest your wings, in
these arms, which will never seek to hold you down.



© Gabrielle Bouliane



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