Tuesday, November 22, 2011

the lights and the lies

the sun never shines from the backseat,
but somehow in memory such times are the brightest.
The honesty is prettied by dimness,
but we claim to crave the lights.

and the tilted and controlled fallacy becomes reality as we create it.
Is reality as we display it.
lights on, lies out.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Playmates and Losers

We aren’t soul mates:
I am no princess.
You’re no knight for me.
This is the real world;
But I’m an imaginative girl
And you’re a real boy.  

We aren’t making a home
But it sure is fun to pretend.
We inhabit the same space,
We don’t becoming a family.
But we put our keys on the same counter,
And they make a suggestive fallacy.

We aren’t best friends anymore,
Not like we were when you called every day.
I don’t think about all the places we went unless I’m there now.
I don’t miss your cats or your car.
Now I just cling closer to my own.
And when you call, I don’t always answer-
But I always say I miss you.

We aren’t in love,
Like they all think we are.
You still thank her for my number she gave you.
We won’t co-objectify at that party he has us to.
Your name brings on no nervousness for me,
But I blush for them when they whisper it;
And we play so well together.

The winter is coming.
Everything will die-
Like I learned in narrative patterns.
But I’ll tell you we should go swimming this December.
I’ll replace all your flannel with cotton plaid this February.
I will even suggest that we go out and live-
Because I know you will say
 “let’s not and say we did”
And that is what we will do because you said so.

We won’t ever change relationship statuses.
We won’t declare a loyalty.
We won’t hang up pictures of ourselves on the walls.
But we will know that they exist.
Maybe, I’ll put them in a frame
And you will put them in your wallet.
That’ll be fine,
As long as we don’t tell each other.
Because that is too real for us,
And this is just a game we play. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011


I’ve been feeling pretty homeless.
                There is always somewhere for me to sleep. I have blankets encased with my scent and dripping with ink from the pens I fall asleep gripping. I have a mailing address. I have rent to pay. I have my dad’s dogs and my mom’s cat. I’ve got three driveways I can always pull into. My name is printed on a gas bill. My desk is making my mom a great coffee table, and my dad’s dining room buffet is serving me well as a desk. I have a rug on a floor that she tells her party guests is mine, and some clothes I’ve never worn on the floor of a room he calls mine. I have a key to two buildings. I have three sets of walls I made into canvases and then abandoned. I have a canopy underneath a bed I don’t sleep in. Pictures in a frame at the bottom of a box. Candles on a counter next to a lighter that isn’t mine. They call a piece of their own lives and homes mine. I keep my pieces; the people I’ve taken and the things I’ve given. I haven’t called any house mine in a long time though.
                I have a car. I do in the sense that I have insurance and a title in the glove box at least. I have my ipod plugged into auxiliary and my presets programmed into the fading green 1-6 on the radio I didn’t buy. I have my “802” and my “Where there is a witch there is a way” bumperstickers on its backside. My makeup fills the console. My bank receipts litter the ashtray. I got the leopard print steering wheel cover and I bought three cotton candy car fresheners. I make a payment every month, and that SUV becomes a little bit more mine every time. I paid to get that leak fixed by myself.  I pay for the gas. But, I only paid for half the brand new brakes. There are four keys in circulation, and I only have one of them. Its title isn’t in my name. I don’t own a damn bumper or headlights yet. That beautiful black piece of metal is the most personal commodity I know, and I can’t yet claim.
                He can’t be my home anymore either. Perfection like that can’t last long enough to become familiar. It’s too bad that I can’t imagine his face in the backseat where we sat together enough times to bring him back there. I can’t ignore everyone in my phone for long enough to pretend he’s calling to call me all those names I love to be called. Driving by his house won’t bring him down that fire escape to my passenger’s side door the way it used to. Saying “hey” isn’t an invitation to argue philosophy and theorize lust like it used to imply. Pictures of us aren’t screensavers and profile pictures now in this state of vagabondage, they’re just in frames at the bottom of a box somewhere foreign to me. Somehow we’ve become too distanced to find our way back to each other- and I wonder if he has felt as lost as I have.  Listening to his Bob Dylan, and learning Springsteen lyrics won’t do any good from where we are now. No, keeping up on my poetry and my guitar enthusiasm won’t bring him home or put those pictures back up on our walls.
                My heart has nowhere to cover up and close its eyes anymore. I don’t get your goodnights. I don’t need them to be safe, I don’t need them to fall asleep; it just doesn’t feel like home without them. I miss reading that you love me. I miss hearing you were going to bed wherever you may have been sleeping. I miss taking you for granted. I hate how it feels to fall asleep anywhere, knowing you haven’t left a metaphoric porch light on for me somewhere. Keeps me tired heart up, driving in the dangers that come from the dark looking for some place that doesn’t exist as it once did. I can’t settle down without your goodnights. I’m not at home if you’re not waiting for me. If youre not leaving the light on, if youre not loving me, then I don’t know where I belong.
There is a car in the driveway of a house where I sleep at night. There isn’t a front porch light like you left on, but someone else’s candle sits lit on the counter when I come in. It isn’t the house where you loved me. It isn’t the home where I fell for him. I don’t have my desk, I don’t have my rug. I don’t have the title to that car and I don’t have the only key. I’m leaving the doors unlocked, in case someone wants to break in to get me. I am walking in the dark to a bed that doesn’t feel right. I am kicking a box of pictures and frames across the floor as I do so. I’ll try to sleep, but my heart is a little restless and I’m not very comfortable here. I am feeling pretty homeless. 

Sunday, October 16, 2011


Forever is a word we can't promise. A distance we can't fathom. A length we can't stretch.  A dream we've all had. A place we have never seen. A sound we have never heard. 
A -something more- we all have to believe in. 

Tuesday, October 11, 2011



You made it through middle school:
Took my razors blades and scissors;
Gave me hugs and mascara instead.
You insisted on Christmas carols as a family
You forgave my every lie.
You dressed me pretty for my proms
And held me when he made me cry.

You glued me together when I was broken.  
You forced me up off the floor at my worst.
You were my confidence.
You were my nature rides-
And all my right turns.
You were my voice of reason.
And I underappreciated the drought-
Oh, because I’m getting sick in the floods  this season.

Tell Jack that I hate him.
Mama send Jose home.
 Let go of your Cabana Boy,
Pour out the Patron.
Push the Captain overboard.
Remy Martin’s tides are pulling you down
You getting sick soaking with Jameson and Beam
And if you don’t dry up soon, oh Mama, you’ll drown.

You’re not making it through this fall
You’re slipping on an icy beach.
Your heart is freezing up and slowing down.
Your leaves and petals and drooping and falling away,
But you just keeping watering them Mama-
Yeah, you feed that need every day.

I can’t glue you together but you surely are broken.
I can’t force dead weight off the floor.
I can’t keep your condition in confidence.
I can’t come along for your dangerous rides-
My stomach won’t take the twists and turns.
I can’t give more chances or listen to your demented reason.
Oh, how I underestimated all those dry springs
Because I am falling apart this season.

Tell Jack that I hate him.
Mama send Jose home.
 Let go of your Cabana Boy,
Pour out the Patron.
Push the Captain overboard.
Remy Martin’s tides are pulling you down
You getting sick soaking with Jameson and Beam
And if you don’t dry up soon, oh Mama, you’ll drown.

Mama come back inside,
Let’s take back the home you made me.
I’m standing in the rain pleading here with you,
And it has to be my last try.
It’s time to come in out of this muddy water,
let's go back to being warm, safe and dry. 

Sunday, October 9, 2011


it isn't easy to get my hair to curl. it is expensive, careful and tedious work. 
I can never never wash, rinse and repeat. Wash and then immediately condition. 
I can never put more than four products in at once. John Frieda root to tip and John Freida Curl Definition Creme are both a a must. I am left with little space to decided between Garnier Frutise's goopy green gel (that would be my favorite if it didn't give me that crunchy texture) and whatever Redken I was convinced to buy last.
Then I have to let it dry just enough to make sure my curls are smooth and defined, not crinkled and knotted. Otherwise, i have to wet and re-scrunch guessing blindly how much product was retained. 
Then with an acceptable partial dry i argon oil the ends and my right to touch is revoked for the entirety of the day. 
The cost of beauty. 

Friday, October 7, 2011

Ode to the Beltline

Ode to the Beltline
Once I raced you there. I had only had my car a couple of days, and you were almost ready to leave your bike for a semester at school, and we raced there. It was fifteen minutes or so before I had to be at work, and my hair was up, my collar was popped. The radio was off and the windows were down. I could hear your engine behind me, in front of me, beside me, and I could feel you sneering through the tinted plexi-glass of your “badass” helmet. You won.
Once I decided to always drive all the way down. Decided to drive down past the exit for North Ave Beaches and under the Colchester bridge. I know that it’s out of my way, that in reality it is a waste of gas and a cause for pollution, but I do it every time. I always go all the way down. You told me it was faster once and even though I know that is not true I still believed you. I still go that way. I still take the long way home, no matter how tired I am or where I am coming from or where that little red lever is dancing over that ominous “E” on my dash. I go all the way to that light at the end every time.
Once I rode there with your mom. The first time I was out so late I couldn’t just walk back or call my mom. I rode down with your mom, to the North Ave Beaches exit ramp and we talked about the weather and how quickly fall was coming and how early it was getting dark. She and I were all alone, both covering up our secrets and telling ourselves our reasons at fifty miles an hour. She didn’t want to think that you and I are a different breed of people, she didn’t want to know that even though there are only four miles between your house and mine we live in completely different worlds. She didn’t really want to leave her bold and stylish South End home for another one of those off-white paneled house on the other side of that road.
Once I fell in love with you. Then again, and again and again. And once you became so comfortable, and so exciting all at the same time, that you became my tires kissing the yellow line, at fifty miles an hour. 

Monday, October 3, 2011

She Isn't

She Isn't

She isn’t a beautiful girl, and she knows that. She hasn’t been since that family photo where she’s three; ringlets in her hair, gap in her teeth, and the Tazmanian Devil on a shirt that clearly isn’t hers. She hasn’t grown as much as expected since then. She has gained too much weight since then. Her teeth have gathered some stains, her hair won’t curl like that no matter what she pays, and that blue in her eyes has faded and softened with age. She knows she isn’t a beautiful girl.
She isn’t a brilliant girl, and she knows that. She didn’t manage an 1800 on her SAT. She failed two AP tests. She is lazy about homework and likely to be late. She asks obvious questions. She misspells grammer and defanitely. She was the best at poetry once, for a whole two minutes, but the glory was short lived. She comma splices even after she is taught the rules. She lacks common sense. She didn’t take precal in high school. She barely passed a physics class. Sometimes she says insensitive things, but it’s because she’s stupid, not because she’s cruel. She misuses words, and incorrectly conjugates verbs, when she talks too. She really isn’t brilliant, and she knows that.
She isn’t strong, and she knows that. She falls down and she always needs help up. Sometimes she needs help to carry her own. She drops pitchers of juice on the floor if she carries too many. She can’t ride her bike up that same hill she always forgets to take her E-brake off when she backs down it in her car. She cries when she gets yelled at. She cries when she has to say good-bye. She cries when she sees commercials for the Humane Society. She bruises easy. She calls her mom when she gets lost instead of looking at a map. She goes for ice cream instead of tutoring when she fails a test. She can’t be alone for a day at a time. She cries when she can’t bike all the way up that hill. She is not a strong girl and she knows it.
She isn’t your girl either. Not your girlfriend. Not your best friend. Not your baby. Not your fling. Not your someone special. Not your significant other. Not your other half. Not your mother. Not your little sister. Not your ride home. Not your lab partner. Not your turn around and smile at the girl three rows back and to the left. Not your property in all the ways she wishes to belong to someone. She isn’t your girl, and everyone knows that.
She isn’t beautiful. She isn’t strong or brilliant either. Don’t waste a second trying to fix her; she isn’t yours to change. 

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

On Being a Good Girl

On Being a Good Girl

I am great at stop sign courtesy
I can brake dance at red lights
Im getting better at backing up,
I can keep a good eye on my rearview.
And I’m pretty good at falling for you.

I do pretty well with poetry.
I am great with extended metaphor.
I am sufficient when it comes to grammar
I may be the only girl you know who can pull off the Dickinson dash
And I’m great at loving the way it feels  when your hand’s on my ass.

I am super at hugs
I am great with introductions
I am professional at making friends
I am stellar at hello
When it comes to you,
I’m great at letting everything go.

I am great at picking mascara
I can pluck my eyebrows in the car
I’m getting better at eyeliner on the top lid,
I can keep it all together with some nice shadow
And I can look real pretty when youre feeling shallow.

I do pretty well with animals.
I am great with kittens and cats
Im sufficient when it comes to dog walking
I may be the only girl you know who’d be happy being a cat lady
And I’d be happier being the lady you made me.

I am super at saying yes
I am great at giving in
I am professional at apologies
And I am stellar at regret.
When it comes to you,
I’m great at being a secret.

I am great at telling lies
I can get out of anything
Im getting better at crying on command
I can keep a good game going
And im great at accepting how good you are at knowing.
I do pretty well with consistency
I’m great with daily sentiment,
Im sufficient when it comes to routine
I may be the only girl you know who cant sleep without “goodnight”
And if you fell asleep before we got there, that’d be okay.

I am super at being your part-time lover.
I am great at giving it all to you.
Im professional at going down to where you want me
Im stellar when I know what you want me to do,
And when ive had so much,
Why the hell do I want more of you?

Monday, September 19, 2011

On Holding On and Letting Go.

You held on to him like your favorite bra. he was second nature like cream in your coffee. You held on to him like the keys to your car. He was your best friend. You held on to him like those jeans that you wish fit. You loved him unconditionally. You held onto him like a signature. you accepted all his shortcomings when they were forthcoming. you held onto him like your engagement ring. 
then you let go of him, gave him to good will. poured him down the sink. threw him out the window. You slid him off your hand, off your heart, and we all heard the metal skip across that wooden table into the trash. 

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Seventy Nine days

Seventy nine days  
one hundred ninety eight miles  
separate me from everything that feels good. 
your voice, your lips, your exhale, your smile. 

Will it ever cross your mind  
To call when you have time?
Cause you know if youre lonely that I am too.
And you know i’d go to the farthest lengths
To make small talk with you.

Will you ever think 
to send me a draft of those words of yours?
cause you know how they make me feel. 
give me some of that music in your soul 
and i'll pay you in a million magics you never thought were real. 

will i hear from you in seventy nine days?
will you make it a point to show up in that cocky grin 
tell me you'll be there baby,  
Im ready to let you in. 

Stuck and Skin

Stuck and Skin
I don’t want to be attached to you
I don’t want to let you in
But I want your thoughts and your honesty
And I need your muscle and I need your skin.
I don’t want to like you
That was never part of the plan
But I like everything that makes you you,
And I like that youre learning who I am.
I don’t want to think youre funny
I don’t want to smile when I think of you
But I associate you with all  good humor
And smile when I’m reminded of you.
I don’t want to miss you
Cause that means you got inside
I don’t want you to know how much I care,
Because that just means I lied.
I don’t want to think of you
No matter what station’s on the radio
I don’t want to hear you singing,
 Every lyric I’ll ever know.
I don’t want to miss you
So much it keeps me up at night,
And keeps me cuddled to my pillows in the morning,
Pretending they’re you and holding them tight.
I don’t want to want you
To be the only name on my phone
And I should start feeling guilty,
About how I cant leave you alone.
I don’t want every backseat
To smell like you just after a shower
I don’t want to see you in my rear view,
It gives you too much power.
I don’t want to be so fond
Of you holding my wrist
But I would trade any man’s hand in mine,
For your unaffectionate bliss.

I don’t want to be attached to you
But ive already let you in.
You’ve touched and you’ve teased your way,
Deep underneath my skin. 

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Sam's Peace

Blue eyes and brown hair
Pink lips and freckled skin
Coke bottle hips and extra white teeth
She’s naturally beautiful.  

thin black lines accentuate her eyes
and butterflies envy her mascaraed lashes.
Her nails are secretly weak but polished over
And her waves in ways no spray gel can tame.
She works hard to be beautiful.

She is a mathmetician.
And a modest poet.
She is a workaholic,
But she is always early for dinner.
Her time is balanced as her checkbook
And she’s organized her way to beautiful.
She is my best friend.
She is my steak and potato
My ice cream breaks on a diet.
She is my glitter, glam and gloss,
My shoes socks and sweater.
She’s the knowledge that comfort’s beautiful.
She keeps my secrets so I don’t lose them
She keeps me honest about my lies.
She glues me together when I tear apart
And helps me plaster on what makes me pretty.
She keeps me beautiful.

She keeps me beautiful
And that keeps her beautiful.
And therein is the peace,
known only to best friends.
And she taught me that its beautiful.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

coke bottle

Coke Bottle
I’m no crystal chalice
I’m just an empty coke bottle.
Once I was filled with optimism,
carbonated with capability,
Was sweetened with naive serenity.
And after I met you I believed
Someone could want a sip of me.
I am humble and forward
but my labels are in small print
I am sensitive to being shaken,
And since I am always where you need me to be
I’m easy to use, and easily taken.
I’m what you settle for
When you’ve a dire thirst to fill
But I’m no fancy wine [a]vase-
To be caressed and admired with your traveling hands
I’m your coke bottle, compromised and commonplace. [b]
You told me we couldn’t be together
You said it’d be too hard.
You blamed it on your timing and your tastes.
You sleep easy every night,
Because coke is so accessible there is no shame in waste.[c]
You made me believe you were thirsty for reliability  
You told me you wanted me
With sharp tongue and soft touch you teased,
And I wanted you to have me[d].
But you concluded you couldn't be pleased .[e]
Sometimes [f]I long to be as pristine as your best jeweled glass
but there is no candlelight and cloth for caffeine and sugar-
You save that respectability for chardonnay;
Knowing paper and plastic fit me just  fine[g],
And you could have me any damn day.
My contents flatten with age,
And my flavor is always the same.
The wines in that crystal are ceaseless and capricious
And I guess I can’t blame you for your choices,
Because by comparison, I’m obviously worth less[h].
Enjoy your elusive liquid luster[i]-
Beware of the cracked crystal at her core.
She breaks easy and slips quick.
Her glass and gems are so strong and steady in your fingertips
But she’s only beautiful because she’s the one you  picked.
Don’t think I hate her
We’re just a different breed of tool.
And don’t feel bad- I’ve been sidelined before
For the clean-cut, classy girls like her,
And [j]I’m sure I’ll be taken and used some more.
Set your kitchen table with your beloved glass,
And you can toss me out to be recycled
Or keep me around to have someone to throttle.
Chide me for feeling brimming and wanted;
After all: I’m an empty coke bottle.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Mama's Pearls

I sent my daughter to school
in those pearls mama gave me. 

Mama bought them, full price, 
at the store on the corner of Jackson and Hull 
the only one on the street, 
she'd never been in before. 
She didnt tell Daddy 
because those pearls were just from her;
those pearls were just for me. 

I was turning thirteen 
the first time they pirouetted on my collarbone 
and suddenly my overalls were a ball gown 
suddenly my knotted hair was blonde and straight 
suddenly i was royalty, 
all because of that string of pearls- 
Mama gave me. 

I wore them to my prom, 
I wore them at my first interview, 
I wore them at my wedding, 
I wore them the day my baby was born, 
and i wore them every other day 
i was told i wore so much shine out of them- 
i could have worn them away. 

My daughter turned thirteen yesterday, 
and a gift was easy to come by. 
Her father bought her some roses and a dress, 
and signed a card from the both of us, 
but i had a gift of my own. 
My neck had never felt so empty as when she undid the clasp, 
but my heart was never so full. 
i cried and i told her "sorry baby, they don't shine like they used to"
and though her hair was blonde and straight and she stood before me in a gown,
she told me: "Mama they're a dream come true". 

She came home the next day 
with tears in her eyes. 
She told me the string just gave way, 
and the beads had fallen to the floor
like a rush of rain on my windshield. 
she said she had tried to pick the pieces up, 
but the pearl's fate was sealed. 

I told her not to cry, 
and spoke softly to her: 
"i didn't give you pearls to keep, 
their magic isnt yours or mine, 
i gave you pearls to love-
pearls of impression, 
and you took them, 
and made a million memories, 
and nothing can break from you that they were real.
and whether they sit on your neck or not baby, 
my Mama's pearls are with you, you just gotta feel"

country music

I listen to country music.

I've never liked sushi,
I don't try to bike uphill,
I let my hair knot in the summer wind, 
I'd let a man front the bill.
I drive too close to the wheel, 
and i listen to country music
cause it has taught me how to  feel. 

I'm always the first to laugh at smiles,
I'm the first to cry at screams,
I do my best contemplating on sidewalks for miles,
I do my best sharing when someone touches my skin,
and i listen to country music 
to learn who to let in. 

I am terrible with numbers, 
I think in letters and poetry, 
I dont lack excitement or enthusiasm 
I really struggle with clarity.

and you are a man-
 from a country song, 
without the boots and hat 
but this is the real world, 
so we can do without that.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Baby you dont deserve this.

She told us all,
how hard it was to feel again-
and we told her all
"baby you deserve this." 

She fell faster then she wanted to,
and hit harder then she thought her knees could take.
and she let herself be excited,
and she let the butterflies in her stomach break formation.
She let them fly,
she let herself go-
she lit her red wax candle and walked through a  locked door
into the musty unknowns of love.
All she wanted there,
were hugs and whispers.
and we all promised her-
her dark and locked room, would still be as bright and bashful-
as it had been when she first discovered it.

So she stood
beautiful and fragile-
in a greenhouse where love should grow
under scrutinizing light,
a light- that would have shined-
that would have been beautiful
if he had been there to grow too.

And when she came home,
sickened by the weight of a heart getting hard-
all we could tell her,
in our well lit gardens,
was "baby, you dont deserve this"

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

"and it is written"

I remember meeting her, in thew purple glow of her cubical by the window. She was wearing crystals around her neck and black glittered polish on her nails. i dont remember all of what she told me, but I do remember everything she said about you.
She told me that I would meet you early September-maybe late August. She told me your freckles would look like sand. She said your hair would feel like angel wings. She told me you'd love cats, and fleece. She told me you'd make a great best friend, and a better boyfriend. She told me, in her witchy wisdom, all i had to do was meet you- and that the loving you, the courting you, and the relationship would unravel in front of me.
I pray to my goddess, and i light my candles, and i hope to the earth and the skies that she's right.
But till then- as summer tip-toes into my painted landscape; i wonder with ever brush stroke if your fates will fit into the image. I wonder, if your god see's us like my goddess does. I wonder if you've dreamed a portrait of me- because i have of you.
I pray to my goddess, and i light my candles, and i hope to the earth and the skies that when i find you, you'll thank your god, that you found me. That this time, the fate the gypsy told me, is the same fate, some gypsy somewhere sees for you.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

My Gypsy Soul to Blame.

I've heard; 
when you get where you're going, you'll know you're there because the traveler in your heart will finally be ready for bed. 
and i'm left to wonder- 
what happens when he wakes up? 

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


I think once in a move i saw a woman leave for a trip with red painted nails.
Ever since, it's become one of things i do. Summer looks so much more promising when my red toes press deep into the horizontal lines of a gas petal. Spring feels so in blossom when there is dirt beneath the red tips of my nails- the kind that fills me up when my knuckles bend on the handlebars of my bike. In the winter; on my way home from way up here- as i sip my last mug of hot cocoa and let the car warm up, my hands anticipate travel. And how many of those fall runs, did i take barefoot with you following my red toes, and calling me crazy all the way.
But the night that i got on that plane last week, to go out and see you, my nails were blue.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

People are disgusting,

People are disgusting. 
He is disgusting when he runs. When he runs, and his back sticks to the cotton of his shirt with a sweat glue, and he breathes like he is taking his last breaths. It is disgusting, to see him push like that- to feel so in control, when really his body is wet, and dirty, and soiled- but high. He can't even smile in such a contortion. and he smells like all the smells a body makes that people buy air fresheners to disguise. It is disgusting, but it's admirable. 
She is disgusting too. When she eats. Watch her chewing, with her elbows on and off and on the table again. The circular motion of her jaw is rhythmic but still ever so unattractive. And the sound of bolus production is something i struggle to stomach. She eats all of everything too.Her forks scrapes at the plate, and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She is eating, and she belches, and she accidentally opens her mouth occasionally, and she mists out the kind of saliva you produce to digest when she speaks. It's disgusting, but it's healthy. 
He is disgusting when he cries for attention. When he cries, and throws his rattle. his hair falls out of its photogenic display and into his eyes which he wipes tears from with his nasty chocolate covered hands. He cries so hard with that little body that his belly expands and contracts with every dramatic breath. Saliva  bubbles in his opened mouth, and drool dribbles from his pouted lips. He stomps his mud covered feet and lets out some ugly squeals. He is disgusting, but that is passion. 
They are disgusting together. They are disgusting behind closed doors, with the noises they make and the sighing they do. They are disgusting with the smells they create and the messes the make. Everything is so physical, a connect and disconnect- connect and disconnect me harder Baby- connect and disconnect again- again, again- faster-relationship. It is disgusting when they stick like cling wrap, and slide like butter in a frying pan. They are disgusting, and moist, and sweaty, and loud, but they are the happiest it's physically possible to be. 
She is disgusting when she is sick. Sitting in her wheelchair, her grey hair as void as a flowerbed in October. Her wrinkled skin can sit more still than she can, and she looks like her body alone is suffocating her. And she has no control-of her shaking hands, of her excretory functions, of her loose and naught body, and her illness is disgusting. No one wants her to touch them, with soiled, bent, hands or kiss them anymore with her chapped and orange juice drenched lips. She spits and spasms when she speaks, and no one wants to wait and listen to the engrossed body of what once was a woman. She is disgusting, but she is resilient, and she is alive. 
People are disgusting. But then- perhaps that is just what makes us people.  

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Summer Loving

That summer: I was seven, he was nine.
he had auburn ringlets and sunkissed cheeks,
He was rough and tumble, dirty, and mine.
We loved enough for a lifetime, in just weeks.

We skipped stones in the river at sunset,
we danced barefoot in the street after dawn,
We held hands under a mosquito net
and dreamed of together in his back lawn.

He walked to my house all alone at night;
he broke my window with a bat and ball;
he didn't understand his wrong from right,
but given the chance i would relive it all.

We weren't yet ready but where passionate
He was the only love, i don't regret.

***that's right, i try sonnets for fun.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

thunder and lightning

She taps her nails on the cedar wood of a table that would be ideal in a dinning room if she had that much space.
It thunders.
She takes a drag off a Camel Blue, even though she promised her six year old she wouldn't smoke inside.
It lightnings.

He rises his right knee, calf, ankle, foot on the pedal of a mountain bike struggling through the storm on a sidewalk.
It thunders.
He slides, he falls, no one is there to hear him scream.
It lightnings.

She climbs into bed between her parents, and her innocence replaces the stench of adult talk that separated them before.
It thunders.
No one wonders if the bills will be paid anymore tonight. Her daddy holds them both.
It lightnings.

She puts her her ballet flats.The ones that make her bleed.
It thunders.
She takes them off, and goes outside in the soft grass. it's cold and wet, but she can't ever remember feeling as much as she does now. She whispers "this is ballet"

And somewhere the sun is shinning.


She had dreams, you know. Like, big ones. Ponies for her tenth birthday, a car for her sixteenth, and a prince with an accent eventually. it is too bad things ended up the way they did.
He had dreams too. Crazy ones. He was ganna run away at ten, be an actor at sixteen, and clean up and settle down as a prince one day. Same goes for him; it really is too bad.
She works at a fast food joint now. Her long cedar brown hair can be seen only as far down as seven weeks without a root touch up on the trashy blonde allows. Her hair is thinning, like it shouldn't be at twenty-nine, and those drugs she cant afford, they are keeping her teeth pretty fragile too. She wanted a convertible, and she gets to drive the '96 mercury three days a week now to her part-time, minimum wage job. If she's lucky, and feeling wealthy, she can sneak in a stop at her dealers where she's reverted to paying for her addiction with flesh and favors.
He isn't any better. He works at a gas station, four days a week. They make him park that mercury in the back. His freckles look like a disease, his blue eyes are empty and blood shot. We all used to be into his smile, but it's better if he keeps his mouth shut these days. He smells like they shut his water off (cause they did) and like he boozes it up in the back room, (Cause he does). He'll get fired eventually, by a nineteen year old manager or something, and the girls paying for gas at the counter when he walks out with that nasty polo slung over his scrawny shoulders, they'll giggle.
And when he gets home, the neighbors will suspect he's hitting her. They won't call anyone or anything though, it isn't there place and it would put them out even further then listening to it would. Sometimes we think the sadist in 'em likes it anyways, they feel like she deserves it or something; maybe she does. last week someone said not to worry about her crying and what not, cause it wasn't like we'd notice if he knocked out another tooth. Then one of 'em will drive away in that car and the other will just sit outside and chain smoke. We wonder if they go back inside at all, cause they are there when we get kissed goodnight and there when we drive by in our 4X4s on the way to church. We judge 'em in our hearts, with the gospel on our lips.
We were watchin' her out there on the porch this monin, and something different happened though. Mom turned her head, smiled, and told us - "I think her name is Tracy, or maybe Terry, but i think it's Tracy."

Tracy huh? We'd always just called her Trash.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

beloved Dreams

 I hear it is romantic to dream of a beloved.
So label me with an adjective, because I can’t sleep without thinking of you. I can’t eat anything without wondering how much better equipped for you I would be if I were sixty pounds skinnier. I can’t hear a song on the radio without wondering if someday it could make you think of an us that could someday exist. I never get out of bed until I’ve checked to see if I’ve heard from you. I never run without thinking that if I manage to accelerate I could build up enough stamina to get beside you. I never hold hands with other boys because they just don’t fit the same way. I never say your name in populated conversation because that just riles up the butterflies inside me. I always turn away to refrain from the blushing and smiling when someone else brings you up. I instantly think of you when someone mentions a “plus one” or a “date”.
But don’t dare think this is about you,
And don’t dare fell too loved; because I never, ever, dream about you.
                                                                                                                This is way too conscious for that. 

Monday, April 11, 2011

Yellow Lines on Poetry.

Listening to poetry,
is listening to beauty.
It is watching someone steal
watching words trot and stretch about
hearing words make sounds,
hearing the laughter from the sound of a sob.
I see somber smiles
see thoughts i never finished thinking dance.
heartbeats and life in rhythm
noting the sound of fact and fiction
and their discrepancies.
I watch reaction,
watch people move each other,
and people become a temple-
devoted to the worship of art.
I am reaching down and picking up the double-meaning
spit by the mouth's of thieves.
If it were up to me,
I'd make them take a test on road rules,
before they gain poetic license.

Love the Distance

Your chest smells like distance,
your hair curls like disagreement,
and still-
I want you closer than a human body allows.

Each time you exhale here
My face presses into your shoulder;
and i understand suddenly
why this is called and embrace.

And maybe it's your heartbeat,
but i can feel you're so worried about,
you're so jazzed about,
so ready to take on-
the topics i only touch-slide by,
when i am looking for the weather on my phone.

you want to take on the world,
and boy;
i just want to take on you.

I want to put you on like a blanket
and wear you like armor.
I want to become so familiar with your smell,
that i can't tell it from my own.
I want to put you on as my best friend
and wear you as my boyfriend.

We could run away together,
or we could just stop for coffee.
We could ride, run, love,
we could teach each other.

Boy i will teach you to hold on
and you can teach me to let go.

You may try and teach me all your theories,
and they can dance above my head.
And in return i'll trey and tell you
how much i love you-
because that's a concept,
that proves equally difficult for me to grasp.

You will smile like sunrise,
when i compare you to a summer's day.
and then the butterflies in my stomach,
will take off again.
You can hush them up for me,
with carbs and caffeine
and in eating, breathing, and living there with you,
i'll be comfortable in the most exciting way.

I'll learn to love and leave it all,
and it will all end do simultaneously.

I'll watch you spin out onto the street-
waving goodbye, for the next however-long.
and i'll smile to the sunrise-
because your passenger's seat smells like me,
but it's become so engraved
that you don't even notice.

Kitchen Princess.

Once upon a time, in a land nothing like the ones in fairy tales, there was a kitchen cook. She was no princess, she was not wealthy, and there was nothing that made her particularly likable. What she lacked in paper and status she made up for in lies and ridicule.She was no boss, she was no authority; she was just growing old, and growing bitter. 
And in that kitchen where she worked, there were many younger women. Younger women with dreams deeper than the biggest soup pots they'd seen and broader than the longest sheet pans. A nurse, a teacher, a lawyer, anything. 
The woman was not nice to these girls. she ridiculed their aspirations, and belittled their desires. Perhaps it was envy, perhaps she wanted them to be weary of what reality can feel like, and perhaps that kitchen cook just needed them. She swore at her girls, she called them names, she critiqued their work and she wrote complaints. She threatened to leave them, swore she'd find better. 
Truth is, she's teaching these girls that they're just as far from a palace as she always has been. And those girls, are working hard as they can to get on the long road out. 

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


A cynic is just a romantic who got one too many rejection letters.

Monday, March 28, 2011

morning classes.

Her eyes were bloodshot
 Her esophagus was warm.
Her breath was potent
Her consciousness diluted.
She still felt like she was being hugged from the inside.
Unbreakable, she felt protected enough to be vulnerable.
She felt strong enough
To stumble to a Saab in a broken heel,
And to start- and accelerate
And accelerate
And accelerate.
She loses em-pee-ayche count,
As quickly as she lost count of cuervo.
Brakes slide on guard rails and squeak-
But they don’t stop.
Control was harder for her-
Than the calculus she never got done. 
And someone, will turn in her book today. 

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Extension and Secrets

                She knows no more of you than that disgusting secret.
                She didn’t need to. She is that type of a girl, you give her a little bit and she ends up with a lot. She is professional at expansion. She can write an essay on a book if she reads just the prologue. She also gains twenty pounds every winter. She could spend an hour telling someone about the two sentences her father would write her from jail every couple of months.  She can feed herself, her mama, and her sister on one chicken for two weeks with the right sides. She managed to extend every one of her week vacation to ten days. She comes home sometimes with a whole outfit she paid three dollars for. Her high school beau was never crazy about her, but she somehow managed to prolong that relationship for three years and nineteen days. And when they broke up, the tears she shed about it weren’t quick or direct either. That just wouldn’t have been her style. She knows what she wants, and she gets analytical as quick as a toddler gets dirty. You give her a little bit and she ends up with a lot.
                Secrets are your thing. You’re that type of guy, It means a lot for you to give someone a little bit. You are the king of all that is clandestine. You once hid a fourth grade report card from your parents for years because you had an “x” in division skills. To this day you let your brother think that his gerbil was run over by a car and he let it outside, when you know very well your cat ate it. You managed to shrug off the six cavities you had the year you were twelve, you never told anyone you didn’t brush your teeth but twice that whole year. You never told the hockey team about your mom’s drunker rages. You never told your best friend in high school that you were in love with her, and you still regret that one, but it sure does prove you can keep your secrets. You know how to cheat and you know how to lie if self-preservation is in question. And to you, giving a little bit means a lot.
                For some reason though, last night on your first date you decided to tell her that secret. You opened up like beer bottle and she shattered you like a glass. You sat across from her there, in that Italian resteraunt, the one that cost you your whole check, and you tried something new. You were open, you let someone in. She tried something new that night too, she shut someone out. She blew out the candle in the center of the table, stared at you like she had known you all her life and in the last minute concluded you weren’t worth it.  She thanked you for your time, and left with a much too illuminated idea of your darkest secret on her analytical mind.
                I would call her for a second date if I were you. 
this picture is free from my phone, for some reason i thought it fit. 

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Love Watching Me Love.

I saw a symphony with a boy last week.
second dates are hard.

He is into it. He feels it. He inhales and exhales to it, keeping rhythm. He closes his eyes, and releases to it. It moves him, pulsates through him, builds up in him. He hums to it, bends to it, hears it with his heart.
And i just can't.
I listen to it. I only hear it. I try not to breath audibly, cause i dont want to give away my disinterest. My eyes are opened so i can watch him in awe. I realize im not moved at all sitting next to him. I'm bored, impatience pulsates through me, builds up. I persist through it, give into it, and i let him have this; thinking it was just as good for me as it was for him.
I love watching him love music.

I'll see a musical with a boy next week.I'll get into it. I will inhale on que, gasp and snap in rhythm. i'll close my eyes at the best parts, and release to it. I'll be moved, it will pulse through me, build up. I'll hum to it long after, feel it it in my heart.
he'll just listen to it.
And, hopefully, he'll love watching me love music.

Friday, March 18, 2011

(Bacon and Chicken Nuggets)

Aunt Susan always smells like Bacon. But the yummy kind so I don’t know why Mommy hates it when I tell her. I really like Bacon, and I really like Aunt Susan. She never tells Mommy or Aunt Janice or Mrs. Becky when I watch them all talking at the table. She is the only one who sees me when I watch cause she sits in the biggest chair that faces into the kitchen and not out the big window. Sometimes she winks at me even!
                I saw them all talking this morning. I knew they must all be talking cause I heard their scary all together laugh and I smelled the bacon. Mommy was talking about daddy and aunt Janice and Mrs. Becky and Aunt Susan were all there drinking coffee and eating those muffins that are flat and come all the way from England. I don’t like them. I only like Chocolate chip muffins. I crawled into the room like an adventure girl would and hid behind the far side of the island. The silly dog kept thinking I was trying to play with him, so he was barking and licking me and I accidently giggled twice. No one except Aunt Susan heard though, so my adventure continued.
“He can be such an idiot of a man sometimes” I heard Mrs. Becky  say. Aunt Janice laughed. I got up on my knees behind the island and put my hands on the counter, I raised my eyes up so I could see all the ladies. There was a fruit bowl out  and I had to make sure my head was behind it enough so that I couldn’t see my own reflection in the big window behind Aunt Susan because everyone knows that if I can’t see myself then they can’t see me.
“Can’t all men?” They all laughed and the sound was like when Mommy puts too much clothes in the washing machine and the whole thing shakes really loudly. I kind of liked to hear it though.
“You can say that again sister,” That was Aunt Janice who said that to Aunt Susan, and I didn’t really understand because they aren’t sisters. “Last night, Jeff tried to tell me we couldn’t have taco salad for dinner because he’s allergic to ranch dressing.” The washing machine shook again.  “Not only do I know his allergies even better than he does, but since when does taco salad have ranch on it?”
“Taco Salad doesn’t have ranch on it?” Mrs. Becky asked. I didn’t know if it did either. Me and Mrs. Becky were a lot alike.
“You must not cook, honey” Mommy said to her. The other ladies made “mmhmmm noises.  “But Eddie’s been cooking a lot lately.”( Eddie’s real name is Daddy. )
“Is he any good?”
“What kind of stuff? Will the kids eat it?”
“hmm, I wish my husband would do that.”
“Well, he made me alfredo last night. Or at least that’s what he called it.” Mommy said. I didn’t know Daddy had cooked anything the night before; Mommy brought me and Gabe chicken nuggets. All the women laughed when she said that too, they were always laughing.
“Call me old fashioned, but I really don’t think men are supposed to be any good at cooking” Aunt Janice said.
“I hear you”
“Well- it all depends.”
“Whether they should be or not, they damn sure aren’t usually any good!” Aunt Susan said and then they all laughed. I didn’t really understand why they all laughed so much.
“Did you have to eat in anyways Stacey?” Aunt Janice asked. Stacey’s real name was Mommy.
“ I took a couple bites, and then-“
“What? The suspense is killing me did you just throw it out?”
“No, of course not. Tell us what you did Stace!”
I”I told him it was delicious, but I was hungry for some of his meat instead.” The other ladies screamed and giggled and hit the table. Mommy must have meant chicken nuggets, and the other women must have liked chicken nuggets as much as I did.
“Well, it sounds like you had quite the night then. Did you get your fill?”
“Course I did. Then he did some eating too. He’s a terrible cook but he is great in bed.”  I knew Daddy was great in bed too, he slept really late on Saturdays. The washing machine laughter broke out again.
                Mommy was smiling the way she did when Gabe and his friend’s broke a window in Old Meanyhead Mr. Dobie’s house. Gabe told her he couldn’t  apologize because then all the boys would have to miss playtime letting Old Meanyhead Mr. Dobie teach them a thing of two about being brats. Gabe didn’t want to learn about being a brat and neither did his friends, they were boys not brats. If they were brats, they would only play at night and they would all be dark and have wings and vampire teeth. I didn’t blame them, and Gabe’s brilliant reasoning made her smile the same way she was smiling at her friends. That was the way Mommy always smiled when someone did something bad and then did something real good, the only thing I was confused about- was why were chicken nuggets bad, and what did Daddy have for dinner last night?

***Not my best execution or my favorite story line, but, conceptually i like the idea. I'm trying to get better at humor, though this is arguably in bad taste. It's kind of stream of consciousness and i am trying to take on a little kid narration like James Joyce mastered. Sachi and Lilly should get it, e had a free write like this once.