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.  

Thursday, March 17, 2011

helpless hands.

These hands can't rebuild you sanity.
They can't make you better.

These fingers can't let you free
you can't feel them when it's you they touch-
and thus my idle blood, skin, and bone,
can't make you any less alone.

I am forced to watch you drain-
to see become a barren body.
It paralyzes me to see you're so broken
and drains me to hear what we left unspoken.

You are losing vivacity
dwindling away to weight and water.
And i'm doing all i can to capture
the resilience in you that's always my rapture.

I stretch to reach inside you with hungry hands
but they never quite reach
the emptiness of loss
is a lesson- to me, they never did teach.

I have on my own accord come to understand,
how it feels to lose who you thought hard as rock.
I've watched rock break and stone, pebble, sand, and wash away
and like sand on sea floor- I've watched the tide make you decay.

And all these helpless hands have left to do,
is hold each other and pray.
They will stick to your skin, from when your body you unfetter
and they will wipe my wizened eyes because i couldn't make you better.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


The ground begins to thaw now. The tree roots elongate and stretch beneath their blanket of soil. They strike out their sleepy branches and share with me all of their dreams.
The creek flows faster. The chunks of ice that once roared and collided with the firm brown of a boundary- are now just dainty droplets that saturate the thirsty soil.
The soil swallows seeds and spits flowers. they become the beauty i count on. They are bestowed on me after the earth needs them no longer.
The air warms now. The sun shine does it. My days get longer, and they fill like the skirt of a ballerina. And my nights, they get shorter and they come in more quiet. Like they walk on tip-toes.
Soon, my daily walks will be voluntary. My sleeves will be three-quarters in length and my hair will be decorated with daisies i picked. I'll accept the nature of my being for what it is.
I'll try on all my shoes. I'll start some days in rain boots, some days in clogs, some days in heels, some days even in sandals. I'll stroll in my wedges, and run in my sneakers. But eventually, i'm sure, i'll take off my shoes and feel the earth bare.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Gardener laughs.

the best laughter comes,
when nothing is funny but nothing is wrong-when being is being been, and it doesn't matter who hears you.

Once there was a princess who lived too long under the rule of a brutal king. The king was protective and frightening. His rules were simple and selfish, his reign was dictatorial. He knew little of love and lots of power, and his princess knew best how to hide and best how to smile for sake of ease.
She then met a neighboring royal servant. Born of a family divided, raised on self-will and addiction. The servant knew how grim and grotesque the world outside of the chapel, the green lawns and the gardens that composed the royal city were. No one in all the villages, near or far, had seen such a wise servant, who knew the glories of royalty and chose still to serve. They told the princess how good it felt to work, to earn.
The princess thus learned to deserve, and called far out to a duchess- in a town whose name she was unaware. The duchess was raised in the faded glory of a kingdom lost in might. She wanted not to lead, but to take direction and to teach. She needed not the people of a land turned against her, she needed the beckoning of a princess, she needed a friend.
and the three made a garden- The princess, the duchess, and the servant. they planted vines and flowers of different colors and scents and their plantings were vast and beautiful. No one from the gardener's villages recognized the flowers as they expanded from boundary to boundary. No one knew their work, but all learned to reap their rewards.
And when the roses were cut, and brought to wives of knights for anniversaries. They were given to girls by their mothers so that they could learn to wave themselves crowns. They were eaten up by animals, who had seen no such exotic plants. The cut flowers decorated the homes of the impoverished, and spread the bounty of community- a concept unannounced to the public of the gardener's villages.
Eventually the three grew elderly, and sat together outside on the snowy ground. Their earnings had been spent on the flowers that had been picked and could not grow outside in these conditions.they no longer had royal names, and they no longer had youthful beauty. In these months, they no longer had a service to provide, and they no longer had their blossoms. Still the gardeners had each other. and together they would sit, in what was once the dress of a wealthy class, turned to rags. They sat on the ground that once had blossoms and beauty, and now was barren and bloodied white.
But the three sat together, cold, calm, and wise- and they laughed. Each because the other two were so beautiful in comparison. Each because their hands looked so much older not concealed in mud and clay. Each   because they were at least together, and because they sat where they belonged, and because the honest emptiness of the earth without their work was something no one knew.
As cliched, as it was, they were summer gardeners. And winter vagabonds. And what kept them rooted- was the background giggle of friendship.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Cedar Bookcase Stories

“when you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book”
                Off the old wooden shelf on that old case. The one we painted for your seventh birthday. Remember? We painted it blue, like your eyes. There were purple stripes too, and a heart in the bottom corner. You were so surprised when you came home from school, and it finally looked like it was yours. Purple and blue, with that well-covered heart, it finally looked like you.
                Remember all the things you did to that old book case. You carved your initials above the initials of that boy up the street over and over again. You outlined the heart we painted for you with a hand knife. That poor old cedar, it has seen so much abuse. Look at your hand-writing from way back then when you get a chance. It was so curled, so exaggerated, with those big hearts over the “j”s and “I”s. I guess we should have known you were aspiring to be a writer at twelve.
                You were so sad when we moved it down into the living room. WE had to though, after your brother took its twin to college with him. Remember how dad struggled to get it down the stairs? He hit the banister so many times, and scratched the ceiling once. There is still the bruise your blue paint left up there. We see it every time we come downstairs, we should have gotten it fixed so long ago, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.
                Remember when you brought that first boy home for dinner? You were so nervous, you spent the whole day cleaning. You mopped the ceiling, and washed your bed sheets even though I warned you that no boy would be seeing them that night. You alphabetized all the books on that old shelf too, so that if he sat in the chair backed up against the fireplace we would look like an organized family. I don’t think he noticed.
                Then remember how you called from college and asked for us to send you your old copy of A Separate Peace? Dad and I looked for it for a good couple of hours. It’s funny how quickly books can accumulate though, I never thought there was so much information on the cedar shelves against our family’s walls. Anyways, we never found that book you wanted babe. Oh, but remember how when you came home for Christmas, you found it in a couple of seconds? Right there on the shelf, where you said it would be.
                After you got married, you wanted that shelf for your own house, remember? I didn’t want to give it to you. We had gotten so used to having it out in the living room. But when we drove up to go to your baby shower, and dad and I saw your dinky apartment decorations we had to give in. You had bean bag chairs for the two of you to sit on, and a kitchen table chair that was holding up the T.V. You had so many books though, just stacked up in boxes against the walls of your first place, and I couldn’t bear to see them so homeless like that. We drove all the way back down with that book case tied to the top of dad’s old Saab the very next weekend. I won’t ever forget how happy you were to have it back.
                When you called Becky for her seventh birthday that august she came up and stayed with dad and I, I knew instantly what you had done when you told her you had a surprise. She called a week of so after she got home, and Grandma was so excited to hear about the pink ponies dad stenciled on the book case you put in her bedroom while she was gone.
                So I just wanted to give you some motherly advice again honey. When you decide to move that old cedar memento closer to you, decide to reclaim it from your daughter when she leaves for college- make sure you paint it a nice solid brown. An oak color or something, even a brown, with a wood stain on top would be pretty.
                That way- when your old and you’ve become “classic” in the sense you laugh at me for being, you’ll still stop first at that bookcase for some reading when you curl up in the chair backed up against the fireplace. 

Thursday, March 3, 2011


I can only get comfortable four hours past midnight. Only then, do my glasses get heavy on my nose, do the words I write have meaning, does the smell of my orange room relax enough to be cozy. Only then- is everything still, is everything alive. It is four past midnight and I am alive.
                This is my hour. There is no time, no effort, just existence. There is my laptop in front of me,  the cracked door adjacent to me, and the dim orange glow of my four walls. There are both of my chins, the two that subsist when I  bend my head just right; that remind me of my size, of my imperfection, my abnormality, of my life. If I bend my head just a little bit further from here- let go just a little bit more- I find my tired, weighted eyes looking down my V-neck and seeing my settled cleavage valley. The view is average, normal, perfectly so. These are the steepest augmentations and deepest depressions of my existence.
                There is my body. There is the moonlight. There is a word on a page, a page on a screen and a screen on my laptop. There are three blankets that rise halfway up my back- pink flowers, blue circles and green plaid. There are the clothes that dirty my floor. There is my stomach-that dictates my love of this position because it feels flat when I lay still for writing this late. There are the springs from my mattress too, and they push against the fabric that covers them and pushes against skin which pushes against the muscle which pushes against the bone of me. I picture them, tight, thin and copper, I envy them.
                 I bend into the springs to hear them talk to me. I press my flesh into them- and they creak.  And then the door creaks too, because my sister doesn’t knock.  She comes in. Walks over the clothes, makes no comment, (clutter doesn’t matter). I ask her if she is then tell her I am just writing. She shakes her head because she can’t talk when it’s my hour- because voices connect to time which disconnects the oblivious peace of my space to just exist.  She can come in, she can experience, but she can’t break the silence. Here, only the creaks of furniture can speak to me.
                I close the screen on my computer. I don’t look at the words I’ve written or remember what they’re about, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done enough, it’s late enough. Someone has noticed- has come in and made it okay for me to give in to being tired. Her presence means I too deserve the euphoria that ensues from the peaceful thoughtlessness of falling asleep. I have gotten through all the agony of being alone, and now I have only to make a couple of sacrifices for the security of being next to someone.   I pull the sleeves down on my v-neck, pull up the collar and turn on my side. I remove the pink flowers from my cocoon of blankets to give her, my blue circles are now to share, and I wrap green plaid tighter.  I am no longer alone.
                My own forearms are sticky on the fabric of my sleeves- and it feels like magic to warm the cotton; to make it one with me. I move over- sweaty and mentally pushed, in my down pulled-down sleeves, and I let her lay next to me on her side. We both know that soon we will need be up and ready for breakfast. Soon mother will come in and greet us and the cat will jump off the bed.  Then my mascara will fall and the sun will rise.
                But right here, right now, it’s warm- and I’m not alone anymore, and I’m tired, and I can close my eyes. When my eyes are closed no one has to see me and my smears of makeup- and it’s okay. I wrote some and lived some while it was still night, and it was my time, but now it’s our time and I’m still not obligated to the awake.
                I have said goodnight to everyone and I don’t have to worry about greetings for a while. I don’t have to be alone either, and it feels like I could lay here and lifetimes could go by. I could listen to her breathing next to me, smell her shampoo- my shampoo- and I can test my existence here. See how long my sister, my mother, the pre-set alarm on my phone, his “goodmornings”,  the sun and the moon, and I myself  will let me be here on my side-where my stomach isn’t flat, where I’m not made-up and where I am ugly.  I can be awake to the bliss of sleepiness but so asleep to the imperfections of my existence. I wonder how long I can sit here wrapped tight in green plaid and covered in blue circles. I wonder how long I can only have to be- alive.
                Just alive, not doing- and allowed to just be. She takes away the guilt I feel when it comes time to say goodnight to the words, the light, the responsibilities, the insecurities I cling to in every hour intended for living. I don’t need eat, drink, move, or to think, because I’m so tranquil. life feels optimistic, warm, tucked in and cuddled - and excusable.
                Then I hear her press her nose into the creases formed by the valley between two adjacent pillows. Pillows that could cushion and support so much, sufficient for so many people, but not usually taken advantage of. Usually it’s just me- me and my empty stomach, dry mouth, and sweaty-wet salty, skin under those three blankets. And I lull and cradle all the pillows that long to hold heads, feel hair, of bodies other than my own. My sleepy lips smile for the pillows and I give them space to be appreciated by someone new.  I nuzzle to just where it is perfect, below her face, pushed over to the wall. I can still hear her breathing, but I have the wall to myself. The orange boundary straightens and chills my back. When I am in my space; pushed closed to her space, the wall reminds me how chilling it can be when security and independence meet.
I am me next to her, given the ways we are the same. But we differ in that her body appears so thin on its side. her body isn’t thin though, she eats enough to double that figure, and she’s so sleepy all the time, cause she’s run on McDonalds. I can smell the plaque on her nighttime teeth- and I’m jealous.  I too ate when it was yesterday. She makes living, thriving, okay like that-natural and healthy. It is okay that soon I can have breakfast with her there, okay that soon the coffee will be made and I’ll get out of bed and be moving and being- but I will feel less alive, less awake, less put together, conscious. I’ll have all my tangibles when the sun comes up, but I know it’ll all feel so much less real. But not yet- because right now, I’m taking every second and stretching  it till it feels like a moment, feels like a minute, hour, day, week, year-  and I’m warm for that long. Alive on an empty stomach and empty mind, knowing what empty is- only because I am adjacent to full.
 Full life lies next to me. She smells like me, sweats, eats, sleeps, loves, feels, like me. Does she have double chins that peak in bad positions? Does she check her cleavage for normality like me? Does it matter anywhere other than right here, under the orange glow?  Does she wake up and visit me because she thinks I am comfortable? Or am I only comfortable because she is there? Am I not normal enough to get warm alone? Must someone share my pillows for me to feel safe? Do I need her? Are we the same? How much similarity does our blood insist?  I lie next to her and I know that these three blankets are warmest when I share them.  And I know that she is in pink flowers, and I am in green plaid, and I know we seem different, but we share blue circles. And we know those messes as well as we know our bodies and our blood.
I need not be ashamed of the colors, of the lack of symmetry, of the clothes on the floor. This is honesty, and there is no place in that orange glow for normality and perfection. It doesn’t matter what I wrote last night- or if my laptop has fallen on the floor, or if the smell of every part of warm female body fills the room. I am content and tired, and the warm breathing of life; a breathing stronger than the breathing of existence matters- but that’s all.
In my room before the day breaks, i consider what I know the events of morning will smother, so I may properly appreciate their sinking existence. Soon Mother will come in; and the cat will jump off the bed and love her more than he loves me. The light will pour in and the years I have made of sleep-euphoric seconds will evaporate. Mother will chuckle with smiling lips and say “What are you silly girls doing?” and we will get up; go to breakfast.  And  I’ll want to cry and it won’t make sense to my mother, my sister, or my cat.
 I accept that no one will feel my silence and starvation, and no one will know this magic because they all slept away their nights.  I’m tired too, I need all the blankets, security, and warmth I can take- because I am so drained and sore. The bitter frostbite of independence is thwarted by sharing the blue circles, but still, i anticipate a chill.
While I brace myself for morning, I can feel the sun coming up. I wish that it could come quietly and quickly into my room like my sister does. I wish the sun could respect my half-awake, my pushed sense of security. But I know: it’s the sunrise, that lets my little euphoria-my simple existence, exist.  I lay in bed with my chilly back against the wall and my sweaty hair against my pillow- and envision the morning coming behind my closed eyelids.  I don’t dare open my eyes to see, and lose this blissful sleepiness.  I don’t dare sleep. I don’t dare rise to live knowing I wasted perfectly warm comfort not knowing how comfortable imperfection can be when shared.
Everyone is barely asleep here in this instant- and I’ve grown too tired to smell the coffee beans rise and hear mother clear her throat as she drags up the stairs. I still have a couple of minutes where it is dark. I get to be comfortable and I don’t have to worry or stir for just a little bit longer. And I’m not alone, so I can’t die. I can’t let my life, that turned to existence, turned to a comfortable lack of vigor, starve me.
I am in the weakness before the strength. My favorite part. The only part where no one is allowed to ask anything of me. Where it is okay to be right where I am, only a little bit sustained and feeling content.  Only here, in this weakness can I embrace being alive without needing to live, and thus feel what it is to exist. Where It is okay to know I’m not dead, if only because I have someone next to me to remind me to breathe.
For my last couple of minutes in existence before sunrise, I just breathe. I don’t count my chins or see my stomach and I know no one else does- no one is judging me. And I’m comfortable, we’re comfortable and we’re warm. I hope that everyone knows this feeling. I hope to everyone this contentment is normal.
Then I hear them, footsteps on the stairs. I sink my head below the green plaid to extend my euphoria as long as possible. I anticipate everything in that stillness as my last minute becomes but a second, a moment. I can hear the coffee beans scream good morning as they are ground, I see my mother check her teeth in the bathroom mirror. I feel my cat lift his head as he too anticipates it all. Last, I feel the hunger that punches my gut and means I am ready to live.  I sigh and I hold my breath-
 I wait for the door to creak. I wait for my mother to clear her throat. I wait for my cat to abandon me. I wait.  I exhale and stretch flat against the springs of my mattress- and they creak a coppery, “goodbye” to me, waking my sister. They are the first and last voice of my favorite time.
And the laptop on the floor lets too much light in when the door opens, and I’m forced to see faces. They smile and giggle and rise and shine under the orange glow. I can’t bear to tell them what they’ve taken for granted- what they’ve cut short.  Instead I hurdle forward- force my chin to straighten, my stomach to quiet and my lips to smile. I feed the starvation in me that I so love and hate. It’s breakfast time at home, and for life, I am hungry.
Good morning. 

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Gas Stations

In the backseat
 I remember wanting the comfort of a diet coke,
And contemplating how I would phrase asking for a stop-
Because the tank was sustained.
I told you I was thirsty daddy.
And you told me you would stop only,
If I agreed to say those nasty things.
So I spoke those words-
And you swallowed them hard,
And excreted them back into the car-
As the sick sediment of laughter.
And that day,
There was sorrow instead of soda
At the gas station.

In the passenger’s seat
On trips hours and hours south
With your bible on my lap,
And my feet on the dashboard
I remember praying,
That the breaks would squeak to me
The sound of freedom.
I imagined the faces and polo-pinned name plates-
Of the people who would greet me on the other side,
As we ventured further south.
Still the heat was too much Daddy,
I never belonged.
And it wasn’t your fault Daddy,
But I always just wanted to stop.
At the gas station.

Riding shotgun I pleaded;
Let me pump gas Daddy.
I was equipped, and I longed to show you,
That we shared a skill-
That I’d learned to have something in common with you.
No you replied to me.
Pumping gas is a man’s work.
And I learned then,
That I belonged inside.
And I was only good for payment,
With you-
At gas stations.

In a car with you,
Wherever we may have been,
I have always needed fuel.
 On our southern sabbaticals,
Accompanied by your lies and my accent
I prayed to see a smile
From someone on the outside of my caged and moving prison.
And it just may have been you all that time  Daddy,
That made me so eager to break.
You could only ever trap me at top speed Daddy
So you taught me who I am
Getting to gas stations.

this will probs be redrafted. Maybe i'll post that too, you know, exemplify the writing process and such goodness. haha.