An Afternoon

I remember being sprawled on the dock, belly down,
tick-tocking my feet to ground, to sky,
and watching as you let the reel turn a transparent thread
into turgid pond water.

With ease you pulled the line back to-
such grace,
slick and trusting.
Intrigued, my eyes bobbed as the lure
dove and exposed itself silently.
Even the reeds leaned in, curious;
even the water's ripples lingered to witness
the catch.

Then, without warning, the line took.
Your hook pierced.
I drew and released
the air.

And I still recall how the creature fought,
how you leaned down and sweetly kissed its wounds.

afraid of the light

she never marveled at mirages
never dazzled at diamonds
because things that sparkle and shine
can singe and blind the eyes
so she painted grey matter
gradients from white to black
light to black
even the good became bad when it wasn't.

and mirages turned to nightmares mid-day
and diamond-edged thoughts pricked her psyche
and bruised her ego with its punches.
it was a violent thought process,
for in the recesses of her memory
his past became part of their present and even prettier than it ever was
in photographs

so when she held these jealous woman-made pictures to
the prettiest face of all,
her lover's,
she hovered, haunted by imagination
hoping he'd ignore the sheen
and glistening photographic memory of them
but he just shifted his gaze in frustration, for he never saw it that way,
never gave the same image the luster she envied
and her tangled green smothered his golden rays
so he left her to burn in the ashes.
to sift through the evidence that never was
to relate the facts that never were
and come to the conclusion that,
he was actually
just happy
with her.

Self-Portrait

Pixelated and skewed you see me.
Like literature, this picture is up to individual interpretation
for there is no right answer
but, even if you lifted the layers
and unplastered this paper-mâchéd facade,
you couldn't decipher the dimensions of
who I am
and who can?
When role-playing becomes reality
and we grasp onto someone else in losing ourselves
where do we go to be found in the first place?
We find comfort in categories
and clarity in binaries
and the divide widens to what would seem to be truth,
but is more truthfully hypocrisy,
and if it's worded prettily, we'll quote it directly
so we use our words carelessly-
I mean, carefully.
And what complex creatures we are-
to be one thing and a simultaneous contradiction
it's like we're straddling identity lines in fear of which side will strike first
the ones our heart calls for, or that others call us to be
it's all quite confusing when you look at it.
But maybe that's why first impressions are so full of fallacy
the eyes playing tricks on the mind on the masses
we've become so accustomed to trusting attractive appearances
and so ignorant of appreciating qualities that matter more
but we can barely blame ourselves...
But we have to,
at some point.
For it's when we keep looking to others to explain just how
fucked up some of our own thinking is
that we truly lose face.
When we truly lose sight of who we are
or,
at least,
who we want to become.
And you're standing at the mirror now.
A portrait of a person painfully painting the picture of someone you're not,
and though it's not a complete forger
not entirely an illusion
and there are parts of the real you underneath that seep through,
you've been buried somewhere so far below since birth
even you can barely notice that
you're actually
an original.
Sometimes your words will spill out onto your shirt
in an unflattering shade
and your lips won't move quite the way the other's ears are perched for
but that's the point of discussion-
it's not always about being agreeable.
But never believe you have it all figured out either
because that's the kind of confidence that truly kills
and stunts the stilts on which you work towards
So sip on words and eat books for breakfast
don't rest until you've exhausted every avenue to walk through
and then move the way you've always wished to
say the things that stir up steam-
find meaning in the search for yourself.
And this includes making mistakes
and feeling like a complete ass
only to learn, and to fail, and then
to fail better.
And, yes, we all play a part.
Even as I stand up here, knowing and realizing there's no other way than being judged
I ask that you challenge every thought in your head and its origin.
Admit just how inaccurate you likely are and find comfort that
it's not about being right.
It's about being conscious.

September 20, 2010

for Mandy Meyer

Today, the tin roof sings torrential rain
but the lilies bloom in the vase and
it's my birthday.
But it's your day, too.
Not just because it's a Monday
and Mandy has a similar sound
it's just that September could've been June
and maybe you'd still be in Texas.

My students made me a card.
"Happy Birthday, Ms. M," it read,
and since we share the same initials
that card is meant for the both of us.

I'm twenty-five today,
and, oh, the numbers of things.
Twenty-five years old
and nearly twenty-five days ago we sowed
your twenty-five-year-old seeds into the earth
and covered them with flowers.
Maybe even lilies.
The similarities really are startling.

Like river reflections
I'm in the sun, and you're drowning.
I dodge rocks that ripple your currents
and erode all the rest.
My mountaintops- your valleys,
because, although reflections mirror the same lines,
smiles and frowns are two different entities,
and I'm sorry we didn't save you.
That forces greater than us all
condensed into pebble-sized shape
and capsized all boats in those waters.

And it's true, Mandy, that you don't know what you have
until it's gone.
Until I'm in your living room just next door
eating finger foods and talking to your grandparents about you
in the past tense
And as I sift through river-bottom sand
seeing only sadness
I'll remember your beauty.
I'll imagine you,
standing nearby,
with the weight of your face lifted,
your burdened heart, finally soothed.

Empty-Nesting

Dearest speckled feathered thing
tethered to tattered past
fallen into sidewalk cracks
somewhere far from home
I found you in the back of a classroom
Plumage marked with well-masked scars and burns buried beneath bones, but
you were beautiful
And no one in that room knew you held such knowledge
Knowing the pains of childbirth
and which lines to sign on the adoption papers
Knowing both your parents
but wishing neither's addictions you favored
Knowing the best ways to find drug money success
and the hands of your uncle going up your Sunday dress
You were a fragile bird
a hatchling
with a history far too heavy to be only seventeen
and you looked past me
Glazed-over gaze played shy, but your brilliance couldn't hide
your talents talking for you, your tears reflecting through you
so I collected rocks after school-
trying to protect you from those amused with
shattering glass houses
and it wasn't until I witnessed your history bleed out of you
in a 2 A.M. hospital room and you said
you were afraid to go home
Though home couldn't quite describe the one bedroom you slept scared in
sharing with ten other occupants between jail cells and transition, so
I took you as my fowl
covered you in quilt on my couch
before I could flick the lights you were out
and I realized
This was the safest sleep you'd had in a long time
and in not much time the spare room became guest room
title from teacher to guardian without much guidance
and it was hard
And I was too naive to see the lunches I packed
and purchases of bras and socks in long need of replacement I made
only put space between us
My efforts to nurse built boulders, your heart became stone
living under one roof we both felt alone
and I remember
The image of your mother through the window
We sat in silent meal and she saw you
Stumbling onto the street
the people around us gasped at her, gawked, laughed at her
her limbs flailing in alcohol waltz she called to you
Through the clear she yelled for you and I could see
you were ashamed
So I opened my wing
and tucked you under
and after much struggle
you nuzzled me
And though you left the tree early,
though I'm not the typical empty-nesting story
I still believe I did the best I could
And you've lifted now-
flown into the arms of the Armed Forces
finally found a place to keep safe from the crag throwers
crack owners
those who prey on brooding baby birds, but
I still shift in my twigs
Still hope for the strength of your wings
hope that you when you plunge into the sky
you don't fall but ride the air that moves between friend and foe
and know
I'll forever gather loose stones
and think of you.

[concerning death]

the fascination

keeps me moving.

lunging into corners

startling silence with musings,

i can't help but wonder.

the unnaturalness

against how natural it is,

the sadness

mixed with the need to know

every. gruesome. detail.

the awe of

blinding, flashing, brilliance,

and the disappointment in anything less.

the desire to conquer the one power

we could never defy...

and why can't we ever find the words?

we use wreaths and black sheaths

to say we're sad

but what should we speak

when faced with fact?

since eulogies are only acceptances

of awards not realized alive,

and obituaries the only details we can bare to share,

headstones just name tags to fallen faces,

words fail us.

and i fail words...

for i can't find the right combination

to offer mourner.

i fidget, lower my head

in reverence of a place

i don't quite believe in.

i send cards with generalities,

and give space that doesn't save a person

any pain.

i don't want to be a

fake friend or family member

telling easy stories when all i wish to do is

take blanket and bury myself

until i am ready.

and i am not ready...

to talk about it.

but when i am,

we can share our hand-sown stitches,

in lazy late afternoon,

in 3 a.m. urgency

for there is no comfortable position

to take the call telling you

someone's gone.

the spaces between our bones and flesh

that keep count of our losses

the ticks and tallies

of the many pricks to our pride

our hope

our faith

are crevassed and cared for, in private.

and we have no words

no way to relate

that we don't know what it means

to never be the same.

so we use music,

affection,

letters,

flowers,

food

to translate.

we all have lost,

and from our own empty

we can read these gestures.

for you are lacking,

and i understand.

Toying...

Paper-mâché  me around your wrist

a cast to call the time, to be your watch

Bead me through your ears

and hear me dangle

Braid my body to beautify yours

your masterpiece; your art

It's a travesty the sign reads "Do Not Touch"

for you stand in a museum now

in a glass case, as memorabilia,

as a token of a love short-lived

and I want to unlock you and

spend the afternoon in play- only this time,

you'd let me win

and this time

it'd only be a game and we'd be okay at sundown.

And I wouldn't have pushed you away

for envy, insecurity,

like the hummingbird

who knows the more honey she seeks

the closer to her defeat she becomes

I couldn't help myself.

I loved, but I never learned a love that

lets things happen as they may,

that hands hearts to fate and feels okay with it.

Sometimes, I think, you have to make things happen.

And I make things.

I create,

and we are a collage.

A couple.

Me- gluing my life

to yours,

cutting my life

to suit yours,

the colors both compliment and contrast

it was a fast project what we made.

And the pride I felt

holding it up to the light,

watching our faces dance

by my hand's movements,

but you can't bring picture perfect to life that way...

Though my memory sees our caring arts and crafts game-

it fails to remember

the quiet rustle of wastebasket

and the scraps that never were

quite contained.

For Taylre

Your hands are elegance, Grammy’s rings
on the right
and left indexes,
Fresh
polish
sheen,
There’s a history in those hands.


Creamed corn recipe,
Repairing of hems,
A perfect back scratching
And Miss Mary Mack (Mack, Mack…)


Those graceful hands,
Those weapons used for good,
You always understood the right thing.
Your fingers paint portraits,
Form families, catch stars.
Your hands do all the things
That in your dreams you are capable.
And I dream of you,
skyline in your eyes,
standing on the overhang,
hands open, palms up,
listening,
waiting,
offering.

with disregard

if only you could read me, in explicit rhyme
the light from the stars would spell it out
the waves in the curtain would say,
"Here's how she feels today!"

if only you could smell it, as stark
as the scent of your childhood kitchen,
of your own week-old socks to see
that you don't understand me.

we are the ears that function without feeling,
the moment that happens without thinking.
i am the passing leaf-
energetic, but unheard in the wind.

and each time i speak in an aside
i wish you wrote it, i want you
to view this scene like an audience,
like a presence that seeks the shift,
that notices the sawing pitch of every sigh.

When Only Words Just Aren't Enough

Only when words just aren't enough-
When?
Only when.
JUST WORDS.
NOT ENOUGH.
words.
Only words.
Only, enough.

an anxious alphabet

thetemperature
d
r
o
p
sandthebodyreacts
beyondphysiologicalhabits
thistimeyourmindisthecatalyst
thisconVULsionandskinJUMPing
offtendonsthetensionofneck
andelbowstuckedclose
toyourwRiThInGform-
it's panic.
youarecrying
withnocontrolandtryingto
remindyourselfthatnoonedies
fromthisbutyourlipsare
flu-tter-ingbreath s l o w s to
the most
comotose
pose.
Before you know it,
it's over.
And instead of celebration
in its departure,
you linger on fear
of their return.

DRIFTING

To turn the hull around,
to work the wheel against the way
the waves always cycle
is the only choice to make.
The only soothing sail I set
my sights on relies on
my powers of persuasion.
To no longer feed the needs I
breathe upon,
from no lightness of your care
I stay afloat,
a bright-faced buoy, a barnacle on stranded
sandbar somewhere,
bobbing in the same way
as if customary.
Waters rise and falter,
currents propel and lull,
the depths of the ocean known
only by ones who sink completely.
And yet I'm adrift,
ignorant of reassuring shore,
unnerved by nibbles and dartings
I sense beneath me.

A Typical Magician

You read the scripted map-
cryptically attractive words
repeated from the page I reveal each day.
With the movements, the syllables,
you solidify your station
from miles away.

What an inscrutable measure of distance-
close enough to touch knuckles, twist limbs,
yet disconnected deep within
the skin I sweat against.
You've never been living in more remote place while
leaving breath fresh on my face.
It's the best damn magic trick there's ever been.

I remember the game you perfected-
guessing the card I chose after a swift shuffle
and cut
of the deck.
It was impressive, I admit, but
the fact I allowed you
to confess yourself to me in such
obvious metaphor without
enforcing the door ashames me still.
I knew the logic behind it
but didn't have gall enough
to call you out.
No wonder you were so good;
your crowd poses herself
easily pleased.

Fingers flicking like grease
through options,
your eyes remain fixed on the floor.
You read my action,
hid reaction,
answered every turn in deceptive truth.
The correct card.
The exact suit.
The game that does nothing but
awe the guesser into being satisfied
with loss.

Myopia

The pinhole cameras we made in art class-
You perch them on a ledge, on the ground
and allow the sun to set the image,
a timed experiment of what will fade, what will remain.
And from this handheld cardboard box
a picture forms, forms of figures frozen
in paper-light poses.
Your arms were crossed,
your legs balancing on tiptoes,
your face indistinct and underexposed.
And I hold the photo in my hands now,
and I can't recall what the light did
as it hit your transparent eyes.

Not an Occasion for Flowers

His parts fit her holes perfectly,
she, supposing he fills in those missing,
and what would have been if she missed
him kissing the other before her?
Would she have sensed it on him-
the remnants of relations he wanted
neither keep nor throw away?
Though, can he be blamed for his parts
that bring him to the lair but
made the loveless?
But can her gender, her being, her female
believe that a man must lust to be living?
That there lies no meaning in the dreaming
of another woman’s part?
Or that of one much younger,
because doesn’t every male hunger
for the fresh-cut slit
of tender sandwiched meat?
And where does love slide in
when her hollow dip
is just another tip-filled piece
to an unmatchable mystery?
How can you and I,
Stem and Petal,
ever truly be growing in earnest?
And how can we deny the echoes of evolution?
My invisible clock ticking
with your need to tock any body that's fecund,
you want to feel the fruits of your labor
while I just want to sit at the table with
ONE hunter gatherer,
MY homo sapien that craves the taste of only these juices,
a single rectangle made for this solitary circle,
but broken hearts in cyclical loss
turn shattered spokes into sad spoken word.
I may be a realist,
but I want that positive spin.
And the truth is
this rationalizing
is useless-
it's science that has screwed us.
The tides of centuries past crash
leaving you, learning what I yearn for
and perfecting deceptions
while I look in your eyes for sensitivities
never in your possession,
it's senseless.
But I still find myself tearing the spines
of science textbooks
fingering shorn edges of papers
and pretending it's not survival of the fittest
but of the wisest.
The ones who know the truth about women and men
and live happily without harmony.
I know that it's in your nature to stray
that when you smell the fibrous cut of the bone your tongue salivates
that you're battling instincts you never knew existed within you
but I can't accept there is no resolution
from these tragic revolutions of loves lost and found
hearts torn and bound
faith imploding on itself
We hold so much within ourselves
No, this,
is not an occasion for flowers.
You: stem,
me: petal,
we will never truly be growing
together
forever
in earnest.

Joyride

I like the window half-way.
I like the way your hand,
the clutch,
the brake.
If only the others knew of these days
we ride with the top down.
You squint your eyes
at passerbys,
my eyes askew at you,
cruising to the beat
of a nameless song-
a melody
to which only young-at-hearts
can sway.
And the summer winds
come.
And the heat
cools the nerve.

MINE

a one-act play

By M.E.

CHARACTERS:
Myself
Me
I

SETTING:
The coffee shop-
(It's local).

SCENE:
An afternoon.

ME:
Man, I'm thirsty.
MYSELF:
And hungry.
I:
for, meat.

ME:
Creep.
MYSELF:
Interesting-
I:
Honest?

ME:
Do you realize
MYSELF:
that everyone you know
I:
someday

(ALL):
will die.

ME:
Just because you quote The Flaming Lips doesn't make you hip.
MYSELF:
This is an organic coffee shop.
I:
And there's live music here. And art. Shi-shi, yes.

ME:
I wonder if I fit in.
MYSELF:
I wonder if I stick out.
I:
I wonder if I would like me, were I not myself.

ME:
So, I was thinking, is there a better way to be, a better version of, myself?
MYSELF:
Always.
I:
And?

ME:
Sometimes, I become this person, this me that's very real, but very compartmentalized. Some parts swell up and others shrink away, if only for a minute.
MYSELF:
Like that science experiment, where you put the balloon on the end of the beaker. It blows it up, it sucks it back. Compression, de-
I:
-pression.

ME:
Well, I just mean I know who I am but I let myself change colors, out of boredom. Out of the need to be perched on a branch, and turned spotted.
MYSELF:
A chameleon?
I:
Scales.

ME:
I sound so Emo.
MYSELF:
SO emo.
I:
Whatever, you.

ME:
(shifts in chair)
MYSELF:
(glances back and forth, between the two)
I:
(yawns)

ME:
I gotta head out.
MYSELF:
Got a date?
I:
With myself.
ME:
Cute.
MYSELF:
Clever.

ME:
Let's do this again sometime.
MYSELF:
Yeah, we could meet here, say, every Thursday?
I:
Can't. Sewing class.
ME & MYSELF:
(in unison)
LAME.

ME:
Too good for us.
MYSELF:
You can't be that busy.
(I casually picks up her books, busses her mug, and walks offstage.)

ME:
I...don't understand.
MYSELF:
Neither do we.
ME & MYSELF:
(in unison) Hmph.

[Curtain.]

The Ability to Live a Lie

I don't know how I acquired such a skill
to live an entire life beyond the one you know of.
And I was born of you; I came from you and grew to what you
think I am now.
If you only knew.
Sometimes when I'm driving I cry over what I'd feel
if you were gone.
I can barely take a breath,
a crooked sink pipe or a frozen flower,
heavy in ice.
My throat buckles, because in the front row
would be a person you didn't know
was part of the family.
Did you know your child had a child?
Not from my own, but loved just the same.
To think- I call you every day. I tell you of the tales,
the happenings, and every night you rest your head
easy, knowing I'm okay.
I want
more than anything
to tell you the whole story,
though I'd rather know you're rested.
I'd rather imagine your eyes at peace
than be free of the guilt
I wake to-

Creature of Habit

You're not a monster,
but an animal.
Your hair gets stroked,
and you escape,
from under the rusted hole
in the backyard,
unnoticed.
I've refilled your water bowl,
and watched you drink
for days.
Sometimes, when I'm down
I hear you scratch at the door
and allow you to lay your chin
in my lap.
When your eyes asked me
to trust you not to go
into the neighbor's flowers,
I clicked the collar
and shouted in vain
as your paws returned,
stained.
But I can't reprimand.
Can't force you
into your cage.
I know when you smell the
fibrous cut of the bone
your tongue salivates.
I know it's only in your nature
to stray.

The Naming of Dolls

I was always afraid of the porcelain ones
you lined along the shelf of my bedroom wall-
jellybean eyes that filed downward
when I was in the wrong,
shearing my name in the dark.

You wanted me to be like them-
perfectly polished, coifed, cute,
in order to make a good impression
on those who would never get the chance
to know me at all.

I would shape my hair precisely
the way you had in your pictures-
your arms were smaller,
but your head remained the same.
I seemed to favor my father...

And then the year came, when you called me Anomaly
and allowed me to stub bare feet
on roots born long ago.
And from that moment I found myself
pining for your eyes
in any angle of mine.

Acquiring the Taste

I've been told I'm growing up,

becoming older and more mature,

and I sign the lease myself

and I place the plates

back on the shelf.

Independence, I've found

is like its name

in that many times

it means

being alone.

I've become settled in,

and I drive down the street,

but the snow-capped treetops

aren't as inspiring

without a shoulder to tap,

to say, Turn

take a look.

And I've nearly forgotten

what it's like

to have another hand

hold the wheel.

But the waitress knows

where to place the check,

and I can really stretch

my arms in a theater.

Lately I've found myself watching

couples waltz at weddings

while I trace the ring

around the base

of my wineglass.

In circles.

In awe.

To Disagree

We continued to have
the same fight
of who knew first.
I still think I win.
Because I consider
the damp night
at Egan’s
when I gave you
the eye and saw you
receive it.
Or when I happened upon
your office door,
the blinds cutting at
your collarbone,
and I entered—you with your
cooling soup and
nonchalance.
Without flinching,
you let me finger
the scar down the back
of your neck.
The Cuban café,
sweetened condensed milk,
our knees pointing to
each other’s joints
from scooted bar stools.
I knew before all that.
And the art show,
with her in hand,
her plum eyeshadow,
your goosebumped
arms’ slack grip.
And after.

And then.
When I followed your scribbled
directions, led me
behind the bakery,
your black t-shirt approaching
in hasty step.
We sat on
the futon, pretending
to be engaged in the box
of photographs, so attentive
to one another’s
chests, rising and falling
and catching.

That’s when you said it.
And to speak it was not
nearly as smooth as the
feeling it. But I was still
first, you know.
I came to believe you that night
at the reading.
That elongated room
of unfamiliar people,
all staring at your
hand on my leg,
at us, unfazed
by such tradition.
That was the best reading
of your life, you said,
and it felt like
a film reel,
proverbial,
revived.
Recall the days
of blustery walks
past the taco stand where
Nate greeted us by name.
Remember October
when you wore the wallflower
costume I painted,
the plastic rose poking
your skin through the cardboard.
What about my birthday song,
the vacuum cleaner you doodled
on the copy, initials smeared
at the bottom.
It was of these things I began
to erase.
The trips I made
less frequent.
The bakery light dimmed.
The photographs shifting into
another frame of what was.
And I was first.
And you were
there,
left in the afterward.

BREAK TIME

I work in the basement
underneath the sandwiched layers of
the bustle and the buck,
the corrupt, chug, chug, get to the
top
from bulky men in polished striped
suits that pucker, stuff
their breaths.

I wander
out back, slender women break
for cigarette snack, chatter cracking
broken walls and laughter sways,
c’mon, don’t play
they scold one another,
hands on hips, lips that have
long since let that go.

DREAMCATCHER

Cusp my highest hope
in the roped sinews of your
weaving, my dreaming
and its meaning in a ring.
You knew it before I
made it a thought, dressed
up in taut, sequined fancy.
You allowed the vapors
to enter your web and
collect at the plumed ends-
a developed composition
of all of the beauty
I have ever known.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

An indiscernible hourglass overturns
As two players stake their places
Intentions clean and
Defenses hanging
BOOM.
They’re off.

A harbored sadness slenders
When couple does way with heed
Belly laughs
And anxiousness
BANG.
The dust…

An expected inquiry arises
As one shifts in picnic seat
Flags wave as
Fingers recoil
BAM.
It’s gone.

Before that time at Weaver Street
Until that night on patterned sheet
Upon that day you stroked my face
With a wetted yellow cloth

Before that time in my gravel drive
Until that storm that made me cry
Upon the day after the 4th
When we asked the hardest ones

And we answered it was done.

\1ləv\:

Even the slightest abrasion
leaves a mighty crimson pool
The most discreet of secrecies
impossibly subdued
Every paradigm accepted –
rejected without cost
Even those on the right track
become miserably lost
The bitter, the sweet,
the tangy and tired,
the strong, the weak, the willing
It’s the insatiable satisfaction felt
and the emptiness of filling

THE SWIM

He calls on a whim. But there’s more
lurking round the bend for them. He cuts
his ties and dives in head first- making a
monster of a splash.

He squeezes her shoulder while walking by with a grin,
looks her in the eye when they speak.

They listen to music. She tells him what
she’s thinking, and he’s always glad to hear.
Sometimes they touch on the pains of the
past. The sting of such isn’t what it used
to be-

They watch movies. A brief shower to a long
stretch of time on their backs—the most
comfortable mattress. Another late night talking deep into dark…

Another quiet prayer for protection from the shark.

TIME, a stream of consciousness

—can both flash and stand still
Depends on where you are, in your life, your mind
In love?
And when in love,
The time spazzes most violently
You yearn for its spokes to slow, to savor each second
Or when you’re in the missing, you swat it to scurry
You light a match, beneath its heel, hoping it runs faster
And as age gets me, time finds a steady stride
And that light, that flicker, rides along
Knowingly

When I was seven,
Frozen in the fettered photograph
My father’s cap, my face in shadows

I thumb the frame, dust puffs rise
And I focus to see the reflection of the camera
In Grandfather’s eye
Hoping to learn the secret
To living.

Flash.
A photograph.
A second.

d
e
v
e
l
o
p

envelop

me, in this place where space
and time do not exist
and there’s me
and there’s you
and there’s we.

Expansion, compression,
Division, dimension.


Let’s seize this, and slip into
A mindset where we justify our demons
And leave out all the rest,
For time’s sake.

On the back of a box of tea I read the wisdom
To revel.
And I warmed the water
Dipped the satchel
And sat with myself in
My minute, in my mind,
And when I tipped the tip of the
Cup to my lips, it was
cold.

The slave owner, the evil stepsister,
The embezzler who sucks you for all you’ve made
And then blows you off a cliff

What about Prometheus?
Does he hold the concept of time
In his clenched fist, behind his back
While the vultures sift and pick his insides?
And in heaven, if time becomes suspended,
How do you make memories, and what
Do you make of moments?
And what then, of Satan’s understanding
Of the burden, the weight, the silent killer
Of slowly churning seconds
Charred
burning his ability
To recognize what is
Hallucination, and what
Is all from within
himself?

Living in my today, I see the choice I’ve made
To be content
But todays don’t have worths without
Making plans, being patient,
For the tomorrows.

Torture
Insight
Mind’s
Eye

Never enough t—

Dig me up from under what is covering the better part of me.

Suffering, is a choice.
And, so is happiness.
You have the option, and just how cool is that?

You can be healthy and young and in shape, but stress starts to pick away at your telomeres that protect your DNA from destruction, making you age at a much faster pace. That freaks me out, and now I'm causing it to happen even more swiftly by worrying over worrying.

I want to work on my "word" being "impeccable"--to not use them against myself or against others. I also want to learn not to take things too personally and to stop making assumptions. These are the tips I've been looking into from this Toltec wisdom book. The only thing is, besides the fact that it would be hard to do any of the aforementioned, is that doing these 'harmful' things have become this part of me- this punishable baby girl whose wrist I slap but whose sparkly eyes get me every time. If she's forced to go, what will become of this new, transformed me? It's in our nature to fear change, and embracing it seems best. But I don't know what it's like to literally look at the world in a completely new way. Like a child, vulnerable and terrified and in awe of what the trees look like when love sings from the tips of branches.

That's what this book seems to be promising me.

So I can choose to convince myself that I'm taking steps in the right direction. Becoming more WISE, yes.

In the meantime, I'm going to continue to drink love from the speakers of my laptop. Without my little soundtrack I'm blaring, these quizzes would never be scored. Motivation, you are my bitch lover.

Swim, swim on

Liquify, thoughts. Then drain yourselves. Collect into a perfect pot or cup or droplet of something I can taste. It's cold and I'm clogged and it doesn't make sense to me at the moment. I can't get out of my mind most of the time. And from its ceiling, by the folds and the ridges, dangles the light behind my eyes. The fog saunters, and the clouds lap over. Burn, burn, and delay the water from rising again.

BIRD SONG

The neighbor’s macaw pestered all visitors,
mocking the noises of signal or song.
No words could he mutter of human endeavor,
but of croaks and of squawks all evening long.
But my mother, he’d mimic
her abounding laugh,
no sound as replete as this.
Despite lacking candor,
forgiveness; regret-
It’s the richness of laughter I miss.

HATCHLING

Dearest speckled feathered thing,
Doe-eyed, tender, tethered string
To hollowed, ceaseless past.
Did she keep you just to hurt you?
Did he leave you just the same?
You barely had a name before you fell
Out of your nest and into the crack
Of the walkway.
Your shoulders weren’t creamy enough,
Though your nose far too slim
For any of the broods
To flock too close.

And how can one be territorial
When she’s never felt at home?

An Explanation of Wall Décor

She didn’t believe in photographs. Just the frames, outlining white space on the wall next to the fireplace. The other walls weren’t dirtied enough—the residual smoke from preceding fires fingerprinting pigments of soot into shadows of clouds. The frames were of all sizes. Two, bordered like windows, set the scene for the others, and smaller rectangular ones, antique ones with the paint chipped at the corners, sporadically sat upon a grayscale landscape. The woman had asked her, Why just the frames, and then commented on how the place seemed comfortable. Her answers to that repeated question changed monthly, depending on the barometer. Sometimes, the obvious, was because the UV rays would cause degradation of the photographs. In August she enjoyed explaining her childhood fear of haunted portraits, as, from any vantage point, she could have sworn that the shaded gazes seemed to trace each of her past steps, and know each she was to attempt before she had even decided. But her favorite reply, the one she clung to until her hair turned, was that she had lost all of her belongings in a horrific house fire, the only surviving items being her keyring and mantle clock. Ever since, she refused to develop any visual representation, any photograph, for fear of suffering yet another loss of them. She answered, this again, standing by the mantle, feeling the warmth of the flames and avoiding looking directly into the pit so as not to burn any image of red, of amber, of blue, onto the backs of eyelids closed.

It was never meant to be read

Those thoughts I penned
in navy night
the rotted pages
salt
lava-lead from armpit pockets
meant for stench
of secret faults

I told it all my vices
allowed my ugly to face front
locked my conscience, plainly folded
in the corner of the trunk
as, on the table, open-ended
insults bleeding wooden stains
the sirens that had silenced
spun again

and you were here,
curled like a fistful
lying backward at my spine
breathing
to the rhythm
of unspoken,
unforgivable rhyme

MY FATHER, MY SELF:

Maybe the reason is that he was just recently in town, here visiting a weekend, in my new home of Carrboro, NC. Or maybe it’s just the way I’ve always seen him—perhaps I’ve always imagined him this way. He’s up early, dressed and pressed, smelling of soap and aftershave. And he’s not looking this way for himself. Humility shields this man of any pretense. He wants to reflect well upon me. Though he fails to take credit that all he is proud of in me is a direct reflection of the best in him.

Daddy came to school with me, to my classroom. I was nervous about it, for superficial reasons, but mainly I felt excited. Heavy-hearted. I believe that it is rare for a daughter, and the same goes for my sister, to have such an unequivocal love for her father. Usually it’s the parent caring and providing, going through the growing pains and drifting currents developing children often follow. But there is no shred of embitterment here—I still palm in my little hands the idea that Daddy’s my hero and he can do no wrong. That will always stay with me.

I don’t know what it’s like to be looking back, as he described it, to be reflecting upon years gone by. I’m trying to survive and comprehend my today. And I follow my finger across the stories of successes and tribulations my father has lived—a stalwart, unyielding champion of strength, of integrity, of honor. A surprisingly funny, charming man with a genuine, deliberate demeanor, a keen sense of style, and one hell of a tennis serve.

I wish that for my Dad’s sixtieth birthday I could rummage through his past, sift through the memories, and bag and bottle up every last moment that filled his heart of hearts with satisfaction. I want to bundle up pride in a bullet-proof package. I wish to bind together laughter and ridiculous jokes galore. Because for people like him, people you consider to embody what’s pure and real and good in life, you want to give the best. You want to give back the impossible gifts which you’ve felt fortunate to receive.

But I’m not the best of daughters. I fall short in expressing my gratitude, in designing my plans to celebrate my favorite man on earth on his very special day, in a way that does it any justice. Though I hope he does notice that the path of independence I’m taking, the goals I’m dreaming to reach, the person I’m bleeding profusely to become, is because of the passage he’s trudged through to get here. I am living my life in hopes of priding in him.

So Daddy, if you wondered what it meant to me, for you to be the leader in my life, just take the pride you hold for your daughters, and multiply.

Happiest day to you, Daddy-O/Poppa/Diddy/Dah Dah/Daddy.
I am overcome.

Yours always,
Kensie

Satan Says: Cheers Mackensie!

This is what Sharon Olds inscribed to me in her collection Satan Says.

At the end of the day, I am handed a package.
A thin, white priority mail.
I pull the tab, and a red bind hides inside
with the perfect, shapely
Sharon Olds signing.

I burst into tears, causing colleagues to stall in confusion.
Thank you.
Thank you, for knowing
with such a care.

Green Rejuvenation:

the name of the tea I tried at the Noodle House Saturday night

This weekend, I traveled to the beautiful Asheville, NC, for a mental break. I went to Black Mountain's Pump House to watch the Lazybirds play and to drink the Pisgah Porter. I saw Bill Maher's Religulous one afternoon. I snuck around a high school baseball field to get into an Obama rally. I drove up the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped at a lookout to take pictures and make a grass bracelet.

-mmmm,
that green rejuvenation; does the trick.

With the end in mind

Starting a new relationship is hard in itself. This is especially so when you come into it envisioning that it will inevitably end. Being a defeatist isn't as crazy as it may seem-- the dating game harbors its demons.

Why is it so hard to just revel in the 'now'? Isn't that the definition of ZEN anyway-- being in the moment, taking each element in, being appreciative of all that surrounds, without thinking of the past or worrying of the future?

I'd say those monks may have had something there...

Blasted conscience.

i want to say

there have been so many times i wanted to write times that my mind has crafted a delicate emotion into a blanket of lace or a well-soiled thought into a perforated canvas but then it passes and it becomes lost in the obligations of today and the wishes of tomorrow and i have so much to say yet i have nothing to say and i don't want to make it about me because i have realized that life is not about me even in the ways that i thought it should be but i am so damn tired and overwhelmed and stuffed full with stifled tears and unknowns and hopes that may not materialize in this life that i can't even express something simple it seems and i can't make anything seem worthwhile but i want to write something anything at all so i've decided that i could at least write this and this is all i can do. right now.

Keepsake

I need file folders, fasteners, to keep each of the feelings
the tellings the rememberings
of things once forgot.
I need wire holders, wrappers, to lock each of the feelings
the tellings the rememberings
of things never got.