You Are Impossibly Beautiful.

http://www.vimeo.com/7920691

what's my secret?

You know, -this isn't a secret, exactly- I sometimes wonder why I grew to be so open that I can't keep anything inside. For me to feel an emotion and not express it is very difficult. Sometimes I wish I were more mysterious. That I could be quiet for thirty minutes and not seem sad or afflicted.

then again..

***

I thought of this just now while watching the faces on the video at the top of postsecret.com and thought of one I'd rather not take the time to send in to Frank. why not attach my name to it?

I wish there were no such thing as gender-bound sexuality. Both to render homophobia impossible, and to make it possible to tell a beautiful woman that I find her attractive without freaking her out :) I envy those beautiful women less often than I hope from the bottom of my heart that they know how much beauty they add to the world.


what's your secret?

Are You Sure?

Things are starting to get a leeetle bit scary;
I thought I was too young to hold on for dear life.

Happy Holidays, Americans

Have a lovely Thanksgiving!

Here's to the last holiday we can wish each other uniformly without fearing political correctness.

Until New Year's,

:)

Amoeba

blood, its traces proof
of desperate, bursting desire
to transpose thoughts exploded
into utterable phrases
fit to cross lips
live air

by even a heart whose finnicky
borders
shimmer across a baked horizon
melt quickly in order to float
evaporate across
borders

twitched veins pumping proof
of throats clogged with sounds
noises, really
living amoebas' lives
refusing language
and taking the form, instead
of bubbling, simmering

weight.
blood drips to fly
not of pain
injury
but of vitality
flying to paint the sky

the sky that finds all faces
not the same
but just the same,
mirrors each dimple, tear
with feverish precision

only one perfectionist the judge
judging slowly
by measurable standards
immeasurable error
and beauty,
no less
no less
than one in the same

United States of Anticipation

I've had a lot to think about over the past few days. My whole life to think about, really. Every aspect of my coming life hid around the corners of an 1800 mile road trip to New York City.

I don't have time to spell it out right now, but I only have...eight months until my life enters a new, inevitable chapter.

I don't know how I feel about that.

Silence

[romantic addiction: http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/]

Fear

[I found this in my journal from a little bit ago. Free material!]

lilted hopes fall from last week's roses,
--overcome by foolish necessity,
varnished with melted fantasy--
endlessly stripped by midnight's fear.

lingering are the echoes of inevitability
across phone lines, hallways, borders
--never quite geared for cake and china,
garnished with buttercream and lost replies,
upstaged by a decrepit gardener--
awaiting a flower's leap of faith.
glowing embers of compatibility
extinguish, making room for dawn.

I dare you

to listen to Beyonce's "Halo" without dancing or singing along.

If you did it just now, you exercised sheer will power. Don't lie.

Physics

If a girl speeds toward a heart
at a constant rate of thirty-seven tears per week,
like a train pulled toward its destination
using different units and time,
how far is she from herself
when she falls into love?
And if a boy speeds toward the mind
at a constant rate of forty-three grins per day,
like a yellow-faced balloon smirking at its toddler
citing different motives and results,
how far is he from love
when he finds himself happy?

Through which tunnels do the smartest crawl
On which clouds do the loveliest float
Near which cross did the holiest hang
Year after year after year
Cradling hopes and dreams and reality
the latter striking all else dead.

My hands belong to him, him, and Him
my heart to them
my hopes to him
my dreams to him
my reality to Him.
What do I have
but the speeding train?

Thought I'd Check In

Hello, all. I hope you're having a fantastic weekend. I'm a tad burned out and still exhausted, but tomorrows keep coming and I'm thankful for that. Could you help me out? I'm buried in the college application process and have hit a wee road block.

"What five words would you use to describe yourself?"

I don't know how to describe myself. I think they'd be best if they came from those who know me. Can you think of one?
*Apparently they're best when atypical--i.e. stay away from responsible, dependable, hard-working, etc...

I now pronounce this blog a think tank!

--comments haven't been emailed to me from Blogger lately...strange. Sorry it took so long to publish all of them!

Promise Me

you will tell me the truth.

you will work towards removing yourself from such an emotionally abusive friendship.

you will use your best judgment.

you will stay my spirit.

you will try and save your money, too.

you will recognize that I try my very hardest.

you will reciprocate.

you will stay in touch.

you realize that I more than want to be here for you. I strive to.

Porcelain

soft consonants trickled from her lips

as though dead air's perfume.

delicate limbs placed deliberate dishes

on obedient stacks, one by one.

her chin crossed a shoulder,

eyes deep and pained.

syllables like orchestral chords

uttered acceptance.

words fall through me/always fool me

I found some cool new people!

Smoke Signals
yaohong
teach us to love.
How to Live
Verbosity to Me
. . .meg. . .

Guess what? Tomorrow, Stephen Baker and I will turn two years of correspondence into there-you-are-in-front-of-me reality.

If 'there-you-are-in-front-of-me reality' weren't such a mouthful, it'd make a cool band name.

***

My heart hurt for real this evening. Physically instead of emotionally. But then I thought about it and realized it hurts a little bit in both senses.

I miss God.
I got really far away all of a sudden, and now my legs hurt from running back with such force.
It's the sort of burn one's happy to embrace.

In case my blog title was no hint, I stick to my guns. [da duh chh]

"You know, I can't think of anyone else who hurt me so much that I made moves to willingly erase them from my life. But you did. Right before you said you're sorry, you miss me, and hate making enemies.

Tough."

...shame on me for loving you like a Pharisee. Shame on me for being content with not forgiving you, for being content with offering only earthly love. I have been redeemed more times than anyone who's not God can count. How dare I, though you're no prodigal son, refuse you due to pride, anger, and contempt. I have done away with these words. You do not treat me like a friend, but I will not treat you like an enemy. I forgive you.

- - -

[Aside from that, I wish I had more writing to offer you. I think once Literary Magazine starts up again, I'll catch on fire. I'm looking forward to it :).]

Night Swimming

bare foot in front of bare foot
down to the edge of the dock.
toes glean the water's ripples,
rendering a nearby skimmer bug
unemployed.

the very same ripples turn moonbeams to serum
fawns to mirrored siblings
trees to towers.
the lake's boundaries never breached,
for the body knows its place.

nature's measure of silence flows freely as wind
always chirping, chattering, chiding
but she is not offended.
this new kind of quiet surrounds.
lonely is an impossible feat.

Little Red Rambling Hood

into a cold sweat breaks,
caffeine-free pulse pumping
--fingers extend past their prime
typing love letters to a squirmy future
that writhes beneath its mask.

musical shards of glass sprinkle brows
tricking melodies to tear at tears
as ear canals flood gates of wrath.
thinking digs the rut the mouse built
while foresight dismantles fairy tales.

Ernestly Emulate

Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a six word short story. He offered, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." He sparked an eternal literary provocation to those who value brevity and multiple meanings. An original:

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

My love,

There's been a misunderstanding.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

I bet you can't write one.
[oooh, blogger trash talk.]

*See Stephen's here.*

May the Fourth Be With You. Tee Hee.

This is the 2nd 4th I've been alone for. "Alone," though, is a relative term, and one of the ways in which I am is quite apparent. But when I dance around the kitchen while my dad bakes cookies and Skye raves in her aviators to "That's Not My Name," I can focus on what and who I'm surrounded by. Really, I always should. It's gotten a lot easier these past weeks.

To the Lucy who ran around the block yesterday to Regina Spektor's melancholy beats, fighting tears and ignoring her target heart rate because 193 bpm cemented her vitality, listen to me. You can be happy. Choose to.


Happy Independence Day, loves. While holding on to the force, reach for peace.

I wish I had the clarity to write more than stream-of-consciousness.

"In this state I shall not remain."

Not only does it rain on the just and unjust alike,
it rains on the Swiss and Australian alike,
the coal miners and CEOs.
And I can't know for sure because I was not in both places at once,
but I'm pretty sure the rain is bigger in North Carolina.
Bullet big.

I like being awake and alone until the playlist reminds me of how alone I could not be.

I'm building things by myself, and that's why they're falling apart. My brothers and sisters in Christ imagine my place in the kingdom to be crucial. In the depths of my psyche, from my tailbone to my toes -- I can feel the same thing. We're all crucial. But on the end of my cruciality I still tag "eventually." And I pray. And I pray and I pray. And I listen. And I smile.

Butane Lighter

"Glass slippers are a pain,
and armor tarnishes."

***

"And when you find you're done with me,
done with me is all you'll be."

Will You?

I had this dream last night that it was a big deal anniversary
that I accidentally found both tiny diamond rings
and the receipt totaling them at $150.
He proposed with the smaller of the two
and pawned the other.

I take this to mean that the economy has a long way to go
and that I will be happy.

(The proposal was untimely and naive, so I declined.
I shouldn't have.
You can't go back in time, and you can't go back in dreams.
I do believe it's worth hoping that tonight's dreaming will find both me and an atmospheric chasm,
repeat itself,
and give me a second chance.
Every day has the potential to change its night, however,
and I may decline again.)

Groo Grux

What I said: "It's sort of a love song album, isn't it?"
What I meant: "I like that five of the thirteen songs make me think of you."

Gretel

slippery
slinkily
slumbers

warmly
willowing
wonders

flowery
finnicky
fumbles

punctually
peppery
pummels

looks back only once
to determine
not his gait, but her whereabouts.

Is That Alright, Yeah

Warning: Uncertain, angsty, love-ridden, midnight-produced musings to follow.

I spend a lot of time planning my independence, which makes me feel like I've been inwardly independent for some time now.

I'm trying not to plan so much and to pray more. Mostly because worrying as much as I've let myself is not healthy. Plus I trust God more than I do me, which is always a good place to be in.

If I spend enough time away from someone, I can usually convince myself that I don't miss them anymore. After a while, I remember why I feel so helpless.

New favorite song: "Details In the Fabric" by Jason Mraz.

Maybe someday I'll meet someone who would write a song for me.

I place myself on a lower tier than the beauty I find all around me. Maybe that's how I assure that I'll always humbly work towards beauty and appreciate what's naturally beautiful.

I've created a playlist that will get me through heartbreak. Jeez, I hope it will.

I got really close this one day to deciding that I have the ability to let go of my heart and let it feel what it feels, as deep as it can. I felt as though I was knowingly throwing it off of a cliff. I reined it back in.

http://dearoldlove.tumblr.com

"I used to kiss your shoulder when we’d walk or stand side by side. No one else’s shoulders measure up."

I found this site today and found myself thinking of things (like this example) to submit. Then I remembered I have no one to direct them to. Yet.

I hate that word.

White Lightning

Stupid cats. They're so slinky and curious and stubborn all the time. Darting out of door cracks and into yards, sniffing all the moving bushes and almost-big-enough fence slats-slash-escape routes, increasing my heart palpitations and provoking above my breath cursing. Apparently, cat treats are only enticing within the confines of suburbia. But in the wild? Oh no, my friend. They don't smell better than grass or chipmunk trails or trampolines. Cats don't climb into bags so you can carry them back inside, and they don't hop into your arms when you whistle. Cats do, however, decide that the smell of a strange, smoky man completes their adventure. They waltz back through the screen door and under the table. I then close doors that confine them to three rooms, one of which houses their food, water, and litter box. I leave harried, hairied, and mosquito bitten. Stupid cats.

Drawing a Bulletproof Blank

You may say I’m cliché,
but I hadn’t.
I’d never felt anything like it.
Not nauseous--
squeamish--
no.
Likened to a rampant bull
or gummy bear mutiny,
the feeling was boiling but ~sticky~
--intrinsic and enveloping
as though it would trade my life for its freedom.
The feeling,
a noun in its own right—a feeling without being felt,
swirled inside me,
slippery and suffocated,
^Submerged
in a crooked stream.
And as the stream fell from horizon to sea
>From Sky’s boundary to Earth’s edge<
I relished the sexist* salamander.
*the salawomanders get no credit at all.
The blue diamond on his forehead,
The slime slipping through my toes
like yolk from a wounded eggshell.
"Oh jeez,"
you colloquialize.
"This is going to be interesting."
Like a Floydian opera echoing
echoing
echoing against and among grotto walls,
the feeling had a purpose but no home
a corner laundromat but no clothes.
The feeling stemmed from a void:
“When someone enlists another’s specific skills
to fit their specific need, they __________ them.”
“It may start with c-o-n? or c-o-m?”
“I could do so much more if only I knew a verbose welder.”
-This missing word-
the one I could not grasp,
could not explain well enough to take hostage
(duct tape, anyone?)
consumed any faith I had in a seventeen-year vocabulary,
a three thousand-year language.
But, after all,
Desperation is the English way.

[Literary Magazine final 2009. In a couple days I'll italicize the words and phrases I was asked to use according to the prompt. I earned a 105%. Word.]

Sparkle Sparkle

when birds dreaded ocean trash
as smog plagued fish
when people lived on seas
and drank the earth
when the moon blinded children
hoping to colonize the sun
she climbed back up the slide
and fell into the sky.

the stars we wish upon
stare back
and gently hum,

"Sparkle sparkle, little one
how I wonder how you've done
down below me don't you cry
I've been with you
by and by."

["Write me a poem!" :) This is from last August. I'm so sorry it's belated.]

Crook

never have I ever
lived forever
'neath the oak tree
spanning yard and sky
trunk unhuggable
sap unlickable

never have I ever
found its crook
that matches mine
its ribs and ebbs and flows
a wizened paradigm
of timeless character moguls

perseverance
determination
wisdom, pride, honor
boding well on her body
in her veins
toes to crown

never have I ever
smothered shaded memories in regret.
for what grass felt
and leaves saw
soaked into grooves
both mind and made.

Oz

I pretend that I'm the wizard.
that I know what you do
and you don't.
I resemble Dorothy.
Headstrong and looking for answers--
melting witches, that sort of thing.
I squeak like the tin man.
Metallic facial expressions,
rusty joints.
I bumble like the scarecrow.
Uncertain and dependent
harvesting substance and smarts.

I am the cowardly lion.
I lack the gumption to be sure of what I know
and the strength to stop fearing what I don't.
I am the paranoid zebra,
the fearful giraffe.
Still, I follow a golden road.
Still, I expect redemption
for my yellow bellied, zip-tied heart.

...

Note: I don't label all line-by-line posts "poetry" because some of it, in my opinion, isn't. ...Just in case you were thinking the same thing.

Remains

I wrote this on February 21, 2008.

I sat in a trashcan lid,
skid through a snowless field.
The rain poured all around me
and the slush slowed me down.

My face bled into the branches.
The pine oil stung
the needles stung
and the thorns stung
and the ice stung.

And I didn't see the rock--
I didn't see the rock until
I was bleeding into the lake,
bleeding into myself.

The lid splintered and the lake--
the lake had some nerve
freezing my nerves that way.
My heart and thoughts? Stopped.

If Only Seth Meyers Were Here

bancomicsans.com

Really, America? I mean really.

A worthy step towards preserving typography, or a petty waste of brainpower? You decide. This context makes impartiality incredibly accessible, doesn't it.


P.S. This is my TWO HUNDREDTH POST, SWEET!

Around the Neighborhood

1 golfer picking a wedgie

2 elderly front lawn putt putters

3 limping squirrels -- many thanks to Jack

4 tinted windows slowing to a stop

5 obnoxious "nom"s -- many thanks to Skye

6 leaf mutant clovers

7 ways to stumble up a hill

8 smoked smokes

9 clouds in a blue sky

10 tiny dogs walked by towering men

not quite ten. two, though. two too many.

Solace in Silence

After butchering a trombone etude,
I sat on a cold and rusty bench.
The air chilled my apathetic nerves,

revitalized my wavering faith in curriculum's merit.
well. not completely.

Few birds chirped
even fewer people spoke

the breeze below a whisper,
a whistle in my ear.

I listened for the occasional clip of our flag's hook against the pole

and smiled.

For there I sat,
breathing deeply,
realizing that I accommodate both textbooks and ambition,
stress and common sense,
fear and certainty.

As loneliness turned to contentment,
a teacher walked past.

I discovered that not even full grown women are exempt
from pretending to text
in order to avoid eye contact.
Not that I'd expect them to be.
Teenagers are difficult to connect with.
My eyes were ready.

I Picture You in the Sun

There are those moments. Those super cliche I-feel-so-alive moments? I have those sometimes.

I don't like being alone when I have them.

Most recently I was home alone
in my bikini
opening all the doors
playing The Mamas & The Papas Anthology
on my first turntable
patching it through to backyard speakers
dancing like I do
and falling asleep in the sun.

And I had no one to share it with. Until now, I suppose.

But you should have been there. We could have been ourselves
in our suits
in my yard
in the sun
in the spring
in my wildest dreams.

Song of Myself: Benevolent and Biodegradable

[an Honors American Literature assignment in the style of Walt Whitman...in the context of me.]

My soul is a blank sheet of paper,
100% recycled and folded numerous times.
I struggle to begin a memoir,
To color outside the lines.
I rhyme accidentally.
I prepare felt-tip markers, pastels, finger paints, and fountain pens
For futile attempts to plaster said canvas
With vivid life and unadulterated emotion.
I stay away from computers and ignore pencils completely,
Favoring typewriters, Sharpies, tattoos, scars, and the notion that change is permanent.

My soul is split among many
Ideas, people, places, things, and their descriptors.
I stand taller than my mother, shorter than my sister, and against world hunger.
I stand, cheering, for victorious baseball teams, Academy Award winners,
And graduation’s proximity.
I stand somewhere between the stars and the sky.
A light rain drip, drip, drips from a benevolent sunrise,
Painting familiar faces with the pinks and oranges
Of a new day’s hope.
Strangers’ faces sparkle simultaneously as students’ smiles
Greet them graciously,
Pass them peacefully,
Confuse them completely.

My soul is enamored with compassion.
Is altruism dead?
Donors gain a cure,
A T-shirt.
Volunteers log new homes,
Service hours.
Tutors accumulate pupils,
Credentials.
Thrift store contributors pass on clothing,
Clutter.
Selflessness is sacred, sworn off by swindling somebodies.

My soul is eternal.
After raising a double major from grade point ashes,
Raising salaries as Editor in Chief,
Raising four children
And an herb garden,
I will be pulled from my preserved pedestal
By a crippling yet curable illness --
Cured with the help of my (by then) monthly donations to a worthy pharmaceutical acronym.
Having benefited from these final acts of benevolence,
I will prove that altruism can die
At the hands of old life found.
My soul, having become a scarred and tattooed, striped and tainted sheet of paper
Will withdraw from its authored -- though flawed -- cautioned, borrowed body
Beneath the sunset’s song.

You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just 'cross the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living

-- Tracy Chapman, "Fast Car"

Listen on last fm

Thoughts Written On Napkins as Though That Makes Them More Earthy and Legit

the twisted truth is that
to survive in this world
many a man trades
his language of love
for the language of commerce.

devotion to business
bridges oceans
but never souls.

...

writers blocking me out
like there's no tomorrow,
yesterday, or between.

one can do their best
and still rely on words' ability
to fail.

for letters entangle thoughts
while managing, to some extent, to instill
unrelenting hope for their freedom.

I've Always Wanted to

view my life from the outside. Like it's a movie. I want my streaming thought process to be the overlying narration and my mixes to provide the soundtrack.

I don't know. I'D watch it.

Speaking of watching movies about myself, I watched a home video a couple of months ago of a much younger Christmas, and boy was I annoyingly articulate. It's one of those cases where I needed public schooling to smooth out the kinks, if you know what I mean.

Pigs

a nickel for your thoughts
five pennies in the bank
no pennies in the bank?
well.
a talent for your thoughts
a poem for our day
there is no our?
no we?
I'll go alone today?
then give me back my nickel
and I'll return your thoughts
telepathy is futile
go back to where
we stopped.

Bulletproof Assignment

It won't protect you from gunfire -- rather, it's a blog challenge.

If you read Dear Soulmate and liked or related to it

or even if you didn't. I need you to do this for me.

This American Life, previously plugged in my post about the Rubber Room, broadcasted a special Valentine's Day episode called "Somewhere Out There." Featured are three stories about the difficulty, excitement, even possibility involved in finding The One, either in friendship, romance, or comedy. It deals so much with the topic I'd considered that I second-guessed my originality...and then realized I posted Dear Soulmate in the same week as Valentine's Day and during the rise of Natasha Bedingfield's "Soulmate" to the top of pop song charts.

Okay, so my thoughts are culturally influenced. Accidentally, I might add. Anyhow, do you and your openness to chance a favor and consider the real life results in This American Life experiences. Subscribe to it! Listen to it! Tell me what you think about it! I'll love you even more than I do now!

P.S. A good time to knock out the hour long audio episodes is in before-you-start-dreaming installments. Give yourself something to think about while wondering why you're still awake at 1:45 in the morning.

An Opposites Postlet

Naps are glorious.
Tornado warnings are not.

The Great Gatsby is intriguing.
Nadya Suleman is not.

Tortellini is tasty.
Canned fruit syrup is not.

Ice water is refreshing.
Pop quizzes on the New Deal's economic programs are not.

Red roses are lovely.
Soggy pinecones are not.

The Office is funny.
SNL used to be.

Money is difficult to come by and share these days.
Smiles are not.

Dear Soulmate,

The world tells me you exist. Jewelry commercials, magazines, the occasional married couple. You are somewhere. There is only one of you, and that's the magic of it. You are one person and you live in Zimbabwe and I will find you someday with the help of that magic. Even if it means finding you while I'm married to my first, or perhaps inevitably my second, husband. I will find you and truth simultaneously, drop what I've lived for, and commit myself to you for all eternity. I will be happy forever, and it will be easy, because you will be happy too. So says the world.

No offense, Soulmate, but you are a crock.

A charlatan. An illusion. An accidental fraud. Accidental because I know you would be there for me if you could; your benevolence, though faux, is benevolent after all. But you're not there, and you can't be. You do not have the power.

Do you?

Here's the thing. The world is big. Mine is small. Mine will take a long time to grow. It has so far, and that is why I'm sure. Literature did not relocate my grandparents to better pave my trail to you. The media did not create property values and nationally acclaimed public schools. Word of mouth did not decide my grades, my major, my degree, my apartment, my career. They did not. Fate then, would argue that all of these option-narrowing circumstances have been supernaturally affected. Supernaturally, yes, but fate -- Fate is your best friend. You, dear Soulmate, have coffee with Fate on a weekly basis. You discuss ways to trip me up with pleasant, soulmatey fake-os. I try not to buy it.

Admit it. You're everywhere. You walk behind me in the halls and you make my burritos on Sunday afternoons. You will teach my World Issues class. You will sort library books over the summers. You read my blog but never comment. You've made your opinions of me without even showing your face. Then, Soulmate, we will have to clarify a few things.

Jesus Christ is your Savior. You have a passion. None of this "where the wind blows, everything's cool with me" nonsense. You have direction, and if you don't yet, you're praying for it. You're sober. You make me laugh until my eyes water, but you hate making me cry. You're taller than me, and your eyes are blue, green, and brown. Heck, your hair is long, curly, buzzed and silky straight. Do you see? Do you see that I've discovered you? Without even finding you, I've discovered you. You mean something to me, and you always have. I've known you for years, I love you now, I'll meet you tomorrow, and I hate your guts. You must ask Fate to do a better job. His bread crumbs led me astray, but your scent is too strong. The path isn't straight, and the fog in front of me is thicker than I'd like, but I thrust limbs into the clear with all of my might, that I might deck you, trip you, whatever. I will catch you, and of that I am also sure.

I hope you are watching for me. I hope I am a grand alternative to the soulmate the world has waiting for you. Because I am not your soulmate. Our souls have been promised to He whom we praise, and all that's left of me and of you is a heart or two. My heart will learn and live to love yours, and yours will wish never to be loved by another. We will grow in each other and occasionally meet people we would date if single. People as attractive, as hilarious, and as into The Magnetic Fields as we are. But I found you, and you found me, and the rest is, well...the future. A future as slim as our patience for one another sometimes but never as lonely. And in the name of that future, I would like to thank you for deceiving me for so long.

And just to let you know, birth names are changeable. My mom did it just last year. Yours is a misnomer, but there's hope.

Yours truly...at some point,

lucy

Symphony

and the stream through the brush through the wood
slips slowly, sneakily, simply past my lips
to deaden misnomered shouts,
misplaced modifiers.

yet the spell in the book past the clock
swirls slightly, spitefully, silently around your ears
countering dissatisfying compliments,
melting self-developed worries.

for the keys cloaked with ivory in the ebony
strike them stupefied. such starlit surprise shies
listeners from listening
the player from playing

the laughter from laughing
the despair from disheartening
the woken from walking
the born from becoming

becoming a tearful remedy
of broken delights
knowing not which harmony
to hum, drum, or run from

the stream's spell
the key to laughing at despair,
to awaking (not becoming)
a broken harmony.

For You

The ring on my finger

the paint on my nails

reveal love then independence

reveal some sort of strength in my face

a harshened, sometimes falsified

strength.


because I am not yet broken enough to fall in front of you,

I will stand tall in front of you.

and because my tears fail to fall upon my own shoulder

I will save it for you,

keep it dry for you,

and dry it again once you've left

that it might remain inviting

and within reach.


I promise you, it will always remain within reach.

Two Weenie Poems Posted Together to Help Fulfill Loyal Readers

"Perforated"

then the top fell through the bottom
and all predictions fell futile.
the path walked was beaten,
the path to walk
invisible.
the heart
perforated
as though someone knew something
I didn't
and marked me
with the knowledge
from the inside.
from observator to insider
I suddenly hope to change.
what good are choices
should they be
pre-cut
by a subconscious
(and an inconsiderate one at that.)



"Tightrope"

heartstrings a tightrope
to be navigated
gingerly, precisely
as though the line walked
is between clouds
instead of between
feelings.

because feelings,
if we can help it,
are only felt
and never stressed
or pressed.
the unknown, unsurprisingly,
left alone.

your feelings, clouds?
to block the sun
allow for shade?
or to swell before you
and rain upon parades?
take your time.
one foot in front of the other.

[I hope writing these one after the other makes up for their somewhat identical style.]

The Verdict

I face the windowed wall
twisted in a dark blue armchair
(its velvet rubbed to linen
where heads lay
and coffee mugs rest)
so that elbows touch ankles
and toes meet fingers.

Grey leggings coat my lower limbs,
emerging from your red knit sweater
whose arms envelop mine.
My worn-out knuckles are lost inside the cuffs.

I watch the sky and ask it what to write.
The birds are middlemen, reporting
my anthologies' titles to the clouds --
evidence offered while they determine
what more I have to express.

A door opens, closes.
Footsteps grow more pronounced behind me.
You kiss my ear.
The clouds are silent.
The rain is not.

Derailed

[I've written even more to post for you. But everything in moderation...]

my mind is in one million places
divided by your words
hurtling towards me - through me -
from all directions.
bits of surrounding conversations
derail trains of thought
without my permission.
I am painfully
unflinchingly aware
of my weaknesses,
my inability to battle
sanity's erosion
like water through a cliff's cracks.
or similarly,
the photos radiating sunny dispositions
from ill-fated good old days
discovered in the midst of a marriage's
final hours.
the season's first snowfall,
a European vacation,
our late daughter's last birthday.
though toted here for safe-keeping,
I release them to the storm drain,
flinching in pain
as I remember your words
spoken with more clarity, precision
and spite
than I could even begin to muster
here
amidst a train station's bustle.
"I told you," you say.
"Trying to heal only hurt us more."
"But where will you go?" I exclaim.
then nothing, before:
"Be well, Clara. Look ahead
and try to forget me."
I pull myself back to now,
having learned to suppress.
looking ahead, I wonder if my train is approaching
but silently hope
among so many spoken hopes
that the tracks are getting longer
and instead pushing my future farther away from me.
I invite the enveloping chaos
reluctantly
desperately
granting permission to its whining,
shouting,
laughing.
I grant tearful permission
to separate my sanity from itself.
for it is irreparable and
like my soul,
left behind
as my body boards the train.

I don't have any resolutions. Now I can't disappoint myself!

Happy New Year, loves.

I'm not looking forward to writing "09" at the end of each paper's date for a whole YEAR. I don't like 9s much.

We'll see if days like today color what's left of my time here.

Let the countdown to next May begin.

(< I didn't take that picture... darn.)