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.
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.
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.
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.
[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"
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