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.]

Outburst

rolling tears liberate.
as each bass riff swells through
the greatest song you know
from the worst time you’d forgotten,
a cold and fragile outburst is
evidence of what a closed door hides.

rushing fears cripple.
what doesn’t kill you makes you
not stronger, but a lost and fallen
version of strength. hope for this.
for only the hope of strength’s return pushes
past blind eyes and forces clarity.

uneasy heart rates rise.
heads throb with pumping blood
but no sense is made.
hands shake and search for a handle,
an anchor. what you walked away from
still holds on.

expectations fall,
but mediocrity never knew you.
passion is passion and yours is full.
no one looks down when your chin is up.
tears and fears helped build you,
but you’re not built of them.

Guess What?

So I realized this is the kind of thing you might like to hear about. Since dropping Spanish, I have taken up a position on the Literary Magazine staff. We publish our high school literary journal at the end of each year, and I'm hoping the experience will reflect well on a career based in journalism and fresh ideas. Jobs and their descriptions were assigned on Thursday, and I was decided as one of two Deputy Editors-in-Chief. ...hyphenated? Job title spelling is probably something I should know. Anyway. I'm very excited. Along with a spot on the Poetry editing team as a General Editor, this spot directly beneath those who finalize the magazine will prove rewarding.

**Also: current and future Lit Mag assignments will probably find their way up here. I'm working on a few things right now, so I'll post them soon to find out what you think. Isn't this cool? I write post material for a set-aside hour each day and get class credit for it!