wrapped up in your cancer

I wrote this quickly last night when I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about some random things going on in my family right now and I just started free writing random thoughts that were popping into my head:

blink once
time is gone
and life disappears
faster every second
fractions
of seconds
fade faster every day
life escapes
each breath
turns to crystal and shatters
into another lost moment

And then, because I'm a huge loser, I scrawled this in the margin: So hold on to the ones who really care, cause in the end they'll be the only ones there.
Geezus.

Moral of the story is, here's the actual poem that came out of this nonsense:

The air freezes with each breath I take
And hangs inches from my nose
Before shattering into another lost moment,
Out of my reach,
Impervious to my fingertips.
And the deepest corners of my mind
Struggle to retain any piece of the lost second
Preserving it with always fading clarity.

Sometimes late at night
These moments become clear
And I can lean forward,
And touch the tip of my nose to their icy exterior,
Gazing with an insomniac's blurry eyes
At what once was
What could have been
Or what I want to take back
But each time I move closer,
I can feel the water sliding down my cheeks
As each second moves away,
Returning to the ground and to the air
Until the clouds open and they pour down on me
A storm of the past, of what I can never have back
And what I failed to hold on to.

4 a.m.

I believe that this is probably one of the most honest poems I've ever written.

four a.m. whispers in the dark
as i sit here clinging with all my strength
my hands feel small and weak
you swallow them.
its four a.m. and there's a blade against my skin
and a voice in my ear
and then there's a crushing of lips
and a tangle of limbs
and a heart pounding up to my throat
fighting to be released.
four a.m.
and i'm fighting to be released
and you're fighting to protect me.
but there's this blade in my hand
and if i let go, i might fall
unless i can hold on to you instead.
so i dig in with my nails and teeth and eyes and mouth and soul
and i squeeze my brain shut
and i say a quick prayer-
please let this be perfect.
please don't let this fail.
don't let me fail.
and there's this one moment
when my grip loosens just a little
and i think maybe - only maybe -
maybe i could let you go.
but my stomach starts to churn
and my hands start to shake.
and my eyes water and my heart jumps out of my body.
and i want to scream
but its four a.m.
and if i scream, i might wake up
so instead i kick the blade away from my feet
and one hand digs into your skin
while the other covers my mouth
and as my heart knocks harder against it
i tell you i'm sorry -
i'm sorry, i nearly fell.
and i would've taken you with me.
its four a.m. and the world says sleep
but instead -
instead i keep my eyes locked on yours
and i hold on to your skin and hair and voice and lips
and i think maybe it'll be okay.
as long as i don't let go.

9.11.2001

Written in, I believe, December of 2001. Probably the only rhyming poem I've ever written that I can stand to look at today.

Smoky grey monster running through the streets
Drowning crying hearts and tired feet
Pausing only for tears and blood
So many people caught beneath the flood
NEWS FLASH: Perfection is no more.
But atop the rubble, our flag does soar.
It sways gently, only peace to be found
So serene, so calm, yet there’s chaos around
Red, white, and blue in an ocean of fear
Stay behind the caution tape, for evil’s been here
Too many people didn’t get to end it right
Didn’t get to live, now they have lost this fight.
They grabbed the closest hand, knowing they were about to die
They drifted slowly downward as they said their last goodbye.
The little children, too young to understand
That foreign evils dared to set foot upon our land
Thousands of people working until the fire blew
What would she have said to him if she only knew
Would she have cried with him, or told him to move on?
He’ll never know now, in an instant she was gone.

Calm your wild thoughts, for help is on the way
At least that’s what they told us before all hope gave way
Trapped beneath the rubble lie heroes who lived to save
Our nation cried for them, gave them more than a concrete grave

Our hearts have turned to stone
The anger and the hatred’s grown
One foolish action and we’ve turned on our own

History shouldn’t repeat itself, don’t add any more to the count
Love your neighbor, love your foe, that’s what we say we’re all about
By the light of candle, the smoke begins to clear
And although time has passed, we’re still living with the fear

The Pastor cried on Sunday, but I now see things the way should you
We must forgive the guilty, for they know not what they do.

I know they can’t be here, for they’re oceans apart
I hate their evil actions but forgive them in my heart.

Dear George

Another creative writing assignment. We were supposed to write a Tony Hoagland style "angry poem."

You should be proud to be a C student.
Really, it’s a huge accomplishment –
Makes you more than qualified to lead a country.

When I say lead
I don’t mean destroy –
Corrupt –
Deceive –
Run into the ground –
No, none of those things.
Of course not.
You might send your thought-police after me.

Perhaps the real thought-crime
Is having so few intelligent ones.

But no.
Just keep fighting, just keep fighting –
Fight until there are no children left.
That is, of course,
The intelligent thing to do.
To make sure you leave no child behind.
I know how important that is to you.

But I’m proud to be an American,
Where at least I know I’m free.
And I won’t forget the ones you killed,
Who gave their lives unnecessarily.

But just keep fighting.
I’ll keep fighting back
With this brain of mine,
My weapon of mass destruction,
That you have such a hard time finding.

And here they come now
To take me away on Big Brother’s orders.
Never to be seen again.
I didn’t mean it.
God bless the USA.

my wonderful

Last night I told you
It was all meant to be.
I told you
That everything you said-
All those useless, meaningless, hopeless words-
Had changed me.
And I told you
That I'm sorry I couldn't save you.
I'll always be sorry.
Last night I told you
That I didn't want you to save me,
That I couldn't be what you need.
I told you
That because of you
I'm still crawling on the ground
Picking up the pieces.
Last night I told you
That you were my wonderful.
And that sometimes
Love just isn't enough.

ode

My senior year of high school, we studied Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn," and got an assignment to write an ode of our own to some kind of inanimate object. We weren't supposed to say explicitly in the poem what exactly we were talking about - my teacher wanted the class to guess. I wrote an ode to a piece of paper.

Your brightness astounds me and calls me to you.
You’re a beacon, guiding the way for my openness.
What are you calling me to do?
It seems you always want more from me.
I’m never quite sure where you’re taking me,
or what I have to do to get there.

What do you think about me
when I cast all my deepest thoughts onto you?
Your spaces are straight and welcoming-
They envelop my words and keep them safe
until I am ready to see them again.
You draw them out of me and
You carry my stories.

Sometimes it seems that I’m not satisfying you.
There’s always something missing.
You’re always wanting to take more than I have to give.
Sometimes you exhaust my mind-
you take everything from me
and you often leave me blank and speechless,
As you once were.

Pulling and prodding away at me,
Analyzing my every thought and every idea-
Sometimes you only add to my chaos.
Sometimes you help take it away.
But you’re always there,
Always asking, searching, wanting me, showing me
that you are the only one that will always be there.

Perhaps they all want the truth,
But that is something I only give to you.
Or rather, you take it from me and distort it
into something abstract, meaningless to them
And everything to me.
Perhaps the truth is that I am distorted and meaningless
But concrete. And tangible.
And sometimes that solid, substantial truth
Is all I have.

polaroid

This was an assignment for creative writing... we were supposed to write a poem emulating the style of another poet that we were assigned. I was assigned Laura Kasischke, who I had never heard of but quickly fell in love with. I called this one "Polaroid."

It was cold outside and I
was driving with the windows open,
singing that I’ve

never been to heaven
but I’ve been to Oklahoma.

Yellow lines travel by
on the Jersey Turnpike.
And I don’t know

where I’m going
or why.
or how to get home.

This is youth, this
is freedom, this is
stupidity to the extreme.

I was eleven and my best friend
cried when I told her
my parents were divorcing.

My hamster died that day.

This is childhood.

This is repression.

This is everything I’ve ever wanted,
and everything I can never have.

Once, I left for school
in the morning
without saying goodbye

to my mom.

She was angrier than I’d ever seen her.

starbucked

I actually wrote this over a year ago, sitting at the cafe in Borders where I used to work. I don't know why inspiration hit there, but I still have a soft spot for this poem - mostly because, since leaving that cafe I've been working at Starbucks, where I've found it to be truer than ever. I originally called it "Seattle's Mess," but I guess I might have to change that to something Starbuckian now.

The shopping mall music tastes
like they put too much sugar in my coffee.
I can see the waves of anxiety and caffeine-deprivation
coming off the customers in wavy lines,
And I wish that I could remain
just a silent observer.
“Can I have a double tall half caf soy no foam
extra hot sugar free vanilla latte?”

I’m sure he can feel my resentment sinking
over him like a heavy wool blanket,
Creeping into his mouth and staining
his tastebuds,
so that not even his twelve-ounce
cup of specifications
will erase it.
He taps his foot rhythmically and I
take my time,
the sharpness of his suit and his haircut
burning my nostrils.
I am inhaling his stress, power politics,
report due in an hour, marriage problems.

As he hurries away from me,
I can see each step cracking the tile
under his feet, and the
remaining strands of my annoyance
trail behind him.

Eventually I will follow him,
swerving through road blocks of people,
throwing my anxiety at them as I pass.
Too much homework, rent is due,
the dishes are piling up.
Driving home, the sun sings its
too-sweet-coffee music
directly into my ear.
But I don’t mind so much.

The exhaust fumes invade my eyes
and Mr. Specificity is on my mind.
I hope he comes in tomorrow.
He and I – we’re the same –
his marriage and my dishes.

and we're holding on

I guess I was all for cheesy love poems at one point.

Sometimes when I'm driving with you,
I look up through the windshield
and stare at the stars.
And wonder what it would be like to reach over
And grab your hand.
I'd turn to look at you,
We'd smile softly
and then I'd look back out at the stars
And you'd hum along with the radio.

Sometimes in those stars
I see you, far away you.
I see them reflected in your eyes
and in the way you laugh,
Loudly, ridiculous.
Lovely.

Somehow you've managed to get through.
Somehow I know that there's no going back.
I know that there's nowhere to run.

Sometimes when I'm talking with you,
I look up into your eyes and wonder
What it would be like to silence your lips with mine.

I wanted to stare into your eyes just a bit longer.
I wanted to know you.
I wanted to be 'her.'
I want to fall in love with you.

out of proportion

some random and kind of cheesy words put together about being in love, that evil thing.

There's just something about you
I don't know.
Maybe it's the way our eyes lock and I instantly know what you're thinking.
Or how your hair falls into your face sometimes.
I don't know
But there's something there
And it makes me want to be different
Better.
A better version of myself,
One that's good enough for you.
I want to be someone who can color inside the lines
And fit perfectly in your arms
Someone that would feel right
The way you feel right.
And when I cry, I want you to be someone
That will fix everything for me.
That's really all I need from you.
Then you can move on, if you want.
But there's something about you
That makes me want to be someone
You can't move on from.

tralfamadorians

I had this workshopped in the creative writing class I took one semester. I wrote it because in my mind I thought it would be interesting to write something kind of honoring Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, which is my favorite book of all time. I actually have "So it goes" tattooed on my foot. But anyway. This is what came of that. I've never really titled it.

the cuts and bruises from where you've touched me
burn and then fade
to faint white lines
that will never open again
and that i will forget about
and i will move on.
and you will be happy again.
so it goes.

you will be happy and i-
will continue to fade
watching from a distance
my heart frozen, ivory and blue
trudging through the snow
a prisoner of your war.
and when i finally break through
and get past your lines
and cross them as i have so many times before
i will run as far as i can, free
finally free
and i will be happy again.

driving, driving, driving

that's what this makes me think of.

You really don't get it, do you?
The wind is calm tonight
But the air is biting
And the stars?
Well, the stars aren't inviting.
They're just filled with truth.
And I've got to be honest-
That's not what I need.
Sometimes I need you, and that's all.
Just plain old ordinary you.
With you ordinarily long hair
And sometimes cloudy eyes.
I hate when they get like that.
But you must be mistaken-
This is real.
And I'm happy.

wind songs

I wrote this a few years ago, while I was babysitting after putting the kids to bed. I had this book called something like "10,000 Things to be Happy About," and something about the randomness of some things on the list struck me.

the wildest colors, looking irresistible in the afternoon
that is filled with nothing but me,
and wind songs of innocence evaporating away,
dreams slipping with the fading music.
puppy love that stops meaning things
after you realize that you've stopped meaning things
and that when you stop feeling things
it'll be time to let go of the teddy bear on your bed-
it's dirty and foreign to the rest.
but you're growing up too fast
and i still turn to the razor when i need a friend.
i go there before i go to you.
you've probably seen my wrist and been jealous.
but i'm disappointing my angel
and my intensity is getting the best of me.
i think its more of a curse.
my streams of consciousness are sometimes
interrupted by your conscience-
i hate when you do that to me.
and next on my agenda is learning the art of saying no,
and realizing that i can't know you anymore.

you've got me all wrapped up in blue...

Ok, well. This has the potential to be interesting. I've found myself unable to sleep most nights lately, and I usually take to writing - I'm a big fan of the cliche. I decided I wanted to have a place to archive any random poetry or prose or thoughts or just... writing, so, here I am.

I know that was a really riveting opening paragraph.

Mostly I just want to start posting stuff, so, here I go.