When I was young, I wanted something;
I wanted nothing.
I wanted it to come
And pull its gray blankets over my
Chest and neck and head
So that I wouldn't have to sleep alone
Anymore.
When I was young, I wanted something.
I wanted everything.
I wanted sunshine and dirt
And kisses and nail polish and fishing,
So that I could look at the world and
See it beautiful.
When I was young, I wanted something.
I wanted you.
I wanted you like a firefly wants the dusk
To just be, to just flow, and just
Not try
Because I've learned that effort makes me lose you
And as tired as I am of trying,
I cant seem to find a way to stop.
When I was young, I wanted something.
I wanted the impossible.
Monday, June 29, 2009
How to be Sensible
Fake wood grain and florescent lights,
Uncomfortable chairs and too much paper...
Sitting in a cubicle all day sparks creativity like crazy.
I guess...I guess I'm writing because
Of the vague feeling in my chest- the
Tight, tingly, "something's-going-to-happen" sensation.
But nothing's coming- not today, tomorrow, or ever...
Never happily ever after.
And the break the bonds of poetry
Would be a relief.
Sometimes I wish I could shut myself up-
Stuff a sock in the mouth of my muse
And tell her to quite being a hopeless romantic.
Her time might be better spent
Learning how to live...
Or at least how to work a cash register.
Sometimes I wish I was emo.
I could dye my hair black- or maybe just dark brown,
Wear Chucks and grungy jeans
And refuse to wash my hair.
Maybe I'd get noticed then, but I know I'd just do it wrong.
I'd be emo to get attention,
Then try to cover it up to get more
And no one would notice.
I guess that's all right
Because I like my hair blonde and squeaky clean.
That's me:
Squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.
And I minded once, but not now.
Not anymore.
But there's something about the way my pen tembles
That reminds me of the way your lashes flutter,
Like the tiny drops of rainbow-black are
Slipping down their silky curvature,
Lighting up your eyes.
Open. Close. Open.
Like a strobe light.
Be sensible, for heaven's sake!
For your sake and mine-
For sanity and silence-
For squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.
The only cuts on my wrist are paper cuts,
And that's okay.
But you're not.
And that's okay to.
Uncomfortable chairs and too much paper...
Sitting in a cubicle all day sparks creativity like crazy.
I guess...I guess I'm writing because
Of the vague feeling in my chest- the
Tight, tingly, "something's-going-to-happen" sensation.
But nothing's coming- not today, tomorrow, or ever...
Never happily ever after.
And the break the bonds of poetry
Would be a relief.
Sometimes I wish I could shut myself up-
Stuff a sock in the mouth of my muse
And tell her to quite being a hopeless romantic.
Her time might be better spent
Learning how to live...
Or at least how to work a cash register.
Sometimes I wish I was emo.
I could dye my hair black- or maybe just dark brown,
Wear Chucks and grungy jeans
And refuse to wash my hair.
Maybe I'd get noticed then, but I know I'd just do it wrong.
I'd be emo to get attention,
Then try to cover it up to get more
And no one would notice.
I guess that's all right
Because I like my hair blonde and squeaky clean.
That's me:
Squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.
And I minded once, but not now.
Not anymore.
But there's something about the way my pen tembles
That reminds me of the way your lashes flutter,
Like the tiny drops of rainbow-black are
Slipping down their silky curvature,
Lighting up your eyes.
Open. Close. Open.
Like a strobe light.
Be sensible, for heaven's sake!
For your sake and mine-
For sanity and silence-
For squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.
The only cuts on my wrist are paper cuts,
And that's okay.
But you're not.
And that's okay to.
Good Morning, Salamanca
Good morning, Salamanca.
Time to rise and shine.
I know the sun is bright
In your bleary eyes and
I can smell your hangover
From here.
Miles of gray, pitted highway
Stretch between the two ends of my soul
And I bounce between them
Like a bead of sweat on a guitar string.
The tears that ran so easily
Through Frewsburg and route 62
Have dried up on this desolate stretch of 86.
I know I'll be optimistic again once I hit Olean,
Remembering your well-educated faces, but for now,
Good morning, Salamanca.
The sun shines brightly on your casino windows...
You'd think they could scrape up som epity for me
Like I scraped that sticker off my window.
I got the bill in the mail.
I knew there was a price to be paid,
But Financial Aid never mentioned this.
Time to rise and shine.
I know the sun is bright
In your bleary eyes and
I can smell your hangover
From here.
Miles of gray, pitted highway
Stretch between the two ends of my soul
And I bounce between them
Like a bead of sweat on a guitar string.
The tears that ran so easily
Through Frewsburg and route 62
Have dried up on this desolate stretch of 86.
I know I'll be optimistic again once I hit Olean,
Remembering your well-educated faces, but for now,
Good morning, Salamanca.
The sun shines brightly on your casino windows...
You'd think they could scrape up som epity for me
Like I scraped that sticker off my window.
I got the bill in the mail.
I knew there was a price to be paid,
But Financial Aid never mentioned this.
Don't pay any attention to the words her mouth is making
To document this moment,
to describe in complete and utter clarity,
freeze-frame this one crystal collection of seconds,
I would need to much more talent than I posses.
It's April again, already, and it's just dusky at 8 o'clock.
The light is a soft blue-gray and
the trees are black velvet silhouettes
against the light blue and evening star in the west.
The sidewalk is still warm beneath my callused poet's feet
and my father's old coat lends some antique warmth
to this particular spring thaw.
The birds around here have become nocturnal,
clamoring like they never do at dawn.
The faint scent of smoke, wet earth, and river water
Infuses the surprisingly arid evening air.
When I inhale, I taste pine, rain, and humus.
I exhale and it's baked potato.
Maybe I'll inhale forever.
There are no lines left on my paper
and the point upon which paper, pen, and ink commingle
is nothing more than the flashing, periodic twinkle
of a broken-down street light.
Navy blue, electric orange, and ash gray
are poured over the world
like chocolate over a summer strawberry.
Knowing that you can't see this makes it
just that much more poignant.
You've left, and I will be leaving soon as well.
There's always someone coming,
and someone leaving.
We walk in and out of each others' lives
like improvisational stage hands,
Putting on a surreptitious show at midnight.
You don't have to see to write.
Why should you see to act,
or, what's more, to love?
I will never forget you,
Not on chilly April nights such as this one,
Or on any night hereafter.
I will smell a trembling, seeking scent,
see a star flash in the dusk,
feel the melted blacktop under my toes,
hear a car horn shatter the silence,
taste a fleeting vapor of nostaliga,
and while its bitterness is one my tongue,
I will remember.
to describe in complete and utter clarity,
freeze-frame this one crystal collection of seconds,
I would need to much more talent than I posses.
It's April again, already, and it's just dusky at 8 o'clock.
The light is a soft blue-gray and
the trees are black velvet silhouettes
against the light blue and evening star in the west.
The sidewalk is still warm beneath my callused poet's feet
and my father's old coat lends some antique warmth
to this particular spring thaw.
The birds around here have become nocturnal,
clamoring like they never do at dawn.
The faint scent of smoke, wet earth, and river water
Infuses the surprisingly arid evening air.
When I inhale, I taste pine, rain, and humus.
I exhale and it's baked potato.
Maybe I'll inhale forever.
There are no lines left on my paper
and the point upon which paper, pen, and ink commingle
is nothing more than the flashing, periodic twinkle
of a broken-down street light.
Navy blue, electric orange, and ash gray
are poured over the world
like chocolate over a summer strawberry.
Knowing that you can't see this makes it
just that much more poignant.
You've left, and I will be leaving soon as well.
There's always someone coming,
and someone leaving.
We walk in and out of each others' lives
like improvisational stage hands,
Putting on a surreptitious show at midnight.
You don't have to see to write.
Why should you see to act,
or, what's more, to love?
I will never forget you,
Not on chilly April nights such as this one,
Or on any night hereafter.
I will smell a trembling, seeking scent,
see a star flash in the dusk,
feel the melted blacktop under my toes,
hear a car horn shatter the silence,
taste a fleeting vapor of nostaliga,
and while its bitterness is one my tongue,
I will remember.
Cherry Preserves
When I was very young,
I used to descent the steep stairs
To the earthen damp of my grandparents' basement
And pull a jar of cherry preserves from the cobwebbed shelf.
Smiling in her canvas gardening shoes and
Red shirt (because bees can't see red, you know),
Gram would crack open the seal and spoon the cerise globes
Into an orange plastic bowl on her avocado green oven.
It tasted like the Spring, like the Spring smells like chives
And dirt and old curtains and PBS and egg salad and Wind Song.
I was cleaning her basement in the winter,
The door to the outside open like a wound and
My mother's broom scraping the earthen walls like
My spoon scrapes the inside of a pumpkin on Halloween,
Grandma's fingers meticulously picking the seeds from the membrane.
I saw the dusty jars on the shelves and wanted to open one-
Never mind the botulism-
And thread the cherries on to my fingers and suck them off
One by one
And smell the Spring again, like the Spring smells like Easter
And golf clubs and afternoons and pot roast and those
tiny red potatoes...
But I couldn't touch them
Because they wouldn't be what they were.
Best to leave them looking pretty on the shelf.
I used to descent the steep stairs
To the earthen damp of my grandparents' basement
And pull a jar of cherry preserves from the cobwebbed shelf.
Smiling in her canvas gardening shoes and
Red shirt (because bees can't see red, you know),
Gram would crack open the seal and spoon the cerise globes
Into an orange plastic bowl on her avocado green oven.
It tasted like the Spring, like the Spring smells like chives
And dirt and old curtains and PBS and egg salad and Wind Song.
I was cleaning her basement in the winter,
The door to the outside open like a wound and
My mother's broom scraping the earthen walls like
My spoon scrapes the inside of a pumpkin on Halloween,
Grandma's fingers meticulously picking the seeds from the membrane.
I saw the dusty jars on the shelves and wanted to open one-
Never mind the botulism-
And thread the cherries on to my fingers and suck them off
One by one
And smell the Spring again, like the Spring smells like Easter
And golf clubs and afternoons and pot roast and those
tiny red potatoes...
But I couldn't touch them
Because they wouldn't be what they were.
Best to leave them looking pretty on the shelf.
Between the Berries and the Briers
Sometimes I wish winter came twice a year.
Warm weather frightens me
with summer's whisperings
Fingering the leaves of our old lilac tree.
Things start slipping away,
Gliding from my lips to your ears,
Even when I have nothing to say.
The way the blue horizon floats,
Hovering on the green treetops,
Reminds me of your best friend's boats.
You know, the ones at the lake
Where we swore that promise.
You remember- the one we always break.
Your crinkling eyes,
Your dancing lips...
You were my consolation prize.
But, somehow, we've learned to love,
Like we'd chosen this path
Through the lattice above.
We braid our thoughts together,
Tangling up our psyches,
In this balmy June weather.
From our summer bonfires,
You've dug up a phoenix,
Somewhere between the berries and the briers.
So we'll stay on the beach,
And you'll alleviate my fears,
And set the stars within my reach.
Warm weather frightens me
with summer's whisperings
Fingering the leaves of our old lilac tree.
Things start slipping away,
Gliding from my lips to your ears,
Even when I have nothing to say.
The way the blue horizon floats,
Hovering on the green treetops,
Reminds me of your best friend's boats.
You know, the ones at the lake
Where we swore that promise.
You remember- the one we always break.
Your crinkling eyes,
Your dancing lips...
You were my consolation prize.
But, somehow, we've learned to love,
Like we'd chosen this path
Through the lattice above.
We braid our thoughts together,
Tangling up our psyches,
In this balmy June weather.
From our summer bonfires,
You've dug up a phoenix,
Somewhere between the berries and the briers.
So we'll stay on the beach,
And you'll alleviate my fears,
And set the stars within my reach.
Beige-painted Walls
You'll always be your geeky smile.
Boy, you've gone through more phases than the moon ever dreamt of and
Darlin', you're responsible for more than your share
Of Mom's gray hair.
I used to not be able to sleep
Because you and your friends had turned up the amps
And were screaming your particular brand of communication
until the walls shook.
The memories bleed together. We were so young. We still are.
I still can't believe you got rid of your bed to make room for sound equipment.
You had Fred, the friendly female lion (whose happy home is now in my closet)
And paintball guns, BMX bikes, and a perpetual sunburn.
I seem to remember your burning incense,
The stick wedged in the heater vent of your car, soft gray ash on the volume control.
The night you drove me to that party, I didn't know if it was worse in the car or out.
There's something about red station wagons, isn't there?
Believe it or not, this is my revenge;
Plastering your face on paper, pinning you down under my ballpoint pen...
You know you've done the same to me.
There's something between us that we can't
Necessarily talk about, or even name,
And that's something Em will never understand...
I'm not the baby anymore, but, go figure, neither is she.
But as for you...you Batman-pajama-ed, homefry-making big brother,
You're not getting off this easy.
Boy, you've gone through more phases than the moon ever dreamt of and
Darlin', you're responsible for more than your share
Of Mom's gray hair.
I used to not be able to sleep
Because you and your friends had turned up the amps
And were screaming your particular brand of communication
until the walls shook.
The memories bleed together. We were so young. We still are.
I still can't believe you got rid of your bed to make room for sound equipment.
You had Fred, the friendly female lion (whose happy home is now in my closet)
And paintball guns, BMX bikes, and a perpetual sunburn.
I seem to remember your burning incense,
The stick wedged in the heater vent of your car, soft gray ash on the volume control.
The night you drove me to that party, I didn't know if it was worse in the car or out.
There's something about red station wagons, isn't there?
Believe it or not, this is my revenge;
Plastering your face on paper, pinning you down under my ballpoint pen...
You know you've done the same to me.
There's something between us that we can't
Necessarily talk about, or even name,
And that's something Em will never understand...
I'm not the baby anymore, but, go figure, neither is she.
But as for you...you Batman-pajama-ed, homefry-making big brother,
You're not getting off this easy.
Beach-soiled
It's all odd, everything.
Like,
Like how these unrelated words
Spill from my pen
And I instinctively know
When to end a stanza.
Like,
Like how, before,
I never noticed the gentle slope
On the outside of your kneecap,
Or that your cuticles aren't as raggedy as mine,
Or that traveling really isn't that bad,
After all.
It's odd,
That, just when I'm looking in
Every direction but yours,
I should be blindsided
By how smooth your brown hair looks
In the August sunlight.
Fitting, though.
I almost wish you were here,
Then we could call sharks, get lost,
And read beach-soiled books together.
Beach-soiled.
Nothing dirty ever sounded so pure.
Like,
Like how these unrelated words
Spill from my pen
And I instinctively know
When to end a stanza.
Like,
Like how, before,
I never noticed the gentle slope
On the outside of your kneecap,
Or that your cuticles aren't as raggedy as mine,
Or that traveling really isn't that bad,
After all.
It's odd,
That, just when I'm looking in
Every direction but yours,
I should be blindsided
By how smooth your brown hair looks
In the August sunlight.
Fitting, though.
I almost wish you were here,
Then we could call sharks, get lost,
And read beach-soiled books together.
Beach-soiled.
Nothing dirty ever sounded so pure.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
An Edited Fairytale
Perhaps you thought I didn’t,
But I swear I felt you gathering
The long-forgotten silkiness
Of what we once had meant…
As the legend begins lengthening
And blood begins to blacken now
I’ve faced the mirror
And almost smiled back.
She whispers to my memories:
I saw the silver tarnishing,
I’ve felt the embers smoldering,
Do you think you’ve kept them wondering?
Pastels can only do so much
To help a girl’s complexion here,
And you never thought me wrong before
For editing my fairytale.
She whispers to my memories:
You lost him in the reckoning-
His ivory keys were shattering,
You watched his quiet suffering…
Stop.
Not Fair.
Do you think I don’t remember the cold?
Do you think that your sickening, rollicking
Monstrous
Lullaby will ever send me to sleep?
I remember the silent blood on the staunch ivory keys,
Smearing from his near-motionless fingertips,
The cold blue eyes, hardly alive,
And the unblemished, varnished smile
With his porcelain face,
And how he refused to be gone,
How he refused to die…
We were always much too grim
For the Grimm brothers.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
What They Never Tell You
What they never tell you is this:
Someday, it'll be someone you know.
Someone whose handwriting is on a scrap of paper on your desk,
Who you’ve seen in a bathing suit and nothing else
Who laughed when you got flip flop tan lines that day at the beach.
It will be someone whose clothes you’ve worn
Whose hair you’ve brushed
Whose toenails you’ve painted.
Their breath will be as familiar as your own
And you’ll remember when they pierced their bellybutton
And when they got their first kiss.
Maybe you’ll feel the shift, like when someone turns next to you in bed.
But maybe you won't
At all.
What they never tell you is this:
Someday, it'll be someone you love, someone who is almost as much of you as you yourself are
and you'll never be the same
Pink-painted walls
She used to wear these dresses…
These poofy, sunflower-covered, just-for-Easter dresses
To play in the backyard.
She used to have this cloud of golden-brown curls that
Everyone said was a halo,
(she got it from her mother’s father, you know)
But don’t let it fool you.
She’s always had more than me:
More spunk, more height, more adoration, more shoes…
Always has, always will.
Baby girl, young lady, confident woman…
Faerie child…sister-daughter…
Our clothes get mixed up in the laundry now
And even we have trouble telling our underwear apart.
You steal my shirts and I wear the shoes you’ve outgrown.
You do have big feet. Don’t even deny it.
Partners in crime sometimes fighting like two cats in a bag,
Looking like me sometimes looking like Chris.
Blue eyes, small mouth like a child’s, freckles.
I remember you learning to walk
And me dropping things on your head…It was an accident, I swear.
Your getting older seems to screw up time.
Big feet, loud voice, chewed-up fingernails…
When I asked for a baby sister,
I never thought to ask for all this.
No Greater Love
Sometimes, innocence gets in the way.
Looking at you over the divider
between the library carols
I feel like I've failed,
more than anything else.
What I used to think was compassion
is just...
not.
I've always sort of been
the "clean cut" type.
Never really got into serious trouble
and I never regretted that
at least not until
I see a pair of eyes
scanning my arms for marks, thinking,
"Is she like me? Can she help me?"
and finding nothing.
At what point does sacrifice
become self injury?
At what point
does "no greater love"
become no greater pride?
Looking at you over the divider
between the library carols
I feel like I've failed,
more than anything else.
What I used to think was compassion
is just...
not.
I've always sort of been
the "clean cut" type.
Never really got into serious trouble
and I never regretted that
at least not until
I see a pair of eyes
scanning my arms for marks, thinking,
"Is she like me? Can she help me?"
and finding nothing.
At what point does sacrifice
become self injury?
At what point
does "no greater love"
become no greater pride?
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