That Bloody Girl

Not sure about this one. I called it "Evolution" on the post to the poetry community I am part of, but I don't know how well that fits. Also, italics? But, I think it has some good lines.  Oh, runaway… oh, run away! Bags always nestled somewhere in that limbo land between packed ’n un- packed; between coming,  but we’re always going. Oh, run away at four am, when highways are at their most romantic. To keep heading west— what a novelty it’d be  to die old in the Good Ol’ West. A life, lived as  a Josie, or a Fern. Someone else who never had nightmares about the open highway. Yet longed to make those nightmares dreams come true. Oh, runaway,   with your second hand auto— third hand, or fourth, really— and your hair in braids. There’s no fear of desert’s dust  on your flannel,  nor of northwest’s rains on your shoes. The envy of the masses,  you are, yes—we can admit that much. How apes longed  f...

SLAM I can’t decide if this is an apology. You were ambitious,  I give you credit for that. So much more ambitious than  I ever thought, but you lacked confidence, in yourself. There was never the belief  in your heart that you could ever be  more than a barista— a struggling artist living in the coffee shop on words  you never could get right. You thought it was romantic,  that the lifestyle suited you,  but I don’t think you knew much  about yourself. If I could sit down with you  in those cafes you always inhabited, where you wrote in angst, anger  forming your words for no reason if only that it was an emotion you knew how to express. If I could say to you, I would,  that we are different. I am not who you were; most of you died in the formation of me. I do, I want to be sorry,  but I don’t think that I am. Because, I didn’t like you,  and I grew up...

The Words That Throw Me “Come now, come  and mourn me.  It’s so easy now I’m gone.” The rain has made the lawns like swamps and has left my heart hoping for more. Walking through the yard has become like trudging through mud, grass is  ankle deep and growing with the increase of precipitation. The only things I want are to feel more at home in this suburban wilderness and to not have to shake mudded water from my feet. I miss the smell of concrete and steam, the sound of sirens past midnight, the jolt of trains stopping and going, moving across the tracks with rough sparks and no         hesitation. I miss the people who made that city my home. I miss their energy, their honesty, the feeling that we were true friends— despite all the [ fake ones ] we encountered. And I miss being able to laugh without needing to, without having to smile to keep my spirits lifted. The coffee, the cold air, the coats, the s...

I have decided that I am going to try to write every day this summer. In fact, I am challenging myself to a few things this summer. But, the one that applies here is the writing. Specifically, the writing of poetry. While I want to get back into prose and fiction, poetry has always been a stable way for me to express myself while I have struggled with pain or with joy. Poetry became my way of communicating when communication was the hardest, and it is still the easiest way for me to say what I feel, whether through original work or through the words of others. So, this summer, I want to try to do two things: I want to commit to a haiku a day on twitter, just to get the creative energy going. Then, I want to write one poem (outside of the haiku) every day. Because I will be striving to meet a goal every day, each and every poem is not going to be genius--if any of them can be said to in the first place. So, there will be some weirdos and some downers and some straight up badd...

Notice the dates on these...eh, eh? Band Room I You can find me in the band room, where trumpets play blue songs and sunlight sneaks in as streams from opening doors and catches the gold shine of instrumental genius. 02/01/2005 Band Room II Trumpets and bass drums. Things we learned in High School to play, to manipulate, to master. But, I turned my back on the syncopated melody of my childhood in the Band Room and left those people behind. I sought adventures of my own. What I didn’t realize, what I couldn’t hear 
 above the sound of my own beating heart— the music never stopped and I was the one 
they all left behind. 05/20/2014 My old bones are growing new bones.

My heart is bursting with affection for this tiny, fury thing. My little gruff companion, all toes and tail, all tongue and teeth. It seems silly to compare the love I have for this thing to the love of a mother, cradling her child. For surely this love pales in comparison to the intensity felt by a woman having given birth. But, compare I do, for she is my newborn, my sweet baby girl. Since I saw her face and rushed to the shelter to take her home. Since I first held her against me and couldn’t think of letting go. She is always a step behind (or a step ahead, depending), and I promised her it would always be  “just you and me.” Sometimes I wonder if a heart like mine could ever feel this for a human child. Could ever want to.

My first official poem since my few-year hiatus. It's fair to say, then, that it isn't great. So, enjoy, and feel free to comment and tell me what you think. :) I fell back into my childhood. Sticky fingers, and sugar- coated lips. Hot dogs with chili, sprinkled cupcakes, ice cream melting, dripping down chins and staining grubby tees. Picnics and baseball— Summertime in this City. But, I’m crying, stinging, lonely. Because summer in this city was never my time of year. I like the cold, the rain, and, when the sun rises early bringing me into this Brand-New Day I get a little bitter at all things bright and warm. But summer, it comes, invariably, unstoppable, suffocating heat and sun-up ’til way past bedtime. And I don’t sleep easier, or more comfortably, in the summer. I toss, and I turn, counting down days ’til fall. Ninety degrees and rising. The world changes around me— I’m afraid and a little angry. So, I curl up in ...

Easily one of my favorite pieces, resurfaced: I had a dream about the earth last night, held out on a string and spinning in the palm of my cupped hand. I was surprised at the size of the North American Coast, so small next to the ocean, blue and pretty, nearly clear in the sunlight, hot and full of toxic air; And of the greenness of the grasslands, envious, and warm with the billowing winds from deserts and the body heat of beasts. And I dropped it, the little thing, a marble of an Earth, into a half-full/half-empty glass of water, and watched the ripples break the tension on the surface of the question and answer it, an affirmation of a lack of knowledge of the world. So I tipped the glass and watched the flood of water crash over the edge of the granite countertop and cascade onto the floor; splashes of blue, of green, and of gold; of melted earth, and boiling magma; of eight ounces of tainted kitchen tap. The End of the Earth never looked so lovel...

This, my friends, is the first poem I ever wrote. It was a homework assignment for pre-AP English in eighth grade; Mrs. Bundy's class. It was meant to be a poem written from words (I think we had to select ten or so) found in Elie Wiesel's Night . This evening, I had dinner with my mother, and she spoke to me about my writing over the years and how she always felt I was a natural poet. Well, it got me thinking, and I ended up spending the last few hours honing my sleuthing skills to find the back-ups sent to me years ago from my forum and pathetic.org. Only problem, I couldn't remember the name of the website, nor which email address I used all those years ago to set it up (I started writing poetry in 2001 and started broadcasting my work around 2003-2004, so basically, my 25-year-old mind had to reach back to my 13-year-old mind and figure out who the hell I was again). But, I came up with all of the answers I sought and more. I haven't been happier in weeks!--except,...