Saturday, December 12, 2009


Oh, I'm lucky
to have time in class
to discuss the clockwork of poetry,
but what I want is to sit
under my maple tree and watch
as Eric from next door drives
his snowmobile over quarter-inch ice.
Your gold Rolex
reminds me that my G-shock
is 10 bucks at Wal-Mart.
So what if your dad
took the Lambo.
I walk to class.

sex, church, love...more? an incomplete series

Her cheeks are Cardinal virtue in flame-like red,
but I don’t care for anything but her eyes,
liquid visages of the phantom of our grave.

I see a seed of it there
like a rhinestone’s cheap glimmer,
a 16th note of our tongues and teeth,
clacking together.

I’m grounded in the mocha of her curves
like lightening to the earth.
Her fedora a buoy
in a pool of crested sheets.
Blue writing seeps into paper
to match the color of the couch
I sink into like heels
on softened earth.

The alto above me sings
to match the song of a macaw,
her melody a shade
of their vibrancy.

As her aria trickles
down to me,
I fade into rhythms
of snare drums
and a tap dancer’s feet.
The lights are
off in church.
We sit next
to white candles
by the priest,
behind the altar.

He says something
of the Word
that I don’t hear
because he is sitting
there, adjacent the gate.

I daydream of more
than his blue eyes.
An appropriate image
for Sunday Mass.
The sound of Final Fantasy battle music wakes Kate from her sleep. She knows the ring, but she can’t remember why. The music finishes by the time she fishes her phone out of her crumpled Express jeans. The soft glow of the display feels harsh so late at night. The phone beeps twice as Kate checks the call log: Peter Taylor.
“You’re fidgety, Kate” Peter says to her as they lay in the bed of his 93’ red Chevy.
“No… I’m just full of energy,” she whispers back, the quiet tone matching the soft look of her blue eyes.
“How long have I known you? Tell me the truth.”
Kate lifts her head to look in his eyes.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“Tomorrow.” His voice is a smile. “While you move into your dorm room in Lincoln, I’ll be crossing the Rockies.” He pushes up to his elbows. “I’m going to the ocean Kate. You know school isn’t for me.”
Pete raises the camera to his eye. “Put that thing away, Pete. I don’t want to remember this.” “What are you going to do once you get there? You can’t run…”
“I’ll take a picture. Then, if that isn’t enough, I’ll find something else to take a picture of.” Pete falls back on his back. “Now, watch the stars Kate. We don’t want to spoil their night.”
Kate’s smile fades as she thinks of what trouble Pete could have gotten himself into. She leaves the room to check the voicemail. She doesn’t want to wake Leanne.
“Hey Kate, it’s Pete. I’m sorry it’s so late, but it’s kinda funny because by the time you get this it’ll be too late. I know you’re the save the day type, Kate, but I’ve got nothing left.” Kate’s breathing fills the silence Pete took to gather himself. “Remember that night last summer? Well, I finally made it to the ocean. I took a picture, but you were right. I don’t know what to do now. I don’t have anything to do now. I’m sorry Kate.”
The voice on the phone informs Kate that the voicemail is over. She is breathing deeply as she pushes one to replay the message. The daze Kate feels moves her to her desk to find the picture of her that night. There’s a post-it on a package there. This came in for you, Leanne. It’s Pete’s camera. Kate turns in on and clicks through every picture Pete took of the last year, starting from the one of them packing her car for school. Her hand trembles as she gets to the last frame. It’s a picture of a dancer at sunset. The blood red of the sun is reaching out to silhouette her attitude in arabesque while she stands waste deep in the waves. Kate flips back to see the girl in picture after picture. She stares at the shots. As she twirls the loose hair he pony tail couldn’t contain, she decides she has to go. Kate opens her top draw and pulls out a sheet of loose leaf.
Dear Leanne,
I’m leaving. I have to find a friend.
I hope you can find a new roommate.
p.s. if you can’t ship my stuff home, keep it

green snowflakes

Fake snowflakes of green let me know
it's time to vacate my spot in the hall.

I went outside to be a part
of something I wasn't invited to.

To be a wallflower
when winter killed them all.


Daniel says we're just a facade.
Well, that's just what you want of me,
to be okay for your own sake.
How do you deal with a kid willing to kill
himself on a daily basis?

The draft moves me toward Laura's voice.
Her tone a contradiction to the mask she fakes.

basket case

To Kevin I'm just a walk-in,
a basket case he doesn't want to deal with.
How can he say he is happy to meet me,
as if it has been so long since ignoring me?

Why is it so easy to brush me aside?
Why do I hide all these feelings inside?


printed the word means nothing
or, something next to it.
I am not a snowman,
but aren't we all something
near to its existence?
I am cold, misshapen,
only partially covered,
but trying to hide more.
I'll be dirty quite quickly,
and I'll melt too.
I just wish I would melt
for you. To be complete
with your heat.

Thank You

Daniel's "Thank you" made me wonder what people think of us. Why does it matter to who we are? I spoke to Kevin about how I felt, but was sure not to cry too hard. Does he need to know? No, he doesn't know. Like my dad doesn't know and never will. Who are we but real-life movies? I would really like a happy ending.

it takes one to know one

it takes one to know one
which means I was there too
somewhere close to where
you trod your shoes.

you're a day hidden
in the walk-in closet.
you're the best
I ever had.

It takes time to know
happiness, but if I smile
the world might be worthwhile.
Or I'll just be a liar,
but it's worth the effort to be higher.

When the skyline looks like finger paint,
it's alright to know we created fate.

Snow Globe

It's the type of night you want to dance in the firelight, because the world looks like it is going to sleep outside. Our home is in a snow globe. It looks pretty, but is chaotic. For some reason the state of the art stereo system from 1990 isn't playing Christmas music. Its silence heightens my awareness of the frost on the window, and the way your hair floats when you twirl. I ask you to spin again, so that I can move you into me, and we slow dance to unheard Christmas music while the blizzard carries out in our heads.

Heart to Heart

If it's not my head that's spinning,
then what is it that makes
the mirrors a funhouse?
Andrew dances after class
to a sad tune of creation.
His kicks are a fan

brushing air in a wave
of confliction emotions.
Like the anxiety I felt
in the warmth of my green suede
and the hardness of Daniel's stoop.

I told him my life's
more than you need to bear.
I'm folding towels to low tide-
uncrested tears beating
the banks of my brown eyes.

Thursday, November 12th

I walk into class to find heads bent to paper like the bodies of sweatshop children working on the shoes Kevin wears. I don't remember there being a test. Our evaluation is our lives. Can we find enough life for a prose poem, or obsess enough to write a villanelle? Goldstein didn't tell me I could, but yesterday I hiked through Neadle Woods and today I danced with Alyssa. Is that not life enough? Professor Stefaniak waves me in. I don't think I'll come again.


I love spins because they are wild,
but I can never be satisfied with their craze.
I need complete oblivion,
a turn so disorienting I
cease to exist.