An Old Cracked Tune (Stanley Kunitz)

(Really want that last couplet tattooed on my body somewhere. I first encountered this poem on the N train. Love at first read. That last stanza is a mantra I often repeat to myself. I wish I could say that much in that short of a line. For the joy of surviving... )

My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother's breast was thorny,
and father I had none.

The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance, for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.

On Why Sex is Good (and how not to complicate it) *March 2009*

(So this should be a lot longer, but this is a first draft and probably a good quick intro to my thoughts on the subject. Which are silly thoughts that lead to a lot of reckless decisions, but none-the-less, I think they are mostly solid. All I do is read/think/talk about sex, so feel free to engage me in this conversation over coffee...)

First of all, there's the obvious conclusion: the orgasms. Orgasms are totally positive. They release endorphins, so the more you have the better you feel. Its a release of energy, so it can de-stress you and clear your mind. While getting there you're burning calories. Also, if you're having sex you're not doing other less fun/productive things like working or watching TV or committing crimes. Plus, making sure people have orgasms means you care. So you and your partner are engaging in an act that is not entirely selfish. Its considerate. That's the best part about sex. It fosters closeness with another human being. Not necessarily love and fidelity, but affection and intimacy. And, literally, closeness. If you choose, it can also be a way to physically express love.

So why does it get so complicated? The first reason is that people make it completely emotional. Denying your physical needs will create a cycle of guilt. Sex is not bad and should not be punished. Then people use it as a commodity. They withhold it to win a fight, or give it too freely in hopes of receiving love in return. Sex is not a bartering tool. Using it to hurt someone is wrong, and trying to fix other aspects of a relationship with it is futile. The best way to screw up sex is to engage in it without trust. I don't mean epic 'I'll love you forever' trust, the the trust that means a person will treat you and your naked body with gentle affection and decency (or with whatever kind of behavior is agreed upon. Spank away, if that's what you're into.) If you aren't sure that will occur, then a sex act can quickly turn into an emotional debacle. Plus, it'll be harder to have an orgasm.

XXV- Emily Dickinson

(IDK why I'm not into posting originals lately. But I'm not. So here's an Emily, enthusiastic and imaginative and kinda speaking my heart right now...)

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port, --
Done with the compass
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! The sea!
Might I but moor
To-night with thee!

In Memoriam AHH

(So this poem is epically long, these are just my favs. Note that it wasn't Shakespeare who wrote the famous couplet in the first stanza. Also, he was probably lovers with this guy, tidbit of gossip. Tell people you love them now, so when they are gone you don't have to write pages and pages over years and years...)

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
***
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more

Navaho Prayer

(So I'm trying to explore poetry from other cultures... this is ov native american, and i want it to be how I live my life. A lot of beautiful things. So this is dedicated to you all, remebering that this place is a beautiful gift...)

Beauty before me
Beauty behind me
Beauty below me
Beauty around me
With beauty I speak
I am in peace and harmony
Beauty it is
Beauty it is
Beauty it is
Beauty it is

Lucille Cliffton, 2 Poems

(This amazing poetess just die. So this is my homage to her, she has an amazing body of work these are two fairly well known, fairly obviously feminine. Check out her stuff...http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/17/arts/17clifton.html?scp=1&sq=lucille%20clifton&st=cse)

Homage to My Hips

these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top


Poem in praise of menstruation

if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if
there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta if there

is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain if there is

a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel if there is in

the universe such a river if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
water

pray that it flows also
through animals

beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave

prose poem thoughts (sometime spring semester senior year hs, 2005)

(We'll call this a prose poem, but it's really stream of consciousness bullshit. I was such a baby, but honestly, some of that sounds smarter than the crap I tend to espouse now. Excuse all the bad abbreviations and lack of punctuation, I've left it unfixed for authenticity's sake haha...)

i think peanut butter by the spoon is truely a comfort food. i think a man should always talk to you like ur the first woman hes ever known and wanted. he should look at you like you make the world new. he should kiss you like yours are the first lips hes tasted. no regrets is different then wishing things could be different or wishing you could stay. letting go is the hardest thing in life. goodbye hurts like nothing else ull ever say or hear.

What a Piece of Work is Man (ActII Sc 2, Hamlet)

(Not only is this speech excellent, but I found myself having it already memorized. WEIRD. That's b/c its also lyrics in the musical HAIR. It's certainly disillusioned, but Shakespeare had great flow. And balls, considering everyone is dead at the end. That's gangster...)

I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust?

On Keeping Things Forever (and What Happens When You Can't) *Spring 2008* pt 2

(Some more prose since it's Sat. This is another installation from this piece. Breezy. Still true. Really, the was where this piece started out, cause I manage to keep my hands on things like keys, but sunglasses just vanish...)

Sunglasses are things I cannot stop losing. No matter how much I like them, they disappear when I least expect it. One day they’re here, the next they are gone. On my way out the door I reach for them, only to find they haven’t stayed where I left them. I can look under beds and in between couch cushions, on shelves and in drawers. They abandon me.

I can’t figure out what makes some things losable and others not. I mean, I really like sunglasses. What’s not to like about a lightweight stylish object hat keeps you from squinting. I just cannot manage to keep the same pair for more than a few weeks, maybe a precious month and a half. I’ve gotten into the habit of buying sunglasses cheap, or even stealing them from the five and dime. I can’t justify dropping any legitimate amount of money on something I know will disappear into the workings of my car or slip out of my window and onto the street.

I’ve started to think that it’s my fault. That I just haven’t found the right pair of sunglasses that satisfies my sun-blocking needs, and understands me for who I really am. I don’t believe that I treat them poorly, or neglect them in some way. I think that resting on top of my head or sitting properly on my face would be a perfectly acceptable place to exist. Certainly not worse than any other person’s face. Maybe if I could just find that magic pair, we would manage to stick together. Maybe up until now, it just hasn’t been meant to be.

Contrary (Late Fall-ish 2006)

(Well, this is ov from a very conflicted time. Towards the end its pieces of stuff that I brought together, kind of like Frankenstein. I was really into being vulnerable behind a strong and angry voice. And apparently I had enough hair to shake sleep out of... )

Contrary to popular belief
I cannot speak
to merely fill a space with words.
I don't know how to
yank the cord,
disconnect the current,
and erase the memory.
I cannot stand barefoot on the
cold kitchen tile
with a measuring cup and
ration out just enough
of each emotion
to stave off starvation.
My hand isn't stead enough to
paint on a smile
with the perfect shade of lipstick.
I can't float
in and out of rooms
without crashing down at your feet,
bruised and embarrassed.
I can't focus my eyes
on any acceptable part of you
when you walk past,
or whisper, or brush against my shoulder.
Then you brush by again, and again,
until you've backed me into a corner
and convinced me
that one more kiss won't hurt.
In the daylight you smile down at me.
Silly girl. Time to wake up.
I can't move, but I try to
shake the sleep out of my hair
quick enough to make you tell me-
say- something, something real.
Or was I just imagining
the tingle on your fingertips
that transferred to my lips,
and how we breathed together
in the dark.

Awakening, Always. (2/9/10)

(So I guess this is a poem about more than one thing. But mostly its about the love of my life, this silly island that's not a real place that we all gallivant across and dream in. It's a simple story, in a way most stories aren't...)

There's a secret they don't tell you:
(If they did
we'd never rest.)

Here the streets are never quiet,
never still.
They never stop.

Trains are rumbling all night long,
and cabs cruise
across the park.

Despite the cold, it's never dark.
Some say waste
but I'm less dim.

I marvel at this courtesy,
am grateful
for audacity.

(2am)

I walked, in the middle of the road,
down the hill
of a parkway block.

Anyone looking wouldn't mind
I supposed,
and didn't look back.

I crossed slowly over 1st ave,
looking up
the broad one way.

To my right the arch of a bridge
loomed large,
beautifully grand.

(I almost walked the 6 blocks south
to marvel
at solid lines

streching out across the river.)
I turned north
to see green lights.

They ran in a row up the hill
screaming "GO!"
I smiled, thanked them.

By now my cheeks were flush with cold,
and my feet
just shy of sore.

I thought for a moment of your eyes,
then stepped up
from street to curb,

shook my head quickly,
forgot to keep missing you,
and under the corner streetlight glow
kept walking home, hand in hand with the city.

Untitled (6/7/09)

(A poem with cool rhythms. Its nice when it feels like you're listening to a song, or floating in the ocean...)

I wanna fall in love like the songs
all say you do.
Lay my hope in someone else's hands
and rest.
I want a familiar body near mine
in the dark,
a kiss that'll loosen the fears
hidden in my chest.
I'd like to walk quietly down aves
and streets, being able
to listen to the city
under our breath.
I want to touch easily, freely
hands and lips.
I want eyes I don't have to question
or search. They should look at me
brand new each morning.
I want to breath easy with someone,
and laugh.
Laugh laughs that declare
I'm not here alone.
A person that feels like home.
Something to sing and write about
late at night. A feeling
that tingles all over your skin and teeth.
That you can't explain with science or math
or words. It'll be like nothing
but everything you've heard.
And if you decide to let go,
try as you might,
it'll be written all over your face,
24/7.

I want it to be seen.
I want to look smitten.
I want a person that makes life
feel slow. Someone to stop,
in the middle of the block,
and dance with.

Untitled (2/6/10)

(Something super recent. I'm not bold enough to name my audience, but sometimes its nice to speak directly to someone. Who are we kidding, I do this a lot, put things on the page I can't quite say out loud...)

(Consider this a whisper,
just a secret in your ear.)
I've been writing to you.
Not here on these lines,
and not in letters tucked into
addressed envelopes with 63cent stamps.
I've been leaving you messages
in places you won't likely find.
Places just enough off your path
to be safe.

There is a drawer hidden in and old desk
in BrewHaHa on Main street.
It's a drawer filled with scraps of paper,
stories and poems and confessions and love letters,
of which I only read a few.
What I left there i signed 'a'.
In a bar on Bowery
I wrote on a stall, first
some silly wisdoms and then
a question to you. I won't ask it now.
You still wouldn't answer.
And then in a short hallway
in a student filled cafe off 4th street
I rejoiced at the [serendipitious] fact
that I had a sharpie,
and I tagged the graffetti/sticker
covered wall with our initials,
in a hopelessly optimistic attempt
to somehow keep us together, in the same space,
for as long as permanent marker
avoids fading on paint.
This message in a bottle strategy
is silly, continually garnering me nothing.
Except the satisfaction of making visible
the things I still can't say to you.

Love, Theoretically (9/24/09, 1am)

(First of all, love when I date things. But seriously, I spend a lot of time thinking about love. Not just in a personal/romantic way, altho if you know me you know that is also true. But often in a political, theoretical way. How it works, functions, exists, how we can use it to better the world in a realistic non-hippy dippy way. This is just a little short entry, I'd love to know what you think...)

New Theory: Mind is not superior to body (ie male is not superior to female.) The concerns of the body are just as important, moral and complicated as those of the mind/soul. A person is not just thoughts and personality, intangible stuff. I am my freckles, my knees, my eyelashes and my knuckles. I am my lips and my nose, my shoulder blades and hip bones. The way I shiver and run, how I type and turn pages; this is all a vital part of my being. The body is just as much the self as the mind, and they are equally valuable.

Love, then, is not wholly invisible. It does not exist only in the space between. Physical affection is not just lust, and it is not any more or less important than emotional/ intellectual bonds. To love someone you have to know their body. And I don't just mean sex. I mean you love how their face changes when you make them laugh, and you love how they stand when they brush their teeth or cook rice. You love how their hair smells after a shower, how their brow furrows with concentration and how their eyes sparkle when they flirt with you. You love to hold their hand, smack their ass, rub their back and trace the line of their collarbone. This stuff is not secondary. Its not lewd or dirty or sexual, but sex isn't lewd or dirty or secondary either. A body is part of what makes up a person, so if you don't know the body you can't love the person. You can't pick and choose with loves, its all or nothing. You have to connect on all levels, or you're fooling yourself. Things of the mind don't count more than the other things.

i carry your heart - ee cummings

(This is my fav love poem of all time. It's perfect. Dedicated to my #1 valentine t fav, and of course all of the brilliant/supportive/gorgeous/wonderful women in my life...)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

One Art- Elizabeth Bishop

(So here is one for the Vday haters. This is a poem about losing things, with the twist at the end. Plus its a villanelle, which is super hard to do effectively and this is my all time favorite. So for the heartbroken, single, bitter, or otherwise...)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Bright Star- John Keats

(I'm traveling this weekend, so I'm gonna give you love poem by other people. My favs. This is DEF top five, read his letters to Fanny if you get a chance they are out of control. You just don't get this kind of longing anymore...)

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

Untitled (November 2009)

(This was an afternoon out with the boo bear. Autumn seems like a really cool place because its one of those transition moments, like dusk. Ov Wash Square Park is a central character...)

It's warm fall afternoon weather,
thought its really time for winter.
Yellow fan leaves are cluttering
the grey stone walks
that star out from the center of the park.
Smelly seeds from those same trees
are crushed against those same stones,
flattened by boot heels and paws
and carriage wheels and converse.
That pungent seed smell
smells like home
(ginko trees line the parkway that runs
perpendicular to Woodlawn Ave)
and I suddenly wish I could click my heels.
I'm making the trip soon,
but sometimes soon isn't soon enough.
There is no bitter cold to slow things here down
and so they are speeding along,
always happening,
everything together in the same moment
which lasts all day.
I can't catch my breath when autumn
lasts so long.

Fantasy Snow Day (Fall 2008)

(Prose b/c its snowing and you aren't going anywhere anyway. This is hard to put into context, but lets just say its kind of an imagined memory from the first time my mom was sick. The whole thing is kinda trippy and it makes more sense if you know all the symbols, but I thought it was appropo seeing as how its snowing and I love my mom and I've decided to live today in a fantasy. Oh, and read the ee cummings poem I stole here, its perfect...)

The porch was not very large- I sat on the far rocker, one of two white chairs with a small table between them. When I leaned back I could put my feet up on the shallow wooden edge below the screen that kept out bugs. The string of colored lights was hung around the top edge of the screen, gleaming soft enough to avoid obscuring the stars. With my feet up I could observe the whole back yard, and a small expanse of sky deepening from dusk to dark. There were sheets and towels hanging on the clothesline, moving together as proof of the wind. I could smell them, fresh and stainless, and I had an acute urge to go wrap myself in them. To join in their sway.

I heard footsteps in the kitchen, and when I turned my head my mother was standing in the doorway. I smiled at her, and held out my hand. She stepped onto the porch and took a seat in the opposite rocker before squeezing my hand.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Taking a break.” she said. She sounded tired. Her hands, usually soft and clean, looked worn beyond their years. The skin was yellowed and cold, and her nails were short and cracked. I missed her beautiful hands. I was shocked at the color around her eyes. It was a color that belonged to the snow-sky. It did not belong here in our back haven in the soft light. It didn’t belong with the hummingbirds and the laundry and the dusk.

“We should go back. I’ll take you.”

“Do we have to go?” Her eyes were closed, and she was resting her head back against the pillow.

“Yea. We do.” I reached into my pocket and pinched out some of the dark sand. She opened her eyes and I extended this small gift to her. The grains caught the light from the string, but the glint wasn’t as harsh as it’d been on the beach. She cupped her hand to receive it.

“I carry your heart with me.” I said.

“I carry it in my heart.” she said. “I am never without it.”

I nodded. “I am never without it.”

We did not retrace my steps to get back. We walked to the front of the house, and turned right. We walked under gingko trees. We didn’t make turns. It started to snow again, so she took my hand, and together we moved slowly through the whirling flakes. I stuck my tongue out to catch a few flakes there, and she did the same. We laughed then, and started to twirl in the storm. I lost touch with her hand, spinning and spinning in the falling white. I could hear her laughing, and I closed my eyes. I suddenly heard my own exclamation, but I wasn’t laughing. I was crying. Crying for her. Crying for her, for the third time.

the state of my feet (March 2008)

(So I danced last night, a lot, and once again felt grateful to anyone whose helped me become the dancer I am, anyone I've shared dance space with, anyone who believes in dance. This is a silly free write I found, but I'm so sore today and satisfied in that feeling that I thought I'd give this to you...)

You can tell that I dance by the state of my socks and the skin on my feet.
Dirty and worn, cracked and thick, respectively.
If my socks are clean and my feet are pretty then something is wrong in the hours of my day. If my back muscles are stiff from sitting and standing, and not tired from supporting not-everyday-bodylines, then you know I've been foolish with myself. If my knees aren't bruised from contact with a hardwood floor or my own feet and hands then I've neglected to feed my soul what it really needs.
It needs to show up in front of the mirror.
Turn socks into dance shoes.
Breath. Breath with music.
Sweat, stretch, and survive.
Move. There's gotta be movement.

Dusk Towards Destruction (Fall-ish 2008)

(Alright, and now a poem about New York. Being in love, being in New York. I really don't write about anything other than that. But why would you really? Shout out to anyone who was ever present in apartment 7, I miss it there...)

Darkness dulls the city sounds.
I walk uptown and picture the stars
I cannot see but know are there.
It takes a certain amount of faith
to live under these constant lights.

A young Jewish boy rushes past me
and I wonder where he's heading.
Two buses and a truck grumble in baritone
as they lumber uphill.
There is a breeze from the sky
and a breeze from passing sedans,
mostly yellow cabs.

I'm passing store windows without searching them
because I walk by them often
and I know they aren't showcasing anything I need.
I glance in a pizza parlor
and see that same Jewish kid.
I wonder if that slice was worth the rush
and then I forget him.

The block gets suddenly darker,
and then lighter,
and I pause in the middle of crossing my street
to look east and west,
up and down the asphalt tunnel that cuts
across the landscape.
I can almost see the river and suddenly I miss the water.
I miss the sound of it
and the solid way it looks against the skyline
and I wish I were submerged.

The scene is taken in and I know
I must finish crossing,
back onto a familiar sidewalk,
past the old church I'm sure
I'll never set foot it.
I say hi to the library across the street
(I don't visit because the smell of so many books
is too overwhelmingly romantic.)

The green stoop is home,
on an island of streelight lit night
walks home, and rivers
just out of sight.

Pre emptive Knots (Spring 08)

(So this is a prose poem. Basically a short snap shot that should use heightened language to make the scene super vivid. Some find this idea annoying, but i like the anything goes vibe...)

I saw a little boy with a blue balloon, on the block of 2nd avenue where the bus to Queens stops. He stood facing the bridge, away from the slanted afternoon sun, so no light bounced off his metal-framed glasses. He held the very end of the ribbon, which was yellow to match his little-kid blonde hair. The slight breeze placed the balloon at a low angle, almost at his eye level. he grinned at it like you grin at a cherished friend from across the swing set. I wanted desperately to find his mother and tell her to tie that ribbon around his gradeschool-sized write. Tightly, so it couldn't slip over his delicate fingers. Although it's circumference would not be impressive, a circle like that could ward off the possibility of losing that balloon. Because balloons float away, I would explain. Right up and over the skyline like they never even loved you. Your only hope is to secure that golden knot, pull it tightly, just above where the blue veins become visible beneath the skin. Otherwise he'll have to learn about how things get lost sometimes, and no matter how many growth spurts you've lived through you can't reach high enough to get them back. And that lesson is too hard to process when the brick sidewalk is warm from a whole day of sunlight and summer is close enough to smell. Not yet, I would plead with her. Tie that knot to hold through summer, at least until the leaves start to turn.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

(A Shel Silverstein classic. I'm over my own thoughts tonight, its too cold and this island was gypped outta snow. Here's to whimsy...)

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Back Scratch (best guest is sometime in late 2006)

(So even though ultimately this is about being sad when people leave, it's really about how amazing both my mother and my bed at home are. If you've never been there/met her, do yourself a favor and make it happen. She is perfect...)

Perfectly filed mails relieve
the spread of itch that had
penetrated the skin
stretched across my back and shoulders.
I stared through tear-bent shadows
at yellow jersey sheets,
and pictured her hands above my body.
They are nearly perfect,
eight fingers and two thumbs
(I remember the morning the left thumb
popped out of its socket.)
Her palms, pale like my cheeks
and lined with the defining moments
of her life. The veins
on the backs of her hands
are the color of her eyes,
without the grey.
Everything is smooth,
skin and nails and veins
all seamlessly connect
while she scratches my back
and empathizes with my sense
of people leaving, people lost.

Untitled (Spring 2005)

(This is a poem about being in love, and its NOT EMO!! It can be done! Although this was written when I was young and naive, but it still pretty accurately describes that infatuation feeling one gets...)

Every few minutes
my pulse trips and falls,
causing my breath to get lost
en route.
My mind has been long gone
since morning,
exploring the past
while inventing many futures.
My feet and hands
are just going through the motions
because my feelings are wound up to tightly
to spread over the day.
The fibers in my muscles will not relax.
They're waiting in tense
anticipation.
Even my taste buds are duller,
for they will not be satisfied
with mere food or drink.
They want to taste something
as clumsy and lost and enthralled
as their own self.
See!
My body is too smart.
I cannot fool myself
out of my state of quiet frenzy.

Flurries (2/2/10, almost 2/3/10)

(You will never convince me that this isn't the most beautiful place in the world. And snow is so special. So I will not grumble today or whine, I made a pact with myself. This is ov a first draft of this, fyi. Go play outside!...)

I know that tomorrow
it will be a slippery, frozen,
cumbersome and dirty grey nuisance,
but just for tonight,
if you catch those first minutes,
you can watch it drift down softly
and with a most gentle breeze,
swirl to caress the skyline.
It sticks to the side walk
just thick enough for you
to leave footprints,
and lays lightly across naked branches
like new skin grown over a scar.
This is cleaner than rain,
full of childhood hope
that an illicit day of rest,
away from blackboards and math problems
and desks and authority, will ensue.
And between the sparkling white layers
and second grade optimism
you suddenly feel shiny and new.
And with unveiled eyes you can see
just how beautiful a city under snow is.
And for the duration of your walk home
you forget to wish for spring.

Horizon (9/19/09)

(Really short, one image, one hope. Sometimes 4 lines will suffice...)

I'm looking for a slow dance,
a few moments filled with sway,
so I can remember how it feels
to float, face skyward, in the ocean.

On Keeping Things Forever (and What Happens When You Can't) *Spring 2008*

(Maybe I'll give you this whole thing eventually, cause it's a bunch of vignettes. Some prose to start the week, and if you've ever met Chickee, you just get it...)

There is only one thing I possess that I have owned forever. It’s my chickee. Chickee is a white chicken, with a yellow beak, yellow feet, and perfectly circular brown eyes. One fairly pitiful sprig of yarn hair adorns the very top of his head, and he is holding a few faded flowers. I have sewn a new body on him out of a cotton t-shirt, and he is stuffed with brown heavy socks that were never soft enough for me to wear. He and I have been inseparable since the time before my memory reaches. Someone bestowed him to me on my first Christmas, two months after I was born. I never considered giving him away, and around age five started declaring that I would be buried with him.

Countless photos exist of me at school, at home, on the porch and in the kitchen, always with this fowl under my arm. He might be dirty, but that dirt represents the combined histories of every important place I’ve ever been. I took him with me to my first sleep over at Caroline Martin’s house when she lived on Old Kennet Pike and we sat next to each other in Mrs Hodges first grade class. I took him with me to sleep overs at my Momom’s house, where my cousins also brought their respective animal companions along. I took him on every vacation with my parents, to Florida and London and Washington state. I took him to a sleep over two weeks ago when I went upstate to visit my roommates parents, and sit by the fireplace. His comfort knows no bounds, and his presence seems unending and entirely necessary. He’s sat with me on planes and trains when I’m nervous, or sad, or sometimes anxious. He always waits patiently if I stall going to bed on time, and he’s always waiting in case I wake up from a nightmare and need something solid to hold. He never judged me harshly through my terrible twos, and wild-child adolescence, and self-involved teens. I’m not sure if twenty-somethings are supposed to share a bed with inanimate birds of any kind, but so far he’s the only thing that’s managed to stay put and put up with me everyday that I’ve remembered being alive. I have never gone to sleep unsure of his whereabouts. I’m not sure if it’s me whose managed not to lose him, or him that’s managed not to lose me.