Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Character Sketch: C.

C.
is a precocious child.
Born like an avalanche into her broken parent's lives but they sifted through their different races and religions, blizzards and traffic jams to find enough love for her even if they didn't have enough for each other. Her mother held her every night and thought that C. was scared, but the only thing C. thought about is big red balloons sticking to branches.

C. was calm on the inside until she was three and then her world was all princesses, Kitty-cats, moo-cows, and puzzles. C. wiggles while in time-out and runs around naked. She knows no rhythm but dances. Her S's sound like P's and she loves carrots and nothing green. For Halloween she was a jack-o-lantern-superhero-princess. She said, "cricket or cleat" and everyone ruined it for her when they said, "No, it's trick or treat."
Once she sang about rockin' and rollin' all night, without knowing some consider that the devil's music. She slept under her bed and pretended to brush her teeth until someone told her monsters lived under there and that the tooth fairy wouldn't take a rotten tooth. By then, she knew how to paint with more than her fingers and she noticed things that blew in the wind and far off noises.
When she was six, her mother found four gray hairs in C.'s Hershey kiss colored curls and C. cried harder with each pluck. She thought she broke a toy once, and she wanted to forget it, to hide it from her babysitter, to never break her own heart again. But she realized what living really felt like when it snapped back together. Unfortunately, C. didn't know that not everything is an easy of a fix.
C. didn't concern herself with where things came from but she always asked, "Where is the daddy?" when the story said, "Daddy" but didn't picture him on the page. C. skinned her knees, too many times for scars not to form, while learning to ride her bike. She said, "I hate you" by the monkey bars, to a boy who loved her but pushed her, and bit her, and cut a chunk of her waist length hair to her ear. C. did like the weight off of her, but it all grew back.
She visited her daddy only once. The day she got back home, C. stared down at the palm tree on her one souviner t-shirt as her mother washed the lice from her head.
C. kissed a boy, as a "double dog dare," under an elm tree, then was bitten by a spider on her knee. That night she cried while her mother pushed puss from the bite mark and until she saw Andy kissing Leslie behind Burger King, she thought it was all worth it. C. wondered if she would forever associate heartbreak with oozing wounds. Her mother said, "Your knees are strong." And C. said, "But nothing else is." And her mother said, "You're tough." And she said, "I'll never be the same." And her mother said, "I love you." And C. said, "I know."

Character Sketch: B.

B.
is painfully beautiful.
Hair like crimson waves down her back and eyes so blue everyone always thinks, "Purple." She often felt she was going to cry and didn't know why. So she said to the man on the barstool next to her, "Take me home and leave me there." B. tripped up his steps and he weaved his fingers through her mess of curls and she felt the need to stare out his window.

She lives in New York, NY--the city that never shuts up. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the street sweeper reminds her of a cyclone. With underwear in her back pocket, a bum on the F train says, "Youth is beauty, beauty is beauty, beauty is pain."
B. has the same dream every night. A phoenix unable to rise above the flames and her father eating salmon in a river bed. Then she wakes up with a cat on her face and B. says, "I'm happy you're home." The cat blinks. Her neighbor downstairs plays the piano. Sometimes B. imagines a little boy learning his scales, other times an old lady losing her sight. She dances to the tune and every time a key clanks abruptly B. smiles with one knee bent and one hand toward the sky. She used to wear tutus as a little girl, pink like swollen gums or cotton candy. She wanted to dance forever--one day on Broadway--but she fell off her bike at twelve and broke her foot. Her mother cried more than she. Her mother packed up all her blue ribbons and ballet shoes and B. never wanted to look for them.
Now, B. works at a gallery in SOHO and conceptual art makes her pull her hair out, one strand at a time. There is a pile of curls on her desk and she wonders how she has any left on her head. One day, a man spread sand in the corner and put little plastic castles down in neat rows. He hung seagulls from the ceiling with colored yarn. And he glued shells to the walls, then neon-glow spray-painted them, frantically until his nose ran with orange and blue snot. She stood from her chair as he poured colored carbonated water in a cardboard box marked with red "fragile" letters. B. remembered the word, "Whoa" but it came out, "Who-ah" and he laughed a cricked laugh--teeth jutting out like broken glass.
She felt like she'd been shot, if only she knew how that felt. B. could imagine that it felt the same way she imagined what poison would taste like. B. could imagine that it felt the same way she imagined dialing a phone without knowing the number. So she pulled another strand out, then another, and another. The artist shuffled over, his shoes scratching sand on the lime tiles. He picked up her hair and said, "My jellyfish." And she said, "Yes." And he said, "My mind has been numb with sea foam for years." And she said, "I'll trade you highways of thoughts and regrets." And he said, "Here take my crab exoskeletons."
B. laughed her way to the bathroom then cried in the stall until the space between her heart and rib cage felt like fire. She crushed the crabs under her bare feet and left them under separated squares of toilet paper. B. went home to dance with her cat.

Character Sketch: A.

(first in a series of 26)

A.

is unquestionably average.
Brown hair that is only curly when wet, but fluffy when dry. His eyes, almond shaped with no particular sparkle.
In seventh grade, A. had to take D.A.R.E classes and he asked, "Is an alcoholic always an alcoholic? Even if he's on a deserted island without a corner store in sight. For years and years with lips as bone dry as the rocks under the midday sun." This teacher said, "Yes." That day, A. accepted his mother's lack of hope.
He used to have acne but took that medicine that causes depression in some. He says he feels the same without pimples.
A. had kissed three girls by that time. Well, one was more like CPR, that one summer night he was swept under the current. And One was a "double dog dare" but Leslie, she kissed him behind Burger King when he was 17. Her hair smelled like fries and his fingers greasy from the all-beef patties. After that, the only words she spoke to him were orders.
A.'s mother left his father because his father could never finish anything but a case of beer.
A. put marshmallows in his ears that day and he kind of figured the world was much better if it was muffled. Too bad he had been hungry, so he decided wax wasn't so bad if it coated sugar.
During high school he was asked to join the yearbook staff but he said, "No, I don't want to make a book of memories about this place." And his counselor said, "That's terrible." And he said, "No, it's a lie. " And she said, "Oh good." And he said, "Because if that book were filled with real memories, people wouldn't read it." And she said, "Oh that's terrible." And he said, "They would want to forget."
So, he graduated high school without having joined a single club, without having played a single sport, without dancing or holding hands.
A. went to state college and his roommate, Derek, had dusty blond hair and a pointy nose. This roommate's left arm had a deep dimple in it. He's had it since birth and A. wished he had been stabbed during his amino too. "Why, why?" Derek asked. "Conversation starter," A. mumbled, turning toward the wall.
A.'s favorite food is hot pockets. Every time he burns his mouth he can't wait to relieve the pain with the frozen center. He thinks, "I burnt the top of my mouth today, and now I can feel myself growing back."
At 22, he began taking pictures and drinking whiskey. His mother told him to make sure he can always feel the future on his skin. He worried about his bad breathe and his virginity often but his fingertips were always soft.
One day, he waited for a bus under a bridge and he focused the lens of his camera while squinting from the glare of the sun. Suddenly, a shadow was falling and he clicked. Shame came over him as he heard her hit the ground, real as...real.
Cars stopped and cars honked. People cried and she took a breathe. And took his away.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Trombone or ship horn



No matter where they are, their windows should be open wide. Especially when a night feels like all day. The ocean's a part of her the same way music notes live in the hallows of his mouth and ears, and even on his skin.
Their legs meet--cross--and have no need to surrender. She rises and falls, zig-zagging like the tides' affair with the sand. They follow the moon. He sings and kisses by the light of it. The waves tier and suddenly she's under him, bleating but with more wavering breathe.
Later, she wonders, biting her bottom lip softly, " What about light and time and the absence of both?" The only answer is that their fingers and toes feel like perfect weather finding its way back.
Maybe he thinks the knell doesn't sound so sad if it shares its space with a drum beat. He strums and plucks the strings and they both want to feel the power of "es hoy." But in the mean time, the tides stand still and she's asleep by dawn while he's in Spain.
Somewhere off in the distance, one hears a trombone and the other a ship horn.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

And the stars


Who am I to lie under the sky, so full of stars that mean nothing? They are not speaking. Are they not seeing? Those balls of gas and matter are not mine. Are they not mine to wish on or touch like a penny? What is leaving indents on my palm? I clutch this penny and we are not lonely any more. Is it a "not-worth-it-why-keep-it-if-there's-not-a-million-more-where-it-came-from" kind of penny? No,it is the penny I hold the way I would the man I hope will be mine someday.
I can't, not for a minute, think the answers are in the stars. Even if I could feel the change in the sky, I would still want to crawl through the fields and find that one firefly, too tired to join the rest, and catch him with my eyes closed. There he would be, glowing on the bronze face of Lincoln in my palm. Maybe he, too, is smiling with a tear stuck to his eyelash--if only this firefly had them.
But more than anything, I want that man to touch my face with his, so I could tickle his cheek with my lashes and he would tell me it feels like a tiny caterpillar. And then I would smile while he kissed my eyes. I would give him my penny, and give him my firefly, give him give him give him. Until I had no more. Until I had only the stars to give, even though they're not even mine. At least after all that, they would mean something.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

There were elevators there

Someone once said to just throw it all away. So we overcompensated. We traveled through time. I saw you from the closet and you said I could be a stewardess from the seventies. I stepped out of the plane.

I was in the nineties and she was so hungry, I went to find the big krackers in the little kabinet in the dark kitchen. I left her next to the window with snow in her hair and went into her mind. I wanted to bring her Buddha back and put it in her empty hands. If I were better at time travelling I would have said, "Here's some enlightenment."

I saw the burned books--frayed pages covered in red. I wanted to cry but the smile stuck. I hurt for the words but I appreciated the art. Even if it wasn't for it's own sake.

I whispered through the crack under the bathroom door, "There's beauty here and it's pefect just where it is."

We never wanted to be alone and I said even if the word perfect were spelled wrong she would still be it. We cried and she said, "I'll know you when we're forty." We cried and I asked her if I would be a mother.

We write our own histories and we see it on the Brooklyn bridge, hear it in the jazz music, and all that matters is that we hold it in our tiny hands. We are beauty and pain. We are a pair of legs, a pair of eyes, and we are metaphors.

You make my lips quiver and my eyes water.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Smoke through the window

Tonight, I resisted the urge to blare my music. I take soft steps around soiled socks then blow foul smoke out the crack of a window. The same one I watch the seasons change through. My tree-top jungle--with the Brooklyn Queens Expressway far enough in the distance to sound like crashing waves--turns into skeletons missing their clothes. The same window I squint through the mid-day brightness to watch people shake cocktails on a roof deck. In the summer, I watch them on their perch and fantasize about sun-soaking my skin on their lounge chairs. Then I realize I live in a voyeuristic city. I remember all the kisses those cocktail sippers have seen through my window over the year and I bet myself two more minutes of sleep that if I ever made it to that roof deck, I would see my bed through this window and want to be sprawled across it. Kissing a man with cigarette breathe.

Monday, December 15, 2008

course


People: Revoke/Strange & Beautiful

Can you have an itch and itch it?

I actually hate the transit sensation while sitting
cross-legged on the ground.

Maybe after all the fruit has rotted, I'll
get the courage to move
with my view.

Can you scratch a scratch?

Any more pent-up emotion
I think I'm going to explode.

I actually want men to
let me be
me
maybe stand up and look
out the window with me.

Or is it always itch a scratch?

I would rather be still
on the inside instead
of holding my breathe.

People

The beauty in people
is that they are strange and complicated.
Sometimes I feel like I'm made of paper
and I'm truly thankful for 24 hour laundry mats.

I'm happy with the feeling of moving
while being still.

If I could have any job
I would be a professional Cinderella
and I will write books about
the way things really are
even if no one wants to read them.

Maybe I'll write about men
knowing how to be what I want
them to be.

When one whispers in my ear
that I'm beautiful
I don't feel strange
or complicated
I just know I am.

That's not so tragic is it?

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Steve Grossi's 5 Words

It's Different Than Mine

I sat with an old friend
grazing on thoughts--
at the time they were future plans.
Back when repeated themes
in my works were uncommon.
He told me that day--
way up on that broken fence
post--that he loved me.
Then I told him to go
and be a chef
by the ocean.
On our drive home--
long after the sunset,
our cigarettes
became butts and ash,
but before our dreams were real
and large,
scary and welcoming--
I ran my car
right into a mountain.
And we laughed together.
But I don't think
the alphabet ever stopped
writing itself on the backs
of my eyelids.
In his drive way, we talked
about philosophers, but not really
knowing much except that truth
is perspective.
I realize now--
what I didn't then--
that's just common knowledge.
Then we kissed
that single time.
Never before and never since.
I giggle now
because the next year--
while he sauteed and reduced wine--
I learned Plato's concept of platonic love.
It's different than mine.

I have known this angel for a while


An angel,
except her wings are made
out of microwavable TV dinner trays.

Don't we all want the truth?
And the lies?
Really. Because what are we without one?

And sometimes she cries
for no reason--
with her head
in the kitchen and her belly
in the bathroom.

Don't we all want
to freeze in the flames
and tell everyone
about things
that are still going to happen?

She forgives us all,
but while she sleeps.
Only in our dreams
we can't be scared
of rage
or nervous
because there isn't any rage at all.

Last night,
she shut the front door on me and said,
"Don't we all just speak through walls anyway?"
And I held onto the knob
and wondered.
Do we want to understand our parents in our age or theirs?

She whispered and my fingertips moistened,
"If we know, then what's left?"

From the mind of a future published author...

Three-year-old Naomi is at it again. Brilliance seeps from her mind:

This one is called, "Princess Jack-o-Lantern"

A very fun Princess who
lived in the woods where
no one is allowed to go.
But it's just a song, you know.
Down by the river, there's a
jack-o-lantern but I can not
go because I have to go home
and save the baby. I'm just drawing
notes. Big ones, like a smile
and I like jello and
it's very fun to just stand that way.
Forever but you go to the wild
jack-o-lantern who lived by the sea
but can't go because he tripped
over his wet socks.
And he knows a Princess
named Cinderella who crosses her legs
when she sits down and she draws
the notes she sings for her friends
who are not Princesses and underwear
and jack-o-lantern dies
so no one goes-never-ever.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

1 of the 10 million and 8 reasons why I love babysitting

On Mondays and Wednesdays I have the pleasure of taking care of two little girls: Susana, aged one and Naomi, three. Nap time for the little sister means multimedia craft extravaganza for the older girl and myself. Today's mediums of choice were pastel crayons and construction paper collages. My task was to cut the paper and Naomi pasted them on with a glue stick. When starting the first one, Naomi remarked, point-blankly, "This...is going to be awesome!" My obvious response was, "Totally." After the construction paper was pasted, we worked together drawing all over the pages. Of course each one is made for either myself, her older brother, Julian, her little sister, or her parents. I do admit these were some of our best works yet.
Then Susana woke up and we put away the glue, pastels, and scissors and played with legos. Then Naomi popped up and ran to the craft cabinet, declaring, "I've got to draw!" So she, her sister, and myself sprawled across the floor and drew with markers. Then Naomi said, "I'm going to tell you a story, write it for me," as she stuck a marker in my hand.
Here is the dictated story and all it's wonder:

For Marissa
From Naomi S.
we're best friends and we like to play together and we love each other and we do art work because we love art work so we are nice and everybody got to be nice so we have a big house and no one can knock it down and pick it up because we have a big house that's right so this picture is for marissa that only i drawed okay so marissa has long hair and naomi has short and she used to have long hair and i wish i could be bigger and to be growed up and i wish to be i hope to be a princess.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

History and Progressive Patriotism

Well, ladies and gents,
I don't even know if anyone reads this blog but if there is someone out there I wanted to say that American History has been made. November 4th, 2008 is a day I will never, ever forget for the rest of my life. Not only was I surrounded by friends and fellow supporters of Barack Obama but I was in Brooklyn--the only city that I, as an adult, have chosen to live.
The mood was antsy yet joyous while state's tallies were released. I had never felt such excitement as I did when Ohio or Florida popped up blue. I was proud when Maryland and Colorado turned blue because I have lived in these states, and by the time Indiana became blue my mouth hurt from smiling.
But no moment can compare to when Obama had been named the elected 44th President of the United States. I was in a bar (Lazy Catfish: on Lorimer and Metropolitan in Williamsburg) that serves free beer every Tuesday from 8:30-10 (because socialism isn't always bad, especially if you don't have much money and you want to have a good time). I hugged more strangers in those five minutes after Obama became President Elect than I have in my entire life. My voice was sore from cheering for about 30 minutes. But what will really stick in my mind forever: rushing to the streets with over 100 other people to find everyone outside (in the gorgeous 60ish degree weather) laughing, crying, cheering, dancing, hooting and hollaring, chanting "OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA!" Cars stopped and drivers got out, cameras flashed, and people came together in an honest, heartfelt joy for our country.
I know there are unhappy Mccainers out there and I accept that. I just hope you find it in your hearts to accept that America is trying something new because its so obvious the old road hasn't lead us anywhere proper. Some are skeptical that Obama won't follow through with his platform, but you have to give him a chance: he wants to make a change and he has the greater good of this country in his mind. He doesn't want things to be seen as black and white (especially his own ethnicity, because he is both AND HE'S AN AMERICAN CITIZEN)...he wants us to be seen as one America--together and rooting for change. Like he said, it may not be one year or one term, but what Obama is, to America, a symbol of progress, of open-mindedness, and the whole world is looking and supporting us with this choice.
100 years ago, I, as a woman, couldn't vote, 50 years ago blacks were not considered equal, and right now gay and lesbian people's rights are challenged (or ignored). Obama has given hope to all those who were/are not seen as good enough or right enough. Finally someone went up there and said, "Enough." Obama is looking out for the greater good and people should see that.
There's a new buzz phrase: "Progressive Patriotism." It means that people are more proud to be Americans because now it's an inclusive club rather than exclusive (as it was when Republicans were in charge).
All I'm asking is for progress, for a better future. Think about our new adults (me! the college students, the recently graduated), someone needs to look out for us because if we're lost then where will all the young children go? I was overwhelmed with happiness when I arrived to my babysitting job the next morning and looked at the one-year-old and three-year-old girls because I thought, you my girls can be President one day too.
Think positive and the rest will follow.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Efran Delgado's 5 Words

Fundamentals

If life really imitates art
then would I be
a Milton Avery painting--
faceless and one dimensional?
You may say so but I've never
put my passions in frames.
You can title me but
always remember
I'm ever changing.

I'll never step into a faith
with out an honest heart.
Religion mystifies
but spirituality is genuine.

Be honest with others
and yourself.
Be what you want
others to see
you as and
treat people how you want
to be treated.

I don't conduct
golden service in the house
of God,
I prefer under the sun,
among my friends.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Unsent letter 2



























Dear John Ashbery, in a low tide waves will hit you harder.


Sometimes, I also think we are trained to apologize, to only turn around and recognize a certain kind of beauty. Would you agree that there is more under the surface? Someone once said that it's the not knowing that keeps us alive, so there you are: "Reality. Explained."
With each step I make toward knowing, I know half as much. "Dumb clarity."
Zeno's paradox was solved the other day. Now we can go back in time, but will we fill more than one space in life? It can't be that easy, but I bet you would agree that it's all strange.

Unsent letter

















Dear Wallace Stevens, can you imagine
anything into reality? After all, Plato tried,

however, he didn't believe in poetry, or its value. Apparently, up is the perfect pattern and down is merely material (from which it's cut). A mirror stands in the middle when I obtain "precise equilibrium." Is the soul unreal? Dead? Or is the concept not maintainable? "Having created something unreal. It adheres to it and intensifies its unreality." Pinocchio said, "I'm a real boy" and Nietzsche would call him a liar. The idea of nobility makes us close to God, unless you're Don Quixote and imagining nobility just makes you insane. I must recognize when I'm talking in circles, but are words not jumbles of connotative imaginings anyway?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Another too-close-to-home-horoscope

For the week of Oct. 22-28: Pisces (Feb 19-Mar 20)

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. We've been here before, haven't we, Pisces? Balanced precariously at the edge of a dark and scary precipice, clinging to the faded glory, holding our past achievements out in front of us as if to ward off imminent ruin. Well, this time you might have to let yourself fall to the bottom, because then you'll be able to climb up the other side, and move forward with your life.

Thank you L Magazine for reminding me that I'm feeling kinda lonely and making me wonder how delusional I am.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Liza and Matt's 5 Words


Mud

The day I felt like a little sister
the sky changed
from periwinkle to
the color of soot
in a matter of moments.
I run through the pumpkin fields
after that red-haired boy,
who some years
later isn't even real
enough to put in my pocket.
I run until
my lungs fill with ice
and confusion throbs
on my temple.
I finally see him,
lying flat
on his back with clumps
of dirt sticking to his ears.
My toes
touch the bottoms of his feet
and he says to me,
"You never know
what worse luck your bad luck
has saved you from."
And raindrops fall
onto us--he floats in a pool of mud.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Samantha Smith's 5 words

Such things are tragedies

Forget the King's men
who couldn't put Humpy
back together again--
my chai tea tastes like water
yet every cube of ice is in tact.

Sitting in the space
between bribing a baby to sleep
and tricking vegetables
into her mouth.
I'm by the window in a cafe.
Looking out at Queens,
wishing I had more secrets,
then wondering why
because I wear the ones
I already have like
some cars wear scratches
and dents.

A woman's cell phone
sends techno beats into the air
and for some strange reason
she's willing to let us
become her audience.
Am I better for knowing
Nancy ruined Charlie's
surprise party?

This chatty woman
looks around to notice
there's a division between

herself
and

the rest of the cafe.

She meets the eyes
of several highly caffeinated
people then
leaves.
But only goes as far as
my window.

Her pacing becomes my pendulum
and despite my watered down chai
my eyes become heavy.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

A Brief Letter To My Readers:


Dear (few) Readers,

Firstly, I want to say thank you.
I am going to continue with this blog, because I have no where else to put my poetry and I do actually like writing it still.
But to be honest, I've been cheating. I'm a new contributor to 2Threads.com. It's a fashion-music-celeb-event-nightlife-type-community site. It began in Australia and now has NY blogger/contributors. It's really cute and I'm having a blast finding my fashion/pop culture based voice. I'll be doing music and event reviews as well. It's just a great jumping off point for my "freelance career." With in the next week I'll be writing up reviews for restaurant/lounges/bars/coffee shops/cafes and such which will be featured on a new website: Thirsty.com, which is an up and coming sister site to hungrycity.com (based out of California). I'm really excited about both because it will give me experience and exposure.
Please feel free to read my other blog: www.2Threads.com/piscesris
and I'll fill you in on the Thirsty one as soon as I have more information.

Thanks all,
Marissa

P.S If you hear of any job opportunities in the BK or NY area I would be very interested. VERY interested. I have receptionist/assistant experience in addition to my childcare background. I can brainstorm, edit, multi-task, organize, self-start, stay positive, write (practically) anything, and xerox like no other! So pass my name around.

P.P.S I'm also interested in any other blogs...PAID...or not. But you know...gotta make a living and such.

P.P.P.S Thanks a bunch, feel free to comment on the stuff here as well (tell me if it's crap too, I won't mind, that will make me edit).

Monday, September 1, 2008

Lisa Forbes' 5 words

Cornfields

Do you want to play
in the cornfields
until we're breathless?
Until we're covered in dirt;
pretending for minutes
at a time
that the stalks whisper
into each other's ears
about all their outrageous
moments spent under the sun.

Then we'll curl our bodies
around the irrigation pipes
and wonder what we have
in common with seeds.
You'll say, "We're all in limbo."
And I'll say, "Except in reverse."
"Yes," you'll utter while
picking soil from your fingernails.

"A seed's life begins in the ground, ours end."

The serenity
of the swaying husks
is disturbed by a tractor.
It grindes past
and we're covering our own ears
and squinting our moist eyes.

This murder,
this debacle is witnessed
by our entire sunburned bodies.
But our tongues will water
as if we can taste
the salt and pepper flecks,
almost as if the butter
is already melting
over the kernels
that will soon
meet our teeth.

Karol Miekina (Lorak's) 5 words

Frames

i haven't put the word
heartache
in a poem since high school.
which used to not seem
so long ago
but the beginning
is closer to 10 years
now than not.

i should leave more time
for picking wildflowers
instead of letting booze
put my mind in chaotic frames.
some moments
are taped to my bedroom walls--
reminding me to live
my life by the music
and not always the mood.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Alicia Ward's 5 words

Popping Bubbles

There once was a little girl who barely spoke. But when the word bubble popped from her mouth, smiles formed on everyone's around her.

Becoming less and less spontaneous: the coaxing and pleading echoed until she despised bubbles.

Unable to escape, they formed every where--over her feet, her chest, the cheese on her pizza, the plastic on her poncho. One day her tongue was covered by the bubbles she left unsaid.

What if she never uttered another word? Would she disappear?

Her brother would say, "I have a family minus a sister." The sun would not cast her shadow across the black streets. The sheets would no longer wrinkle under her body.

Except one day she felt an elephant fall from her lips. She spun around, fearing the ears surrounding her.

No one stopped but in the distance an outline of tusks and ears and a long trunk formed. She curled herself into a ball and floated toward the clouds. Popping like a bubble on a tree branch.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Erich Kuersten's 5 words

I used to think

(I could end the poem here
if I considered every time
I got into trouble
and gave that reason
as to why
I had done whatever
I had done to get into trouble.)

I used to think
I was diatonic
but then I found out
that I was Norwegain.
(which doesn’t really mean much
except that)
I look like an ice princess
when I wear a scarf.

The snow falls
and I’m rambunctious.
Remembering that boy
from Union Square
wondering around
with mescalin seeping
from his pours
his eyes
his mind.
A blizzard becomes us all.

I used to think
that everything
was cruicial.
No matter
how harsh a winter,
the summer is
always going to be hot.
No matter
how high a drug
makes you,
the fall is the same—
Hard and fast.

Kim Steckler's 5 words

A Piece of Fruit

When I was younger
I ate plums
All summer long.
Unrestricted juices
Flowed over my lips
Down my chin
Intrepidly onto my dresses;
Already stained
Perfectly green to match
The hills I rolled down.
Too many times
With my strawberry shortcake
Underwear exposed.
The older boys
From down the street—
Snickering
As I watched the world spin.
On my face,
A tender smile
That carried me to my future.
Little did I know then
What could be used as collateral.
All I know now
Is it only takes one acidic plum
To forever ruin their appeal.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

airplane poem


Those 3 Simple Words

at times, i'm a walking cliche
hell even that's trite.
what have i that no one else brings?

not for nothing

is it the same difference?
i read in a book
that wasn't so much about procreation
as it was about the loss of humanity
and the freedom of love--

which is so subjective these days
anyway
it read:

"ignorance is easier

to pull off

than ignoring."

do i agree?

kisses taste of honey today;

salt tomorrow.

i want to love
you
forever.
even if driven insane

but i keep
pushing
pushing
pushing
and just then.
i stop and
you see me
with my heart hanging out.
pity is the demise
and i just want
something

good.

i'm willing
to take the storm
with it all.
inside and out

i love

i am loving

can you believe?

what if there are too many

moments to take back?

it's the effort that shows in the end--
there i go again
with the cliches.
i speak circles

around myself

because i don't want
to be a victim

of holding secrets.

hoping to let go

afraid of not
hearing
those 3 simple words.

second guessing but pushing on





as i visit friend's blogs i wonder why i restricted myself to poetry.

nonetheless i need to put myself back into this and get cracking on some new material.

send me words (5 at a time) any words...the less related the better and i'll generate a poem out of them....please.

side note: receiving final critique from my thesis adviser and the director of my program regarding my manuscript....then i'm ready to get down to edits and i'll be sending it out with in the next 6 months...hope for the best.

also: the pictures =
a leaf with water
a bike
toy dump truck
and a pratt sculpture.....
because it's cool

Friday, July 18, 2008

Lost is not a word, it's how we feel with you gone



Luke Siwinski:
we watched your hair
grow and mat into knots
around your face.
we forgot what you looked like,
disregarded the desires
of your jaded soul.
you couldn't see
yourself
in our world
with out her.
the music spoke
through you, to you.
we still can't listen
to that album.
the gun left its mark on the sink.
you left your mark
on the world.
we're sorry.
we miss you.

Paul Black:
you hated
the way america worked;
but wanted to learn the lies
and refuse to believe in them.
the rules, the laws--
they were not for you.
we looked to you
for the alternative answers.
we let you become more
and more
and more silent
until you sailed away
in the wind with your thoughts.
you jumped but we fell with you.
we're sorry.
we miss you.

Matthew Keesey:
laughter echoed
around you
along with your songs
of encouragement.
you knew the right steps
and always followed through.
why did your path end?
we never suspected,
never worried,
never phrased our words
in order to protect you.
we want to chop down
all the trees
so your mirror image
won't be walking
among us,
alone.
we're sorry.
we miss you.

Seraphin Bernard:
you made your life
about changing other's.
the hope you instilled
still sits in our hearts.
the smile that always
rested on your face
still lingers in our thoughts.
we waited to see
what else was to come
from your warm gestures.
so much more
you were meant to give.
but your legacy lives on.
the world will miss
your genuine soul.
we walk on the grass
our feet once shared
while your body is taken
too soon from us.
stolen by the sea.
we are so sorry.
we will always miss you.



Thursday, July 10, 2008

Sounds

Wayne wrote
something about

the greatest sound

was that of baby

food jars opening.

Something in the way

it POPS.

I tend to agree.


At the moment

all I can hear
is a fan
blowing
and charms

clank

on the wall because.


I would rather
listen to milk steamers.


Once I wrote
a love note
to a boyfriend;

in it I said,
"I'm thinking
about you.
As I write
and
while you're reading."

I wonder now,

if the only thing
you hear
are my words
in your head.

Yesterday I asked this girl
who talks too fast
to read
her favorite poem.

She slowed down.

It's been a while

My friend Marissa wrote the comment on my facebook wall and I thought the punctuation was funny so I made a little poem from it.
My favorite part is "miss riss."
It says 1st time because when I did this one I thought I would be doing more...but I doubt it know. It stands on its own.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Higher gas prices
High waters

Pull out
the people,
put in
the poor
with bombs
to make us
Blow.
Quiet yourself Thunder,
I need
to make my echo.
I look
at young
boys now
as God
exists quietly
, After
the long road
spent rolls back
back to 1966.
I'm writing
to tell you
that it's all
going to happen
Again
and again.
Water in the streets
higher
Gas prices rise.
No one has a boat,
contradiction
throbs on my temple.
Slow to heal.
S l o w.
What would this river say
about it's own
End after
it's all said and done?

A still love poem

My love lies in the pale pastel glow

At night, a lamp's on,
pointing to the corner, as
we speak of light subjects with our eyes always open.
"Can't have a dark corner in our room," he says.
We let corners of our minds lie in the dark.

Somehow we're cruise ships
with too many chances to lounge
around outsides the raiding zones.
Some call it life--
we call it fortune.

We can seal our regrets
in mason jars and kiss until
we find ourselves naked.
A sea of sheets swallows us
whole, then everything
is real,
even our shadows,
even reflections, even speech and mascara smears.
You smile. I brush the hair from my eyes.

The sole purpose of delicious things is to save us,
so I smoke a cigarette and
you make popcorn.
I think for a moment that I smell soapberry,
but I realize it's only butter
and we're no where near the tropics.

French is a beautiful and terrifying language,
learning it wouldn't change anything
except we could speak
the art of facing our own ecstasies
and become the thing that is larger than ourselves.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

From a sophomore studio notebook


So going around leaving nothing, so thinking of you.

You kiss her knees, both of them, right on the caps.
She says to you then, "You, dear, can't cut just one tree in a forest."

"Why?" You ask.

"Why not?" She answers, "Because you'll end up building a house."
You brush the hair from the corners of her mouth and she laughs.
You say to her, "Be silly, as long as you feel it in your toes."

You want to touch her neck but she says, "The window's open and I can feel the hurricane breeze."


How, now and then, I find a penny, only I spit on it while waiting to get rich.
Sounds too cliche but that's what I get when so going around leaving nothing, so thinking of you.


What if my shoelaces tied themselves, or better yet, never came undone?
I cut my hair and throw the abandoned strands in saltwater and somehow you love it when I cry. As if to say it will all grow back...a little, not too fast.
Is enough.

notes from the margins


Language fills my dresser drawer
sometimes I collect them into poems.

A library of smells
the library smells

astricks mean a lot of me

If only a pimple had a proper home

pop of perfect peace, the pop of baby food jars

cozy rosaries
word cubes
inside diatribes

Vegetables are done when they smell
like themselves.

If I resemble my mother,
that's not a catastrophe.

raiding zones
soapberry
mason jars
mascara
temple


This poem fills
my belly,
verbs like cramps.
language fills my head.

When Brooklyn sleeps
I keep my eyes
on the cracks
in the sidewalks.

A beautiful child of light,
smokes her last cigarette.

John Wayne's teeth--
are they real?
Are they wood
or are they steal?

She has the need
to search for the middle.
I want to find the middle.
The middle of what?

Why is Please Please Please
so good?

poets
write
for
eachother

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Different window scenes light dreams I feel what it means

I felt Brooklyn on my skin

buying cigs from the bodega window
with my pizza slice heatin'
in an oven next door

I played at the park
swingin' with free four-year-olds

saw keri russel and kept my cool
like it was normal with my
insides jumpin' and smilin'

runnin' after ice cream trucks
with a two-year-old screamin'
iiiiiicccceeee crrreeeaaammmmm!

Stoopin' it with popcicles and
catchin' five-year-olds
before stumblin' back

nannies lookin' at me like I'm
not allowed to jump and smile
me, wishin' I could relax a while


I hear alley cats screech
sirens wail
Johnny tellin' Ramone
to go to hell
walkin' home at 3 a.m.
ain't a reach

seein' road blocks and
filming sets
green screens and
smoke scenes
at the corner of Mrytle and Hall
listenin' with my hand in my pocket
rockin' it to a Badu beat
jumpin' to my ears
makin' smiles from fears

I felt Brooklyn on my skin

Monday, April 28, 2008

Coming Soon:


May 5-
copies of
Baby Is My Business

in circulation.

On the site
In the near future-
beatific
an old short story, revisited















"I love you"

Mattress
is a table;
bed sheet--

a page.

We are written,

like
question marks
at the end

of a sentence.


The same one

we throw around

each other.

my horoscope (4.23-4.29) PISCES


i didn't write this, but it's too perfect. thank you New York Press, again:

you may feel that recent events represent the last nail in your metaphorical coffin. sure, if you keep on as you have been, it won't be long before you're effectively (and still metaphorically) dead and buried, but there's still an amazingly good chance to turn this around. it's just a matter of shifting your perspective and rethinking not only your desintation, but your route. after all, a well built coffin could probably make a decent boat, or shelter from the rain, or toboggan, with only a few adjustments. what minor alterations can you make to this seemingly untenable situation that will turn it on its head? this week is a good one to try to impliment any that you can think of.
just go out there and do it.

For my friends:


Imagine that we are getting older
and maybe wiser
but the road ahead is infinite.

Imagine that we are no longer
self-deprecating.

Imagine that we are capable
of being surprised
without the pain of shock.

Imagine that we are always
forces to be reckoned with.

Imagine that we are proud
to want more,
just as proud
when we get it.

Imagine that we are eager
to peak around the corner
at what's
next.

Imagine that we accept
that life will always
be hard-
er than we want.

Imagine that we remember
who we once were
and we're much better
now
somehow.

Found in a tiny notebook under my desk

The New Teacher
A young student picks up the chalk and the grading book, she says to the class, "I'm your new teacher."


"You wait until the teacher comes back," scolds the principal, "Don't do this to your teacher, he's planned the year so well."

"I know," says the student, "I can follow the plans."

When the teacher comes back, he's got pencils and blank notebooks. As he slips into a seat in the front row and says, "Hi teacher and principal, I'm ready to learn."

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Alphabetical Prose Adaptation




This is one of my first attempts at hybrid poetry: I wanted a clear structure (ABC) to run through the prose poem and I wanted it to read like a story (with a character who changes by the end) and it's an adaptation of a No Doubt song, by the same name.

Artificial Sweetener

"Admitting that you have a problem is the first step," says the twenty-something receptionist, a platinum-blonde 'Betty Ford in training.'
Bioconditional comes to mind when I pick up the block of wood with admissions engraved in it and ask her, "Is this a clever pun to let me in, or to get me to admit my guilt?"
"Call it what you will," she says, tilting her head the way my dealer does after answering his door to me at 3 in the morning.
D
enial works if you get too good at doing a bad impersonation of yourself (or too good at being stubborn and selfish).
Electric kool-aid powder, nose candy, rock star, snow, white powder, or yayo; whatever, in the end it's pure cocain; and you would shudder to admit addiction too.
F
lashbacks of show-and-tell in kindergarten run through my mind; I feel like I'm showcasing the worst part of me all over again.
Gnawing pencils was my first habit; I chose to display the six that lined my desk.
"How are you going to receive help if you don't admit what you're problem is?" The little Betty asks while tapping the blank page she found in the file I placed next to
admissions.
I know how disgusting I look to her; yellowing (in every sense of the word) right in front of her chubby pink face. Just another gaunt junkie, hell maybe receptionists at Betty Ford clinics expect snot to drip down to every body's lip. Key detail: I let rust-colored snot from each nostril meet at the top of the crevice and then slide down to my lip; three times so far, right down the middle.
"Lady, you have to stop second-guessing yourself, you have to let us assess your situation with substance abuse," she says in the same tone my mother used when I wouldn't eat my dinner.

"My heart's losing the race, but I want to hold on to life," my voice scratches like it's been numb for days.
n
auseous is the only real thing i feel i pretend love and hate i fake jealousy and gratitude i'm full-up with artificial sweeteners i've got cavities to show for it. on too many occasion i've been spun like a top to the point when speed bumps won't even try to stop me.
Pushing her buttons is the worst idea if I want to join her side, if I want to undo and re-do all of the mistakes I've made.
"Quit with the euphemisms, I know you're a coke head, I can see bloody tissues sticking out of your pockets," she snaps.

Red-spotted Kleenex sprout from all four pockets the same way feather boas fluff in starlet's arms at red carpet events.
S
mall things, the signs and such, it's stupid of me to think she wouldn't know what I am, but then again,
I'm only sure that I'm unsure.
"Tell me this," I say, so close I can smell her Cover Girl make-up, "What chances do I really have of quitting?" Understand one aspect of drug addicts: it is unimaginable to each how something that makes them feel so good can cause such inadequacy.
"Various factors," she clears her throat, "play into the success rate of every patient." When she stamps sanction (in red) on my file, she looks at me as if she knows I"m thinking of bicondition again.
"X marks the spot--right, sign even though neither of us know if I'm getting approval or punishment," I say as I loop the ink into the curves of my name.
Yet, I really don't care because at least I'll learn to feel something real again.
"Zen meditation and insight hours will help you most," she yells through the door that swings behind me as I walk down the white hallway to my empty room.

Written on a Burger King bag in my car the summer before college


Discrepancy?

if you walked to his door

would you ask satan if he's cold? does he have water for blood?

no one blames fools for trying
even the honest are lying

if you find justice
, is it time
to end the search?


the lonely don't always
sit while crying.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

One of my Favorite Poems


Harvest Moon

A beautiful woman and an ugly man stand on a corner in Times Square. They wait for the signal to walk. The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman here to be a model or an actress on the big screen? Can you sing me a song, the tune of your heart that will top the charts?

I am the dirt under the feet of a diligent farmer. Trudging on me, he leaves the mark of his soul on my face. In my nose, he plants a seed.

The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman, you should be up on that billboard, not a can of Pepsi. It should be your face on the television, not that news anchor who lies.

I am a corn stalk with ears that touch the sky. I will reach God today, "What's the meaning of life?" I will ask him.

The ugly man says, A beautiful, little woman, you're not meant to walk, come home with me and I will lie you down on my bed. I will paint your portriat, better than The Birth of Venus.

The sun is setting, says the beautiful woman while looking up through the skyscrapers. The harvest moon will be out tonight.

From the vault of errors


An Attempt at Not Being Romantic

mistake
hit or miss
smoke another cigarette
she fucked so and so
to fuck with you
mistake two
credit or debt
spit fire for words
flames for her
she lost herself
a bad impersonation
mistake three
forgive and forget
you think not
she thinks more
she's got guilt in bed
you lie for the same reason
mistake four
cause and effect

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

some melodramadic poems about music and love



fingers
move on the neck
of his guitar.
she ponders
the way
they would race
across
her body.



a girl's guide
to a p
re-mature rock-star
lies in
the hands
of mus
ic gods--
some hold false hope
like plastic picks
while th
e riff
lingers in the air,

swirling the beat
around
wooden drumsticks.
she lets the cigarette
flicker.
ambiance stands alone
with the rhythm
of a thousand tiny bells
echoing like screams
lost with the feed-back.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

A dawn poem, written at dusk

Morning Bowl of Cereal
Paranoia is why I get up
in the morning

and my definition ends there.

Still fresh citrus rises through a clear straw--
I pick my friend
s like I pick fruit.

Yet I'm aware of my translucency and I can't stop
taking you in,

--smoking--
can't stop loving
the way you coo
l hot food
only after it's in your mouth.

I forget about my ripped jeans
and cold knees.
I become a blind man in a dark room
looking for tha
t cat
who slipped out the door
because of its
fear of mice.

Silence is a kind of violence
when we're really listening and
violence a kind
of lust
if we're utterly lonely.

Love affairs are like cross word puzzles
without the vowels.

Eventually the world will start over again.

Leaves the color of rust reach
through the brances of leaves, still green.
Where's the change?
Can we overstand?

I tell myself I own three dogs
when actually, they own me.

After it all ends
I'll write books
about the way things should have been.