B-neath

It was
b-neath
what I had expected.

It was a
B
plus.

A
B
plus.

No comment was
b-neath
the grade

Not one written comment
b-neath
the grade

I'm not angry about the
B
plus

I just wanted
A
comment

After 3 terms
3
terms!!!

And no comment
3 terms
I repeat

Seriously
Theresa?
Nothing?

An
A
in the class

But a
B
for the final

You are
b-neath
me

I am
b-side
myself

Prevention

I want to move in with Millie,
I just have a few things in my way.

Money
Family
Job
The Likes

I want to buy another car,
but I just have a few things in my way.

Money
Job
The Likes

I want to be done,
I just have a few things in my way.

Money
Time
The Likes

Today I got so tired of it all.
I had no control over

space
and
time

Then the gods handed me those orange scissors
(or was it the Devil?)

Snip cut
Cut snip
Red hair

falling
to the ground.

You know the worst thing about all this?
I have gray knees.

Love, or at least Like

Bubbles.
Bumbles.
Brambles.

Bubbles pop.
Bumbles buzz.
Brambles tear.

You weren't asleep for very long
when I decided to leave.
You're a very heavy sleeper,
making those sleeping noises that only you can.
It didn't even matter that I
stepped on your calf when I climbed over you
to get out of bed.
Sure, you flinched a bit,
then turned your head and went back asleep.

It was maybe 1 in the morning by now,
so you'd only
been asleep for an hour, maybe.
I could tell you didn't want to sleep;
and well,you even told me that.
You'd said: “I'm so exhausted! But I don't want to sleep.
You distract me.”
That's what you said.

When I crawled over you to get out of bed,
I planned on leaving
for good.
It's not that you weren't right for me,
it's that I wasn't right for you.
But as I opened the door of the bedroom to leave,
you made one of your sleeping noises, the kind
that is startling in deep silence.
I turned and looked back at you, with your arm
still in the same place it had been when I was
lying next to you.
You thought I was still there.
Then you made one of those “hmmmmm” sounds.

I knew I had to leave, but not for good.
At least not yet.
So I went into the backyard,
which is a forest basically.
Tall trees, uncontained bush.
It was beautiful at sunset,
but now I could barely see anything.
But the moon was out, a full moon.
I sat at the edge of the deck,
staring out at the vast sky,
looking at the neighbors' houses, wondering if they felt
the same way I did.

You remember that container of bubbles you
had on the deck? Yeah, it was still there.
So, I decided to blow some bubbles.
I watched some of them float away,
but most of them got popped
by the brambles.

Usually birds sit on those brambles, and the
bees buzz nearby.
But it was so late.
Nature knows when to sleep.
I sat there, dreaming. I thought I could see
a bird sitting in those brambles, and those
bees buzzing around it.

I remembered that day when we danced
around the brambles, trying to avoid
falling into them.
But that day, we did fall.
You got stung. The bees have always liked you better.
I got scratched.
I remember how we hurt so bad and nothing could soothe us.
Then you wanted to blow bubbles, those really big bubbles.
So that's what we did.
You blew one straight at me, and it
popped on my scratched arm.
Nothing has ever felt better.
We had found the Balm of Gilead--bubble soap.
We ran to the store and bought
gallons and gallons of bubbles
and practically bathed in those bubbles.
Our bodies healed quickly after that.

I blew bubbles and more bubbles and even
more bubbles until the bottle was almost gone.
It was mostly empty when I decided to set it down
on the deck next to my thighs.
But it spilled.
Just like that—bubble soap poured out onto my
shorts and legs.
Nothing has ever felt better.

That bubble soap healed me once again--it healed my scratches,
it healed my heart.
I knew what I had to do.
I ran inside, found the rest of the bubbles,
and poured them all over my now naked body.
Then I went back into the bedroom,
found you sleeping, still sleeping, still making those
sleeping noises, still sleeping in the same position.
I slowly slithered my way into bed,
right next to your warm body.
You opened your eyes slowly, looked my way, exclaimed
“POP!”,
and went back to sleep.

What

a horrible day

This Is Not about Religion

Rooted in Faith, Strong against Adversity, Crowned in Majesty.

This is a poem about trees.

Getting Naked With Skin

I sat down with Skin, who bares all and honestly tells of the never ending cycle of changing colors.

"I'm really sensitive, you know?
Sometimes she goes outside
and sits and sits and reads poetry.
Or she walks and walks and talks.
Or she plays and plays and loves.
By the end of the day,
I'm red. And dry. and burning.
Within a few days, I peel. I just
flake and peel right off. Sure,
then she cares. Then she applies
those lotions--those "soothing" lotions
that are suppose to prevent this stuff
from happening. Too late.
I'm damaged.
After the top of me peels off,
I turn brown.
She stands in front of that
mirror and looks--looks at herself--
all brown and then she calls herself
"Beautiful."
She's wearing white today so she looks
more brown.
And then I don't know what happens--
but within a few more days,
I fade.
My brown leaves and I turn
yellow.
Then she stands in front of that
mirror again and calls herself
"sickly-looking."

Is brown beautiful?
Is yellow ugly?
Is THIS the end of the world?"

As It Once Was

The table was set
and they sat.
Staring. Just staring.
At each other.
At their food.
Neither spoke.
Neither ate.
It was a steak dinner,
with mashed potatoes and beef gravy,
vegetables and bread.
Wine was the drink, but
she always hated wine.
So she had water instead.
He picked up his
fork and knife and held
them in his burly hands,
just like he had once held
her.
She didn't blink.
"Saw saw saw"
he cut his steak and
opened his mouth,
preparing for a bite.
She didn't flinch.
He raised his fork
to his mouth and
slowly--slowly--with his tongue,
guided the meat off of
his fork.
Her best silverware--her best fork--
was now between the soft lips of
her once-lover.
He chewed and chewed and
chewed some more.
She couldn't stand it any longer.
Her heart was racing,
her hands were balmy,
her mouth was dry.
Just as he swallowed,
she lifted her glass, took a sip,
then said,
"The water's stale."

Track 4

I made it--that cake.
I even frosted the whole thing
and put rainbow-colored sprinkles on top.
It was your favorite, too.
I put it on the table
next to the vase that held
all those white roses.
You said you liked all-white
roses--that somehow they
represented the loss of
innocence when they started
to droop and turn brown.
You'd say "Look, look,
Lovely, do you see those flowers?
That's me--that's you--That's us together."
It was all so perfect--
that cake and those flowers.
I lit the candles
and then walked out the
door.
You came home early the next morning
and saw those flowers,
already drooping and brown.
You saw the cake,
now topped in a thin
layer of wax.
You probably stood there
for a moment, imagining
it as it once was--
beautiful and fresh,
innocent and playful.
I'm sure you searched the
house looking for me,
but of course I was gone.
It's been a month since
your birthday, but
everyday you see
those dried roses,
that moldy cake.

But, remember, Dear,
remember that song
while I'm gone.

[Insert Title]

Are you actually reading this? Really? What the heck makes you think this note will be worth your time?

I don't get it.



























You're still reading?

Why I Hate New Neighbors

i hate the smell of

their laundry

Rita

[R]ide, ride, ride pony into the night, with
[I]ndian hair flapping in the wind.
[T]ell me the old, old story
[A]gain and again.

Let's hang out again, Rita,
at that place on your t-shirt.
"The McMenamin's Grand Lodge."
"Hotel Oregon."
I'll wait for you outside your room like we did before,
wishing we would have caught you before you got too drunk.
You probably think I should become an anthropologist since
my waiting was a type of rude voyeurism.
But, you must understand, Rita, that you're
my homegirl.

You let us be kids again,
drawing on that sidewalk with chalk,
our hands gritty and dusty afterwards.
You made us use our imaginations and lose our inhibitions
by making us act things out.
You reminded us of those Jesus love songs we used to know.
Rita, you accomodated:
for the fearful people.
for the too-mich-for-their-own-good people.
for the backrow of hostility.

You read poetry with such longing in your voice.
Your voice, oh so human!
The way you changed those Jesus love songs
and made them your own!
The stories you would tell of your life, of your knowing.

You're so beautiful, Rita.
That one week you wore earrings and painted your face.
Not to mention that smile, too.
Then you invited that guy into our group.
You always were "chaotic in [your] love life."

Wink, Rita.
Blink, Rita.
Tap tap tap.

Thanks to you I will

[R]emember always those Jesus songs, those
[I]ndian dances,
[T]hose
[A]frican rituals.

The Verse

The poetic verse.
The prose verse.

So, I suppose I want to be a writer. I think. I love to write. But sometimes, I get all self-loathing like and think "What the heck am I doing? I can't be a writer. Everything I write is crap!" But then sometimes I am ultra inspired and write and love what I write. Oh, the wonder of the roller coaster that is life!

Recently I was talking with somebody in one of my classes about this very matter. Later that evening, we were analyzing poems and I told him what I thought of one of them.
He said "Sure, you can be a writer. That was good!"
I replied "But that's not what I wrote. That's just a response to somebody else's writing."
He: "And how does that affect you and make you feel?"
"Small."

It's a weird feeling that I have when I'm reading something great. I feel inspired and like I want to write, but I also feel small and insignificant in how my writing compares to their writing. These feelings are the very reason I love to read. These feelings are the very reason I love to write. I don't see those feelings as conflicting. They compliment each other. I am inspired by the bigness of the poetic verse, of the prose verse. So then when I think about writing, I still feel small. Both are lovely feelings to have: to be inspired, to feel small.I think I'll be a writer after all.

If not, I suppose I could just be a reader.
I am small compared to the
poetic verse
and the
prose verse