Word Nerd

City Windows

2011-12-14T00:07:00.003-05:00

I look into and up and out millions of windows

in Brooklyn. I imagine the myriad of stories that fill

the space between front and back doors.

Lights--through the well to do

Carroll Gardens’ bay windows

and the section-8 bars in Bed-Stuy--

seep into the world the same way,

if there are cracks in the sidewalks.

Reflections morph single gestures of love,

panes muffle all the words that spur hour-long fights.

I take a late night taxi over the bridge.

In between boroughs there are endless windows.

I ask the cabbie,
“How many would you guess?”

Lackadaisically, he tells me,

“Just count the flickering blue squares.”

I number them like stars.

My lover and I lollygag in bed until the early

morning dew spots dry on the dirty glass.

Our dog moves back and forth over us, under and above

the sheets that smell like stale cigarettes.

The maddening loose manhole, car horns, bus hydraulics,

the bickering and babbling teenagers

become a cacophony outside our widow.

With the curtains open, the world can see

our bare skin and our messy hair.

Every year I move deeper into the ghetto.

Is it serendipity or gentrification

that helps safety follow me?

Maybe passersby see

me through my window. Do they

see me struggling or smiling?

Or maybe I’ve become obsessed

with other people’s windows

and all I want to do is sit in their living rooms

for a change.

Words from by Rebecca DeWitt-Fix's Facebook Status (and the comments)

Too Cold

2011-08-24T22:23:00.002-04:00

Rarely does a New Yorker
admit their longing
for a feeling
of quiet openness--
a feeling that rises inside
once we won't be swallowed
up by this brownstone
or that skyscraper.

But the first thing every New Yorker
does when outside the graph paper
grid is look up.

We look up
and regain openness.

Clusters of clouds follow us in the city
but we want to soak up the stars--
wet our skin with their glow
and carry their warmth
back to our tiny apartments.
We put them in our beds,
our bathtubs,
and in our shoes
so we can take them out
when we feel like we're suffocating.

New Yorkers never forget
how stars look
but we fool ourselves:
Just after dusk,
millions of windows
reflect their lights
onto the Hudson.

But it's too cold.

Multisensorial Time

2011-04-11T16:06:00.005-04:00

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.

12:00

Time scrambles, falls, and scatters

across my pillow, down to my toes.

2:00

3:00

5:00

The baby pigeons fall from the ledge

16 1/2 times every 60 seconds.

7:00

Affected by winter smells

of rot, sounds like pigeons

eating chicken bones.

10:19 p.m

Numbers Poem

2010-12-17T14:34:00.006-05:00

Today I looked at the clock
57 times
and counting

She napped for
45 minutes.

She fell on average
16 1/2
times every
60 seconds.

I taught her how to blow her nose.

I’ve not seen the sun move, only shadows.

12 2 3 5 7

My reflection’s stayed the same.

10:19 p.m

Unaffected by the winter.

2-25

6 days after I'm 23.

Calories:

210

180 x 2

60 x 6

360

190

120 x 4

I wonder how

130 still.

Nicholas Whitaker’s 5 Words

2010-11-15T22:58:00.008-05:00

Changes

He’s outside the bodega:

“You’re a slave to money,

then you die.”

We’ve on lived on the line between

denial and actualization for decades now.

“Change?”

He’s outside the subway:

“You’re a slave to the symphony of

trying to make ends meet.”

The melody the mind builds,

the songs of propaganda

in our ears

—whispers to screams—

all day.

All night.

“Change?”

He’s outside the restaurant:

“You’re a slave to your cravings,

always with a full plate.”

Hors d’oeuvres galore—

clothes then cars

turning into endless collateral.

We’re purging the preponderance

of debt and going back

for seconds.

“Change?”

He’s outside the White House:

“You’re a slave to the hegemony

in charge of your false hopes.”

Buy Low, Sell High—

War on Terror

Freedom Fries

American Built

Bankrupt

Bail Outs

American Express

There’s no way to break

Even.

“Change?”

He’s knocking on your door:

“You should be a slave to enlightenment

but your eyes have adjusted to the darkness.”

We’re talking about

transforming a thought,

altering an action.

We’re talking about

the realization of individualization,

the recreation of appreciation.

"We're talking about

sparing some change.”

BIG News!

2010-10-21T12:00:00.004-04:00

Hey Everybody!

I have officially been published in a magazine...not an online literary journal but a real hard copy magazine. It's called Instigatorzine and it's an art and literature publication that's super funky and awesome. I have four poems on a whole spread so go to instigatorzine.com and buy a pdf copy ($2) or a REAL HARD-COPY (with shipping it's $4.30). It's so worth it because it's my words in there!

Thanks so much for keeping up with my blog!

This is the edition I'm published in, it's pretty sweet.

Death Bed

2010-09-02T19:55:00.005-04:00

You died in our bed,
I wrapped my arms
around your skeleton
for the rest of the night.

I watch your ghost endlessly
pace around our room.

Sometimes
in the early morning light
you kiss my cheek.

Our neighbors
tell me to let you go
but they can't hide
from your voice
through the walls
when we fight.

Even after death
we can't make it right.

A silly videos

2010-08-26T16:59:00.004-04:00

Confessional (A video rendition of the poem I wrote from Dan's words)

So bad that it's funny.

Here's another one from the words Sean gave me.

Trevor Freedland's 5 words

2010-08-22T21:24:00.004-04:00

pigeon, moses, shower, cage, death

Am I running that fast

or is your head shrinking?

I’m out of my cage,

but I don’t feel like a bird.

I am a man—

ignoring red lights

children, cars,

and the crazies

on each corner—

just running and running.

Am I running too fast

because every pigeon

is a tiny cannibal?

They pick away at chicken bones,

reminding me for a moment

that mine will ache tomorrow.

I want to kick the bird meat

out of their bird mouths

but that would take minutes

off my mile time.

Am I running that fast

or is death catching up?

Maybe that’s the sound

ringing in my ears

and the lights I see

when I blink my eyes.

But I keep running.

Running around the city

that never sleeps.

Am I running too fast

because you are turning into Moses

with a new set of 10 commandments?

You would join me

if I left frantic messages

on our fridge.

You would join me

if we were not

our futures,

our defenses.

You should join me.

When I run I am not

my nametag,

or my failures,

or the why and how come.

Don’t panic, don’t be paranoid,

Just run.

Am I running that fast

or have all the leaves

fallen on your head too?

The whole world climbed up a tree

and I’m running at the speed of sound.

I can see how it all began

and if you could see, you would understand.

I’m running and running

around the last corner,

off the last curb

across the last crack

up the last step

into the door.

You smile.

I shower.

Check out my published short story

2010-08-17T13:03:00.003-04:00

So the outer monologue published my short story called "Sublet"

CHECK IT OUT, along with all the other fantastic short stories on the site, particularly Kia Carbone's.
Thanks for reading my works, it's extremely appreciated. Send me comments, edits, or ideas!

Dan Irizarry's 5 Words

2010-08-10T15:43:00.005-04:00

magic, gathering, fetus, alchemy, porn

Are we trying to be unlovable?

So many times, it’s: “Love me

but leave me alone…

just leave and I’ll come along.”

In the realm of it all, you and I

are magic but we’re among

the many just gathering,

standing around,

flapping our arms all about.

I knew a man once

who tied whistles to his name

so I bought some bells

and made myself into an endless

stream of static sounds.

My brother is a loud song

through blown-out speakers,

my father is a whittled piece of wood

and my mother is a scream

stuck in a jar.

You’re just a stranger

entering from the west,

becoming more than a shadow.

Everybody needs someone,

and I’ll be lucky enough someday

to hold my belly for company

and talk in a voice hushed

to my belly in a mirror.

Does a fetus hear it’s mother?

Does a fetus know it’s father?

My neighbor has a honeybee

farm and I want to squash

them all, every single one,

with your bare feet.

Sorry about that time

I didn’t have a match

to light that sting

on fire.

You asked once, if

it’s a requirement

for every nun

to have the name Mary?

“I don’t have a sister,” I answered.

I remember when I learned about alchemy;

rather than thinking about how

to turn my toaster oven

into gold, I thought

about my grandfather

rebuilding engines.

Then I thought

about my tired bones

and how the ancient

assembled our future.

If we all woke up tomorrow,

undone, what would be your solution?

To just keep walking?

Just turn on the computer?

Just eat a raw tomato?

We’ve all been here before,

disappearing.

And it will happen again and

again and again.

We’ve all been here before,

trying.

And it will happen again and

again and again.

Maybe you would say,

“At least we have porn now.”

But what would my grandmother

say to that?

Jason Voegele's 5 Words

2010-08-10T13:39:00.006-04:00

fuss, mess, compulsion, repulsion, compassion

Don’t worry, Mother, it will be better

than alright.

This mess will come out clean

and you will rise up just fine.

People can hear the anguish

and they lend their voices,

they join in the sound

of a life, uncommon.

People hear the hearts

cry out, but they’re not worn out.

Not yet.

Their compassion

builds a foundation for change;

it breaks the world open--

connects continents.

They’re all touching

fingertip to fingertip.

Like the clouds have a way

of blocking out the sun,

our prayers have a way

of blocking out the repulsion

that eats at some sorry souls.

Come on, all you unbelievers,

move out of the way

for those people making a fuss,

for those people armed with the will

to hold the hands of all those

in pain.

What is there to fear?

I’m not an idealist,

I’ve just got the compulsion

to carry those I love

all the way to the end.

Check me out!

2010-08-10T13:08:00.003-04:00

I had THREE poems published by the wonderful website milksugarliterature.com

and here's my official page: http://milksugarliterature.com/marissaforbes.html

Thanks for reading the first editions of my poetry and misc. on this blog, I really appreciate it and hope to hear from you soon.

Marissa

P.S. Email me 5 words and I'll write a poem for you!

Scott Greskovic's 5 words

2010-08-10T12:48:00.005-04:00

redemption, kingdom, water, remote, protection

Because the sky is blue, the water

looks deeper. I roll my pants

to my knees and walk in

to my waist.

She glares at me as I fall

backward into my new kingdom.

I float down the river

patiently kicking my feet.

And the fishes swim

through my hair

as her muffled screams

echo from the shore.

The clouds pass

in remote clusters

watching over me—

a distant protection

I’ve never felt before.

My toes ach to touch

the muddy bottom,

my head goes under

and redemption swells

up my nose and blurs

my vision.

I swim like a sea creature

and she weeps

like the willows.

The water begins

rushing me farther

away.

Pushing and pulling.

My kingdom crashes

around me.

My body strains

with the pressure

and her fears are realized.

Sean McGurn's 5 Words

2010-08-06T11:59:00.004-04:00

defenestrate, obfuscate, eyeball, amplifier, steak

It started with a steak.

A big raw pink steak, bare

of seasoning, sitting

on the chipped plate,

waiting

while they fought.

Having grown uneasy with the silence

they begin throwing daggers

at each other. Dull daggers

over not picking up her shoes,

over his empty beer bottles,

over their bills and cigarettes.

It started with which seasoning

to flavor the steak

and they thought “I love you anyway”

was the end of it.

Then the pan was hot.

He slid the meat into the heat

and the sizzling and popping

filled the kitchen.

She leaned against his back,

kissing his neck, softly.

Moving past the fight

moved them to the bedroom.

Their hot and steady

breath replaced the popping

and sizzle sounds.

Smoke seeped through the hallway,

into the room

up their noses

down their throats

and into their eyeballs.

Obfuscating their perceptions.

Naked, they run through the house.

The stove engulfs in fire.

Spreads quickly to the counters,

the fridge

the floor.

The bookshelf spits

a blaze of blue and red and orange.

The couch becomes an inferno.

They throw everything left out the window:

the dog

the guitar

the amplifier

the table

the chairs

the box of love letters.

The sirens echo through the streets.

They stand holding each other.

“I will throw you out the window,”

he says then kisses her.

Together, they look down

at the pile of their life.

She climbs onto the sill,

grabs his hand.

Becoming the definition of defenestrate,

they fly

with flames at their backs.

Max Garcia's 5 Words

2010-08-05T16:06:00.003-04:00

salmon, shinola, shit, sunshine, & sacrilegious

Summer showers through the night
erased the humidity that had for so long
filled the city from the subway
to the tip-tops of buildings.
And the new day felt fresh
on his lips, fresh in his lungs.
Fresh.
The sunshine radiated through
the neon trimmed clouds.
As his salmon colored boots
clickity-clanked on the cracks
in the sidewalk
he thought of his daughter
raising her hand
for kindergarten roll call.
He thought of his wife
stirring the cream into her coffee.
The smell of the trees in Central Park
urged him to change his route to work.
Stepping onto the grass felt foreign,
as if he never had a childhood of his own.
With the car horns now honking behind him
he began to run.
He ran until his heart thumped
up to his temple and he stood
starring into the pond. At his reflection.
Not thinking about his boss,
not thinking
about the dog shit he slid in.
His eyes resembled his father’s
except the distain had not yet
sunk into his pupils.
The clouds darkened above him
and he didn’t know if
it was the humidity sneaking
back into the air or the echoes
of his father’s words sticking
to his skin.
“To marry this woman is sacrilegious.”
He shook the voice from his mind,
dropped a penny into the pond
and walked back toward the street.
His boots became streaked with green
as he dragged them
through the dirt and grass.
He scuffed his way to a shoe shiner.
And again his father’s words rested on his ears,
“This is sacrilegious,” the little man said
with disgraceful shoes in his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Lucky for him though,
he loves the smell of shinola
because it makes him think
about his wedding day so he smiled.
It makes him think about his funeral too.
He felt drops of rain begin soaking
into his hair.
He tossed the rest of his change
in the bucket.

Questions for my Brother

2010-08-04T00:23:00.003-04:00

Inspired by Karl Haendel’s Questions for my Father

Why do you hate black people? Did you ever get praise from a teacher? How old were you when you found your dad’s stash of Playboy? What did you really do to go to jail? Do you still play the guitar? Do you remember the night terrors? Or putting pillows over my face? Or the knives through my mattress? What was the first drug you ever did? Did you want to hit your fiancé when the baby came out half black? Do you have any other brothers or sisters on your dad’s side of the family? Do you love them more than you love me? What made you stay and take care of the baby girl who wasn’t yours? Why did you steal from me? Did you fantasize about killing mom when we were young? Are you happy? What was it like dropping out of high school? Are you mad that I graduated college? Did you hit your fiancé when she was pregnant the second time? Where you addicted to meth the way mom said you were? Why didn’t you move back into the house when we were young? Was all that freedom at your dad’s good for you? How do you feel about the way mom raised me? How old were you when you finally got your driver’s license? Do you have any STDs? How did you feel when the second baby was born looking just like you? Did you stab a man outside that bar? Were you scared he would die? What are you most proud of? Do you sleep on a comfortable bed? In a comfortable home? What made you decide to keep your daughter after the adoption family was chosen? Would you kill the man who raped me if I told you who he was? Do you vote? Are you a Republican? Have you ever won an award? Why do you drink so much? How many times have you cheated? Are you sorry for scaring me so often? What if your daughters dated someone like you? Do you still eat the whole box of cereal in one sitting? Are your hands always dirty? What about your conscious? How many cigarettes do you smoke a day? Have you ever driven your daughters in your car after drinking? What made you stop talking to me? Do you remember what I look like?

Then she bleeds

2010-06-07T16:19:00.003-04:00

What it is,

Is beauty

And the na, na, na.

These girls,

They’re pure

And painful.

Playing the cords

Of their hearts.

They sing good morning

And I say thank you.

They shoo away the ache

In my head

And the na, na, na.

You took me

And if you don’t stop

I won’t stop

The way I love

Because I like the way I am.

If you don’t take me, you will

Break me

Lose me.

Somehow I just

Lost the way I am.

I feel my heart--

The strumming of strings

So steady it hurts

Then she bleeds.

When will the beat

Gain strength?

Then it hits

A point of real, real

Real as the smoke in the air.

Can’t give up

What I’ve learned

Or the na, na, na.

I’ll be a stronger

Faster, fiercer, better

Me, even if only an image

Of real, real, real.

Just because I care

doesn’t mean I’m

cracked, cracked, cracked.

Or does it?

Rocket Strumming

2010-05-25T18:03:00.003-04:00

Automatic relax and tantric

Oh oh oh

Strumming

Drumming

Treats and grace

Wake

The day and be burned

Break the buttercups

And smell the dreams

That bend with the sun

Then rise with the rockets

Dreams of babies, gone

I can crack the barrier

And the bell drum—

I can’t be happy-go-lucky

Until the rockets fly

Tickle with out a giggle

Take as much

As you can

Because it’s gone

So fast

It takes more than organic fuel

To build the blood in a being

It’s a smile and a beat and it’s

KEEPING GOING

Where’s all the good?

The pretty good,

The good to go?

Where do the rockets

fly, fly, fly?

All the dreams have passed

Who couldn’t keep it safe?

I can’t be blamed

For nothing anymore

Been a long time

Since you’ve really

Been around

Kissing in public was twice as sweet

2010-05-20T01:07:00.005-04:00

My nerves feel like they’ve woken

from sweet dreams.

Came a long way, the wind

caught up with me.

There’s an ache in my stomach.

How long can I try

to find a sense of love—

as a verb.

I would trade these cigarettes

for peppermint breath

but I’ve been smoking since

they stopped making cassettes.

Only once I’ve hoped for

a pregnancy test to be

positive.

I had to whisper liar

until I convinced myself the word

was directed at my desire,

not the pee-drenched plastic

between my fingers.

Time gave me new sleep habits.

Throbbing moved from my stomach

up through my heart

and into my mind.

If I look in the mirror keenly enough

I can push it slowly through

my contracted pupils.

I stopped singing loudly.

I should have ran around

screaming proudly

at the top of my lungs.

Instead I cry harder—

longer.

How did my fingertips stop reaching for idealism?

My palms sweat self-deprecation

and I cannot escape the gravity

of our love’s mortality.

Love eye green morning sun

2010-03-28T00:53:00.004-04:00

I watch my breath

on the window, like it’s an old tree

with branches swaying.

Despite the sun and

the shadows shot from

its radiance,

the air is ice

and the dirt is numb.

My feet have fallen

out of love with the floor.

Lusting for a shower, warm

like summer mornings,

I crawl down the hall

and hear the echoes of

my goosebumps following me.

Are my eyes more green in your memory

or in a mirror?

Soap suds pool around

my feet, foaming

like the ocean

through my toes.

The steam

soaks up and replaces

the salt in my skin.

So few things happen

simultaneously—

or so I thought.

Again, my bones feel

like branches snapping

under snow.

The only way to dry

is back in bed,

curled up, away from the world.

If I calm the chatter in my teeth

I can conjure up a raft for my sea.

Are my eyes more green in the dark

or in a dream?

Water Jump Shot Burger Love

2010-02-19T15:52:00.005-05:00

If some consider life a game

then what sport is it?

Basketball--

with it's jump-shot opportunities?

It's not football

because we can't change a play

after reviewing it,

we can only learn from it.

It might be soccer

because sometimes we're alone

protecting our goal.

Tennis has the term love

to explain when the opponents

are zero zero.

So, why is that the opposite in the game of life?

Wouldn't it be great if life

came with water breaks

or towel boys

or with fans who still root

for you even when you strike out?

Remember when the coach took you out

for pizza or a burger after a game

even if you lost?

Maybe life isn't a sport.

Maybe it's exercising

or running your own marathon

hoping to find a partner

to keep the pace with.

Sleep wake iron bus desire

2010-02-18T13:36:00.003-05:00

If you're in love and you fall asleep in an empty bed, sometimes you'll hold the pillow as if it's your lover. You'll watch the numbers on the clock, wait for them to change.

When you wake up and the one you love is not with you, you may panic right away and reach out across the cold bed.

If you’re in love and you sleep in a bed with your lover, you will feel the warmth of their skin on your fingertips.

When you wake up and the one you love is next to you, you won’t even have to ask them to pull you closer.

Most mornings, you'll know you have a bus to catch so you’ll pick out your clothes and let the iron heat. Cozy in bed, they’ll beckon you with their eyes to come back. The room will fill with desire and you’ll unplug the iron as they lift the covers back.

Begin jump lust kiss cab

2010-02-12T19:08:00.002-05:00

When things begin, the road ahead

is open.

You can’t even read the signs:

SLOW

BUMP

CAUTION

STOP

Sometimes you turn left

when you meant to take a right

Sometimes you run that red light

and get pulled over.

But now you’ve traveled this road

you know where the curve gets sharper

where you can take a short cut and jump ahead

but then out of no where

you’ve ran over a nail and slowly

your tire is losing air without you knowing.

You can be driving along

looking in the rearview mirror

or looking at the broken white lines ahead.

You have lust on your mind:

that long blonde-haired girl

or that guy with crystal blue eyes

then you feel the road kissing your tire rims.

So you pull over and sit for a while.

The sun is setting so you take it in.

You eat that left over sandwich then you call a cab.

It comes and you remember

that this journey isn’t supposed to be

what you expect but

you get there finally and you ring the doorbell.

You wait.

Great News!

2010-02-11T13:09:00.002-05:00

I just received notice from Imitation Fruit and Language and Culture online magazines that my pieces Scrabble (or Nietzsche) and On Their Skin will be published in their next issues. I'll send out another notice when the pieces are officially up. I'm waiting to hear back from 2 other magazines about pieces I submitted for money and publication. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

(Satirical Aristotle Imitation)

2010-01-22T13:31:00.010-05:00

Blondeness: A State of Being

Chapter I

THE PREAMBLE TO THE DEFINITION OF BLONDE

I wish to address the infamous and celebrated subject of being blonde itself, its nature and image. In order to convey this nature and image, blonde idols and stereotypes must be discussed, the truth (or lack there of) in blonde jokes must be dissected and the validity of the statements “blondes have more fun” and “blondes are dumb air heads” will be determined.

SECTION A: THE DEFINITION AND DIVISION OF BLONDES

1. The fair-haired breed

When embarking on the journey that leads to understanding the concept of blonde, certain things precede, such as, the definition. Blonde, according to the Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, is to be of fair color; light colored; having yellowish-brown, flaxen, or light auburn hair, blue or grey eyes, and pale or rosy-white skin.

There are respectively six conceptions of blonde; male, female, natural, dyed, intelligent, and ignorant.

2. The fair-haired breed, divided

(a) ACCORDING TO THE DIFFERENCES OF SEX

The separation of blondes is simple in the linguistics position. “Blond” without the ‘e’ is typically masculine and “blonde” with an ‘e’ is considered feminine; however, the words can be used interchangeable. The separation of blondes is less simple in any other term. Except it is common is society for female blondes to be made a mockery of and male blonds are generally out of the spotlight.

(b) ACCORDING TO THE INNATE DIFFERENCE

Contrary to popular belief, a blonde at birth can transform naturally into a fair-haired brunette later in life. The opposite, in actuality, is impossible; however, peroxide makes it accessible for the entire world to become blonde. Blonde imitators are distinct in the respect to:

(i) dark roots that appear without subtlety

(ii) the use of the statement, “I’m not naturally blonde, so that joke does not apply to me.” Contrary opinion if the joke is: “When does a brunette have half a brain? After a blonde dye job.”

To inquire a blonde’s intelligence (distinct from the blonde airheads) is copiously subjective when based on appearance itself. At any rate, the abundance of stereotypes hinders authentic opinions about the issue. The prevalent idea that if one is blonde then she must be stupid is supported only by dumb blonde jokes. The joke, “How do you measure a blonde’s intelligence? By sticking a tire pressure gauge in her ear” implies that blondes are airheads but the statement (or any joke for that matter) lacks validity. Therefore, the opinion that blondes are less intelligent that people with hair of other hues is absolved.

SECTION B: THE NATURE AND IMAGE OF BLONDE

Blonde, I believe has two distinguishable elements, that of nature (blondes have more fun) and image (universal idea regarding the appearance of blondes).

1. The origins of the universal blonde

Let us examine some representations of blonde.

(i) The Birth of Venus illustrates the first attitude of blondes. Venus is presented to the world as a sex goddess, this view of blondes as promiscuous has transcended to reveal the idea of the blonde bombshell.

(ii) Marilyn Monroe is the eminent blonde bombshell; popularized the abstraction that gentlemen prefer blondes. She established credentials that blondes have more fun with each film she made.

(iii) Pamela Anderson is the current day depiction of “the blonde.” She is a worldwide sex symbol (body) and a woman in charge of her career (mind). She is evaluated as, “easy.”

(iv) Hillary Clinton is a blonde idol who is not considered sexy to the masses. She broke the barrier between blonde and brains; she is viewed as an intelligent blonde, which may intimidate.

2. Concluding blonde as a state of being

Blonde is not only a hair color, but a state of mind and being. Blonde is cliché yet unparalleled in this world of first impressions. Any true blonde will defy the mold and define him or herself in order to surmount.

Exciting!

2010-01-21T11:19:00.001-05:00

Hey readers,

My art/charity organization, REPUBLIC Worldwide just launched a new and improved website. Check it out!

My first REPUBLIC curatorial project: Way of the Word was a success!

2009-11-23T21:18:00.001-05:00

Success! REPUBLIC wants to thank everyone who came out to B.O.A. in the East Village on Wednesday Nov. 11^thfor our first Way Of The Word poetry event. Curated by Marissa Forbes, in support of the READ literacy foundation.

It was a remarkable night beginning with an interactive gallery hour featuring work by Edward Hopely, Jason K Tallon, Brian Van Remmen and a journal by Robert Snyderman that documented his journey across America.

Once in full swing, the evening transitioned into one uniquely memorable reading after the other by poets Aldrin Valdez, Khephran Riddick, Peter Ford, Davey Vacek, Katie Przybylski, Lonely Christopher, Robert Snyderman, Marissa Forbes, Brian Van Remmen, and Jason K Tallon.

REPUBLIC wants to thank all of the readers and participants, especially the jazz group Me & Him and DJ Jeffrey Tonnesen for keeping the good vibes rolling on late into the night.

We also want to thank the READ foundation and Bar On A for their time and efforts.

Way Of The Word anthology Vol.1 Edition 1, which includes work by the poets from the event along with many others from around the nation is still available for purchase.

To purchase limited edition copies of Way Of The Word Vol.1 Edition 1 please contact Marissa Forbes at piscesris@gmail.com or call 443. 528. 6761 for more information. The anthology will also be available soon atwww.republicworldwide.com.

Thanks again and stay tuned for upcoming events and future REPUBLIC projects or leave comments and questions by adding yourself to our mailing list. Simply write torepublicbrooklyn@gmail.com.

The next day

2009-11-08T16:14:00.004-05:00

It's like an itch in your nose when you need to sneeze and someone says, "Bless you" at the last second, ruining it. Then you're sitting with a glass of whiskey and ginger, next to a good looking guy and you shoot snot all over his shoes. Wishing your knees weren't soaking up the $6 drink.

But what happens is, the guy sees you in a real moment and strangely all he wants to do is kiss you and wake up the next morning in your bed. Even if you don't touch each other's centers, he wants to see how pretty you look when the sun rises on your face.

He tell you, "Hello beautiful" and you know you'll fall in love when he makes your perfect eggs (with cheese). After coffee and cigarettes, he tells you how your face looks like it's been kissed by angels--with all the make-up worn away your freckles shine through.

There's nothing to hide. Then you make love and there's nothing more or less to hope for, except the thought of seeing him the next day....

the next

the next.

And the horizon

2009-10-28T20:36:00.003-04:00

took too long to curve around itself

so you reached down to scratch

"Always" into the sand.

You never were one for patience.

Or maybe I'm the one who isn't,

but we don't mind waiting

as long as it's with each other.

Sometimes we drink whiskey

like it's wine and I ask you

to rub your fingers through my hair

and you do but not for long.

I don't mind though,

because of the way you kiss

the back of my neck, right at

the hair line as you take

your hands away.

On too many nights

we fall asleep on the couch

and the TV whispers

infomercials up our noses.

In the early light of the day

we move to your windowless

room with sore necks.

The dog rests her wet nose on your knee.

You hold me while I glimpse

you in a dream

and you always walk the same.

Once you weren't smiling

but I woke to your breath on my back

and I knew what I'll always feel.

This love.

Ignoring verses Ignorance

2009-10-27T20:48:00.012-04:00

What doesn't bend, breaks.
I'm malleable like a flower
and you may think
you're sturdy like a tree
but life will cut you down.
I'll always rise through
the soil again in the spring.

You can laugh all you want,
I'll always bite my lip.
We're meant to
bleed, scab, heal
and bleed again.
Scars are not the joke,
you are.

My being is meant
for thoughts
and love making,
you're one to fight
and fuck
then fight again.

I'll pick the ripe grapes
off of my vine
to make sweet wine
while your delusion
envelops you
like a rotten pumpkin
with seeds destroying it's own soil.

I carry heavy anger for you,
so much so that I would forgive
those few I hate
just to make room for you.
But I'm not for that misery,
I would never, ever
want to keep your company.

I said it before
it even had a place to live:
Ignoring is harder to pull off
than ignorance.
So I'll keep my integrity
and you can sink down
in your stupidity.

And now I'm over it.

They knew what they feared (or they feared what they knew)

2009-10-27T01:46:00.007-04:00

They came to eat.
They compensated.

They came to cry.
They stubbed their toes.

They came to sing.
They plucked violin strings
and chipped their nails.

They blew kisses,
some stuck fingers
down their throats.

They forgot to call,
stayed awake all night
with charcoal on their clothes.

They came to speak--
metaphors beat
them over their brains.
Cliches crashed into their thoughts
and hung what's left
on the wings of airplanes.

They came to prove
something or everything.
Eventually nothing?
Some lost their dreams
and watched
ice cream melt
under their desk lamps--
dripping into pools
around their pencils.

"And what about art?"
They asked over and over.

Over.

They came to scream
their names
and the lack of stars hurt
their windows. But
they forgot how stars
are still there,
even when unseen.
A silence became
their darkness
or lightness
or that tiny space between
where pain gropes
at their groins.

They came to become real
but all that's left is
the soap scum on the tiles
of a soiled bathroom.

Soiled.

They came. Can there be forgiveness?

They came to be
known
loved
accepted
envied.
To be.

And they came to learn a language
unknown to their tongues.

They came to contort their existence
and they stepped out
from the shadows
to be pushed behind
the bathroom stalls
where used tampons rest
on the toilet paper rolls.

They came because
they know the stench.

And maybe they left because
a certain amount of human empathy
is needed and
never felt
never seen
never opened up.

Open.

But it's now closed.

The book
is closed
the door,
the mind,
the fingers on their hands
are closed.

They came to transform
their foreign thoughts
into native words and,
quite understandably,
they left because
no one listened.

For my international students at Pratt, especially to the one who didn't give herself enough credit and I'm sorry for all the pressure and pain she felt, whatever it was deep down.

Dumb doorknob

2009-09-30T16:58:00.000-04:00

I never really think about doorknobs

Until they fall off—

A culprit in causing

Claustrophobic catastrophe.

This one is transparent.

The palm I had read

Last month is magnified,

Morphed, like it’s under sea.

This is a doorknob,

Failed.

Is it ashamed?

Maybe it never even wanted

To be a doorknob.

Did it dream of being

A beer bottle,

Scotch tape,

A butter knife,

Socks,

A stapler,

My ingrown toenail?

It’s been days now.

The branches sway

And scratch my window.

The fan blows

And my laundry smells.

The lamp flickers.

And the doorknob lies

On top a metro card

That ironically reads,

“Optimism.”

I cast shadows and blame the trees

2009-09-22T13:13:00.004-04:00

I can't help

but to scrutinize

the way you cool hot food,

only after

it’s in your mouth.

I don’t use the word love

unless it’s an active verb;

either way it can change

the rhythm of my blood.

The sun tells fables about the moon.

Mornings are addicting

and the day is prozac

in the form of chaos.

Nights are scratches

we discover

after they’re healed;

a map of long-forgotten mistakes.

I’m an overflowing ashtray and

you’re in a perpetual state of quitting.

I hang out between people’s thoughts.

I defeat those I love with soft words.

Love is like hearing a friend

say he saw a shooting star

for the very first time.

I used to always miss it, catching

a glimpse

the second it fades.

From Freshmen Year

2009-09-21T18:53:00.003-04:00

My roommate fell in love a gay guy

All starry-eyed, she giggles.

Pigtails and cigarettes.

With raunch and warming oils

he parades around, vulgarly awkward.

They share eyeliner and secrets

like best friends—

with knives to each other’s backs.

Confusion lies silently in bed with them

while he tells her about his blowjobs

from guys in skin-tight jeans.

To Cavities

2009-09-21T18:47:00.003-04:00

A poem in the style of Kenneth Koch's Addresses

You made your way through my mouth,
happily befriending
chocolate, soda pop, and fruit roll-ups.
Marking your territory—
trenches in my baby teeth.
My mother stood
behind me with a toothbrush.
General of the army—
fighting a war against you.
Fluoride, whitening, tartar control—
she wanted them all,
you resisted each!
I cried when you were found.
Novocain shots
brought tears
and made my feet jump
to attention.
You won the battle
when I lost the rotten tooth
to the earnest dentist.
You learned to love
the silver lining and
I learned to brush my teeth.

from an old disk

2009-09-14T15:23:00.003-04:00

Remember that poem I posted that was just titles of other poems? Well, I found a disk of old works of mine and found the poem, "Flowers in Trashcans" that had been one of the lost. Pretty exciting for me.

Flowers in trashcans

This can’t be growing up.

Posture will always be in rebellion with stature,

permanent markers keep score

on doorframes.

It’s no longer Disneyland

or cotton candy.

It’s no longer kool-aid

or dollhouses.

Life is an artificial sweetener.

Grown-up Barbies

with lanky legs that blossom into secrets—

can’t be kept

can’t be vindicated

can’t be softened by the truth,

no matter how much

strawberry shortcake lip gloss

she licks off her teeth.

Skinned knees in short skirts.

She sleeps with the prince

on a bed without sheets

and wakes to find her glass slipper

flushed down the toilet.

Call for POETRY

2009-08-03T18:50:00.002-04:00

I'm organizing an event through REPUBLIC and this is an official call for poetry submissions because I'm going to be making an anthology. Please send any of your poems to piscesris@gmail.com and I'll keep you updated on your status and mine.

Thanks and take it easy.
Marissa

Heaven

2009-07-03T13:19:00.010-04:00

Is it what we make of it?

Heaven is a goal, a prize. Even angels fall.

Sometimes men use heaven in their pick-up lines and most women roll their eyes.

When praying, people roll their heads downward and when heaven is cursed, people raise up their fists in fury.

Heaven is having a job and not having a job.

Heaven is a song. No one knows the notes or how to play it, no one knows where it starts or ends.

Heaven is not ripping off a band-aid, maybe it’s the wound underneath.

My pupils shrink in the sun and I squint my eyes to see your face. You smile and heaven feels something like my eyes dilating again.

Heaven is getting enough sleep but is it a dream?

We feel heaven when love is found, when making love.

Heaven is not what keeps us alive, we have hell for that.

Heaven is a pumpkin no one picks so it shrivels and rots on the vine. It becomes a part of the ground it was born from.

Can there be heaven on Earth?

Maybe heaven isn’t our happiest moment but more like a moment we’re most ourselves.

When I’m naked in front of a mirror with a tampon string hanging between my legs, holding my tender breasts, I imagine the day a baby will grow in me. I imagine seeing heaven in his or her eyes the first time light hits them.

I don’t want to end with a cliché but maybe that’s what heaven is.

I remember...

2009-06-29T18:15:00.003-04:00

I wrote this freshmen year of college in my lyrical essay class (taught by the great Sarah Manguso). I have a million new memories since then, but this poem represents the parts of me that made me who I was at the time. I do wish I had included more mistakes that I remember but, at the time, I wasn't willing to admit those. I'll post another I remember and include those too.

I remember...

I remember the first time I lied. I said I had been using the same toothbrush for six months. Within three minutes I felt really stupid for saying it.

I remember flying on a place on September 18, 2001.

I remember a dream I had where Richard Nixon and Bill Clinton robbed a 7-11. The cops came and took off the robber's masks. Nixon's face appeared from under the Clinton mask and Nixon was actually Clinton.

I remember all those times I forgot where I parked my car.

I remember learning what real fear is from my brother when he had knives in his hands.

I remember thinking I was smoking my first cigarette; it turned out to be a joint. I was the "look out" for my brother and his friends. My brother let me take a drag. I was seven. I don't remember the first real cigarette I smoked, but I assume I was expecting the same effect.

I remember the smell of apricot trees.

I remember reading the first and last pages in every book I picked up in the library.

I remember collecting smiley faces.

I remember begging my mom to stop buying me every smiley-face collectible that she came across.

I remember Sweet Valley High books.

I remember not liking a girl because she was beautiful.

I remember meeting my stepdad. He walked into my house when I was eight. My mom and I got into his 4x4 truck and drove for five hours through the Colorado Mountains. We planned to only stay for New Year's weekend but we got snowed in and never left.

I remember the day in gym class when I, literally, ran into my first love.

I remember the embarrassment of throwing up next to the fountain in the fanciest restaurant in town. I can't eat plums anymore.

I remember sunsets in Florida. Streets that are too clean in Washington. Amusement parks in Missouri. Clear lakes in Arkansas. The airport in Chicago. And the faces of mountains in South Dakota.

I remember using an entire roll of film taking pictures of Arizona palm trees.

I remember my six-year-old mind thinking Indians were hiding behind every bush when I ran up the hills in Utah. I remember the disappointment of their abscence.

I remember visiting Iowa. I went to the house of the artist who painted American Gothic.

I remember babysitting so I could play with toys.

I remember not being able to sleep after my mom said, "Good night, don't let the bedbugs bite," the day I found out bed bugs were real insects. I never let her say it again.

I remember making love on a bed with no sheets. When it was over he asked to put fresh ones on for him. I remember that I did.

I remember being bored for a year, so I made my room into a huge collage. It turned out I was just depressed.

I remember the smell of overflowing ashtrays.

I remember getting my first tattoo. I remember getting all of my tattoos.

I remember leaving baby teeth I lost in cups of saltwater on the counter for the tooth fairy, rather than under my pillow.

I remember breaking a ceramic bunny that my mom made for me when I was a baby. I kep it a secret for a year. That same year, I kept my rape a secret. When I told my mom, she asked why I let her think I was a slut for a year. I don't keep many secrets from her anymore.

I remember the way the sky looked the moment I was bucked off a horse.

I remember the expression on my mom's face when my aunt called her a cunt in front of me. It was in the car after my aunt bought me a 90210 comforter for my 11th birthday.

I remember kissing girls when we played house. I don't remember who played the husband.

I remember girls saying, "She's a slut," and me always thinking, "You have done the same things she has."

I remember Reading Rainbow.

I remember crippled Shane. The entire hallway in my high school would be empty and, still, he ran over my foot with his wheelchair. I remember the "Republican" license plate on the back.

I remember meeting my friend Alicia in a tree.

I remember reading the word, "Whoa" and thinking it was pronouced, "Who-ah."

I remember turning left while driving when I meant to turn right...at least once a week.

I remember loving the way a really ugly guy smelled.

I remember learning to play the violin, only because my uncle gave me one.

I remembering seeing a shooting star. It was the night I moved across the country.

I remember singing while riding through meadows. I don't remember any of the songs. (Except 2 years after I wrote this, my mom remembered that it was a Beatles song...the one that goes: "I don't like you, but I love you, you really got a hold on me."

I remember rotten milk.

I remember falling asleep in my toybox.

I remember suddenly liking tomatoes.

I remember my fingers always being sticky from fuit snacks and smelling like Kool-Aid. Now they just smell like cigarettes.

I remember being a cowboy in the only play I was in.

I remember the hot summer day when my stepdad made me pick up all the rotten crabapples in my back yard. It was my punishment. I don't remember what I did.

I remember laughing so hard I farted.

I remember saying, "Also, too, as well," knowing it all meant the same thing.

I remember my first pimple, my first period but I don't remember my first kiss.

I remember laughing at the jagged line of eyeliner the first time I applied it.

I remember doing all my friends' hair for prom before I did my own.

I remember my date and me eating Taco Bell for dinner in my Ford Escort in the parking lot right before prom.

I remember coming to college, thinking I knew who I was, only to realize I'm so far from who I want to be.

Smoker's cough

2009-06-03T16:21:00.007-04:00

Have you ever confused a dream for life?

I take too much aspirin.
My mind throbs
until my back aches.

I eat when I'm not hungry.

I need to say, "I don't know"
more.
I need to say, "I'm sorry"
less.

I'm intense on the inside.

Someone always says,
"Look who it is,"
when I walk into a room.
I don't get embarrassed
often but
it's not hard
to hurt my feelings.

I smoke too much.
I don't write enough.

Lie in the beds we make

2009-06-03T01:23:00.007-04:00

Some of the time
logic and love
don't fit on the same bed.
We become dirty ghosts,
wearing the same sheets
everyday.
I count the minutes
and he does too,
but the possibility
that what we wait for
are on opposite sides
of the room is too large
to fit through a door.
How do we forgive?
Maybe in our dreams.
Maybe in rage.
Maybe in silence.
Maybe in our excesses
of warmth and coldness.
Maybe in the early light
of the day,
with sleep in our eyes
when our lips are dry.
We lie like question marks
and I turn off the light.
The room fills with one thought:
Is our love a soft breathe,
or is it suffocating us?

Magic

2009-06-03T00:35:00.009-04:00

If I could be anything else I would be:
magic
a fish
Native American.

I would be born of flame but turn to ash and fall apart at the touch.

My magic would take away the mean. Being a fish would carry me to the sea. Maybe if I were an Indian I would know my Grandmother.

What color will I become in my own fire?

I have never found more than $5 but I've seen clouds that look like horses with saddles made of sunshine.

My favorite part is that these words are not about my pain or my need for whiskey. They're about being able to change my skin, or maybe about learning to barter.

Once I was walking down the street and the only word in my mind was phoenix and then my knees just gave up. I sat and waited for a vision, then a man stopped and asked me what I was doing. I told him and he said, "The only thing you'll get here is mugged."

So, he took me to breakfast at a diner and I talked about phoenix and fish. He told me about beating his wife and he wiped a tear from his eye with soot on his fingers then he had soot smears on his face.

I feel like my head's in the bathroom and my stomach's in bed my feet are hanging from the ceiling fan.

And maybe sometimes there is no resolution, but my hair keeps growing and I'll always have Dancing with Wolves. I can work on being stoic. I can learn to swim against the current and, most importantly, I can hold the magic of feeling fear like inferno, feeling thoughts like a heart attack.

All that's left is learning the magic of solving little problems by not fighting fires with fuel.

A Better Balance

2009-05-27T21:09:00.003-04:00

There once was a little girl, made of flowers and princess dreams. She would fall asleep in toy boxes and cry when she fell off her bike.

Then she was just a girl, made of mud and crushes on boys. She would play with barbies when she was alone and win all the races at the playground.

She grew into a young woman, made of steel and words spoken straight from the heart. She would smoke pot every day and study books until her eyes were sore.

Slowly, as she became just a woman, made of delicate paper and deafening mistakes. She would crumble under pressure and scream at her small weaknesses for days.

But then one day, she looked in the mirror and realized she still had the eyes of a little girl. She said to herself, "Let's put it all back together again. Let's see what kind of flowers that mud can grow now, what kind of ideas can be written out on paper to build a stronger, fiercer steel machine of a woman finding her way to a better balance."

Don't blow out the fire

2009-05-22T15:50:00.002-04:00

You sit there, so logical and serious and all I can do is wonder where the February in you has gone.

The same way we can't wait to cut a hole in your wall, I want you to come from the corner with out your hands in the air.

Did I steal your smile away?

I want the key.

We can't control each other's happiness.

I just need to be unwound and soak up the sun so I won't hear that chill in your voice.

I'm a piece of beauty in your eyes.

I want to be the laugh in your thoughts and I am able to house your sweet pain in the spare rooms of my heart.

Coveting Summer

2009-05-04T17:07:00.006-04:00

Under the stars
We lie on our backs,
side by side.
I let the cool sand
tangle my long hair,
you fold your hands
across your chest.
The moon
is so beautiful
that the ocean
becomes a mirror
and we soak up
the blue light of it
until our skin is
moist with lust.
We whisper to each other,
like there's no tomorrow,
about all our instruments
of might and demise.
You ask if I would trade
and I say only if
I will love you the same.
The tide is lower now
but the water still
touches our toes
and it's a surprise every time.

Some new things

2009-05-02T23:22:00.002-04:00

HEY HEY HEY HEY
what's good fellow bloggers/blog readers? I started a new blog, it's called, The Worst Picture Blog. Ever and it's just a bunch of pictures. But who doesn't like pictures, right? So, check it out.

Also, I'm doing work on another blog (soon to also be a website), and it's called REPUBLICBrooklyn. Check that out too for art, music, and party events.

Part 1 of the Short Film Script

2009-05-02T23:16:00.001-04:00

FADE IN:

INT. LIVING ROOM NEAR MIDNIGHT

ALICE, aged between ten and twelve, sits in front of a dead Christmas tree with ornaments falling off. You can see the legs and shoes of older people moving in front of her. She looks up toward the camera and it pans to a black and white television. A New Year’s Ball drops into the year 1979.

EVERYONE: Happy New Years!

Alice’s father, FRANK grabs her arm and pulls her up.

FRANK (slurring): I told you to go to bed hours ago.

ALICE: Mom said I could stay up until the ball dropped.

Frank drags her through the crowd and pushes her up the stairs.

FRANK: You think I fucking care what your mother says?

Alice looks to her mother who chugs from her beer and takes a joint from a guest.

INT. ALICE’S BEDROOM MORNING

Alice gets out of bed, goes to the window. She squints at the sun glinting off the snow. She shivers and is startled by bottle smashing against a wall down stairs.

INT. LIVING ROOM MORNING

Alice walks over half-passed out people scattered across the floor and into the kitchen. Frank’s back faces Alice. Her mother, KAREN, is backed in the corner.

FRANK: Don’t lie, Karen, I saw you with him.

Karen: No, no, you’re wrong.

He slaps her.

FRANK: See what you make me do?

He punches the wall and walks out of the kitchen. Alice opens the refrigerator and there’s nothing in it but two beers, mustard, and moldy cheese.

INT. LORA’S BEDROOM NIGHT

Alice and LORA are tucked into bed, and Lora’s MOTHER lays Lora’s robe over a chair and sits on the side of the bed.

LORA: Please mom. Can Alice be my sister?

LORA’S MOTHER: If you two were sisters you would never get any sleep! And you would just fight over all the pretty dresses.

ALICE: I swear, we won’t. I can even do chores.

Lora’s mother stands and kisses both girls on the forehead.

ALICE: Please be my mom and tuck me in every night.

Lora’s mom gives her another kiss.

LORA’S MOTHER: Oh, Alice. I would love to have you for a daughter. But you’re parents would miss you.

Lora’s mother turns the light out and shuts the door.

ALICE: No they won’t.

EXT. BACK YARD LATE AFTERNOON

Alice and Lora make castles in the snow.

LORA: You think they noticed you’re gone yet?

They look at each other when they hear Alice’s name called in the distance. They stand, and hold hands.

ALICE: Plan B starts tomorrow.

From across the alley between Alice and Lora’s house they watch Frank stagger toward them, red faced and ranting.

Frank: You no good…lying little bitch. You’ve got your mother all worked up. You know that only pisses me off.

The girls squeeze their hands tighter. Frank grabs Alice’s other hand and pries her away from Lora; he drags her back across the alley. She stumbles and Frank nearly falls over.

FRANK: Pick up your goddamned feet.

INT. ALICE’S BEDROOM

Frank has a letter in his right hand and his left over Alice’s throat.

FRANK: I told you ‘NO boys’ and here you are getting love letters.

Frank pushes her against the wall. Her lips quiver and tears roll in steady streams down her face.

ALICE (mumbles): I’m sorry…I’m sorry.

He opens the window and bends her backwards over the ledge, she screams.

FRANK: Shut up, you shut up! If I didn’t love you so much, I would just throw you out the window.

ALICE: I’m sorry.

Karen walks in the room and rushes to Frank and Alice.

KAREN: Let her be Frank. She’s a little girl. Please, please.

Frank lets his grip loosen around Alice; he pulls her back to standing position. Karen grabs his hand, and tugs him slowly out of the room.

FRANK (to Karen): Yeah, go get all gussied up now for the bar. I’m giving you twenty minutes.

Part 2 of the Short Film Script

2009-05-02T23:13:00.001-04:00

INT. LIVING ROOM LATE NIGHT

Alice lies on the couch. The living room is scattered with garbage and the Christmas tree’s pine needles litter the floor. The clock above Alice chimes 3 a.m. Her parents fall into the living room from the front door, drunk. Alice sits up.

ALICE: Mom?

Her parents hap-hazardly climb the stairs, Karen stops and looks at Alice.

KAREN: What?

ALICE: I’m hungry.

KAREN (slurring): Well, eat something.

ALICE: There is nothing.

KAREN (slurring): Eat in the morning then.

ALICE: But what?

Karen hits the banister with the palm of her hand.

KAREN(slurring): God, I don’t know. Just go to bed.

Alice lies back down on the couch, her stomach growls. She cries and falls asleep.

INT. SCHOOL COAT CLOSET AFTER SCHOOL

Alice stands behind Lora gripping a composition notebook to her chest. Lora organizes a pillow, a blanket, a flashlight, books, sandwiches wrapped in aluminum, two shirts, and two pairs of pants in one of the larger cubbies.

LORA: I’ll bring you new stuff when you need it.

ALICE: Will you stay here with me?

LORA: My mom would get mad.

ALICE: I know. Don’t tell her about this, okay?

They hug and Lora shuts the door, leaving Alice standing alone.

INT. COAT CLOSET NIGHT

Alice lies on her blanket, reading a book by flashlight. The light in the classroom comes on and she scoots as far back into the cubby as she can go. She clicks off the flashlight as the door opens and the JANITOR turns the light on.

JANITOR: What do we have here?

Alice tries to scrunch herself into a tighter ball. He steps closer.

JANITOR: A little girl, hmm. Who are you?

He walks over and grabs her leg gently to pull her out.

ALICE: Alice Burkholder.

JANITOR: Well, Alice Burkholder, let’s call your parents and get you home.

Alice frantically scoots back into the cubby.

ALICE: No…I’m fine here, really.

He bends down to her level and smiles.

JANITOR: I’m just going to have to call the police on you then.

Alice leans out of the cubby and snatches up her notebook. She flips through, looks up, and smiles weakly back.

ALICE: Yes, let’s do that.

INT. POLICE CAR MID AFTERNOON

Alice sits in the back seat with a raggedy bag of clothes and she holds a pretty dress, gingerly, over her lap.

FEMALE OFFICER: That’s a pretty dress, Alice.

ALICE: My best friend gave it to me. It’s for when I meet my new mom.

MALE OFFICER: Hope it still fits you when you do.

The female officer whacks him in the arm. The car pulls up to a sign next to a big building that resembles a school. The sign reads: Children’s Safe Haven. Alice is let out of the back of the car and she follows the female officer to the entrance where a tired looking woman, JOAN waits.

Part 3 of the Short Film Script

2009-05-02T23:09:00.001-04:00

INT. LONG HALLWAY MID AFTERNOON

JOAN: It’s just such a pleasure to meet you Alice. You’ll settle in no time.

They walk down the hallway—as they pass certain rooms, yelling and crying can be heard from inside. Jackie, a girl with a shaved head and bandages on her arms runs into the hall and tackles Alice. The men who were following her catch up and yank her off of Alice.

JACKIE (yelling): This is hell, no one gets out!

She kicks and screams until she is no longer seen or heard.

JOAN: That poor girl there, lost her dad in Vietnam and her mom killed her self just because.

INT. COMMUNAL BEDROOM NIGHT

Alice sits on her bed with her dress laid out next to her. She cries and touches the faded bruises on her face and arms. Jackie sits on the bed across from her. Alice stares at Jackie’s wrapped wrists and rubs her own. Jackie stands and snatches up the dress and Alice jumps to try and get it back.

JACKIE: You better hide things like this. They won’t stay nice for very long.

Jackie gives it back and Alice hides it under her bed in a trunk.

ALICE: I won’t be here for long.

JACKIE: Yeah, okay. All those hippie foster care parents don’t like the pathetic ones.

Jackie pokes the bruise on Alice’s neck and walks away.

INT. RECREATIONAL ROOM CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT

Alice sits alone at a table while the other girls dance and sing along with Blondie songs. She looks over to the television screen to see the ball drop into 1980. Jackie walks in front of the TV and lifts her skirt at the screen.

JACKIE: Fuck the ‘70’s.

INT. COMMUNAL BEDROOM MORNING

Alice opens the trunk and lifts her dress. She holds it up and it’s been cut with a pocketknife. As tears stream down her face she counts twenty-seven.

INT. SUPPLY ROOM MORNING

Alice walks into the home economic office holding the tattered dress. She goes to a COUNSELOR who gives her a long hug.

ALICE: Can I get white thread and a needle?

COUNSELOR: Of course, but you need to find someone to supervise.

Alice looks around the room. Her eyes stop at a pretty woman, SHEILA, who appears to be a churchgoer with manicured nails. Alice points to her.

ALICE: Her.

The woman notices Alice pointing at her.

COUNSELOR: She’s not volunteering Alice. She’s here to meet with a few girls.

ALICE: Well, why can’t she meet with me?

Alice walks to Sheila and extends her hand. They shake slowly.

ALICE: Hello there, I’m Alice and I need to have supervision while I sew. Would you want to join me?

Sheila looks around, as if she’s looking for someone to answer for her. Alice points to the counselor.

ALICE: It’s okay, that counselor knows where to find you.

INT. COMMUNAL BEDROOM EVENING

Alice and Sheila sit on the bed, facing each other, mending the holes in the dress.

ALICE: Nope, haven’t talked to her since I’ve been here.

SHEILA: What if she came for you?

ALICE: I would want her to be a good mom.

Part 4 of the Short Film Script

2009-05-02T23:05:00.002-04:00

INT. COURT ROOM MORNING

Alice, Karen, and Joan stand before the judge.

JUDGE: And what have you done to try to be a fit mother, Mrs. Burkholder; during the eighteen months your daughter has been under the care of the state?

KAREN: I left my husband for starters. I’ve been going to AA, trying to stay sober.

Alice’s eyes don’t move from Karen.

JUDGE: Trying? How trying are you?

KAREN: Two months, your honor.

JUDGE: Joan, what’s your recommendation?

JOAN: It’s always my recommendation for the child to go back to the birth mother, but weekly check-ups are mandatory.

JUDGE: Then Alice will reside under the care of Karen Burkholder beginning June 16 and the first check-up will be exactly one week later and every week following.

INT. COMMUNAL BEDROOM MORNING

Alice packs her belongings. Jackie walks up as she folds her dress. Jackie yanks it from her.
Alice stands and glares.

JACKIE: Look, I’ll hold on to this for you. You know, in case you end up back here.

Joan walks in the room and touches Alice’s shoulders.

JOAN: Don’t worry; you can come back if things get hairy again. Don’t worry.

Alice shakes her head up and down.

INT. KITCHEN NIGHT

Alice washes a fork at the overflowing sink. The microwave beeps, she takes the TV dinner out and, walks from the kitchen into the dark living room.

INT. LIVING ROOM NIGHT

She sits down on the couch and watches the 11 o’clock news. Karen walks in the door, dressed as Cher.

KAREN: Were there a lot of kids trick-or-treating tonight?

Karen takes off her wig.

ALICE: No. We didn’t have any candy to give. I had to sit here in the dark so they wouldn’t come to the door.

Alice looks out of the corner of her eye at her mother struggling to get her coat and shoes off.

KAREN: Oh yeah…next year then. But you should get to bed. You’ve go school in the morning.

Alice leans back on the couch aggressively.

ALICE: No I don’t, tomorrow’s Saturday.

KAREN: Well, bed time anyway, kiddo.

Alice gets up and follows Karen up the stairs. They each go into their separate bedrooms.

ALICE: Goodnight, mom.

Karen shuts her door.

Part 5 of the Short Film Script

2009-05-02T23:01:00.004-04:00

INT. OFFICE AT SAFE HAVEN MID MORNING

Sheila stands at the front desk, holding bags of craft materials. The SECRETARY sits.

SHEILA: What do you mean she went back with her mother?

SECRETARY: Ma’am, I know you applied to be her foster mom, but I already told you, she went back to her real mother.

SHEILA: Can’t I just get the address? I have all these craft supplies for her.

SECRETARY: I’m sorry. I told you, that violates our rules of confidentiality.

She turns and walks, dejectedly, out the door.

SHEILA (to herself): But what if she’s not happy?

EXT. LORA’S HOUSE

Alice and Lora sit on the porch steps looking at the red, orange, and yellow trees. They sip hot chocolate and eat cookies.

ALICE: I think she’s drinking again.

Lora stops dipping her cookie and looks at Alice, quizzically.

ALICE: Yeah, just little things make me wonder.

LORA: Tell the social worker.

Alice sips her hot chocolate and shakes her head.

ALICE: What if I’m wrong?

She leans into Lora and Lora puts her arm around her.

LORA: But what if you’re right?

INT. ALICE’S BEDROOM NIGHT

Alice lies in bed and sits up when her mother opens the door.

KAREN: You alright for tomorrow?

ALICE: What do you mean?

Karen walks slowly to the blinds and closes them.

KAREN: You’ve got that presentation, right?

ALICE: No, that was a few days ago.

Karen walks to the door.

ALICE: Mom? Will you tuck me in?

KAREN: You’re too old for that.

ALICE: Mom.

Karen walks back to the bed, tucks Alice in and gives her a little kiss.

KAREN: Sleep well.

ALICE: Were you drinking tonight?

Karen looks at Alice, looks away, rubs the back of her neck, and looks back at Alice.

KAREN: I had a cocktail after work with Bonnie.

EXT. ALICE’S SCHOOL MORNING

Karen pulls up to the school and Alice gets out of the car. She leans her head back in.

ALICE: Goodbye, mother.

Alice turns and walks toward the building. She turns around to watch her mom drive away. Then she crosses the field and waits for the bus.

INT. BUS MORNING

Alice pushes the button, signaling her stop.

EXT. STREET MORNING

She departs the bus and walks around the corner to the Children’s Safe Haven.

INT. CHILDREN’S SAFE HAVEN MORNING

Joan and Alice walk down the hall and turn into the communal bedroom. When they get to the bed Alice begins to cry and Joan holds her. They rock for a few moments.

ALICE (sobbing): She didn’t change much. She didn’t change enough. She didn’t change.

JOAN: It’s okay Alice, I promise. Sheila wants to be your foster mom.

Alice jerks back out of Joan’s support and wipes her eyes.

ALICE: What? When?

JOAN: Tomorrow Alice. I’m going to your mother’s to collect your belongings and Sheila will be here tomorrow. Now, you just need to smile.

Final Part of Short Film Script

2009-05-02T22:56:00.002-04:00

INT. COMMUNAL BEDROOM AFTERNOON

Alice sits on her bed, in the dress that’s now too small and you can make out the slash marks. Jackie sits next to her.

ALICE: Thanks for holding it for me.

Jackie smiles weakly.

JACKIE: It’s the least I could do, I did ruin it.

Alice shrugs her shoulders.

ALICE: It doesn’t matter now does it?

There’s a knock on the door and the girls look up to see Sheila. Alice jumps up and walks to her. They hug. Sheila pats Alice’s long hair.

INT. SHEILA’S HOUSE EARLY EVENING

Alice follows Sheila up to her new bedroom. On the bed are the bags of craft supplies and a new very pretty dress.

SHEILA: Just make yourself at home.

She giggles.

SHEILA: Because, it is your home. I’ll be down in the kitchen getting dinner ready. Come when you’re all through up here.

Sheila leaves the room and Alice walks slowly around the room and touches the little, hand-made dolls and holds the dress up to her body, twirls and smiles. She sits on the bed and touches the bags of craft materials and leans onto her back. A tear falls while she smiles.

INT. KITCHEN EVENING

Alice sets the table for two and Sheila brings the food to the table. They sit. Hold hands and say grace.

INT. ALICE’S NEW BEDROOM NIGHT

Alice lies in bed and Sheila sits on the side, smoothing the covers over her. She stands and kisses Alice on the forehead.

SHEILA: I’m so glad you’re here. You’re a special, special young woman.

ALICE: Really?

Sheila stands.

SHEILA: Yes, really. Everything’s going to be okay now.

Sheila reaches the door, turns around, smiles.

SHEILA: Sleep well. I’ll get you up in the morning.

She turns the light out and is a shadow in the doorway.

ALICE: Sheila?

SHEILA: Yes?

ALICE: Thank you.

SHEILA: Hush. Now, rest. We have church in the morning.

Sheila shuts the door, leaving Alice in the dark.

ALICE: See you in the morning.

Haiku 2

2009-04-13T19:07:00.003-04:00

club crackers with cheese
contains wheat, milk, soy products
Keebler elf taunts me

A short story: On Their Skin

2009-04-13T18:01:00.002-04:00

This is a short story I wrote for the L Magazine pocket fiction competition. I took my character sketch A and G and connected them for this story. It's almost 1,500 words, so it looks longer than it really is so give it a read. I hope it worked and that you like it (let me know), I hope I make it to the semi-finals, at least. I'll let you know.

On Their Skin

Aaron is unquestionably astute.
His hair, brown and curly when wet, but fluffy when dry. His eyes, almond shaped with no particular sparkle.
In sixth grade, Aaron had to take D.A.R.E classes. He asked, "Is an alcoholic always an alcoholic, even if he's on a deserted island without a corner store in sight, for years with lips as bone dry as the rocks under the midday sun?" This teacher said yes. That day, Aaron embraced his mother's lack of hope.
When Aaron was fourteen, his mother used entire rolls of film taking pictures of Aaron and his father. Then she left his father and moved them to California because his father could never finish anything but a case of beer. Aaron wondered how long he would have to wait for love, if he would even understand it at his father’s age.
He used to have acne but took medicine that causes depression in some. He tells people he feels the same without pimples.
Aaron had kissed three girls by the time he was seventeen. Well, one was more like CPR, that summer night he was swept under the current. And one was a "double dog dare," but Leslie, she really kissed him by the dumpsters behind Burger King. Her hair smelled like fries and his fingers were greasy from all-beef patties. After that, the only words she spoke to him were orders.
During high school, his counselor asked him to join the yearbook staff because he was good behind a camera, but he said, "No, I don't want to make a book of memories about this place."
She furrowed her brow and said, "That's terrible," like he had told her his grandma just died.
"No, it's a lie," he said as he looked out the window at some classmates sneaking to their cars for cigarettes.
She sighed and said, "Oh good."
"No, that book is a lie,” Aaron paused to look her in the eye then continued, “Because if it were filled with real memories, people wouldn't read it. They would want to forget.”
After a long silence, she finally said, "Oh, never mind."
So, he graduated high school without having joined a single club, without having played a single sport, without dancing or holding hands.
Aaron went to college for one year in San Francisco, and then moved to Brooklyn. His favorite bar stories are about his roommate, Evan, who had dusty blond hair and a laugh that scared everyone. It was heavy and terrible, like his cricked teeth shredded it to pieces. It annoyed Aaron how Evan collected things that came from the sea, but they often stayed up late making lists of their favorites. Evan’s favorite food is anything his sister, Gwen, makes and Aaron's 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, now I can feel myself growing back."
At twenty-two, he began taking pictures again and drinking whiskey. When he told his mother about getting a bartending job, she said to make sure he could always feel the future on his skin. He worried about his bad breath and his virginity often. His fingertips were always raisins and cold from washing pint and shot glasses. The only other use for them was holding a camera, but he wanted to hold a woman.
One day, he waited for a bus under the B.Q.E and 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 he wanted to hear her soft voice. She finally took a breath, and took his away.

Gwen is desperately guarded.
She was born with hair so blonde that she looked bald on white backgrounds. That never changed, even as she grew into her adult skin. Her breasts are too large for her bird-like frame; her eyes have enough yellow in them that people tell her they look like sunflowers.
She was raised in Iowa, in a little house that wasn't broken. Her father never hit her mother but she always wanted to fly. As a little girl she begged her brother, Evan, "Higher, higher," on the trampoline and when Gwen jumped from swings, for moments at a time, she felt like she had wings. Once, she landed too hard and knocked the wind out of her lungs. She gasped and looked into the wide faces of those circling her. Gwen's smile crept over her whole body and she got right up and back on the swing.
At eighteen, Gwen moved to New York because her parents felt there was too much open sky for her in Iowa. She learned to run for subways and watch strangers cry. She would do nothing except scream inside, then make eye contact and smile.
As often as possible, Gwen walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and sat on the courthouse steps in downtown Brooklyn. There is the most captivating wind tunnel to watch. She envies any newspaper stand owner who dares to take post near by. Their papers take flight and swirl around like ballerinas caught in an invisible tornado. The newspaper peddlers scurry for the "Arts" and "Economy" sections and Gwen leans back and sucks on her blue lollipop.
To say she is lonely is an understatement. She goes to bars and sips whiskey, alone. Her voice is soft and unclear, so it takes the bartenders six or seven, “What, darling?” to finally get her order. Once, a fluffy haired guy leaned in so close that she could smell his cheap dinner.
He looked at her with his almond eyes and grinned when she nearly growled, “Jack, please.”
Gwen let the television distract her when he said, “My name’s Aaron and your JD is on the house.”
Maybe she was lonely because she had intense and unsatisfying crushes her whole life. She already wanted to touch his raisin fingertips, but every time she looks in a mirror she is not the same. Men absorb her beauty wherever she goes but none pursue. She always thinks, "I'm much, much better off."
Gwen often begged Evan to visit from California and sit on the Brooklyn Bridge with her. The last time she asked he said, "I'll have no sea."
She held the phone tighter and said, "You'll have to see?"
Evan said without irritation in his voice, "No, I'll need the sea."
As she looked out the window at birds in flight, she said, "Oh, you need the sea the way I need the wind."
And he said, "Yes."
Gwen said, "You're lucky you can put your feet in it."
"But the wind is every where," he said and she could tell he didn’t understand why her needs weren’t satisfied.
Finally, she said, "Someday, I will fly."
Gwen understood Evan because she felt weight like the sea when she walked down streets and stood in coffee shops. She just wanted open space. Open and fierce like the wind. She wanted to sail through the sky and feel silence on her skin.
One sunny winter day when Gwen woke up, the sun shone through her window and the tops of the skeleton trees cast shadows across her bed. Gwen is obsessed with windows and loves how skylights do nothing but serve their own purpose. She dressed slowly, even matching her socks.
She got in a cab and told the driver to go until she said stop. Somewhere on the B.Q.E. between downtown Brooklyn and Bed-Stuy she said stop and he actually did. She stood on the edge of the overpass until her nose and toes were numb. She let the bright sun glow orange behind her lids and then she jumped.
Time passed and sometimes she could feel her childhood sitting next to her bed in the hospital room. Evan finally made it to NY, only after she jumped. He put his sea art in galleries and sat by her every day. He told her about colors, vivid and dull. Time passed and sometimes she could feel her future next to her and this voice told her about all the things she was missing out in the world and all the things that made people sorry they aren't.
Time passed.
More time passed and sometimes she could feel the nutrients in her body. Finally, she felt the urge to be grounded—but not in a grave. On the nightstand next to her bed was a black and white photograph of a shadow falling. Her body flying.
Aaron stood at the nurse’s station; his palms left sweat blotches on the counter. The faux red-haired nurse said, “She’s awake and she won’t stop asking about the photograph.”

Haiku

2009-04-12T20:39:00.003-04:00

delicate flower
an origami creature
cannot be folded

be my king

2009-04-12T20:26:00.005-04:00

i'm a seed
you're the pod
i'm a flower
you're the bee
i'm a tree
you're the shade
i'm summer
you're the heat
i'm winter
you're the snow
i'm the wood
you're the fire
i'm the floor
you're the rug
i'm the cup
you're the coffee
i'm the jam
you're the bread
i'm a wink
you're a nod
i'm a kiss
you're a hug

be my king
i'm your castle

Post-it note poetry 2

2009-03-09T18:45:00.000-04:00

Fishy Thoughts

Apples fall--
red, ripe, and ready to eat.
I wish to feast on the cores
in a palace by the sea.
I'm left alone with the worm
and suddenly I wish
I were a fish
swimming endless circles
in the blue dish--
thinking only of the bait
that got me there.

Post-it note poetry 1

2009-03-09T18:14:00.000-04:00

Waking Numbness

I toss false wishes
down the well
and wait for an echo
like there is no hope
for a sunny tomorrow.

I wake up
and there's no way to cope
with the words long gone
and lost from my mind.
I relish my dreams,
confuse them for memories
that scramble, fall, and scatter
across my pillow
then down to my toes--
curled under the blanket.

Like my fingertips
resting off the edge
of the bed,
I am numb.

Another Bar Poem

2009-02-19T16:36:00.000-05:00

Brooklyn comes alive

The barbwire wrapped tire on the chain link fence reaches as low as my neck and I shutter to acknowledge the dog barking at my heels.

In the morning construction is in full swing.  I get hootin’ and hollerin’ but they get diggers and 4x4’s.  I love and hate the moments between their cigarettes.  They sit around like stray cats sssstts sssst.

This is my home ‘cause Brooklyn is the place to find myself.  So I walk for a few blocks and practice patience—waiting for the walking man to light up. The noise of traffic hits my mind, numbing it as my feet navigate the cracks in the sidewalks.

Finally I’m there and it’s a fuckin’ Russian Orthodox Church, only now it’s been sold and I’m going to dance all night where alters used to stand.  There was a moment that night where I thought I stepped outside myself and I was painfully different than I once thought I would be.

I live in what some used to call the ghetto.  I’ll always remember the grandma from a few stoops down saving me from the homeboys holding up their pants.  I got a scar on my knee that night, from tripping over the rack of hipster bikes on my run home. Repeating the whole way, “I’m just trying to get there.”

And who can forget the sandwiches from the corner bodega?  No one. That thinly sliced pastrami, on the day Puerto Rican flags flew as far as we could see, melted in my mouth and dripped down my chin.  Then the cops told me to stay in my house while they calmed the crowd. All I wanted to do was get some cold beer to ease out of the hot day and into a warm night.

And sometimes there are moments when I step out into the sun from underground and I feel like I’ve found everything I need right here.  Right in this little funky borough that’s so full of flavor. But other times I know there are a million mistakes to swallow down, it makes my insides break a part.  Brooklyn is one situation during the day and an entirely different feeling after the moon is up.  Just look at the stories all the graffiti spells out for us, it’s pain and beauty—fear and enlightenment.

Every time I see a Jesus statue in someone’s window, I wait for it to come alive.

Bar Poem

2009-02-12T18:22:00.000-05:00

Of the Sea

There were freckles
at my fingertips and
I followed them
down your back.
When you woke me,
softly by whispering
my name I was breathless.
By the moon,
maybe more so
by your touch.
Then we basked
in the light of the night
until the sun was on our skin.
The smoke of cigarettes
dried our tongues
and then there were kisses
all over me.
It was heavy and light
and we found the space between.
My name means "of the sea,"
and I swim your eyes.
My body feels everything
when you sink down in it.
I could start
my days with you
until I have no more,
but I love taking you in
at night just the same.
Let us follow the sweet
subtle sounds of a heart
until ours meet
the same beat.
I'll say it again
and again and again
that I'm yours.

incomplete

2009-02-05T20:15:00.000-05:00

i dream about
s
t
r
i
p
e
s
that go like this and
stripes
that go like that.
my back hurts when i wake up
so i crawl to the shower.

A Fast Forward Exercise From the Past

2009-02-04T19:35:00.000-05:00

Swift Evolution

I kiss, I tell, I lose my virginity on a bed without sheets. It's the first semester of high school, then the beginning of summer six years later, and now I'm in love with a man who didn't even remember me the first night we talked at a bar from the class we had once shared. We spend the summer in Boston, in an old motel-turned-Harvard dorm. There are shopping squares, liquor stores, expensive cafes. The pre-college kids have video games and music they're always playing; even with the door shut you can hear them yelling at their televisions. My boyfriend eats peanut butter from the jar with his fingers. He's twenty-two and lazy, I want to unwind too so we stay in bed all weekend to make love and drink rum. A month later his teaching gig ends and we go back to Brooklyn. By winter, he's got a full-time job and we're at different points in our lives: One is a blurry-eyed movie animator in a studio downtown, the other is a struggling student with a full schedule. A couple with too little time and hardly enough love to still hold each other tightly while they sleep.

History and Titles

2009-01-31T19:30:00.000-05:00

So, when I began my college writing career, I was certain I would be a poet. And I kept that up until junior year when my computer was stolen and I lost close to 400 poems that I had stupidly not backed up or printed out...so I decided to stop writing poetry. Then I decided to back up what little poetry I did have on here and shortly there after I began writing it again. All and all, I'm very happy I let poetry back into my life. The break was needed but it really is one of my life passions. But anyway, I recently began going through all my college notebooks because, frankly, I miss structured learning. I found a poem simply called, "Title Poem," which is exactly what it sounds like: a poem that consists of titles from other poems. It made me laugh because I remember writing some of those crazy poems but also sad because I don't have most of them anymore. So, here is that:

Silence
Fork tongs, warm
G.I. Joe is golden
Bestiality is best if weary
Sad records
Broken something
Between a heart and your head
Skin
She laughs freely
Swing me
Don't be lonely
From tree to limb
Can't fall, free
A real good cook (or look...I can't read my hand writing)
Painted socks
Bottles of pills
Flowers in trash cans
Skip me
Constant
Tidal waves
Strawberry honey
Relish fetish
Sometimes it moves
What's gone
Deeper hopelessness
Holding breathes like hands
Big eyed fools
Carry on on on
Over misters, under sons

untitled, found from 2005

2009-01-31T19:02:00.000-05:00

Hitch a ride with any guide
as long as he goes fast.
I seek
new disasters
with you every day.

Nobody cares.
Every body wears
my sheep's clothes
but not as well--
their tints are too far off.

I opened my eyes
while we kissed
once
and you looked so sincere,
like a dog at my feet
during dinner.

My love for hope
made it's way--
a downward slope.
Does your hunger hurt?
I'm starving and surviving.
Not feeling too good
but I'm feeling a void--
filling is over-rated.

My pretty palm
holds your distaste
for, for, for...
everything.

Where's my generations Billy Holiday?
Make the river hear my pleas,
didn't mean to break your heart.
You ruined my day.
Stay river,
don't rise, river.
Sorry won't roll off the table,
so push in the chair.

You took off
your glasses
when we fought
once
so not to see me
see you
react.

You were a silly past time,
always good for a rhyme
but we went
way past our prime,
even when signs said stop.

It ended, it's bad
but I never stopped
loving where it started.
What's the difference
between
right
and wrong?
Stranded.
Alone.

My eyes watch
the shadows walking
passed on cracked sidewalks--
searching?

He's been yellow.
I feel pretty blue.
All I see is
red, red, red, red, red.
Green.

Couples Therapy

2009-01-28T22:18:00.000-05:00

You and your wife walk into the office and sit self-consciously on opposite sides of the couch. The plank above the therapist's head reads: "The roles of love are possessing and providing"

You hadn't seen your father in such a long time; your mother said he died in the arms of his lover. She never married again and you feel you're up for the same sort of fate.

Your wife says that you're hypersensitive and you prove her right with your silence.

Where did your desire go? There used to be pleasure in bed with you. There used to be crosswords and chocolates. Now you feel like love is missing all the vowels.

Your wife is indignant and irritable. She says you're jealous and harmful. You wonder how she can just throw words around like that.

This therapist gets paid $105 an hour, sometimes it feels like a certain form of madess, but most of the time you just want him, "hmmming" at you and writing down his hypothesis for a few more hours.

You didn't have to go from school, straight to a job, to a wife, then to instant fatherhood. But you did and now you can't tell who is the beast and who's the tamer.

"You've cut each other's wings off and they'll never grow back if you keep neglecting each other's search for divinity of the soul," this therapist says, then stands, "Time's up for today."

Scrabble (Or Nietzsche)

2009-01-28T21:59:00.001-05:00

Nietzsche is my favorite scrabble opponent because he believes all words are lies and I get to watch him compromise in order to win. On Sunday, it's snowing--the kind that's too light and fluffy for snowball fights--and there aren't any good football games on TV so Friedrich and I play scrabble.

He places HUMAN on the board (28 points) then I spell NATURE off the A (7 points) and then he moves letters, one at a time, under the "H" to spell HABIT. I asked him about the difference between human nature and human habit. He says, "13 points." I think I gain the lead with TRUST on the double word score, except two rounds later he places M-I-S in front with the M covering the triple word score (30 points).

As he spills coffee on the dog's head and rants about words being merely signs that point to things I spell DEPEND vertically (14 points). Friedrich laughs, writes down my score and says, "Wouldn't have figured you for one of the herd." I raise my eyebrow as he makes his next bold move: I-N in front of my DEPEND and E-N-T after (15 points).

"In order to know what it is, I guess you have to know what it's not," I mumble. After several minutes of rearranging the letters in my mind, I finally see it. Using his T, I complete my last word: METAPHOR. I get an extra 50 points because I use all of my letters, so I'm out of my seat laughing and dancing.

He says, "You win. But I still mistrust the source of truthfulness." My lips curl into an even bigger smile and I say, "That's fine because one who finds virtue also laughs at it."

JSI's 5 Words

2009-01-27T17:53:00.000-05:00

BALL*

When the whiskey is flowin'
there's stories to the rafters.
Simple slices of life swirlin'
around the smoke and shot glasses.

A familiar stranger saunters
in--catchin' the end of a tall tale
so our laughs crackle and their
echoes fill the space
between the stools.

Outside there's snow on the ground
and we're all hidin' from it
but holdin' onto
things we can't touch:
the blues, shadows
and that fresh feeling
of learning who someone was,
is, and can be.

We'll share a cigarette
with our fingers touching
with every pass.
I'll say, "Through all our conquests
and queries we get a few moments
to relax." And you'll say,
"And a few more to regret."

We will smile until long after
the irises sprout and bloom--
what a journey that must be,
from seed to vase.
And we realize how different
we really are from flowers.
We're lucky to not be as lonely.

*ball is the 5th word, I couldn't fit it and I'm disappointed with myself.

Character Sketch: H.

2009-01-13T19:16:00.000-05:00

H.
is unfavorably humble.
He has all the things to please a woman, except the looks and know-how.  H. is rich but obese.  He lets his pin-straight dirty blond hair grow past his shoulders into a greasy split-end mess.  He sleeps all day and wakes up just before night fall.
H. is an avid reader and he looks down his pointy nose trying to play the piano.  He can hear the pitter-patter of a pair of feet above his head that belong to the girl of his dreams while he plays Beethoven.  When his chubby fingers clank two keys at once he grows frustrated and moves to the couch.  There he will eat entire bags of potato chips with tubs of sour cream and chive dip, an entire bucket of chicken and finally he reaches for the pint of soft Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey--then slurps it slowly.  All the while watching reality TV; on any given night H. will see the face of Derek at least six times.  H. obsesses over his chisseled features, his pointy nose, his abs that go on and on.  He wants to be Derek but without the humilation.  H. watches the elimination dating game show and Derek's skin is more tan  than usual and H. focuses on Derek's eyes, there's something more than nothing there tonight, some sort of aching and H. thinks he can understand it.  He thinks, "We've both given up on something far greater than ourselves."  The TV screen acts as a mirror when H. looks into Derek's eyes.
Then H. hears the creak of the stiars outside his apartment.  He heaves himself up and waddles to the peep hole just in time to see Breanna saunter by.  H. breathes her name into the door.
When H. was younger his father called him a tub of chub, then fatty and finally just useless.  All the while his mother left him cupcakes on the counter and whole roasts in the oven for dinner.  She would rub H.'s hair flat on his head and say, "Shhh, I know, it's okay," when she found endless bags of cookies under his bed.  "I won't tell your father this time," she would say.
When H.'s father left for a business trip and never came home.  A month shy of H.'s 18th birthday, he answered the phone to a woman crying.  She said his father had been swept under a current and after a three day search he still hadn't been found.  H. pushed the hot slice of pizza further in his mouth, then began cooling it by blowing air out and sucking the cool back in.  This woman said, "I'm sorry."  And H. said, "He never loved me anyway."  And she said, "I'm so sorry."  And she said, "I'm pregnant."  And H. said, "I don't care."  And she said, "You were going to be a big brother."  And H. said, "My father wouldn't have loved it either."  And she said, "Then I'm not sorry anymore."
So H. became a millionaire that day and now does nothing.  He gets his food delivered and his laundry picked up once a week.  Even then, he won't mutter but a little thank you.
Every morning before he goes to bed, he puts crumbs out on his fire escape and waits to watch the pigeons feast.  Thinking that it won't amount to much, but at least he's giving something.  He lies, thinking about not wanting to spend forever there and when he wipes away the tears he closes his eyes.  H.'s body aches in his sleep, his breathing slows and he wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling worse than death.
He topples off the bed and crawls to the phone, without pride he dials 911.  His heart attacks his body.  H. recovers for months and months after his open heart and plastic surgery and lipo suction in a room with a beautiful woman in a coma.  Finally, he walks out of the hospital a different man.  A little less unfavorable.  H. set out to gain some know-how.

Bankrupt: Paying Dues to the Muse

2009-01-11T18:56:00.000-05:00

Bankrupt: Paying Dues to the Muse
*This is a poem I wrote in an old check book. I put some pictures in so you can get the idea of the layout and concept.

Pay to the order of: Interruptions, for the muse.
Interruptions become wealthy, with and always, because of the muse.

Pay to the order of: The crow, for philosophy.
The muse feats on crow with philosophy, we choke on them.

Pay to the order of: The (fe)male, for the muse.
The muse is male and just as importantly, female.

Pay to the order of: Shakespeare, for characters.
Shakespeare wrote to the love muse, yet we have characters like Macbeth.

Pay to the order of: The mind, for December.
December, my mind's all cooped up, let's go make love, muse.

Pay to the order of: The professional, for the muse.
That's just what I always wanted to be: A professional muse!

Pay to the order of: The re-run, for missing muse.
That re-run is on, will we miss the muse?

Pay to the order of: The goldfish, for memories.
I am the muse and goldfish have no memory.

Pay to the order of: the coffee shop, for a mocha grande.
I go the the coffee shop, my muse is not a cafe mocha grande.

Pay to the order of: The morning, for tea.
The ice cubes in my tea melt, I wait until morning for my muse.

Pay to the order of: Declining mind, for lipstick and leather.
My declining mind applies lipstick and my muse poses in leather shorts.

Pay to the order of: Napoleon, for feathered hat.
My muse wears a large hat with a feather, one similar to Napoleon's.

Pay to the order of: The blind muse, for smokes and drinks.
I smoke, I drink, every time I blink I am worse, but I have a blind muse.

Pay to the order of: Rippled pond, for two stones.
I throw two stones in the pond, my muse ripples and I fall in.

Pay to the order of: Existence, for tomorrow.
If I don't exist tomorrow, all is not lost if my muse cries for me.

Pay to the order of: The muse, for grilled cheese.
The muse cometh--will we eat grilled cheese and drink kool-aid?

Pay to the order of: The lap, for sitting.
I am the muse, will you sit on my lap?

Pay to the order of: The post office, for love letters.
We want more love letters to arrive, my muse knows not about the post office.

Pay to the order of: The wind, for fly strips.
The fly strip waves in the wind and all I can say is fuck you, muse.

Pay to the order of: Warm nights, for crystal lights.
The muse is a crystal of light, it disappears on warm nights.

Pay to the order of: Dictionaries, for soft hands.
Lotion softens the hands of my muse, dictionaries do not define me.

Pay to the order of: The forehead, for thoughts.
We are frozen together, muse, and to bring one of us to the forehead will bare the interior of our thoughts.

Pay to the order of: The bed, for vagina.
I wait on the bed for my muse, with a finger in my vagina.

Pay to the order of: Preschools, for prisons.
Prisons fester muses, but so do preschools.

Pay to the order of: Thinking, for the muse.
I see we are both perplexed, muse, the fan says, "Yes," what will we think of next?

Character Sketch: G.

2009-01-09T21:01:00.001-05:00

G.
is desperately guarded.
She was born with hair so blonde that she looked bald on white backgrounds.  That never changed, even as she grew into her adult skin.  Her breasts are large and her eyes have enough yellow in them that people tell her they look like sunflowers.  G. is obsessed with windows and loves how skylights do nothing but serve their own purpose.
As a little girl she jumped from swings and for moments at a time she felt like she had wings.  Once, she landed too hard and fell to her back, knocking the wind out of her lungs.  She gasped and looked into the wide faces of those circling her.  G.'s smile crept over her whole body and she got right up and back on the swing.
At 18, G. moved to New York and she learned to run for subways and watch people cry and do nothing because.  Strangers shared her air and she would scream inside but make eye contact and smile.  As often as possible, G. walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and sat on the court house steps in downtown Brooklyn.  There is the most captivating wind tunnel to watch from that spot.  She envies any newspaper stand owner who dares to take post near by.  Their papers take flight and swirl around like ballerinas caught in an invisible tornado.  The newspaper peddlers scurry for the "Arts" and "Economy" sections and G. leans back and sucks on her blue lollipop.
To say she is lonely is an understatment but G. knows herself better than anyone ever could.  Her voice is soft yet unclear.
G. often asks her brother, Evan to visit and he has his own reasons not to so she feels her sadness with every fiber of her being.  Maybe it is that she had intense crushes her whole life.  Maybe it is that every time she looks in a mirror she is not the same.  Men absorbed her beauty where ever she went but none pursued.  She always thought, "I'm much, much better off.  I wouldn't know what to say to a gentle voice or a harsh cry for affection."
Evan once told her he needed the sea and G. understood because she felt weight like the sea when she walked down streets and stood in coffee shops.  She just wanted open space, open and fierce like the wind.  She wanted to sail through the sky and feel the silence on her skin.  G. met a little graying woman in a bodega once.  This woman said, "I'm not sorry for anything." And G. said, "Nothing, not ever." And she said, "Not even my son who I gave up on before he was even born." And G. said, "That's a size I don't need to try on." And she said, "Oh yes, I'm not sure if it's too big or small."  And G. said, "I need to get out of the city."  And she said, "Go to the prairie and watch the wind catch up with the tall grass."
One sunny winter day G. woke up and the sun was shinning through her window and the tops of the bare trees cast shadows across her bed.  She dressed slowly, even matching her socks.  G. put on her last clean pair of underwear, her thinnest pants and her tightest coat.  She got in a cab and told the driver to go until she said stop.  Somewhere on the B.Q.E. between downtown Brooklyn and Bed-Stuy she told him to stop and he actually did.  She stood on the edge of the overpass until her nose and toes were numb, then she jumped.
Time passed and sometimes she could feel her childhood sitting next to her bed in the hospital room.  Time passed and sometimes she could feel the nutrients in her body.  Time passed.  Time passed and she finally felt the urge to be grounded--but not in a grave.  On the nightstand next to her bed was a black and white photograph of a shadow falling.  Her body flying.

A place for words:

2009-01-08T18:13:00.000-05:00

Character Sketch: F.

2009-01-08T16:57:00.000-05:00

F.
is terribly flamboyant.
His jet black hair clashes with his navy blue flight attendant uniform. His nails are shiny with perfectly rounded edges and clipped cuticles. F's an itinerant person. He shaves his face every day in airport restrooms. If stubble grows he thinks his smile lines look like small streaks of granite.
He lives each day for "Hello," but by the end of a flight he's ready to say "Goodbye." Another city, another lay over. F. watches herds of people and misses his boyfriend, Jeff. L.A.X used to be F's least favorite airport but now it's the closest thing to home.
F. sleeps at Jeff's house when he's not in the sky so he never stops living out of a suitcase. One night, he was on the toilet, shitting and reading, when the shower curtain moved and startled F. He slowly pulled the curtain back and there was a cat. Jeff never had a cat before. F. eased himself through the crack in the bedroom door. He heard mumbles from the closet and stood silently next to the nightstand. "I couldn't," said Jeff. "But I will. He'll be devastated," said Jeff. "I'll see you when he heads to Atlanta," said Jeff, "I love you too."
F. felt like a mouse, in a dark room, avoiding that black cat who has long since slipped out the door. Vengeance grew in him as if he were a child again and a bully broke his favorite toy. The next day, F. went to the pharmacy and bought the darkest, cheapest off-brand of self-tanner he cold find. While Jeff was out tailoring his slacks, F. poured out all of Jeff's expensive lotions then replaced them with the tangy tanner. He took permanent marker to the bathroom mirror: "You were never a good lover. You were never even a good friend. You are self-absorbed and I hate myself for having adored you." F. also left the front door open when he walked out. He watched the bathtub cat claw her way up a tree as he got into the cab.
Somewhere between Iowa and Indiana, he joined the Mile High Club. F. had flirted with a dark black man in 16C and this man actually flirted back. After the sixth or seventh complimentary vodka, 16C got up from his seat, shuffled down the isle, winked at F. and entered the bathroom. The green "vacant" never clicked over to red "occupied." F. poked his head out of the snack cubbyhole and saw the other flight attendant in first class, then scooted into the bathroom and slid the lock over. The two men filled the space and it wasn't a fairytale, it wasn't romance. It was raw and quick.
F. flashed back to his first crush, an ugly Puerto Rican senior who always smelled amazing. He would scurry across the crowded high school hallway just to take a deep whiff as they passed each other. F. flashed to his father's fist flying toward his face after finding him in bed with Rick, the Puerto Rican. Rick screamed that he wasn't gay as he came and again as F.'s father slugged him. The two avoided each other's black eyes in the hall.
16C finished on the wall next to the toilet paper dispenser and F. cleaned it. After all the "Goodbyes" and "Thank yous," F. made his way through the Atlanta airport and found a close-to-empty restroom. He took out his shaving kit, released the blade from the razor and stood holding it in his shaking palm. He could feel his ears pop and his heart pound in his finger tips. F. went into the handicap stall and pulled up his sleeve. Just as the silver blade touched his skin, his cell phone rang. L.A area code. F. hit silent and breathed in the bleach smell of the clean restroom. Three small beads of blood ran down the staircase of scars that climbed up his arm and dropped into the porcelain bowl. They spread in the water like cream in coffee--more like a negative exposure of the cup. F. cleaned his perfect cuts and opened the stall. The toilet flushed automatically. He still had an hour before his next flight.

quick intermission

2009-01-03T02:52:00.001-05:00

okay, readers:
so i'm sure some don't know what the hell is going on. i don't half the time either, but that's the luck of the draw and most of the fun of it. but anyway, this character sketch bit is a new, and personally exciting project of mine.
most know i've been an aspiring hybrid writer for as long as i can remember and this new thing i'm embarking on is the most organically hybrid as i've come. okay, so i'll back up: when i begin writing a fiction story i do a character sketch as part of the planning process so i can get to know a character before putting them in fake situations. this time i said fuck the fiction story, i'll make a bunch of character sketch poems (because poetry is more instantly gratifying and who doesn't love that?!) but really, i wanted to make these character sketches strong enough so they felt real. then i realized that i like constraints, so i decided the characters wouldn't have names and that i wanted them to correspond with the alphabet because, well, i've always been kind of obsessed with it anyway....and then.....i decided that i wanted the characters to connect...their lives, you know, like how all of our lives connect. so in essence i am writing a story on the fly with about 2 poems a week through these sketches. I really, really am begging for criticism, i need someone's words to tell me, "no, it's terrible, you have to rethink it all" or "well this works and this doesn't" or "i see what you're doing here but this part isn't working" like a critic, or a work-shopper or an editor or someone. just give me some thoughts.

Character Sketch: E.

2009-01-03T02:09:00.000-05:00

E.
is unnervingly eager.
He has full lips and blond hair, rough like Brillo pads. Most women thought him to be attractive but his laugh scared everyone. It is heavy and terrible, like his cricked teeth have shredded it to pieces. E. even had braces as a boy.
He was raised in Iowa, in a little house that wasn't broken. His father never hit his mother but his little sister always wanted to fly. She begged, "Higher, higher," on the swing, on the trampoline. Once D. and Gwen were jumping when a tree branch got stuck under the wire of D.'s braces on his way back down to bounce. Two of his teeth were yanked from his gums, then his knees buckled and he ricocheted off into a bush. His bottom jaw chomped down on his remaining top teeth--chipping most to sharp points. The blood swelled and oozed from his mouth and he can still taste the metallic iron of it to this day.
At 17, E. bought a motorcycle. He rode it through the dessert toward the West. He watched the sand turn more rusty red with every mile, as the heat sucked the moisture from his skin. There was a car on fire one night while the sun was setting. He could see the burning body as he passed. He never told anyone about hearing the screams but not stopping.
When he got to California, he slept on the beach and had a love affair with acid. Sometimes, E. thought he could hear under water and sometimes he even listened to the fish singing.
He rented a room from an old lady. She gave him a mattress, which laid up-right against the wall the entire time he lived there. He, instead, filled the space with sea things: shells, stones, sea weeds, vessles of foam and sand, exoskeletons, and drift wood. He dyed his hair sea-foam green and tattooed "The Birth of Venus" on his torso.
When his sister moved to New York and begged him to sit on the Brooklyn Bridge with him, he said, "I'll have no sea." And his sister said, "You'll have to see." And he said, "No, I'll need the sea." And she said, "Oh, you need the sea the way I need the wind." And E. said, "Yes." And Gwen said, "You're lucky you can put your feet in it." And he said, "But the wind is every where." And she said, "I will fly."
E. did make it to NY, but his sister couldn't walk anymore, so he put his sea in galleries and sat by her every day at the hospital. He told her about colors, vivid and dull. He told her about all the things she wasn't missing out in the world and all the things that made people sorry they aren't. He never told her about his guilt over not saving two girl's lives. But he did tell her about waking up once with sand crabs festering his his mouth. He said, "They weren't scared of my teeth."

Character Sketch: D.

2009-01-03T01:29:00.000-05:00

D.
is famously dejected.
He thinks he's bigger than he really is, but most people have slight Napoleon complex anyway. He has a pointy nose and could be funny or sexy or sweet or smart or tricky. D. is a reality show circuit whore. Parading himself all over MTV or Vh1 and magazines and finally, the last frontier: the internet. Always with his pants down, holding a deceptive grin on his face. D. says there's nothing to hide, but he has agony in his closet. Under his Versace and Dior, way in the back is a box of old letters he wrote to his birth mother, but never sent.
D.'s last foster mom brought them to him after seeing D. on TV getting tied up to a chicken coop and then painted, smiling with feathers being thrown on his bare body. D's foster mom said, "You're a disgrace." And D. said, "I never said I was perfect." And she said, "You think people like you, but you're a fool." And he said, "I'm only human." And she said, "I'm done with you, Jesus is too." That was the only time D.'s conscious was checked.
When D. gets nervous, he pokes his middle finger in the dimple on his arm. Years ago, he was terrorized by a college roommate's question. D. would never have said that he survived an abortion, that he's never been wanted by anyone. But when Andy said, "Conversation starter," D. almost threw himself into a mirror. Since then, D. has conned his way out of every problem, but really he wants to surrender.
He has yellow fingers yet keeps smoking. D. forgot about summer and winter and day and night, he just learned to ignore the camera stuck in his face. D. became a bad impersonation of himself.
D. dated a girl from a show called, Feed Me or Eat Me, where the contestants pick a number that corresponds with either decorating their body with food or eating it off another person with their hands tied behind their backs. D. ate turkey slices off Penelope's ass so their relationship never really had a chance. On their two month anniversary dinner, Penelope's eyes shifted from his collagen-filled lips to over his shoulder, in a way she didn't want him to ignore. When he turned around there was a man sitting alone in a booth. This man looked like an orangutan with manicured facial hair. During dessert she said, "I'm going to walk away from you." And he said, "I will do nothing but let you."
Later that night, he sprayed his arms, legs, and face with self-tanner for medium skin tones. He reached in the back of his closet then left orange finger prints on all those letters that broadcast his little boy lost words, the ones he never sent. His face became streaked like reverse tiger stripes and his tight white t-shirt became spotted with Cheeto-colored tear drops.
Near the end of the stack, there was an envelope addressed to him. The woman's name didn't register, the handwriting made his look like chicken scratch. D. knew it was her and he fondled his arm dimple. This letter didn't tell why, it didn't tell him, sorry. It didn't say, "I want to meet you," it didn't say, "I love you" or " I think of you often." One sentence sat in the middle of the page: "You can never tie things into a neat little bow." He threw all the letters away.
He never did stop being a bad kisser and there are always things for him to vilify or swig down like gin but D. never really wanted to laugh.

Character Sketch: C.

2008-12-30T20:54:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-12-30T20:23:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-12-30T01:55:00.002-05:00

(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.

Trombone or ship horn

2008-12-27T11:50:00.001-05:00

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.

And the stars

2008-12-24T03:23:00.000-05:00

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.

There were elevators there

2008-12-21T18:44:00.001-05:00

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.

Smoke through the window

2008-12-17T01:09:00.000-05:00

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.

course

2008-12-15T22:53:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-15T01:53:00.001-05:00

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?

Steve Grossi's 5 Words

2008-12-10T02:04:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-10T01:22:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-12-10T00:07:00.000-05:00

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.

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

2008-11-12T16:02:00.000-05:00

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.

History and Progressive Patriotism

2008-11-06T01:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Efran Delgado's 5 Words

2008-11-04T16:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Unsent letter 2

2008-11-02T23:15:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-02T22:57:00.000-05:00

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?

Another too-close-to-home-horoscope

2008-10-28T15:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Liza and Matt's 5 Words

2008-10-23T19:13:00.000-04:00

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.

Samantha Smith's 5 words

2008-09-24T00:42:00.000-04:00

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.

A Brief Letter To My Readers:

2008-09-18T00:34:00.000-04:00

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).

Lisa Forbes' 5 words

2008-09-01T16:08:00.000-04:00

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

2008-09-01T14:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Alicia Ward's 5 words

2008-08-30T16:57:00.000-04:00

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.