One Crayon Short a Rainbow

she scrubbed the crayon wax into the paper
she let a jagged line of purple fill in the page
and inside her head she felt a sort of anger
as though someone else were adamantly telling her it was the wrong color to use.
the emotion got stronger and she stilled the crayon,
all she felt was a hot breeze stream through the window screen
she continued scribbling and coloring in the entire page
the anger got louder
like a building wave
it sounded more and more like a bottled rush of shouting banging in her head
she scrubbed harder and the shouter grew louder and louder till she dropped the crayon to clap her hands over her head like she wanted to close out the boundless voice of rage that ran static through her head, and as slowly it died out, she hummed to herself as she continued drawing, to keep the anger from returning and from swallowing herself again.

Seen

She looked at the horrible creature there, the frightening sack that blinked and stared. It's eyes were like coal burning in its sockets. It's hair wrapped around its face like a clinging disease, she saw the ugly thing spread open a horrible gash near its chin, a sickening bile rose up in her throat; looking into the opened grimace that spread across the ragged sack. And she found her mouth with her fingers, and discovered her teeth, beneath that awful smile, that cut like a wound, and reflected back into the mirrored wall.

A Chair for Weary Legs

I don't know if I ever thought I would be a part of this program; and I find myself a little confused about my role in this operation. Should I be comforting those stares and herds of nervous people I see out there? Should I be passing out water, arranging family interviews, silently wandering through the backstage, guiding the performance? I wonder at the time, and I think this is the time when I would be speaking to Darmell, setting up the witnesses in their positions and checking the time for the reporting logs.

He asks me my final words, it's not Lynd, I look up to an empty stranger, who knows none of it, none of me. Of course they had the decency to send a stranger, not a friend, though it wasn't for my sake, and I'm sure Lynd had to petition for the respite. They wouldn't think of those things themselves. I never had.

So what was the specimen thinking before death? they all knew they couldn't know after, and so they must wait until the very last minute, until I brushed against the icy wall, so much worse because I groped out for it; not passing though in natural time, but in tense expectation of the cold. I panicked at the microphone at my mouth, hadn't thought of my last words, I had no symphony to play for the few people that would remember and record my last sound, the last tones in the carbon dioxide I polluted into the air. My voice failed me,


"Am I going to die?"


I hardly knew what I said, but the world went away as the hood came down, and I felt very strongly that I was still waiting in my cell room, with my scratchy blanket against my face, dreading death, not facing it. that I was asleep in my apartment, fearing the sound of my alarm, afraid of waking up.

Ears Full of Salt

My Ears are sweetly calling

to my hands,

to rub away my tears.

The tears that rivered over

Down my cheeks,

to pool into my Ears.

My tears are drying

in streaks across my face;

and filling in my Ears

with their only trusted friend.

And my Ears are filling sweetly,

with their salt to remind me

Of what my tears have said.

The Last Word

I thought we promised we wouldn't do this.
I thought I'd broken every pencil,
in my dusty cocoa mug.
I thought I'd bled every single pen into my sink;
draining the stains I used to use so freely.
But now it sits like a beady eyed bug,
It looks balefully at me.
And I hate it gladly.
One word more and I could float it in the river
to slide its reaching veins across the paper,
to its soggy edge.
And stain the edges like the drain of my bathroom sink,
where I thought you snapped the neck,
of every lousy word I ever met.
But perhaps no one was watching,
and one last word got caught in my throat.
So I'll quickly kill it on one last page.
Before your reaching hands can stop it.

An Unknown kind of Hate

I hate you the way I love the bones of my neck
how they crinkle when I twist it to look behind me
How my spine shrugs away stiffness
I hate to find you kind
because you aren't
I hate to find you calm
because my skin remembers
the awful raw feeling you drew.
I'll tell you
I'll even send you this note
because I know you won't understand a single word of it
when you wake in the morning
and I know you will hate the note.
The way I love the bones in my neck.

Burning Daisies

The flowers bloom across the sky;

Their bowing heads droop ashes,

Upon the dewy grass of night.

The daisies rush into the sky,

To live one dazzling second.

Their lives burn out above my head,

Until their wilted buds

Hang embers in the sky.

And this boquet held in my hand,

Is brushed away in whispers

of sudden aging smoke.

Shining Lakes

High up the sloping mountain

In the valley down below,

The Earth's soft curve is brightened

With a gilded water's glow.

The sun breaks over captured glass

That smarts the eyes with tears;

And fleeting must the glancer grasp

The burning sweet of broken mirrors.

And down the sloping mountain,

While the sun burns in the sky,

The lakes will slumber down the way,

And drink the tears the sun will cry.

Another Emptied Chair

A quiet boy I don't even know

Sits across from me.

Who keeps his eyes on his plate,

And his hands on his fork.

Until he leaves without a sound,

And I stare at the empty seat.

And I have the thought,

That the empty seat is me.

An empty seat at our crowded lunch table

Filled with noise.

That's not so crowded,

And not so filled.

And I have the thought,

That it really doesn't matter

If there is another chair;

If I'm there or not.

I'm just another seat to fill,

Another seat to your left;

Left empty.

The Hurdle

Maybe I am once

a scraggly bush,

by an old hiker's path.

Maybe I have once
towered over ocean air,

and whistled over seas.

Perhaps I dreamed of flying

and brushing up the sky.

Perhaps I'm used for climbing;

a slender branch for you to pass

and push on by.

I wrote this down

I thought of you,
And in thinking,
I scribbled out this note
I poured my heart and soul out,
It was deep and rich and true,
And I rushed to you to hear it
But first I gave it one read-through
And I realized that my rhyming
Is really very sad
My words were weak and trembling
My handwriting is bad
You see that wretched rhythm
That I can't seem to keep up?
I wrote this down for you
Thank heavens I tore it up!

Egomaniac? I'd go for just misunderstood.

You know, I wrote an essay
the persuasive kind, you know.
My mother wept with joy
as she read my blessed lines
It was published in the paper
I had book deals on the line
I was interviewed on Oprah
It was awarded Pultizer Prize
So I proudly came on monday
To turn this sucker in
I thought I saw the teacher smile
As i placed it in her bin
This paper was pure genius
As anyone could tell
You know, it saved the life
Of a man sentenced in jail.
The teacher passed our papers back
She was looking worn and pale
This teacher was quite stupid,
She mangaged me to fail!

Sometime

I wonder where we store the time
That we give away with ease
When we plan with friends we never see
Or give the promise we never keep.
I've given you a sometime
Like I've given all the rest.
It's just one word you can't explain
On word you just can't test.
Sometime I'll tell you what I mean
When I give you those old lines
I use it for the things I fear
For the things I cannot face,
I hate to tell you but
Sometimes,
I wish Sometime
was never here.

Did the Wind Call

Did the wind call,

Did it come tapping on your window,

Or did it use the door.

Is the china in the cupboard safe

Or did the wind topple every glass,

And swell inside the dining room

And crash each single chair.

Does it cage itself inside the trees,

And make the branches shake,

To kiss each and every leaf.

Does it rush and roll across the lawn,

Does it ebb away the sky.

Did the wind call?

And did it wipe away,

The places that we used to know,

The places that we loved.

I Hold The Ugly Flower

I hold the flower in my palm

it kisses, white lips, to my skin

It winds between my fingers,

growing sturdy, growing thin.

I hold the live thing in my hand

as if it might just float away.

It nibbles on my toes and chin

and drinks in rain, and sleeps in day.

The insects that do pocket deep

between my aging tongue and cheek

Will scuttle over and beneath

But leave the flower be.

My agless eye will roam the vine

without its blooming bold,

The blood that painted first my cheeks

has left the flower's hold

And gladly I will hold my pet

until I come to see

I hold the ugly flower's hand

that's planted over me.

Unforgotten

She unfolded the letter once, every year, but still its creases were nearly worn apart, as if she had folded and refolded it every day, every minute, the way she did in her head. She re-applied her lipstick for the thousandth time, and dabbed it off for the thousandth time; carefully running the soft white linen around the corners of her mouth, leaving red sighs on the smooth hankerchief. She spread the letter out across her lap, and her ironed skirts rustled. His picture fluttered to the floor, resting beside her shiny black heels. Her thumb had erased any recognizable features, and age had faded the detailed lines. She quickly tucked it into her white starched glove, next to her wrist, as the door squeaked open and a customer came in. She smoothed her fading blond hair back into its perfect placement. A bird sang out in the street and a woman and a man walked in, wrapped in each other's arms. The woman soon left his side to wander the shop, bringing a hint of clean air to the stuffy sweet flowers. He stood behind the woman as she smirked and fingered the roses and gardenias, and scrutinized every leaf on an orchid. She finally chose a small tree plant, scrawny and without marking, proudly planting its grubby pot on her spotless counters. She could see the woman thinking of how she would plant the tree in the center of her garden, and sit with the man while he idly stroked her hair and she sketched their little, ugly tree-child. And she would hang it in her studio up in the woods, by the lake, where she would paint in overalls and a farmer's tan. The man paid for the woman's free willed plant; handing her crisp clean bills across the counter. His smile was warm and his eyes were ice blue; a glimpse of deep brown hair creeped under aging gray. The bird outside stuttered to a stop. But the woman lugged the dirt crusted plant off the counter, leaving dry crumbs of dirt, and heaved it back to the car. The man left with her and the store was quiet. She pulled out the letter once more, and slipped his picture out of her glove. Her eyes roamed over the unrecognizable face. She still dreamed of seeing him in front of her, she still unfolded the letter every year, and saved the forgotten face.

I would show you a broken piece, if you promised me you'd cry.

I would show you a broken piece,

If you promised me you'd cry.
If you promised you would care ,

If you would finally ask me why.

I would show you all the bones,

That I broke and didn't tell.

I would show you all the scrapes,

That I taped and glued as well.

but if you'd rather not,

I think understand.

To know someone takes awful long,

And you've barely shook my hand.

So I think we're out of time,

and I think you have to go.

I'll leave the lights on for you,

But I won't expect you home.

You don't really have to care,

and I hate to see you try,

I would show you a broken piece,

If you promised me you'd cry.

Perhaps I Should Say

Perhaps I should say
all the things that filled my day:
I won a million dollars.
I got married;
had a child.
I was bitten by a dog;
who had rabies,
but no fleas.
I discovered I'm a twin
and guess what,
we're siamese.
My best friend died.
My hamster called;
You know the one we buried
in the yard.
My shrink prescribed me
With some meds.
forgot to take them,
grew two heads.
Perhaps I should say,
But I really don't know how.
you ask me how I'm doing
I guess "I'm fine" will work for now.

A Tree That Doesn't Hide

a tree that doesn't hide

is a tree that's stretched out wide.

like a hand over the heart
with the fingers spread apart.

thin branches overhead

shelter living and the dead.

and with arms held hideless wide

we see our hearts pulsing inside.

In the Grove of Aspens

The aspen trees stand tall,

but they gently stand aside,

to let the stealthy passer

silently pass by.

They space themselves like generals

At attention on a march,

Standing in stern assembly,

With straight trunks without an arch.

Their leaves quiver and tremble,

as the slightest wind pass by,

Sometimes they let in spirits

breezing in to live or die.

And at the smallest touch

of the smallest spirit child,

The small green shingles rattle forth

and whisper on for miles.

Their trunks are striped with markings
like eyes cracked opened whole,

to see them stare,

you'd think a while,

since they've seen a living soul.

While Walking Down Stairs

While walking down stairs,
my knee bends and lifts forward,
and my leg sticks out
at an angle; a ninety degree curve of the leg,
that lowers the foot to the waiting descent.
My back remains upright and my spine remains stiff
as my wavering heels click and smack
each resounding step
on each pounding stair.
I make my way through the clumsy
dance, my bones reined back,
ready to thrash and to whip through the air
waiting below.
Over the stilted stairs
that jingle my joints,
my legs wait to rush,
my feet wait to fly,
down the steps in one swooping flight,
rather than in jagged bounce.
My arms wait at my side,
my elbows slightly bent,
and hunched around like birds' wings,
ready lift,
if I should slip,
down the hazardly jutting stair.

Give me a river

Give me a river to wash all my cares,
With a sky nestled close and the ground cuddled near.
Let the water trickle and giggle over my toes.
Let me lie on the velvety grass layed below
And feel the cold water ebb me away

Give me a sun to melt all my worries,
With a bright cloudless blue to pool in my eyes.
Let the rays brush my face and freckle my arms,
Let the leaves create shadows that dance on my skin,
And feel the warmth seep through the ground.

Give me a breeze to quiet my sleep.
Let the wind sweep the strands of my hair from my face,
Let the coolness calm the heat from the sun.
Let me sleep with a soft whisper sigh in my ears,
And float all my cares on green gentle leaves,
Bobbing away in the brook.

my paper house

In my paper house,
The walls are paper,
And the floor is covered in seas of paper,
The walls are printed,
The ceiling;
Words,
Paper scratches agains paper,
Like two pieces of sand paper grating against each other.
As I walk across the floor,
The papers jut out,
Their edges razor sharp.
And my words,
The letters I wrote,
Cut seams of red into my legs as I brush through the pile,
The words rain down and slice through my skin,
Cutting and pinching the soft pink surface left vulnerable.
Down to the bone.
The edges curl and droop in soggy red as the ceiling sags.
The paper house bleeds out in rivers of blood and ink,
And droops into itself;
Colapsing
Into a dripping
Red
Ball of trash.

Summer Sadness

I decend the cool stairs
And a summer sadness fills me
an emtpy sweetness, of feeling the space you left.
The sun comes out, and we feel warmth for the first time.
But you left before it came,
And I park where you used to, beneath the chilly shade.
The nights are warm now, the days are hot.
People shorten their pants and sleeves
to wake up and look around at each other since fall.
I look around, and sit in the cool basement
without you.
You're going, not gone.
And that makes it all the lonelier.

The questions I found in the back pocket of my boot cut jeans after coming out of the dryer.

Is it better to have no oppions than to have all the wrong ones?

If I decide not to judge anything, am I really deciding anything?

Do people ever really listen, whithout talking in their head?

Can I realy do anything I put my mind to?

Could I change who I am by tommorrow?

When the wind blows, where does it stop?

How long does it take for microwaves to kill you?

Why do deaf people need to "sign" clapping?

How many of these questions will crumble into lint, before I answer any of them?


Modeled after a poem by Elena Georgiou

Alley, My Cat -modeled after Gary Soto

Like the bear, she sleeps for seasons.
Unlike the bear, her fur is for petting.
She bounces. She moves her head beneath your fingers and lets you stroke her back.
Until she wraps around your wrist and sinks her teeth in.
She stretched her legs and sniffs your hands for the outdoors.
She comes to you for affection
and sprints away if you pull her close.
Alley contains the charm of cats
One, a cat's pur is softer than any blanket.
Two, they lick your fingers on special occasions
Three, They are willing to be petted no matter your mood.
Four, they climb on strangers' heads.
Five, they fit perfectly in your arms.
Six, anything is a plaything.
Seven, They ignore you when you're mad at them, but wil aways forgive you later.
Eight, if they are sick of you, they will tell you; cats are unfailingly honest.
Nine, they are low mantinence.
Ten, they are cuteness with eyes.
She paws under the door, and waits for you Outside the bathroom.
She curls to her stomach for you to stroke; Her purr sooths your skin.
She led a prison break
She stuck it to the man
She defends the base, even stuck indoors.
She topples trees
She ate a small child, but cleaned her paws Handsomely after.
And when she rests her little head on your arm And curls into your side,
You can feel her heart vibrating;
encircled in your arms.

The Guitar

The guitar.
You touch it
and it sings.
You run your calloused fingertips over the strings
and it lifts you away.
The guitar.
I see it.
I touch it and it frowns.
I run my fingers over it and it screeches.
It is too heavy in my hands to lift me away,
and my baby fingers have red grill marks from the wires.
You could dance around the room and the guitar would carry your feet
as you strum and sing with the strings.
I could jump off the couch with it
and break all my bones.

All The Wrong Colors

The grass was red, flaming and hot. It tickled people's ankles and if you got too close, smudges of soot and red welts spread up your leg. The sky was purple; drippy and thick. Little crumbs of the sky smeared down on the sidewalk and sizzled on the grass. The tree was blue, and it swayed its trunk far over the horizon and seemed to wilt over the grass. I only had three colors in my crayon box. My friends told me it was wrong, my teacher said it was "interesting" and my mom bought me a new box of crayons. But it was too late. The colors had changed and no one could turn them back.

scissors

The little boy picked up his scissors. He dug the tip into the wood and dragged it down in a thin line. These were baby scissors, hardly for slicing through the glossy desk top. What he needed were the real scissors up on the teacher's desk, or the kind his mother had in a mug by the phone. But he couldn't see a way to get the them from where he sat and so he just repeated the same line on his desk with his play scissors until a deeper ridge formed. The edges were rough with fraying wood particles and the line was ugly. This was perfect. The bell had rung and the day was over; the gash in his desk was much deeper. As the teacher helped on coats he was afriad she would look over and say "What are you doing over there?" with the adult voice that already knows you're in trouble. But he quickly covered up the desk top with his chair as all the children clattered their chairs up on their desks and lined up at the door. He put on his ugly coat. Actually it was his older brother's but they called it his now. It was too big, too old, and had a broken zipper, but it was perfect for hiding his mother's old sewing scissors in its large bulky pockets.

The Last Stretch

Another night. Restless night.
Another day. Pitch black day.
The last stretch,
Before dawn,
Dark morning.
I sleep, I sleep, I sleep,
I wake up.
I should wake up, I must wake up, I have to wake up,
and then
I sleep.

Behind My Empty Sockets

Behind my empty sockets.
How do I feel?
How do I live?
Behind the empty seats
of the empty theatre,
Inside my empty house,
What sound isn't there?
How do I shiver in the cold
When I'm locked in tight?
Locked in tight,
Behind my empty sockets.
How do I feel?
How do I rot?
Trapped inside a corpse,
Trapped inside my ribs,
Behind my empty ribs,
Curved sharp daggers
Poised at my back.
Inside the empty insides.
Chill sweeps through.
Through my empty sockets.
Through my empty ribs.
How do I feel?

One Brown Leaf

Some leaves, before they die

Turn into bright and deep colors.

And we call it beautiful.

And we somtimes forget that they are dying.

And we have the gall to take pictures,

Of these deaths.

Some leaves burn bright red

Or kindle a soft yellow and orange.

But one brown leaf,

Is the last to drop,

The last to rake,
A brown leaf is without it's beautiful shroud.
Because it lived the longest,
Because it died the slowest,

And we call it ugly.

All Clowns are Troubled

The smile. The frown.

Tears in red or black.

My paint runs but is not gone

To smile. To laugh.

To cry. To frown.

The play goes on, the clown is gone.

Arson and Laundry

I ran. They ran. Cops covered in smoke. BAM, the stain is gone. BAM, the stain is there. Red. Cops covered in red. Stand and run again.

Cherry Lip Gloss

I sighed as the teacher's voice drifted soothingly over my head and skimmed across my earlobes. Staring at a lip gloss smear on my desk, I used my finger tips to smudge away the gloss into a perfect heart. I continued to slice through the edges and slowly the silhouette of a girl's face and hair appeared. The face and hair shrunk with more soft rubbing and looked more boy like, until I was left surprised to find the smudge left to nothing more than a light trace of red cherry lip gloss on my fingers.

A Wooden Floor

The wood relfected soft in the dark; it was shiny, and smooth against her skin. Running and then leap into the air with her skirts swishing up her legs. Wood slaps against the balls of her feet, spinning and spinning in the center. The dark ceiling swirling above her arched neck and her leg tucks up into her final twist. Silent, except skin against wood. Heart beat, breathe, collapse against the cool floor, flat and hard. Legs and arms jumbled; laying on the smooth glossy surface. And the dark continues.

text poems

EYES IN THE MORNING my raccoon eyes. I got in a fight with my pillow and lost. My face cannot hide its luggage. And I carry it kindly beneath my raccoon eyes.

DARK DRIVING driving at night, the world gets bigger and the roads close tighter. I cannot see sky, clouds or air, i might as well close my eyes. Drive by touch

CLASS TIME sitting still in class, my finger starts to twitch. My foot is bouncing. Now both feet wiggle. I am tapping my fingers. My muscles ache with stillnes

Love Poem

I watch a wave smooth away my drawing in the sand
And I wonder where it came from.
Is it from you?
If I scooped up a salty wave and sent in it all my love
Would it reach you? Miles away on another beach
My wave would spread its fingers down the coast until it found you
And you would feel my taste in its arms
And it would return across the ocean
To me
To whisper in my ears and sting my eyes with your tears
And I would tell you I missed you too.
And every wave that reached for me would be from you
So when my wave reached yours on land
And our hands knew each other
You would recognize my wave
And know that I loved you.

Night Fall

I fell and skinned my knee.

I saw the tiny ants crawling in the sidewalk crack.

I saw my pink palms,

squashed with bits of dirt on them.

I saw an old band-aid,

Protecting the ground

Instead of my knee,

I wished I had that band-aid.

I saw my shadow crumple beside me

I saw her stretch out and join the night,

Leaving me alone.

Going for help I hoped.

I heard the leaves prattle,

Doors locking

Shades drawing

I imagined my father coming to find me

And carrying me up in his arms.

But I was alone.

So I got up and limped home.

Remembered Air

My arms are cold, covered with water droplets that stand out on my arm rather than one sleek coat. My clothes cling to me and I swing into the sprinkler's spray. The water drenches me with laughter; you cannot stop shrieking as cold sprays drench you to the skin. I stretch out my arms, and try to remember the air around me; to keep its memory on my skin. I swing up, and stick my feet into the cloud of water left behind by the sprinkler's tail. I swing back, and see its lovely arch. And I swing back down on wet air.

The Bliss of Liquefaction

I wish I could liquefy.

My body could just slip into a clear

Puddle of cool water.

Everyone around me is happy

But I am a splash of cold water in

The face.

I wouldn't mind, as long as I could

Drip off the sofa onto the wooden floor

To be alone.

The Contents of My Head

Take a look inside my head

And tell me what you see.

Show me what's inside my head

Till it all makes sense to me.

Find the truth behind my actions,

Hold up my mental mirror,

Somehow it all gets muddled up

From mind, to lips, to ear.

Volleyball

I'm stuck on the court.

I'm stuck in one spot.

The ball clears the net,

And we know it's mine.

My forearm burns,

The ball skids across the floor,

And we know it's mine.

Encouraging smiles gloss the chagrin

Of disappointment.

The Piano Recital

The air smelled of decay and rotting saliva. Many of the corpses could not keep their mouths shut and drooled pools of spit beneath their chairs. She walked up the rows and sat at the bench. Yellow worms wiggled between her toes and her useless joints sung a lifeless arm to the keys. It was a horrible sound. The sound that kills men's souls in the pit of their stomach, the sound that chokes a baby's gurgle, the sound that draws blood from wounds. She finished the last notes; her fingers slipping and grasping at the keys like a man's last breath. Her purple marked hand left her wrist and let dark blood seep into the keys and down to the floor, making the pedals slippery with blood's copper shine. The corpses didn't clap. They never did. Drool dripped, blood flowed, and the living wept.

Favorite Things

Someone once asked me "what do you love?" Everyone should be asked this question several times in their life. "What do you love?" What makes you happy. What you really love, not just like, or accept; not just "ok." There's a difference between rattling off a list of good things and a list of your personal best things. Sometimes the things we love are people, sometimes not. Sometimes there are people who are every one's favorites, sometimes we're no one's favorite. And sometimes we just shouldn't care.
So I've thought about it, and my favorite's list is still non-existent. I just don't know yet. I like a lot of things, I love a few more, and I dislike more than them both combined.

A Poem for You

I wrote this a while ago, as a rough draft and hated it. Then i pulled it out with some other stuff and realized I actually thought it was worth something. Still rough, but oh well.

I can't write poem for you
I must have tried a thousand times
But nothing can get through
I'd say I'm sorry,
But you really don't care
As much as I've tried
The words simply aren't there.
No matter how I line them up
Nothing I say makes sense
I'm not sure what i'm trying to say,
So i'm simply giving up.

Today

I looked outside the window and the street looked gray. But if i stared out a little longer i could see the air moving, in cascades down to the ground. Hail poured down like the clouds had been collecting little shiny pebbles and had tripped; tossing them all to the floor. The sun was out today and it flooded out through the hail. Black clouds twisted mercilessly above but the sun was still there in a corner of the sky. This is my favorite weather. When the clouds show us one thing but the sun tells us another. It's like two days mixed into one, how things could be and how they happen to be at the moment. The storm and the calm.
I looked outside my windshield and saw a little dog run out into the road, I could have hit him, but luckily I was able to stop in time. One second passes and you end up standing over someone's dog trying to find a way to tell them you just murdered their friend. Or you sigh in relief and drive all your friends home and that little dog runs off in front of another car that hopefully has the same luck.

The Empty Freeway

I turned up the radio and Lindsey sped along the freeway's curves. The car was perfectly warm and the windows were foggy around the edges because we breathed. We laughed; my favorite song was playing. We were just having fun; it wasn't fair. I lay on sparkling daggers of glass. They looked so beautiful, spread out all around me, until they turned red and started to frighten me. My body was twitching on the freezing freeway, but my mind was still inside the car. The music hurt my ears as I turned up the bass. Why do you drive so far to the right Lindsey? I press my foot to the floor as she accelerates through another turn. We are laughing. Lindsey sings along to my favorite song and her slow, slurred, voice cracks me up. We were have so much fun; it wasn't possible. All the glass is red now, this can't all be mine, where's Lindsey? She's gone. She's left me twisted on the asphalt breathing. While she speeds down another freeway, and another song plays; with her head on the dashboard and she holds her breath.

Valentines?

Technically it's Presidents Day, but a Presidents day poem just doesn't ring the same does it? Some people love Valentines, some people hate it; I think it's an over commercialized money grabber, but then, what holiday isn't? Other than that i'm not a valentine hater, more like an innocent bystander.


Forever in Orbit

I've never touched the sun
But still i know it's warm,
I've never counted the stars
And yet i know they're endless,
The earth spins in orbit;
The planets swirl in their patterns
Never touching; never colliding
But still i know they're there,
Sometimes i believe i can reach
Out and catch a streak of light
But it fades out of my reach,
Silently in the night we pass,
I can see through the clear sky
And still i know it is untouchable;
Forever in separate Orbit

Instincts

Instincts.
A slide projector clatters in your head
The old kind your grandparents use
Words
Images
Flash by before you can react,
Instincts.
Spirit, delight, liquid, saucy, experience, fresh,
Unusual, salute
All disjointed and unconnected
Seperate thoughts
Melodies, edge, bold, petite,
I hear it's impossible to find clothes
That fit when you're short
Launch- sounds like lunch.
Luscious- makes me think of lunch,
Maybe I'm just hungry
Utter- it relates to speaking, but I think of cows
Accent- A British person said "cheers" to me the other day
Instincts.
The slides jump across the screen
before the colors settled
It's just a blurry alphabet of words
You have nothing to do but feel each
Instinct.

Review

Today i hate review mirrors, when you're stuck in your car behind the one guy in the world. And you know he can look in his review mirror and see you right there. It's enough to make you change lanes and make an unplanned right turn. but i didn't do that. Of course. i just smiled in a general way and pretended to play with the radio. I love radios today, they're the one thing in the car you're allowed to mess with while you drive. I'm not talking about me of course. but my "friend" would really appreciate it if a certain someone would loose their review mirror...