flip

suffice to say things don't always turn out as planned. but that's not a surprise. yay, i just, like, love surprises.

#ohGreatGodofHighestHeaven

well...





depend not on the world's promises
for they delay or expire.
well, do not doubt that the world will make promises
for they are many and mighty.
believe in as many as you can
for there is no test to tell which is mighty and which is not.
use these as brick and mortar,
not as foundation.
use as insulation and kindling.

better a foundation the heavens:
upside down, inspired by unconquerable space
for whatever its parts
(which are many)
and its secrets
(which are mighty)
interwoven are its promises:
singular and strong.

earth and heavens:
indecipherable its runes
while i stand on the ground
...but should i flip in order to build up to down
not staircases, ladders, not wings will be necessary to me.

I don't understand my face. / When did I become an adult?

I don't understand my face.

My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.

A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.

Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.

"Aren't you self-conscious?"
   "Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"

To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?

It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.

I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.

"So, why don't you just use ----?"

Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.

Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.





When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.

When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.

I remember wanting this.

Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.

The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.

Russia.

i know your full name;
can pronounce its every syllable.
but if it is the title of your story
i am not allowed a peek at its contents
nor even its table of contents.
only a title and a hint of a publishing date.
you may not've locked-and-thrown-away-the-key
but your pages are glued together.
if not glued
then printed with invisible ink.
like Napoleon burning down Russia
you are impenetrable.

mother of God, i want so much.

i need a haircut.
i need to take deeper breaths.
i need to look more people in the eye.
i need to give away more books.
i need to forget reflections to grasp something solid.
i have mistaken wants for needs.
i need to learn not to do that.

life and death in silence

i crave silence.
i eat it (sometimes with it).
i bathe in it (i could preserve water).
i breathe it in, and must breathe it out.
i live in it.
words are not damned here
but provoked to stampedes
or sentenced to death
but at least it was,
and may potentially continue to be.

silence,
death knell or midwife-
how may i help you?

the heartbeat

she took her pulse.

it said, "comeagain comeagain comeagain."

each beat encouraging the heart to

"comeagain comeagain comeagain."

goodbye, lost lovers! hello, new life!-

fodder for unborn mouths 

who will know a hunger deeper than ours;

for though closer to the end,

closer to answers

which are buried under questions

manure for vegetables to feed

an insatiable world.

"comeagain comeagain comeagain."

a lullaby for rest;

a trumpet for war--

"comeagain comeagain comeagain"

until Second Adam's heart beats no more.

we shall neither come 

nor leave to come again. 

"comeagain comeagain comeagain come..."

without skin

i think like the rest of the reading world i have fallen in love with Stephen Collins' The Gigantic Beard that was Evil. it's incredibly hard not to love it. just like the back of the book says "totes surreal- like ferrealsies." really, that's what the back of the book said, and you can always trust what the back of the book says about the inside of a book.

duh.

i was so incredibly enthralled by this book i wrote a poem.

if you haven't read it you'll still understand my poem. if you have, however, read it, then, well, you'll understand my poem.

if you have my poem, thank you for keeping it.

ahem, here it is ::

i am here
but i am from there,
and i have taken there to here.
because i thought it looked very similar.
i thought it met the standard.

you are here
but you are from there.
a there different from mine.

my here [is] your there.
your here, my there.

also someone else's.

a matter of perspective, location, relation.
labeled, re-labeled; then ignored,
buried under sheets and dirt and plastic and stone.
to be discovered later by someone
who will think it's from there,
though it's been here
before someone was.

yes, someone who will bring there to here
though it already was.

i am here.

"There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign." -Robert Louis Stevenson

your turn

if you sat right across from me
i would have nothing to say to you
not because i have nothing to say;
but because it is your turn to speak.

you'll never meet a listener quite like me.

poor aim

i know i dodged a bullet

but then that means you dodged a bullet, too.

i do not want to be a bullet.

i want to be the target you missed. 

middle school

in my mind i execute
tasks with grace and fervor.
in my mind i dictate
decisions and opinions.
in my mind i manipulate
and i question
and i steal.

i suffer all the consequences i administer.

in my mind i am my only tenant.
i am the queen,
the president,
the government,
the people.

i do not share jurisdiction.

i oversee and judge.
i embrace and indulge.
i forbid and deny.
i am the only one here.

in my mind
i am the audience
the conductor,
and the performer.

i am the guest and the host.

i am my only tenant.

my eyes may not agree with my ears,
and my heart and my head wrestle endlessly
i am the only referee.

i have requested roommates,
but they have their own minds in which they
execute, dictate, manipulate, question, or steal.
minds in which they suffer the consequences they administer.

but sometimes
i visit the tip of my tongue to wave 'hello, would you like to hear what i have to say?'

unknown desires

my desires are not unmet.
they are unknown.
in the desert regions of my body
where i excavate for clues
to answers
to existential crises
i met with diamonds in the rough
i do not have the technology
to collect or
to polish.

i am afraid i will always have parts of me
unknown.
but i am not loathe to recruit help.
i should welcome another's hands
working alongside mine.

i am willing to trade secrets.

silhouettes

the boy with the bike and the girl with the book.

a dog accompanied the boy.

a scarf adorned the girl's neck.

he saw her face;

she did not see his.

two silhouettes under dim street lights

walking/biking together

hands busy with exercise and knowledge-

empty of another's grasp.

separated at the corner

never again to see the other's shadow.

the boy with the bike and the girl with the book

the dog that should've tugged at her scarf

so that the boy would fall over his bike

running to apologize to the girl

whose shadow he could see another time

perhaps under daylight

at a sweet lunch set for two.

white light.

white light,
you are not very forgiving.
you signify near death
("Don't go toward the light!")
or an unearthly amount of imperfection.
white light,
i know neither are avoidable.
and one generally entails the other
("Drop dead gorgeous!" "If looks could kill, she'd be a zombie.").
no, i'm not very pretty;
added to that, i don't try very hard.
good God, i look diseased,
my skin pockmarked and scarred.
red like the signature lips of pin-up girls
and hollywood dames.
but this is the wrong red.

you should see me in the cool shade of trees.
under strobe light, sun light, moon light;
at dusk!
the early shades of morning!
under blinking Christmas lights, and star light;
in front of head lights,
and through candle light.
because under white light you see imperfection,
but you certainly don't see me.

white light,
you are a prism away from a rainbow.

lately.

you might feel i have no reason to be brave--
i'd be tempted to agree.
but not tempted enough.
i'd take greater pleasure in proving you wrong.

----

is this awkward for you, too?
trying to fit words into cohesive sentences-
sentences that can be responded to.
oh, i am not as witty as i think.
no, no. good night to you, too.
no, i shouldn't like to keep you up.

for the stranger

a shared smile is a shared heart.
so it is with a look, a touch, and a laugh;
a kiss.
but do not force this.
i prefer an honest frown to a lying grin.
turn away if you mean less than you say.
i will share joy--
my grief is mine.

cold mornings.

if nights pursue darker thoughts
mornings induce cold ones.
fresh with dew,
untouched by light;
yet to grow throughout the day;
forced into maturity by the impending sunset
where thoughts must learn to fend against doubts.

cold thoughts draped over my face
like a sheer wedding veil.
like fog surrounding trees.
these thoughts bid me thither:
"come, stay. lie with me."
thoughts unaware of change and development;
unaware of the afternoon sun about to scorch them dry.

thoughts are
friends of clouds,
friends of shadows;
friends of caves and warm spots under woven blankets.
but my thoughts do not bury me.
they'd never promise salvation.
but i am discomfited without them.

if nights pursue darker thoughts
mornings induce cold ones:
eager to awake and exercise. 

18 August 2014

how easily the heart rises and falls.
the heart is all permanence, sure of its assumptions;
yet reality is inconsistent, eager to be misread.
i should've wanted your heart.
i did. i did want it.
but with or without your heart i've got the love i need.
i've too much of what i need
to waste any room for what i want.

i think.

my heart disagrees with my head.
my heart says to my head, "there's no such thing as excess of love!"
my mind replies, "i am afraid to be reckless."

but lately, friends accuse me of bravery i didn't know i possessed.
i should hate to regret considering you unworthy of risk.

i might want your heart. maybe.
i don't know. i do care.

delete

i would delete any trace of you-
though what if i met you again?
i'd have to make the same mistakes.
again.

you are not worth meeting-for-the-first-time twice.

wishing.

i am very good at hoping.
that is all i ever seem to do.
i have hoped under distant stars and blinding city lights.
i have hoped with fingers crossed, laced in another's hand.
i have hoped fearfully and joyfully.
i have hoped senselessly.
i have hoped ridicule on some; peace where i saw fit.
i have hoped despite facts and unbidden truths.

i have hoped.

or was i wishing, all that time?

hoping.

i was lucky to know you.
luckier, even, to leave you.
i was blessed to have loved you.

i could still love you.
if i tried.
although, i am the epitome of trying.
i've not mastered succeeding.
no, perhaps i can no longer love you.

i am not happy because you're happy.
i just am happy.
i don't care why or how you're happy--
i just hope that you are.

i am very good at hoping.