quick as it came

everything was still
except for trepidation on lips and breath.
a sort of unsettling, thorough dormancy.
the broken ground and its
blanket of hostility
screamed reality.
a pair of witnesses
had sealed their fate
the year before
and agreed to encounter this milestone
together,
to the chagrin of the surroundings.
they captured their only chance amid a glance
and when the storm erupted
it shattered the hourglass they'd so often studied,
claiming them for its own.
the sand had shifted
into overdrive,
indicating the final toleration
of all this.
it was done,
gone
as quick as it came
with two more lives to its name.
soon it would conquer.
oh yes, it was going to conquer.

01.2010

last in line

i.

it is not a crime

to be last in line

in someone's mind.

it is a shame

to be last in line

in yours.

ii.

to be last in line,

a meaning

altered over time.

children are told

where they should go

and the last is forgotten,

subjected to ridicule.

at fifteen

the last grows mad,

paints her fingernails black,

makes love to a razor

and never looks back

at the world

that didn't look back for her.

into adulthood

and it's the hell with you,

on no one's wait list

and confined to solitary musing,

slowly falling back

to last in your own mind.

iii.

in someone's mind

is the wish;

better yet,

in the heart

and stuck there,

adhesive affections.

iv.

it is a shame,

the connotations

of last place

that have become standard.

last is nobody's

favorite number,

yet it's never least?

an unfair juxtaposition.

sometimes last

wins the race

but it never feels like victory.

v.

to be last in line,

every time;

it's draining

to remain there

in the mind.

vi.

in yours

i have always been last

in mine

you have always been first.

it is not a crime but

it is a shame.

04.2010

shouldn't still

i'm angry at my heart.

it still beats fastest

for you

after all these years

when i'm well aware

i shouldn't still love you.

you've given me reason enough

to have gotten over it:

misinterpreting playful words for offensive ones,

calling me out on things you were ashamed of,

never berating your unruly ego

for trying to compete with mine.

it's clear your self-worth

relies on how many people

have downloaded your songs on iTunes.

i have never denied your talent.

in fact, most days i envy it.

but if all those soul-searchers had seen

your darker side like i have,

they wouldn't revere you half as much.

your darker side

seems to be the part of you

that you never reign in

when it comes to me;

have you discovered my game

or do you simply think me idiotic?

either way i suppose

i ought to stop telling strangers

that you're my best friend from high school

so they don't get the wrong idea.

...and even if i did

it still wouldn't be any less true

that all of the love poetry i've written

now or long ago

has been for you,

you moron.

04.2010

a new girl now like always

i nearly forgot that i have to write

a poem today, and then i remembered

that there are only two pages left

in this poetry journal here and it

made me want to go write

right away because i love i love

the finality that comes with completion

of eight months' worth of thought

put deliberately on so many different days,

in so many different states of mind. i'm

on the very last page now and it feels

fucking fantastic to be here; what

a journey it has been and i am of course

a new girl now like always

when i reach the end and it's

bitter and it's sweet and it's

time. a mirror to my own life --

it's time for something new for me,

too, an adventure i can ride through

beaming from the rush.

04.14.2012

word bath

put me on another poetry diet,

some days i can't get enough.

it's good for me to bathe in words

trying to find some i haven't yet used;

i depend too much on others to inspire me

when i can't make sense of what i've

been given. but without seeing what others are

creating i'll never be able to create

something better. we all have philosophies

and i try hard to follow mine.

when i'm done pulling out hairs still

attached to my head i'll make something up

and hope it matters. if not i'm slinking back

to the word bath hoping it will throw me a strong enough line

before i drown in recycled filth.

04.15.2012

crumble

fortresses crumble;

souls are pawned;

proud men will stumble;

still i press on.

12.2004

neat little charms

and in the next few moments we

might find our little pleasantries

if you could only

graduate to me.

what has she that i haven't?

she's pretty.

i have a beautiful soul.

it's not perfect, but it's beautiful.

she laughs at your jokes

but you never really did

put much stock in them;

are you putting on a front for her

or am i made naive among your untruths?

from the way she looks at you

and the ease with which her tolerance falters

after a few mimosas

i'm lead to believe she'll give you everything

without you asking --

everything except her self-respect, that is,

if she can even find any.

i'd never be so brazen

with you

just like i'd never be so easily intoxicated

on anything in life

but whiskey or you.

she's affording you her flesh

and limited affections

to make herself feel better,

not to please you.

throw away.

i'd be there

through even your ugliest days

and i'd make you happy

because i wanted to,

nothing in it for me but the satisfaction

that you're content

on my efforts and company --

not disposable.

her charms are merely meant

to conceal how she's been used

by so many before you in the past

because she lets them use her.

i almost feel pity,

almost,

but her chances of extracting such pure emotion from me

might be better

were she not using

you

as her latest pawn

in some sick chess game

you've already lost.

the fact that it's

you

makes everything not OK

this time.

but as usual

i'm unarmed and not briefed to take action.

all i can do

is watch her move through you

destroying all the genuineness you were born with

and turning you slowly to stone.

i'll wait,

a fool at court

only required for sideline entertainment,

and when she's left you

open-hearted and overheated

you'll wonder where you went wrong

and i'll assure you again

that you went wrong

when you chose her

over me,

her with her neat little charms.

and you'll grin at such thought,

mistaking my disdain for friendly banter

like always

thinking me a good companion

but not a lover.

never more than that

as a rule

(more on your part

than mine).

and so it goes,

and by now i'm well-learned in the subject

of you

and those neat little charms

that had me hooked when you first said,

'hey, i like your style.'

notice how i know you better

than any of the bittersweet tarts

who bargain for your time.

i know you better.

i know that you like to hear yourself talk

and that you'd die a slow, painful death

if you were forbidden to play guitar.

i know what your parents do for a living

and who you were named after

and why.

i know you prefer chunky peanut butter

like me

and i know we can harmonize like no other

when we want to

(like when we sang White Christmas at the senior center

that one time

with pride).

presently

you're occupied

with the newest plaything

who will suck your soul dry

but who am i to prevent you?

until you grow up and

graduate to me,

you'll forever be lost in familiar neat little charms

and so

i'll go.

01.2010

[this is one of the first honest pieces i ever allowed myself to write to the man who once was the muse for most of my love poetry. it's clear i had jaded views on love then, and it's interesting to see how i write about love now. this sort of evolved into more of a ranty letter to him than a poem. x]

redesign (once yours)

baby's on the phone again

producin' a seducin' scheme.

if you could see how he treats me,

how his boldness beats me down,

it's some poor soul's unfortunate dream

(but none of mine).

you can't make substance out of air:

(it's obvious when there's nothing there).

you can't make substance out of air

and he can't take back his words.

baby's gone home.

he's grey when he's alone --

i throw away all i've heard.

it is a feeling so absurd

(to feel as if you're never heard).

and then i'd be so much less inspired

after the fight, the fake-out and the fall.

i suggest to his heart

as my own stops with a start --

what if i mean nothing at all?

to mean nothing in the world at all

to the one person in the world who means something --

(what, if i gave to the game,

would i expect your heart to deliver?).

baby's on the phone again

and i'm all out of sense.

this makes me want to know

if i should stay or i should go

repaint the white picket fence.

a dream's redesign,

once yours, now only

mine.

07.2011

bitter

i take my coffee always with cream

mostly because it tastes good

and removes some of the bitterness

because life, it can be bitter

but also because i like the way

the cream

swirls

swirls

in my coffee cup,

the meeting of worlds,

cosmic collisions

right beneath my fingertips

and i just want to watch it all settle,

filling space and changing color,

but usually i mix it up myself

life tastes better that way

08.2011

beauty, the sea

the sea has its own ways of
showing its affection,
always changing with the tide,
seducing stars at its will
and swallowing up sailors for breakfast.

it sounds harsh but when you think about it,
it's a thing of beauty, the sea.

01.2010

bedridden

the words went away and
she wanted to cry at the loss but
instead she let her heart carry the
things she wanted to say and
a stringy stream of thoughts became
the core of all her muddled misgivings that
had enjoyed floating around, unused in
the negative space in bedridden head, and
she breathed when at last she saw those
words she'd subconsciously conjured in
tandem opposition to her need to write and
she marveled at such results from a
frantic girl, not keen to surrender her tongue just
yet.

04.2010

Evelyn

only faded frame and sepia tones

could keep Evelyn at bay;

she was vivacious:

her spirit needed to soar

over all the petty people

in their pretentious poses.

in her own,

she should appear to her descendants as

nothing less than

grand.

they will so cleverly discern that

this is the woman

whose voyage to the States

from Lausanne

she'd documented fervently

in the galloping French of her homeland;

each day she wrote,

no matter how distasteful, rude

the 'dirty' Italians were

or how poorly the beer

matched that of Europe --

the curse of a cruise ship's offering.

the stateliness of set shoulders,

the beadiness of darkened eyes

would speak of her will to live

while others fell to plagues

they were doomed to contract,

unable to dispel contaminated blood

even for their lifelines:

Evelyn's story had not yet been told.

she would not depart

until she was sure

she would be remembered,

and most accurately at that.

her portrait could not betray her

a century and a half later:

severe features in face had been softened

by love's unassuming touch;

the journey from Switzerland

had been more than stake for opportunity --

it had been her fortuitous fate.

hair gathered neatly under full-brimmed hat,

hands folded and positioned squarely

on her lap, pressed to perfection,

she was clearly faithful

not only as eager wife

but also as ardent mother

and most importantly

as a lady who'd created this life

for herself.

she would be thought admirable.

she would be thought persistent.

and should the muted tones of her dress,

the impenetrable high-collared blouses

or the sheer absence of force-fed grin

prove otherwise,

then you have not taken measure

to properly know her

at all.

04.2010

i have more me's to become

my goodbye shoes have been on

for days and now that i've scratched parting words

into all my exotic stones here my

heart tells me to look back.

it's forgotten something.

i don't like the way that feels

but i also have no zest left to fight it.

i made that bargain long ago so that

i'd stay sane in this little fraying head.

but there's always a reason to stay.

four days on i might have changed my mind

but some bridges i prefer to burn

before the crossing -- making my

own exit that much harder and then

i will ask myself why i do this

over and over and never really wait around

for the answer. i have more me's

to become; i pull the laces a bit

tighter and keep going, it's better

that i don't set them down in one place

for too long lest i forget

where i am and where i put them.

04.03.2012

fooling even me

i can't go home
and nothing fits.
the world surrounding me now
forces me to listen,
to share,
to conform,
and i'm not ready.
i long for a smile
other than my own,
one that will radiate love
and be genuine.
i try to be myself
and wind up fooling even me.
there is no reason to be unhappy --
but there is no reason to be happy.
i am not allowed to escape.
i am not allowed to sing.
tears go unanswered
as they hope for a lonely puddle
to contribute to.
unity is respect,
and respect is undefined,
like this portrait of myself
whose frame i've been trying to fill
for far too long.

11.2004

generation's tragedy

i remember where i was

when the planes hit.

it was 11am, 4th period,

United States History

and i was fifteen.

the closest thing i'd known

to death

had been the loss of a classmate

at the mercy of four squealing, bloody wheels

two years prior.

i didn't understand it then

and that new September

was no different,

as i was green and just cracking the surface

of coming-of-age and coming alive

in a school full of know-it-alls and small-town heroes

on the brinks of their dreams.

i wish i had been older,

who i am now

(a bit more confident and wise,

a little less jaded and intimidated)

in order to have truly comprehended

the magnitude

of the history i was witnessing.

because at fifteen

the only concerns for a girl

spinning in the world

are writing love notes never meant to be read

and trying to skirt the plasticity of stereotypes

that become so easy to fall into.

i don't believe at such a desperate age

thoughts of the world as we know it

being rocked and shaken down

like Jenga tiles

are present.

yet there i sat, my peers sat,

in sophomoric seats

as teacher put on a grave face

and said,

'our nation is currently under attack.'

we hung on the statement,

prepared to dive into another flashback lesson

heralding the country's pages and years.

teacher stood steadfast in place

but the towers did not.

and then we knew this day

wouldn't be like any other.

a kind of smooth pandemonium

spread,

evolving through locker-lined hallways

through linoleum footfalls and up into physical soles

and eventually,

into less-tangible souls.

it was soon apparent

that history books would require rewrites.

i didn't really begin to comprehend

it all

until the old algebra teacher --

the curmudgeony one

who took no prisoners if you were a smart aleck

and whom students avoided like the plague

when it came time to schedule classes --

she

ran from the recluse of her room

wings sprouting from her heels,

tears escaping her eyes for her son in the city.

it wasn't until then

that i truly understood

what this was going to do to me,

to us, to the country and maybe even

the world.

and the coursework ceased

while televisions blared, one after another,

messengers of terror unfolding.

to this day i'm not sure which was worse:

watching firefighters forging ahead into

flame and fury

hoping to find someone alive

or watching toy soldier bodies

momentarily animated, flailing,

plunging out of windows,

hoping to die on the way down

before the ground could have its say.

i couldn't really blame them;

i'd much prefer to be in control of my fate

than to perish at some unknown time

at the hand of all-consuming hatred.

still it is the most gruesome thing

to think of bones and blood splayed on cement,

the sound of the impact,

the crushing of life,

and the sheer pain of it all

even though there was nothing left for them to feel

by then.

the days wore on

and the more the media beat things to death

and the more the weight of it all

washed over me

the more i wanted to throw up

and bawl for days

at the horror.

i was fifteen then.

i'm twenty-three now.

it's still as chilling

eight

years

later.

other disasters since,

while devastating in their own right,

could never make me feel

this way,

this shattered

for i will never be fifteen again

and i will never be in that state of mind again.

i will never be in 10th grade

wondering if i know anyone who works in New York City

again.

i will never again be stuck at school until 3:30

when all i want to do is run home

and cry.

i will never again feel so insignificant

among so many people who are

feeling the same thing.

i'll never forget where i was.

my father still says that

about the day John F. Kennedy was shot.

i suppose

this is my generation's

Kennedy assassination.

and the generation before?

probably something to do

with Pearl Harbor or D-Day

or something.

maybe each generation's tragedy

is meant to make us think

wonder

inspire

remember.

maybe we're supposed to tell our children

about it

in hopes that they'll be prepared

when another one goes down

and shocks the world.

or maybe they keep it to themselves

knowing

you can never actually ready yourself

for something

as horrific as this.

01.2010