I Do Not Know How to Apologize For Something I'm Not Sorry For - 10/22/11

Christ, what a long title,

what a mouthful,

what an overly-explanitory,

non-poetic,

pompous,

boring title to a poem.

But it fits the feeling,

the bluntness of the throbbing pain

on my jagged thighs,

colored stripes that evoke the same feeling

as biting into a crisp apple.

That sweet sensation

of tangy juices flooding your dulled mouth.

That apple makes the same sound

as the splintering of the plastic fork,

the very weapon

who made those stripes

whose color perfectly imitates

the feeling of the sound of

a bite of a crisp apple.

But while my imagery is lovely,

you –

if you understand the meaning –

are sitting there wondering

“What in the hell is wrong

with this girl?

How is this even possible?”

How indeed.

You would never know because

beyond this team

the delicate seams

of the buttons I’ve sown on for you

and the winnings I’ve helped you to

wither to passing nods in the school halls

and none of you actually knowing

who the hell I am.

Because that is the question at stake here:

Not, “What is wrong with me?”

simply, “Who is she?”

So allow me a moment to explain

in a way that you can actually understand,

because you are debaters,

not poets.

It is not about Ethan.

It is about the constant reminder

of a lack of someone special

to hold me and tell me,

“It's going to be okay,”

as the world falls apart in clumps

like alpha decay.

It is not about loosing.

It is about thinking that I was good,

about getting my hopes up,

about forsaking my modesty.

It is about looking down on the lesser

only to be looked down upon.

It is about guilt

over letting my coach down

and regret

over not telling the girl in the round

who wouldn't clap for the nervous newbies

what a bitch she was.

It is not about the mess.

It is about how all of my stress

makes my obsessive tendencies hard to suppress

and how none of you teenagers

can throw your own garbage away

and I am left to pick up after

over-grown infants in suits,

because I need our area neat

in order to think.

And it is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

order pizza and laugh so loud

the devil gets annoyed.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

who would have fallen apart

had I not been there

to accommodate their every whim

all partying and rejoicing

in a social structure

that I am too scared to enter.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

and thinking about blood.

I know all of your names,

all 31 teammates,

all of your events,

all of your worries,

all of your triumphs,

who you hate

and who your dear friends are.

You see me, however,

the same way US factories see Mexico:

your toxic waste dumping ground,

your cheap labor provider,

your back-alley drug dealer,

your personal playground.

All of your abuse is causing

my babies to be born without brains,

just hallow skulls that die the same day.

Those dying babies

drive me even more crazy,

making me anxious

and irritable

and scared

that I will slip up

and someone will see

the gruesomely honest side to me.

That my 31 teammates

would recognize

that I cannot handle

providing for all of them,

that I cannot handle being their

debate mother,

that I have my own problems

and cannot fix all of theirs.

Why is this such a bad thing

for them to discover?

Why don't I want them

to give me a break?

Why don't I hope that

they'll understand?

Why do I wish

that they never read this?

It's because of those stripes on my thighs.

For those who aren't poets

and who have never had

fleeting thoughts of suicide,

allow me to state quite plainly

that they are self inflicted wounds.

I sat in that hotel room

alone on a Friday night

while all of my teammates laughed so loud

that the devil was annoyed

and my breath wouldn't come

and my eyes were a burning numb

and my hands were shaking

as I felt my blood pulsating

under my delicately pale skin.

I had already taken my walk and cried

so I sat alone

and tried to tell myself

that it was now time to hold

those tears inside.

But the noise of my teammates

laughing so loud

while I tried not to make one single sounds

gave birth to a baby born

without brain or heart or blood

already pumping

in veins too tiny to see.

I ran to the bathroom,

looking for a razor,

but there wasn't one.

I was going to be content,

fain relief that no such relief

by means of self mutilation existed.

But I remembered,

from a tournament years prior,

how sharp plastic forks are when broken.

But I remembered

the black plastic utensil in my lunch,

just waiting to be thrown away.

But then I remembered

how much easier it is to break

than to fix.

Now, I suppose you are wondering,

“Why the thigh?”

which returns to the matter of why

I do not want my 31 abusive teammates

to read this poem,

to understand me,

to give me a break.

I don't want your pity.

I don't want weird looks.

I don't want shame.

I've' dug this hole for myself

and I will dwell in it.

Such is the fate of those who live to serve.

Believe it or not,

I never cut

for your sake.

And, now, your narrow-minded stereotypes

are begging to understand

what other reason I could possibly have

in inflicting such pain upon myself

other than grappling for attention.

You see,

while my 31 abusive teammates

have social skills

or noise-canceling headphones,

I now have a ziplock bag

of splintered black plastic

to draw my mind from my soul's stress

and force it to the body's bleeding.

And I suppose that if one of my

31 abusive teammates

did read this poem,

I would apologize for my crime

with the deceptive “I'm fine”

but though I may be ashamed

and afraid

for what I have done,

I am not regretful

and will not say, “I'm sorry,”

for taking care of myself

and putting myself

back in a position to take care of my team.

I don't have to figure out how to

explain my actions to you

because I will never again

apologize from something that I am not sorry for.

Who Was T.S. Berczynski And Other Questions I’d Like Answered - 10/22/11

Poets don’t seem to live very long lives.
The author inscribed on the marble set in earth
lived to be 34
or maybe 35
depending on what month his birthday was in
and what month it was when he died.

Scientists, however,
seem to drag on forever,
earning their Nobels when
they’re old and withered.

I think they both do the same job -
Scientists and Poets -
musing about the meaning of the universe,
but answering in different ways.
While Scientists build colliders
to recreate the beginning,
Poets take their lives to understand its meaning,
but neither passes on any discoveries to the living.

Would a Scientist
with the soul of a Poet die
young, old, or middle aged?
 Or would they cancel the mathematics
with an impossible rage
and find immortality
on both anthology and lab report page?

The Thoughts I Cling To - 10/16/11

I am not as naive as you may think.
I know the reasons
why people talk to me
and they reasons
why they do not.
I know what you want from me
when you ask who my English teacher is
and I know the conversation
at that point
is nearing an end.
And although I do not appreciate it,
although it makes me sign,
although it makes me want to cry,
although I hate to let go,
I do, because I know the reasons
why people talk to me.

But for each rejected friendship,
each abusive overuse
of my accommodations,
each time I allow myself
and my patience
and my fragile, lonely heart
to be taken advantage of
for no reason other than that is the reason
why people talk to me,

but for all of this,
I can list ten better things
and lie so hard about how
they make me happy
that the lies become true and
I smile.

Tea and cookies
and kittens
and squeaky cat sneezes.
Math homework,
half-naked college boys,
400 level physics classes,
chocolate bars, and facebook notifications.
When the perfect, mood-fitting song
comes on shuffle.
Best friends,
watermelon,
snow,
and understanding Shakespeare.
Exclamation marks and video games
and poetry
and the thought that
you might someday find this poem
and apologize.

She's Very Pretty From Far Away - 10/15/11

This has probably been said,
in a previous poem,
but on dreary nights
such as this,
when I return to old poems
with a gloomy music backdrop,
I relive those
feelings, those
thoughts, those
moments of futile sadness.
It is in those bleak moments
that I come to understand
why he wouldn’t want to talk to me,
the real reason I don’t care about prom,
the best course of action
in my social life.

Maybe I was meant to be
a scientific poet,
mixing physics equations
into verse
and observing love from
a cold neutron star
light years from the feelings.
Dead stars don’t care
if you’re awkward, or nervous,
or helplessly sad.
Dead stars don’t worry
and stand back when they see
your dark thoughts.
Dead stars don’t feel,
it’s as simple as that.
Dead stars don’t care,
can’t.

Should I accept that fate?
Should I step away from the scene,
float back to the star,
watch his movements
and never speak up?
Something keeps nagging
that I should,
telling me it’s best
but for once I can’t figure out
who it is.
Certainly not the heart.
And the mind is lonely
and bored
and overrun with hormones.
And the soul is
exasperated and sad.
The body’s voice is obvious,
if obnoxious.
So who is saying no?
Who bites my lip until it scars
and says “Never, never, never”?

There’s a part of me
that doesn’t want
to be happy.
I don’t write very well when I’m cheerful.
All my fantasies
are smeared with blood.
All my thoughts follow suit.
And my only dreams
are horror scenes.

I know that part,
wherever, whoever it is,
I know it is wrong.




So why do I listen?

Musings - 10/15/11

I suppose
I could love
Being in love
Just as much
As I could
Hate it.

I’m not too afraid
Of being hurt,
And love could
Be worth
Any pain that would
Inevitably come

Synesthesia - 10/15/11

I had no desire
for anything to do with
your heart, your mind, your soul.
You were cute,
that was all that I wanted to think.
You were handsome,
that was all that I wanted
running  through my mind
when I blushed as you walked by.
I wanted a lobotomy,
a heart transplant,
and a computer with a sex drive for a soul.

And you stood up
with a binder full of poetry
and read.

There is magic
in the universe,
particles smaller that electrons,
dimensions I can’t see,
physics I can’t understand.
There is music in the cosmos,
vibrations of heart strings,
sighs at frequencies yet unimagined.
You read poetry
and I heard the space’s symphony.
You spoke art
and I saw sound,
colors replacing noise,
filling the room with swirls
of painted vapor.

So pardon me
if I flirt,
despite knowing your heart
belongs to another girl,
because I saw pixie dust descend
over a classroom
and I felt light enough to fly,
because I tasted music and poetry
and would have swallowed it whole,
given anything more than the aroma,
because it doesn’t matter
what comes of longing and looking,
only that I can enjoy the view,
because life is too long,
love is boring,
and although I cannot
control feeling good,
I can try my hardest not to care.

Roses - 10/21/11

I married a violet rose petal
and a fallen autumn leaf today.
I dropped them in a luscious stream
so that they might together enjoy
the flow of life.
But their marriage held no water,
for the violet rose petal
dropped straight and true to the surface
while the fallen autumn leaf
fluttered through still air
in a chaotic path,
landing in the thorns on the river bank.
So the violet petal
swam the river in solitude.

Now, upon the cement siding
of the bridge -
from which I wed the rose and the leaf -
that crossed the rive -
into whose flow only the rose fell -
there walked a
spherical, spotted, scarlet bug,
a lady in all rights.
This lovely lady lingered
on the cement siding of the bridge,
clasped vertically
by anti-forces
I would love to find control over.
This lovely lady lingered
through the chill
that wafted up from the river.
She stayed through the shivers,
shaking spirals of autumn leaves,
through spirited static,
the waves coursing through the structure
as many a man walked by.

I remained.
Many a man walked by
and I remained.
The wind blew away the leaf,
plants floated down the stream,
and eventually the lovely lady bug
walked vertically off.
I remained.

Near that bridge
that ran over that river
that flowed majestically
through the center of that campus
is a rose garden
where bloom roses of
pearly white,
gaudy pink,
friendly yellow,
loving orange,
biting red,
and the violet of the rose petal
that I married to the leaf.
It was in this garden
that the petal was plucked
and brought to short lived marriage.

There used to be a moral here,
but I lost it as sanity bled from my ears,
so take from this what you will.

Tea High - 10/11/11

I sip smooth silk
from a sheep-shaped
tea cup,
mellowing green one round,
drowsy apple cinnamon chamomile
the next time I pour
smooth silk
to a sheep-shaped
tea cup.
Two small spoons of sugar,
a dash of half and half,
sip deeply,
drink kindly.
Eyes droop slightly,
the tea opening your soul.
All around, the family
snaps and clashes,
bordering on fights,
but all I can say is,
“Tea makes me happy.”
And how it does.
Smooth silk
warming frosty heart,
soothing sad insides,
relaxing the over-active,
ever-worrying,
constantly-running mind
with the sweet of sugar,
velvet of a dash of half and half,
and the chamomile goodness.
Glorious green tea needs a refill.
Set the rusty red kettle on the burner,
wait for the whistle
to answer your prayers
of the drink you
need to keep calm and happy.
Bring forth genuine joy
despite the devastating dirges
and boisterous bellowing
echoing in the tiny kitchen
for this smooth silk
from a sheep-shaped
tea cup
has brought onto my soul
a blanket of herbal drugs
that mellow each sharp word
so it hits my ears as cotton.

I should drink more tea.

Long Days, Longer Nights - 10/06/11

There will be relief soon,
and lightness of heart.
Throw out the old art
and make a new start.
And when you open
your dew drop eyes,
you will see that there
is a sun in the sky.

Take the flame
to the photograph,
just get it over with.
Terminate all connection,
change all direction,
and someday the road will veer
somewhere pleasant
and you’ll be steered
to a serene connection.

There must be something,
fleeting and faint,
somewhere out there to taint
this lunacy
with a hint of fallacy,
and open the cloudy night
to the star’s light.

Painful tickles
coursing through your throat
send coughs and sputters
to every inch of
grape-skin thin packaging,
your bones and muscles and blood
close to unwrapping.
It wouldn’t be so bad,
take the tip in hand,
quick slips, soft drips.

Such a Waste - 10/06/11

If you could be a frozen butterfly -
Rainbow shrouded in ice,
Glazed over,
All hues masked to white and blue;
A frozen beauty
Held in the grasp of the ice
Preserved
Petrified
Perfect under the microscope
Crystalline structures dangling
Like jewelry
From gossamer eyelashes,
Purple from the frost -
Would you leap into the nitrogen
Entrap yourself in glaciers
To be thawed in hundreds of years?

The pretty, frozen butterfly
With her heart chained to her wrist
A sliver in her chest
Singing a bloody ragtime
As she sleeps
A deathly dream
Her blueberry wrists
And raspberry thighs
Sigh longingly for the warmth of wrath
To awaken them
To a murderous tendencies

I’ve Been Having This Nightmare - 10/05/11

I.
It all begins in red:
the world does not consist of black and white,
nor shades of gray,
nor bruised purple,
nor tearful blue,
nor nature green.
It begins in blood.
The universe bursts at the seams,
platelets squeezing through,
and so they escaped to form galaxies and stars.
From the womb was blood,
from the first day of school was blood,
from the first moment was blood.

Red and sticky,
dripping,
splattering, pattering,
thumping, dropping,
congealing,
drying, and then
picked apart until it is blood once more.

Love is bloody,
lust is bloody.
Winning is caked in layers
of dried sanguine
and failing is soaked in its gory liquid.
Peace flaunts it just like war,
mercy frolics in it,
serenity licks it sensually.

And my nightmares relish it.


II.
The pressure knocking
against the back of my eyes
remind me of the nightmare,
sending me back into the night
whenever I rub my eyes.
The burning pinch in the front of them
shakes me
with the paranoid vision of a needle
piercing my cornea.