14 Reasons I Shouldn't Own A Knife - 05/27/13

1.
While chopping plums for a smoothie,
I found a hard, sharp bit
of thumbnail
and paused for a long moment
wondering where it came from
before thinking to examine
my thumb.

2.
There was a red substance on the glass
and all I could think was
"Did I really just buy tainted glass?"
before noticing the red substance
spilling from my ring finger.

3.
Foam bubbles
on a beach,
the water washing out
and never coming in,
running and chasing
seaweed figures
until the return
that tried to swallow
all of me.
But I got some rainboots.
But Haylie doesn't like yellow.

4.
Heat wave in third grade,
but I was convinced
that I didn't need a sip of water
until the world started swaying
and I wound up
back in first grade
while my little brother's class
celebrated.

5.
I almost walked in to traffic
while reading.

6, 7.
Multiple times.

8.
My first worry
was the blood stains
on my favorite nightshirt.

9.
My second was that
my roommate might see them.

10.
2am is the best time
for a walk
and an adventure for ice cream,
at least in my opinion.

11.
Brakes on bikes
are unnecessary
if you're going downhill,
although I'll admit
that I should have brought
a helmet.

12.
Quiet hotel rooms
and walks in strange cities
at way too late in the evening
that start spirals
of too many bad things.

Like, 8 bad things.

13.
Everything those lead to,
each shudder,
each lie,
each safety pin
and broken plastic fork
and pair of sewing scissors
and fruit knife.

14.
Whatever is coming
tomorrow.

The Hardest Part of Packing Up - 8-12-12

It's like
plucking a memory
from the
soft tissue
under
my bone.
Pulling sounds and songs,
twisting whispers and words up
to be piled neatly and sorted through.
Which to keep,
which to leave behind,
which to recycle.
The synapses that hold
them together
all shoved in a tiny tack box.

It's like plucking a memory,
pulling down my posters from Cross Fit,
cards from birthdays and valentines,
invitations to parties,
paintings and doodles
by me and dear friends,
withered flowers from ex-boyfriends
and neighbors
and parents
and friends,
trinkets,
Pokemon cards,
awards for math and science and poetry,
schematics,
blueprints of spaceships,
images of the cosmos,
hearts, brains, photographs,
magazine clippings,
membership cards,
album covers from old LPs,
clocks, stickers,
and the model of an atom
that I nicked from my chemistry class
in Sophomore year
on the day Mayer didn't come to class.

There is So Much Left to Do and Say - 5-22-12

“I sincerely hate you.

That is not to say that

I don't still want you,

nor that I wouldn't give anything to have you,

nor that I haven't already,

only that I hate myself for it

as much as I loath you.

For your brains,

your body,

your cruel, beautiful smile

that passes right through me,

I hate you.”

1. Visit every room in the school.
2. Meet every teacher
3. Graduate
4. Finals

“I have no idea who you are

and every time you ask for my help on

your homework,

your project,

your love life,

your friendship,

I want to walk away with a laugh;

but I stay and allow the continued abuse

because I think,

one day,

it will have been worth something.”

5. Kip a pull-up
6. Finish a short story
7. Write a poem
8. Go to a party

“You hurt me like you always do.

I work myself into thinking

the bright flowers are beautiful,

not poisonous,

and the bite gnaws into my insides in the end.

I tried everything

to reach you,

to be near you,

to slip beside you like one of the flowers,

but you always pluck me like a weed.

On a cold breeze the next time around,

I hope I will pass right by you

and all the other flowers

who bare your mark.”

9. Kiss
10. Dance
11. Bake twelve cakes
12. Get a new dress

“Everything I am and know,

I owe to you.

There is nothing of more importance

or value

than each memory

and magnet of wisdom

you have given me.

There is nothing I will hold tighter,

keep closer,

or love longer

than each thoughts you inspired me to think,

than each neuron you light on fire,

than each string you plucked

to the melody of brilliance.

Thank you.”

13. Sing even though my voice is terrible
14. Give her my clipboard.
15. Inspire
16. Breath

“I love you.”

17. Say everything I need to
18. Smile sincerely or don't smile at all
19. Love
20. Say Goodbye

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.

Roaring 20s - 03-01-11

Should’ve been born in the 1920s.
Shouldn’t been a rebel girl
with my rain boots unlaced,
flapping around like jazz notes
blowing away all the German spiders
and sticking to billboards like price tags.
Should’ve bobbed my hair short as my skirt.
Should’ve given Queen Victoria the finger
and caresses Langston’s black neck
the way his words wooed my soul.
Should’ve sang with Margret Sanger
about ending the pain in my ovaries
and spreading my legs without worry.
Should’ve run around with DuBois
and lynched the freaks in the sheets,
not the knights in Harlem.
Should’ve run to the lights,
to the glamour and clamor,
to the growing cities like healthy children,
rocketing to the sky with hopes.
Should’ve laughed in the flowers
and gazed at the clouds with Georgia O’Keefe.
Should’ve head butted the traditionalist for firing Scopes.
Should’ve stayed out late with the Jewish.
Should’ve danced with the Polish.
Should’ve drank bootlegged beers with an Irish fellow,
out in the woods with painted lips
that sneered at mothers and puckered at men.
Should’ve seen the world for the first time
in a black and white news reel
with maritime music.
Should’ve cheered for Babe and laughed at Chaplin.
Should’ve lived and loved.
Should’ve drowned in culture and possibilities.



Historical context:
In my history class, we are currently learning about the Roaring Twenties.  This was a time of cultural revolution.  The traditional Protestant ways of the United States were being challenged by Pluralism - being of more than one belief.  This was the time of Woman’s Suffrage and the sexual revolution, where flappers wore short skirts, drank beer, and defied their mothers.  The flapper was named after the fashion of wearing rain boots without lacing them up so they made a flapping sound.  This was also the first instance of birth control, promoted by Margret Sanger.
This was the time of the Harlem Renaissance, an explosion of African American culture in New York, of jazz, poetry, and art.  Langston Hughes was one of the foremost poets of that time, and if you’ve never heard of him, please look up “Mother to Son” because it is amazing.  African America rights movement took off, With W.E.D. DuBois advocating for blacks to not just accept what they could from white, oppressive government, but to fight for their rights.
This was the time of mass immigration and the true beginnings of America’s “melting pot” idea, that, until then, had honestly not been followed.  People of all races moved into cities and learned about each other.  Old ideas were replaced with a conglomerate of the new.  Catholics in the USA formed a tradition of football watching.  A person could be of two worlds, that of their decent, be it Polish, Jewish, or Irish, and also be an American.
This was the time of learning about the world.  Mass use of radio and the first movies with sound brought news from all over the world to American citizens, letting them expand their view.  It was the time of the skyscraper, of the big city, of innovation.
I have been greatly inspired by this era.  Yes, I know it wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty freaking awesome, you have to admit.

If I Was a Poet - 02/20/11

If I was a poet the likes of
Pablo Neruda
who fills my teammates' memories,
quoting him like a deity
like Buddha
like all the words of all the languages,
were his
to mold and cradle with the tender kiss
of a mother,
then maybe I could find a way
to explain
the stars’ attraction,
pain’s satisfaction,
and why I feel the need to be needed,
want to be wanted,
and love being loved.

If I was a poet the likes of
Charles Bukowski
with his sarcasm,
his energy,
his honesty and lack of apology,
maybe I could then just tell you all
that it sucks
everything does
but you do it anyways.
just do it.
That you live and you live and then you die
and that is okay,
as long as you lived.

And if I was a poet the likes of
Mikel Jollett
then maybe I could serenade
the broken hearts with music
with rhythm
with chilling images
with pure emotion
with love and hate
mixed and mingled and torn
torn right down the middle and taped together

If I was a poet the likes of
Tori Amos
if I had a voice to yell my words
my words and my soul
to tell the world my soul
then maybe I could be free of paper and pencils
and trying to convey inflection
though line breaks.
Maybe I could make life make sense.

It is Better to Forget - 11/14/10

I want to write everything
Every word
In the right combination
With the right spacing
And separation
So that my words form an arrow
To hit right through
The heart of whoever did this.

Some world we live in
Where it is better to forget
Then to know
Because the things we know
Are dark
Are scary
Are scarred.

What a world we live in
Where we step out of our homes
And fear.
Where we step into our homes
And fear.
Where suicide is an escape
And murder combats murder,
Where accidents and insanity
Weight the dice of justice
And Justice herself sees all
But does nothing.

What a world we live in
Where we are told to love our neighbors
And then to kill them
If they are not what we think they should be.
Where those preaching the sanctity of marriage
Are those who defile it
With the fifty percent divorce rate.
Where the strong leaders of our world
Are slaves
To their own desires.

What a world we live in
Where we spend more money
On weapons to destroy now
Than on knowledge
To secure a future.
Where we fight over oil
Rather than dying children.

Do you not see this world?
Do you not smell the death,
Hear the sirens,
Taste the blood,
Feel the hate?
It is everywhere.

I want to write
A poem for each problem
The likes of which
Will change the hearts
Of every being who reads it.
I want to align letters
And spaces
Just so
And create a heart-wrenching art
That will make a difference.
But I am no more than any before.
They have failed,
So shall I.

A persistent seed of thought
Has been growing in my mind,
That fire will burn everything,
Even fire.
That in the time we waste
Finding a perfectly
Peaceful solution,
More will die than if we end it now.

What a world we live in
Where the powerful don’t care
And the weak want to do good.

For young girls and old men,
For teenage boys and young mothers,
For the media whores
And the political bores,
For the sluts and the junkies,
For the honest criminals,
For the deceitful juries,
For the teen suicides,
For gay pride,
For homophobic bastards
And generic Prozac perfection,
For broken homes and broken hearts,
For lovers and rapists,
For mothers and murderers,
For children and soldiers
And for child soldiers,
For cancer patients in Hawaii
And young girls with heart failure,
For the bipolar best friend,
The schizophrenic college student,
The depressed genius,
For dealers and doctors
And for pharmaceutical representatives,
For bombers and beauty queens,
For veterans and their children,
For those who didn’t come back,
For those who aren’t going to,
For musicians who sell out
And those who can’t continue to play,
For writers of fiction
And for readers who believe every word,
For boyfriends and girlfriends,
For best friends and enemies,
For fighters,
For workers,
For strangers,
For the bums and the rich,
For shamans and spirits,
For the ghosts and the shy,
For myself
And for you,
Whoever you are:

I do not have the words to change.
But I have these words.
And, now,
So do you.