A12F

So, to clarify: I am going to submit this, I think, to the Write Action contest. Any feedback and editing stuff would be absolutely fantastic. Thanks, y'all!

Also, this is a combination of "because you are/not" and "& i am".

& i am trying to capture that

in/de/fin/a/ble

rhythm that surrounds your

airspace in words, but iambic

pentameter is somehow too

rigid because you, my dear,

are not

half-right

friday-night

hookups and you haven't got that

maybe-never

heartstring-severing glance,

& i am searching for the words to describe the

cool-blue-

forest-green-

neither-here-nor-

there colour of your sea-

glass eyes, but somehow i can't

decide how to explain

infinity wrapped around

black, and

i can see the half-rhymes

floating behind your

retinas and i can't help but

wonder if i look like poetry to

you

& i am still waiting for the

song that tells you that i

love you, but the notes are always just a

breath out of reach and my lungs are

opening into my

gut and i can't hold the

air anymore, because you are not

flame or

fire or

blame or

desire; you are just that

one person who will always be

here.

We are circling the drain.

We are watching from the cluttered closet window,

As the apple blossoms flutter

From the orchard trees.

We are lightweight and fragile,

Ready to be shattered by the world's

Cruel,

Cruel

Normality.

We are one,

With each other. Read more »

because you are not

half-right

Friday-night

hookups and you haven't got that

maybe-never

heartstring-severing glance;

you are not fire or

flame or

desire or

games; you are just the tiniest bit

there.

because you are

open-armed

Tuesday-morning hugs before

breakfast and when you look at

me I can see the

half-rhymes floating between your

retinas and I can't help but

wonder if I look like poetry to

you.

This is about my five year old neighbor.

It's simple but it's not.

The way her curls bounce in her wake, and she lets out carefree shrills of girlish excitement, gives me the most twisted emotions. The way her parents are tucked away all day, getting caught up on sleep or absorbed in to the monitor of their computer, leaves her needing attention. Needing love. I want to wash her face with warm water, and give her a princess tiara, but that won't fill her empty void, that's only going to get larger as she matures.

It's simple but it's not. Read more »

There's nothing wrong with a little dissonance,
rasped wrecked throats sandpapering ghost
songs that break necessary glass bottles like
splatted spiders underfoot on the streets,
run flat and ground in by the cars,
fossilized into the pavements, made to
bend and break – like Jacob Marley's
miserly Christmas hymns, because he

paid with all his money. There's nothing wrong with
violins with the tuning pegs screwed off,
screwed screwed screwed tangled bent
strings in a tumbleweed nest, rolling down the perfect
plastic shopping aisle and grabbing for the cereal with
wire octopus hands.

There's nothing wrong with a little
dissonance, banged up broken up
hammered up smashed organ strings
still singing underfoot like
the fautlines placed a call
and ordered something shook
up and off-kilter and surreal. Let's
let our skies be run by mixed up music
and plate tectonics.
 

You are my eighth chakra.

You are and always will be

A piece of my being,

A part of my mantra,

Engraved on the rolling stone that is my heart.

Love

Is an overused word

But I might do good with an

Overusage of you.

  Read more »

The sound the key made in the lock

echoed through our plastic house,

shaking plastic cuckoo clocks

and startling the plastic mouse.

It bounced off plastic ceilings, floors,

and windows- out the plastic door.

It echoed many times, and more,

then finally, it stopped-

but everyone had heard the noise.

The plastic town had felt it roll,

and all the plastic girls and boys

had hurried home already, so

we didn't try to hide it then

from plastic mice or plastic men,

but no one plastic cried "Again!"

when finally, it stopped.

You'll never find a harder place

where heartbreak never comes to die,

'cause plastic's harder than they say.

They say it bends- it won't, so I

am leaving this old plastic town

where smiles mean as much as frowns.

Plastic hurts, but melt it down,

and finally, it stops.

I used to hide things

under tables, in antique boxes and secret drawers

gum wrappers, stone pendulums

tiny

toy

horses

I used to hide things 'cause I thought

folks might come snooping

back when I thought my parents didn't trust me

before I made a dish with vodka in the sauce

and my dad left the room

with a distracted "try not to drink any."

I used to hide my magic tools

wands, crystals, tarot cards

because I thought they only worked if no one knew

they were there

& now I don't think they work at all,

and my friends see them every time I go for a pencil

but it's okay— I say

I only keep them 'cause they're pretty.

Picture this,
a boy and a girl,
sitting at school desks in the middle of a classroom.
Only ten,
yet the start of something that would last them a lifetime.

Now picture this,
a boy and a girl,
fading from what they were just a year ago.
But whether they realized it or not,
there was still something there.

Picture this,
a boy and a girl,
one of the first science classes of seventh grade,
paired together to work on a project.
Realizing that nothing had ever really changed.

And picture this,
a boy and a girl,
finally coming to their senses about each other.
But it's never as simple as that is it?
The girl confused about two different guys,
and the boy breaking it off at the last moment.
But still, their friendship continued on.

Picture this,
a boy and a girl,
with another year of experience under their belts.
Still as confused as ever about one another,
but also as close as they've ever been.
Staying up until 4 in the morning just to talk to each other,
neither of them really knowing why.

Smile and say cheese,
take another picture to add to the scrapbook of us.
Take a picture now,
so you'll have it forever.

Three Little Birds on the Cherry Tree

By "Quella"

Age 11

I sat down at our dining room table, in the corner. No one else was there. The lights were off except the porch lights which made the room pleasantly dim. Lots of the time, I am alone in the house. My Dad is at work and my Mom has not been here for a year. She hasn’t been anywhere for a year. A very long year.

I close one eye. Then the other. And then,

 I think.

 I think about hate. “What is it?” I ask myself. I think about my little cousin. He is five. A year and a half ago he started pre-school. All the other kids had blankets or favorite stuffed animals that they carried around that were special to them, but he loved a cherry tree. He stayed with it at recess and watched it stand still out the window when he was inside. It was strange, I know, but to him it was as normal as snow is in the winter.  As normal as things are in boxes. As normal as joy was in this little boy’s heart, except all wrapped up into the buds on a tree. Waiting to blossom. But they never got to, because when carpenters came in the spring to put in a new swing set at the school, they dug up that tree. They drove away with all my little cousins’ joy and big hole was left in his heart. He cried a river of tears, but still it was not enough to fill the space.

 So I answer myself. “Hate is sadness. An uprooted tree.” Read more »

When we separated,

I started to smoke.

My happiness began to curl off me

in tendrils and curls and wisps.

My personality rose to the ceiling,

forcing me to crawl along the floor,

lest I choke.

The flames lick inside of me,

the longing burns my throat,

I cough and I hack,

but I can't rid myself of the dryness,

the emptiness, 

this acid feeling.

My smiles don't reach my eyes anymore,

because I am exhausted from the effort of keeping away from you.

My eyes water from the sting of your indifference

but they keep searching

for holes in your armor.

Every once in a while I glimpse

a sight of the you who loved me.

That compliment you thought I didn't hear.

That poke that you thought I couldn't feel.

But I heard it and I felt it

and I cling to my hope

my hope with the false bottom.

Drop by drop they fall

Fall in puddles of dreams

Dreams that are forever lost

Lost in the ruins of life

Life that goes on without hope

Hope that fades every few minutes

Minutes that'll never come back

Back to the beginning where it started

Started with a few moments

Moments of happiness

Happiness that only exists in thoughts

Thoughts that don't have happy endings

Endings with death

Death is what I fear

Fear of disappearing

Disappearing into the dark

Dark times approach

Approach life and stay

Stay for many years

Years that come again

Again sitting with no idea where to go

Go to a place I wish I knew

Knew who I was and what I want

Want a better life than this

This life is like clouds

Clouds of water

Water as they drop... (begin at the top)

I am not the girl in the mirror,

Who smiles in the hall,

And seems to burst with

Confidence.

I am not the girl in the mirror,

Who laughs all the time,

And doesn’t seem to

Give a care.

I am the girl standing

In front of the mirror,

With a tear down her cheek

And fear in her heart.

I am the girl standing

In front of the mirror,

Reminding herself every day,

It is worth it

maggie and milly and mollie and may

went down to the beach to play one day

milly? milly, it's me. are you there

mils, listen now you gotta talk

to me. talk to me milly. say some

thing oh please i don't have too long

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

molly are you there

it's me it's me i'm here i promise

molly are you there, molly you've got to get

out. get out now. now. there was something

on the news

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

milly i can't. the walls, the wall

crumbled. mills i'm stuck

i can't get out, milly you need to find maggie right Read more »

I remember,
The day my brother was born
At home October 18 2005
I saw it
Even though I was only
Just turned 5
And I practiced
Practiced writing his name over
And over
Zera
Erza
Zra
Until I finally got it right
Ezra
Ezra
Ezra,
I remember

I remember,
My first day of
Kindergarten
When I went into the
Wrong classroom
And I Cried
And Cried,
I remember

I remember,
In second grade
When our teacher was very sick
I think with some sort of cancer
Maybe
And we had a sub
For most of that year
And I did not like her,
I remember

I remember,
In second grade
When my friend got a tumor
In her back
I did not realize
At the time
That she had cancer
But I was scared for her
And when my mom told me about it
For the first time
On Easter
I cried,
But she survived,
I remember

I remember,
When my sister
Fiona
Was born
March 26 2009
At home
I saw it
And I got to hold
Her
First
I remember

I remember,
When Fiona
Fell
Out
The
Window
But she was
OK,
I remember

I remember,
When my parents told us Read more »

Sometimes you wake up and the way the sun comes through the windows reminds you a little bit of summer. You open the door and where the dark siding of the house has absorbed sun, you can stand and be warm. You drink chai with not quite enough sugar and the earth is wet from the rain, but the sun shines on your face and a slow smile creeps across your lips because you feel peaceful holding yourself there in the sun. You know if there was someone sitting on the couch in the living room watching you, they would think “she is beautiful in the sunlight.”

But you are alone and that’s part of what makes it so special: that the house is empty and you can listen to the music that no one else in your family likes and you don’t have to say anything because only the walls are listening. Read more »

It's the dripping sound of metaphorical tears

that drowns out my biased conscience.

And the spectators watch my every move;

they make sure that I don't crumble.

I'd lie again and again if you'd give me the chance.

I'd fake a death for one last dance.

But my artificial reputation calls.

And you're not enamored anymore;

you're inside and finger-painting an army for yourself.

I wait out here with my kerosene

patiently writing the incineration scene.

Twist twist twist

twist twist twist

twist twist twist

as I braid myself a new

bookmark I wonder if the fates

aren't knitters but braiders and this

life thing is a lot simpler than we think and instead

of stitches and needles and a ball of

yarn that is waiting to be cut it's just

three strands of yarn that have already

been cut and tied and all there is to

life is

twist twist twist

it seems almost too simple and we have

been taught that everything is more complex than

it seems that there is no such thing as a free lunch

and usually they're right it's rarely that easy sometimes a

cross on the path is simply two sticks that

happened to fall on top of each other and a shooting

star is just a chunk of rock I think it would be in

our nature, a certain irony residing deep in

our bones if life was so easy as

twist twist twist.

Sounds~

So many undefined sounds

That I categorize

As insignificant noise.

All of my meaning has been robbed,

But my heart still skips countless beats,

When I imagine what I would do

If I saw you.

I could apologize for 100 years and it'd still be true.

But the rest of my world

Is nothing

But blurred faces,

And noise,

Because that's whats left from leaving you.

Feels almost too weird, like a dream playing out in reality

Nothing’s changed, but at the same moment, everything has

One day it’s starting out saying hi

Just meeting you, not knowing who you were, but fancied to know you

Having you as my friend is all it’s been Read more »

The first morning was a Saturday, but the month doesn’t matter so much as the year doesn’t matter as much as the day of the week matters. You used to know the date, the year. I used to sleep in late. You were always reading the newspaper. We both used to remember each other, until we found it in ourselves to forget. That first morning, after the second and third and four hundredth mornings, that was the beginning. Read more »

Can you read a

city

in her words? She has

cracked concrete capillaries and

straight steel bones, and the wind-worn walls hold up her neck

straight. Can you read the torn telephone voices that

crisscross and tangle the black wire veins that

wrap around her arms

and drip from her head like hair

and spark wild snaps of light into the

wind? Read more »

Dad I figured it all out, I think. I know what I want.  You won't like all the places I want to go, probably. A summer in Texas, a winter in Lausanne, another in Minneapolis or Saint Paul. A spring taking care of children in Capetown. Another taking care of artifacts in Washington.

I'll spend my autumns at home though. I'll always spend my autumns at home. 

You won't like, either, the way I don't want to change the world, just my space in it. I want to learn fluent French because it is where I come from. I want to dress in men's shirts and buy myself a small forest green pickup and buy all my furniture at Goodwill, furnish a small house with only half a bathroom and unfinished walls and floors that I have to wallpaper and cover with art. I want a loft that I can fill with stars if I open the window, and a bed full of quilts because it is cold as hell iced over in the winter. And I want a garden in the spring, that I made by myself, with a walkway I paved over by hand. 

I don't want to be ambassador to Italy or Russia or Israel anymore, Dad. Or some sort of big whig editor or some sort of beautiful business woman with a sharp tongue. I want a blue collar job, maybe to bartend at the local pub on weeknights and write for the Herald by the article. I want to know what it's like to be tired at the end of the day, everyday, and wake up each morning and still feel it.  Read more »

                When they handed Donald the baby, it was wrapped tightly in a blue blanket with a tiny white hat with giraffes on it pulled down over both ears. The nurse handed him the baby and placed her hand on Donald’s shoulder, giving him a tight squeeze before she walked quietly out of the room, leaving Donald alone with his son.

                He ran a finger gently down the baby’s cheek, caressing the silky skin. It was warmer than he thought it would be. He slowly worked his hand up, touching the small nose, running his thumb over the velvety eyebrows, and smoothing the stark black eyelashes against the baby’s cheekbone. When a tear splashed onto the back of his hand, he realized he was crying.

                Donald walked slowly across the room and placed the baby in the hospital crib. He sat in the chair next to the window and looked out. It wasn’t much of a view. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of wispy white clouds, and the dim light shone over a pile of rocks and sand in the gravel yard behind the hospital. Someone had painted a few flowers along the border of the window, but it did nothing to lighten the dreary day. Read more »

The homeless lady

at the bus stop,

who probably wasn't homeless,

thought I was homeless.

At least I 

hoped

she wasn't homeless.

It gets cold 

around here, at night.

30 below, on 

occasion.

She was matronly

and old.

And wore a  

baby blue frock,

with a picture of 

Eyeore

and the words 

"Often Grumpy";

although her character said

differently.

She had a laughing face.

Creased.

Wise.

She saw me sitting there-

at the bus stop,

smiled,

and sat down next to me.

She asked me if I had 

eaten

at all today.

Concerned with my 

personal image,

and that of my family,

I said yes.

I wasn't homeless,

and I didn't want to

look

like I was.

Getting on the bus,

I noticed I was the only 

child

there. 

A couple sitting in the back

looking wasted,

and a middle aged man

with earphones

were the only ones on the bus.

  Read more »

we don't believe in adverbs where i'm from

the men that come, i ask them to tell me their life stories with my eyes and they ask me to bag the bread and eggs separate, please and the wine that they need real bad tonight they don't need a bag for that

the wife is at home, they say, or sometimes they don't say anything and i wonder if she's dead.

the kids grew up or grew out or moved out, moved up.

they know the difference between adjectives and words that end in "ly" now.

they call me by name, all of them, and they are the only ones who do.

they say to me Rebecca I bought my first car for fifty dollars,

and now look at this grocery bill and they say to me Rebecca I'm always doing good it's really the only way to be, good and I wonder how I'll manage in a world where "well"s can't be dug from the earth where things are placed separately, a nice spin on a word that seems so barren without that adverb ending separate like those kids that moved out, that wife that died and went away, like my speech and theirs

and I wonder why my parents tried so hard to teach me how to speak without any indication of where I come from I wonder why they deprived me of dialect.

Sometimes I forget my "t"s and sometimes I "unthaw" dinner and sometimes I feel like I mean something to someone somewhere because we speak the same language, because we aren't so separate after all. 

{Translation below, in italics.}

(No estás aqui.)

Estoy mirando

en tus ojos,

dos puestas del sol

con el agua naranja

en los esquinas de

un mar

del azul más profundo.

Estoy caminando

en la playa de tu mente;

la arena blanco alivia

mis pies cansadas.

Mis dedos de los pies

apenas tocan

el agua.

Estoy sosteniendo

la concha de su corazón 

en mis manos.

Es frágil, y voy a poner

algo suave y respirando

en el interior.

Estoy pensando 

de tu.

Estoy mirando en tus ojos,

Estoy caminando en su mente,

y estoy sosteniendo su corazón.

Estoy en una playa.

(Estoy contigo.)

--------------------

(You aren't here.) Read more »