Pick a card, any card.
Cheap tricks are your 
specialty, anyway. 
I'd like a disappearing act-
maybe this time 
I'll know not to 
wait for you to come back. 
Maybe this time I 
won't search for you like a key-
the only lock you have is
somewhere down in 
Hades' land. 
Show me your best poker face-
I'll see the lies
creasing near your nose, 
and maybe this time 
I'll know not to chase after
you on the pavement. 
Pull a rabbit from your hat-
better yet, pull 
an apology from your mouth.
Sealed. 
Possibly containing a typo. 
Maybe this time 
I'll see that the worst thing 
I can say is, 
"Okay."
So go on now, 
do your tricks. 
Find whatever you need 
in the applause. Filter
out the boo's. 
Laugh, maybe. Smile to 
yourself. Above all, 
do whatever you do 
that makes you 
forget I was ever more 

It drives me crazy, getting old. 
Somewhere when we were young
dozens of memories were buried-
good sticking to them like flower nectar, 
bad insisting on staying 
like an unloved, unwelcome uncle-
and still in the deep sand they sit, 
growing gritty and rough, 
aging faster than we can keep up with. 
If we were to find them,
buried like pirate treasure, 
the sand would sear our feet,
grilling the soles of our younger selves. 
I could let each grain of memory
sift through my body like an hourglass, 
and pick the ivory-colored moments
that nestle into the grooves of my 
palm perfectly. 
But that would do nothing
to the slow insanity developing
within me-
it drives me crazy, getting old. 

Before the performance, the stage is set: a giant 6-foot tall ramp specifically designed for the group, with two wheelchairs stacked atop each other like orbs. The background is dark, with dozens of stars and comets. It feels like the audience is staring straight at the Milky Way. The performance begins and the audience is confused. The performance is about two dancers who use wheelchairs- we had expected them to be in the wheelchairs the whole time, and move around with them. Instead, the dancers start without the chairs. They move around on the ramp, rolling, tumbling, sometimes perching on their knees or feet lightly. Their arm movements are the most expressive- wide, lyrical, sad and otherworldly. 

The background gives the feeling that the story takes place somewhere between, or in, the star-filled sky and ebbing waves. 

I can tell I'm your 
new obsession. 
I can tell by the way
your eyes- green, yellow, 
waiting to catch your
prey-
glaze over my body. 
"Your hair,"
whispered near my ear. 
"It smells...
just like cotton candy."
You breathe me in, 
your new obsession. 
I know you're 
thinking of
hiding me. 
Somewhere dark, musty,
perfect for brushing my hair,
untangling the cotton candy strands. 
I know you would. 
You said I could 
come back to your 
house anytime-
you said
I could look at 
your library and browse the books. 
It would have been harmless, 
except for the 
yellow eyes
staring at me, 
contemplating how I
should be killed. 
Maybe you would 
have grabbed my hand, 
then, and pulled me inside. 
Maybe your fingers 
even started to twitch 
in my direction, 
as you leaned in, 
right before my 

Forgiving is as suffocating
as making friends in
high school. 
Why not give it a chance, 
people say. 
Why not try- you'll 
probably be happier. 
I'd rather fall 
downstream in a river, 
slithering down the 
slippery rocks
than forgive those
who have hurt me. 
I'm fickle like that-
sometimes when I'm angry
I say to myself, 
"I'm not angry anymore,"
and suddenly I feel like 
my normal cheery self. 
But then, when it
comes to conflict, 
acceptance, or forgiveness, 
I dodge away. 
Nimble on my large feet, 
passing others who care
less than I do, 
glancing backwards only
to make sure the 
issue is behind the horizon. 
I don't like addressing things 
that are thorny-
I'd rather swim around
space without a helmet,
as if the universe is
one giant piscine. 
It feels like

I feel smudged, 
like blue words highlighted in pink.
Your unapologetic ink. 

I feel sketched, 
like the lily in my notebook. 
Blurred lines in lead. 

I feel wobbly, 
like my letters trying to 
stand straight on the indigo lines. 

I feel rambled, 
like poetry on index cards. 
 

While walking through Burlington, 
I imagine myself as anyone. 

I could be a single mother pushing
a stroller with one hand, 
headed toward Lake Champlain
to find at least some solace
in the way the thin veil of light
hopscotches off the water. 

I could be an old pianist, fingers
long-tired from lightly moving across
the keys, ears perked relentlessly, 
searching absent-mindedly 
for melodies in the wind
and overheard conversations. 

I could be a college student, 
exploring the new city I call home, 
ignoring my sudden-onset insomnia 
and the rows of missed phone calls
from Mom. 

Or I could be just another teenager, 
confidently placing each foot in front 
of the other, chattering to a friend about
how my driving lessons are going. 
("You know, it's not even that bad. If I had
to describe it, I'd say mild road rage. 

I'm in the mood to pour gasoline onto
lit matches. And by that I mean 
I'm in the mood to scream my lungs 
out, to feel the tears on my face evaporate
into salty air. 

I'm in the mood to destruct a 
carefully built tower of cards-
5 of spades. Was that yours?

I'm in the mood to smash a bottle of 
champagne against a brick wall, like
an actress in a silent film,
splattering fizzy alcohol all over 
her mink coat. 

I'm in the mood to stick my head out
into the world and watch
other people as they struggle and 
succeed. 

I want to watch the way their brows
almost hit each other in focus, 
and the way they grin after
winning the fight. I want to talk to them-
to say, "I feel the same way on 
Friday afternoons."

I want to watch the greatest sunset 
from the highest peak- yet I'm still in
the mood to dump gasoline all over your