Dealing With Horrific Things

Sometimes life is hard. Things go wrong — in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do: Make good art. I’m serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Someone on the Internet thinks what you’re doing is stupid or evil or it’s all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, eventually time will take the sting away, and that doesn’t even matter. Do what only you can do best: Make good art. Make it on the bad days, make it on the good days, too.”

--Neil Gaiman

Coyote

“Please, someone, say something. Anything.”

Silence lingers because

all I can think is

“Keep the jelly donut down”

and the coyote is off-limits.

So Abbie lists the coloring books

she bought for Josh, again,

but I don’t stop her;

I’m too busy thinking about the dead coyote.

It doesn’t matter how loud I yelled

MOM, LOOK, MOM, NO

or how fast she screamed

I’M SORRY SO SORRY SO SORRY

because the oil tanker wasn’t slowing down

so neither could we.

I will not be comfortable in my seat.

In my head I’ve run the physics

over and over in every direction but

the convergence was entirely inevitable.

It happened just how you would expect it to.

On the other side of the median

bronze and sweaty, shining with fear,

the coyote’s heart is pounding and

his legs are pumping through grass

towards an accident I dread for

longer than the impact and

shorter than the aftermath.

Our bumper hits his shoulder

and the whiplash snaps his neck

cutting short the defeated yelp

which morphs into our three frightened cries

when the wheels roll over his body.

They keep talking, too quickly.

I lift my feet off of the car;

wish we could stop and take a walk.

I don’t want the weight of anything

but dirt to push on my soles.

I don’t think it matters what he was running from;

or if he was heading into something

with so much blind determination

it was worth the risk of dying.

Either way I cannot change it,

could not save him.

So we change the light bulb

on the broken left hand turn signal

and pop in a Fred & Ginger flick

to forget about him,

but I will see him again, tonight,

in his best tails and taps,

reminding me that he was important.

Getting Off of "The Gravitron"

This past Saturday, my family went to the Got To Be NC Festival, a giant carnival/mini State Fair for North Carolina to celebrate itself. It was grand! I got to eat fresh produce, and bbq, and my favorite, cotton candy. I got to ride silly rides with my family, and pet goats. There was a deer in the petting zoo, which was temporarily problematic, but there were enough cows/goats to make up for it. It was basically a very fun afternoon, and a perfect homecoming. Of course, it being a carnival, and there being cotton candy, I was humorously reminded of this poem, which I wrote about 6 months ago, which has a very different take on carnivals and family....

Getting Off of The Gravitron

My mama bought me

a ticket to the carnival

even though

she didn’t really want me to stay.

I dragged her with me,

a tiny weight on my balloon wrist,

pulling me down to earth

no matter

how high the Ferris wheel climbed.

I never once looked at the ground

or the brightly colored candy booth

all gold and red and blue.

I stared at the clouds—

swirling, sweet wisps of silk

purple and pink and yellow,

imagining just how delicious it would be

to wrap my jaws around one.

Mama smiled in all the pictures,

happy to be holding my hand,

but my eyes are never on the camera,

never on her face, stuck

directly towards the sky instead.

Still, she bought me a cotton candy

as big and fluffy as they come,

the cone finally grasped

in my sweaty, confident palms.

Oh Mama!

Why didn’t you tell me

as soon as I got that candy

between my fragile little teeth,

it would harden into one small sugar rock,

and then melt on my tongue,

like it had never been there at all?

Passing for Hipster

When last I spoke of my trials with the publication of my work in the Marymount Manhattan Review, I had just succeeded in having the correct versions published by wearing down the head of the Creative Writing Department/editor of the magazine/my future professor for the last 4 semesters of my undergrad experience. I was feeling pretty grand.

A week prior to the arrival of the magazine, I got another email from Professor Williams. He never gives them subject lines, so they always make me nervous because they could spontaneously yell at me, like an electronic howler. This one, however, was just informing me that there would be a publication party and reading of the magazine the following Sunday evening. He concluded by asking me to read my poems, and I agreed, figuring he had to meet me eventually and it might as well be this semester, before he had any control of my grades. Maybe I could prove to him that I am not a diva or difficult to work with! Maybe I was wrong...

I had intended to change after church that Sunday, but some unexpected rain, an absurdly long choir practice, and an impromptu decision to see the school's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream to attain extra credit made that entirely impossible. A friendly old woman shared her umbrella with me at the bus stop, but by the time I got to school, I was basically soaked to the skin. By the end of the play, I was dry from the ankles up, but entirely bedraggled. I was embarrassed. Then I walked into the room where the reading was happening.

I fit right in. The dear friends I brought with me stuck out like sore thumbs, as did my current Creative Writing professor; they were wearing colors entirely too bright, and smiles entirely too wide. The room was swarming with hipsters. Long, dark skirts, baggy sweaters, ripped up boots, greasy hair, and giant crosses adorned all of the women, without exception, and the guys were universally in flannel and torn jeans. In suede boots, a long purple skirt, a sweater sagging from the rain, and my own little gold cross, I looked like a poor attempt at subscribing to their dress code. I slunk into a chair in the back and ate cupcakes with my friends and professor, trying not to laugh at the drama unfolding around me.

Everyone began the reading of their pieces like this: "Hi, my name is [insert name here], and I just want to thank Jerry Williams for all that he has done for me. I would not be the person or the writer that I am today if it were not for his enormous influence in my life. He has made me a better human, and I am indebted to him forever!" Then they read in slow, monotonous voices, full of dramatic pauses and distressed facial expressions. I was of course, second to last, so the tone was well established by the time my name was called.

"Hi, my name is Laura, and this is my poem, Interdit." Then I read it, pausing only where I had written pauses in, and changing my tone with the tone of the words. I read it, you know, like a normal human. When I finished, I started walking back to my seat, but Professor Williams stopped me.

"Aren't you going to read your other piece?"

Frankly, I was homesick, tired, and uncomfortable. I was the only person in the room who hadn't mentioned drugs or dropped the f-bomb, and I was beginning to suspect I only made it into the magazine because I referenced Salinger. I was passing for Hipster, but it wasn't going to last if I read an emotional poem about my family and our house. So I just said, "No, I am not," and went back to my seat. I have never seen Jerry Williams look so confused or unsure of himself. Who was I to refuse him? Who was I to deny him having an enormous influence in all areas of my life? Who was I at all?

I keep running into him in the hallways, and he always does a double take, that same confusion on his face. I have a feeling that I am going to be an entirely new experience for him as a student, and I hope my GPA can handle that.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease

And in this case, she also gets her poems correctly published. I may have annoyed a future professor to the point of madness and hatred, but I have established that I am bold and do not take crap from anyone, even if they are the ones who are supposed to be teaching me. Unlike his student editors, this professor was willing to fight to keep my work in a condition which I want it viewed by others. He explained why he was suggesting changes, item by item, but still gave me veto power, with the ultimate understanding that they had accepted my work as-is, so any changes this round were my call. If they had accepted my work under the condition of revision, this situation would be entirely different, but I am not one to be bullied, and I have a severe case of artistic integrity. So, sometimes, complaining about something is really all you need to do to launch a solution.

Can You Spot the Differences?

I just can't...I'm so mad. I'm going to post the altered poems here, along with the name of their "editor": Chelsea Gentile. As I do a line by line comparison, I just get more upset. So, here are her versions...right next to mine.

MINE:

Interdit

When I was born

I imagine you were reading Salinger;

I imagine it was simultaneous:

your teenage angst, my infant struggle.

Your dreams were made of ideas

intellectual prowess academic progression-

I am your interruption.

I am the idea that chases your fingers

around and around in your hair;

I am the voice that spills your coffee,

forming perfect rings on an essay

left over from before my entrance.

I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod?

By plugging our ears in,

we wired our brains together,

but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.

You could do it now,

If you could reach across

all of these rivers,

if I could stop

burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you

I tried to narrate it in my head:

How did we lead up to this?

What brought your face so close to mine?

Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?

This is why you stopped kissing

(me).

This puts all the coffee

back into your cup, and

runs a comb through your hair,

slicked back with river water;

This places brick on top of brick,

not a bridge but a wall:

a solid, tangible obstacle.

I don't bother reaching towards it.

Your fingers will never

graze the rough red surface,

nor wish it were my face.

But I can put my back against it,

and sneer at all those phonies,

fingers interlocking tightly,

and pretend that

I don't believe in love.

HERS:

When I was born

I imagine you reading Salinger;

I imagine it seemed simultaneous:

your teenage angst, my infant struggle.

Your dreams were made of ideas—

intellectual prowess, academic progression—

and I am your interruption.

I am the idea that chases your fingers

around and around in your hair;

I am the voice that spills your coffee,

forming a perfect ring on an essay

left over from before my arrival.

I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod

by plugging in together?

We wired our brains,

but you weren't allowed to hold my hand

though you could do so now,

if you could reach across

all these rivers,

if I could stop

burning bridges.

Every time I kissed you

I tried to narrate the act in my head:

How did we lead up to this?

What brought your face so close to mine?

Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?

This is why you stopped kissing

(me).

Which puts all the coffee

back into your cup and

runs a comb through your hair,

slicks back each strand with river water;

places brick on top of brick,

building not a bridge but a wall:

a solid, tangible obstacle.

I don’t bother reaching for it.

Your fingers will never

graze the rough red surface,

nor wish it were my face.

But I can put my back against the wall

and sneer at all those phonies,

their fingers tightly interlocking,

and pretend

I don't believe in love.

MINE:

SOLD

When I think about that house

I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:

the utmost protection and structure,

so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family

will eat breakfast in that kitchen,

spilling milk across the table

and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely

gather in the basement,

chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,

to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child

crouching over the toilet upstairs

cursing whoever it was who thought

intricate black and white tiling would look good on that floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows

and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.

She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,

But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry

onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire

are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?

What if the yellow walls are painted white?

What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,

and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then,

and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,

I close my hand into a fist

and hear the horrible crunching sound

of old beetle flesh becoming dust?

HERS:

When I think about our old house

I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:

the utmost protection and structure

so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family

will eat breakfast in the kitchen,

spilling milk across the table

and reminding one another of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely

gather in the basement,

chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,

to watch old movies over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child

crouching over the toilet upstairs,

cursing whoever thought to intricate

black and white tiling in a bathroom floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows

and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.

She might use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,

but will she ever notice the remnants of poetry

smeared onto the mirrors with soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire

fill with knick-knacks instead of books?

What if the yellow walls get painted white?

What if music never remakes the kitchen at Christmas

and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then

and remember what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,

I close my hand into a fist

and hear that horrible crunching sound

of beetle husk becoming dust?

Honesty

It bothers me when people do not say what they mean. Seriously, when a person says one thing and means something else, it doesn't matter what either is, suddenly the person loses credibility and respect in my eyes. This loss is only increased if one proves in other ways he or she is not thorough or consistent in their dealings with me. What has spurred this? Oh, blogosphere, what indeed.
I received an email today from the magazine publishing my work, asking me to look at the proof and check for errors before sending it to print. They went on to explain that their team had fixed grammar errors, punctuation weirdness, and in some cases, made drastic changes to a poet's work, but they would revert back to the originals upon request. I reviewed my work and WHOA. They changed the verb tenses in the beginning of Interdit, added the word "seemed" in some lines, as though the observations the speaker is making were figments of her imagination. Furthermore, in SOLD, they ADDED AN ENTIRE LINE about the house, calling it "our old house", I guess for those readers who couldn't put those pieces together...whatever. So I emailed them back, politely stating that while their revisions made nice pieces, they were not my voice, nor were they in line with the meaning of the poems, and requested they revert my work back to the originals they had accepted in the first place. Not an hour later I received a reply, stating that they were impressed with my talent, what with me not being in the creative writing program, and they would change the works back, but could they please fix the grammar and capitalization errors?

EXCUSE ME. I proofread the College's Course Catalogue at work and never have I gotten a comma splice question wrong on chompchomp.com, EVER. Furthermore, if they were going to change the poems anyway, they shouldn't have given me the option to restore my work. If they wanted revision, they should have asked me instead of letting student editors alter my work to fit their idea of what the poem should have said. They actually changed the phrase "I imagine it was simultaneous" to "I imagine it seemed simultaneous" and thought that was just fixing up some grammatical issues. Clearly, they did not want my poems the way they are, so why didn't they say so? They made no indication of revision in the acceptance letter!

I allowed them to make their grammar fixes, but asked to see these revisions before the magazine goes to press. This time, I hope they do what they said they would, and do not keep pushing for something else.

Big News

Remember that time I told ya'll I was submitting work to my school's literary magazine?

Of course you do!

Well, even if you don't, I did, and they liked my work well enough to publish two of my poems! You've already seen them, here and here, but I will let you know how to obtain a magazine when it's actually published, and I find out such information myself.

Yay!

Fear Ode

There is so much time, now,
to explore those watery depths
You've only ever skimmed across.
Not once will you be yanked out,
jarred, pulled onto some other dry place
to patiently wait
for some other set of bones
to cease their waspy rattling.
Finally, in solitude, in peace,
there will only be the quiet lapping
of the reddish sea inside yourself,
as the tide goes in, and out again, unchanged.

Self Portrait as a Giraffe

She stretches upwards, ever up
until her neck has pushed its way out.
From this height
the troublesome gravity of her body is remote.
In the winds that shake the trees
her nobbled, gnarled knees are firm,
her delicate purple tongue
chasing an emancipated scrap of green.
How bizarre, she thinks, that leaves
taste so much better in the sky.

Themes and Learning

So, earlier this week, I went to a poetry reading which is just about as exciting as it gets. Especially because of Jerry Williams. Go get his books from your local library, and try not to pee your pants. But also, I realized that my poetry is incredibly narrative, and not as thematic as it could be. What I've done with this next piece is taken different instances with similar feelings (both in my experience and in the experiences of other people, from my viewpoint) and synthesized it into one piece. Let me know what y'all think!

Interdit

When I was born
I imagine you were reading Salinger;
I imagine it was simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas
intellectual prowess academic progression.
I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming perfect rings on an essay
left over from before my entrance.
I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an ipod?
By plugging our ears in,
we wired our brains together,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.
You could do it now,
If you could reach across
all of these rivers,
if I could stop
burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate it in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

This puts all the coffee
back into your cup, and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicked back with river water;
This places brick on top of brick,
not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don't bother reaching towards it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against it,
and sneer at all those phonies,
fingers interlocking tightly,
and pretend that
I don't believe in love.

For Real, I Want Answers!!

The email went out this morning: they are officially accepting submissions for the literary magazine. I have a few weeks to pick three poems and get them ready for submission.

Pretty please, will y'all comment with your three favorites from this blog, or others of mine you've read if that applies to you? I want accurate feedback; this means a lot to me!

Thank you!

Cardigans

I cannot escape it:
The Daily Whine, with Boyfriend Steak
accompanied by a side dish of offensive behavior,
finished by a dessert of inappropriate laughter.
It does not matter-to you-
if I am in the cafeteria
slowly slurping scalding soup,
or nestled in the library
privately practicing punctuation;
You will trail after me, following me
like a parade of Ugly Ducklings
who believe I am their swan.
I want to glide peacefully across my lake
letting my iniquities settle to the bottom
to become the slime another generation will get between its toes.
You want me to ruffle my feathers again.
You want me to stir the lake with my own toes.
You want to believe that inwardly
I am just like you.
You wear your hearts in your mouths,
tangled in your teeth,
then blush as though you thought they were secrets.
You paint your outsides dark
Not because you are sad, but because you wish you could be.
I do not.
I wear cardigans like lightbulbs.
No one is afraid of the light, the surface of the placid lake;
That's not where you look for secrets.

Between 8th and 9th Avenues, Right Across from the Hospital

I couldn't sleep last night (probably the chocolate frosting, but I digress), and this little poem floated into my brain, and came out of my fingers.

When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.

I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?

Input?

So, my college puts out a literary magazine once a year, and submissions are due in mid November. That may seem like a long way off, but there are midterms between now and then, and I am very much already thinking about what to submit. Of course, new stuff will be posted, and there are some things I haven't posted that are under consideration as well, but if anyone has any input, I would love to hear it! Just leave a comment or shoot me an email. I promise I'll post something more interesting soon, but this week has been busy and full of school and all that entails.

Two Nights

Have you ever accidentally gone on a date? I don't recommend it, particularly not when you are new to a city, and therefore must rely on your accidental date's knowledge to prevent getting lost, even though they are making you increasingly uncomfortable. True story. We went to a show on Broadway, and I paid for my ticket which caused him to insist on buying me cake and a cab ride home. What an awkwardly silent cab ride it was. Eventually, I started composing poetry because the cab driver's French phone call was getting too fast for me to understand.

i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.

ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.

iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.

iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.

Learning

So, remember that time I was a dork, but it turned out to be ok? Well, I went back to that coffee shop for the 3rd and final time tonight, and I was not a dork. I actually was awesome. Really awesome, as the open-mike coordinator lady said. I am kind of glowing with pride. See, said open-mike lady read some poetry from this woman, Sarah Kay, last time I was there, and I thought, "She's amazing! Imma google her!" Then I didn't. So, about three days later, I was watching TED talks (ummm...the cool kids were doing it? ...eh...fine. I have no excuse. I am a nerd. Ok!!! I'm a nerd! I said it! Happy now?!?!?!?!), and I just so happened to click upon this thing of beauty. I didn't think of three things I knew, largely because I am lazy and defiant, but also because I was fascinated by her. Her talk made me think, and that led inevitably to poetry, and so tonight, (er, technically last night...) I performed it, and people actually responded positively, during and after. Proud moment.

Learning

They keep telling me, "You learn something new everyday,"

Although they never specify what,

Which probably means they're not talking about

the things you try to learn,

the things that take concentration,

and instead they're talking about the much hazier

Learning of Experience.

But if that's true, I don't think we learn

one thing a day.

I think we are constantly learning small pieces of a bigger puzzle,

bit by bit,

like gathering sea glass to make a mosaic:

we might not be able to see the final outcome in our minds,

but somehow we know where each piece fits into the others,

working our way towards something complete.

For instance, I've been learning,

that sometimes the facts are harder to say than the fictions,

facts like:

I don't need pointe shoes to be happy;

I never really loved you; and

I'm moving 2,153 miles away so the my father can dress up like a panda bear and teach children about Jesus;

instead of the fictions:

I didn't make it, but of course I want to try again;

It was fun while it lasted; and

It doesn't matter, I was leaving anyway.

I'm learning that we can have our rites of passage,

mark off the days on our calenders with big, red Xs,

but real maturity is not so cut and dried.

I'm learning that life is a little messy, always,

and not just when we're little (and messy).

I'm learning a lot.

All of these lessons point to something bigger

and still partially obscured,

but that, too, is becoming clear,

the iceberg of my naivete is slowly melting.

So far, I've figured out

I am just like my dad,

(minus the black & white fur and the desire to interact with children on a spiritual level).

We know that it doesn't matter how long you believed in something,

if it's not true anymore, it's not worth the heartache it takes to keep believing.

We know that it's never to late to make a drastic change for the better.

We know that in any relationship,

being happy is more important than being "right."

We love grocery stores,

so full of possibilities and options for exploration,

but always familiar enough to feel safe.

I don't know if these are the things I'm supposed to be learning,

if these are the pieces of glass I should be picking up and putting down,

but I know, without a flicker of a doubt,

my mosaic is beautiful.

This Poem Has a Horribly Long Title

There Are Other Dimensions Where This Never Happened, Probably Because We Died in a Horrible Car Accident or Because We Simply Never Met, But I'm Sorry, Regardless

The first night was bliss.

The car smelled like make-up and stale perfume,

and my pulse was building in sync with my anticipation.

You weren't there, but I could tell it was a place you could belong to.

This was the kind of place where I want to be anonymous, loudly.

That is why I painted my face and covered my body in silk (barely).

I drank in the atmosphere like precious water in a barren desert.

I felt alive, every cell burning with energy and healing light;

He was there, an old wound still waiting patiently for a suture.

On fire, I grabbed a needle and made the first stitches, starting over.

I came home with the scents of the evening tangled in my hair.

I've never wanted to touch a cigarette, but I liked the way I smelled like they'd been touching me.

It was a brand-new happiness

And it lasted for days.

The second night was turmoil.

The car was warm,but static, like a foul green pond.

My anticipation was beginning to smell an awful lot like dread.

I felt like we'd entered the wrong dimension, the one where bad decisions get made repeatedly.

The aura of smoke turned my stomach and made me hungry for a change and violently ill, alternately.

I overcompensated for your melancholy and drove deeper your pain, clumsily, cruelly.

Your eyes were too clear and too sad to ignore, your suspicion palpable.

Who could blame you? You never saw the silk-fueled happiness on my face.

You only saw my face and his face, the image of those faces together.

This isn't the dimension where he takes my hand and we fall in love.

This is the dimension where I find an unlikely friend.

This is a wound in my heart.

And it will last for longer.

There will not be a third night, chronologically.

But the fourth night will bring an uneasy peace.

Calling All Lovers of Lars' Poetry

Ah, my two followers, and however many secret stalkers I have who may be reading this, the time has come for a very important event.

I have entered a poetry contest. Because it involves Billy Collins.

If you don't know about my Billy Collins obsession, do not fear. I'll share! But first, pretty pretty please click here, and create an account (if you don't have a figment.com account that is) and "heart" my poem. The top ten will be read and judged by Billy Collins. I am definitely not giggling in excitement every time I think about that.

See, my love for this American poet began with an animal issue. Yes. It all goes back to my animal problems, doesn't it?

My neighbors had this poor, neglected, mean old mangy dalmatian named Jake. He was about 1000 years old, and he could not stop barking. Ever. It was as if he literally had to make noise to survive. I seriously have never hated a dog so much as that one. He would growl if you looked at him over the fence, and whine if he was feeling particularly sorry for himself.

Then one day, my aunt, who is a writer herself, came to visit. Jake was displeased. My aunt, upon hearing the dog we'd all complained so much about, directed our attention to the copy of Sailing Alone Around the Room by the fireplace and read aloud Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun in the House.

A year later, I met Mr. Collins at a poetry lecture at the library. I was 11. The rest, as they say, is history.

Hmmm...

I seem to be putting a great deal of poetry up...

Oh well. It's my blog. I can do what I want to. :) I haven't named this one yet...suggestions?

With each hug

I am filled with meaning.

Each pair of arms

speaks to me,

tells of the journeys

the shared laughter

communal tears.

Every one bittersweet,

but I am not sad

I do not weep.

Then you hug me.

Your embrace is not

inside of your arms;

they are silent.

You embrace me

with your words

and the jar of my heart

is cracked,

leaking these journeys,

allowing them to swirl

and push behind my eyes.

This is the last time

we will dance together...

(eyes closed)

For a while.

For a while.

"Redemption"?

While packing, I found a host of bizarre things in my bedroom, including but not limited to: a rape whistle, a clarinet, an unimaginable amount of shiny ribbon, lots of hats, and enough knit gloves to last a lifetime.

I also found a poem entitle "Redemption"? and immediately took a trip down memory lane. Here's an unresolved issue if ever there was one! Maybe three or four years back, my church was celebrating the 50th anniversary of the completion of the building's construction, and so we had a special service where everyone donned 1950s garb and we had a party. It was rather marvelous! My friend and I, being a lot younger than 50, decided to go thrifting for appropriate dresses downtown. We found this store called "Redemption Roses" and decided to give it a try. Most of the stuff was horrible-cut up and covered in screen prints of zombie children and bleeding animals. There was, however, a rack in the back that caught my eye: a row of untouched dresses. In the middle was a bright yellow dress with a full circle skirt, and a cute little collar. It was perfect and it fit perfectly. It also did not have a price tag from the store we were in; it had a $3 tag from D.I., a local thrift store. I was terribly excited until the store manager insisted that I give her $25 for it, $75 if she were to screen print and cut it. I was furious, and left the store in a huff to write this poem.

As soon as I

close my eyes

I know I'll see:

She's wearing my dress!

the perfect yellow dress,

clutching her scissors,

spilling her ink,

twirling the skirt-

and laughing,

flimsy wisps of

bleached-blonde hair

sticking to her face

along with her

triumphant grin

as she surveys

her perfect destruction

of the perfect yellow dress.