life is copycatted.

like an over-checked watch

he strived to make what they created

in a video of understated

re-used innovated

patches of former meaning.

And it sold.

Even I could make two squares

stencil shapes

but Picasso spent 5 years

rendering Rembrant

and a lifetime to re-remember

the reality

of basic blobs.

we yearn

we wait

we watch

for the proof of time-tried innovation

and sometimes we are fooled.

No crib for a bed.

There was never room for Jesus.
He came into the world in leftover hay
and who would have thought that just a baby

could break into the (un)stables of our hearts?

There was never room for Jesus.
But thank God He made room for us.

thank God for finals!

At the end of the day, I truly have to thank God that I have somehow been given the privilege of taking my 4th set of university level final exams.

Yes, fellow college students, it is a privilege.

While we are anxiously typing away on our Macbook Pros, sitting in well-heated, well-lit rooms with an endless supply of tea, the latest hipster music, fighting the impulse to check facebook and praying to make a passable grade in a 5 credit class, there are millions of people in the world whose prayer this evening is that they can live one more day just to support their child. That they can find food in the next dumpster. That they won't get raped tonight. That the rebel forces wont attack their village. Hoping against hope they don't lose their job. Wishing upon a star for a loving family. Crying to the Father for protection against an addiction. Screaming the pain of endless depression.

Yes, our brains have been stretched. But we need to stretch our paradigms too, and realize that

We are the lucky few.

Never stop celebrating the gift of higher education. It is a blessing that many cannot even fathom.

Celebration!

Tonight, with one finger jammed up his nose and the other hand stifling a fit of hiccuping laughter, my 4 year old cousin asked me if I picked my boogers to "celebrate".

"Hmmm...celebrate what?" I asked, trying stoically not to give into the silliness. After all, a babysitter, above all else, must make sure that the kids are asleep by the time the parents get home. At this rate, between booger chats, chicken nuggets, superhero jokes and the Land Before Time (not to mention the insistence of my 2 year old cousin to change into "prettier" pajamas), my chances of fulfilling the sitter requirements were slim to none.

As if that weren't enough, my cousin's look of mocking disbelief for asking how picking one's nose could possibly be cause for celebration made me feel like hope was lost.

"You know" he spoon fed to me "... celebrate BOOGERS!"

oh.

of course. How could i be so dense? The point of picking your nose is to celebrate boogers.

The point of boogers is so that we can pick our nose so that we can celebrate.

Such a simple concept, but so true.

The point of having Christmas is to celebrate Jesus.

The point of taking exams is to celebrate learning.

The point of attending parties is to celebrate friendship.

The point of writing is to celebrate reading.

The point of praying is to celebrate God.

My booger of a cousin has taught me something incredible.

Too often, we get caught with our fingers up our noses, searching for substance in the darkness.

But we can't just get caught up in the picking.

We have to remember the point.

We were created to celebrate.

I give thanks

1. For the God who showed me the meaning of grace, and then has the grace to show me again when I (still) fall.

2.For the mother who gave birth to me, and her incredible sacrifice.

3. For a family that allows me to be authentically humorous, passionately lazy, creatively overwhelmed, cross-wired, cross-worded and cross-cultural.

4. For Carmen Marie, because she has and continues to facilitate an inspired side of me that I never knew could exist, and sees substance in my emptiest of times.

5. For Alex, who encourages me to straighten my priorities, asks about my day and enables my love for bacon.

6. For my roommates Wizard and Mego, who put up with my ADD 24/7 and are still excited to cook meals together and to know the ins and outs of my life.

7. For someone who shall remain unnamed, for forgiving my possessive attempts at love.

8. For everyone who has ever showed me genuine friendship

9. For health, which, with every minor setback, has taught me that life is temporary but good.

10. For beauty and the language of love.

11. For the blessings that are disguised, and for those that are apparent.

12. For all the women at Hope Place, who taught me that I am beautifully broken.

13. For the outstanding opportunity to be educated in a supportive environment

14. For the freedom to say, write, or do what I believe is right without having to fear for my life.

15. For my love/hate relationship with technology, and the invention of the "OFF" button.

16. For my passion to help others, along with the guidance and skills to do so.

17. For the ability to whistle, sing, hum, drum, run, skip, walk, hop, dance, sit, slide, yell, cry, smile, laugh and be angry-- that they might always serve me well.

18. For writing, as an outlet and as a companion that I will always know to be a mystery.

19. For the way a baby can fall asleep in your arms, and for the overly dramatic steps of a toddler learning to walk. They offer perspective.

20. For my puppies, who have provided countless hours of amusement and cuddly warmth.

21. For a job in a difficult economy

22. For memories and the experiences that create them.

23. For time which offers perspective, healing and the ability to fly.

24. For music. It has changed my mind and soul.

25. For sunsets over the Olympics, or anywhere, really.

26. For Bacon, and it's deliciously artery-clogging goodness.

"I thank you, Lord, just for the ability to thank you."

So really.

Thanks.

cross town bus and mint-flavored snowflakes

We sat in the Sub-Sahara and tried to pretend like there wasn't sand in our food.

Like something could still be made out of nothing, even though we've used that up too.

Outside it was snowing just to reflect what I was missing.

I've seen you do that gesture a 135000 times and it still isn't endearing.

Just now realizing that the only similarities we can share are coverup-mints and

brand- name coats between lines that attempt to spell jealousy.

I dont regret it, but I do have a list of all the other things my time could have purchased.

Its funny, how much we will tell someone we no longer trust to be a part of our lives.

Lets just say that the snow will never stick as long as you're trying to walk the same old path.

Its always going to hang you over. and we owe each other nothing.

Old Friends/Bookends

I'm at a point in my life where I'm starting to realize that everything I've ever known or learned in life I gained from Simon and Garfunkel. I continue to continue to pretend that my life will never end, like a still-life watercolor as I sit and drink my coffee and hide behind the shield of my illusion. Sometimes I know I'm fakin' it-- not really makin it to scarborough fair. But April, come she will. And june will change my tune, to parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, tyme, time.

It's a dangling conversation.

It rarely ever rhymes.

perfect insignificance.

I realized a dream today.

It was stupid, really.

But I plodded into that stadium with memories of swifter shoes

and kicked up leaves that were dying to be turned.

No leaves left I made the right decision, sat with the evens, faced down the odds.

For an eternally brief over-an-hour I chatted with the empties and contemplated the crowds

that could have been there

like they were last time

on that turf-on-turf covered concrete field

when i fell asleep to sunny whistle songs

with a chubby girl and her once lover friends

i heard the shins once.

felt my shins twice.

i sat in an empty stadium today.

it was a lovely game.

aint no mountain but the past i cant get over.

Sometimes its like There Aint No Mountain High Enough

but other times, its like "Jesus, just call me already".

not sure what valley they're talking about

probably Big Valley

because I miss it there.

as far as rivers go,

I'm a river. And I have a river. And I have seen a real live river before.

It was nice.

So crispy benjamin franklin

come over and we'll chat

about why you like to make people hurt each other

exchange credit default swaps

to gamble on nothing but our own

demise.

but if I had the ben franklin i'd

jump in my fast car

and make a deal

to have nothing to prove.

I just really miss that dazzler.

i miss what we once were.

Today I let Picasso make me anxious.

No matter how I turned those cubes wouldn't square into my realm of what's real.

So finally I decided to let Picasso be right.

and,

sure enough

There was more to be seen, than just my sight.

my fingers tap me into rhythms of the present

and at night i dream that i cant fall asleep.

my creationist primordial soup of a brain.

Am I undergoing the process of becoming boring?

Of exploring so much learning that I get lost in the loquacious print of hand-me-down books?

Or is this what I've always wanted--to have a mission I'll gladly pay for?

but now this keyboard has felt more of my touch, seen more greens in my eyes than you.

tgif.

sorry- this year's performance has been cancelled.

Oh SPU, the things (i let) you do (to Me).

"We expected something, something better than before. We expected something more.
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave?
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave?
Walk away now and you’re gonna start a war...

Whatever went away I’ll get it over now. I’ll get money, I’ll get funny again.
Whatever went away I’ll get it over now. I’ll get money, I’ll get funny again.
Walk away now and you’re gonna start a war

We expected something, something better than before. We expected something more.
You were always weird but I never had to hold you by the edges like I do now;
We were always weird but I never had to hold you by the edges like I do now.
Walk away now and you’re gonna start a war

Whatever went away I’ll get it over now. I’ll get money, I’ll get funny again.
Whatever went away I’ll get it over now. I’ll get money, I’ll get funny again.
Walk away now and you’re gonna start a war--
walk away now and you’re gonna start a war."

-"Start a War" The National

I am walking away now. Let the war begin.

ando drom!!!

Itakepleasure in the apple pie of turkish tracks

gypsy without a home

house still intact

I want to Opa! my way to

exoticism and hoot

my feet into a frenzy

of left-behind cares

dont give me glut(en)y?

please

trapezoidal thoughts

of octagons

that wake with banana peels

on their loverfaces

persist

through the mist

of outside window

public transportation

library purchase

whatoncewasfree

now has a price

and it is my

hardrive to half-fill

with foreign rhythms

i like

but am not like

despite

travels to faraway books

of what i once knew

was just a magazine

on a boarding pass

to my terra-cotta childhood

of fermented memories

I just want to be a gypsy without a cause

let me be a no-mad

let me be

a

nomad.

V

The blue-haired Vendetta invited me to walk her across the street to the Safeway where no one feels safe. She is perfectly crude and I have to laugh (despite a professional facade) at the irony of choosing doughnuts while discussing the way she assaulted a policeman. V is the perfect contradiction; a self-acknowleded hypocritical Christian with an abhorrence for herself and an intolerance of judgement from the rest of us. Deftly, her tattooed hands, self-sliced arms search for comfort and fulfillment in a half priced sandwich and pepper jack cheese. This woman was once the model pimping prostitute who lost her waistline and self respect to baby fat and whole milk blended into years of undeserved beatings. She jokes with a raspy booming voice about how bad she wouldn't feel if she accidentally stole the doughnuts. Concluding that it would probably make her an "asshole", she sneers at the cashier and "pays" with EBT.

I am welcomed, initiated, granted special privilege to rest on the designated curb where guests shoot the breeze and talk shit about the volunteer staff. I feel honorably misplaced, but oblige the arms that could break me with a compliant seat to her left. She spills life like a carton of spoiled milk and spews pain as thick as doughnut custard. I watch in silent satisfaction as her black lips are wiped clean by ham and cheese. With the hint of a child's devious smile she allows me to fix the stray bobby pin that frames her glitter covered head. "No more alien communication I guess", she laughs as her antenna is tucked away safely.

V tells me the story of porn-prostituting-pimping-lesbianism in her characteristically cursing jargon and I listen; not to the gory details, but to the way her persian eyes brim tears when she talks about respect. When she talks about her son. When she talks about God. Who she could have been.

we sat on the curb and she cried.

And I've never been so grateful for a glazed doughnut.

(because everything else is too complicated)

Hello, Indonesia!

Who could possibly be translating my words into German?

I am honored, quite honored, to be your brewski for the day.

Who is reading all the way in Latvia

Argentina

Australia

Belgium!?

What a journey (quite the journey)

these thoughts have made.

"The church is a whore, but she is also my mother." St. Augustine

sometimes it's tough to be loyal.

Thou shall not kill.

This is what's real. Trust The Onion to get things right.

dont. follow. the lights.

we'll call it simply morphine

because it takes pain and morph(s) (it) in(to) e(therial)

dreams

of ghosts that mourn

the end of your screams.

(and who doesn't love to dream?)

while awake

it will seem like a swim

in a murky lake.

the Zuckerberg Zion you will never find.

With every pixeled thought I share, my fingers type a step forward into the web-filled space between the peaks of aliens and kin. Caught in the heat of hesitation; amidst the push and the pull-- the intellectual innertia of wanting to be the all-knowing unknown traps my marrow in the valley of intimate strangers. Ambling unguided through this Infernal canto I, like 500 million, strain to subvert the human condition. "I will now feel less lonely. These words will bring closeness. These likes will make me liked. Here, I am understood." We want to be the object of another's wasted time; the update that gives us status. To (be)friend(ed) has taken the place of handshakesmilenod, though everyone is now the author (albeit abridged) of their own best-sold story. No Barnes&(expensive, and not so) Noble, no-- this book fills up the li(e)brary of every face you've never known. It is the book of refreshed quick looks. The book that will always be spark-noted/plot summaried/ back-covered/ever-referenced. The book of the current past and the twice passed-over. The book that is often read aloud but could never allow our hearts to be read.

And we walk through this valley looking up at formidable peaks.

But suddenly, it dawns upon me: I don't need to write a face to find my way, nor do I need to read one.


For I (we are) am already completely known.

I promise you are not alone.

2 Corinthians 12:9 "no really, I'm fine."

too good for grace, too broken to accept it

I balance in this uncharted limbo of unreachable middleness.

To be me is to attempt the unremarkable--

fly under the radar in a doubtful act of "sacrifice" as if God's love might run out soon

(and they need it more than me)

with their

drinkingdruggingsexingkillingrapingstealingcheatinglyinggivinggratuitytotheirboyfriends (oh shit, that was me)

They are obviously broken.

(No parentheses to hide their inadequacy)

No really, go ahead.

Fix them.

(please don't peel back this face)

I'll be fine.

Lord knows they need it more than me.

(please let me escape the same stories)

I'm fine.

But then again, maybe thats why I did it.

(I want to need it too)

oh wait.

thats right.

You already know;

"I do."

Window pa(i)nes of Hope's Hornets

I've watched the hornet's nest outside my window grow to a beautiful size over the past month. Actually, I haven't really seen the entire transformation, as I've been looking out other windows and observing other risks. But perhaps the gap is even more fitting. It marks the truth of things seen and long ignored. It makes me wonder, as I sometimes do, the paradox of our delicately balanced lives. How it is, exactly, that safety for some means danger for others. How sting after sting of pain over time builds up our tolerance to the fact that we hurt. How one can be closer to danger than ever, yet never feel farther from harm. How I can see the most of truth when looking through the lens of a foe. How even the so-called "threats" develop walls of protection against the winds their wings are too fragile to weather.

How two months of a lifetime for me is barely a memory to those who've been battered into the preservative of forgetfulness.

The way I can pass a world everyday and completely ignore the fact that it's real--until it starts to block my way and alter my view; begging more for attention than money.

I wonder why the nest of tiny not-even-spiders with their mysterious goings-on and paper thin walls causes me to change my route and keep my unscreened left window tightly shut.

It is times like this, on the border of pacific rain in the comfort of something warm--be it my bed or a fleece-lined coat-- that I question my ability to see the world as it deserves to be seen.

They, like me (?), are alive. But there is a giant glass window of little girls fears that kept the alive from being real; a window that has shattered, but will never repair.

Elohim has spent eternity and forever + 19years10monthsandcounting breaking this glass. I have (been) cut by the pieces of process, stung back to agony by shards that I have developed the habit of trying to ignore. But between blood and the view I have been cornered into His arms. When the last pa(i)ne falls, He will be there to make mosaics from the scattered pieces of all our mistakes.

Still just fragments, mine is a tale told in excerpts, poems, stanzas and vignettes in pursuit of the truth with the fear of regret. Yet between the pieces, there is always El Shaddai.

He taught me that healing comes to the broken places first.

***

These thoughts are the wings that fly out(in)side my room. They bridge the gap between my before and my after in a tangible (but don't try to touch it!) orb of circular truth.

This nest reveals the layers of glass. Their wings are a new perspective. Now we both see what is on the other side.

(Let's not pretend otherwise.)

icebox song

She said it felt like her heart was split in two.

I told her a split heart isn't broken--

it just beats in cut time

(like all good songs do)

there's more than one way to share a reeses.

I saw my dad unwrap a peanut butter cup for his best friend.
I'd given him shit about his love for them the day before,
when there where mounds of wrappers littering the kitchen.
He smiled and snickered and blamed it on mom.

I thought it would always be the same story.

But tonight was different.
I saw my dad unwrap a peanut butter cup for his best friend.
I cried but he smiled at their confectionary communion
and stowed the fragile wrapper in his pocket.

It isn't much, but in the scheme of life
every scrap helps
(to keep the shared memories they'll always have)

i forgot that the sun is a star.

didn't catch the meteor shower.

but i saw a sun rise.

(just past beakon hill)

so maybe God knew that i needed some single star stability
more than glimmering wishes of history's highspeed highlights.

are we there yet?

HEY GESS WAT?
today imma be a liddle kid.

weesa gonna paint wid fingur paints

nd eat icecreeem nd wach ants crall

imma pick flowers and dreenk koolaid

nd weesa gonna bear foots

cuz god likes liddle kids lots.

the self-convincing mantra of a brick wall (coming down)

not that bad; it's alright.
I'm ok, I'm ok.

Quotables.

"I thank you Lord for just being able to thank you"

-Psalm written by miss JoAnne

unacceptable.

Dear 4:35 am,
despite your insistence, I am afraid we cannot, and will never, see eye to eye. While I understand that the small village of Greenwich recognizes your hour as legitimate, your abrupt and unsettling jarring of my dreams this "morning" (and countless others) calls into serious question the reason for your existence. Time and time (although really always the same time) again you have peeled back my eyelids only to stare into darkness; your screeching alarm has stopped my fragile heart and caused my lower back muscles to spasm into an upright, seated position of terror. As if these discomforts were not enough, my fine motor control suffers for hours past your rude awakening and I am unable to perform basic tasks at average human speed until the REM you have unjustly stolen is returned to my pudding-like brain at frowned upon times during the true day.
The list of grievances could go on, but I regret to say that you are not worth the time, nor considerable amount of effort that would be required to name them. I do not condone your childish behavior, nor your deplorable tactics. Rest assured that if you disturb my slumber again, the consequences will be severe and I will literally beat the living crap out of you.

Should you choose to reply to this message, kindly do so at a godly hour.

with red-eyed vengeance,
Me.

she is a good secretary. Me? not so much.

I have developed a phone person.
"Thisisshawna" has a polite, refined way of speaking.
She is helpful, resourceful, attentive and professional.
She can take messages word-for-word.
She can transfer lines leave voicemails
say "how can I help you?" with confidence
that she can actually make a difference
Despite the drugs/domestic drudgery.
Thisisshawna is understanding but firm;
calm but empathetic.
Her voice has the tonal consistency of ready whip
(words at the ready to whip out pre-chosen answers)
and she knows just what to do with their
vocal
expressions
of
pain.
It's a good thing she has such flexible work hours--
(I think I might be speechless without her)

corazonian craze

so we walked in angled city circles until we found that "its gonna be blue and black" building
pretending to be 21 and over.

from outside open doors deliberate scene(kids) cooled their teen angst in the stagnant breeze of july

WAOOSH! barometers couldnt measure the dripping levels of other people's sweat when we stepped in(two) that "place to be" [trampled/pushed/crushed/eyed/shoved/checked-out(oftheirminds)/screamed at] where un-melodious therapy takes place for disoriented children with (i hope this is cool) batman tatoos and piercings we pretend dont hurt (our mothers)

YOUDONTNEEDYOURHEAD(COMEONSEATTLE!)JUST___----------{VERYLOUDGENERICBREAKS,NOW}

mosh.

they kept asking if we were still having a good time (?) as if the bloody noses elbows flying heads banging fists clenching arm bars bracing sweatwater d-r-o-p-l-e-t-s raining were not an obvious indication that we were all having fun.

-except for maybe that one guy who was rollin' or maybe the mom who's kid was thrown back into the lions den or the girlfriend who had the tool of a shirtless boyfriend or the security guards who have sustained one too many hormonal shows and one too many blows to the gut-

just as i was thinking about hearing myself think the
nicest kid (out of place) stepped in. couldn't find his friend but he gave a free smile and looked in disbelief at the scene unfolding before him ("holy shit what's a black kid doing here!?" racism makes me puke) but he took it in stride gave a nod that said "I'm here to protect this girl from jerks like you" and even though she wasn't in the pretty scene he braced his arm against a flailing back and told her "don't worry--I got you" like a real man would.

Everyone was Screamin It Like they might even Mean It and i expected the world we'd made to escalate into a super nova but things calmed down a little bit. next came reggae.

so i danced.

i smiled

i sang without breaking notes.

i beat rythms on my heart.

and i allowed The Walls to come down.


it wasn't my first choice.

(but i didn't do it for you.)

take a hike to your nearest curb

what is it about curbs that shifts the force of gravity and pulls us toward the side of the road to talk? We've met our maker straddling the gutters between car and pedestrian. the highest mountain i've ever climed or seen stood 8 inches above the ground in all its concrete splendor. but from the top i saw myself. i was almost surprised to find that i liked the view.
almost.
almost.
There.

still a victim (by choice)

please.
plea. ease.

assume.
ass=u+me

responsibility.
response. ability.

for.
4.

the
t. hee.

consequences.
con. sequences.

of.

your.
you. our.

SELF.
sell. (an) elf.

destruction.
destroy. (con)struction

a thinly veiled wrinkle in time meets a swiftly tilting planet

i saw a muslim girl spit yesterday.

she caught my eye
(skinny jeans
flip-flops a martian green
slender dainty figure
with a sandy colored headscarf
to cover her non-existent fr[sh]ame)

and (celestial assumptions at the ready)
i caught hers.

swaggers ready to navigate
the times
our half smiles made
one full moon
and she
spit like no muslim girl
i have ever seen
(even left a trail of stardust
to prove that i could
make a wish)

as if to tell me
in the friendliest way
that she was not a product
of the
quarks and leptons
of my (red) shifting
mind

that she could shroud
paradigms
with her sass
and that no two stars

are ever quite the same.

smoke on the water

I won't regret that all I can be for you is
me
the plural way I think to see
and
glory fades the afternoon glee
you
wake to find dead crows in a tree
have
everything mixed within your tea
made
special by a memory
so
selfish is silent misery
much
different from lyrics of melody
life
waiting for all that it could be
together
in dissonant harmony

stand where you are; we let all these moments pass us by

by golly its the golden times!

I pranced across that roof
in a sunsetting wonderland where
i had an entire evening to
know that everyone looks best
when the sky is falling

*embers* then

KABOOM!!!
its the un-4th
and
i am still shaking this earth
when i stop to smell the roses

because the petals will be brown tomorrow

and the golden times are all we have
on this butterfly's day out

and about
the beauty
of my own backyard.

el, camino, el el, camino

We sat on your special curb together
talked boys
laughed at those "mullett" El Caminos
marveled at your tats
shook our heads with tears at the idea of losing
your son
and you bought me a donut
went all the way back to the store
for my sugar fix
(you enabler you)
and tonight was your worst
so even though you are
shattered like glass
I wasnt afraid to hold your hand
in prayer.
I know (S)he won't let me get cut
when I tell you--

I really love you.

I've breathed in stories.
Hers. Theirs. Mine.

This is the summer of lifetime inhalation.
I am intaking their pasts
exhaling my own
without fear of burden
(they've carried weights I will never shoulder)

and most of all
learning Love.

(it is the only way to breath)

oh, to be a work of art...

i swear not all these words carry weight.

some are whims of fancy

that read more heavilly than they

write.

it's all how you interpret the

p-i-x-e-l-s

from your flat screen

li(fe)ght(source).

i do not want to depress i want to

en(lighten) the world from its

own world of thought.

because there is no such thing as

in the "mean" time

there is only nice time.

only nice times.

so nice.

very nice.

Kids

"I feel like________"
i should have felt more.
like the mass of purple
life seekers
shouldering the
golden promise of
freedom
should have invoked
sobs of reminiscence
regretretrospectreparation
or at least a single tear of
closure (?!)
but
i just couldn't fake my way to
nostalgic euphoria
when caps were tossed
spinning violently
aimed at hundreds of
carefree bright eyes
that didn't yet have
the wisdom to
blink.

But i blinked.
you taught me how to blink.

flourescent summer gloom of room 273

we cleaned our way
back
to the beginning

before the memories of
laughs
could stain
these temporary shelters
where lives were made

I dusted nine months
of skin and dirt
from the top of a
shelf that once held
Treasures

while the forty (+)
walked away crushed
under the tons of their
lives and the weight
of
goodbye's

the time cynic

it's lame that we both know

(i'll probably never write that letter)

went to the extreme of never being right or

well whatever time brings i'll fight

until it fits squarely into my non-existent watch

lost a year in the pretense of self reflection

its amazing that any change could occur

under such bricked off circumstances

but we all took expensive chances

when we came to this pre-adulthood

haven for the sober worldchangers of awkward post-adolescence

lost my femininity in an unfavorable ratio

one of the lucky but does that make it right

does that make me any different

than any of these other beauties

wasting their time on too few boys who were never worthy

of any time (gods hours or their own)

of day in and day out

we have gone through these credits

and soon we'll have debt

but as long as it resides

in the unforseen future of our pretend tomorrows

we can aspire to engage cultur(each other)

with rings that sound bells of churches that

collect money to pay the rent of their own

sanctuaries so that next year

the youth program can have that

fancy new laser light

that will surely lead them all to Christ

and blind their eyes in the process

of a spiritual encounter(feit)

that keeps them on the mountain top

and out of trouble

away from the trenches of real life

where adults fight demons

of childhood memories never

dealt with because they were too busy

trying to get into college

where things would make

¢ent$ for them

but never did

because no one ever told them

that it was going to go by so fast

and that the carpet of education

that veiled the truth of "real life"

would be pulled out from their too-confident feet

"i-paid-for-these-shoes-with-my-own-money" strides

leaving them in a heap of unpaid bills

stacked haphazardly skewed

like the long-held dreams

of book learned success

that never spelled the truth of what it is

to live.

DONT TOUCH THAT IT'S FRAGILE!

my fun-radar will not age

appropriately when I join that senior

disc(redit)ount the sixty-five above

all else knitting needles at the ready

to brandish critically doting eye(s)

like things just so

many well worn lines

(dexterous wisdom fighting against wrinkled hands)

no no no

my soul will not allow my body to pretend that those hours upon hours of idle chitter chatter in dim lit basements of the church we feel belong(ing) to are anything close to fun.

so help me God I will not go gentle into that good dylan thomas night.

a subconscious philosophy no longer adhered to

Piece by piece

I will layer these identities

as a process of elimination

to find who is willing

to dig through the

rubble of

second hand eccentricity

showy quirks

confident strides

feigned interests

& maybe with enough layers

they will never get to the core

and I won't ever face the fear

that there was never any more

(to me)

just a pile of what (i thought)

they needed to feel/hear/see

I love you a lot ya fatty (and thanks for the surprise)

missed that friend

(more than I knew)

miss the sloppy hat

crooked smile

content giggle

way with words

real hugs

covered-up smoke smell

never-ending night walks

"I love you a lot"'s

tea slamming evenings

tower chats

nappy ripped clothes

"well that's just crazy"

body checks

silence without wondering

grave yard confessions

fat kid and becky jokes

whining

"well you're just a bitch!"

compline looks

scissor jumps

same stories

trust

singing

the only one i could stand to

see somedays

drunken messages

pushes onto the sidewalk

future-planning

pipe-man spying

pike-place exploring

driving

scootering

kisses on my forehead

to let me know

someone was (t)here.

.............drive safe old friend.

the pony(tail) express

got a single stamp relationship with the

U.S

postal service

this van aint no Ted Bundy

but he plays the part too well

--messenger charm like a snake

without delivering any of the hiss(teria)

unfamiliar banter

about unopened

mail

do you time stops

with my walks

or is my

Freudian slipped bioclock

permitting these

(talks?)

"Jesus could not be found"

The harrowing hop[e of home-o-sta-sis

has enveloped every electron of my ephemeral entity

laughing longingly for the love of life

while these lies lack lights and literal lessons

it is not innately inconceivable to imagine isolation

such sorry slander of summer stars

though time tricks travelers and tickles toes

her happiest haunts are hidden highs

each end an elephant of exclamatory excess

an apple ate, wise advice always abides

beacons bright the blue bird's brides

sickly soil spills spots on stained shirts

envelopes eels till every ember escapes

no noise nor naught knows nothing of night

crack children crash cymbals

except when each expression is an empire of etc.

on owls of order or quick fix obtained

free falling is the foe of fantasy's fickle fate

Gracious gratuity gains global the gates of grains

Our opposites of omens are obstacles ordained

Divine destiny decides that death is no en(d)

and L]o]v]e will prevail

within

the pretend.

we will clench our own fists, hand in hand.

Do not be afraid. I love you always. All. Ways.

We are growing into change and this is good,

for it is slowly proving that which we

have always thought we know:

that

Love is a dynamic

too dynamic

to be contained.

You still know me.

I still desire to be known.

And I love you enough to hold your hand

while you clench your own fist

on the paradigm of yesterday's

tomorrows

(how much we think we knew)

But this I can promise. You-- you will never be a need.

I love you more than needs, my illustrious friend.

Infinitely more than needs.

I dont need your hall pass

my quiet pension
was the terror of unspoken abandon.

It was immediate disconnect
avoided for dialtone upon dialtone
of one-sided solliloquy
as
if
it
were
important
to
suddenly
speak
lives
that
have
always
gone
unsaid

rebuilt walls of concrete
to protect this village heart
against your
non-verbal assails
(whether real or not)

that seemed to come from
nowhere but the essence
of nothing (in common) itself

grabbed skin for comfort
exchanged contact for connection
in hopes that your fattened fingers
could reassure me
that you are still a part
of my largest reality

pleas for assurance morphed to
requests for permission
like a seccond grade potty-dancer
with hall-pass-greedy eyes
mind reeling for relief!


But oh yeah.
I'm in college now.
We don't use hall passes here.
We do what we want when it is best
because maybe-- just maybe--
we actually kind of know.

I hope you can forgive me
for being such a dependent baby.

I don't need your hall pass,
I go when I want without all that
"precious may I"
nonsense

(but I always wash my hands--
because thats what you taught me

and I know the dangers of

c-o-n-t-a-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n)

the mutual conclussion of un-needing

All I need is truth.

You are not truth, but I see truth in you
like a window pa(i)n(e) frames

the drops of water reflecting
roses in the garden of

all that is good
of all that is

worthy of sunlit
attention

like a red wagon
derby race

down the sloped streets of

childhood

where I once
held the handle

in charge of the wheels
that directed my path

across neighborhood obstacles
of lemon (aid) stands

and joggers
those laugh-barking pups

till mothers called dinner
and darkness

bid sleep
for an eternity of

dreamfilled night
when I would pray

out my window
towards the clouds that

form rain
caught in between

the desire to spin wheels
faster and

the hope of serenity
in the shape of

a streaking water droplet
blazing a trail

that would soon fall
as the truth of water

to form a puddle of reflection--
a two-way mirror

of God's love my truth;

that everything I need

comes from above.

Ode to Peace, My Perfect Timing Cat

Peace weaved furry figure

8's

through my ankles

reminding me that growth is an i n f i n i t e

process

of learning how to love

without the need of

you (s)

His fur passed through my outstretched

f|i|n|g|e|r|s

on never-again days

of forward trudging regression

with hopes of a future that is soft

I've scratched contentment

from nudging ears

held life's milk from

a backward source

that was oddly

un- ironic

Peace watched as I

grew from

the comfort of wants

to the joy of

I (have)

and found beauty in between

the broken skies

but today on whims of weather

you slept death in higher grass

and when i petpokedloved you

your tabby world heart was gone

but as your 4th life turned 9 times

you let my heart move on

(hope we meet again)

ill see you t(here)

so long

sloppi(forgive)ness

you are giddily regretful

(or maybe regretfully giddy?)

but its all the same

because you don't know up from down

(sit still, more water, mouth shut, smirk off)

inhibitions go down

character revealed

I could never judge you

(but this isn't you, is it?)

a liquified shadow

of someone I respect.

and maybe tomorrow

you can say you care

without it sounding

h o l l o w

don't worry friend,

we all make these choices

this isn't your forever

(and you are not your yesterday)

My Lost Youth

"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

scraps of what could be (life)

Allow me to scrapbook your life.

I'll cut out some unflattering pictures

of relatives you no longer recollect

drinking cheap beer on the 4th

and ladle rubber cement onto the backs

so that they remain fixed in your un-memory

for(until the next fire/tornado/flood) ever.

After the blurred frames are set

I'll concoct an endless list of obvious captions

and print them on construction paper so

they can be chopped with zig-zag "Skizzorz"©

to en-hance the theme of family fun.

Last but not least I'll raid your child's

sticker collection and scour through the

endless drawers of buttons-pins-sparkles-

clips-decals for the perfect accents to accompany

your ideas of nostalgia and embellish what

was probably

an average life.

I'll gladly do it for free--

I really enjoy (smelling fumes getting papercuts

re-arranging rhinestones) getting to know people

better (living vicariously through you)

Oh don't mention it. It was my (only)

pleasure.

impulsively short.

I'm a slave to the whims of my flights of fancy

although I'm sure you can agree

its nec-ess-ar-y

just make sure to catch the angles

of all that I can't see (©)

cut off the wrongs

hack the mistakes

chop the regrets

buzz the shame

shear the guilt

trim the hate

might not be a fix

this faux-hawk for chicks

but it sure saves (me) sleep

product/time

{from}

(the paradigm of "keep")

shawn-lib!

I wore a _________ shirt today.

(name of favorite arachnid super hero)

I think some of his ___________ rubbed off on me

(adjective ending in "ness")

because I have felt very uncomfortable with ____________

(adjective ending in "cy" used to describe a swamp)

ever since.

So I've been listening to Lady ______

(Accompanies "goo-goo" when talking to a baby)

and walking around _________

(place)

with no_______

(un-living appendage that sits on top of head)

and its a little _____

(food, or, when spelled differently, a temperature that is not hot)

but ________ is here, and the ________ are beautiful

(season before summer) (noun)

and I think its going to be ok, even though my ________

(plural noun)

don't think its the best idea.

God has big plans in store.

________________________________

"no one asked you to mediate"

oh, but you did.

stoppoutingwhiningaskingmetovalidateyouaffirmyoutellyouthatyouaren'tdoingthewrongthing.

its only bad timing if you let it be

I've spent years watching you do things the day before they became cool.

I've always thought you were cool for creating that (accretion)

I've watched dozens of raindrops fall through your outstretched hands.

I've always thought you were alive for allowing that (lability)

I've heard love song melodies cry from your un-tuned lungs.

I've always thought you were brave for belting that (expression)

I've seen sparks fly from your eyes to the hearts of grown women.

I've always thought you were fly for flaunting that (xenogamy)

this is a lesson in reading between the /'s

There was a time when o/-/-/-/-/m was my G/-/-. The pinnacle of all my s/-/-/-/-/-/-/a/l encounters. I have l/-/-/d about it most of my life because I was a----d of the repercussions for such a so-called "s/-/n". There was a time when I u/-/-/d L/-/-/s to fill the v/-/-/-/'s within me because I was too t/-/m/-/d to approach a G/-/- that was only available via m/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/n, too s/-/-/-/-/d to imagine that I am s/-/-/f-s/-/-/-/i/c/-/-/-/t and div/-/-/-/-/y inspired and l/-/-/-/d un/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/y. There was a time when I (-/m a h/-/-/-/-/-/-/t/e) thought I knew a/-/- of the world's p/-/-/n because I had been a/-/-/-/-/d as a c/-/-/-/d, my i/n/n/-/-/-/-/c/e taken by a w/-/-/-/n held down by a m/-/n who r/a/p/e/d for pleasure and payed in d/-/-/-/s. There was a time when I // for a/-/-/-/-/-/-/n thinking I could wear the world's h/-/-/t on my s/-/-/- and make it v/i/s/i/b/l/e so that we could be s/-/-n; not realizing that I was never a part of that s/u/-/-/-/r/i/n/g, that "w/e" no matter how hard I t/-/-/-/d. There was a time when I didn't s/-/-/-/k up for y/-/u because it was in/c/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/t to my p/a/r/a/d/i/g/m.

There was a time when I let go of the past.

And the lines that defined disappeared.

Class d/i/s/m/i/s/s/e/d

Torches Together.

Lost brother/Gained sister.

fake smile/real emotions.

eyes crying/teeth grinning.

bitter/sweet.

old friends/new family.

past/present.

sad/overjoyed.

tired/ecstatic.

slow dance/fast moves.

grandparents/grandchildren.

swing/rap.

swearing/vowing.

numb/aware.

drunk/sober.

nerdy/cute.

tall/short.

tan/white.

cabernet/merlot.

torches/together.

forever.

today we wed a blessed circle of juxtapositions.

I Thought I was over that (out-stepping my stride)

still trying to save my melody

(in everyone I meet)

looking to amend abandon

(still feel her heart *beat*)

want to be your mother

(reverse the cycle of defeat)

cause if you were my daughter

(we just might feel complete)

The Parable of Whiteness

"Imagine that you are in a white room, with white wall, white floor, white ceiling, no corners. Imagine that you are suspended in this space by some invisible force. You are dangling there, in mid-air. You cannot touch anything, you cannot hear anything, and all you see is whiteness. How long do you think that you will "exist" in your own experience?

-"Not very long. I'd exist there, but I wouldn't know anything about myself. Pretty soon, I'd go out of my mind."

"Actually, that's exactly what you would do. You would, literally, leave your mind, Your mind is the part of you that is assigned the task of making sense out of all the incoming data, and without any data incoming, your mind has nothing to do. Now, the moment you go out of your mind, you cease to exist in your own experience. That is, you cease to know anything in particular about yourself. Are you big? Are you small? You cannot know, because there is nothing outside of yourself with which to compare yourself.

Are you good, are you evil? You cannot know. Are you even here? You cannot know, because there is nothing over there.

You cannot know anything about yourself in your own experience. You can conceptualize it all you want, but you cannot experience it.

Then something happens to change all this. There appears a tiny dot on the wall. It's as if someone has come along with a fountain pen and squirted a tiny dot of ink. Nobody knows how the dot actually got there, but it doesn't matter, because the dot has saved you.

Now, there is something else. There is You, and there is the Dot On The Wall. Suddenly, you can make some decisions again, you can have some experiences again. The dot is over there. That means that you must be here. The dot is smaller than you . You are bigger than it. You are starting to define yourself again--in relationship to the Dot On The Wall.

Your relationship with the dot become sacred, because it has given you back a sense of your Self.

Now a kitten appears in the room. You don't know who is doing this, who is causing all this to happen, but you are grateful, because now some more decisions can be made. The kitten appears softer. But you appear smarter (at least, part of the time!). It is faster. You are stronger.

More things begin appearing in the room, and you begin to expand your definition of Self. Then it dawns on you.

Only in the presence of something else can you know yourself. This something else is that which you are not. Thus: In the absence of that which You Are Not, That which You Are...is not.

You have remembered an enormous truth, and you vow never to forget it again. You welcome every other person, place and thing in your life with open arms. You reject none of it, because you see now that all that appears in your life is a blessing, presenting you with a greater opportunity to define who you are, and to know yourself as that. "

-- Neale Donald Walsch, "Friendship With God: An Uncommon Dialogue"

Cherish these sacred relationships. Discover the beauty of finding your Self in another's heart. Please.

Please.

Katrina showed me God

I want you to know, love,

that you don't deserve to be treated that way.

That you are the definition of powerful feminine beauty

too incredible to fathom

too great to go unwanted.

I want to tell you that it was wrong for him to do it,

that you warrant Everything this world has to offer

but you only receive everything of his scorn.

You are the vision of God-created perfection

men should be silent in awe at the wonder of your presence

unable to formulate sentences

(let alone putdowns)

Need to show you that power has your face

righteousness your walk

courage your stare of disgust

confidence your words

and inspiration

your everlasting light.

(For you, love, I will speak)

Impresario of the Here and Now

I l | a | u | g | h | e | d with God today.

A lot.

Out loud.

With dead people.

In a cemetery.

Forever.

(until the twelfth of never)

Was that inappropriate?

(so is your Lexus)

God didn't think so.

God thought it was

F u n n y.

(another pleasant valley Sunday)

destroying dissipation

Today I will attempt the life of intention.

A life in God's rhythms.

I've come to realize that my own subdivision of this divine time-signature is merely a sorry manipulation.

To establish control.

To remain comfortable.

To feel righteous in all my un-meditated acts.

But today I will fill hunger with the taste of spring and the prayer of life.

And I am not alone.

a day in the life of the wary.

A halo of matted hair and some mascara made me feel pretty that day. Scribbled high-water hand-me-downs and a tie-dye tee with a fuschia pullover made the girls look nice. Reeeaaaal nice. So nice that I had to give those ta-tas a quick squeeze, just to make sure I could really be so fortunately endowed. I right-eye winked at the shadows of my not-so-childbearing hips and slipped on some moccasins to complete the look. Outside: rain. Toss on a gortex and smile at the skies. We laugh our way to the bus (you and I) and fumble with change. Sit down with The Stranger and begin to read. Interrupted. Old toothless man at 12 o'clock stares at the curves of my legs. Instinctively they cross. "Let me read your pants" he spits, or something to that effect. The air changes as i stutter polite euphemisms in response to his crazed lustful mutterings. A sigh of relief is expelled when he exits the bus. Normalcy returned.

We wander up the hill past the Sakura samurai's and Asian cartoon look-a-likes. Their skin is pasty, as if the only light they have ever been exposed to are the rays of their laptoptvcellphonemicrowaves. Curiosity piqued, I crane my neck for a look inside that elusive convention center. My face contorted with laughter at the absurdity of the world, I hold onto you for support as we strain our calves up Pike. From the ground, a voice calls out. Don't make eye contact. But I do. He is dressed for business--purple pinstripes on black suit jacket, hair coiffed just so, suspended in the act of a shoe-tying maneuver, face gaping in wonder. At me. "Did you know you're the most gorgeous girl in all of Seattle?" Its his earnest tone that I cannot shake. Just thank. "Don't thank me. Thank God!"

Thank God. Yes, thank God there are still a precious few left who freeze in awe at the sight of a carefree smile. The rain has stopped.

But 8 blocks later its a different kind of stare. One that outlines curves through the bulk of my baggy clothes, nodding in approval as he gives me a number on the scale of attraction. Timid smile/averted gaze lets him know that he made me uncomfortable. Gives him the power he wanted. With all the dignity a walking meat-market can muster, i step closer to you, and hope he didn't notice. Scowl in disgust as i attempt a walk without hips for the inevitable re-assessment. It works. Next victim.

Descended the stairs to an oasis of purity. First go the shoes, then shirts, pants, bras, underwear. Next its fear, the eternal guard, anxiety, alert. Drop by drop of sweat we are cleansed of the toxins of a patriarchal world and freed from the ever-present submission. 3 brief hours of respite in this spa-like heaven give the dangerous illusion of liberty. Outside, the world continues to suppress its mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers. You sleep a dream without nightmares, and I watch you in tears because I never want you to wake up to the pain again. But we have miles to go before we sleep. With a gentle nudge of the foot I coax you awake and we leave the imagined safety of what feels like our mothers to be born again into reality.

We can cope, you and I, because this is our calling. To run for those who have no escape. You return your armor and we link arms in a protective sign of love to ward off further advances. It works for a time and we can laugh with little worry. We diminish our fears with guffaws. On top of the hill. On top of the world. Yet soon we descend to the beasts. Didn't remember how bad that bus stop was.

Our bond is severed and he sees his opportunity. he is lacking in stature, grammar, manners and intelligence. his eyes reveal that he can no longer see the difference between right and wrong. Just like your dream, he approaches with 1 thought in mind and pulls at my jacket. It repels water but not harassers. No hello, no charm. he just spits out that word. That awful word. no. no No No NO NO! i see fire in your eyes as the dream approaches truth. But you would never let that happen. Not to me. And I would never let that happen. Not to you. Not to us. We make it out of the mine field without a scratch, but my pride has been stabbed. Wish i had been quicker to respond. Wish i had taught that bastard a few things about chivalry with a well-aimed punch to the scrotum. But it would have ended badly. It always does for us.

If I could do it over though, I would take my wounded self by the hand and tell him that he is scum. That I am not a "cunt" that needs to be "fucked". That I am more than he has ever been, or could ever hope to be. That I am not afraid.

But i was. And so the cycle continues.

Thank God there are still the precious few.

(And thank God I still have you)

Here and Now

Pause.

now.

Do it.

breathe in.
breath out.

for one moment, inhale no past.
for one second, exhale no future.

there is no pain, no suffering, no confusion, no regret, no guilt, no anxiety, no burdens, no fears.

it is only a moment.


But it is enough for Now.

(and now is all you have.)

i can see (ode to my brother)

when the universe expands before me
and engulfs the night sky
like skrink-wrap
;
when 6.1 billion points of light
like snowflakes told to stand still a minute
and set on slow spin-dry
gently whirl above me
;
when a black disc
its crescent edge burning white
arcs lazily overhead and out of reach
:
how is it that i
one (1) person
this mountain under me
some air above me
a star-strewn abyss
beyond me
am not alone
?
how about this:
reality
is much, much more
than what i can see.

and were i to peel back the sky
(not with my hands of course)
and were i to see past the stars
(not with my eyes of course)
i feel i would see. . . . .you.


peekaboo.

i.pity.d.fool

This is for Carmen to read.

"so tell me when you hear my heart stop
you're the only one that knows
tell me when you hear my silence
there's a possiblility I wouldn't know"

hypothetical dial-tone

Thought about drunk calling you tonight.
Took a while longer than it should have to realize

"I'm not drunk."

But for a seccond-

(or maybe a little longer than that)

I thought it might be nice to expel the contents of this box

without worrying about sorting the contents

(or cleaning up the mess)

I've heard when you're drunk its ok to do that

(so I guess I just wont call)

choosing a new reality.

Popped 60 mils
of those
rattle-shakin pills

wish I hadn't now,
but they all say
they'll help

just wish I knew
who "they" was-
be it high-dose meds or
well-meaning friends

Feel them cling to my
throat and emotions
like amoebas (or whatever)

and if I jump
I'll sound like
a goddamn
maraca.

Will you join my medicated band?

Tomorrow's the 90's and we'll really make it
shake.

"Look at the sun. It's beautiful."

Why do you try so hard to ruin things for me?
Rude awakening.
Beg to differ.

No no. The sun is not beautiful at all.
It just illuminates the true beauty around us.

The brilliance of footprints in snow-- that is beautiful.
The cry of the wind on a mountain-- that is beautiful.
The taste of dried mangos after an uphill trek-- that is beautiful.
A shared journal of thoughts-- that is beautiful.
A Chimacum Cheeseburger with Rootbeer and fries-- that is beautiful.
Standing on top of the world-- that is beautiful.

Sharing it all with an unconditional friend-- that is the most beautiful of all.

But you wouldn't know about that now, would you?

Don't tell me what is beautiful. I can see it for myself.

"If you were waiting for the opportune moment-- that was it."

No matter how many expectations they hold of you;
you are not your yesterdays.
(disrupt their false perception)
Despite all of their future hopes;
you are not your tomorrows.
(dash their selfish dreams)
Let th(it)em all go;
you are only your todays.
(so begins the history of forever)

It's not the worst I've looked...It's just the most I've ever cared

We`ll always be together, however far it seems.

(love never ends)
We`ll always be together.
Together in electric dreams.

Because the friendship that you gave has taught me to be brave.
No matter where I go i’ll never find a better prize.
(find a better prize)
Though you’re miles and miles away,
I see you every day
I don’t have to try
I just close my eyes,
I close my eyes.

-Lali Puna

Final Women's Studies Reflection

Who am I?

After ten weeks (and 19 years) of pondering, it is my most sincere hope that I will never be able to answer this question with finality. By answering, I become stagnant; limit myself to the whims, dogmas, and fanciful views of a current paradigm. But that is incomplete. Who I am is not definitive, it is not singular, and it is not without fluidity. I am constantly changing, I am we, I am you, I am me, I am now, I am then, I am here, I am there, I am up, I am down, I am, I am not. All of these things are (were, will always be) true. And as long as I am asking this question, I am alive.

Where am I going?

Before, I needed to go where I wanted. Now, I want to go where I am needed. This summer, I have the opportunity to experience Uganda. But I do not see myself as going there so much as I see it coming to me. I am going wherever I am needed, and the more I acknowledge this, the more needs seem to come to me. I am going where there is injustice. To all the places I would not want to be from. I am sometimes going here; I am sometimes going elsewhere. But regardless, I am going. The where will reveal itself upon arrival.

Women's studies and my vocation:

…are inseparable. I want to live helping women. I want to create a shelter, a haven, an oasis for women who have been battered by life, bruised by its participants, and torn by the shame of their scars. I want to travel to the forgotten corners of the world and be constantly reminded that I know nothing of pain. I want to teach women and men to find common ground in their individuality. I want to have a job where at the end of the day, I am rewarded with smiles, joy and incomparable unity.

They

I think They knew.

Saw the glances

caught the nod

heard the rhetorical questions posed.

I think They knew something that I do not.

And I think They scared me,

because I haven't been the same

since

They was here.

another reason english sucks.

It happened, today.

The explanation came into existence.

The definition was revealed to a feeling I have long toiled to articulate.

And in Portuguese, no less.

Saudade.

"Saudade, my friend...the presence of absence"

I am not a crazy person.

And it may be so

that i act like a crazy person

in every way

But it was never your role to affirm it.

I want to punch your trailing

"Okaaayy..."'s

Curb stomp your quizzically judging looks

gouge out your uncomfortable eye-shifts

stab the lungs that exhale an air of

superiority.

Tired of falling into your boxes.

How could i have wanted to impress you?

i will take my score and tear it to pieces

just like every other bullshit report card

i've ever regretfully read.

j-dubk-doggberryblazeCa$hpeachmaxkelcates

I miss those moments

the ones that made me feel like forever

miss those people, too.

Never thought I would, but I do.

And I can watch them replay over and over

but they are never coming back.

wish I'd known then

(but would it really have made a difference?)

as i hate to know now

that things would never be the (s)ame.

(RIPXC05-09)

my was and i

my was and i

conversed at length.

he could not see me well

, hear me not at all.

i laughed at him

: strutfully he would vainglorious

but cry beneath the de(con)ceit.

rock-a-bye, i(feeling pity)told my was, :

pride and cried and greed are gone.

i laughed again

it

was

what

he

needed.

my was and i then looked

at my will

standing tall.

stronger than the two of us(me)

(i hoped, anyway),

w(i)e liked what we saw.

--i. pity d. fool

Why it doesn't ADD up:

It was nice of them to provide me with a scapegoat. A goat that would let me 'scape'; ride on its back to a rich pasture of understanding and freedom from responsibility. Once it was a disorder. Now it is a deficit. But before all that-- before I became wary of the double D cleavage of identity shrouding titles -- there was that one word to make it all worthwhile. The word that allowed me to procrastinate, receive a litany of praise for the smallest of tasks accomplished. ATTENTION!

No really. That’s it. That's the word.

ATTENTION: this girl is different. ATTENTION: this girl has magical powers.

Everyone loves attention. It's much better than obsessive or depressed. Attention is up there with acronyms and personalized key chains on the hierarchy of American favorites. When snarled from a French nose/mouth it sounds like a dragster racing past the Doppler effect. When belted in two syllables from a sergeant it warrants a sharp click of the heels and a snappy salute. On a road sign it makes you alert. Attention is every child's currency.

Unfortunately, somewhere between that memorable trip to the Rite-Aid pharmacy and this paper I am supposed to be writing, the exchange rate of Attention plummeted; back at the farm, the scapegoat of liberty has aimlessly wandered off and left a crater of confusion for the penniless, excuseless product of outward-appraisal to amend.

"Pay attention!"

"Sorry, I'm out. Do you take credit?"

So here I am, holding all the cards. The problem is, no one takes cards here. "Ca$h or checks, por favor." Don't speak much Spanglish, but it doesn't take a genius to realize the implication. Don’t use our coinage, don't speak our language-- sorry amiga, there's no place for you here in Spain, Mexico, or for that matter, any other country that operates under the legal tender system of "reality".

Checks then, is what it comes down to. Reality checks. Lot's of them.

Like I said, it was nice of them/you (docfamfriends) to give me that goat. If we were in Africa or some country where college educations are not the status quo and they would gladly accept a goat in exchange for my ability to function, this whole Attention and escape thing would be a dandy peach. But that damn goat bucked me off one day in between pills and no pills, and now I'm stuck walking like everyone else. Only no one ever taught me how--

(so its more like a crawl)