To Kjersti

You are such a wonderful friend. Thank you for reminding me to embrace life with a smile and open arms. I am so. So. Lucky. To know you.

Happy New Year, bride to be.

Lo and behold it is the eve of my savior's birthday and I have spent the majority of the day insuring that even the soles of my Seattle feet receive sunlight. I am a glutton for vitamin D, although heat rash punishes me and I could be singing minor key hymns for a birth that seems farther away than ever. Which, in a way, it is--in terms of years past and so forth. But I think the distance for me is new. Upon this clownish inflatable i have been lulled to the strange intersection of truth and custom where i lay floundering in the wake of unwanted change. In this heated winter, in this vacation to the other slice of the world I have gained the unpleasant knowledge that Jesus did not have blonde hair. Along with this shock, I have been recently informed that there was no snow in Bethlehem that fateful night. And as I lay awake, listening to the sound of crickets, confused roosters and lively townsfolk, it occurs to me that our beloved was not kept awake by the anticipation of papa Noel, but by the ancestors of those very same crickets that interrupt my dreams so screechingly.

Where is the tree? My heart asks. Where is the Christmas program of mumbling children and the goodies that insulate my body for the bleak midwinter? Where is the Amy Grant and the Mannheim Steamroller and the Trans Siberian Orchestra? Even some cheesy movies of wonderful life would be welcome to convince me that Jesus can still fit into my paradigm. And yet here I am, mourning the loss of things that shouldn't be significant in the slightest. Here I have spent my entire life thinking that I knew the real meaning of Christmas, when I have only ever understood Jesus in terms of a snowy night filled with anticipation.

Here, in this small Mexican beach town devoid of cold and filled with blended drinks, I could not feel farther from christmas. And yet I could hardly be closer to the truth.

The hotels, motels, and inns are all full. The nights here are filled with stars, and I can always find my way north like a modern and less insightful magi. I have ridden a horse for an hour and it wasn't quite like the journey to Bethlehem, but it made me sore as hell and thankful that I wasn't riding sideways/ pregnant/15. I have seen all sorts of livestock and I can tell you that they smell and that I wouldn't want to bunk with them, let alone give a virgin birth in the stench of their muck. I have seen devoted fathers who work hard to provide for their families, even when times are uncertain and their pride is at stake. I have seen courageous mothers pull their children away from fighting dogs and teach them about ones duty to respect. Traveling beach vendors act as sheppards to lost tourists. There may not be a trough, but the living conditions of our neighbors gives a nod to the glorified stable. I have yet to encounter an angel overhead, but there have been times when my cousin looked at me and I swear she was channeling light. And tonight I will wrap myself in a sheet like the nights before, only this time it will be a swaddling cloth.

Over piña coladas and hot sand, I have found my real meaning of Christmas.

Jesus was not conventional, nor was he properly expected. He did not arrive in a sleigh or demand a tree or conduct songs about himself with tiny infant hands. He never saw snow and might have even been reprimanded as a toddler. He gave the greatest gift mankind has ever received and was slaughtered for it. He did not speak English, he knew nothing of the existence of north america, and he took naps unabashedly. He was born--in filth, for filth--with only the arms of a young mother, the voice of a scared shitless father, and the sheppards of some bewildered livestock to greet him.

And that, my friends, is the glorious point.

So thank you God for the unconventional Christmas we get to celebrate here, and for that first Christmas that changed it all. Felis Navidad, Jesus. Felis Navidad.

Sing it Steve!!!

Pack my bags
Don’t be too slow
I should have quit you baby
A long time ago
Left you flat
And split for mexico

Don’t try to stop me
Child, you’re talkin’ too fast
You and your friends babe
You are a thing in my past
You’re much too slow
I’m goin’ to mexico

I’ve got four or five hundred miles to go
Down that southbound highway
’53 studebaker goin’ for broke
I’m pushin’ it night and day
I’ve had enough of your lies
To last a long, long time
You and your mother, babe
You’re like a nursery rhyme
You’re much too slow
I’m goin’ to mexico

the winter of our discontent

Dear Mr. Steinbeck,

Please forgive me for ever despising you. Let's be honest; the red pony, the pearl-- not your best. But I have matured from middle-school eye rolling and I am ready to appreciate your word-smithing. I have endured the unappetizing appetizers of your tragic short stories as presented by Mrs. Kaizuka. Now onto the entree as presented by you.

We shall start with:

The Winter of Our Discontent

and move onto

East of Eden

followed by

Grapes of Wrath

and

To A God Unknown.

What I appreciate most about you, Mr. Steinbeck, is that you depict the character and depths of men. Those men who have to make difficult decisions and do because they want to provide for the ones they love. Men who allow themselves to be catalyzed into action to make the tough calls because that is what life requires sometimes. Men who are strong enough to be broken. Who have secret haunts and jokes with their wives to whom they are dedicated even when they don't understand them. Men who work hard and aren't afraid to have dirt under their nails.

I think there must have been a lot more of them in your time, because they sure seem to be a scarcity these days. But it gives me hope to read that they once were, and hopefully can be again.

Mr. Steinbeck, I am so connected to the worlds you create. My heart was meant for decades ago.

yours,

me.

Many truths and 2 lies

Today I:

1. Woke up at 6:50 am

2. Went to the dentist and got 2 fillings

3. Read a book

4. Ate 1.5 donuts

5. Listened to Childish Gambino

6. Bought earrings for the first time

7. Shot a Colt 45

8. Rode in a BMW

9. Ate a Chimacum Cheeseburger

10. Went to the Army Surplus Store

11. Saw the sun rise and set

12. Took a nap

13. Sat by the fire

14. Ate a pomegranate

15. Finished a Red Hook (bleck)

16. Showered

17. Finished a cross word

18. Got over it.

guess away!

get out.

there are a few people I would like nothing more than to punch right now and it is all I can do to keep from clenching my fists.

Crispy winter childhood.

I remember that running;

jacket in tow,

chasing sun patches

through winter's chill.

Pounding footsteps of

light-up shoes

freeze-tag and

frozen limbs

making small doses of

child adrenaline

pulse.

I never should have attempted those hurdles...

I am a slave to adversity. Used to always say "I didn't ask for this to happen" but yeah, actually, I kind of really did. Because sometimes it seems like artificial trials are the only way I can catalyze myself to action. If light can't be seen without knowing the darkness, then good things must be made evident at the expense of suffering. "Life is pain; Anyone who says differently is selling something." Oh my sweet Wesley, what have I done?

We become privy to this Karma exchange at a young age. "Eat your veggies! Then you can have dessert." "Do your homework! Then you can play." Need I remind you that the prince only becomes interested in the princess when she's trapped in a mile-high tower surrounded by treachery and dragons?

What does it say about me that I will deliberately place obstacles in my path just to attain that short-lived feeling of accomplishment when I stumble over them? I swear my most effective moments are on that third day without medication the week before finals with a broken cell phone and nothing to eat. Any tasks completed under such conditions become feats against all odds. For those precious few seconds I feel like superwoman minus the latex and with a really bad case of ADHD. Something inside of me longs to be the underdog victorious. I love that story. America loves that story. The single mom with cancer who starts a non-profit. The disabled kid who runs a marathon. The ugly dog that saves an entire family from the depths of an abandoned well. Thanks Lassie.

Just tell me this: why am I so afraid to let joy stand on its own? I was not called to live a tragedy. I don't believe any of us were. So something needs to change.

Tell me: what does it look like to change a masochistic pattern of self destruction that I happen to equate with success? With growth? With living?

I know so well what joy looks like. I am filled with it. And yet there is still a voice that whispers "mmmm, yeah, you haven't quite jumped enough hurdles to deserve this yet. Hop to!" (Not really with words, of course. All of these dialogues go unnoticed, which is part of the issue.)

Please. What would it look like to accept this undeserved grace?

Laura Veirs

Don't recognise my face
Everybody knows your game
Feel like I’m running in place
Everything's changed, everything's changed
I'm gonna move to the country
She's gonna move
So I can see the stars
Heavenly stars, the heavenly stars, the heavenly stars

She's gonna move
Heavenly stars, the heavenly stars, the heavenly stars

I dove into the night
Bathed in the beautiful blue light
Sheltered inside a bat cave
Me and my baby had a conversation
Gonna move to the country
She's gonna move
So I can see the stars
Heavenly stars, the heavenly stars, the heavenly stars

I'm gonna move to the country
She's gonna move
So I can see the stars
Heavenly stars, the heavenly stars, the heavenly stars...

I love Anastasia and Thanksgiving.

Heart don't fail me now

Courage don't desert me

Don't turn back now that we're here

People always say

Life is full of choices

No one ever mentions fear

or how a road can seem so seems long

or how the world can seems so vast

courage see me through

heart i trust in you

on this journey to the past

Somewhere down this road

I know someone's waiting

Years of dreams just can't be wrong

Arms will open wide

I'll be safe and wanted

Finally home where I belong

well starting here my life begins

starting now, im learning fast

courage see me through

heart I trust in you

On this journey to the past

Heart don't fail me now

courage don't desert me

Home, love, family

There was once a time

I must've had them too

Home, love, family

I will never be complete until I find you

One step at a time

One hope then another

Who knows where this road may go

Back to who I was

Onto find my future

Things my heart still needs to know

Yes, let this be a sign

Let this road be mine

Let it lead me to my past

courage see me through

heart I trust in you

And bring me home

At Last

L'inno di mameli

Nothing in me can quite describe what I would give to be back in these abandoned buildings

Looking out on my old school and my favorite snowless marble mountains

Exploring the cracks of this 40 person hill town

wondering what is behind this door

petting this horse and feeling so. so. happy.

surrender me.

I don’t know how to do this. This weakness. I don’t know how not to struggle. Flail. When even giving up is within my control, when even the choice to submit is an act of my own will. My fingers tap out the familiar rhythms. Each beat a reminder of security. Nails on fingerprints. Constantly touching base. Rooted in my own muscular memory, I play out the dissonant melody of my fears on a palm-sized piano with 4 keys and a thumb.

I just don’t know how to finish the song.

4321123443211234 why doesn’t this code mean anything? There are times when it feels like the subatomic meaning of life. Everything hinges on this pattern continuing and I have to be the one to keep it going foreverandever amen.

I can’t let go of the rope. We’ve reached the end of the beginning and I am still holding on for dear (life? Is this really living?!) Callused hands feet dangling arms stretched ground looking soft and all the leaves in the fall reaching out to catch my iniquities.

What will happen when my muscles betray me? When these tendons refuse to cooperate with the will of my nervous determination? When my fingers stop drumming will I be able to feel my heart beat again?

And just like that, the fall began. It is very, very far.

passive: frustration in hibernation.

I am frustrated that my secrets cannot be tokenized.

wearied by my abundance of honesty

that will never allow for an anonymous postcard.

why do I spend my days fighting nature?

10 four year olds is the most beautiful scene that dead leaves can buy.

and I see the boy i love unreasonably suffer through the fall

without my tree arms being able to catch him.

did I forget that autumn is the skipping season?

the time for pumpkin apple cider and long long thoughts.

forget truth

Just get me back to the wonder of fresh death

to where the leaves are swept away!

(that i might sit in them and rest.)

God put a smile upon my face.

Slowly but surely, I am making peace with the color yellow.

Yellow was the color of that first house. The house with the creeping yellow fire, which the babysitter started and I was frightened by. Yellow was the relative color of Spaghetti-o's-- a staple of my toddlerhood when she was gone and I was hungry. Yellow was the apple juice that rotted my baby teeth out and made me a cute but fanged vampire. Yellow was the color of the sky in Nebraska before a tornado touched down, and the way my scar looked after surgery. Yellow is having to pee in a cup and the residual snot from a lingering cold. It is the way my bruises fade and the mold on my arm after I got my first cast sawed off. The yellow pills left a three month gap in my 8th grade memory, and made falling asleep a nightmare. Yellow is the cliche Coldplay song that always gets stuck in my head, and the color of Maria Luisa's teeth. Yellow snow is the kind you can't eat, and yellow #6 warns of the worst banana flavoring you have ever tasted in a saltwater taffy. Yellow is cowboy for cowardice, and the dirty version of white. The painful combination of "yell" and "ow!" Yellow is not mellow. Yucky Yucky Jello.

But then again, yellow is the color my best friend can't tell apart from orange, and the friendliest rooms in our house. Yellow is proof that the sun is shining; the warmth of my favorite liqueur, the sour face of eating a lemon. It is the golden hue through which I filter my evening memories, and edible daffodil teacups in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. It is so many of those things he knows about me and the color of leaves in my birthday month. Yellow is hay on a farm and the blonde in my sister's hair. Yellow is my default color for drawing stars, and a hint of saffron in refugee rice.

Yellow is hello. Hello. Hello.

spiders, heights and very small spaces.

Besides getting caught with my zipper down, I suppose I really only have two main fears.

The first is that I will never be known.

The second is that I am known already.

please do not use this against me.

grey on raye

An old house takes time to cool. The floorboards want to return to roots--in the nighttime they can do that without fear of being trod upon. Built here into the hill side it is no wonder the walls seem to cave left. Every molecule of rebar strains against the force of gravity and the sloping gutter that is our street. I can't help but wonder if there really is a beast in the basement-- one who feeds upon our skepticism and dirty laundry. In either case he would be well fed, but probably lonely. There is wisdom in these single-paned windows that heat cannot keep in. I hear sullen whispers of 80 years of memories etched into every particle of dust that coats these vents. I think the house wants a family. I guess even houses long for a home.

A String of Pearls

Bike into town with my parents.

Farmers market.

Over easy eggs, potatoes and bacon.

Raspberry Italian Soda.

Marina Market licorice.

Glenn Miller hits galore.

All the sun and the shade one could ask for.

What a perfect Saturday.

Oh Canada!

Welcome to Canada, it's the Maple Leaf State.
Canada, oh Canada it's great!
The people are nice and they speak French too.
If you don't like it, man, you sniff glue.
The Great White North, their kilts are plaid,
Hosers take off, it's not half bad.
I want to be where yaks can run free,
Where Royal Mounties can arrest me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
They've got trees, and mooses, and sled dogs,
Lots of lumber, and lumberjacks, and logs!
We all think it's kind of a drag,
That you have to go there to get milk in a bag.
They say "eh?" instead of "what?" or "duh?"
That's the mighty power of Canada.
I want to be where lemmings run into the sea,
Where the marmosets can attack me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
Please, please, explain to me,
How this all has come to be,
We forgot to mention something here.
Did we say that William Shatner is a native citizen?
And Slurpees made from venison,
That's deer.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.

It smells like the moment before a gun shot.

12 steps away from getting run over and two blackberries later,

I am home.

It's nice to be here again.

how summer thoughts are spent.

Sometimes I think I have the stupidest fantasies ever.

Who dreams of canning vegetables and picking strawberries in patched overalls?

Why do I keep thinking about wrap-around porches and sun tea and riding horses?

Will I give a speech when my squash wins at the county fair?

I get emotional about a rustic smell that will become familiar after we've spent the afternoon splitting fence posts and baling hay.

Calico will be my fabric of choice. Followed closely by gingham. Burlap for the flour sacks. Because we will have those, dammit.

I want to dance to Brooks and Chesney without it being a joke.

Wheat will be in my mouth at all times, except when I am kissing my toned shirtless farmer at sunset whose skin can be found somewhere between dirt and sweat.

There will be barn parties and early morning suns with handmade quilts and fresh black coffee enjoyed in a rocking chair.

There will always be cold lemonade in a mason jar for the weary traveler, and trips to town will be a planned affair.

Perhaps an RV, just in case the farm life gets old.

But I don't think it will. And anyway, maybe thats the point?

I can't take you there.

I am sick and tired of boys who see women as another step towards fulfilling their manhood.

Where have all the cowboys gone?

I am not the next step on the ladder. I am not the ladder. I am not even the top of the ladder, though you seem to believe otherwise.

By now you gotta see that I am on the ladder right fucking next to you. Trust me, the winds are shaking mine too, and I want to reach out for you to save me from the fall.

But God knows when I reach this frame tilts and quakes. The only way back to safety is to keep our feet firmly planted eyes up arms steady wills strong desires greater than what is within our immediate grasp of fear.

I will scale these heights with you and share the view from the top. We will leave our fears behind, dance on the roof of our inequities, praise the God who taught us how to love.

But we climb our own ways. Until then we climb alone.

To not send a letter.

God do I miss you. I know the spot on my knee that makes my elbow electric, and it never ceases to amaze me. I want to chain smoke you. They know all about me. Your father, god your father, what must he think? It wasn't supposed to happen the way I think it might be happening. Because you left. It was for the best but you just left and I still have your clothes! I want the smoke of my pipe to float to your place in the world and whisper my breath in your ear. No one else knows the timbre of my voice as you so desired the fluctuations intonations even the silences. I want the future chance to tell you. That a river runs through this heart and it never stops until it finds your embrace your words your hands. It would be selfish to do it now but when will it be too late? I won't give you an inch until I am ready for the endless miles of what lies ahead, and that road trip hasn't started yet. I take time but my mind has a mind of its own, and we both love the books. I never let myself mourn for you cried my eyes out saw you leave but I was brave why did you have to make me be brave? I know you felt me crying because your shirt was wet with snotty tears that I often dream you never washed away. You are the good read I always come back to and have never finished. I have dog-eared your pages (didn't mean to hurt you like that!) Bent the binding written on your margins held you in my hands until the sweat from your palms dripped blood and the pages were too blurred to read. This was no Dick and Jane but you made it so easy for the ideas to resonate. Did I say resonate? I mean't haunt. You haunt me. But I have to put you on the shelf because it is shellfish to do anything else in my current state and you deserve ALL and I know you don't mind shelves anyways, as long as there are books nearby. Just don't wait for me if it hurts. It is all happening the way it is supposed to. The trees tell me so.

your pic gets mine.

I don't have any pictures to document this summer. There was a time, not too much time ago, when that was what I secretly lived for. I wanted pictures of me with African children and images of me having the time of my life and snapshots of me after a long hike eating dried mangos and grinning happily. I wanted portraits of validation that my life is worthwhile and full of precious memories.

I wanted art to imitate life to imitate art. But my camera is broken.

So this has become the summer that I explore life beyond the perfectly pixelated moment.

Not bold new things but the same things done in gratitude.

No twice held cheese smiles, just laughing at cheesy jokes with my parents.

No post cards from foreign lands, just letters of daily life between friends.

Not soaking in the sun, but biking in the rain.

Not a romantic dinner, but a family breakfast picnic on an uncharted beach.

I am on the journey of life in between frames. Some might call it boring, but trust me; God is here, too. And that is what I needed to know.

I Spy: The Ghost of A Good Thing

He had been dreading this conversation for weeks.

She dragged him here, to this public beverage arena; inescapable, automatic inside-voices-only.

He came reluctantly.

"Let's sit by the window-- it's more private".

(An oddly paned privacy through which his wishes to be anywhere elsewhere could wander with ease.)

She prepped her nerves with wine.

"We need to talk..." she began.

"Yeah? Ok, shoot."

Like clockwork, the cuticle examination began. What a sight! Avoidance at his fingertips...

But she took his hand in hers to re-create a sense of what once was. To prove she had his best interests at heart.

It is said that a woman's touch can tame a wild beast, but her skin only agitated him further.

Hand in captivity, his attention veered towards the window.

Outside, it was beginning to rain.

He prayed to each falling drop that she didn't start to cry.

In carefully monitored words, she began to lay the foundation of what would soon become a leaning tower of grievances.

He took a swig of her wine and she pretended not to mind the obvious interruption.

"I just don't get it Blake. How can you say you love me, but never have time for me?"

He semi-considered the question, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated arm stretched out, as if he were half Christ for meeting her in the first place.

"What do you think is going on now? We're here, aren't we? I don't see the problem, sweetheart."

Her face turned a pinker shade of disbelief, and she continued to rebuttal pleas to the side of his window-turned head.

The truth was, he had been busy up to this point. There were long days of work at the auto shop, followed by nightly poker with the guys and bike trips on weekends. Sure, they saw less of each other than when they had first started dating, but he thought he was doing a fairly good job at balancing everything, all things considered.

"Seriously Blake, you pay more attention to Sadie than you do to me!"

He couldn't help but smile at the mention of his loyal golden retriever.

She didn't return the grin.

And this made him wonder why he was with a girl who was jealous of a dog.

Time to switch gears.

"Oh man, Sadie did the funniest thing the other day! We were watching the game, and I had her fetch me another beer, and I guess she must have bit into the can, cause she came swaggering back all drunk and started growling when the Yankees were up to bat and then she shi-- "

"BLAKE!"

"What?"

The whining recommenced, berating him from the opposite side of the table.

He sighed. It was conversations like these that made him wish she could be more like Sadie. After all, Sadie was always up for cuddling or going for a hike at a moment's notice. She fetched things without complaint and didn't lecture him when he swore. On top of it all, the only serious moments with Sadie were wrestling and squirrel chasing, which both companions considered to be seriously fun."

"I just want things to be like they used to! I'm tired of being serious all the time!"

He thought that was ironic, considering she was the one who had interrupted the funny story.

He almost pointed this out.

But outside the clouds were parting, and it was becoming a beautiful day. Back at home, Sadie was probably holding her leash, hoping for a walk. He was done with their chat. He was done before it started. From practice, he knew that the only way to insure that the tears and rain kept their distance was to stuff the righteous manhood and repent his faults to his woman.

So he asked for forgiveness.

Promised to do better.

The wine and glimmer of sun lowered her standards.

She embraced him, saying, "See, I knew we were made for each other."

He smiled to her satisfaction, propelled only by the image of Sadie's head shaking when he recounted the afternoon on their walk. She would give him that look, as if to say "Gee whiz, what a bitch!"

"It takes one to know one", he would respond, scratching her behind the ears.

For today, a narrow escape.

But he dreads the next conversation for weeks.

the I Am

I was regretting the past
and fearing the future.
Suddenly my Lord was speaking:
“My name is I AM”
He paused.
I waited. He continued,
“When you live in the past
with its mistakes and regrets,
it is hard. I am not there.
My name is not I WAS.
When you live in the future,
with its problems and fears,
it is hard. I am not there.
My name is not I WILL BE.
When you live in this moment
it is not hard. I am here,
My name is I AM.”

-Helen Mallicoat

batter my heart.

You make beautiful things; you make beautiful things out of the dust.

You make beautiful things; you make beautiful things out of us.

You make me new. You are making me new.

walking after you

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, as I picked at my feet. Just the post bath ritual of scraping and removing the calluses of the day--just to see where the bottom layers of skin had taken me. I smelled my wrinkly feet as usual; horrified by the odor, but breathing deep anyways for the sake of my own posterity. Tonight, however, for some reason that I can't quite figure out, my feet didn't smell like my feet. Instead, the layers of dead skin smelled like you. Like your slightly intimidating dog after he rolledinsomethinggross. It was unpleasant, for sure. Perhaps even foul. Yet underneath the refuse I could smell the memories of the two of you traipsing through the woods out back. I could smell your revolt as you abandoned the schoolhouse for a higher, treetop curriculum. I sensed a childhood of reckless abandon lived under a shelter of love. It was as if my feet became paws became your feet walking through six acres of native wilderness knowing every branch mudflat big mama clay and creek. I smelled the past that lingers into the present and will probably continue for the sake of your own posterity. It was nice, not to be afraid of Daniel for once, if only through the connection of our scent. And although I still smell like me, perhaps I smell like you two, too.

I left it in Astronomy.

At this extended point in the time-space continuum, I should be writing a paper.

Unfortunately, I seem to be circling the event horizon of an infinitely dense black hole that--for the moment--is my mind. My ideas are pulsating, yes. Sending irregular messages back to earth to indicate that activity might still be occurring. Yet the blinking lights are red, revealing little more than a feeble attempt and a weak frequency of circular thoughts. This fabric stretches beyond reason, a spandex infused faux-denim with endless pockets to lose things in. These jeans this mind those cosmos are seeking a point of singularity. One-- its the number we have to start with. One-- its the beginning we can't skip over. One-- its the smallest number that consciousness can destroy. One-- its the hour my class starts to turn in this paper that I'm not writing. I know that this life will go on forever, but as of this extended point in time, I don't need to know that I will always exist. Screw the Singular State theory. This life, these hopes, those thoughts cry for a beginning. Be it CRASH,BOOM,BIG-BANG!

Just give me a Genesis worth believing in.

Sestina!

You
used
to
love
me
well.

Well,
you—
me—
used
love
to…

to…
well…
love.
You
used
me.

Me,
too,
used…
well…
you.
Love,

love
me.
You,
too
well
used,

used
love
well.
Me,
too.
You!

You used
to love
me well.

-Ciara Shuttleworth

8 am

I deal in blackout poetry no protons not an element we can discuss here i don't study chemistry outside of tenth grade my voice used to crack when i gave presentations my own words now it cracks hearts their words draw tears im tired of being a candoit try that in your Arnold accent on achievement still remember the tempo of the stars and stripes forever onehundredandtwenty beats per minute like that one thanksgiving she convinced me to eat an entire can peed red for a day she laughed i laughed lets dedicate our lives to the untimid laugh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then, one night, when it was once more spring cleaning time, the stars blew open the nursery windows.

We all found her shadow rolled up in a drawer

and little Tink was dying there so soft against the roar

Idobelieveinfairies

cause they take me where I am

first star to the right then straight on to the lamb

Iwontgrowup

Tiger speaks her child tongue

the bow is drawn tight and it quivers what she's sung

you'vejustshotaWendybird

took her wings and fled

she could have told you stories but you silenced her instead

I've tried to love you right but now I understand;

You're still just Peter Pan

flying back to Neverland.

hadda yo do that ish?

Morning happened today. Real morning-- the kind with cheery birds and flowers and ohmygod is that sunlight!? Just when I was getting used to all that rain, just when I imagined I could endure eternal start at 4pm darkness, the clocks leaped forward and I guess it turned spring. Did you know that in Arizona they don't have daylight savings? That the moon on Saturday night was the brightest it had been in 19 years? That Iceland ranks one of the happiest places on earth? That Qatar with it's oil money and eternal heat is joyless?

I know there has to be a correlation somewhere. My blood is encoded with 1/4 of known DNA and that the rest is a mystery of ethnic potential that piques the curiosity of everyone but myself. Yes, I am Tunisian. Yes I am Mexican. Yes I am American. Yes I am Irish. Yes I am tired of not knowing because it seems like they still care.

But maybe if I knew where I was from, I would know how happy I am supposed to be. Is that how it works, i guess? WhateverIdontknow.

So I went out and pulled weeds in the dirt. I am brown brown brown like mud and I am celebrating SPRRRIIIIINNNGGGGG!!!

2 years later and my face is still numb...

my best closed-mouth smiles are inherently downturned.

try as i might, the corners of these lips will not be raised.

but everyone knows i'm happy.

its just a muscle thing

i really am smiling.

:)

see?

“Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”

Kahlil Gibran

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open hands

open my hands

God

open my hands

what if rosa parks had a car?

And here ____________ i will attempt to be Ç®¥p†ˆç

so that not even confusion will know

all i have dealt with

by opening these gifts

before hanukkah

(i mean christmas)

because sometimes all this insight

is a blessing

but sometimes it is the future's present

i wish had just stayed wrapped

ich eine berliner

Its just... uncomfortably hot right now. I have a heat rash from a wave of boredom and drowsiness which makes friday glaze by like an overfilled jelly donut. Squish squash sploosh.