Winter Gothic

The pond was frozen over and the wind had blown renegade snowflakes under the feeble plastic covering the car's cracked windshield. There used to be two cars parked in front of the house on the corner-- two matching Subarus, Mschef and Mschef2. Now Mschef2 was all that was left, deserted, snowdrifts piled along its running boards all winter long, for at least the third running winter in years. Overall, it was the sort of sad winter scene a depressed landscape artist would paint while contemplating if he really needed his left ear; if the world really needs to be heard in surround sound. Even the Canadian geese who hadn't quite made the winter cut-off flying south who were now squatting by the pond looked like they were considering just ending it before having to go through another Vermont winter, and we all know how little comparable intelligence a goose possesses. There's not a gently teasing idiot remark about it for nothing.

I used to drive by about 6 times a week during high school on the way to and from the barn, when it was occupied, in better times, and I remember thinking it looked like the sort of place I would want to know the kind of people who would get matching "Mschef" vanity plates and live in an old clapboard house on a wide corner of a country road and go swimming in their pond in the backyard. They were probably artists, I thought, the two Mschefs-- projects got started, and never seemed to get finished, like the sliding doors on the north side of the house that, while installed, still looked raw around the seams and beams, like someone had found another project to worry at before they could finish fixing the trim. Ms. Mschef was probably a chef or caterer, the sort of a woman who always has a "To Do" list and is methodical yet nonchalant about getting it all done; Mr. Mschef seemed liked he'd be a house painter by day, and an abstract painter by night. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed handy around a house, yet scattered.

The house and car had been left vacant in the middle of those scattered renovations, the impedance unknown-- a divorce; an affair; a death; an unplanned-for birth, perhaps. There are, after all, some things that just can't be explained to a spouse. Why your newborn son looks more like the cashier behind the local general store and why you've been running more "last-minute late night errands" to get supplies for the next day's "intimate rehearsal lunch for 12" is one of them. Now, left all exposed wood and pink insulation tufting out to be mauled at by small mammals and birds to feather their own nests, it resembles so much nothing better than a big stuffed Valentine's Day heart, ripped apart, trailing entrails and the stuff two people thought would be enough to keep them warm. The only sign of life left on the property were those two Canadian geese out by the pond, and even they looked like they wouldn't be sticking around for much longer, if they could help it. After tragedy, sometimes, the stench just remains.

XOXO

So Sweet, So Tender

I have a slight obsession with the concept of poets (usually male,) reading poems about their girlfriends, significant others, or wives to audiences in which their girlfriends, significant others, or wives are a part of. So many times we imagine a female poet being the one who writes about her personal life and the romantic, personal persons in it (guilty as charged), but there's something so sweet and incredibly tender and endearing about how when a man reads a poem about his girlfriend/S.O/wife, he never looks at her, never acknowledges her, never puts her on the spot, and yet, you can see the understanding pass silently between the two.

These two poems come from two different poetry readings I sat in on. The first one comes from a reading given by Galway Kinnell at the Burlington Book Festival, and the second was a reading by one of my professors at Champlain College, Warren Baker. Both were poems about their wives when they were younger, and I'll admit to watching their wives like hawks after I realized who the poems being read were about. Like seasoned poker players, neither woman had any sort of tell that they felt any sort of way about it.

I think I would dance on my seat.

The Pulitzer and His Prize

She sits like any other member of the audience,

Periodically fidgeting to get more comfortable in the folding theater seat,

As his voice slides over her,

Touching everyone else as well,

And she shares him equally.

Unlike other audience members,

She never looks at her watch.

Later,

As they walk through the dark,

Arm-in-arm,

She leans into him and sighs.

"I've always loved

When you read the one

About me."

Literary Couples

She sits,

Front row,

As he reads

Aloud

About watching her sleep.

So intimate,

So sweet;

What it's like

For all these strangers

To hear how he feels about her,

I always wonder about.

She sits,

Front row,

Silently,

Not moving,

And I can't help but wonder,

With longing

If I will ever sit,

Front row,

Silently,

Maybe moving,

But just a little bit,

And listen to a man

Speak about what it's like

To watch me sleep.

XOXO

The Last Time

The last time,
Our eyes caught

In the early morning haze,
And locked,
A gray-blue and a bright green,
As you touched me,
Deliberate.
For an instant,
One drawing in of both our breaths,
One moment of stillness,
One last time you saw me,

For real.

The spell broken,
As I looked down
And closed mine,
Out of shame.

XOXO

Small Packages, a Work In Progress.

Totally subject to changes at any time, massive edits, further writing, and general construction.

---

Small Packages

He had been working there for 13 years, and he still hadn't opened a single package. Bumble & MacAlistar International Shipping, despite one of it's unfortunate founding partner's last names, and maybe because of it, prided itself on both their faithful, reliable employees and fast service, and Marty was no exception.

Marty Strong (Martin, on his blue and white nametag,) had started working for B-Mac, as it was fondly referred to among the people who shipped and recieved packages through them, and the NASDAQ, upon graduating from high school. Now 31 years old, with a wife, a dog named Bear, and a house that's monthly mortage was $900, he was starting to feel a little restless with life. No college education-- Pop hadn't believed in sending his only son away to somewhere where there was something called a "quad" and smoking pot and playing the guitar in a shirt you dyed yourself seemed like the extracurricular activity of the time. 'A good, blue-collar man is worth his weight in gold,' he used to tell Marty. 'There ain't nothing you can't do with your hands that some fella can do with his big brain.' Marty's mother had drunk herself into an early grave, so she had no say in the matter. If she still had been around, maybe she would have tried talking Marty into taking a job in the men's wear department of the local Sears and Roebuck. But in any case, she wasn't, and so Marty found himself applying as a "Handler" at Bumble & MacAlistar, and there he still was.

It was the sort of job that allowed you to let your mind endlessly wander, and Marty liked that. After his first six months, Marty got used to the lift, shift, carry routine, and now, muscle memory controlled him on the job, years of repetition and well-honed biceps doing most of the work for him. Despite his Pop's words of wisdom, Marty actually had a lot going on inside of his brain. There was his wife, Kate, to consider. They had been married for six years, and Marty was still constantly mystified by her. Just the other day, he had come home after a late shift to find her still sitting up, waiting for him, in their living room. 'Marty,' she asked him calmly, 'what if we never get out of here?'

'But we just bought the house four years ago,' he said to her. 'We're going to be paying the mortgage for the next 30 years!'

'Not out of here, Marty-- out of this rut we're in.' His Kate had ideas, she did. She was two years younger than he was, and therefore, two years even more reckless. At 29, she still felt young. She saw her girlfriends moving to the cities-- New York, Boston, Philly-- and she was starting to feel like maybe teaching seven year olds how to write in cursive was a dying lot in life, wheezing its last death-rattles. Marty, in his daily routine of lift, shift, and carry, was a creature of comfort. The thought that his wife-- his lovely, exhuberant, frustrated wife-- was starting to get antsy made Marty get antsy, too. She was trying to shake things up for them. First there were the open issues of Cosmopolitan that she left lying open to "101 Ways To Spice Up Your Sex Life!" and "8 Hidden Spots That'll Drive You BOTH Wild!" That he could deal with fine, but just the other day, she had brought home kits of finger-paint, five of them, and tried to convince Marty to join her in re-decorating the bare living room wall behind the sofa. He had refused, out of princepal-- what sort of person fingerpaints in their own living room?-- but now, delicate little handprints and arching finger swoops in red, green, blue, violet, orange, and yellow seemed to creep over his shoulder as he watched the Tonight Show. You could just barely see the little bump around the base of the second finger from the left of the left-handed prints, but Marty knew it was there, and Marty knew it was the band of the very adaquate wedding ring that his very adaquate yet very lively wife wore, and it made him sigh. There was even a pawprint by the baseboard from where Kate had dipped Bear's front right paw in fingerpaint and then pressed it to the wall. Privately, he thought that being surrounded by children all day in her second grade class didn't help her any.

Between that and the mortage (another thing Marty could spend endless hours contimplating how he was ever going to pay it back on a Handler's salary-- Kate's elementary school teacher's salary went nearly exclusively to paying for the groceries, gas, and her inexplicable shoe collection; how many pairs of high heels does one woman need, after all?) Marty could amuse himself for hours. He was a simple man, while still not being what society would consider a "simple" man. He had very few desires in life-- a few beers after work with his buddies; to please his wife and one day be able to read her mind so he would be able to stop having to guess at why she was mad at him and what she wasn't telling him; to pay the mortgage on time, and maybe, just maybe to have enough cash left over at the end of the month to buy a new set of golf clubs. (This was a new desire he'd been thinking of for the last three months, mulling it over more and more frequently as the weather got warmer and warmer and the opening day of the local golf course got closer and closer.)

---

That's it for now. I haven't written fiction in, oh...a quarter of my life, so any feedback, comments, suggestions and edits are appreciated.

XOXO

Blips On The Radar

I eat the words in galloping gulps, as fervently as a fish sucks in the water around itself. This is the stuff my life is made of, a dissembled alphabet strung back together again in random and beautiful sequence. Nouns and verbs and adjectives and never, ever truly the same.

To me, you are the greatest novel. I want to read you, to flip open your pages and expose the stories within to my hungry eyes. Voracious.

***

"It's basically like going to war to come back home, blissfully alive, and find that your baby's moved away. Moved in with someone else. Shot the cat. Sold your clothes and given your favorite armchair to your most hated enemy. That's what this feels like."

***

I miss you like Christmas mornings and hot black innertubes floating in ponds in the summer sun. I miss you like first phone calls and piggyback rides and movie nights. I miss you like high school sleepovers and all-night ragers and how Cheech misses Chong.

I miss you like midnight margaritas and 2 AM chats sitting on kitchen counters. I miss you like a partner in gleeful crime, like spontaneous dancing, like Sunday football, beer, and chicken wings and cuddling on the couch, and like a hand on my head. I miss you like 3/4th of my days, like roadtrip videos, like beach bums miss summer.

I miss you like plaid flannel shirts and cats I could actually pet. I miss you like sunny hardwood floors, full bookshelves, and warm beds. I miss you like long conversations, early morning music, and name-calling.

I miss you like my other half. I miss you like every bad day turned good; like nowhere else I'd rather be. I miss you like early, early mornings, and late, late nights, and over 6 years of my life. I miss you like a heavy head on my chest, like warm breath making wet pockets on my shirt, and like a heartbeat I know as well as my own.

I miss you like a constant song in my head, the soundtrack of my nights here.

***

Brief Conversations With Hideous People:

Roommate Conversation: “Is it normal to bleed when you blow your nose?” “No, I don’t think so. I mean, not unless your nose is raw.” “Yeah, it’s not like I’ve been doing massive amounts of coke lately.” “Yeah.” (Exit.)

An Interaction In A Crowded Marketplace (otherwise known as, All The Functional Italian I Know): “Ciao! Un etto? (Point a finger and nod.)” “Italian Italian bella Italian.” “Si! Lo prendo. Quando costa?” “Italian Italian Italian, bella. (Pushes receipt across the counter.)” “Grazie. Ciao!” “Ciao, bella!”

“But it ends in an E. Why isn’t it feminine? Don’t all feminine objects end in E’s?” “Si. But this is different.” “Why? How am I supposed to know?” “It just is. You learn from experience.” “So if that question had been on a quiz, I would have gotten it wrong?” “Si.” “That makes no sense.” “There are no rules.” Under breath: “I like the French more now.”

“Get a boyfriend and go into the countryside, and WALK,” instructs Giancarlo. I wonder if this is what he said to his had-been-an-American-student wife. Sound advice, it seems.

“Please. My dead body could feed a family of six for eight weeks.”

“Seriously, when I handled E pills, this is what they looked like. See this? Screams hand-pressed. You can tell how good or cheap or what it’s made from by the press. When the stamp starts to fade off around the edges, that’s when you know shit’s cheap. And this is supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant? Thank god I’m not planning on having sex here, because I DON’T THINK SO.”
"Q."
“If I wouldn’t take this if it was E, do you really think I’d take it as birth control? Seriously. This looks like some meth-head distributor’s side project.”

***

I am sitting the the corner bar, watching a guy talk to his girl back home on Skype while I know full-well he's dating and sleeping with someone else here.

It is obvious he loves her-- just by the way he talks to her, his facial expressions, how upset he is that the screen image isn't perfect and the sound is sub-par. He's worried she's seeing other guys. Meanwhile, tonight, he will go out with another girl. He'll sleep with her. Tomorrow, he'll come back down to talk to Miss America again. He'll count down the days until he comes home-- he told her 70 today, he'll tell her 69 tomorrow.

I have a lot to learn about men.

***

XOXO

Nike of Vermontplace

"I wonder if,
When you have your arms around me,
You can feel me
-----------------Shifting
----------------------------------&
---------------------------------------------------Stretching
Beneath your hands,
And that is why
You try to hold on.
I wonder if,
In those moments,
In the
--------------Dark
--------------------------------&
-------------------------------------------------Silent,
You know that those tremors
That rock your skin,
The
-------------Shakes
-------------------------------&
------------------------------------------------Quakes,
Are actually the silent,
Unfeeling
Landslides occurring within me,
As pieces
---------------Fall
Into place,
Like so many shards of broken china,
Or
Plate tectonics,
Becoming
-----------------Whole
----------------------------------Again.
I wonder if,
When laying flat in your bed,
The silence stretches between us,
Like a tight-wire
Made out of nothing,
But the air that surrounds it,
You know what I am silently saying,
Over
-----------------&
----------------------------------Over
---------------------------------------------------&
--------------------------------------------------------------------Over again,
An unbroken hallelujah of
“Thank you,
-----------------Thank you,
----------------------------------Thank you!”
And
“Where did you come from,
-----------------------------And why?”
And
“Finally,
-----------------Finally,
----------------------------------FINALLY!"
Whole books could be written on how
I
-------------Have/Am
----------------------------------Changing.
Whole books I could write on what I want to say.
Whole books could be written on how
It is best to
-----------------Speak them,
----------------------------------Or not
---------------------------------------------------To speak them;
But
I am whole in the words I am not saying,
And that is the only thing that counts.

-------------------------------------------- …But time comes.

Time comes,
Like a truck bearing down,
Like a ton of bricks,
And you
-----------------Have no legs.
Time comes,
Like a thief in the night,
Like a heartless bitch,
And I
-----------------Have got no fight.
Quick!
Throw your arms around me
And hold on tight,
So that when I take flight
From your bed,
I take you with me,
And I can keep this silence,
This
--------------Silent
----------------------------------Revelry
As you keep your
-----------------Hands
On my
-----------------Arms,
----------------------------------Shoulders,
---------------------------------------------------Waist,
--------------------------------------------------------------------Hips,
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Ass,
Just careful;
Mind the wings."

XOXO

Snapshots.

The User and the Used

"I’m glassy-eyed in the mirror; that same vacant, pretty, coping stare Legs used to have.

My mind stutters on these thoughts, catching rays of sunlight and dust particles glinting in the air. My fingers cramp and release, heavy like my eyelids as I type on the black and white, trying to get the words down, depressing ‘backspace’ more and more as I realize letters are missing…
Overhead, planes fly people to their heart’s location.

My heart thumps heavily in the cage of my chest, bone and skin. The air is thick and smells like funk. I puff, puff, drag, feet resting on my windowsill, blowing the smoke out the window with the aid of a fan. My lighter sparks and catches, sparks and catches, and I wonder if this was how Legs did it, if that’s how he found his escape, like I am doing now. I buy, and de-seed and stem, and pack, and roll, and light, and inhale, and let the smoke trickle from my open lips like smoke monsters in the dark air, and I miss him, terribly, heart-wrenchingly, despondently, all at once.

It’s late, and I know I should put the laptop down, stop allowing myself free access into the confused sore that is my heart and laying it, splat, across the page, but it’s a masochistic exercise in life-lessons: you fall in love and let that person walk out of your life, and this is what happens. So you cry about it. You rationalize it. You get angry about it. You work at it. You smoke to avoid it at first, and then you smoke to embrace it. You mold it into something you can work with. You apply it. You find something that you can live with. You get happy about this, at least, and then you smoke more to continue. It’s a circle of use, misuse, and being used.

...The words tumble from fingertips that are dry and unfeeling on the keyboard, and I don’t even try to stop them. I can’t even stop my mind. Blink, there’s another memory I haven’t remembered since it happened. Flash, and I’m sweaty and I have a dry mouth and can feel everything around me in minute detail. Click, and I’m all the way gone on the sweet side effects of a love that doesn’t know better and a habit that shouldn’t have been allowed to grow. Snap, I’m back to square one."

(In)Pulse
Roused from my sleep,
I clutch pen
& grit teeth.
I cannot help when the words come
Anymore than you can help your addictions,
Already deep-seeded,
Or the singer can control her song
Or the bird his flight.
It is an impulse,
My scratch of pen on paper,
The snort of powder up your nose,
Much
Harsher
&
Methodical
As you cut lines,


Prepare your straw, ---Close one nostril, ---And make that
---------strange ---------snuffling ---------noise


That makes me cringe,
Though my back is turned to you,
Like it always is when I see you start your ritual.
The rise and fall of notes, much sweeter than this candy.
The feeling of air under a bird’s wing, much more free.
You are not sweet,
& you are not free.
But neither am I, chasing this trail of papers,
Always hoping the next one will be better.
You and I,
We aren’t so much un-alike,
Both of us with our willingness to fall prey,
To the things that gnaw on the insides of us.
It is to say,
“Because I can,”
& to do so.
It is to say,
“Who I am,”
& not resist it.

I tell you to stop using.
You tell me to shut the light off,
& go to bed.

Cold

"I’m warmest in sunlight. Not at night when you’re lying next to me, radiating body heat and safety and comfort, but when I’m walking in the cold air and the sunlight touches my face with rays gentler than your gentlest brush of fingertips. I think I have a gold-and-cream complexion (my nice way of saying what some call “pale” in tones reminiscent of disease and social awkwardness,) because I’m a sun-baby—my hair reflects it and my skin soaks it in, becoming almost luminescent. (Again with the “pale.”) I was born in June for a reason.

Your heat doesn’t stay long, just like your body—come the next morning, we part to go our separate ways and I’m cold until the next time you nuzzle your body beside mine, nook into nook, limb over limb, some strange sort of human pick-up-stick pile of us. The sun only leaves me at night, leaving me in your care, your heat, your warmth, knowing that you can never really replace it, even though you will try, and you will like to think that you’re the true center of my personal universe. But I say everything still revolves around one sun, and you, with your thin wrists and your love for sarcasm, are far too human. You are human, and you are cold.

Winter wind still blows even though the sun is in full shine mode. I tilt my face up at it through the smudged windows of the bus and close my eyes, seeing a disco ball pattern on the insides of my eyelids that dance like the free-love generation did on LSD. I’ve forgotten my coat at home, lulled by the sunshine into thinking that it’s warmer than it actually is, and you offer me yours.

The ancient Greeks’ sun-god was named Helios. The Romans called him Apollo. I call him warmth-bringer, light-maker, shadow-chaser. You call me sun-worshipper, heat-seeker, desert-baby. I call you mine, but I lie through my teeth when I say it. You are not mine, and I am not yours, not any more than I can claim to own the sun.

In the age of solar panels, people harness sunlight and bend it to suit their needs—heat, energy, power. I am just as much to blame, yoking you to my proverbial harness to suit my basic needs—companionship, entertainment, and because it’s convenient. You, I suspect, have done the same to me. We do it because it’s easy; because it’s what people expect of us. When you need, you need. It’s human to need, too human, and I have never been good at denying myself, the byproduct of a spoiled childhood. Although I have a hard time telling people out-loud what it is we’re playing at, I find it equally hard to be utterly blasé about it and say, “I keep him around for the sex.” What I don’t have a hard time telling them is what it isn’t. It isn’t forever. It isn’t immortal. It isn’t stationary, or reliable, or even planned. Just like the sun rises from the East every morning, it is predictable and we take it for granted. Once, you called me a frigid bitch. I didn’t deny it. I, just like you, am cold. That’s why I believe more in sunlight than I do in love."

Christmas, Tough-Love Style

"What do you think? Does it look good?"

"It could do without some of the more tacky ones."

"Like which?"

"Like that one, to the left of the middle. The lumpy red and green one that looks like a wreath."

"That is a wreath. I made it for you in Advent Workshop years ago."

"Oh. What about that white Styrofoam one?"

"That one, too. It's supposed to be a snowflake."

"The clothespin reindeer."

"Basically, anything you consider tacky, I made for you and Mom as a child."

Wounding people is so easy, we stride right on afterwards without even a second thought. We all do it.

There will always be that awkward tension between parent and child in the constant search for parental approval. Tides change-- though I will never feel quite up-to-snuff for my father, my mother now looks to me for my approval. I am off-guard and awkward, and don't know when and how to give it. This softens the dynamic of my father a bit, however.

But, then again, who am I to judge?

Choosing Sides

"Wall or nightstand side?" he always asks, even though the answer always remains the same. It's just the kind of guy he is.

He's already tucked in next to the nightstand. Half of me wonders what would happen if I asked for that side. Half of me chastises the other half for trying to make trouble when everything is exactly how I want it to be in the first place. Half of me sighs. All of me crawls up the bed instead.

"Wall," I answer. "Of course. That's where I always end up, anyway." Always between cool wall and warm body. I modulate temperature like a flesh thermostat. Always on his right-hand side. Just like how he always pushes me back down in his sleep to his arm and shoulder in the place of a pillow.

Whoever needed cotton and filling when you have a hot-blooded male, anyway?

After the third night, I wised up. If Manhammoud won't let you go to the pillow-mountain, you bring the pillow to you.

Drip-Drop

Part One:

Writers: Black depressions, over-active imaginations, mental illnesses, and substance abuse. We are an under-whelmingly cheery lot.

Bathtub and beer. Bathtub and half-bottle of wine. Bathtub and a vodka concoction. It's all the same to me.

I think writers have an affinity for bathtubs because there's always the possibility of drowning oneself if the mood so strikes you. I'm sure some author must have tried holding their breath a minute too long after an unfavorable review. (Note to Self: Research this.)

I lounge in the convex shallows of the tub, one knee propped up under the facet, regulating water temperature by feel, my right kneecap bright red because I like it scalding hot. (Might as well live if you're going to be alive.) I'm reading Abbey's "The Fool's Progress" and feeling quite foolish myself, feeding this writer's malaise of mine so indulgently. Later, I will try sticking my toes in the jets, reverse whack-a-mole.

Part Two:

I turn the radio on, but leave the lights off. The moment I step into the shower and close the door behind me, my hair instantly and decidedly curls up in the trapped humidity. (Fact: I have naturally wavy hair. You will probably never see it.) The Presidents of the United States of America remind me in "Peaches" (Fact: Meant to give that CD back...) that the acoustics of the shower are the best I've ever found for singing (Fact,) but these glass walls won't hear my voice today. Soap in silence. Shampoo in solitude. Condition in consternation. (Fact: Alliteration is one of my many writer's vices. Along with verbosity and cliches.)

"Must stop playing hermit," I tell myself. "That's a direct order. Cheer the fuck up."

Circa Bankruptcy

Christmas night. The dog is napping in the backseat, taking up the entire bench, and it's nearly midnight; not Christmas any more. I'm driving and smoking at the same time, because that's one of the things I do know how to do in full multi-tasking glory. I've got the windows cracked because, silly to admit, I am scared of harming an innocent animal's lungs. Mine are already damned. So my nose is cold so his lungs can remain free from any more second-hand smoke. Silly. But the windows are still down.

It's nearly dead downtown. I'm tempted to make a silent joke about the graveyard shift, but it would be almost too easy. I don't know what called me here, but I needed to fill my eyes with it. The sight of a sheriff's cruiser lingering at a red light reminds me I still haven't replaced a front headlight that's out. I skulk past and hope Christmas spirit is enough to get me out of a ticket. I don't have the time, money, or desire to pay for either a new bulb or a ticket. I'd rather just take Plan A and flee the country. Har har.

The streetlights that rise up around me are festooned in white Christmas lights that wind around them and wreaths. The old, retro buildings, once freshly painted and proud, slouch into their foundations. Half of the storefronts are empty; "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs are the only things that occupy windows. The city of my childhood is gone. Instead, hardscrabble has taken hold.

At seven, I used to walk the four blocks down the hill from the public library to my dad's shop. At twenty, I lock my car doors as I come to a stop outside the building that used to be my father's. No lights. No gold glistening from overhead lighting in the display cases in the windows. Everything is quiet; not even the whisper of falling snow to make white-noise. I'm caught half-in and half-out of the past and the present, the crossroads of What Used To Be and The Cold, Hard Truth. Somewhere in the last twelve years, I missed this all changing. You come home, an almost-adult, and you suddenly see it all. It's alarming. It makes you wonder where it went wrong; if there was something you could do; what signs you missed and how. And if a city can change like this, unnoticed until it's over, what else can?

The dog lets out a snore. Suddenly tired, I take a last long draw and then stub my cigarette out on my side-view mirror, the plastic burned and crusted from doing it so many times in the same place before. I pull a U-ey and head for home as the clock ticks in a new day.

"And miles to go, before I sleep, and miles to go, before I sleep," I remember as I roll up the windows and rub the feeling back into my nose.

Implosion

"I'm done with being looked through. When you look at me, it's almost enough to make me believe I could catch fire. Spontaneously combust in being someone."

---

Excuse me for just thrusting you into that, but one of my professors, a very wise man who is pretty much the reason I came to Champlain, once said that there is a time and a place for disclaimers, and in front of your writing is neither the time, nor the place. So I guessed I was wise to heed him-- his advice hasn't done me wrong yet.

The one good thing about being home and broke is that it's giving me lots of time to write. And write. And write some more. The above are some pieces of writing I've been busy resurrecting and breathing new life and words into for awhile (the first piece was an excerpt from a longer work from Creative Non-Fiction; (In)Pulse and Cold are both pieces I read recently at a gathering that went over well, and since people asked for copies, decided to put them here so I don't have to individually email. Laziness is a vice I posses.), as well as some short snippets that have come to me recently, as always, in the most awkward of places. (Mostly, the shower. In the shower, hands sudsy, not a pen or piece of dry paper in sight, is where I get all my best ideas. I have learned to play them on repeat like a broken cassette tape between my brain and my lips to remember them until I get out and run, dripping, for a flat surface and something to write with.) Muses be damned. They always come at the worst times.

XOXO

The Poetry Chronicles, Part I

We interrupt this previous prose programming to bring you some poetry, because due to the multiple readings I've been attending for classes and other events, that's what's been coming out of me lately. It only happens about three times a year, and only for a few days, like the guest appearance of a cosmic spirit, so I'm beseeching you to indulge me, briefly, for these are only brief snippets of full, raging, triumphant, un-humble, unfinished works. Ellipses mark where content is missing, for one reason, or the other. Or none. The first two are part of set poems. For all purposes, what I consider "done." The third is a complete and utter mish-mash of sayings and thoughts and advice and songs and lots and lots and lots of random things. It has something for everyone-- childhood memories, sage wisdom, simile and metaphor, decorating advice. It is my Chaos at the moment. Everyone needs a little. I'm entering Finals Week of school. I have a lot.

"...Because night is when I get
--------Real soft,
And in the dark,
If you look at me
--------Real close
----------------Like you do
And don’t blink,
You can see the cosmos in my eyes when I’m talking to you,
Not just one or two
--------Tiny
----------------Insignificant
------------------------Guttering
--------------------------------Stars,
But the whole damn thing,
& I have no words for this feeling,
The death-knell of my trade,
But it’s like
--------Holding your palm
----------------Up to the flame of a lighter
------------------------On the coldest winter day
--------------------------------Right before you light that cigarette..."

"...I want to see when you close your eyes,
Because I know, sometimes it’s just
--------Too much
To look at,
All of it at once, spread out before your eyes,
Like a feast, and you
--------Just ate.
I want to see when your lips open,
And your tongue
--------Darts out,
To lick the same dry lips that you use,
Faithful sinner,
To worship.
I want to see you completely open in front of me,
--------A book to read,
----------------A story over skin,
------------------------A tale that won’t lie.
Give me your mind!
At these moments, when there is literally nothing between us,
But these un-naked thought-things,
These
--------Looks
----------------&
----------------Sounds
------------------------&
------------------------Feels.
I want a light, like a blinding ray of truth,
Because,
I want to see you, as you are,
Not, as you want to be,
With
--------Layers
----------------&
----------------Secrets
------------------------&
------------------------Questions.
I want to see you, in that moment when you give in,
To know what I have,
And what you are,
And what that
--------Makes me."

"...You’ve got to call me to you,
Because sometimes, like a cat, I won’t
--------Listen,

To the meaning behind the command,

Instead, focusing on tone and context,

And not really
--------Getting it.
But still, sweetie,
You’ve got to keep tryin’,
Because what’s worth it in this life,
--------It isn’t free,
And it sure as hell
--------Ain’t easy.
Because I,
I don’t play with the things I say,
--------Like some do.
Getting me to admit
--------Is like moving a mountain.
Are you strong enough for that?
Make me
--------Shock
----------------&
------------------------Awe
At your conviction.
Make me want to burst into song,
You have never heard
--------From this mouth.
So you know, I like to kiss to both sweet songs of
--------“Hello”
----------------&
------------------------“Goodbye.”

So you know, I like to stay up late, and sleep until sometime,
And I am always,
--------Always
Down for some lovin’.
So you know, your room,
--------Windows,
----------------Walls,
------------------------Door,
--------------------------------Desk,
----------------------------------------Bed,
Are in the same exact places mine are at home,
And it knocked me into silence,

Like coming home, only to find someone else living there.
So you know, I only ever ask to come over,
Every third time I want to,

Because there's this thing called

--------Space,

And there's a difference between "want" and "want,"

& I am always trying to find the fine line between the three.
But I will wake up early,
Just to be there and know it
Like I knew it when I was five,
And was the child
Who was never told that she wouldn’t find
--------What she was looking for.
Responsible people never learned how to fly.
I never learned
--------How to jump.
But here I am,
Toeing the edge of this cliff,
--------Anyway.
Hello, my name is Mediocre,
And I am striving for
--------Majestic
For you."

That's more or less it for now. I'm pretty much straight bleeding poetry at the moment like a love-junkie suicidal poet, so I'm skipping class in the morning to stay home and write. Because it's the writerly thing to do, and I really have no choice. Sometimes, when these things are outside of your hands, it's the most beautiful thing in the world. Scary, yet gorgeous.

You writers out there. Agree? What gets it flowing for you? Is it the first snowfall of the year? Fear? Love? Loathing? Inspiration from others? Sheer need and necessity? I'm curious. As always.

XOXO