Plate Tectonic Theory

I look up, because I've now known you for long enough that I can feel when you're expecting something from me and know when I should look up.

During the moment I catch your original glance, I watch it change into a wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights thing, and, feeling bad about this nearly voyeuristic glimpse into your psyche, I let my eyes keep going, skittering past yours after the initial catch and blink of surprise, now drifting by each other like two continental plates enacting plate tectonic theory in motion-- somewhere, because of this, a volcano will erupt, or an earthquake will go off.

An unfamiliar prickle begins at the base of my spine; a feeling I've almost forgotten, like the names of relatives you never see anymore. I realize, belatedly, a day later, after the fact, and after the fact that the alcohol I'd been swimming through has now dissolved into my bloodstream like so many other things, to be forgiven and forgotten and generally not thought much of ever again-- it's because you haven't looked at me that way in a Long Time. Nearly, I might even say, nearly a year.

I'd almost forgotten it, but there it was-- I looked to you like something shiny and new.

XOXO

Come Full-Circle

The first night, you made the White Russians with too much vodka. I drank it anyway, and didn't tell you until later, when I was already too drunk to drive home. Thank god you asked me to stay.

The last night, you made me a White Russian, with knock-off Kahlua, and again, too much vodka. I drank it in a rush non-conducive to walking home all the way across town, and was glad when you called me back.

The first night, we slept naked. It was winter-time and cold-- you pressed up against me. I didn't mind too much, other than the Band-Aid-adhesive feeling of peeling my skin off of your thighs when I went to roll over, where your hairs clung to me with sweat.

The last night, we slept naked. One of the last nights of summer, far too hot to touch, I looked at your alien body as it glowed translucently in the dark beside me, all legs and dark patches of hair, and thought about how weird you looked; how weird it was to be looking at you naked, vulnerable, and with your mouth open, snoring.

It was his birthday. We were both drunk beyond judgement. And Lord knows the soft-spot a mile wide for each other is located between both of our legs. It seemed like The Right Thing To Do. A tip of the hat to a shared history and the fact that human beings are remarkably fallible and Have Needs. An old song and dance, revisited. A waltz nearly a year archaic.

The next morning, I woke up, oddly elated to realize that other than a headache that pounded from the bridge of my nose between my eyes (a bull's eye to point where thinking had NOT gone on), I didn't feel any different.

Strange when you've already cared so much that you can't possibly care any more, every last drop of feeling wrung out of you like a sponge in an emotional vice-grip. Not enough emotional range left in you to switch your settings. Oxytocin orgasms over. Spent.

XOXO

Things That People Never Tell You

If feels likes sharks slipping past in the night. The music marks you as guilty, but never has Jaws looked this appealing before.

Cat people thrive on rejection. Maybe, it's the whole feeling given off of "I'm-not-quite-attainable-and-some-of-it-is-partially-at-times-when-you-have-no-fucking-clue-where-I-am-and-find-yourself-fervently-hoping-that-I'm-not-throwing-up-in-your-shoes-to-spite-you-because-you're-not-quite-sure-if-I-really-like-you-or-if-I'm-just-using-you-because-without-your-bed-I'd-be-homeless" way that some women seem to have, too.

Dear Clinique: I am writing to you to report a fallacy in your marketing of your Lash Power Mascara Long Wearing Ultra Waterproof Formula. When my now ex-boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me for another woman with a perm, that shit ran like the Nile.

"I don't tell fairy tales much."

"Please? Just this once? Mommy always tells me fairy tales before I go to bed."

"I didn't birth you, so I don't think those rules apply to me."

"C'mon, just this once. Please?"

"Did you hear the one about the princess and the frog?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing is original these days. Fine. There was this--"

"NO! You have to start with, 'once upon a time'..."

"FINE. ONCE UPON A TIME there was this princess who had really shitty taste in men. I mean, like, forget shining armor, these dudes were lucky if they had a frickin' pair of clean boxers. There were no white horses, no roses, no jewelry, no surprise spontaneous serenading and choreographed dancing, no boom boxes under windows...nothing that every single movie or story themed at girls that you will watch or hear for the next 25 years of your life have. Because that is not real life. That is a fairy tale. And in fairy tales, Prince Charming does not give you herpes. Because as our princess found out, it's really hard to sleep with a lot of douches and not contract something that makes you itch where you just shouldn't. And while he lives happily ever after, spreading his gen-hep-2 to the rest of the female population stunned enough to have sex with him, she did not."

"...you don't ever need to tell me a fairy tale again."

"I warned you. And so you know, Valtrex can only do so much, and stay away from artists. They're like, the power-hungry magicians of the not-fairy-tale world. You'll never be able to find that pair of underwear again. Under their bed is a black hole, and a genie. And your three orgasms were his three wishes, tricking you into feeding, clothing, and blowing that sad little excuse for a Jackson Pollock."

"Goodnight! GOODNIGHT!"

"Goodnight, sweetie. Sleep tight."

XOXO

Hell Is A Place Called Not Knowing

It always feels like someone is leaving. Mostly, because someone usually is. It's like trying to have a relationship with an opening and closing door-- most of what you get is the breath of cold air right after the feeling of someone who has departed. You see the words "Enter" and "Exit," but they both start with "E" like "Ecstasy" and "Epiphany" and "Enabler" and "Excommunicate," and so you are confused and stay put, dancing from one foot to the other, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Apparently, the grass is always greener on the other side of that door, or so they say, so while some graze contentedly-- or, at least, pretending to be contented, like a woman exiting Barney's with an arm full of shopper's remorse and a decimated credit line-- that must mean that others are still waiting on the other side of the door, tapping their feet and checking their watches, waiting for the people who Just Can't Say No to come back.

D.A.R.E seemingly did too good of a job in some rural elementary schools-- at least, with the rigid refusing part, if not with the saying no to two of life's most fundamental and key elements to any sort of personal happiness. Because, after all, what is a good story without copious amounts of alcohol and a little weed? Boring, that's what.

And so, there's this little waiting room like something straight out of Purgatory for the people who are too sure that absolutely nothing is wrong to sit in and cool their heels and wait for an explanation to come back through that door; any sort of explanation will do, as long as it's not half-assed and holds more of the truth then most people are willing to give. It's a waiting room like that of an oral surgeon's, or a podiatrist, some office where lots of poking and prodding goes on and you know, you just KNOW you're going to be in a lot of pain, full of a self-righteous silence that barely covers the underlying tension of "Oh god, what have I done?" and "Oh god, what have YOU done?" And you're left staring at two words, two maddeningly heavy words weighted with implications that are far too large for you, you in your hurried, semi-frantic, holier-than-thou martyr's state to really even begin to understand...

So will it be "Enter," or "Exit"? Do you want off this ride, or are you going to wait one more turn of the merry-go-round before you finally decide to scrap it all and jump off? Or, are you ready to finally throw all your baggage (not, as was said with such fervent feminine finality, "it's not just baggage-- it's like excess luggage with the overweight fees and carrying charges,") down onto the floor of that place everyone is looking for called Home and announce, "Honey, I'm Home"?

Because this is not an endless revolving door. Someone who lets someone else who's not supposed to really be there in too many times is called a Push-over. And the next thing you know, Security is breathing down the back of your neck, saying, "Did YOU let him in? Did you really think this would end well, you poor stupid shit?"

And all you can say in response is, "You always go and I just wanted you to stay."

Ok. So I'll bite. What did I do?

XOXO

Short Words, Big Feelings.

For the first time today, I did not go directly out and have a cigarette after seeing the evidence of your indiscretion uncover itself, strewn so completely out in front of me like a particularly gruesome triple-homicide.

I waited three hours. Then I sucked two down in a row.

Shaking in the numbing night air, I opened up my mouth and felt the wind rip it straight from my lungs. And for the first time, I could actually feel it killing me.

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

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