sometimes i feel really normal

i enter the small basement classroom where a few people have already taken the middle desks and wait for the rest of the class to show up. the rest of the class ends up being only a few more guys. the skinny professor with grey hair, big glasses, and a small, slightly creepy smile enters the room and takes his time looking us all in the eye for a few seconds while some of us shift uncomfortably in our chairs. he speaks slowly and softly, rarely losing that small smile that is more condescending than welcoming. he begins talking about the philosophy of art and i feel at least a little bit at ease knowing i’m in the right classroom. the skinny philosophy major couple exchange knowing glances; they’ve had this professor countless times before. the nerdy tall guy in front of me sips some kind of brown liquid out of a small honey jar with a $4 sticker on the cap. i examine his hair; it looks like he once had a mohawk but now it’s starting to grow out unevenly. a scary looking kid with a scar across the side of his head sits front and center and perks up when the professor mentions neitzsche. i avoid looking in the corner of the room where a kid whom i’ve heard pleasuring his girlfriend far too many times to count sits. he avoids looking at me too. a sophomore girl i’ve had previous philosophy classes with sits smiling excitedly and nodding at the prof, which is pretty much her favorite activity. i stare at a guy with long wavy hair in the opposite corner of the room and notice we’re drinking the same brand of tea. i turn my gaze back to the professor after i realize he has asked us no less than three times in in one minute if we have any questions. but i know what he does with questions so i keep my mouth shut. the male half of the philosophy major couple takes the bait and speaks symbolic logic jargon. the professor loves this but, as always, questions the question and turns it into a ten minute banter that i don’t pay attention to. somehow we go from discussing the main topics of the class (philosophy, art) to doing some kind of math equation with variables and asterisks and an equal sign – but no solution. typical. eventually he closes the class and i finally ask him a question: “what’s the homework?”

i wonder what everyone was thinking about the girl sitting in the back watching them.

forget forever

you gave me something
a gift i’d already received
no less than twice
each time, i had thought about it
touched it, turned it over in my hands
tasted it, was tempted by it
and eventually returned it to sender
even if it took a year or two

it was different from you
it felt softer, tasted sweeter
and i didn’t want to let it go
so i put it in a little box on my dresser
and i kissed you in gratitude

months passed
and i became uncertain
i started checking up on it
started opening that little box
each time it seemed as though it lost some color,
some taste, some sweetness, some substance
and each time i checked
i saw frustration on your face
i was so afraid of losing this precious gift
that i started losing you

so i don’t check anymore
i stand facing my dresser
and i do not look at that little box
i don’t even know if it holds the gift anymore
but i don’t care
i no longer worry
i will let no more tears spill
over the idea of consistency
when i live in such an inconsistent world
and i myself am an inconsistent person

a heartfelt promise of forever
is a promise fated to fade
and i intend to forget
so i do not fall

the men in my mind today

passionate – that’s how i’d have to describe him
i often scoff at the things he loves so much
what he’ll never quite master
what won’t pay more than pennies
what can’t give him back the life he’s poured in
all that jazz just echos in circles
around our heads in his old car
i see yellow and gold – and black smoke
it’s pretty but basic and i need more than a dark bar
but if it suits you, baby,
breathe it until you bleed it
i wrote down that advice he told
but i’m not sure i’ll ever find something
i can pursue “with all my being”
maybe my being is weaker than his
i know that my love was
your soul is the very passion you embody
and i remember when your body was mine
and i remember when your passion was me

ethereal – that’s not quite how i’d describe him
but i don’t think there’s a word out there that could
beat poets write their spontaneous prose
about the nostalgia in a world of trees
the dreams, memories, heartbreak, ancestors
that they embody
me, i see these forests in many places
i shine my headlights into their edges,
the barrier between anthropocentrism
and life, but without using those four letters to name it
and the deepest of dreamers see resemblance
the darkest of mourners see death
the loneliest of men see escape
but i just see you
i see you, seeing the trees
exactly as they are meant to be seen

elusive – is just what he is today
and maybe what he has always been
maybe what he will always be
but i go through my day a little bit stronger
strength has become stoicism, distraction, numbness
because that’s what is difficult for me
and that’s sometimes exactly what i need
i wake to an unnatural noise
interrupting a nonsensical dream
of pickles within sting rays
college parties with my grandparents
and a private jet in the ocean
he was there, he didn’t care
a premonition of the lack of contact
i always overreact
today i held onto that “strength”
constant movement, a busy day
to keep the nostalgia, the paranoia,
the desperate love away
maybe it’s healthier
to keep you at arm’s length

nothing built here

a breath of relief on departure day
blends into a sad sigh in the hour of our return
as if all those sweet inhales of california air
never happened in the five days between
time is like staring at a river
it goes nowhere; it flows consistently before your eyes
but throw in a leaf and watch it fly past you
disappearing in your brief blink
i cheated time a little bit
at least, i thought i had
i took a san francisco feeling
and brought it back to the midwest with me
it turned into a dream
that turned into a goal when i woke up
whispered it to a few people so it became real, solid
but plans for the future are as futile
as my belief that the feeling would remain
because a day later, and i’m scared again
uncertain of what exactly i want
uncertain that beauty and sublimity even exist in the world
after all
the golden gate bridge and that california sunset,
i couldn’t touch them, not really
they didn’t reach out and put a hand on my soul
they didn’t pull me in and keep me with them
and now they’re just pictures in an online photo album
pictures taken a million times by every blind tourist
and my vague futuristic plans
are unorganized ideas held by all naive college students
and my love for a boy
is a scared uncertain thing shared by all flawed human beings

old poem

i like the way
you strip me naked
but your sweater never leaves
your skin
i watch the shadow to my left
i watch the curve of me
i watch the hand of you
i watch how easy it is
for action to become visual
and visual to imply fiction
and fiction to release
release.
sweet, sweet release.
i like the way you keep your hand on me
on the source of my soul
the one i don’t understand
the one i carry like a penny in a safe;
the elephant in the room
doesn’t faze me.
your presence moves mountains
you are the god you so fervently believe in
because
you turn dusty solid,
me,
into a waterfall
that never was
and never again will be.
your hand moves rhythmically
your eyes watch steadily
and your silence blankets everything.
i am the definition
of captivated.
the moment fits like a sigh in the middle of
departure day
overlooked, overcome
by chaos,
but a smallness too loud
to be buried,
it nicks a heartstring
just as i swear that i never bleed.

“the only thing more boring than nudity is honesty”

beauty, there.
mapped out on the page.
intentions of the maker
unknown to me.
it’s hard to tell dark from light
on people these days.
pale, milky skin
sly, smiling faces
mysterious “angel” eyes
shameless poses –
deviant art.
i won’t pretend
that they aren’t beautiful.
do they believe they are
appreciated?
or do they know they are
used to reach
a wet and lonely oblivion.
a few moments of release,
then still alone,
because these girls of beauty
cannot be physically reached.
the goddesses
of sick sad souls.

(july 2007)

long distance relationship

why do we put ourselves through the madness of love? why do we tell ourselves we cannot live without a person, one single person, and let that single soul affect everything about us, every bone, beyond the bone. why is the timing always awful, and why does it seem like we’re more often separate than together? maybe we do that on purpose, fall in love with just the wrong person, just the person who won’t quite be there, because it’s safe. the separation is safe, can’t get too close. maybe we do it for the sadness, because the sadness is real and the sadness reassures us that, yes, we are in love, and, yes, we are capable of loving. instead of actually feeling the closeness, we just feel the sadness when apart and the desperation when together – add a touch of dreaming about a blurry joined future to the two agonies, and we’ve got love. “love.”

(august 2009)

inspired by lyrics

three months… can we fit it all in three months?

one and a half done and one and a half left. and what have i fit in?

every passing glancing, every sleepy smile, the immaculate acceptance.

will you let yourself go, please, and glance my way? break into a smile that you didn’t plan, mention heaven before catching yourself, miss my mouth with a kiss you couldn’t perfect…

can you watch me, please, and be amazed? let yourself go as my rays blind you and you forget that you were trying to blind me…

i let it all trail off because i know how you hate loose ends.

you can’t wrap me up in paper or tie me with a bow. i won’t sit in the corner or under the tree. truth is, i’m everywhere. truth is, all i am is loose ends.

and i think maybe you’ll just get tangled.

need my fix, need my drug, i’ll keep your love.

(july 2009)

july 2009

angrily exhausted or exhaustedly angry, i’m not sure which but i found myself flying through my neighborhood, barely looking beyond the curves, blaring “wounded” and feeling just so.

it’s painful to stay awake at this point, but pain is weakness leaving the body and there is so much in me that just can’t stand ground. i don’t bother improving though, because i often find water and wind to be preferable to this ground, and fire even more engaging…

i’m strange, i tell you, in a twisted sort of way. most people look into the eyes of a beautiful innocent girl and mourn, “one day she will be hurt!” i look into these same girl’s eyes, narrow my own, and whisper “one day this child will cause pain.”

i’m strange, i tell you, in an inconstant sort of way. most people just fall in love, but i fall in love deeper and stronger, i can swear it on your grave. the only reason i haven’t let it go is because, well, what then will we have to wait for? what reason will we have to stay when all the doors have been opened and peered behind, and every room is emptied? i will birth no child, not now, not here. and i have absolutely nothing left to give.

neither do you. not really. i know this and so i fall in love elsewhere, in those hours of your invisibility. wait, don’t go yet, this isn’t like last time or the times before that. it all fades when you’re in sight again, disappears like the stars in the sun. i can’t help it, i’m just a human; i need light in the dark.

“sorry about last time. by the way. i never said it.” i sing “no regrets” and i get an apology? my heart stopped a little because… i guess i’m not crazy. i was beginning to believe i maybe made the whole thing up. the frightening thing here isn’t that delusion, but the fact that i was more frightened that you didn’t remember, or that you’d disappear. or that i’d never feel your arm around me when we walk around screaming every cliche.

i know i’ve been altered by far too many songs, but something about befriending your younger neighbor and taking swigs out of a bottle while walking the streets past midnight and talking, sitting on a hill and brushing elbows, well, something about it feels wholesome.

and something about july feels awfully nice. it’s a blank page, and i’m surrounded by every art utensil possible. last year i grabbed some scissors and black ink and created a blanket to cover the next twelve months. this year i draw from memories, but more importantly from lessons. i worry i’m creating a blur, pathetically abstract, when i want something concrete, something certain, something sure. a portrait, no questions, a skyline, no interpretations, me, no mistakes. not possible.

but life is long, and after all, it’s only life.

letter

a timebomb
sits on my nightstand
waiting to explode over the atlantic
but that doesn’t mean
it will silence
the song of my heart
my life.
but it may divert my listening
if i so choose.
if i so choose.