Wow.

i don't think
i ever could have expected this
or even imagined it
in my craziest thoughts.

String

I found this playwright
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.

And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.

But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.

Beast

I haven't written a poem in a while, and while I feel a desire to do so now, I guess that desire isn't strong enough to result in a few scattered lines of verse in this empty white box, some void I guess I'm trying to fill any way I know how.

But I've been thinking about writing. I've been working on a play. I wonder if the reason I write fiction when I'm home is because I so badly need to do so. I've always known that writing is an escape... but I've felt like it isn't lately. I mean, I don't consciously do it to escape anymore. Okay, I guess in high school it was relatively subconscious... but I suppose I always knew, somewhere inside of something, that it was an escape when I would go into the computer room, shut the tall wooden doors, and scroll up after every paragraph or page or whatever so that anyone who dared wander in wouldn't catch a single glimpse of the world I was creating on paper. That was my world. I didn't usually let people into it, and when I did let people see, they just saw pretty pictures I'd painted that showed them what they wanted to see, even if it wasn't quite the way life was. Real life is ugly sometimes, you know? It's not white and clean and pretty and pure. It's sweaty and dirty and grimy and bloody and sensual and oh-so-hot... but then you look at those faces and somehow they're beautiful even with sweat dragging lines into cheeks and foreheads, streaking the makeup, black mascara lines running like watercolors or maybe like tears into foundation and powder and blush.

Latch

Sometimes
it's so easy
to be open
to say
what's on my mind
and in my heart.
But
I need you
to want to hear.

Clock

I still toss my glance to the bathroom wall
expecting to see the rainbow clock,
two minutes behind schedule (or something like that),
but this is a new time and place
and it isn't there.
It's funny the way my brain
flips the orientation of the room in looking.
But I wonder
how long it will be
before I stop.

Block

I wonder how you know
when you should listen to your head
and when you should pay attention
to what your heart's telling you?

Movement Studio

Tears
Blood
Breaks
Sweat
Pain

Hugs
Friendship
Love
Laughter
Life.

Faith

Did I ever tell you
that I always looked
at the fourth window from the doors on the left
before I came in,
and I always loved
when yellow light glowed
from behind the shades
because then I knew that you were there?

Well
I did.

It was kind of like a funny sort of coming home.

Lessons learned, and things

The flowers divided prettily among four thin vases (really empty Jones Soda bottles) and sitting on my desk, computer cart, other desk, and dresser do a lovely job of brightening up my room.

I like performing in real roles in things, even if it's scary.

Margaritas are amazing things. They taste wonderful.

I want to learn to be more outgoing all the time... I don't like getting quiet. I don't like being insecure.

I want people to love me.

Water with lemon and lime is nice, too. I always take the lemon and lime slices off the side of the glass so they can flavor the water. It tastes good that way.

I don't like it when people talk about other people. And I wonder what people think of me... what they think of me.

I want to keep performing in musicals
and having flowers
and drinking margaritas.

Urleen

"I wish I could find a guy who,
when he went to kiss me good night,
would take the toothpick
out of his mouth."
Ow.

Yacht

This is not really a poem. It's kind of a collection of questions that I thought of stream-of-consciousness. I think. I'm sorry.
~~~

content to life let pass him for a while

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE LIKE THAT.

and I might wish that I could,
like, that I knew how to stop.

But at the same time, I'm kind of scared of stopping.



You had a friend who died yesterday.
Sarah.
And I feel bad because you are in pain.

And I wonder if I would know how to grieve
if someone I loved died like that.
Do I even know how to love?
How can you grieve for someone
if you don't know how to care for them?
Am I emotionally grieving for you,
or is it just intellectual
and I am trying to make myself hurt inside, too?

How does one learn to love?

And how can I learn to live?

Songs for a new world

If I had to choose
between stars and the moon -
and the open highway
and the river beneath my feet
with nights full of passions
and days of adventure -
and this champagne
and a yacht -
a life that was scripted and planned,
the life like the movie stars led -
I wonder what I would want.

It's been a while.

Can you love someone else
if you don't love yourself?

What does it even mean
to love yourself
or to love someone else?

The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love
and be loved in return.

Yes
I guess it is
something you have to learn.
But how do you learn
when there aren't
books
and lectures
and words,
or something
- anything -
besides this fallible body
I call my self?

Dissipation

Whispering.
Spirits sing,
ghosts soar.
I hear your voice
and it sends shivers
down my spine
and tickles
the corners of my heart.

I want to feel
the warmth of your breath
on my cold, cold cheek.
Lashes brush
and eyelids close.

I wish you would look back
as you walk away.
but I blink
and you are gone
so quickly
that I would never have known
you even existed.

Strike

I hurt my finger
so you caught it up
in your hand
as you commiserated
and something inside of me
flickered
when you touched my hand.

Come What May

So I guess
we don't just have
to learn how to love
but we also have
to learn to be loved.
Being loved,
accepting love,
holding love:
evidently it's kind of hard
and evidently you have to learn how.
That's kind of a comfort,
you know?

Play

Swirling colors
like fixtures with glass gobos
shining onto some stage
illuminating the actors,
revealing their presence.

Passionate pleas
entangled in dark crevices
reaching for a spot of sky
and singing to the moon above.

Reach out your hand
and let me hold you.

Home and homily share a root, homou. Did you know that?

I absolutely love it
when I go to leave
from somewhere, wherever,
and someone interrupts my being unnoticed
to tell me goodbye,
or wave and smile,
or acknowledge somehow
whether verbally
or in a gesture
or by an expression,
that I am leaving
but they wish I could stay.

I wonder if people know
the magic in a simple word
from the lips
of a friend.

Belonging
is a wonderful feeling.

I don't know
that I've quite felt it like this before
even though this should be a place
where I'm supposed to feel it
more than anything.

Because now, I understand
how things are supposed to be
and what belonging truly is
and what it means
to be loved
and really live.

Animal

If I hold my hand
in front of the fire,
can I still be burned?
I'm kind of afraid
I will be,
now as I stand here,
holding my palms
so they face the fire.
Funny,
I can't tell
if this part of the fire
fades into the darkness
or brings a spot of light.
You tell me
my palms are going to blister
but I like the way they feel
as much as
I hate admitting that.


Fire
is hot.
Part of me
is afraid
of being burned
but i feel
so warm
right
now.

Chava

Fyedka
is not a creature,
Papa.
Fyedka
is a man.
He is not a fish
and I am not a bird
and we
are in love,
and we
can build a home.
Same lungs
inhale same air,
same lips
sing God's song,
same bodies
create new life.
Fyedka
is a man, Papa
and I
am a woman.