A Place 

(for nic)

2,170 miles away exists a place.

It’s 76,519 acres—millions of square feet long

and wide. An anomaly really, how beauty exists

in such measurements, in my mind. A stretch of

red fins tower into a cobalt sky, or does the sky

dive down to meet it? Heaven meets earth meets

this place where I cried as we drove, you and me,

learning that life should be this:  

becoming humbled by rocks. 

This place has a mailbox that doesn’t

deliver what I can’t put to poetry: I miss you. And

that place we placed our tent stood by the river

where we washed our faces and dishes before we 

continued to climb on thick slabs of rock into the sunrise.

We’ll go back is what we promised, to the place

with fins and arches and millions of words

I don’t understand. And with cold beer and thick socks

we’ll go back to everything that happened and didn’t,

every blink and breath.

It’s your lucky day: TWO poems.

This may be a bad idea if I can’t write one tomorrow. 

Green Shorts

Green shorts stuffed in drawers
too many, homes and houses. And bracelets found
in dirt, glittered and ironic: beautiful and trash.

Are moments just that, made up in minds? An image constructed by thoughts
hours and hours of years ago? And if I keep my
headphones on, will I not
shield sounds, but remove them from the world?

We all create reality, using free-will to craft any piece
of fine jewelry, sew any pair
of green shorts, only for them to become
a secret code for what was never
correct.

And what are you so afraid of,
wearing sunglasses on a dark morning,
on a dark subway?

Tap, tip tap, over
and over in 3:4 time,
rain conducted by clouds,
it’s not as loud as it seems.
Tap, tip tap on the tin roof,
and I’m not afraid of thunder this time.
I lay and listen to the orchestra in the woods—
there is no time for sleep in the middle of the night.
Tap, tip tap above my bed,
the gods as playful as any person
lucky enough to be here. 

 Let’s talk poems.

These, my friends, aren’t poems. Poems have hidden structure, follow hidden rules, and are often really, really confusing. When I read poems, I usually have no idea what’s going on. If I’m listening aloud, I’ll nod and “aww,” when the truth of the matter is I only liked that one line, and I don’t get the ending. (Can you include some spark notes? And who invented the whole no-rhyming-poem-thing anyway?). 

When I write poems, I try to scramble words to make it sound more confusing. Yep, I “trick” people into thinking I’m some distance cousin of Emily Dickinson or a girl with an MFA under her belt. So instead of poems, think of these as stories that can have run-on sentences and weird imagery —no theme or falling action.

Perhaps just words that skew meaning, or make us create our own.

The Other Side of the World

They met at the other side of the world,

with dust and dirt and all things pure.

Strangers foreign to themselves,

they kept secrets from themselves and told each other

everything.

At the other side of the world, people

laugh at nearly nothing, and never cry

for all things worth it. And I was dropped off

on the dirt road, where I walked and walked

south of the sun, alone and completely complete,

burning trash and syncopated rhythms.

You stayed close to home, with the belief

that all things come: 5 o’clock, completed puzzles

and rooms  filled with lovers curled around the mouth,

swallowed by the strength of skin.

And we walked to the most beautiful

place in the world, and all I saw were

buildings and wire, metal and

a longing for something better than beautiful.

I gave up writing trying to write poetry after taking an incredibly intimidating contemporary poetry class circa 2007. But I went to my first poetry reading on Wednesday, and it put me in a mood. So of course this week has been spent with late-night notebook scribbling, writing down words and phrases on the subway, and wondering if anything I pen could raise an eyebrow. I don’t do this.

But it’s a new decade, right? 

PS) Like most things, don’t read too much into this. Inspired by others, often.

Those Days Are These Days

 You asked, when did we become adults? 

August, maybe. Blurred lines,

really. Responsibility, leaving work and arriving at the

house to collapse and pause for a breathe

before going back for more.

Weekends once again matter, masking

exhaustion with whiskey, only for sleep to show its

face as we wake up past noon. Only to

stay in wool socks and warm pants, only to

greet the day today, tomorrow.

And here we are on the R train, riding wrong

into Manhattan, rememorizing subways lines

we thought we knew so well.

And time we know not either. Adulthood crept in, all at once and

not at all. And with our pencil skirts and planners, we eat

M&Ms in the car, wondering why the blue ones were such a big deal,

and when we’ll crash another wedding in Albuquerque,

and if eating pasta straight from the pot is

all right.

Maybe we’re young, still and always, and those

days are these days. Yes, whoever they are is right: we always want what we can’t have.

Kids want pancakes for dinner,

adults want new kitchens and vacations,

and we want better love and lower rent. Even when

we spend our savings on spirits and are loved

down the road.