O--- FEMALE **work on me**

[Weird name, that's what's on her obituary. Picturing this as she fears for her life.]

Jane clutched her leg and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Her friend, Jessie, was panicked enough without adding four-letter words to the mix. It had been stupid of them to think that they could skip third period without consequence. They had spent weeks planning this day, but deep down Jane knew that they couldn't get away with it. They'd made extensive plans to ensure Jessie's sister's rusty sedan was available for their escapade and its owner far away on a field trip to the city. They'd brought changes of clothes (even their swimsuits, just in case Mother Nature decided to gift them with a preview of summer by the lake). They'd packed enough food to feed half the football team (because who could say for sure which of three sandwiches they'd be craving at the end of their long day). But they hadn't anticipated any broken bones. Nor had they fully considered the double-edged sword of an escape from civilization -- their phones were merely expensive paperweights this far into the woods. As she watched her friend generate new phrases to express her escalating frustration and anxiety, Jane knew that she would have to take matters into her own hands. She winced as she manually extended her injured limb and braced herself for the pain that would come as she dragged herself back to the car -- once their savior from a boring day of school, now the symbol for their failure -- forever linked to torment.

Mallory

She studied her face in the mirror in lieu of more expensive amusements. Why spend half of her paycheck at the movie theater when she could admire her own enviable bone structure for free? Sure, a night at home wouldn’t get her any closer to the pedestal of celebrity, but at her pedestal sink, she could unabashedly pluck stray hairs from her face! She ran her fingertips over the curve of her jaw and lamented her inability to capture its beauty on canvas. Shrugging off what could not be remedied, she loosened the cap of her mascara and began to hum. She stopped the applicator wand midway to her lash pondering the lyrics beneath the tune – What is the hipbone connected to?

Kirsten

The humming from the microphone echoed and Kirsten's shaky legs threatened to give out on her. How was it possible that she could spell twenty-letter diseases and speed through the lexicon of French cuisine yet flub a simple "i before e except after c"? Sweat had already begun to bead up on her forehead when the grating buzzer sounded to signal her failure.

"I'm sorry; that's incorrect." The facilitator stated simply. "You may return to your seat."

Eyes focused on her feet, Kirsten made her way back to her folding chair. Part of her was shocked by the cold of the grey metal seat, but it was buried so far beneath her disappointment that she her body didn't react to the stimulus. How upset her would parents be to R-E-C-E-I-V-E a loser from the bus stop that afternoon!

She struggled to raise her eyes to the imminent spelling champion as he approached the microphone. As he began to spell the word that was to become her terrible legacy at Shady Elm Middle School, he turned a glimmering eye to her and gave a simple wink. "Receipt. R-E-C-I-E-P-T."

The boy turned away from the microphone and began to walk back to Kirsten before the buzzer had even sounded. Kirsten could barely breathe -- he had thrown the game! She didn't know whether to be elated with her renewed chance to win or angered by his actions. What could have been going through his head to motivate this young boy's self-sabotage?

When Gary returned he selected the chair directly behind her own and managed a few words before Kirsten was invited to stand once again: "You're welcome."

Gold Explosions

gold explodes across 

the treeline and my shirt's stripes;

last barbecue this season?

Summer's End

as Summer's heart slows
leaves cling to dying branches.
Live well to the end.


*


summer's end foretold,
strength pools beneath Mother's breast.
sleep and dream of more

*

your crooked smile is
a sapling's bend in a breeze:
unassuming grace.

Dada Cookie

Sometimes I suspect sentences encased in fortune cookies are assembled in the same random way as Dada poetry with the same oracular effect. Wisdom lies in chaos, it seems.

Isobel

On those days the men insisted on planting themselves in front of the television and consuming immeasurable amounts of food from dishes they had no intention of cleaning, she dreamed of life in a zenana where testosterone only pervaded the premises briefly and for good reason. The men might have agreed with such an idea, had she revealed her thoughts to them.

sex and stimulus

i need to go to sleep or do something productive --
like fucking him until i can't think of anything else.
i'm using orgasm to tune out the truth, but which one:
truth for the long-term or just what i choose to see in a moment?
i can't be sure.
does my libido exceed my wisdom?
(i am often distracted by sex and stimulus.)
does the effect of the cause justify the motivation of the motion?
how many times have i posed such questions?
is there any point
or it is only echoes?

**HAIKU -- work on me

Dandelion

wisdom lies in chaos --
a fact i've learned by my waning naivete
across the axis of time.
the more trouble i endure,
the less it troubles me.
all things come and go with the wind --
be it light whisper or hurricane --
and all i can do is stand my ground
as it softly whistles in my ear or bursts my eardrums.
am i a sapling, torn from the earth after germination
or am i more invested in the earth i occupy?
i am content, today, to be a dandelion,
giving of myself to enrich the world around me.

**VOCAB** cant -- work on this, review definition

i fear my tendency for flowery speech
often comes across as a cant.
i'll admit to frequent indecision --
i do hail from the lunar court, after all
(as my moods testify) --
but i don't wish to repel others
with a lack of assertiveness.
my inability to assert my needs and desires
to all but my closest friends and family
is detrimental...
it seems my speech fails to encapsulate
the fullness of my written compositions.
what encouraged this disconnect
between text and talk?
it is silly to hide behind the screen of the paper
when spoken words are so much more efficient...
but i can't abandon the introspection
available on the page...

parenthetical

i fear that while my acts are repressible
(reprehensible?)
my feelings cannot be forgotten
(nor forgiven?)
i've broken it.
(can it be fixed?)

Growth and Confidence

some days i feel insecure
self-conscious
flawed
wrong somehow.
other days i get out of bed
and feel like i can do anything
(nothing can break my stride!)
...unless i break that stride myself --
with self criticism
self-doubt
by denying that i am good enough
strong enough
enough.

i am truly and always...
an artist
a writer
a musician
a dreamer...
a hard-worker
a person of integrity
(though -- like anyone --
i've had my stumbles along the way)
but i let others determine my path
all too often.
i let others' uninformed words
affect my outlook on the world
(and subsequent actions).
but time and again,
i reach a point
where i decide
to break off...

despite my failure to plan ahead
my lack of whistling ability
my stage fright (when singing, mind you)
my confusion...
i am optimistic
friendly
generous
honest
loving
understanding
and give of myself deeply
(oftentimes, too much ...
too soon...)
i am working on changing my tendency
to become a mat that's walked all over...
straining to improve myself
as i learn about myself and my inner workings
and the world

Hank

Hank's inadequacies were largely imagined: he had graduated at the top of his class and was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder. Still, his zeigarnik accosted him at least once a day--transporting him back to a time years earlier when his nervous fingers had marred his first piano performance. While his parents had long forgotten the error--if they had even noticed it initially, George would never forgive himself for disrespecting Bach.

butterfly's regression

he loved me...
and i could never make myself feel
anything beyond platonic.
once i cleared the cobwebs
of an (adolescent?) (naive?) idealistic happy-ever-after
i could see that
he was not my prince charming
it was i who charmed him into thinking
that he could play that role
and it was i who opposed his valiant quest
and it was i who played the villain.

now that i've ended things
i feel like i'm inadequate
(and fear that i'll feel the same forever)
because i had this man
and instead of doing the honorable thing
and talking things out with him
and maybe working to fix things
i ran into the arms of another man

but i know deep down
that without this encounter,
i'd never have worked up the resolve
to go through with it.
i learned passion,
i learned...so much about myself already
and i think i've been changing everyday
even though i tried to hide it for years

i think the butterfly i thought
i was becoming a few years ago
was flying on borrowed wings.
but i'm okay -- more than okay --
with being a caterpillar again.

Circumscribe

i try to cripple your strength
by talking circles around you --
talking with my pen
(as my vocal cords cannot compete
with the muscles in my fingers
and those in my mind).

despite my strength of mind and digits,
i cannot confine you to a space.
most days i feel that this intangible fence
has fooled me into ignoring you
just long enough for you
to escape through the barbs
and just long enough for me
to stop caring so much.

but other days,
when noise is insufficient to shut out
the incessant emptiness,
i hear you again.
i know it's not truly you --
just my imagined you --
even so, i am transported
to a place where you are central
and i cannot stop wondering
who you really are
and why you had to leave.

Kinetic

moving moving always moving
my mind more than my limbs
my limbs more than my mind
can i truly move both simultaneously?
i forget what i am to remember
when i move my mind elsewhere
i stumble when i am to dance
when i mistake one foot for another.
i can only prepare for missteps
because they are inevitable
and i cannot anticipate everything
or even the smallest fraction of things.
my admission of flaws is flawless
and i do not omit my tendency to omit
the important nonsense in my life.
can i exhale everything i inhale
or will i always hold back a bit?

Liege to My Heart

how can i be liege to my heart
when its rhythm shifts without warning,
responding to instinctual impulses
that threaten to overcome the established hierarchy?
the collar 'round my tiny finger marks me his,
but is it enough?
any good animal tamer knows
that i a cage or collar need not be too restrictive,
as such means of control establish a monarchy
rather than a mutual agreement based on trust.
my ring is like a spring,
allowing me to look away for a moment
so long as i spring back to where i belong.
he trusts me to return to home when we meet again, 
but do i?
the flesh is weak when prodded by the id revealed;
can i keep my baser self repressed
so as always to base my life around him?
basically, maybe...

but then again

but then again,
perhaps i'm wrong
and we are just me and
another person who doesn't give a shit.
my phantasies don't work
if i can't imagine you in them
but they're only phantasies
because you're not there.

No Fanfare Tonight

lying alone in the hallway
as amber light floats from a single dirty bulb
(but the fixture isn't terrible)
there's a reason to go and a place to be
but i can't move...
tomorrow is crawling ever closer
but i shouldn't let it drift away.

i had the urge to get loftier
and parade around some morals
meant to keep the emotional wellness high
but i'm not done soul-searching
and i have fewer answers than before.
so exit stage right, trumpets:
there'll be no fanfare tonight.

no, tonight i hear a distant trumpet and a bongo once and again
and again
once and again.
and the moon shines high above the world
and it's cold and inviting all at the same time
a lover who turns her cheek but turns her cheek,
her body curving into you
but her beautiful face, lips, eyes, BRAIN pull away.

she's not here:
in this world of stability and predictability.
there's no space for different in a world of same.
and maybe she needs excitement.
yes.
she does.

you can't truly claim her until you occupy her mind
but only as a cohabitant, and one with a smaller room at that!
but her thoughts will brush against yours sometimes
because a memory or mystery included you somehow.
you have to make her think
to make her yours.

were you to have this second option rather than the first
as the owner of the mind:
how content could you be with that arrangement, anyhow?
the good and bad from the mind without the excellent horseplay,
(oh, how she brags about her sexpertise!)
your deal is not ideal either.
surely you'll grow tired of the arrangement one day.

and what will she do when she loses your companionship?
who will she become without your light?
with nothing or no one to propel her forwards,
will she start sliding further back?
at what point will the realization come
that leads her to a tough decision?
how much you mean remains to be seen.

maybe tomorrow,
once these hours finish drifting away.