Below You Shall Find All of My Poems.

Enjoy!

“Clairaudients (Kill or Be Killed)”

If you could just behave and do what I tell you,
we could hold onto what little we have left.
I’m man enough for you to trust me.

I’ll show you who’s got hold of you now, you hear?
I’ll make you fear the one that you’ve reft.
If you could just behave and do what I tell you.

Everyone in this town knows what you are, a jeer,
A goddamned bitch that won’t seal this cleft.
I’m man enough for you to trust me.

But you’re a wench that’s going to veer,
and I don’t deserve the punishment of your theft.
If you could just behave and do what I tell you.

I never promise a woman anything, not as a peer,
but I’ll guarantee you, at finding I sure am deft.
I’m man enough for you to trust me.

Now, I’m going to make this loud and clear.
I’ve got this aching in my head that leaves me bereft.
I’m man enough for you to trust me.

“Happy Birthday to Me”
slobbering, blow them
yellow flames, they are spoon-fed
three for thirty-three

“Loose Leaves”
tight-tight overshoes
keep your frozen hands tucked tight
in your tight pockets

“At the Bottom of Everything”
pity and fear- two
loose ends tied up with jimson
I saw And I cried.

"Oh, You Are the Roots That Sleep Beneath My Feet and Hold the Earth in Place"
I told Father it was me
sitting waiting watching in that tree
a gull perched on the thread of mockery
so high- the smell of honeysuckle
nursing, latching onto me
the way iodine stings on my thumb
or the way she smells like potpourri.
But it’s all nothing, a train ride to nowhere,
a huffing breathless instance of life
that jerks into a halt of silence
at its moving-sitting-still destination.
And I meandered along
with the weight of her bosom and my hands and
the everlasting ongoing continuity of that damned watch
ticking ticking in its self-assured wrongness
all neatly packaged in a rectangular box
and tied up with a little string.
It’s easy if you try.
Did you? Did you?
You can’t know anything
but that second-hand smoke
filling your lungs with knotted up gnats
that skim the surface of the water’s edge
as you look too close at your own reflection.
That, sir, is what we call tragedy.
And if you’ve never tasted the fruit of the tree,
if you’d never have had it at all,
how can you know? You can’t know.
I’m caught in a haze of drowsing infinity,
a slipping fleck of a shadow on the sun
that mindlessly drones on in assimilation,
a yellow ant on the floating log that is my future
unwinking, motionless, stirred about in my
weak-coffee-dust-stalemate existence.
And not a soul knows.
It’s lonely. Breathless.
The vines creep in when it’s dusk, and the smell
of hot damp worms comes wafting in
as the lights under my hands turn on to show the way,
and the fishbone is still lodged in my throat.
I try to spit it out, but it’s stuck there.
Do you care now?
Did you? Did you?
You don’t have to if you don’t want to.
It’s just
your gasoline lips
pressed against my nose
my swan-throat
my dead face.
I am an accumulation of nothing.
I is the saddest word of all.
And nobody knows what I know until I is not.

“When the Curious Girl Realizes She Is Under Glass”

The damp dew settles in on the pasture

light tendrils of wet that seep into your breathing

and feed the hungry roots of the oak tree

with leaves on a twig the brightest yellow

echoing the caterpillar’s cry of little death

in the swaddle of a baby’s cloth, “It’s not over.”

“I die for you over and over,”

says the worm to the tree in the pasture

whose own brittle hands break off from wintry death

when the dark night air becomes dragon-breathing

and the face full of teeth is ragged-yellow.

I think, “I am strong because I am a tree.”

It loves out of all reason, the tree

it is not our fault, is it our fault if it is over?

the worm’s eyes peer out, small moons of yellow

looking far away across the grass of the pasture

holding up a knife to stop their breathing.

I’m not the only one to think of death.

The tangled web of security welcomes little death

and holding on so delicately is the tree.

But your body will rise up and trick you into breathing

and the gasping air claws out and spills over

as new life sputters out in the pasture

and the broken shadow glows a dim yellow.

The flutter of a butterfly’s wings golden-yellow

beats right out of the mirror from death,

who sits placid-lake longingly in the pasture,

and meets the branches of the womb of the tree

as the worm gives it a long look-over.

I knew I could hear your far-away breathing.

In the swoosh of cold night, it twinkled, my breathing,

a glinting reflection of the promise of yellow

and the unsettling words from the worm- “Come over”-

that hasten the progression of my eventual death.

But I am more than a stunting stump of a tree

that is forever grounded in the pasture.

In the tumultuous caddy-callings over the winds of the pasture

In the yellow wings of hope salvaged by the love of a tree

I can continue breathing when you can think of only death.

College Essay~

It’s a typical summer day, with the sun shining too-hot and burning my neck. The trail is filled with bent trees, their branches reaching toward me with little twig fingers as I pedal. The trail is lengthy; it curves into the highway and suddenly there are cars to my left, speeding past me effortlessly. I struggle to keep up my pace, but it feels like I’m going nowhere compared to them.

I’m at a cycling camp for teenagers with Type One Diabetes, but it’s my first time on a real road bike. The gears are foreign to me, and it takes a little practice before I begin to feel comfortable. We’re biking thirty-six miles this morning- a seemingly impossible feat for a beginner - but the staff members are sure that we can do it.

After a few miles, the view in front of me blurs, and only the yellow line on the road guides me along. My muscles start to carry baggage, a briefcase of sluggish inability, and my mind slows down, swerving recklessly between wanting to give up completely and needing to continue. My hands are shaking earthquake-fierce, and I can just tell that my blood sugar is low.

I want nothing more than to pull over, check my blood sugar, and take a break, but there are people right behind me, single file, and it’s up to me to keep going. I can’t stop now. I don’t want to disappoint myself.

I can see the glorious Budget truck- our water refill station- in the distance. With renewed energy and a tangible goal set in my mind, I grip my handlebars and pedal faster. Every last bit of energy I have is coursing through me and put to use; I don’t think I’ve ever gone this fast before.  Everything is burning, but it’s a rewarding kind of hurt.

I finally reach the Budget truck, and Chef Ed and Doctor Mike are there waiting for us. Everyone is filling up their water bottles before continuing on their ride, but I’m fumbling with my meter and testing kit. Eventually, I’m able to prick my finger, and the countdown to my blood glucose reading is shown on the screen- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-  and the reading finally appears: thirty-four milligrams per deciliter. My heart drops, and I stumble over to Doctor Mike.

“I’m low,” I mumble, my trembling hand showing him my meter. He sits me down on the back of the truck, and Chef Ed gives me Sweet Tarts. I chew them quickly, not even tasting the different flavors, and make myself focus on staying calm as I wait for my blood sugar to rise. I try to think of how I got so low, but my mind is blank. That’s the thing about diabetes- it’s not an exact science. I can never predict how the day is going to go, and every action affects my blood sugar. Fifteen slow minutes later, I check again. One hundred and twenty. I’m okay. I take a deep breath, thanking Chef Ed for the life-saving snack and getting back on my bike. Doctor Mike tells me that everyone isn’t that far ahead, and I nod.

Starting slowly, I build up my stamina again. My mind is still fuzzy, and my body feels drained, but the wind is blowing around me, and the trees are back to guide me along. I see the other campers up ahead, and strive to catch up to them. They see me and slow down, asking if I’m okay. I nod, and we start to race, but I still think about my low. It’s scary, of course, but a low blood sugar is manageable; I can handle it- and that’s what is important.

No matter how difficult the situation is, I know I can keep going. I can push myself beyond my boundaries; no one- and no disease- can stop me. Sure, sometimes it’s like everyone else is flying down the highway while I’m the one struggling to pedal on the side, but speed does not determine success; arriving at the destination, however, is the true sign of accomplishment. And that’s what I pride myself in doing: arriving. New obstacles come into life every day, making the distance even harder to overcome. Rather than dwelling on them, however, it’s better to take those obstacles at face value and allow them to strengthen the journey. That’s what makes the destination worth it. That strength, of course, and Sweet Tarts. 

Word Count: 750