After receiving feedback from Tim and Cyndi, I am starting to see some development. This piece that I have been working on is starting to look less like a boulder and more like a sculpture.
Cyndi showed me a new view on my project: sliced into three definite parts.
1. My Writing
I will me assembling a book of my own poetry, each piece accompanied by a short piece of prose that explains my thoughts/experiences/purpose in writing/selecting.
2. Create Workshop
I want to develop a kind a of writing workshop for young adults that would actually inspire youth to express themselves honestly, openly, passionately and in their own voice, and hope to use my poetry collection as part of the workshop format.
3. Use The Safe Space, My Work Shop
I want to actually conduct these workshops in the area.
The next few months will be a mix of working on this project, taking summer classes, many medical appointments (more stress than pain, I promise), and finishing The Harry Potter Series (on book four!). However, after the feedback I have received, I feel it will be easier to think about, develop, and begin to conduct my capstone. I am going to go back to my freshman year curriculum and read through my Concepts of The Self text books and look up "teenage writers", "writing workshops", and "young adult writing" in the MIC’s book search database as well as using an article search via EBSCO. As well, I will be spending some time at UVM this summer in a writing course. I plan on using the course, my professor, and the UVM facilities to work on my project. I listed many resources from my high school, Burr and Burton Academy, on the final plan I turned in at the end of the recent Spring term. I plan to contact them this summer and see what they can do for me, or which direction they point me in. Some of these people are Bill Muench, Robert Hunter, and Sunny Wright, all of whom are part of the Burr and Burton Academy English Department.
The last development I would like to make in these next few months is discovering this place. Where will I invite these young adults to? Where will they feel safe? relaxed? inspired? respected? maybe even, cool?
I hope, and know, summer has been splendid for you all. Keep up the good work, keep reading, and, of course, keep smiling.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
It's All Greek To Me
Hello, kind friends.
My apologies for not getting to this sooner--I was in Greece for a week without Internet. Yes, Greece has Internet. But, you try asking an older Greek man who hasn't seen a pair of young, freshly tanned American legs in months. I am almost glad I couldn't understand him. Even if I wanted to get on the Internet, there was a solid communication.
However, throughout my time in Greece I was thinking about my capstone project. How does publishing a children's book connect to the COR? Am I tapping into Aesthetic Expressions by the illustrations? Am I taking the skills I learned from Concepts of Community by finding and illustrator? Does this mean I should change my project to the collection of character pieces?
By working with character, I suppose I am working with my Rhetoric skills, My Aesthetic Expressions skills, as well as my skills found in Concept of Self & Community.
To be completely honest, which I love to do, I feel like I am bullshitting this. I DON'T WANT TO. I just don't see the connections between the COR and the program when considering this project. It's all Greek to me! Out in the real world, I can see how my skills will kick in--but ask for this project. I'm just lost. Please, hook me up with some suggestions. Or a few words of encouragement. Please, help me!
My apologies for not getting to this sooner--I was in Greece for a week without Internet. Yes, Greece has Internet. But, you try asking an older Greek man who hasn't seen a pair of young, freshly tanned American legs in months. I am almost glad I couldn't understand him. Even if I wanted to get on the Internet, there was a solid communication.
However, throughout my time in Greece I was thinking about my capstone project. How does publishing a children's book connect to the COR? Am I tapping into Aesthetic Expressions by the illustrations? Am I taking the skills I learned from Concepts of Community by finding and illustrator? Does this mean I should change my project to the collection of character pieces?
By working with character, I suppose I am working with my Rhetoric skills, My Aesthetic Expressions skills, as well as my skills found in Concept of Self & Community.
To be completely honest, which I love to do, I feel like I am bullshitting this. I DON'T WANT TO. I just don't see the connections between the COR and the program when considering this project. It's all Greek to me! Out in the real world, I can see how my skills will kick in--but ask for this project. I'm just lost. Please, hook me up with some suggestions. Or a few words of encouragement. Please, help me!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Down To two
I have narrowed my Capstone Project ideas down to two.
After looking at my classmates and professors comments, I have realized that two of my topics have a much larger load of my writing. Those will be my two topics.
To help my own writing skills, I think my project focusing on character would be better. I can also see this helping other students at Champlain in multiple courses. I remember doing lots of character work in Jim's creative writing classes as well as Eliot Sloan's course when we wrote our memoirs.
However, I would love nothing more than to share my story of what I realized were my "daddy problems" resolved. I found love in this world, and it filled a void that has existed since I was 7. I have a collection of works ranging from poetry, letters, and short stories from my experiences around the world--literally.
However, there is one more idea that I would love to do for my Capstone Project. I would love to publish my first book. It is called The Banny Nanny. I wrote this story in Tanya Lee Stone's "Writing Childrens Literature" course and have been dieing to go somewhere with it.
So, give it to me. What do you think?
After looking at my classmates and professors comments, I have realized that two of my topics have a much larger load of my writing. Those will be my two topics.
To help my own writing skills, I think my project focusing on character would be better. I can also see this helping other students at Champlain in multiple courses. I remember doing lots of character work in Jim's creative writing classes as well as Eliot Sloan's course when we wrote our memoirs.
However, I would love nothing more than to share my story of what I realized were my "daddy problems" resolved. I found love in this world, and it filled a void that has existed since I was 7. I have a collection of works ranging from poetry, letters, and short stories from my experiences around the world--literally.
However, there is one more idea that I would love to do for my Capstone Project. I would love to publish my first book. It is called The Banny Nanny. I wrote this story in Tanya Lee Stone's "Writing Childrens Literature" course and have been dieing to go somewhere with it.
So, give it to me. What do you think?
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Raving, Ranting, Mostly Rambling
When Tim asked us to talk about what we wanted to do with our capstones, I just about fell out of my chair. Capstone?! I'm trying to survive four months in Dublin, damnit! But, turns out, I have some ideas. So here they are, my friends, let me know what you think.
1) Character
There are people you meet in your life that you will never forget. You may speak to them for twenty minutes, run into them on the bus, or spend years of your life with them. I’m talking about the people that you talk about and say, “That person is a fuckin’ character.”
I have a list of names of “characters.” What I want to do it dedicate a semester to writing a collection of pieces about these people and what makes them a “character”. This book would not only display my own talent in writing, but also illustrate how to develop character in writing.
2) Two Schools—One Project
I have always wanted to be a teacher. But, I don’t want to teach 9th grade English classes. I don’t even want to teach now that I think about it. I want to inspire. I want to intrigue young people to write.
I have learned at Champlain College that work-shopping pieces with a class and having a bunch of editing eyes is the best thing for ones writing. I want to make this happen for high school students.
My plan is this: Pair creative writing classes from separate high schools to do a semester long work-shopping extravaganza. I want my high school, Burr and Burton, and a high school in Burlington to become a team and help each other edit.
If this were to be a success, it could spread across the country. I can only imagine how the editing eyes of a California student would see the work of a Vermont student. They would be able to identify what needs more description to the extreme.
Jim and Tim have both been telling us, you will find your best editors rarely and in the weirdest places. This could be a perfect opportunity for high school students to find editors before they even get to college.
3) My Dream Boat
I love the school project, but I would love to do something with my own writing.
So, here it goes. My Dad died when I was seven. I spent my whole life without a male figure to take care of me, to tell me I was beautiful when I went to prom for the first time, to tell me, “You’re boyfriend was a piece of shit, anyways. You will find a real man, someday.”
I had to tell myself all that.
But, I found the man my life has been missing. For three years, my admiration developed from a friend point of view to a lover point of view. I have written about this man constantly since I met him. I have developed a sense of “the man in my life” in our relationship and it has been a huge turning point for me.
I never had a man in my life; I now have a man in my life.
This collection of work (poetry, short stories, articles from the paper) would display my work as a writer as well as who I have become as a person.
1) Character
There are people you meet in your life that you will never forget. You may speak to them for twenty minutes, run into them on the bus, or spend years of your life with them. I’m talking about the people that you talk about and say, “That person is a fuckin’ character.”
I have a list of names of “characters.” What I want to do it dedicate a semester to writing a collection of pieces about these people and what makes them a “character”. This book would not only display my own talent in writing, but also illustrate how to develop character in writing.
2) Two Schools—One Project
I have always wanted to be a teacher. But, I don’t want to teach 9th grade English classes. I don’t even want to teach now that I think about it. I want to inspire. I want to intrigue young people to write.
I have learned at Champlain College that work-shopping pieces with a class and having a bunch of editing eyes is the best thing for ones writing. I want to make this happen for high school students.
My plan is this: Pair creative writing classes from separate high schools to do a semester long work-shopping extravaganza. I want my high school, Burr and Burton, and a high school in Burlington to become a team and help each other edit.
If this were to be a success, it could spread across the country. I can only imagine how the editing eyes of a California student would see the work of a Vermont student. They would be able to identify what needs more description to the extreme.
Jim and Tim have both been telling us, you will find your best editors rarely and in the weirdest places. This could be a perfect opportunity for high school students to find editors before they even get to college.
3) My Dream Boat
I love the school project, but I would love to do something with my own writing.
So, here it goes. My Dad died when I was seven. I spent my whole life without a male figure to take care of me, to tell me I was beautiful when I went to prom for the first time, to tell me, “You’re boyfriend was a piece of shit, anyways. You will find a real man, someday.”
I had to tell myself all that.
But, I found the man my life has been missing. For three years, my admiration developed from a friend point of view to a lover point of view. I have written about this man constantly since I met him. I have developed a sense of “the man in my life” in our relationship and it has been a huge turning point for me.
I never had a man in my life; I now have a man in my life.
This collection of work (poetry, short stories, articles from the paper) would display my work as a writer as well as who I have become as a person.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Dancing With Everlasting Company
This piece was originally an assignment. It turned into a piece of my writing. This is my "mentor paper".
I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior. He had style. He was dark and wore the same chain around his neck everyday. He had a pocket watch. He was tall, much taller than me. And his teeth glistened because of their pearl perfection, not the bands of metal straightening them like my own. When I saw him I couldn’t speak. Even if I was mid conversation with another person I would stop and just look at him. My eyes could speak for me. I bet my pupils would get small the way they do now when my heart beats fast and I can only see one thing. His name was A.J and I thought I loved him.
The first time I saw him he was getting a breakfast burrito at the schools cafeteria. He looked glorious smearing hot sauce and ketchup onto that burrito and smashing it into his freshly stoned mouth. He drank coffee and I can remember thinking to myself about how mature and how handsome that was.
I was always early to my classes the first few weeks of school. I was nervous that I would get lost between one classroom and another, as if the school wasn’t composed of three buildings. I made my way to my Creative Writing class. So I sat in Sunny Wright’s classroom, which looked out into the courtyard. I could see some of my team mates from my JV Gold soccer team; the stoners were playing hacky-sack and casually recalling the previous nights joint sessions; the senior girls in their matching white tank tops with neon bras sticking out getting lectured about school dress code by the Dean of Students; and then there was him. He sat alone on a bench. But, he didn’t look alone. He had a book and it was his company. Him and his book. The bell rang. I looked toward the front of the room and when I looked back he was gone. My heart sank.
Then it rose, straight into my throat. There he was, looking around the room I sat in for an open seat. I watched him brush the hair out of his face and he brushed my eyes aside.
Sunny asked us to write. We could write about anything. I wrote about him. I wrote about how I wanted to read the time from his pocket watch only and sweep the hairs from his eyes so he could look into mine and see that I was in love.
I could hear a chair slide back and he cleared his throat as I looked up. He began to read:
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,
I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.”
It was this poem that gave me courage. When he finished his words my mouth made its openness worth it and I asked him, “What did you just read?” I created it in my mind that he would tell me he wrote it about me when he saw me in the cafeteria that morning.
He didn’t, though. He sat down, scooted his char in, looked at me, and replied, “Neruda.”
At that point, I didn’t know what I longed more for—his eye contact or Neruda. I copied that name down in my notebook and changed my free write topic from the boy in my classroom to the man in his book.
***
I ended up being good friends with A.J. and consider Pablo Neruda to be a good friend of mine as well. I told A.J. about my infatuation with his dreaminess one night over a beer after one of his shows. Our conversation turned into comparing favorite poems and deciding you couldn’t consider only one poet your favorite. However, if I were to consider one poet, one writer, one passionate communicator to consider my mentor it would be my precious Pablo.
Pablo Neruda has encouraged me to inspire my poems to dance. The thing that grasped me about Neruda’s work is that each poem has a specific dance. Sometimes, like in “I Crave Your Mouth”, the poem grabs you lightly around your tailbone with one arm and locks its fingers with your other hand. And with each verb like want, hunger, and search it holds you a little lighter. And when it comes to the end of the song, and the poem reads “like a puma in the barren wilderness”, you are dipped and your hair sweeps the ground you feel you float on. At that point you wish for a kiss just behind the ear.
Then there are the times where you’re dancing and before you know it your holding on so tight you’re standing still. You eyes are shut and your heart is fluttering and you think, you know, that at that point in time nothing more could create such perfection. It is the feeling of being confined to one area but that area is so large you could get lost and that person would still be there to find you. Neruda and I danced like this when I read “In My Sky At Twilight”. He spoke to me and whispered truth in my ears, he said to me:
“You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.”
And when he was finished I opened my eyes and all I could see was the depth of an imaginary neck and my body felt held.
***
I remember not using my headphones on the walk to town from my high school the day A.J. introduced me to Pablo Neruda. I kept repeating Neruda’s words in my head and even spoke them out loud as I walked past things that were beautiful: Autumn outside the Orvis fishing store, someone unhooking a trout in the Batenkill river behind The Jelly Mill.
I was late for work that day at Ben & Jerry’s. My co-workers were pissed when I showed up and had a “lame” excuse.
I looked at my boss and said, “Jon, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I had to go to the bookstore and get this book.” I held onto my first collection of poetry: The Essential Neruda: selected poems. And it was essential, and I had selected it to be mine. My boss, Jon, laughed at me, called me Slacker like usual and threw me an ice cream scoop.
That book dealt with a lot of my bullshit. It moved out of my Mom’s house with me and caught all the tears no one else would reach out for. It got addicted with me when I had surgery and ate and breathed nothing but Percocets. We broke up with my pig-farming-cop-running-good-girl-heart-breaking first love together. I wrote in this book the way the words made me feel and when. It documented how my emotions changed throughout years and different addictions ranging from drugs, to people, and adrenaline rushes.
I have never had many girl friends. But, I have always had one. Her name is Hannah. She is the friend I lied for in high school when her mom asked if she spent the night when in reality she was at deer camp with a 22-year-old, the one whose arms I cried in when I moved two hours north for college, and the one I drove across the country when she ran from that 22-year-old at deer camp. I have always been the one who gets pleasure from things that aren’t only physically beautiful. I am the one who can cry to the melody of a song or dance to the words of a poem. I wanted to share this with her.
I knew I wouldn’t be with her on her 20th birthday, and it would be the first birthday she didn’t have me to light her candles since we were six. I wanted her to have something special. I made her a card and wrote to her about how I knew that distance wouldn’t hurt us and we would always be holding hands. I tucked the card into the pages of special Neruda book.
She took the card out and handed the book back to me.
I smiled, laughed, and looked up at the sky. I knew, at that point, that the book I held in my hands could not dance with another. And we would dance till our feet were tired. We were to stay together through the rest of my story. The smile on my face is for all eternity; just as my collection of Neruda will be everlasting company.
I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior. He had style. He was dark and wore the same chain around his neck everyday. He had a pocket watch. He was tall, much taller than me. And his teeth glistened because of their pearl perfection, not the bands of metal straightening them like my own. When I saw him I couldn’t speak. Even if I was mid conversation with another person I would stop and just look at him. My eyes could speak for me. I bet my pupils would get small the way they do now when my heart beats fast and I can only see one thing. His name was A.J and I thought I loved him.
The first time I saw him he was getting a breakfast burrito at the schools cafeteria. He looked glorious smearing hot sauce and ketchup onto that burrito and smashing it into his freshly stoned mouth. He drank coffee and I can remember thinking to myself about how mature and how handsome that was.
I was always early to my classes the first few weeks of school. I was nervous that I would get lost between one classroom and another, as if the school wasn’t composed of three buildings. I made my way to my Creative Writing class. So I sat in Sunny Wright’s classroom, which looked out into the courtyard. I could see some of my team mates from my JV Gold soccer team; the stoners were playing hacky-sack and casually recalling the previous nights joint sessions; the senior girls in their matching white tank tops with neon bras sticking out getting lectured about school dress code by the Dean of Students; and then there was him. He sat alone on a bench. But, he didn’t look alone. He had a book and it was his company. Him and his book. The bell rang. I looked toward the front of the room and when I looked back he was gone. My heart sank.
Then it rose, straight into my throat. There he was, looking around the room I sat in for an open seat. I watched him brush the hair out of his face and he brushed my eyes aside.
Sunny asked us to write. We could write about anything. I wrote about him. I wrote about how I wanted to read the time from his pocket watch only and sweep the hairs from his eyes so he could look into mine and see that I was in love.
I could hear a chair slide back and he cleared his throat as I looked up. He began to read:
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,
I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.”
It was this poem that gave me courage. When he finished his words my mouth made its openness worth it and I asked him, “What did you just read?” I created it in my mind that he would tell me he wrote it about me when he saw me in the cafeteria that morning.
He didn’t, though. He sat down, scooted his char in, looked at me, and replied, “Neruda.”
At that point, I didn’t know what I longed more for—his eye contact or Neruda. I copied that name down in my notebook and changed my free write topic from the boy in my classroom to the man in his book.
***
I ended up being good friends with A.J. and consider Pablo Neruda to be a good friend of mine as well. I told A.J. about my infatuation with his dreaminess one night over a beer after one of his shows. Our conversation turned into comparing favorite poems and deciding you couldn’t consider only one poet your favorite. However, if I were to consider one poet, one writer, one passionate communicator to consider my mentor it would be my precious Pablo.
Pablo Neruda has encouraged me to inspire my poems to dance. The thing that grasped me about Neruda’s work is that each poem has a specific dance. Sometimes, like in “I Crave Your Mouth”, the poem grabs you lightly around your tailbone with one arm and locks its fingers with your other hand. And with each verb like want, hunger, and search it holds you a little lighter. And when it comes to the end of the song, and the poem reads “like a puma in the barren wilderness”, you are dipped and your hair sweeps the ground you feel you float on. At that point you wish for a kiss just behind the ear.
Then there are the times where you’re dancing and before you know it your holding on so tight you’re standing still. You eyes are shut and your heart is fluttering and you think, you know, that at that point in time nothing more could create such perfection. It is the feeling of being confined to one area but that area is so large you could get lost and that person would still be there to find you. Neruda and I danced like this when I read “In My Sky At Twilight”. He spoke to me and whispered truth in my ears, he said to me:
“You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.”
And when he was finished I opened my eyes and all I could see was the depth of an imaginary neck and my body felt held.
***
I remember not using my headphones on the walk to town from my high school the day A.J. introduced me to Pablo Neruda. I kept repeating Neruda’s words in my head and even spoke them out loud as I walked past things that were beautiful: Autumn outside the Orvis fishing store, someone unhooking a trout in the Batenkill river behind The Jelly Mill.
I was late for work that day at Ben & Jerry’s. My co-workers were pissed when I showed up and had a “lame” excuse.
I looked at my boss and said, “Jon, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I had to go to the bookstore and get this book.” I held onto my first collection of poetry: The Essential Neruda: selected poems. And it was essential, and I had selected it to be mine. My boss, Jon, laughed at me, called me Slacker like usual and threw me an ice cream scoop.
That book dealt with a lot of my bullshit. It moved out of my Mom’s house with me and caught all the tears no one else would reach out for. It got addicted with me when I had surgery and ate and breathed nothing but Percocets. We broke up with my pig-farming-cop-running-good-girl-heart-breaking first love together. I wrote in this book the way the words made me feel and when. It documented how my emotions changed throughout years and different addictions ranging from drugs, to people, and adrenaline rushes.
I have never had many girl friends. But, I have always had one. Her name is Hannah. She is the friend I lied for in high school when her mom asked if she spent the night when in reality she was at deer camp with a 22-year-old, the one whose arms I cried in when I moved two hours north for college, and the one I drove across the country when she ran from that 22-year-old at deer camp. I have always been the one who gets pleasure from things that aren’t only physically beautiful. I am the one who can cry to the melody of a song or dance to the words of a poem. I wanted to share this with her.
I knew I wouldn’t be with her on her 20th birthday, and it would be the first birthday she didn’t have me to light her candles since we were six. I wanted her to have something special. I made her a card and wrote to her about how I knew that distance wouldn’t hurt us and we would always be holding hands. I tucked the card into the pages of special Neruda book.
She took the card out and handed the book back to me.
I smiled, laughed, and looked up at the sky. I knew, at that point, that the book I held in my hands could not dance with another. And we would dance till our feet were tired. We were to stay together through the rest of my story. The smile on my face is for all eternity; just as my collection of Neruda will be everlasting company.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Arizona
A stranger tells me I am beautiful,
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
Halloween
I yelled
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
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