A Night Path


In the kitchen there are too many dirty dishes. In the car there is a bag full of empty coffee cups and a new girl asking about astrology. The wind follows me around as a reminder. I went to throw something in the river, but I ruined the moment on my own accord. I changed directions, then found my way by moonlight. I put up a happy front. I juxtapose my emotions. I say, be brave, when talking to my heart. She’s the decision maker. I’m along for the ride. I don’t even try to backseat drive. If I was paranoid that would be a good excuse to go home. If I was cold/hot/hungry. But instead I scribble notes about secrets. When do I get to reveal myself? When does the seventh skin drop? I look at my calendar for answers. I want a crystal ball and a time machine. Frame a picture of you. Keep that picture of us somewhere deep inside. Pretend not to be disappointed. Notice the lack of fireflies. The dress that hangs from a wire. The shoes that have lost their owner. That’s how I feel. A message flashes on repeat. Even the dogwalkers have gone home. Image

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If I Lived On A Bus

My voice is not enough. I have to remove these states to show you the big picture. There is a way out from under this dark cloud. When pleasure is pain and there’s no blood under your nails. I shape you like clay. Like a Barbie doll in an Osprey’s nest. Like love on a sandal. Like too many hawks in the sky. On the side of a mountain. When no one’s looking. We go looking for Jimmys. There is a list of three, but I won’t ever tell. Suck down the cancer. Wearing a backpack is the first sign. A large button is a good way to spend millions. How many seconds between me and you? That was a question. There is an answer. Where is the somebody on the other side of the line? My nerves are shot. My fingernails are frayed. I’m going to Memphis. I’ll walk if I need to. And I don’t wish for peace. There’s a train running through my room. There’s a pile of rubble on your floor. Best to move. Best to keep moving. I need a Camel and a U-Haul. She’ll be bought for five camels. A small price to pay. I work inside of a valentine. I wear black and white. I match the inside. I want red sneakers, a red hoodie, a red heart. I’ll pay for an upgrade. I’ll trade in. I’ll marry up. I’ll space out.

Formatting Poetry

For several months now, I have been experimenting with poetry. My method so far has been fairly simple. When the mood strikes me, I free write in the notebook I always carry with me. I give it a few days, trying not to reflect on what I’ve written till I have a bit of distance. Then, looking back, I’m able to pick out which parts I like and which parts I can scrap. 

Once I have pared down the writing, I type it up, officially transforming it into a poem. However, lately I have been a little disappointed with how these poems are looking in a traditional form. So this time, I tried writing it up as a block of text. I feel like it fits better with the prose-poetry which I tend to gravitate to. 

Below are both versions, and I would be very curious to hear what you think about the two formats. Is one more effective than the other? Do you have a preference? I look forward to hearing comments and critiques!

The Mayor’s Arm Candy

What is it about leaves turning yellow that makes me want to write a poem? Like counting your tattoos. Today not one person said thank you. I’m a girl among friends. I don’t know his intentions but I know my own. I want to read your words like I want to share your air. Can you lick the gold from my tongue? I know you prefer whiskey but the gold is hot and sweet going down. It cut my throat. The inside. The dark wet inside is lined and cut up with gold. The same color as your sheets. The same notes as my typewriter. I want to hear those keys clack. But I know they’ve been lonely since you met me. Since I met you it’s been nothing but blue skies and downpours. Did you do that? Did you make that rain? This heart? These hands? I want them back. I am their rightful owner. Unnaturally far, separated by five states. I drive through those states, like blood in the veins, making my way back to the heart. 

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The Mayor’s Arm Candy

What is it about leaves turning yellow that makes me want to write a poem?

Like counting your tattoos.

Today not one person said thank you.

I’m a girl among friends.

I don’t know his intentions but I know my own.

I want to read your words like I want to share your air.

Can you lick the gold from my tongue?

I know you prefer whiskey but the gold is hot and sweet going down.

It cut my throat

The inside.

The dark wet inside is lined and cut up with gold.

The same color as your sheets.

The same notes as my typewriter.

I want to hear those keys clack

But I know they’ve been lonely since you met me.

Since I met you it’s been nothing but blue skies and downpours.

Did you do that?

Did you make that rain? This heart? These hands?

I want them back.

I am their rightful owner

Unnaturally far

Separated by five states.

I drive through those states, like blood in the veins,

Making my way back to the heart. 

 

2 Month Marathon-Summer Procrastination

I’m not sure about all of you, but as soon as the weather turns nice, I am suddenly uninterested in anything that doesn’t involve being in the sun. This is good for my tan, not good for my writing.

Things I did today instead of writing:

-Mowed the lawn

-Filled the potholes in my driveway

-Sunbathed

-Hung out laundry on the clothes line

And then I wrote, for about 30 minutes. Needless to say, I am falling behind on my goal to finish my manuscript in two months. I’ve stretched it until the beginning of August, giving myself a few extra weeks, and still, it will be tight.

I haven’t been sticking to the four-hours-a-day policy that I was so enthusiastic and diligent with the first few weeks. I’m procrastinating. I even procrastinated on writing this post.

Healthy body, healthy mind. I’m hoping that by occupying my time with activities that make me happy, it will somehow positively influence my writing.

Anybody up for the lake?

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Reciting Poetry

In the few months I’ve been home, I’ve done several readings around the Pioneer Valley. It has been nerve racking and exhilarating to read my prose in front of an audience.

Last week, I chose to read some of my poetry at Spoken Word Greenfield. It was a completely different experience. Poetry, being so much personal than fiction, was much more difficult for me to get through. I felt vulnerable and exposed.

It was difficult, but it was a great experience, one in which I hope to build on in the future.

I would love to hear from other writers out there. Do you feel a difference when you read poetry versus prose at an open mic? Which do you prefer?

Here is one of the poems that I read:

AMHTHYST BROOK

Out in the woods I stand in the middle of a bridge

And I can’t tell which way the water is moving.

Like myself, coming and going

Moving perpetually in two directions.

I’ve seen enough roadkill to last a lifetime.

I don’t want to drive anymore.

I want to close my eyes next to you.

Be near me so I don’t have to think.

Be near me so I don’t’ have to know myself.

There is too much inside.

No matter where I go I find myself at a trailhead.

I walk fifty yards into the woods and then turn around

Because I fear its depth.

Like how I stand in the shallow end of my soul.

I don’t want to know how far down it goes

Or what lurky beasts hide in its midst.

It’s all mist down there.

Caution signs everywhere.

I told you to stay away

That at the end it would feel better.

But then, that’s a lie

Because I batted the fuck out of my eyelashes for you to come over.

What took you so long?

I’ve been watching the clock,

Not long until my moods swing.

Let’s hit the bathroom.

Oh it’s too nasty?

I like to play dirty.

So I guess it’s all my fault

I wind up with shards of glass in my skin

And dirt in my eyes.

I don’t want to stop.

Nothing feels better than pen scribbled on paper. 

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Spring Survivor

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The Robert Frost Trail
Amherst, MA

ROBERT FROST TRAIL

Ok, this is awesome:

I’m in the middle of the world.

Water moves by slowly.

Straight, tall trees march up the hill

And cling to rocks.

A few trees have fallen across the water

Casualties of winter

But I won’t be one.

I have my face to the sun for the first time in months.

I am blown away by love

But I’m in love with nothing so petty

As a person:

The whole universe.

A Stab at Poetry

Cover of "Writing down the Bones"

Writing Down the Bones

Fiction has always been my forte. I usually stick to what I know. But recently I have gotten into the practice of doing free writes in a journal. This was a suggestion I picked up from the great book, Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg.

The act of putting pen to paper is so different than writing on a computer. I found it refreshing, tapping into a different part of my creative brain. I would like to share a free write that I did on the bus home from New York City last weekend. I decided to type it up in the form of a poem.

This is something vastly different from the work I usually do and I am looking forward to any comments or suggestions that my fellow bloggers would like to share. As always, and in any capacity, Happy Writing.

4/14/2013

I dreamt of the terrifying fear of jumping off the high dive.

I swore I was in love.

I was so happy

And woke up feeling so sad.

I am powerless in your presence.

I feel pain and hurt and I haven’t seen you for years.

Does this make me weak or does this make me a butterfly?

Am I transforming?

I no longer know if I have wings or if I have toes.

I apologize for my inadequacies.

I apologize for my restless, ruthless emotions.

Why should I shun my failures?

Why shouldn’t I sit on a park bench with nothing but an empty coffee cup?

I like to feel the subway rattling below me.

Last night in bed I felt it again, but further removed

No physical shaking, just a soft noise

Like a moan or a creak of the bed.

Was that it?

Is that all he has for you?

Maybe there is more, but I won’t stay around long enough to find out.

I want to feel the bones under my skin.

How does the sun look in your eyes when you wake?

Will I ever get the chance to know that beautiful secret?

There are so many cars.

But are there as many cars as gravestones?

I would count but I don’t have the time.

My time is more important than money.

I want to lick a penny.

I want to write until the bones in my hand turn to jelly.

New York is there-

On the other side of that hill.

The wind blows all the reeds in the same direction

Except one.

A Canadian Goose stands alone by the side of the highway.

The Turkey Vulture makes fun of its long neck.

I love your long neck.

I want to bite till I draw blood.

I want you to remember me forever.

Why are people biking?

Why is everyone exercising and smoking cigarettes?

I see your face everywhere I look

But it’s only a memory and you are a stranger.

Billboards ask me questions that make me self-conscious.

I always make the wrong decisions.

Where am I going now?

Best not to ask.

It’s strange to see green again, like I don’t believe in Spring.

Soccer fields show their wear with bare patches of dirt.

How does mine show?

I am transparent.

I am a dandelion in a hurricane:

Blown Away.

I am a circle and you are a square.

I hate your corners.

I want to smooth down your edges so we can finally fit together.

I slept until Hartford where I got off to buy a coffee,

To scold my insides back to life.

Remember me: Life?

No, give me more death.

Please, I’m not ready for this shit.

I’m not ready to be surrounded by passengers asking me the same question fifty different ways.

I’m not ready to go back into the woods with two people in love

And a bunch of animals who won’t show themselves.