Ode to Old

i don't know what kissing means
but i like it when you kiss me clean
i keep bleeding and i don't know why
falling further through the sky

funny how you say have a good day
and i like your way
pyt
falling free

i forgot why i loved you
why i let you go
but your kinda cute
and i like that you like me
that you dance real goofy
just like me

but it's okay if we don't make out
or have sex or kiss again
you made me laugh without care
and strip bare on a dare
falling falling, falling there

thanks.

Two Haiku

Dimples abounded,
glittering eyes and teeth.
What's so damn funny?

Smiles shared in between
tingling thoughtlessness filling
this void of time and space.

A Perfectly Ripe Pear

After much internal debate, I place the perfectly ripe pear in my work bag with my notebooks, water bottle, and card-pass. I know it bruises easily, but I think it should be able to withstand the easy ride to work, even though it never does. It always ends up marred and hideous, practically pulverized, moistening the inside of my bag and its contents with pulp. But I just keep putting it in there, unprotected, out of spite. It should be able to survive something so benign. I throw the bag over my shoulder and head down the same path to the metro in my soft-brown Steve Madden heels.

Now I remember why I never wear these shoes. My right foot is slightly smaller than my left foot. So the right shoe slips off my heal just a millimeter more than my left, causing my knee-high, thin-wool sock to be pulled down, bit by bit, until its ripples of thin wool are nicely nestled between the ball of my foot and my heal, inside the shoe.

A man stops near me at the intersection, as I hoist my foot on the light pole, and coerce the stupid tan sock back up my right calf, finally giving in to whether it was worth pulling it back up, knowing it would just inch its way back down. The discomfort always triumphs. The glowing red hand blinks out as the white walker signals a go across the street. My man in the pinstriped suit and I set off. Ah, the awkward, side by side, walk with a stranger. It's disconcerting, because it is immediately intimate, no matter how askew you force your stare. Minutes pass, we're still in the same horizontal line. How is this possible? Here he is, in his big, flat, man-shoes, with legs three inches longer than mine, and he's walking at the exact same pace as me? He must be doing it on purpose. He must be wooed by the click, click, click of my sexy half-inchers.

I haven't worn these shoes in forever. I'm only wearing them now, because I saw a woman on the train yesterday wearing the same ones, and she seemed so womanly to me. I wondered why I didn't feel womanly, and I thought, "I should wear those shoes more." I'd been wearing my Dansco's nonstop, forsaking every pair of heels I'd collected over the past year. Right when I'd finished building my collection: brown heels, red heels, black heels, I decided it wasn't worth it, and made every outfit match, as best I could, my big, goofy clogs.

Heels make me feel so vulnerable to the elements: anything could send me tumbling over, tripping over myself, or wavering on my feet. Everyday I watch all the women avoiding the grates in the sidewalk, veering to the right, and I laugh: serves you right! Then I exaggeratedly stomp on each grate, to highlight their foolishness. Now I'm in line with that same rightward stream, blushing.

But maybe that's the point. The shoes make me more sensitive, and so, more womanly. The higher the heel, the more womanly the woman. But I like my clogs. Those clogs make me feel stable in the world: no pebble is gonna throw me out of step. I spent the past fifteen years teaching myself to be less sensitive, after endless teasing by my siblings, marking me the Crybaby. By the time I was a teenager, I'd become cool like all the skater kids, nothing could phase me.

But nobody takes home the cool girl: "one of the guys". I felt like I'd been utterly fooled when I watched each hot, skater guy throw his arm around some bimbo with bubbly tits and an obnoxious laugh. What about the hot chick who can do an Ollie off the half-pipe? No, no one marries the chick who drinks him under the table and shows him up in poker...

I arrive at work and transfer my bag's weight from my back to the desk: the moment of truth. Will the pear be whole, retaining its buoyant skin, or will it be ruined?

In Celebration of my Birth

I hate my birthdays. All they do is give me the excuse to indulge in self-pity.

I always want my birthdays to be fun and full of love, but they invariably disappoint. Everyone at work is emphasizing how terrible it is that I have to work on my birthday. They don't know that if I weren't at work, I'd have to spend the entire day alone. If I didn't come to work, I would not have received a single hug today - an already rare experience.

I remember my disappointment on my fifth birthday. I thought I'd have a great party with all my friends bearing gifts. There would be snacks, games, maybe a clown, like the movies. I remember looking up at my parents, tears starting to back up behind my eyes, as they explained that we'd have to have a family-only party this year, and how they knew I understood, being such a big girl and all. I wouldn't let the tears out, because I was turning five, and kindergartners didn't cry when they're family needed them. I was devastated to find out that turning five didn't mean finally going to kindergarten and being in school like all my brothers and sisters. I was born too late to get in that year.

I remember my disappointment on my eighth birthday. I'd just moved across the country and had almost no friends. But I decided to have a party anyway, with the few friends I did have. I sat in my big empty house all day waiting for someone to show up. I finally gave up when the one guest that did arrive couldn't stay, but just came to drop off a gift.

I spent my entire twelfth birthday silently brooding, because I had to share my "special day" with my cousin Mark's "special day" and everyone's Thanksgiving day. I didn't even get my own cake with the turkey: it had Mark's name on it, too. He was turning nine -- big deal.

My twenty-first birthday was lonely. My on-and-off boyfriend and I were in a break-up phase, but he took me out for a drink anyway. It was not just awkward, but excruciating, because I was madly madly in love with him and he was good at torturing me. He broke up with me right before every major holiday, especially the ones involving gifts -- those and summer breaks. But it was the only outing I could get, as no one else I knew was 21 yet.

birthdays = disappointment and self-pity

12+12=12

Every year for the past twelve years, my mother and oldest sister have celebrated my twelfth birthday. It all started when I visited my sister at college. She ran around behind me, warning all her male friends that I was only twelve and laughed as shivers ran down their spines at the thought of their own thoughts about me. That was the first time I visited Jenn at St. John’s. Every subsequent year I visited her there, she continued to tell her friends that I was twelve. When I protested, she informed me that I’d always be twelve to her.

My mother soon picked up on what she thought was a spectacular joke. I didn’t even mind it so much, but they still got a kick out of continuing the joke. I even enjoyed playing along. My mother put twelve candles on all my birthday cakes, even my “sweet sixteen”. “Can’t break the tradition!” Even now my mother likes to bring the joke up, pushing my hair out of my face, lovingly, “my forever twelve year old girl”. It took me until now to realize all the irony of this running joke.

Mustard Seeds

Mustard seeds, mustard yellow-orange. Orange suns and orange sores. Sore muscles and sore joints. Joined at the hip like marriage and jello. Gelatin in hooves of horses running on a field with hair in the wind. Hair in my teeth, in my mouth -- hairy face -- face of full features filled with faulty fortresses. Fuck. Fuck you. I want to, love you, feel you, touch you, hurt you, feel your steam....

Steaming shit resting comfortably on earthy mounds. My head rests comfortably on my pillow, warm with dog-smell. I cuddle her -- she groans.

Groaning with the endless advance of years upon years upon...

Upon your ears I leave a sign, a signal for your advance and you hesitate. Your hesitation makes me flee, and my flight makes you hesitate. Meditate. Meditate on the falling flowers and wily wind blows and soggy shoes and wilting.

Wilting on your chest, I sigh -- sort of like salty sorrows. Sorrowfully weeping willows salting the breezes, breezing by me as I sit and think. Think of ants on my toothpaste, scratching my teeth -- teeth in my brain, gnawing.

You gnawed on some corn, so unsatisfying. You're unsatisfying, but I like you anyway. 'Cause you're distracting, and I'm distracted. Distracted bumble bees burrow in wood to find a home. Home is where your mother is. Mother is distracted with her home. Home is in the wood of the bumble bees burrowing.

Burrowing into your neck, I can't breathe. Breathing sweat beads and skin particles and soap scum. Scum on my shoes on brick paths and decorated streets, streets where you left me. Leave me in peace. Piece of your shoe left on my porch, decorating my mind with scum-memories and soapy thoughts. Thinking thoughts of thatchers, thatching memories of things that thought thoroughly.

Thoroughly amused. Amused by the mole on your cheek, waggling. Waggle-walking to the convenience store for a popcicle. Cycling panda bears wearing furry neck-pieces -- entertaining. Entertaining you, I lost my feet and stumbled.

I stumbled into you and laughed.

You were always so serious.

Wandering

One of my favorite things in life is walking at my own pace. I love to walk right down the middle of a wide corridor or hallway -- not to the right or the left. I like to walk as fast as I can when I have no where to go. I like to walk as slow as possible, right up to the point of stopping. When I walk with people, I purposely drift into them, just to keep it interesting.