Needles and spoons and white powders,
Among other things I've never seen or touched or smelled -
Such things seem not meant for dabblers, or at least
Not for me.

Those things are meant for stars, who see stars,
Whose fame reaches the stars,
Whose face is broadcast through the stars and back again,
Echoing their brains and bodies and all that white powder.
They're not meant for schoolchildren,
Who climb up ladders and jump off cliffs,
Who grow tall only with scissor lifts securely under their feet,
Who stand at the top of water slides and sit at the top of roller coasters,
Who're only as close to the stars as the school roof will let them be.

Those things are not for them,
Not for me.

But there is something,
Something softer, lighter, easier, greener,
Something familiar to most.
Called a gateway for some, certainly for the famed,
A gateway to the stars even before the needles and spoons and white powders.
There are books about famed faces and the way they wrinkle over the years,
About their cultivations, their migrations, their explorations.
Books of things they've done, that I've done, that we've done,
Smoke billowing from our lips, our nostrils, from every pore,
And books about how, with the same ritual I've taken a part in,
They somehow manage to climb so high - mimicking their fame,
they soar up and up, to the stars and past,
Through religious experiences, baffling adventures, new and brilliant insight.

Not me.

I reach that roof or lift or water slide,
Stretch my hands as far as they can reach,
Point my toes for that extra barely inch,
And, after such heavy straining,
Fingertips atoms away from the clouds,
at least the clouds,
give me the clouds,
I collapse,
Breath short,
Heart racing,
In exhaustion.

he was a painter once-
in the sense of a duck, waddling
augustly chin up mild fingers
engraved with acrylic rice paddy
mosaics

his deft strokes, steady against
barn yard hum dry ruby in
watery crevices, between the skullcap
and cerebellum, between ages of semantics

his cast net he stirs
the mud-clodded ponds and
rasps, cane cracking leather,
I clasp on the waterlogged eyes out the window
airborne for some lost jungle to
salvage some sliver of a canvas

he turns to me on the wooden planks
and hand in hand we plummet into an abyss of
our own creation

My birthday is today
Seventeen years since another Sunday at 9 AM
On top of a mountain called Ozark
In a land that reminded me of Harry Potter
Called Pettigrew like Peter
It's forests elicited sprites and daddy long legs
Made of me a changeling then spit me back out

I learned what real ice tea was at the age of three
It was my birthday
Doing Pirouettes on my aunts Patio
Again, under Arkansas stars
With faery lights leading my way
I ascended to the brush behind the house
Got lost in the greens and browns of paradise's supply
Returned with flesh painted the colour of love

In an apartment overlooking crab apple trees
Fresh Canadian foliage fostering a well concealed creek
On a 90 degree angle over a dark chocolate cake
My ninth birthday
I drank pickle juice because Vinny said it was limonade
I wore dresses that year
And coveted baskets filled to brim with blossoms
Baked the crab apples into a pie
But preferred mama's banana cream
I wore bandages on my arms
and grass stains on my knees
My tears washed away like Crayola markers
And my biggest inner questions had to do
With what was for breakfast
And the lifespan of a temporary tattoos

14 came with a ******* bow
Done up gaudily in greys with a sad little smile
Three years marked with pink splotches and lines
A subject to hormones and arsenic tones
My birthday
A celebration of decay
And mama still sang, and baked, and kissed my face
And didn't wake when I placed cotton ***** in her ears
Because I was a happy girl

Today is my birthday
And mama exclaims
"No more babies! All four of you are so grown!"
But the mirror still illustrates an odd little show
With a baby face
A girls chest
And a womans hips
An ordinary freak all stitched up
Awkward and too much of everything
But not enough all the same
And inside I know
Is a sea of paradoxical Samanthas
Some stubborn and loud
Some shy and reserved
All with changes to make
Books to read
And places to go
And  only few that are quite wanting yet
To be 17

A dancing child; a ballerina
A pirouetting adolescent; *an anorexic

sometimes you sit next to me,
and golly, gee, good gosh - i get all old fashioned,
and squirmy and quiet and corny,
you'll have to forgive me, it's just that oh man,
your big book on computers and your orchestra t-shirt
and how your hair's all ruffled and curly - these things thrill me
and how you're always so **** collected and relaxed and not drowsy
not even at nine in the morning when i forgot coffee and look like tim burton designed me

you make me want to look good - i've taken to staring at my wardrobe
waiting for nice summer clothes to appear out of nowhere,
waiting for a genie to make me a prince, to throw a parade where i'm the
star, all eyes on me, because maybe aladdin was a fake
but it's better than what i've got.

You've even got cute teeth, how are teeth cute, that's too much, stop it -
no don't, please, ever, geez - my brain forgets to talk to my limbs and my lungs and
so i just get kind of quiet and silly, and
excuse me teacher but are you expecting me to learn like this?
but i do learn and you learn and we learn, we're so cool we say,
we know this language, we can just move to this country right now,
let's go, you and me, let's pack our bags and say who we are loud and proud,
because that's really all we know, but it's awesome, and this is awesome
and so different from that awful plan with buses and begging and stupid. *******. decisions.
this is joking at its purest, and you understand that - you're so
rational, wow, and that is something i think i've been craving for a
long
****
time.
so hey,
your seat's open -

oh.

except
except, wait -
it's not.
sometimes it's not.
sometimes some big, brutish boy who doesn't give two *****
flops into your seat, hunched over to laugh with his stupid friend in front,
and you come it, a little later than usual, and pause when you see that *******
- and that pause, oh that pause -
maybe i'm reading too much into it, like a **** up in a literature class,
but i hope not, because gosh, it'd be great if we could get coffee,
or see the new documentary at that independent place tucked away just for us,
or even go to a game and sweat away in the seats for five hours,
and maybe that pause is telling me that could happen, maybe?
I hope so.

the boy in front of me asked if the mushroom lasagna was any good
and the woman just shook her head no and said but the chicken was
so I got the chicken even though I wanted the lasagna
and it tasted like pink insulation with too much salt.

my friends and I recorded a song in a mobile studio last night
and the crowd of people around us danced and smiled and sang along
so we sang louder even though we knew we were bad
and discovered that morning that the CD they gave us at the end was blank.

my teacher asked me a question that I didn't know the answer to
and I turned to my neighbor and he whispered it in my ear
so I repeated it even though my throat was clenching up
and I choked back tears that I couldn't explain as I sunk farther into my seat.

my throat is dry just like that chicken and scratchy and sore
and when I speak my voice is low and rough like a blues singer
so I speak more often even though it burns and aches
and relish in the sound for as long as I can.

there is something
moving about being
replaced by flowers.

Good morning all my friends have retired

Hello I am running out of things to do to forget that they have all made better plans and that I am not to be included

Good day to you to, zzz I am falling asleep sir

I am feeling my mind deteriorate from a lack of sufficient socialization
Zzzz I am falling asleep again because I don't want to think about it
Zzzzz I keep dreaming about you dearie why'd you go again

I am running out of things to distract myself with; who cares about diction when you don't have any body to spill out beautiful words to

My love, I'm getting close to substance abuse

My love, I'm afraid of trying it I am afraid of artificially feeling like I did before

I am still confused; you are not; I am missing out on something