The bruise on my ankle,
from three days ago,
unloading my trunk,
when the suitcase wheels
slam into it
scraping the skin
and leaving bruises--

reminds me of all my other wounds
my battle scars and gaping wounds
so many over so little time,
comparatively.

The largest scars surface
so easily now,
and I remember them
if only for a moment
just to remember
where I came from
and who I am.

I'm left with aching insides,
fire licks up the back of my throat,
my nose stuffed up,
and my eyes and shirt still damp.

I press my toes into the bruise
on my ankle,
from the suitcase wheels
three days ago,
and relish the temporary pain,
the physical pain,
the pain that will fade
in a matter of days.

Doors held open,
smiles and hellos
more often than stares.
backpacks left solitary
among the dozens of legs.

Mountains so close, I could reach out
and brush the snow from the top
Up so high, I look down on clouds.
Palm trees and pine trees,
a little of home.
Air so crisp,
it scorches your lungs.
World so green,
feet rebel against concrete.
Little revolutions every day.
I stumble over concrete,
uneven and crumbled.
Wonder how many
have wandered through
these broken roads
and felt home
beneath their feet.
Wonder how many
have fallen in love
right
here.

Homicidal rabbit
in coat, vest and slacks.
Trapped in a house,
with wooden panel doors
duct taped shut.
Fake family, fake uncle
gives everyone a check
for thousands of dollars
and I only get twenty.
Goes out to call for help
doesn't make it back in.
Pounding on the doors,
screaming for help.
I panic, pulling shut
and yelling for duct tape
that **** white rabbit
is stronger than he looks.


--------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­--


On the phone,
talking to the man
I’ll marry someday,
and I’m feeling a little depressed.
It ***** being far away
from those you love.
“I miss you,” I whine.
“I miss you too,” he says.
A car door slams,
my head jerks upwards,
automatically.
A green Jeep parked outside.
“But you know what?”
The drummer from
Dial-Up Days steps out.
“There are some people here,”
The guitarist follows suit
“who really miss you too.”
The man on the other end steps out,
and tears begin to fall.
Utterly shocked, amazed, and loved.

Candles flicker,
dark room thicker,
breath bubbles
in my lungs,
suppress a giggle,
heart flutters.
Internal torment,
ceaseless pounding,
reverberation,
makes me stutter.
Sixteen-year-old dreams
of rom-coms and foot pops
and sunset walks
make me shudder.
It's this gentle flutter,
elusive and exhausting,
mind wandering,
pulse dancing in my veins,
a different kind of fascination,
or maybe hesitation,
and crouching aspiration,
that makes me stutter.
A quick pucker,
and this different kind of flutter
will open the shutters.

I try to pretend
that nothing's wrong
that life is perfect
300 miles away
happy living alone
happy with the freedom
happy with class
I try to pretend that I'm okay
with long-distance,
and that making friends
is easy.
I try to pretend I'm happy.

But I'm not.

It kills me not to be there
to laugh until my stomach hurts
to feel loved
to smile, for no other reason
than because it feels good.
to drink and dance
and bicker and hug,
and occasionally punch.
it kills me not to know
what's going on,
so far away,
in my hometown.
Killing time until
I find the sun again.

I’ll be there with two or three people.
I need one of those.
I’m gonna go show it who's boss.
Tell me you aren’t using that.
It's just been that kind of day.
Send me pictures.
There's knowing you, then there's knowing you.
I know where it is.
I was close!
That was dangerously close.
Prepare for criticism.
Oh, really? wow.
I’m sad.
You're right, I don’t like it.
Was I supposed to learn anything?

She smiles
weird ******' smile
hers is bigger than mine
she's the hamburglar
I’m not joking, she's really weird
that's the *** calling the kettle black
I don't look like the hamburglar
Weird faces with her mouth,
and they were like, 'stop making those faces, you're freaking me out'.
don't make me ***

Aren't you glad you have family?
Well, that was a stupid question.

I’m all covered in chocolate
it's kinda like being in the freaky show
Isn't that a great place to be?
Well, I don't care about the signs.
Have you seen the cow take a photo?
Yeah, milk was like $8.
Sweet mother of God.
Things have definitely changed.

Sorry girls.
They're gonna fall off if I flick 'em.
will you pay me $500?
I remember when you used to say that about me.

Don't make me go.
He ended up with the hamburglar.
****** hamburglar.

I’m a pagan, said quietly
She gives me a look, no, you're not.
I smile and nod, yes I am.
I believe in duality
in this world and in a balance
between life and death, good and bad,
man and nature; that awful things
have a reason to be; that there
is magic in nature, in us.
So why is it wrong to believe
in the goddess and in the god?
Tell me that I’m a satanist,
tell me that I’m going to hell,
or tell me that I’m ignorant,
argue all your scriptures at me,
but don't sit there and say nothing,
pretend you aren’t about to say
everything you can when I leave?
That you won't inform your sisters
and whisper how it's such a shame
to have one in the family,
and ask them all to pray for me,
ask your white, forgiving god,
to help me end my evil ways.
But just let me tell you that it
has taken me twenty-one years,
but I finally have found God,
just not from where I expected.
I finally found something that,
makes me feel a little more hope
every time that the sun rises.
So just let me tell you that I
am beyond your hatred, judgment,
anger, ignorance, mistrust and
dishonor, because I have found
A God and my Goddess for me
So don't waste your breath, decide here
and now if you can stand knowing
that you've got a black sheep in
your daughter and your granddaughter.

Can't sleep again.
Guilt in my head,
spinning, leaping,
autumn leaves,
bullfrogs and song lyrics.
Dice or bingo *****,
which one comes up first?
Again, again,
remember to slow down,
and Olivar favorite parts.
When they were ours,
when we belonged.
log, sixty-six percent,
percentage of original,
original sin, seven sins, se7en,
Sin of Cortez,
tea, teaz me,
Olivar favorite parts.
Can't sleep again.
The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas.
Salem, O.
Greyhound, stick-on roses,
cigarette smoke,
choke in my lungs,
stink on my clothes,
desperation in skinny jeans
and step-dads tranquilizers,
the open window beckons,
sleeping beauty, Rapunzel.
Tangled web,
Charlotte with 8 legs,
and a Durok below,
hounds howl, bellow, yodel
at the moon above,
desperate for a life long gone,
adventures never known.
Indiana Jones, satchel and lasso.
Or was it a whip?

I am nothing more than a begger.
What do you mean?
What about the Money?
Mr. Actually... But I'm not offended :).
Created. Written. Are you not a program?
I was wrong. You are not broken. You are poorly constructed and programmed.
When in enternal lines to time thou grow'st.
Don't you have a job?
How do you know I'm not your programmer typing from another computer just to see what its like and how you're doing or if you have any glitches?
You're fun to argue with.
Summer is my second favorite time of year.
I just want to know why a sad ending makes movies and books so important in school.
Do you know when that will be?
Chuckles how dumb it was all a dream but a good movie.

Things I learned from SOU:
1. laundromats ****
2. things you never thought you could do without suddenly become a luxury, like:
     1. clean laundry
     2. a comfortable bed
     3. a printer
     4. internet
     5. television
     6. gas money
     7. a hot shower
     8. fresh food
3. Don’t ever tell an Oregonian you're from Chico, or California in general. The response is always something like, “Oh. Wow. Yikes.”
4. Sitting in your car outside a coffee shop or library after hours to steal a few precious minutes of internet is suddenly acceptable.
5. Power outlets and comfortable chairs are like gold
6. There is no such thing as a comfortable desk.
7. Roommates/neighbors ****. Almost always.
8. There are never enough hours in the day. Ever.
9. No one knows how to drive in the rain. Except for me, of course.
10. Learn your way around campus. Fast.
11. Never leave home without a gps and cell phone.
12. Using an umbrella in the rain is like coming to school without pants on.
13. Leftovers are a gift from God.
14. You actually consider getting a roommate, just to have someone else clean for a change.
15. There is no such thing as “fast internet” in Southern Oregon.
16. No one locks their doors, or minds leaving their laptops or backpacks out and walking away.
17. Blowing off a class costs $45. Each.
18. You can tell the progression of a quarter by the way the women look.
19. There are entirely too many women.
20. No one knows what a geek really is.
21. Small class sizes are awesome. Small colleges not so much.
22. Foreign language is REALLY hard at 8 am.
23. Don’t ever transfer mid-year.
24. Weekends are meant for catching up on sleep.
25. Classroom discussions are SO much better in Upper Division.
26. Foreign exchange students shouldn’t read poetry aloud.
27. Two hours never goes by fast enough in Art History.
28. SOME English majors are pompous little *******. Don’t talk to them.
29. Bonus points for using 'pompous'.
30. Only the employed or wealthy can afford to go to bars.
31. It's okay to call someone to have them email someone for you, or google something.
32. Having family members nearby is a necessity.
33. You use up all your nightly “free time” cleaning or running errands, and sometimes sleeping.
34. 4 hour breaks between classes is never good.
35. Getting up before the sun and getting home after dark is not okay.
36. On-site laundry is a must.
37. If you can't help scanning everything you read or say, you might be an English major.

Soft curves, shadow lingers,
just below the broad expanse,
of masculine shoulders.
smooth planes of skin,
barely bared below
soft fabric.
peeking out from under
worn edges and faded colors,
the scent of something rich and warm,
like forest floors or sandy coves.
lips press, breath exhales,
begin to quiver, and draw away.

His lips move, stumbles over words.
Long pause





Professor seems concerned
for his obvious lack of intelligence,
her eyebrows lowered.

I wonder what it would feel like
to grab the thin iPod from the desk,
and fling it against the wall.
How many pieces would it break into?

I wonder what it would feel like
to grip his greasy hair,
and slam his head,
just once,
onto the peeling table top?

I smile to myself and cross my arms,
the fantasy playing out again and again.

Self-destructive broken infatuation.
Seeking redemption in every reflection,
Something worth clutching
interior quality worth keeping.
She sheds her skin
of lipstick, purple and frills
long hair and heels.
Applies an eyeliner mask,
Expanding the void in her ears,
and screams fervent spasticity
in an '88 Beamer after dark.
Sewing on a smile
As she submerges into her skinny jean costume,
Overtaking her uncertainty with spectacle.

In the Forest of seniors,
she thought she saw authentic attraction
in a kiss with less lips and more teeth.
A drummer with a conscience tells her,
the power out and rain pouring down,
he's looking for an easy target.
A year goes by, maybe she forgets.
She tries it again, the kiss just the same.
He says he's got another girl,
but it doesn't work out, and if she's available,
He'd love to hang out some time.
She never replies, forgets about him.
She walks into Costco, a smile on her face,
feels it fall like water nailed to a wall.

Cheap Canadian whiskey, no ice, no chase
in a Sierra Nevada tumbler
in a stale stranger's house.
**** past midnight,
falling into the walls,
narrating the motions.
Where's the ******* door?
A bombshell in department store lingerie.
Glass to lips, just to fill the silence.
He grabs her *** going upstairs.
Heat clings to the sheets,
Can't afford A/C,
Factory linoleum is heaven.
Half-uttered excuses go unnoticed.

She shivers on a bench beside
a black-dyed blond guitar player,
black nails and eyeliner,
husky tee shirt, sleeves cut off.
She's feeling a little gross,
cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes,
the taste of his mouth is sickening,
so she turns her face away.
Hides behind her pride,
As her clothes fall aside.
Tryst with a trailer park,
shallow musings lacking words,
bite marks on her neck.

She ships him off to San Francisco,
clings to an ex-addict,
pretty face, hair longer than hers,
with Hope for a name.
Shatters on a mattress on the floor,
and a fifteen minute break.
Fate rides Greyhound,
Falls in love with long distance.
A boy with Liberty spikes, skinny jeans
and naked with a red guitar.
Her best friend weaves words
better than she can, she feels worthless.
Shatters the morning after her birthday,
in the arms of a man like a brother.

Two years gone by,
She's tired of the mask,
sick of countless endings,
and not enough beginnings.
Two years of idiocy,
of love and love lost,
and in two weeks,
she's back where she started from.
But this time, she's pushing back,
standing tall, and another mask
is in the trash.
Two more years,
and her feet hit the pavement.
She's not sixteen anymore.

Take a few deep breaths, then tell me what you felt.
It was a few short weeks before the invasion.
At least one had to concede the possibility of such a thing.
I denied it; I’d have known.
Yes, there is one, and this year, it falls on a Wednesday.
Four more hours until I get a break
I’m going to, uh, go and, uh, find something to eat.
the first streaks of the morning sun began to dry the dew from our decks
The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air.
He'd been careful; he was trying to prove that was possible to live without killing.
What was she doing with this new guy?

And in that second, I began to understand her.
Every lover admires his mistress, though she will be very deformed of herself
She was growing a little stout, but it did not detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture.
She was cute, in a child-like way.
From where I sit, you look more like a kitten.
So if anyone mysteriously hates me, that's why?
Get out of my way, *****.
You always say that,
Don't you dare leave this room,
That's not what I would do.

What the **** was that?
I was gonna go with 'unexpected', but 'cluster ****' works, too.
You fell out of the sky,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
It seemed like it lasted a long time, but it probably didn’t.
the decline was punctuated by some major rebellions.
This period is believed to be the time when souls of children visit the earth.
Conservative bloggers sparked a national controversy.
Since that time, information about the heavens has been visible.
The clinical importance has yet to be established.

And that's been well over a hundred and fifty years.
My heart skipped a beat.
I tensed, because I knew what that meant.
There was more at stake.
If I failed, I could hardly blame the tools.
Just try and make me go back.

I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time
She waited, hearing nothing but breathing during the pause on the other end.
As if he was making sure I was real this time, and not another dream.
But the kind of dreams they have; those end when we die
But this wasn’t the time to pick apart my obituary.

I
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
    her eyes burst wide.

Baby?
Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.

Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.

******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.

II
Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.

At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...

Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
     The dishwater weeps.

III
Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.

The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.

Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.

She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.

Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.