In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.

I remember
Hearing the wind
Whisper to the trees,
To have the stars
Kiss me goodnight,
To feel the moist earth
Underneath my feet,
To have everything
Make perfect sense
Then I met you,
And my world started spinning
In a different direction-
The Unknown
Where everything must be questioned
But there was a sense
That no matter what happened
I couldn’t be lost
Not with you there
To guide me on
Now you,
My missing puzzle piece
Have fallen off the table
Into the cold abyss of snow
Where not even spring could revive you
Your light and warmth
Have been captured
By the frost and darkness
And now I don’t think I’ll ever be found
In our world that was once spinning
In a different direction
Because without you
My world has drawn a blank
But I remember
When the wind whispered to the trees
And everything made sense

Poems are stupid,
So corny
So pompous
So pretentious! feigning to express what we all know is inexpressible
Personally, I hate my poems
They're absurd, gaudy and shallow, and I know it
Yet something keeps me coming back
Sometimes against my will
An invisible force pushes me, violently or softly, it depends
And I can't keep from writing these little pieces of folly

I sit here
drinking six bag Bengal Spice tea
listening to Pandora
while my brother eats his breakfast behind me.
The song changes and I recognize it,
a little too well;
One Saturday at the Sequim food bank,
the only week he ever had me man the meat freezer
and not the bread room or dairy room.
I had to sneeze
So I took the back hallway
to stand among the shelves of toilet paper and soap.
She was taking a load out front-
soap and cans from the canning room.
She was singing this song
didn't see me standing on the other side of that shelf.
She had been the reason I started volunteering here,
or half the reason;
I wanted to volunteer and do something fulfilling
but I also wanted to learn her name.

This is one of the only times in my life
where I acted on impulse-
I started singing too,
my deep bass and her soprano creating a melody
that makes me want to skip this song
because it isn't the same.
But I listen to remember her reaction-
instead of walking away, stopping or sighing-
she kept singing, laughing just a little bit
letting me hear the smile on her lips.

She finished grabbing what she needed
and walked away, still laughing
still smiling as she walked into the hallway
(which was the only lit place back here)
and kept singing, even as she sat back at the front desk.
I returned to my position a minute later-
15 feet from her.

In ten weeks of volunteering there
that was the most we ever spoke to each other
and I wouldn't wish it any other way.

Reasons why I am going to Europe:

I am going to Europe because I am nineteen— almost twenty— years old and, for some reason, I am expected to have my entire life planned and ready to go. I am expected to go to college, get a degree which will give me above-minimum wage pay, possibly meet a boy. Date this boy on and off (as well as a few others) during my early twenties, get drunk a few times, maybe do some drugs, marry someone when I turn twenty six. Have two kids. Pay my mortgage, plan to travel when I am older. Pay my student loans. Do yoga on the weekends.

No thank-you.

I am nineteen— almost twenty— years old, and for some reason, I have no idea what I want to do with myself. I went to college for a major in English with a teaching license— I hated it. I tried to **** myself three times. So here, I am, working at Food Lion, running around the woods, drinking Gin and blood orange juice on a Monday night, with no plan. And I am happy. I am going to Europe because what else would I be doing with myself? I am going to Europe because I want to wake up in a hostel with someone else’s shirt on, the smell of salt on my skin, and the taste of wine in my mouth

. I am going to Europe because I don’t want my greatest thrill in life to be going to Whole Foods one Saturday of the month to buy nice wine and a quality meat only to watch the travel channel and hope for places I will go to ‘someday’. I am going to Europe because why can’t ‘someday’ be today?


I am going to Europe because I may get lost in a market place, in a bottle of Absinthe, in the arms of an Italian man, in the bottom of a bottle of sweet Moscato, in a pub in Ireland, in the mouth of a french girl, in a German forest, and that will be alright. I am going to Europe because my feet itch, and my soul is thirsty. I am going to Europe because sometimes it feels like the world is only as big as your home-town, and that is only an illusion that needs to be cured.