In this extreme heat,
I am suspect of people,
who wear leather coats.

perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in

buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum

black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace

a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life

gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift

two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous

and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware

jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered

wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more

poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
  
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings

surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability

i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche

the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse

i tried to make this poem              look like a heart
  but i ran out of words, it        really doesn't, it kind of looks
   like someone took a good    lookin heart and kind of squashed
    it which is too bad because i really would've loved it if it
     looked like a heart, but i suppose that a squashed heart    
       isn't too bad, even if it's kind of funny looking, i think.

i want to be myself with you, honest

really.

but i'm afraid, so afraid
that you won't want me any more if

                  i sing silly songs that don't make sense and sound horrible
                  
                  and i giggle too loudly for no apparent reason

                  and i snore in my sleep

and i'm afraid that you won't love me more if i just relax

                  and my hair isn't brushed
                                    and my legs aren't exactly shaved
                                                      and my feet smell bad
                                                             ­           and i'm not wearing any makeup
                                                          ­                                and i'm wearing my pajamas with Bob the Builder on them that I've worn since fifth grade.
                                                          ­                              
so kiss me,
                  though my breath smells like the chicken pasta with broccoli and onions I had for dinner last night
                                    

                     ­               and tell me I'm beautiful.

Either I'm Alice,
or I've been kicked into Wonderland;

                  because I'm falling down in a never-ending hole
                                    and I'm drowning in a pool of my own tears.

                  I hope I'm Alice though.

Because then at least I'd know
                                    that I'll be okay, in the end.

bottomless
means one thing, and
*******
means another.

October air is cold in my throat,
and it smells like clean laundry, Momma’s apron, pinecones, summer rain
I make wishes on falling leaves on the way home from school, and
never step on the red ones [they were princesses in other lives]
                  Let dinner be good.
                  Let Momma have had a good day at work.
                  Let me have a big brother.
                  Let there be peanut-butter banana crackers on the table.
I kick acorns into a pile at the front door for the squirrels and deer and rabbits;
pull at the straps on my backpack because the driveway feels safe under my sneakers, and
kick a pile of leaves up
                                                             ­    up
                                                up
           ­                                                      up
                                                up
                                                         ­        into the pumpkin-picking-blue autumn sky,

let them scatter and fall in my hair;
The leaves are my crown, and I am Queen of red-orange-yellow.

blowing bubbles through a straw
                            into my chocolate milk, satisfying pops

and suddenly I am homesick, I miss
my mother telling me to

             stop.

this is a poem about love,

             not boys, for once, or lesbians –
                           but roomie love.

my roommate is my other half,
like when we were little and chewed halves of gummy bears to make two-flavored ones with different colored heads and feet.

3:30 am on a Monday night,
all of our classes the next day, no homework done –
who else will stay up with me to read over each other’s oldest emails,
all disgustingly useless,
all marked as “sent with high importance”

who else will write poetry with me in the looming shadow of Chemistry tests
help keep the Spring terms exams and US History APs at bay
with jokes that aren’t funny but I laugh at anyways
because you are stupid and you think they are –

and everybody in the dorm thinks
we are insane, but that’s okay with me because we have

enough inside jokes to live on for a year
and  
                    each other