August 15, 2013
Loneliness is a heavy burden. Like an elaborate hoop earring; weighed down with to many beads; attached to my heart. It pulls me down. Stretches me as far as I can go. Always there, my most faithful companion, insistent. Shadowing my every step. I crave touch. Love. Something other then this solitude I have been drowning in. A wet cloth gagging me. Suffocating me.
Everyone seems more beautiful. Yet more distant. Every touch, a little sweeter. More welcome. I see the potential everyone has as they touch my life. I watch it as it builds, and rises, and breaks like a wave on the emptiest of beaches. I can feel their arms around me. Their lips on mine for the briefest of thoughts as our eyes connect.
These fleeting day dreams serve only to again remind me of the hoop earring piercing my heart. They vividly highlight it. As if it were a splinter in my hand that I could remove. Except, only with the help of another, could I manage to rid myself of it and its persistent, prodding pain.

The girl with the green earing and blue hair
cradled a bird close to her heart

poured all her love into its freedom
and let it go to fly onto the air.

The girl with the green earing and blue hair
smiled at the poet trying to capture her heart.

~~¤~~

S-weetest ever, sweetest heart
W-earing a smile, I love so much
E-veryday, everynight
E-very moment of my life
T-hankful I am for your gift
H-eart of mine wants to receive
E-very drop of your rain
A-sk me now if there is pain
R-ead my eyes, my lips, my deeds
T-rue love of mine, you're all I need

~~¤~~

houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired

before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.

I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?

He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.

These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.

As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.

Without you here,

I've been able to name stars after myself

And ***** my fingers on roses that I've planted in my own garden

I've read and written poetry because I have identified myself with confidence and happiness

And the throbbing constant ache is at a dull hum

I'm foliated sketches and the dog-earing of my favorite pages.

I am the prayer I say at night before bed and the gratitude I feel in the morning

And without you here,

I am still all of those and so much more

Without you here

I am so much more

Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)

~

God,
it's me--
jade.

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.


God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

god,
I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).

1.   Stop looking for constellations in people who don’t even have a star in them
2. Just because your veins
Just because your head
Just because your lungs
Feel like they’re about to explode
They aren’t
3. Loneliness is normal so if it at anytime it pierces your skin
Buy an earing
4. Your sanity is not determined by all the times
You screamed in your mind and no one listened
5. Putting your heart in the hands of people
Who only crush it isn’t brave
It’s foolish
6. Stop acting like a spoiled brat
Clean up the mess you made
and apologize
no matter what its always your fault
7. He isn’t an ocean
You can’t drown
But neither can you swim
Stay away from him
8. Sunsets and rainbows
Weren’t created so you
Could enjoy them
But look at them
Like they were
9. The walls you built
Around your kingdom
Will one day be knocked down
Sometimes it’s okay to surrender
10. Even though
Most people don’t have the answer
It’s okay to keep questioning
11. Your insecurities will eat you from
the inside out
be sure to order fries with that
12. No one is better or worse than you
We are all skin
And bone
And flesh
One day all of us
Will have to give back
The stardust we took
Don’t forget everything will end
So will you

(k.s)

Flandres, the flag of agony in thee I raise
The bravest scapes thy land survails
In me seek the darkest and the mad man
The sad crab cracks its nest
Against a backdoor saloon chest
My avenue stew mind philanthropy
Resolutions crust signs in my sight
And by my side Rosemary glinks and blides
Preparing my bedroom earing for
The day of the land lord sore
And than again the boots are crooked
The spirit is fulled and dream ain’t no avenue
Scooped you will feel and your brain got to be in a grill
While your smile resents some breakfast lamb
When the door doesn´t call you hence
Your feet ain’t gonna lick the garden  fence

Standing there the man and his black cloak
A shield spelling what spells seen to sell
Glasses clink telling whatever you ain’t bring
To the ceremony that makes you feel lonely
Chain your pony slowly for it’s holy
Now hear the voice in a big bang noise
Shooting swords like darts of joke
Seeking and begging thrilling candies
Whispering the grace, listen Sam, the grey taste
It’s your blamed race and it's you the same.

It seems that no matter what I do,
Nobody seems to see me through.
And yet I am still so far,
Far away from what I am trying to reach.
Fearing that I would lose everything,
Existing in my own eyes as not being worthy enough.
Can you not see that I hurt?
Too late for your sympathy...
I** thought I had grown weak.
Over and over I couldn't see,
Never realizing what happened to me.


I am a stronger person now!
Never give up!
Always do it your way.
Forget what they think,
For they were only try to bring you down!
Everything that you worked for,
Came from your diligence and determination.
Time will tell you once said,
It's finally time to shine!
Only you can make a difference.
Never look back at the past.... It's history now <3

Thank you for reading my 2 sided story.

Inaffection -
A word I made up. The definition of inaffection is the opposite of affection.

Definition: A feeling of disliking or hatred.
Synonyms: aversion, hate, loathing, abhorrence, pet hate, bete noir, displeasure, disinclination, distaste, disgust, repugnance, antipathy, animosity

Piano playing in the background.
The same earing tune.
It's gray.
Too gray.
Might rain.
Stomach starts to grumble. I don't know why.
I'm thinking about us on that bed.
Just sitting.
I kiss your cheek.
My pants are so loose.
They have rips on them.
On purpose.
My shirt is so tight, I like it.
TEST TAKER!
They scream.
My basketball sits out on the front porch.
Wet.
Dewy in the grass
I feel you watching me sometimes,
I wonder if you think of me.

My big sisters made every mistake in the book
A big book
I know
because it was like a manuel that I received at birth
Slid under our doorways
They gave out copies
They reprinted chapters
They drew out maps
They sketched out the details
We flipped through the pages
Turning each lesson
******* earing the good ones
Like the time my sisters got so mad they kicked in the door
Or the time my sister tried a creaky houses old pipes
Leaning over
"It won't flush"
Swoosh a wave of water
Or the lesson about heartbreak
Reminding my brother Joel and I
to look with our eyes closed
But hearts open
Because they said that's how you know the difference
And don't settle down to quickly
They whispered between hallways and bed sheets
Because marriage is forever
And people aren't gaurenteed
My sisters authored pages and pages
Roads leading to roads to new roads
And the book grew older
The book came out!
This time celebrating parenting
Remember to lock the front door
Because that toddler with the wild red hair will
try to
Houdini escape everytime
Or sometimes softer
Remember that this life is yours
And you are steered by your choices
Said the sister with the bright blue
Eyes
And midnight colored hair
And she said sometimes
You will have to trade in your ballet slippers
For bare feet
Just so you can truly have your feet on the ground
And listen said the other
Sometimes resolving and letting go
Is easier than holding onto tightly
As she shows us her bruises.
And be yourself Lael
And don't try to hard Joel
Because the boy with broken heart can't be fixed
And the girls with the wild sides can't be tamed
And make sure you both stand tall
But not looking down
Look straight ahead at the horizon
Because we've already done it like that
And the sun will always guide you back to blue skies.
And I if it doesn't they said
We sure as hell will.

Spinal column
a stairwell of books,
rungs of untouched vertebrae
avoided by the bibliophile herself

[myself].

Brain is wired differently
than the rest of them.

At first,
I thought it was a matter of being
****-retentive.
A veteran perfectionist
who strives to imagine every detail
as intricately and accurately
as the author must have intended.

Character's faces morph into
sloppy, patchwork collages,
features copied and pasted from
beautiful strangers and
celebrities who played
in the movie adaptations.

Their appearances are both
cliche
and
incomprehensible.

I am told a character is pale,
but can only manage to visualize a complexion
the colour of notebook paper,
penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions
against a wintry terrain--
her ears
nose
lips
misplaced beneath the tundra.

I lay the book atop my collarbone,
its cover pitched into a make-shift tent.

(Cautiously).

Almost as if I am
afraid to disturb
the seriffed constellations
that flicker above my heart.

I stare up at the ceiling
(vacant, as am I),
my eyebrows scrunched
into nooses of concentration,
several minutes passing before
her cheeks gradually begin to thaw,
warming over in an ombre
of pinks and olives.

And I rejoice!

Strike down the tent,
pupils hungry for prose.

But there is always
another character.

In Valley of the Dolls,
a handsome man,
whose hairline I cannot
properly envision

(this makes him less handsome).

This time,
when I lay my book down,
I do not proceed with caution,
the corners of its pages
dog-earing against my body.

Google:

men's hairstyles, 1940's

(I need to commit to memory
three different styles
so the three different males
I am working with
are not trite clones of each other).

I can only manage three pages
at a time
before having to take a break.

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is an exponential task,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting
Jaqueline Susanne's vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

on the first
(second...
third...
I don't know...)

try.

Turns out
this is more than just
being ****-retentive.

This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

I yearn for times of old
junior high
when I could finish a novel
in a day--
ramona and beezus
butterfly lion
the silver donkey.

But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:

the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.

Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.

Eventually,
I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.

Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.

My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not
[cannot].

The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.

Instead,
I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
fragmentation
of each stanza.

Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.

I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.

I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.

I am
as broken
as these verses.

But

it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.

Did you pen this in a depleted moment
Indiscriminate to your heart waning desire.
Everything I did was for you, our life was
To be a unity of majestic significance.
Over again did I think about those syllables
Greeting my mind in a confused state.
Either I was yours or no one else's,
The tears that fell, like fake snow meaningless
Hearing you understand what we had to do
Every occasion we shared culminated in this
R**eal declaration of love, two shots and our hearts stopped.

You had your life figured out,
Just barely 12.
Are white lies
Still white
When they lead to
Darkness?
And thats exactly where you went.
Tossed into the darkness,
Thrown roughly by cold hands.
At first,
You tried to box up the little things.
Fold them neatly into squares,
Push them aside.
But soon,
Too many squared troubles.
The squares led to boxes, boxes to crates.
Finally so many that you
Shoved them into the dark,
Slamming the door and leaning tight against it
To prevent the monsters inside from escaping.
And the piles and piles of unsolved misfourtune
With that tiny silver earing and
A little white lie
Turned to darkness,
And you were thrown in with your piles,
Left to rot alone
Nobody to hear your cries now.

Ominous tides control my mind
Killing me on the inside
Ageless hurt boiling in the pit of my soul
Yearning to be set free from the eternal prison I have made in my head

Ineffectually think of my impending doom

Fearing the person that I am slowly melting into
Equally hating myself for my sinful crimes
Eloquent words flowing off my hateful tongue
Leaving behind the once pure little girl inside

Deranged voices talking to me
Expecting me to comply
After death and before lie
Depression is my only truth

Nightfall arriving, perishing my once boisterous being
Opening the demon in my soul
W**** will not leave me alone

what if one day we found that some one pressed fire on all the nuclear war heads.

im not ready to be vaperized for little to build my survial gear

im afraid cause i willlove every i loved in life
what do we even do do if we even survide every thing is gone.
every thing makes me fear causeit could be a accident set off war head killing every one in the thousand yard blast.

im not ready to die i want to do as many things as possible.

i just am not  ready to lose everybody i have my tears when i watch the news earing them talk about war. i dont  think i can handle much more
i have the list of gear to survive what is going to see mean my family.

i am scared to dye cause i just want more time to enjoy the littel things then enjoy things im not reat to be vaporized ,

~



The morphine undissolved upon his dry and cracked tongue
Mother frantically grabbing and sobbing
asking 'why' even though cancer
had been devouring him for years

I slid a silver ring off his cold finger
feeling the thin and frail culture
I thought back to massive hands holding wide leather belts
who would be able to discipline me now

More pills swirled around the toilet bowl
everything that wouldn’t get mom or I high
sank and disappeared
I think I flushed my feelings that day too

Fading images play in my mind
his braided hemp cord necklace woven around a tiger’s eye
the black heart earing that I lost almost the same moment
they wheeled his body out into the day
mom collapsed like a dying balloon
in dad’s chair
her red watery eyes looking up at me
still holding the same questions   /

we drove into a flushed pink sunset
our eyes brimming with lighter shades
of red and smiles, uninterested in the
promise that fate brought and carried
by the ideas of each other. He seemed
keen to me both surprised by my
existence and willingness to bridge
into his cove of a life and pleased
by the way i fit so neat to the rhythms
of his beats. He splayed
khaki shoulders and thin legs
against netted lawn chairs,
happy to watch me laugh and
bounce with his lilac-haired ex
whose voice took on the comical
pitch of Minnie Mouse when she
was high or drunk or trying too hard
as she told me about Fidelity,
the tattoo parlor that she traveled an
hour to just to meet up with some
artist whose name she couldn't
remember but trusted so so much
and teared up when I told her about
my nose hoop that I had to get rid
of because some sketchy artist used
an earing that wasn't Nickel free
on me but swore that he did.
We had fun that day. He ambled
over when Glass Animal's
Gooey revved up and we
screamed the words into
each other's lungs, certain that our
breaths would swell each other up
and help us float away.

what? you seriously gonna row ρ row your boat, gently down the stream? well, aren't you the cherub to my apple's worth of hopes in being my ferryman, replacing charon, when crossing the styx!

it's one of those *edgware road scenarios,
you're walking down it,
popping into a restaurant for a shisha pipe...
and then street preachers prop up...
your girlfriend is half irish, half indian,
and they ask you: you german? you german?
no... wait... am i?
                  i guess there's a physiognomy
aspect in the way i look to others...
        am i german?
                   i ask my girlfriend at the time,
do i look german?
                 i don't know the ****** language...
should i learn the language?
               so these muslim street propagandists
keep egging me on...
       look at the jews... blah blah...
            and i'm thinking...
             my native tongue is polish,
and i'm trying to settle myself in english...
     what's this german bit?
even at school, i hate reciting this, but a history
teacher talking about the second world war
singled me out from the rest of the class...
                "blonde" hair... she didn't spot
i had green, rather than blue eyes...
             this is freaky deeky deep ****,
unconscious forces working against me...
                               the **** did i do?
turn into michael fassbender?
    fast-bartender, or simply futurama's ******?
shoe on head is not enough, when
you're asked to don a stilleto as an earing
dangling on your ear... not the same ****,
and certainly not the same cover...
       my paternal great-grandfather?
spoke 7 languages, was in the MP (military police),
moved to america,
      my mother tried to get in touch...
      i think my family owned portions of the steel
factory that would have allowed my city of
birth to grow into a county-like-capital...
that failed...
                       if i did a gene test
i'd be least surprised to have some german
or mongol, or swede in me...
                                         read the history;
it's just the idea that muslim preachers at
edgware road (where's the edge, and the wear?)
         giving out free korans decided to
consider me german?
    they didn't call my girlfriend at the time
an australian, even though she was raised there...
i was suddenly german...
   i ****** well hope this is not some form of narcissism
that requires: being written about...
         well then... i must be then!
still, what bothers me more is edge-wear rho-
             -and the missing -ad.
                                       ro-                -ad?
    i swear people just establish there is no oa
        or an ao grapheme borrowed from latin...
               they just say: row'd;
     as in the past tense of: i was rowing in a boat,
down the thames.
          clearly you need to gulp down an oyster
to make clarifications to the slight differences
in spelling, to make grand strides in what you mean.
     it's also edge-ware... as in... the edges are
being worn... ware & tear ring any bells
                                          via st. mary-le-bow's?
a bit like saying: quacks? or quakers?
that's the same doctor?
     no, you ******* ponce... it's a play.
on what?
                                                         words!
i really, really either need to start learning
braille, or sign language; people are exhausting
with all their functioning senses,
       and i don't feel like subjecting my tongue
to the treadmill of conversation;
       ****... there's no chance of talking the earth
out of orbit!