She used to wear that
crunchy hairspray
everyday of her life,
hiding behind the facade
of perfection
Inside, she was lonely
and wanted nothing more
than someone to hold her
But she was too scared
to let anyone pull a
single strand out of place

She was a creative
young soul with hopes
and dreams
She thought in nitty-gritty
details that she lived
to convey,
in hopes that any potentials
would understand her
and open up in unconditional
embrace

But that day never came,
until she met him
His soul was almost parallel
hers, and she found they
shared plenty of striking qualities
But his spirit was open,
so open that she couldn't
help but feel hers
soar along with it
And when he reached for
the roots of her strawberry
blonde strands,
still crunchy from all those
years of sticky, stationary
saturation,
she let go, and let him
turn every one of them
back to their limp, natural
state

It seemed that everything
was fine hereafter,
with her guard let down
in the arms of someone
she could trust
But it wasn't long before
she started clinging to him,
just as she had with
the strong, intoxicating
elixir that once held her
world together
And as he decided to
back away,
she could almost hear
him saying, "You can keep
your hairspray on,
'cause I'm not in the
mood to mess it up"

After that, the two young
souls remained good friends
And despite the ache
in her heart and longing
for affection,
she couldn't have been
more joyful
The hairspray tin stayed
on the bathroom shelf
from then on,
collecting dust and standing
as a reminder
that the facade of perfection
is no match for deep connection

Oh! Remember that time with the guy in the place?
He had a blue jacket, the one with the face?
We were walking some street, on a simple quest,
To find chicken nuggets, and a place to rest
We had just watched a tape, oh what was it called?
The guy had blond hair or brown? Or, was he bald?
People were jamming around the subway station
I wish I could remember, **** conflagration!

Or that other time, when we tried to surprise,
But clever you would already surmise
And we searched every crevice, of that jungle-y zoo
While lil’ wandering kinds came up to you
Because you had a cool t-shirt and we did not
I shall always remember that very spot.

Or that average day, specifics I’ll not say
That we were doing some papier-mâché
And days, or weeks, or months, or later
When, you had a dream about an alligator
(it was actually a crocodile)

I brought you a present, ever so small
And with a knife, shiny and tall
We designed a marvelous work of art
Who could imagine that it would explode apart?

Or that other afternoon, we spent in the prickers
Jumping over annoying brown stickers
And tossing around a-- , I’ll say no more
Who would care, we weren’t keeping score
As red, yellow, orange were falling from above
Because we made them with a shove
And bagels and comics were lying around
As TV commercials played in the background

Hey, remember those times when we were so little
At the front desk, my head came up to the middle
When there were only “original” Pokémon
And you had a different house and lawn
I miss our games of trust, they were lots of fun
When all that we did was laugh and run

I remember drinking tea in the outside air
And sitting in a big red van praying for God us to spare
I recall “Sand” and flairs and quote
As we were digging our pirate moat
I enjoy our profound discussions and your denial
Of us doing anything but homework, while
We **** each other in the asphalt road at night
Act ridiculous in all the sight
Of people at Food Max, and you are jealous
Of old guys jogging, what befell us?

When Catherine is dancing with Russians and hasn’t energy to type
I will mumble under my breath and force her to skype
I know we both suffer without her sarcasm, bright
Your melodious tone is absent where you guys used to fight
Ah! Fond remembrance of backstage flashes
Of hairspray stiff wigs, sticky floors, and sweat on mustaches

Some day we will look back on all we have done
And think of each smile, each day under the sun
We’ll tell horrid stories to all of our kids
Of hiking through snow, eating rocks and some twigs

Somewhere, in that place, where there is no time,
There still is no Starbucks to spend our dime
But I think that now will be better than then
If we only can forget the “how” and “when”

There is no one but God who gets you and me
For who would subscribe to our philosophy
As we laugh half an hour over a crime just planned
Or a stupid movie that we watch “On Demand”
I think to myself, as red eyes fill with pus
That no one else thinks quite like us.
11/13/10

Father's Way: Tell me a story, Dad

What power we possess,
when the innocent demand,
at the time of cozy bed and sandman,
"Tell me a story,"

To gentle the monsters
in the closet of their heads,
grant them a peace naive that's lost after
they learn the D words, disappointment, death,
Till then, promises unfettered, the best yet to come.

The story, you, grantor, they, grantees,
Scent their dreams,
perfume their dreams,
sprinkle their safety net, blanky, rag doll:
- scent with mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam, gasoline and body odor

- scent with cherrywood falsehoods to caress,
till morning's burnished glory ascends,
thru window, tenderize the cheeks of my babes,
prep them for the truths to be learned that day.

In tones most imploring,
glances fawning,
tis us, they do deceive,    
for adult arrogance demands
in God we Trust, that they,
will believe our words,
will indeed, make them rest
till new day's slow and subtle dawning

Tis the same tomfoolery that leads us
to drink repeatedly from the trough of
best laid plans and self-deception

You believed your own narrative
will be the one he scripted,
while standing day-dreaming,
sweating on subway platform,
admiring beaches and beauties
from station walls lifted,
waiting for the train
that only eventually comes,

that train, that station, whose smell reminds you
of mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam and motor oil, and body odor,
a ******* reminder of dreams yet uncrystallized,
and stories your father told, unrealized,
tho train has come, they have not

Write me a narrative, Dad,
and please advise
if tinker or tailor will be my trade,
fix my details, dear pater, par example,
pick my institution of higher learning,
my future alma mater, on my day of birth,
promise me gentility, no harm no foul, mirth,
All the days of my life.

Please advise if I shall be a
wife abuser, communist, or a ****
****** poet/user,
word rich and pocket poor,
stealing ideas from everyone,
red blooded or blue~green,
a true believer, a born again,
an agnostic, my own truths, to disabuse

tell me father, will I die warmed,
surrounded by generations of my progeny
or in pauper's grave, a life long ward of
one true mate, in loco parentis all of my days,
a child, a dependent, of noster paternal state?

Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...


June 11, 2011
Updated on Father's Day 2013

The broncos won And I'm still at a dead end job
Didn't even watch the game, I was too busy
washing trash cans.
Heard about it through some magic rectangle.
The kids call "social media"

about all the different things
Lady Gaga looked like when
she sang the national anthem.
Heatmiser,
pizza rolls,
Dolly Parton
Because one time Dolly Parton wore a red suit, Which I thought was kind of a stretch.
I saw a commercial saying that more than
400,000 babies are born 9 months after the super bowl.
You know what else is right around that time in February?
Valentine's day
I don't think I've ever been less ****
than during the super bowl.
Nobody looks at their man
Half covered in Beer and nacho grease stains
And goes "oh baby,
that buffalo sauce gets me so wet"
"I just wanna grab a fist full of your hair
bend you over these pizza boxes an~"
"No"
"No"
"N~I mean, I'd be into it"
"No"

My girlfriend is in Florida working for Disney right now.
They have her doing laundry in a musty basement with
middle aged Mexican woman.
It's apparently awful.
"Ruins the magic" she says.
Seeing cinderella scurrying around half naked
doing her make up
Wig cap and undergarments.
Snow white with her nose up
asking for kombucha
Won't even make eye contact with the laundry vets
Let alone my intern girlfriend.
Who says these princesses
would sooner **** a man covered in nacho grease.
Then show her any respect.

I asked how the magic wasn't ruined before that.
After watching the play hairspray
when they yell
"CUT! "
and the actors go back to their miserable lives, 
I figured it out pretty young.
This middle class manifesto
Where making a livable wage is our life term goal.
But she is the faithful type.
Loves her a good miracle.

Like when she found out she was pregnant.
Was
She had already lost him.
Or her
I was over 3,000 miles away
With another man
she was drinking herself to sleep
Praying to some porcelain god for me to stop
I'm sure the morning sickness didn't help
Her depression
Or hangovers.
Or the will to tell me, The man already greiving over one lost daughter
we had lost another.
Before we even knew she was there.
I only tell her I love her.

She says she needs me around
because I’m a taurus.
I have no idea what she means by that.
But I love hearing stories about mexican woman yelling in spanish at their iphone screens
half naked princesses doing their makeup in hair nets.
And her still believing in magic.
She gives me something to dream about
while I wash these trash cans.

Like watching hairspray together
Her bending me over some chicken wings.
Our little Princess.

chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,

waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,

handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,

****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,

wooden soap, shortbread tires,  
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,

custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,

syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,

lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,

paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,

see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,

****** with a hole in it,
limp ****, pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,

one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,

meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,


this poem.

I love roller coasters.
I love the old rickety ones that jar my spine and push me into my little sister and i can feel our ribcages collide with the
click-click-click as they slowly build suspense and propel me towards the sun.

my last boyfriend hated them. He felt that his stomach couldn’t stand up to the drop of gravity so he ran at the sight of the climb up to reason and fled the line when i unbuckled my seatbelt.

i love waiting in line for a **** good thrill, and i count down the minutes until the spill of my scream echoes into the hairspray of the woman in front of me as she holds the hand of her cut-offs husband.

i guess you aren’t one to pine for the wooden tracks of thrill, either. but last night i lay in bed, on my side, trying to memorize the planes of your face, trying to calculate the angle of your nose as it leans slightly to your right, you tell me it’s crooked, i tell you it is lovely. it is the finest architecture this side of eiffel tower and you run your hands from the top of my collarbone, down the valley of my waist to the top of my hip, and you tell me you wish you had a tiny car to run along the line.

most of all i love the fall.

I’ve never understood the pull of the nightlife.
I was always content to hang in my cave and enjoy the homelife.
Every now and then I do wag my tail and purse the trail of the pack,
Always lingering right at the back of the queue.

I follow their scent when they descend into the night,
While they ascend the social status stairway.
From my perch at the bar I watch the social sheep dancing to the beat of popularity:
The girls show off their twirls and brunette curls,
Inviting you into the funhouse down under that never shuts for festivities.
The boys weigh up their options with the biceps on display and perfect quiffs held up by ten tins of hairspray.
Hunting through the flocks of feet trying to find themselves a piece of meat for an all night feast.

When he finally finds his muse he bites her lip and grabs her hair, pulling her in without a care about those who stop and stare.
They kiss for seconds and he whispers in here ear,
“I think we should get outta’ here.”
She giggles grabs his hand and leaves through the exit at the rear.
His friends give him a clap and cheer, whilst his jealous rivals sulk and sneer.

After a few too many drinks I leave through the front, holding my head low to avoid a fight.
Bearing the brunt of another unsuccessful night with no young light to take home and ignite.
I fall on my floor with a case of helicopter head as the room spins in circles and squares in front of my eyes.
My lasting thoughts are of the day ahead; hanging dry and feeling as if I’d rather die.

It's just another day in my nightlife.

I am NOT a size ZERO
My skin is spotted like a dalmatian
angel kisses and acne
My teeth are not pearl white
Chubby feet and lots to love legs.
Muscle is not defined
unmatched clothes cover my body
just a hint of mascara is found on my face.
rarely
My hair is not long and beautiful.
Choppy & Short
fingernails have chipped polish


I am the go to girl.
Not the: go to because she is so drop dead gorgeous girl

But the go to girl "because she knows everyone"

"She can hook me up with him/her" girl.

I will never be a size zero.
My hair may not cover my back and sway while I walk
My teeth are that awkward shade of in between almost looking perfectly white
I don't wear expensive clothes. Let alone match what I do wear.
My skin is far from being as smooth as a "babies ***"
My eyes have wrinkles around them already.
SO...

That does not mean in any way, shape, or form that I do not have a soul.

I have feelings.

My heart can only handle so much.

To the boy who laughed at me in the gym:

I am sorry that I do not have a perfect body that is "eye candy"

To the boy{s} who stole my heart, and then hit on my great friend:

I'm sorry I don't use large words and have an opinion on everything.
I'm sorry I am not a poetry goddess or have the ability to pull off wearing
red lipstick and scarves.

To the boy I hardly know in church:

I will NOT give you my roommates number
after you flirt with me to get it.

To all of the boys who look past me while I am walking next to ANY girl:

I'm sorry, I guess I really am not worth "your time"

&

To the boy, who will hold my hand and heart for the rest of, well {forever}:

Can you hurry up?
I am ready for someone to like that I don't plaster myself in powder
and stiffen my hair with hairspray everyday.
I am ready for you to love me for my thousands of small freckles covering my body.
I hope you can love me, unconditionally...
even though I am curvy.
I know you are out there somewhere.
And if I knew you now I would send you to beat up
all of those boys hurting my feelings.
Or just hearing how much you care for me,
that would help too.

I'll be waiting.
xoxo

it's scary what people want to hear,
i feel, nothing at all, to be honest,
whenever i think of fame
i feel all famous people speaking the words:
don't become even by our standards moderates...
szlafrok: bathrobe -
              szuja: lizard-like-homeless person -
then again chattering ratty too -
does that mean: if i write i'll
get a penny for a structure where a brick is
worth just as much to the letter, the word
           or the line or the paragraph?
                  cukier: sugar...
   for every brick i'll get a penny's worth?
      writing discourages you from dreaming...
only the most adapted
                   who get encouraged by
   advertisement and who fake writing will ever get
the technicolour coat of Joseph...
         writing erodes your perspective of dreams,
it actually censors your ability to do so...
    i hear them, make novels from their body-language...
        and get an itch... nothing finicky... just
barring without baritone...
      poet's alphabet st. - barring without baritone...
antinomy of anecdote... false impression memorisation,
nothing rubric bound nothing alphabetical,
         nothing Pythagorean...
      antinomy... and there was me thinking of
antimony...                  there's no cascade of the sound
encoding of b or of a...
    there's the alphabet... and then there's
the dictionary... na na mmm, ma ma nun..
                    so cool with it, fit-bit....
      or should i claim you a toyo-bot?
           a ******* Hamleys' jack-in-the-box
     chuckles?
            either way... it's all a strategic **** -
or a macaque - or mà-cá-qé!
         herald the surgeon!
             grave a in the first syllable?
a delay... let's term yhwh as surd invocations -
           mà! (and yes, exclamation marks
are part of the necessary progress -
   unless you'd prefer anti-German anti-compound
allocation of a word to be turned into syllable mince...)
         mà! alternatively that's non-ambiguous -
what's ambiguous is the second syllable...
   mà!... cà!     màcà!        it's almost like holding-off
*******...          màcà!
      and then there's the qé!        or for optical reasons
as well as for reasons for the priestly monopoly
written as macaque - my-khaki-haka...
  (haka is a dance in rugby by the new zealanders,
   and khaki is diarrhea brown, diluted brown) -
   it's almost Spanish in a sense, huh?!
   well, because it's not exactly queue -
  or: que(h)? i.e. qweh?
well yes, it's a monkey, a tiny little bonsai
of a gorilla... cute... funny... loves tea-bags
and sugar... great company on a hot Kenyan night,
gets pestered with slingshots by the courtesan
   "bodyguards" of a tourist hanky-panky free whiskey...
  the time those kenyan entertainer girls
came up to me i sorta wished to play the
white-guy-****-history-joke...
stood my ground, went to sleep on one of the lounge
chairs one night... could have been stolen by pirates...
and i kinda wished it, but it didn't happen...
   still, the application of diacritical marks to
define syllables... the grave mark above vowels is
a bit like "holding back"...
         for some reason i first wrote mà-cá-qé...
but i realised... the avalanche only comes with
the acute marking above eh!....
        grave markings means restriction, a holding back...
and by this i mean that when the acute stress is
added, no number of optically adequate spellings
can erase it...
     in this case qé for what's encoded as -que -
   and still the four surds appear whether invited or
uninvited - softened laugh, eh? as in the asphyxiating
form of breathing, and then relaxed: ha ha ha ha!
       then again, i'm wrong,
they call them macaque: ma-ca-qac....
         so as a good revisionist does:
                grave and acute without a macron:
      má-cà-qàc - ma-cac-cac - not ma... ca-que!
   macaque!          Fawlty Towers and Mánuèl...
i know... nothing - hairspray romance,
and a horse called dragonfly...
   macaqué! olé!              
                          mácáquè -
    for the love of u - or parabola...
                 truth be told? i'll never know!
why? because no one taught us the rules of how
or when to apply such demands!
   let alone semicolons or commas...
                   macaque - barbarism sentenced to:
ma       ca              qak
                or simply my kayak...
**** me... it's still a monkey whether you like it or
not taking a **** and calling that chocy part of
its inverted intestines' toad-stool.
  let's just call it a mácàq monkey... because
the -ue suffix is just getting unbearable, like
an umbrella unfolded in one's **** -
   and applying diacritics to a suffix of pure-vowels
is beyond missing an ******, and making
rationale (the part where you miss stating an olé -
the part where rational is elongated into rationál
or the non-diacritical addition of -e)....
and then they worried why people never punctuated
correctly... maybe because people never applied
diacritical marks that they went beyond,
and didn't punctuate correctly?
                       humpty-dumpty hmm hmm:
                   eggs St. Benedict's, and a falafel Sunday!
me? trying to invoke a vocab that transcends
the ******* cool, however condescending i can be,
without trying or eating rye bread to boot,
    and then wear a balaclava calling it a Gucci neckwear,
drinking rather than throwing Molotovs.

Stop blaming the world,
For all your problems,
You always seem to curl the truth.

Oh your having a bad day,
I am sorry,
Did your boyfriend leave you again?
Oh wait I know it,
People stop listening to what you say.

Always have to be in the spotlight,
Talk about dramas as if your life is hard,
You have got everything,
So get over your self.

"**** my life" is your Facebook status,
But all you want is people to ask
"Are you okay?".

When really your just pathetic,
There is no amount of hairspray,
In the world to solve your selfishness.

I'm tired of not having a date
to take me out on a Saturday night
When nobody calls me and its getting late
Its such a pitiful sight

So I've decided to put on my wizard hat on
then go down to the basement below
and when my family have all gone
I'll build my very own boyfriend and nobody would know

He'd have eyes so dark and dreamy
he'd have arms that'd hug me tight
and when he'd turn his face to see me
his face would shine real bright

In a huge *** I stirred the magic brew
and I started dreaming of my lover boy
dreaming of all the lovey-dovey things he'd do
I started to bubble up with joy

I threw in hairspray for wonderful hair
and a Jon Bon Jovi CD for a heavenly voice
For huggability I also threw in my teddy bear
along with all my other stuffed toys

I added cologne and expensive perfume
so he'd always smell like a cool breeze in spring
My boyfriend would be nearly perfect I assume
and he'd be made up of all sorts of wonderful things

I threw in a black tuxedo and dancing shoes
so he'd be classy and gentlemanly
He'd be the perfect boy I would choose
to start my perfect family

As I was done with my recipe
I chanted my magic spell
smoke and fumes rose up endlessly
My hardwork was complete I could tell

Out popped out this boy wonder
who looked dreamy as could be
My knees went weak and my heart spat thunder
as I giggled nervously

We went on our first date
but It was a disaster straight from hell
This monster I decided to  create
made me want to take back that awful spell

Me and wonderboy did not work
and we broke up instantly
with no love he turned out to be a ****
completely devoid of chivalry

The good things in a man
are not always the things that show
you see you must understand
True Love isn't what you think you already know

The things that send you head over heels
may not be the things that truly last
because the boy wearing expensive perfume
may turn out to be just another *******!

In a world full of ugly people,
A city made of hideous faces,
A phone call means everything.
It means a voice, free from
Its crooked nose, its wrinkled skin,
And its gapped, stained, crooked teeth.
It means a connection.
With another, with yourself,
And with the ability to disconnect
At the push of a button.
I take out my scratched, chipped cellphone
With its cracked face,
And call Helen.
Her voice swims through the mud
Inside my skull when she answers,
Stirring and churning
Until I'm weak and dizzy.
"How 'bout you just come
On over now, Big Fella?"
And I do.
I turn off the squawking television,
Don a pair of food-stained pants,
Drag a comb through my
Overgrown hair,
And descend the stairs to my
Waiting Oldsmobile.
The turn of the key in the ignition
Only produces a hollow click,
One click two click three click six,
Then a partial start,
But the beast fails to come alive.
I get out to replace
The fried starter fuse,
Then do this dance four more times
Before the old ***** clears her throat
And starts to idle.
It's a short ride,
Pawtucket is small,
And my only companion
On these post-midnight streets
Is the white noise
Issuing from the broken radio.
I pass the house I grew out of,
The crumbling schools
That taught me the value
Of impartial numbness,
The cemetery my father used to visit
To perpetrate the lie
He lives;
The role of a child
And the permanence
Of parents.
I pass abandoned factories
And abandoned hope
And abandoned pets
And abandoned storefronts.
In a world of full of past relics,
In a city full of ghosts,
A crumbling façade means everything.
It means bricks freed from their mortar,
Separated from their history,
Left to be picked up and thrown through plate glass windows.
Buildings are never empty,
Just quiet.
I pass the CVS at Newport and Armistice,
With its twenty four hour pharmacy,  
Dispensing the one a.m. hydrocodone,
The one thirty a.m. dextroamphetamine,
The two a.m. oxycodone,
The two thirty a.m. alprazolam,
The three a.m. dextromethorphan,
The three thirty a.m. methylphenidate,
The four a.m. eszopiclone,
The four thirty a.m. benzodiazeprine,
The five a.m. phenylpropanolamine.
I drive past the clinic in the old senior center
With its six a.m. methadone ready to go
In pre measured cups.
Buildings can be quiet, but not empty.
Helen lives on the third floor of a three story house
Built sometime in the forties,
Forgotten sometime in the eighties.
The two bottom floors are vacant,
The windows are boarded,
The driveway is choked with weeds,
And two lounging cats don’t flinch
When I walk by them
On my way to the door in the rear of the building.
The door is always unlocked,
So I let myself in
And begin the rickety climb to the top.
The higher I go,
The louder Amy Winehouse’s voice gets.
“What kind of fuckery is this?”
Seems an adequate question.
There are ****** handprints on the railings,
The walls,
Drops polka dot the stairs.
I don’t bother knocking,
I never do.
She’s seated in a La-Z-Boy in the kitchen
Facing the door,
In a cloud of cigarette smoke.
In place of exchanged pleasantries
I say I need to use the bathroom
And she nods,
Eyes locked on mine.
I take a look at my sallow image
In the mirror,
With specks of toothpaste and hairspray
Pocking my face like acne.
The toilet bowl is still streaked
With the last man’s ****.
I ****, wash my hands,
And take another look at myself.
Helen is no longer in the chair,
But I know where to find her.
She’s sprawled on the bed,
With a new cigarette in her mouth,
The toys spread out on one side,
The tools on the other.
I tell her I’ll forgive her for stabbing me the other night
If I can get a freebee now.
She shakes her head once,
Exhales a cloud,
“Not gonna happen, Champ,”
And I take what I can get.

"That's it! I'll take it to the scissors myself!"
Mangled, wrangled, tangled mess,
meandering tendrils coil and cross, clump.

Split ends,
knots so impossibly tied the eagle scout is left bewildered,
sun damage: fried, frizzled, frazzled, frayed.

Broken teeth in a gasping comb,
choking brushes enveloped in the furling mess,
hairspray, fruitless, face it:
(Another) Bad Hair Day.

"That's it! Today's the day!"
The call is made, the appointment scheduled,
you sit and wait.

X's mark the calendar, the day is nigh,
your do's judgement day is at hand.
It's time to settle this.

The day before, you wake up,
absentmindedly getting dressed, drudging through routine,
mirror's the last thing you see.

Crusty eyes suddenly open wide,
as split ends seal and knots unfurl,
sun damage heals and combs sing ceaselessly.

The day is met with a new life,
and the dark days of yore seem like a past life,
as this sunny day seems like all there is.

You laugh at what now appears to be such trivialities,
"Twas a bad hair day! And merely so!"
You allow yourself such a shallow deception.

Your hand grabs the phone, your fingers make the call,
your voice makes the cancellation--
"How could I have been so foolish to resort to such measures?!"

You hang up and scoff at yourself,
a hearty laugh in jest at such hastiness,
tossing and swishing your luscious mane to and fro.

You allow it to slip through your fingers,
on the cusp of the cure,
as the bad hair days truly outnumber the good (you know it to be so).

For the next day will come--
You'll greet the mirror with that heart-wrenching sigh,
in visible anguish at the chaotic mess that encroaches upon your head.

          Don't let a good hair day fool you;
                                                        make the call.

How unfair it is
That I cannot do

HAIR MAGIC-

That my wispy locks
Won't listen to me,
Not even with the persuasion
Of a gallon of hairspray
And a million pins.

How unfair that I
Cannot look this good
Every day...

But there is some
Small comfort in my

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES-

(The ones that everyone raves over)
I shall be messy haired,
But happy.

I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot
with the force of a lion after its prey
and with the lethargy of one whom had not eaten in weeks
drudging up that last ounce of strength to obtain survival

my eyelashes had mascara from the night before
and my hair was thick with day-old hairspray
hiding behind sunglasses, I shifted my weight for relief
from the flip-flops rubbing unpleasantly between my toes

keenly aware of the headache above my eyes
I got my coffee and was prepared to flee back to my den
where I could devour it, keeping a wary eye on would be thieves
as my fatigue and I walked hastily towards the exit

Life happened. To my left, sat a couple side by side
they wore the casual clothes of confidence and serenity
he sat by the fireplace, his glasses sat at the end of his nose
her body leaned close to the man she loved, and forward to see

the book that was laid open on the table in front of them
curious minds swallowed the words that were offered there
under gray hair, hands holding, faint smiles formed on their lips
I had never seen such a portrait of true contentment

outside, the image kept speaking to my brain, despite my preoccupation
and I saw you. and I saw me. in thirty years, a virtual lifetime
our aging together; maturing, evolving, creating
side by side, ever content, with books, love and coffee.

tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.

too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.

chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.

almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.

silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.

-part 1

conceptcollection

last summer
I met a boy of 6 feet tall
he is two years older than me
he listens to punk rock
has an alcoholic father,
and his kisses
are sweeter than honey
and softer than silk

we spent countless, long, dreamy
cold, rainy, humid
nights
in my backyard
with the smell of too much hairspray
which I can not bring myself to smell again
and mosquito spray which I never apply anymore
11pm
4am
the hours passed by like minutes, seconds

under the stars
telling secrets
I was scared
scared of losing him
even though he was already lost

fading
disapearing
slowly and then all at once

hallways
silence
stares
me alone
him and her

11pm
4am
hours seem like eternitys, milleniums
crying
flashbacks
thinking about the us that will never be
blood spills on the paper
spelling out your words, promises
do I even cross his mind
maybe  probably not  no

I'm sorry I wasn't
skinny
pretty
funny
admirable
good
enough

I'm sorry

we didn't even say goodbye

goodbye, Brandan

I have a message for the kid sitting in the back of the classroom
You know, the one with the bruises, ask him what's wrong he'll give you the dumbest excuses
"I fell down the stairs, and ran into the door"
But stairs and doors don't give black eyes and broken bones so what are you lying for?

I have a message for the prettiest girl in school
You know, The one hiding behind all that make-up and hairspray
Pretending she couldn't be having  a better day
Yet she's afraid to go back to her broken home
Because her step-dad hurts her mom and her brother won't leave her alone
School is her sanctuary
What you don't know can be scary.

I have a message for the boy on his skateboard
Sellings drugs and liquor to make a quick buck
Then he got caught for possession and now he's stuck
In that cell all by himself remembering what his friends said
"We're bros, forever" But they left him for dead.

I got a message for that wierd girl in the lunchroom
The one that eats alone,
She has no place to call home
She smells bad because she doesn't own a shower
Living in shelters, her life is out of her power
Because her parents messed up she has to hurt
But she wants to do better so she does her school work

I have a message for the boy blogging
Those cuts on his wrists are not cat scratches
They're more like past mistakes left on his arms in patches
He can't help how sad he always feels
But he refuses to be that kid "on pills"

I have a message for that girl with the strict parents
Wishing she could bring her girlfriend to meet the family
But she knows if she did they wouldn't be happy
Because being gay is a sin
And if you're gay you're not kin

****, what a world we live in.

I have a message for all the messed up kids
Who struggle in the daily lives they live.
You will be okay
Things will get better someday.
So put away that blade and pick up that paint brush
Don't end your life before you've felt the rush
Wait until you've had your first kiss
I promise you there will be so many moments of bliss
Put down that bottle of pills
You of all people deserve life's thrills
I know sometimes it's hard to catch the curveballs life throws your way,
Just get low and get ready to play

To the kids who feel lost and alone
I will be the one to welcome you home

i had a great big moth flying round the light
attracted by  bulbs that were very bright
flying round round as busy as can be
he was rather noisy and annoying me
so i got some hairspray to chase the moth away
but his wings went stiff  i am sad to say
this it made him quiet and from the light he fled
but he couldnt fly he had to glide instead
now the moth was quiet and couldnt fly no more
all that he could do was glide around the floor

I use a whole bottle of shampoo everytime i wash my hair
Scrubbing my scalp until it bleeds
Red running down my face

I use a whole bottle of shampoo everytime i wash my hair
Spraying my hairspray and dry shampoo after
Perfume fills the air

I use a whole bottle of shampoo everytime i wash my hair
Picking up the strands falling out
The shower wall filled

I use a whole bottle of shampoo everytime i wash my hair
Hoping when she grabs me in for a hug
I no longer smell like home

I use a whole bottle of shampoo everytime i wash my hair
Looking in the mirror hoping to keep her out
But realizing i'm just like her

your hair’s so **** distracting
it’s gorgeous, yes,
slicked back or even gelled up into the punk rock staple
of I hate my parents
but it pulls me away from your face
like a sucker for half-assed romance novels
your doe like hazel eyes
draw me in
your bumpy nose
rocks against mine and makes me giggle
your lopsided grin
makes it so easy to get lost in kisses
but when you’re screaming at the top of your lungs
about how much ******* hairspray you need for the next show
it gets me wondering
and wondering is always bad, but,
did it ever occur to you that girls will still love you even if you don’t grease your hair up
did it ever occur to you that I will still love you
but then again,
you’ll eventually just get a haircut

The clank of stilettos on concrete,
Of sparkling clothes,
Bathrooms hazy with hairspray and perfume,
The pink ribbon caught in your hair,
Lipstick and cash,
Mint and your blackberry
Ipod and your favorite book
Some things you won’t leave home without.
You. And your bag.
One for every mood..and every occasion!

Modern and Contemporary Poetry
takes up most of the passenger seat.
Pages' edges ruffled like the balled-up polo I'm wearing. Tommy Hilfiger'd
be rolling in his millions. Twenty minutes till work's screen door crashes on the frame twice before settling. Three salad plates, a skillet, and two jars of unsweetened tea condensate
on the metal counter. They soak dinner bills and paper towel coasters.
The front door vacuum seals behind sandal families reeking of Chlorine
and hairspray. Beachy look. Three more families crowd in behind them, taking turns sifting through the hostess desk peppermints for discarded toothpicks. Reservations for 7:00 come in at 6:50 and demand a table. They're  just like the mints packed tightly
in the lobby, but there are a few patient ones at the bottom.  They're the ones that inspire stanzas in **Modern and Contemporary Poetry, the college textbook waiting on my passenger seat. *Three more hours.

I hated him, that slimy, stupid, putrid drunk. His ***** brown hair was crusted with the stink of old hairspray. Half-closed eyes ran red. His body flabby, with frequent bouts of flatulence. I watched him drink himself dumb, slobbering in his stupidity, succoring on his self-entitled rage. Anger and depression made him into a slurring mongrel. Contempt turned him into a raving lunatic. Many nights he held court with the mirror, glaring fiercely as if his reflection was an opponent to be destroyed.

That said, He did have some good qualities. Little lights that glowed in certain special moments. I saw them more times than I could count. Many times he would give his last dollar to a stranger in need.  There were quite a few times he picked up strangers and gave them a ride. When winter came he would shovel the driveways and sidewalks of the elderly for free.

Still, this list was not enough to satiate my rage. Perhaps part of my disdain came from the ill words of others. Meanness wearing the guise of kind criticism stirred my fury further. The resentment I bore him was too great. Thus, after another night of his drunken behavior, after another bout of self-indulgent whining and threats of suicide. I slit his throat.

Blood bubbled from his neck as he struggled to remain standing. Red liquid rained down enveloping his throat then partially covering his chest. Then a thin string of red lights exploded from the wound. Each line jerking the neck in a different direction as it sought its connection. The thud of these lines hitting the walls and sticking solidly echoed in the living room.

He screamed with a rage. The kind that I had never heard before. The bubbling blood choked him into silence as it began to thicken.  More crimson liquid oozed out and down the writhing figure. He was struggling so hard, which I found so amusing. Flakes of coagulated blood chipped off and settled on the puke colored carpet. The sharp strands of red vibrated and tightened as if they were trying to cease his agitated struggles.

After an hour of this strange horror show the blood stopped flowing, he stopped moving, and all that seemed to be left was a massive black, brown, and dark red cocoon. In the distance music played, songs of love, community, and social justice reverberated through the dingy house.

After several days the cocoon started to shiver and glow. Flecks of the clotted blood crumbled and fell to the floor, this time at an alarming rate. After another day the cocoon cracked and began disintegrating even faster.

It took another three or four hours till a figure emerged. Then he was back. The object of my disgust returned. However, he had changed. His eyes were no long weary or drunk red. His hair was smooth and silky, though still brown, it lacked that old stinky quality. His body had shrunk and hardened. I think I saw a small cotton tail, But the most striking change was the calmness.

When he spoke, poetry flowed from his lips. His new demeanor sang more of compassion then anger. Something had changed. Something was new. Old bitterness had almost completely faded. The anguish had been replaced with a hopeful grin.

As I stared into the mirror I knew I would never see that dark fool again. There was no more self-loathing only honest introspection.

I never was the type to appreciate the sanctity of a funeral parlor. Their somber stink of lilies always turned my stomach. No— I need to be among the trees. Plan to take me to a wide open space in the middle of nowhere. We’ll make it a somewhere as soon as we arrive. No newspaper announcement with starched wording and unpolished details. The invitation should be in the form of a mix CD, and the details of time and place will be hidden clues derived from the song titles. Invite everyone I’ve ever made laugh and thank them for me, for returning the favor. If they question you on that, have them count it in the papery crinkles about my eyes. The truth will be waiting there. Set a smile on my face—one that proves how much joy prevailed. Dress me how you’ll remember me—comfortably, colorfully, and untamed. No make-up or hairspray. I want to exit this world just as pleasantly disheveled as a I entered it.

When the day comes to say goodbye, lift me up on a giant patchwork pillow made from the hundreds of novelty t-shirts I wore threadbare in my twenties. Stuff the space between the seams with the pages of my countless journals I always felt the need to hide, even though I lived alone for most of my life. You’ll have more than enough stuffing, I promise. Feel free to keep whatever is left over for a good laugh when you need it. Sew the seams with bright gold thread and cover it with all of the coat buttons I managed to lose over the years. I’ll lead my gracious hoard of respect-payers as we travel to nowhere. Have the children ride on elephants that have been painted the reds, oranges, and purples to match the sunset. Paint their little faces to match if they’d like. There must be dancing bears and majestic tigers in tow too. A parade fit for a lover of life, complete with a marching band that plays nothing but horn-heavy soul to keep the journey a happening one.

Prop me up against a willow tree when you’ve reached the spot. Lay out blankets for everyone to sit on, and hold the service well into the deep blues and purples of the evening. As the sun sets, and the lightning bugs take flight, man the masses with sparklers that will stay lit for hours. Have everyone spell out their favorite memories of me and stand in awe of the ardent glow in every direction.  Allow the children to feed the elephants all the peanuts they can handle. Enjoy the tigers’ purr and the bears’ tight hugs. Pretend they’re my very own that I didn’t get a chance to give. Set up an old jukebox nearby so that couples and friends can slow dance to Sam Cooke 45s as the sun disappears into the watery horizon. Pour the finest beers and wines for everyone willing, and tap into that West Virginia moonshine that I’ve always been too afraid to try. Clink your glasses and laugh from the belly as you drink to all of our missed friends and equally missed opportunities. Drink another for me and another for good luck.

As the alcohol curbs the night’s chill, set me atop my pillow at the water’s edge. Line my body with candles, warmly lit and housed in all of the tiny temples of colored glass you could manage to find at the local thrift stores. Before you give me a push, take a minute to appreciate how all of their dancing shades create an unspoken magic against the dark sky. As I drift off into the sea, send a paper lantern up and away—one for every time you’ve seen me smile and two for every time you watched me cry. I know I was more alive in those tears than I could ever be in the curves of my grins. The time will be right, at some point—and when it is, have the limber young bodies climb the tallest trees and shoot hundreds of roman candles in my direction. I want to light up the night sky and go out with a bang more awe-inspiring than the Fourth of July. When I’m less than a bright speck on the horizon, find your way back to where we started. One less than before.

When it’s all over, you’ll find me in the comfort of the warm light in every birthday candle and in the corners of your smile when you find happiness in a moment that you couldn’t buy. In every nowhere you find that turns into somewhere, I’ll be there, missing you too.

The air is crisp.
Crisp, that is the word my dad used to describe Gwen's voice after the No Doubt concert. I was eight then.

Crisp, the word I thought of, when I was flicking that brown lighter I thought it would be funny to buy, sitting on the stoop. Striking the wheel, careful not to hit the little red button. The air swept against the sunglasses I paid too much for with the lenses that are mismatched and the sweater my mom bought me two christmases ago that originally I hated.

Falling leaves drift by those little windows to my soul but I am too distracted by the thought of him coming to pick me up to try to attach them back to the tree. Too bad too, because with every leaf detached, comes winter further on my face.

Thats when the crystals fall from my dreams, and cover the once adobe hills in spells of skyscrapers. Those are the guys who form tools out of my can of hairspray and chip at the ozone trying to scrape off the blue, and see what all that paint is covering. Icarus is horrified.

I put my heart on a string
and gave it to you
as a necklace

You hung it from the ceiling
and beat it half to death
like a ****** pinata

Wrapped it around your finger
and yanked it up and down
like a macabre yo-yo

I swallowed all of the pain and
it tasted like hairspray

like chewing up eggshells
like biting aluminum foil
like licking pennies

I don't even want my heart back
please just please **** it now
step on it wearing stilettos

I just want to be whispers in your mind
I want to be a spider on the back of your skull
I want the curse of remembrance upon your soul