life-style sharpies are good
to go. looks pretty thick to
me.

comes in black and
cloud

they will draw for you
in exchange of eyes

consume me!,
they reek an
odorless nostril

invisible and
trustworthy

I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.

My technology nightmare
Leaves me euphoric this morning.
Addicted, like drug trials,
I knew the risks going in,
Got hooked in The Cloud &
Now it always seems easier,
With diminished psychic chafing
Whenever I go with the flow, as the
Hipsters are saying again.
Yes, the hipsters:
Finally, some kids I can relate to.
At least on some level, their music e.g.
The first thing I did this morning,
Waiting for my laptop to boot,
Was put a CD on the stereo:
Matrix Reloaded: The Album.
I set the shuffle function,
Looping back between
Linkin Park’s Session &
Team Sleep’s Passportal.
You can tell a lot about
What kind of day it will be
By the soundtrack you choose,
Your infinite play list,
Don’t ever say these kids have no culture,
Or nothing to share with us old farts.
Old Farts: an apt, Baby Boomer term in 2015.
Kids’ music, some of it quite good,
Quite 60s-worthy if you catch my drift,
As we used to say while grazing in the grass with
Hugh Masekela & his Naai Mongoe-Swazi red,
Surfrikan homeboys & band mates, & that
ANC Kwa-Guqa Township posse,
Shadowing him since Sharpeville.
That’s right, Babaloo,
Go with the flow.
Don’t fight it. You’ve been spared the unintended
Consequences of government shenanigans &
Free market meltdowns.
Consider this a CEASE & DESIST NOTICE:
Cease swimming upstream Mr. Phelps.
Desist fighting tide & current, Michael.
A mariner’s distinction, yet serviceable &
Purposed for this narrative.
“And away we go,” croons a Gleason levitation;
Aloft we go into the wild blue yonder.
The Cloud: an exalted playground.
You are atop the slide,
Kindergarten lord of all you survey,
Sultan, Chinese Emperor & Venetian Doge,
A 90-caliber Duke of Earl,
You are euphoric, Mike.

The descent into the humanoid condition
(See Paddy Chayefsky’s Howard Beale),
Is slick and precipitous.
It begins when you first finger ****
A pocket calculator or touchtone phone,
Or use a Xerox machine.
From there it’s a quick slide down
The technology ****-shoot: video games,
Spreadsheets & word processors,
Emails, texts & tweets,
Laser projection keyboards,
Wi-Fi amplifiers,
GPS navigators, &
Apps for No-Strings *** . . .
By “****-shoot” I editorialize, of course,
In a state of future shock,
Resenting planned obsolescence,
Contemptuous of shrewd **** kids,
Wharton School sharpies,
Scoping out price curves & flowcharts,
Colluding at industry trade shows,
Powwows & confabs,
Releasing newer, more versatile
Models & spinoffs, according to a
Scheme planned three years in advance.

I salt the inevitable wounds of technology,
Taking my fight to the streets, realizing too late
My sole means of alerting the flash mob
Is by so-called smart phone,
*******!
Even the revolution has gone digital.
Poor Gil Scott Heron, dead last year at 62,
Poor Scott Heron, channeled into the
Harlem Renaissance by that loyal Chicago Defender,
Subscriber & reader, to wit: his Grandma,
A “Rainbow Conspiracy” co-conspirator,
Cooking ham hocks & collard greens for that
Mythical coalition of Young Lords,
Black Panthers & SDS.
Heron’s prognostication was wrong:
“The Revolution Will (In Fact) Be Televised!”
We’ve witnessed quite a bit of it,
Lately, prime time lately,
Live by satellite from once exotic places,
Places like Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria & Ferguson, MO.
I say “once exotic” because it’s hard to be
Visually intoxicated by images of screaming brown men
Sporting New York Yankee ball caps,
“Vote for Pedro” T-shirts and
$200.00 Air Jordan footwear.
Admittedly, the production values of
Revolutionary journalism have improved,
Action reported Hollywood-style,
Narrative arcs, scripted episodes,
Drive-by Potemkin villages & battle scenes,
30 or 60 or 90 day shooting schedules.
Spontaneous proletarian uprisings as Reality TV,
Riveting dramas,
High Nielsen ratings & $500K
Per minute corporate sponsors.
Let’s view the new fall line-up:
(1) “Mustafa Behaving Badly!”
(2) “Tunisian Tear Gas Talent!”
(3) “Gaddafi Gets Sodomized!”

for what feels like  
the first time
(in a long time)
i’ve met someone

and  
everything’s exciting

it’s thrilling
exhilarating

      to just
        be myself
          around him

and
i want to do nice things for him

i want to take off his shoes
make him tea
i want to draw ****** drawings of him
with sharpies
on napkins at parties

and i long to bring him home
go on long walks alone
with him
i wish to
write songs in his name
give him my earphones
(when his break)

and
we’re an
unlikely pair

             and there’s
                    something
                        so infectious
                               about that

A little boy
Neat white shirt ironed to perfection
A monster truck plastered on the front
Denim jeans, fitting his skinny waist just right

Innovative
Imaginative
He loves creating new things
Making plain old cardboard into the next best thing

He gets his crayons
Sharpies and all
And runs to his room
All excited on his new project, his new creation

One piece of cardboard after the other
Rectangles flying everywhere
Coloring what looks like door handles onto cardboard?
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.

He works quickly
With a due date set in mind
Full of ambition
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.

He finishes his new achievement
Smiling happily at his new jumble of handiwork
Glued together precisely
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.

He attaches the different shapes to himself
Straps glued to the cardboard
It seems he’s wearing armor
With doorknobs and wood grain painted on it with pure artistry

He hears someone come in the front door
His smile turns to panic
He quickly cleans up the supplies
Throwing things around the room anywhere they fit

He runs to the corner of his room
He quickly pulls the “armor” close to him
As he sits in the fetal position
His armor becomes a small dresser that looks as if it was made for clothes

The father bursts into the room
With rage spelled out on his forehead
The boy hides brilliantly afraid of the wrath to come
The father looks around the room carefully

Come out Come out
Wherever you are
The next time I see you
I’ll give you more bruises than last week altogether

He closes the door with a loud slam
The boy unfolds his creation, a simple dresser
Who knew that a young boy’s imagination
Would protect him from all of the horror and pain usually unleashed on him

A million black sharpies
A million silver blades
How do you decide?
Which one comes first?
No sympathy from you.
I didn't ask for it.
Leave now before you can't.

Sharpies bleed through notebook paper with ease as their ink is too strong for the lines to absorb
It’ll leak and seep down and down, not caring about how many pages it leaves ruined with the shadows of previous pages
I’ve written you many letters
Letters with my own ink bleeding into your pages
You are a novel with sandy, thin pages like a butterfly’s wings
A story I desperately want to be a part of
But your twelve point times new roman font rejects my messy cursive with distaste
Margin writing doesn’t affect the book itself, it only comforts the reader in that it reassures them
Reassures that slowly they are gathering the pieces to put together the puzzle
Your book is sold from the old bookstore
Your cover fair and back almost brand new
Spine intact with no folding or drying of the glue
You are you
I wrote a few notes, at least I tried
I accidentally used a sharpie so I’m sorry with the bleeding inside
Goodbye
May your new owner take better care of you than I
Make sure she uses a pencil
Before she writes inside

When you joke you sound so serious
And I never seem to get it until it’s too late

You like order and tradition
I listen to Christmas songs in July.

Our moods never seem to match
You seem to thinks that that’s just fine.

But I don’t understand.

I’m always worried, it seems,
That I’ll somehow let you down
And in doing so, I’ve succeeded.

I always do the best that I can
to look good for you
you complain, “it isn’t needed.”

You’re family only likes the ‘Normal’
Whatever that is
But I stick out like a sore thumb.

From my hair and it’s ever-changing colors,
To my jeans with their pictures and quotes,
...That are drawn on with sharpies...
and the paint stains that cover them from time to time!

Because of all of this, I worry.

Am I too weird?
Is my rainbow-like hair too odd?
Are my drawn on jeans ,
My crazy belly dancing skirts,
And pentagram necklaces,
Simply too strange?

What of my love of olives?
And how I ***** up my face when I think?
Do you not like how I spend hours on my computer,
Working on one picture (trying to make it just right)?

Or how, when I choose to color my art by hand,
I walk away with paint all over me (Even on my cheeks),
And an oddly proud grin plastered on my face?

I worry, and pace,
For days on end, at times,
Wondering if you really love me.

And when you finally see me,
The weird, colorful,  oddball that I am
You smile, and kiss me,
saying "i've missed you so much!"

And I know that I worried for nothing,
That you are different from your parents,
That our beliefs live together in harmony,
That you actually like the odd faces I make when I'm thinking
and the weird colors I dye my hair,
And that you really, truly love me—

Paint stains and all.

Remember the time
I thought I liked you
But it only lasted a week.
Remember the time
I cursed for the first time;
And it was at you.

Remember the time
I liked you for an entire year
And obsessed over you.
Remember the time
You teased me everyday.

Remember the time
We used to take piano from the same woman
And I saw you at a lesson one day.
Remember the time
You told me about the night
The black thing came to you,
Up your arm.

Remember the time
We spent backstage
Goofing off.
Remember the time
I wrote about how much I hated you
In my diary,
Everyday.

Remember the time
I dated your best friend
And you were the obligatory third wheel.
Remember the time
You threatened to punch me
Because I made fun of the girl you liked.

Remember the time
We spent during choir practice
Looking at squirrels through the window.
Remember the time
You told me
"I don't care what homeroom I have,
As long as you're not in it."

Remember the time
The stinkbug kept following your shoes
In Spanish class.
Remember the time
You threw a pinecone at me
Because I deserved it.

Remember the time
We sat together in all our classes.
Remember the time
I dreamed about you
Dying
In my front room.

Remember the time
We Skyped for three hours.
Remember the time
I beat you up
Because I was angry.

Remember the time
My two best friends started dating
Because you finally got up the courage and asked her.
Remember the time
You told me you wanted to break up with her.

Remember the time
You stole my Sharpies
Until I asked him out.
Remember the time
You broke up with her
And avoided me for a week.

Remember the time
We spent after school,
Studying for Spanish.
Remember the time
I was scared of you
But walked with you,
In silence.

Remember the time
You had a rave in class
And asked me to tape it.
Remember the time
I cut myself
And you got mad at me
And we spoke even less.

Remember the time
The algebra teacher threatened to separate us
Because we talked too much in class.
Remember the time
I messaged you
And messaged you
And you wouldn't answer.

Remember the time
You and your mum invited me to dinner.
Remember the time
I saw you for the first time
In two months
And, despite the same clothes
And hair,
You looked like a stranger.

Remember the time
You asked him out for me.
Remember the time
We Skyped for five minutes
And had nothing to say.

Remember the time
You held my hand all period
Because you were cold.
Remember the time
You told me you were insane
And we couldn't be like we used to.

Remember the time
You told me not to worry,
That we were still the same, relationship-wise.

Remember the time
You told me not to cry
But I did.

Remember the time
You held me while I sobbed,
The first time you'd ever seen me cry.

Remember the time
You assured me you'd be fine.

Remember the time
I shook while you held my hands.

Remember the time
You hugged me after class,
A week later
And I nearly cried of happiness.

Remember the times.

Do you remember the times?
Because it seems all I'm doing these days
Is remembering you.

well, you told me i was sunshine
and i told you i was sewage and slime
you said that i was a universal transmitter of love
you said "you are like a bleeding sharpie"
i was confused at that last one

but professed that no; i was a black hole
that soaked up rays of sunshine
and the blood of many sharpies
with unquestionable gravity powers
i crushed the light, it all became night

you tried to explain to me how pretty
sharpies were when you pressed them hard
and they bled out on the page like nothing's left
but i refused to believe
"there was nothing in the first place
life is nothing"

so you asked me what was wrong
and i told you my heart was melting
warm, i could feel it dripping and slipping
you said be happy, and i agree,
i'll be there in a few days. maybe

I.
Identity?
For so long, I've felt like I had none.
I am a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
by people with faces I cannot remember;
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen,
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

Who are you, when you're no one
except everyone?

II.
I'm sick.
I am years of not getting out of bed.
I am missed school days, late-passes,
a truant.
I am doctor's notes.
I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions.
I am one white
two orange
one pink
and two multi-vitamins.
Misdiagnoses,
tests,
exams.

My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting,
my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests,
the receptionist knew me by name
until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar.

I am episodes of crying in crowds
or crying alone.
I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me.
I am up or I'm down
without knowing what's between.
My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands
so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf.

I am told to lie on my medical forms
so I won't be held at arms length,
or treated like someone who's different or strange;
but that's just how I'm treated at home.

III.
I am nothing more
than the result of years of torture.
Two bra sizes too small.
Four dress sizes too big.

I am nothing more than a waistline,
which would be fine
if I had one.

I am not pretty enough.
I am not beautiful enough.
I am not good enough.

And I will not be joining you for dinner.

IV.
I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
I run, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer.

I text boys 300 miles away
but pretend he's right there beside me.

I'm gullible, I'm weak.
I fall for anything, I fall for everything.
I forgive too quickly and I love too much,
I set myself up for the fall.

V.
I'm a disappointment.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.

I forget my chores.
I forget responsibilities.
I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play.

I forget numbers and facts and formulas.
And when the grades come back
I remember
what a parents' giving up looks like.

VI.
I'm difficult.
I'm needy.
I can't drive,
can't make my own appointments.
Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands,
can't buy my own dinner,
can't call my own shots.
I'm difficult.
I hear myself say that I don't have a choice
But the sigh in reply says,
I'm difficult.

VII.
I love the wrong gender.
I swing the wrong way.
"I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle
with a man who reminded her of her father," he says.
"I'm just disappointed," he says.
So I bring home a boy
and Mom says,
"Thank you -
I promise, it's easier this way."

Some girls tell their families when they find their first love,
but mine will stay hidden
in the box with the K
filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s
collecting dust between the wall and my bed.

VIII.
I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers.
Weights, heights, exes, mistakes -
too high.
Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes -
too low.

IX.
I'm deluded.
Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
Convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental.
I'm hurt.

I'm hopeful.
Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10
when Dad comes home from work -
asking me how my day went
and closing the door before I can reply.
I'm silent.

I'm lonely.
Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners
desperately wanting a family.
Constantly jumping from partner to partner
desperately needing a hug.
I'm alone.

X.
With all my shortcomings
with all I do wrong
it's hard for me to find when I do something right.

But of all the things I'll never know,
I know how to feel, I know how to care.

I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before.
I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods,
I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me,
I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler,
I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart,
I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane
and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide.

XI.
I forget so much,
but there's so much more to remember.

I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions,
I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt.
I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties,
bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s.
I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours
(ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage).

I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets,
and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics.
I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers,
even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra.

I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will,
and I might lose some of our laughs,
but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning,
or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances,
or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs.
I'll always remember the times you let me in
and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't.

I'll remember our promises
of dreams and forever -
plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain.
Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins,
four years of love, friendship, promises
dissolved in a haze of disdain.

I may not remember the quadratic formula,
I may not remember Newton's third law,
but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer,
even when you forget me.

XII.
I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday,
sad, looking for joy in things big and small.
A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but passionate.
I am identical, but a glaring mistake.
I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips,
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head.
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write,
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls,
I am running across busy streets in April
and sleeping in screened-in porches in June.

XIII.
And every time I wake up alone,
I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky
and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone
but can still warm the earth with its love.

When we talked the other day at lunch
we were standing in the hallway
you holding my hands tightly
between yours
and a piece of paper crumpled in the
sweaty palms of mine
told me that your identity was
hope.

And I've been thinking about identity a lot lately.
How, for so long, I've felt like I had none.
I was a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
from people who's faces will never escape my memory
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

I believed that, if I had a word at all
my word would be something like
smothered, suffocated
lost, broken.
And, in a way, I guess it is.
But I think it's more than that, too.

I think that my word isn't just
right here,
right now.
It's the past, it's the future
it's what I have, and what I'll never possess
it's what I need, and what I crave
it's what makes me feel so much, yet feel nothing at all
it's what I'd do anything for, yet what I fear the most
it's safe, and it's dangerous
it's beautiful, and it's ugly
it's small, but so magnificent.

It's how I feel when my daddy holds me tight after a long day.
It's when my mom says she doesn't want to see me hurt.
It's why I always hold on a little too long when you wrap your arms around me.
It's an excuse for hurting myself in an effort to protect those around me.
It's what I say when there are no other words.

It's why I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
It's why I run away, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a little further.
It's why I text girls 300 miles away
but feel like she's right there beside me.
It's why I kiss boys in the rain at their parent's house
but, somehow, still doubt myself.
It's why I make promises I can't keep
but wish you wouldn't do the same.

It's why I laugh with you and cry without
It's why I hold your hand with my left and take pills with my right
It's why I read stupid books and write ****** poetry
It's why I believe in nothing but wish for something.

It's me, telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
And it's me, convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm not that important, anyway.

It's me, telling myself that if I had friends
they wouldn't leave me alone on a Friday night.
And it's me, telling myself that no one
would want to hang out with me, anyway.

It's stupid things
it's serious things.
It's stupid things taken too seriously
and serious things mistaken for stupidity.

It's the past
it's the present
it's the future.

It's what I want
what I need
what you give me.

It is lost
it is suffocating
it's shattered into a million pieces.
But it's also found
it's alive
it's messily put back together with a 6'3'' hot glue gun.

My word is perpetual
eternal
infinite
but so fleeting.

It's me
because I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday
sad, looking for joy in things big and small
a hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but so happy
I am identical, but somehow completely different
I am what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls
I am running across busy streets and standing on freshly painted front porches.

And so is my word.

It's me
but it's not
but it is.

I was convinced
that the English language
was too small
lacking
missing something.
But then I realized
it wasn't.

You told me who you were
and one day, it'll be my turn.
I am
love.

I'm at that moment in the sleepover
Where I have a headache
From too many sweets and out of tune singing
We are both curled up on the bed under a blanket
Festooned with kernels of makeshift popcorn
The iPad is full of ridiculous videos
And the desk full of dreams on sheets
Of pure dove white paper
Except now it's covered
With glue sharpies and cutouts
But never mind
I couldn't care less now
Because I'm worrying about the money
All spent on food and clothes
Clothes that make you look like you had less food
Than you actually did
I know you're going to snore so bad
But right now I'm writing and laughing
At cheesy videos and hilarious quotes
I wish we could stay together always

I’m from the tattoos
And blue noodles,
I’m my Pawran
Whose beard is uneven
And weird

I’m from the writers block,
Time prancing on the clock,
Whose minds inspired,
Ideas skipping wild.

From sharpies and
Mini mouse
I run , dash, and skip,
Tug-of-war with Bella
Around the house.

I’m from Candyland
And Candycrush
Who plays those games
to much.

I’m from Arnold
And Tracey,
Who pray and fish
with me .

here’s the poem ,
I wrote to show’um,
To who read this,
it’s Just the gist  
of where I’m from.

A lesson I learned in school
From the boys I have only known
Through sharpies on bathroom stalls
Mike who broke Kim’s heart
And G who would love S forever
Even though the arrow pointing away
From it in a different color
Said otherwise
I learned on painting wood
Suspended by nailed in hinges
That love was more temporary than
Permanent marker
And could be erased by a janitor with
Clorox and even the
Girls who were so motivated to hang onto
Their love that they carved instead of drew
Hearts around their lover’s names
But found they could just as easily be painted over
By pink stained brushes
The lesson I learned in college
Eventually replaced the one before
The first day
In between classes and cups of coffee
When I saw the stalls
Were covered by doors made of
Marble.
Without a scratch of temporary.

I've always used bright crayons,
and I've always picked,
  very interesting & bold options,
I try to use various alternative methods,
uniquely me and yet relatable,
I know I am different,
I'm OK with that,
I totally embrace my "weird"
and my "normal"
every part of me is beautiful somehow.

Though I didn't always I see it that way,
I've said it before "hindsight is insight "
so it all helps,
to paint in words more accurately.

I sometimes apply more technique,
to obtain a darker shade,
for example,
I use crosshatching,
or use more pressure to darken,
add light where needed,
there must be more than 50 shades of grey,
the way people describe things so differently yet the same,

Thoughtfully I'd enhance blood red,
gentle but deliberate strokes,
so many lovely colors in a telluric bed,

I especially love my old,
Vermont wildflower garden,

So I don't only use crayons,
I use sharpies, pencils and paint,
anything available,
whatever tools are required,
sights, sounds, tastes,
all play a role,
necessary ingredients,
some things to omit,

A very special thanks,
to the blossoms of that garden,
lovely lady slippers, snapdragons,
daises and lupines,
every season just so breathtaking,
always sharing and imparting sage wisdom,
those amazing forests and animals,
strangers friends and family,
teachers are everywhere & everything,
it's every song I'll ever sing,

I did not even mention,
the gift the waters,
give,
frozen beauty this time of year,
icicles and snowflakes,
black ice and cold dark dangerous depths,
No,
freezing temperatures won't deter a poet,

We must nurture poetry,
becuz poetry is everything,
in nature and music,
and life and love,
so even if you think your poetry *****,
keep writing,
that will change,
with honing skills,

If you're writing then you must see the world like a poet,
can you imagine a world without it?
I know I can't.

Did you know onions make a lovely imprint,
on Easter eggs?

Sometimes I just have to describe it,
remember into the past,
draw that vein up,
write it out,
word *****
****
( I have 22 poems in the "works" )
there I said it,
page after page after page,
purge for yourself and for others,
use your God given voice,
and if you got any talent?

It ain't like it's a choice,
look out world,
cuz maybe you're going to,
touch a lot of people,
and not even know you have the ability,
and when you do?

Well you just want to share,
not for the credit,
not for acclaim or false feigned affection,
not for any Earthly praise,
becuz,
you keep hearing that sound,
an so you gotta get it down,
when you want to sleep,
and you just can't think
cuz it keeps coming like a flood,
like no chance to blink,
I know you know poets,
you feel me?

And honestly,
I am only interested in coloring the truth,
so I will use a pencil if that's what I see,
or an eraser,
if necessary,

I use my truth,
your truth,
OUR truth,
to color all my poetic words.

Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.

On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.

Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.

Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.

Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.

Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.

Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.

dont get weirded out
this is safe for work
you see im entertaining tomorrow
a thorough cleaning is in order
through and through
first things first
a proper dusting
right after the coveted sharpie box
shelf comes "first"
books records bric-a-brac and all
****
ive been meaning to listen to this album
signed and everything
lets put that on for some dusting music
table turns
check
the needles effective
i can hear the shallow resonance
hmm no audio
lets unplug all the cables
check the power supply
and the pre-amp
turn it all off then on again
****
let me take this apart real quick
****
i need some parts
i need to call stanton
OPERATOR! OPERATOR!
30 minutes later im told they dont have it
WHELP
back to dusting
stepping over stanton parts
I THOUGHT I LOST THIS MOVIE
i can play it in the background
whilst im cleaning
THE PROJECTORS BROKEN
let me take that apart real quick
hope i dont get the parts
of the two aberrations crossed
that mustnt happen
wink
and then the re-framing project
and then organizing my music collection
and then just one poem
color code my closet
rewrite my resume
clip my toenails
and my nose hair
four more poems
annnnnnnnnnd
mess

"oh hey welcome, drinks are over there
just dont step on my record player"

and heres where it gets crazy smart
i tear EVERYTHING off the walls
draw all over all the stuffs
with those ****** sharpies that started it all
turn the whole ******* place
into a performance art piece
i call it
"fix it: I DARE YOU!"

I wrote on myself last night

I wrote the words

                                                          Vile

            Broken

                                                                                            *****

                                            Alone

                      Ugly

                                                                             Fat

                                                    Pale

     Stupid

                                                                                     ****

                              Inferior

                                                                                                            Lonely

                 Sad

                                                          Awkward

                          Weird

                                                                                        Worthless

I wrote them with sharpie

And then I took my pocket knife

Freshly sharpened

And I cut the words into my skin

I cut lines across my thighs

And I watched all the ink sink in

"They say that ink poisoning can **** you

Well, welcome death

To my body. To my temple."

That's what I said

Later, I got in the shower

And I scrubbed off the writing

I scrubbed until my flesh was raw

There was even a little more bleeding

I marked DAY 3 off the calendar

And I went to bed

This morning I woke up

I plastered a smile on my face

And prepared for the day

To see the only one who makes me happy

And keeps me sane

At least when he is around

Soon I'll go home and do like usual

I'll pull out the sharpies

And again I'll sharpen my pocket knife

I'll make a long list of words

And I'll repeat the night before

But tonight I might not cry as much

Even though the pain will be 10 times worse

i am flat footed
and sometimes i starve myself
and sometimes on purpose
but sometimes not
and i am not sure that the lead on my palms will ever fade
but i am positive that the acrylic will never wash from my jeans
and i am a light smoker
and a cautionless drinker
and i REALLY want people to
STOP
STEALING
MY
FINE-POINT
SHARPIES.

When I was eleven I came home
with a piece of paper
back then I knew
how much those five letters  
would determine how much
you were worth
and as a kid, I felt pretty
worthless
there was a time I remember
before the paper
where all I would do
was draw

Mountains fascinated me
and that’s what I drew
all the time, mountains
I drew them with snow caps-
Without snow caps
I drew trees at the foot of them
Plaster a setting sun in the distance
Made them look like teeth
And a road came from them
Leading nowhere but to you

I was eleven
When I tasted the value
Of myself
Slapped across my cheek
Like a tattoo
And the first word
To be printed on me
For everyone to see;
Failure

And they all knew that
Was true
I could never turn my mountains
Into Everests
My trees into the Amazon Basin
Or my lakes into the Atlantic
And I ran through the world;
A blank piece of paper,
All of a sudden everybody had
A reason to use a sharpie

I’ll never be able
To make my mountains
Into Himalayas

And I can never stop them from
Using their Sharpies,
After a while your skin color
Doesn’t matter anymore
What they see on you is a story
And they can tell me what they think
But they’ve never seen my back
The things that I’ve carved on to the
surface of my spine
She feels them sometimes when we
have ***
trying to figure out where the period
ends.

color
blank
color
a white sheet of paper
to some,
intimidating
to others,
an inviting canvas
sharpies lined up
in a rainbow
hand picked
and thought out
by ink-stained hands
blank
then a line
what a miracle
the marker is
to create
with nothing
but the turn of a wrist
drag it along
with your rainbow of colors
and create
perhaps a red penciled rose
With few of blue
and thorns of green
or maybe
a cerulean sea
turquoise waves
white froth
emerald turtles
and golden sand
or possibly
a boy
with ashen hair
and icy eyes
rose petal cheeks
and baby-soft lips
create
something beautiful
colors
and dreams
create
blank
create

When I was a child my mother taught  like a dry wipe pen on a board of melamine
Nothing is permanent
But she never warned me
That not all pens can be rubbed off white boards
She didn’t teach me that no matter how much you scrub
There is always a stain on the board that can’t be removed
A black smudge that is permanently etched onto the white surface
She left out the part where someone would leave a black smudge on my life
That can be written over, but never be unseen
It took me a while to figure out,
The only thing permanent in life, are the memories that I am stained with.

"THINGS I dream Of"* - A poem by his wooly
mammoth mr. WOODY.


[Not much is left to the imagination
     to leave the Plantation in the sultry sun...]

"So what does Woody dream?" Of
Most things, Good...
To have lived that we should have not
known the sweet --Heavens
                                  now forbidden fruit

The knot you swallowed
Adams apples
lodges / in your throat
                "seeds
of trees lush -- green with Ideas"
who so to speak is
         a Head of a Family tree
         summer breezey tree-tops
bright songs light bittle birds
California girls and wild
the boardwalk, the "coast's
voluptuosity" travel the herd...
      
"sheezus!
if this is hell....****...boing!"

"I thawt I taw a *****
cat"
bettys kitty ******* bunny
Aye*
Mammy, Selfies will last longer
than the ****** you accidentally
bumped into

"Because poppy wanted something new"
HEAD is where you dump
**** and **** n ****.

Lavatory of Mad Bladders
     Tags sharpies spray-paint walls say
the craziest - don't ever dial the number
that escorts the bad drawn dongs
and ***'ges . scribbled in eye lashes
looking sideways toward you
for a kiss...?

He thought he knew,
I'm secure with my manly mystique
not damaged having none of him around
I sleep easy
                without
a father-dad-uncle-brother stress
pressure to proove myself
with stacks or whips...

so yeah, you know who's what's up

great Gran D is maw-maw's boy
gone off-grid they visit Vegas
Ranches  and ride the stallions
Gran-D gramps : the bunnies...
     (They sleep in quite well
      those heat waves summer fun...
catching rays and Zs.)

Herbalist
Maybe Woody dreams
are all Natural      
                          * (to question existence
                            and wanting more)

of Seed... of Sea? --of Trees I mean
meditate a sedative
bow down to Xanex!* rroooaaarr!
And in Any hood, it is your Word kept
Honors Mens Respects

Standing Tall like "Things" of Woody Dreams

Prisms
And Sleep's winter warmths
Hot Chocolates Marsh mellow Pillows
              [Well Rested]
Is the dream of this heart
the Poet sank
my Battleship--Me.

*"I will always care for Thee,
  but I can only carry Me."

If in Sleep...?
                       Sweet       Peacefully.

It's always a tree.
I don't know why,
It just
Is.

I draw it sprawled out across the skin on my arm.
Sharpies sting on scratched limbs.

But at least I can trace it and remember how much I've grown.

.                                                l
                                                   i
                                                 k
                                                      e

                                                               t
                                                              h
                                                                   a
                                                                        t
            
                                                                                   j
                                                                      u
                                                                                s
      
                                                                          t keenly nick me baby
                                                                            with 'em sharp and lovelies
                                                                            black painted and sharpies
                                                                            like
                                                        t
                                                          h
                                                        a
                                                               t
                                                                          j
                                                                             u
                                                                            s
                                                                             t  oh!

As the gusts blow in from the south, ***** bundles huddle on the shore.
And as they rest their flea-bitten heads, they dream of a time before this.
When they were thought above stray dogs.

Their waking hours focus on today.
They focus on the rocking steel, as it clinckety-clacks the past.
They focus on eating.
They focus on the sun.
Women are a luxury when you're stark, raving, mad.

Of course, they don't actually think about any of that.
No one ever thinks about their unconscious decisions.
But they act upon it.

They act upon growling stomachs with fine point sharpies put to
     dumpstered cardboard.
They act upon the holes in their jeans, following the sun like any
     right minded bird.
They'll follow it all the way to paradise.
Surrounded by pink Taffeta dresses and protective boyfriends.

They don't need to ask for a dance.
They already left these girls.
It was in another town, and they had different names.
But it was them.

The ones that not only lit up the room, but sent the message that
    you were somebody.
The ones who swore you were "the one" before leave with the one.
And that's okay.
Because maybe they never believed her anyways.
Maybe they never believed in "the one" let alone, "just one."

Regardless, that was in another time, at another place.
It's time to get focused.
It's time to get moving.
Only 10 more hours til we're hungry again.

The sun burns bright
The heat is blasting, scorching  hot
Burning razor rays of light
Beams like sharpies poking at the
Pockmarked clouds
Let through the light in shards
So bright
It burns I look it hurts I stare I dare myself to count to ten
By two i cannot see what's 'round
And still I stare by four I'm blind

I was blind.  
I softly traced an outline on my heart as we came to know each other, trusting soft pencil lead to be generous enough to leave a mark.
I unknowingly traced that outline into a dotted line with one of those permanent sharpies, the kind that's impossible to wash out once it touches anything.
Then I gave you a knife, told you exactly where to cut, and opened my eyes
Just as
You
Cut deep.
right along the dotted line. I gave you all the tools, showed you exactly what to do, and you succeeded.

you may have come out clean,
But I am left bloodied and ragged edged.
And I have no one to blame but myself.