Hearts are something like sweatshirts. When you leave them in someone else’s home for too long, it’s not completely yours anymore.

The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.

Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.

Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.

I have longed for this year since fourth grade
When I learned what a val-e-dic-tor-ian was
And realized I wanted to be one.

I have longed for this year since I was fifteen
And wanted to leave home
Go out and explore the bigger world
Free of parents and noisy siblings.

I have longed for this year since my first college tour
And I saw the hubbub
The libraries, the labs, the dorms, the giant sweatshirts
And noticed how small and quiet my high school was.

We picked out caps and gowns
Red
We lead the pep rallies now
The loudest yet
We're taking physics, and calculus, and the SATs
Feeling scholarly
We picked out how our names appear on our diplomas
First M. Last
We have our licenses
Drive to school
We fill out college applications endlessly
And endlessly...
We picked our prom theme
Great Gatsby
We're getting lazy very quickly
Senioritis

Graduation keeps us going
Graduation is the goal
Graduation is the light at the end of the tunnel
Graduation in June
Graduation in red polyester
Graduation in the sun
Graduation is the end

But wait.
Hold up.
Stop.
Stop.
STOP!

Seven more months with you?
You, who I've stared at for four years?
You, whose smiles make my day?
You, whose face I look for in crowds?
You, who are the most amazing person I've ever met?
You, who I haven't even asked out?
You, who have no idea who I feel?
You, who might by some miracle possibly feel the same way?
You, who I'll regret never making a move with for the rest of my life?
You?
Seven. Months.?

HOLD UP SENIOR YEAR SLOW DOWN GRADUATION THERE'S A BOY.

The scars will never
Fade away completely
Every time I look down I will be
Reminded of those awful days
When I was completely
Alone
With nobody
By my side
Guiding me through
Those nights oh so
Cold

Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.

If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?

The runaway boy
who chucks it all
to live on the Boston Common
on speed and saltines,
******* in the duck pond,
rapping with the street priest,
trading talk like blows,
another missing person,
would understand.

The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.

The passengers
from Boston to Paris
watching the movie with dawn
coming up like statues of honey,
having partaken of champagne and steak
while the world turned like a toy globe,
those murderers of the nightgown
would understand.

The amnesiac
who tunes into a new neighborhood,
having misplaced the past,
having thrown out someone else's
credit cards and monogrammed watch,
would understand.

The drunken poet
(a genius by daylight)
who places long-distance calls
at three A.M. and then lets you sit
holding the phone while he vomits
(he calls it "The Night of the Long Knives")
getting his kicks out of the death call,
would understand.

The insomniac
listening to his heart
thumping like a June bug,
listening on his transistor
to Long John Nebel arguing from New York,
lying on his bed like a stone table,
would understand.

The night nurse
with her eyes slit like Venetian blinds,
she of the tubes and the plasma,
listening to the heart monitor,
the death cricket bleeping,
she who calls you "we"
and keeps vigil like a ballistic missile,
would understand.

Once
this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.

Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
****! Like a basketball.

It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. They crafty soldier
put on his invisisble cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.

Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.

Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.

when you first look at me
and i mean more than a furtive passing glance
what do you see?
and i only ask because i have read
that employers have this thing where
they will analyze a hopeful-hire
in 30 seconds
and then they go off of that
mere 30, 29, 28
and so on
all the way down to 0
of whether or not they will get the job

now i am not asking you for a job
because i do not want to work for you
and you are not offering me a position
as caretaker, worker, cleaner, lover
and even if you were
it would not be accurate
because i am so much more than
30 seconds

because in such a short amount of time
that only allows a quick once-over
all that you will come away with
is a mix of stereotypes and an impression
based off of what gender you think i am

30, 29, 28
purple haired freak, clown, butch
27, 26, 25
girl, must be a lesbian, what a ****
24, 23, 22
must have been a cutter at some point
maybe still is, but who can really say?
because the world we live in is getting colder
and hotter and colder and layers upon layers
is the only way to go
21, 20, 19
is she a girl or a boy? who does she think she is?
what should i call her?
18, 17, 16
she she she
15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0, 0, 0,
girl girl girl

(now let me tell you what
i gleaned from the 30 seconds that
you looked me up and down
like i was nothing more than a slab
of meat and you wanted to
dig a knife into my and cut me into little chunks

what i saw in your eyes
it was not nice
and i saw the moment when you
labeled me as a female
because of my *******
soft and supple and right ******* there
and the societally stereotyped feminine pear shape of my hips
all the way down to where there is no bulge
because how can she be a ******
when she hasn’t got any bottom dysphoria, huh?

and sure that’s a great question
it’s so clever and original
why can’t you just be a tomboy?
why can’t you just be a lesbian?
why not try being bisexual?
but really the question
the million dollar question
is why can’t you just be a girl?

well because i’m not a girl
and i have known this
since i was 7 years old
and that was ******* terrifying
because i knew for a fact that
i was something else than the doctor
had labeled me as after glancing at
my new born baby self
and thinking: yup, ******=female

and i tried being a tomboy
wearing ripped jeans and converse
and keeping my hair short
wearing baggy sweatshirts to hide
my *******
but it wasn’t enough

and i tried being a lesbian
actually since i did not know what
transgender meant
let alone that there was a word to describe
what i had felt like inside for
9 long **** years
i rationalized that i must have been a lesbian
because that was a quick-fix-easy-answer
to the cuts on my wrist and the misery
i felt whenever someone called me a girl

and i tried being bisexual
which came after a lesbian
and before transgender
and yeah sure i guess it worked
but not for long
and then it happened and i knew what
transgender meant and that
i wasn’t a tomboy
a lesbian
or even bisexual

and i tried being a girl
but it very nearly killed me
and then it happened
and i knew who and what i was

i am a transgender male
my sexuality is pansexual
and no i do not have *** with pans
though that’s really original and not something
i’ve heard so many times already

but i know that i am not a woman
and your 30 second analysis of me
does not help you at all
because you see me through a lens
of female, butch, lesbian, she, she, she
and that is not who i am at all)

I remember you told me that the first thing about me that you fell in love with were my eyes
You said it was because at first you couldn't tell what color they were
Maybe the color of coffee with too much milk
Or the shade of a dozen olives sitting in a mason jar
You couldn't help but notice the splashes of blue
That twinkled like a handful of icy diamonds sewn into an emerald dress
Mystery eyes
Mystery girl
Is what you said
And from that moment on you let me call you late at night
And kiss you on the cheek
And leave notes in the pockets of your sweatshirts
And when you told me for the first time that you loved me
There was not a trace of doubt in me as I looked into your own curious eyes
Pooling like maple syrup
As amber as a drop of sap
I always was a sucker for brown eyed boys

Stripping You of Your Privilege
YOU!

Tall and lean and impossibly handsome
and Corporate

In your magnificent pinstriped business suit
and perfectly tied silk tie
and your hundred dollar haircut
your privileged male feet hidden
inside impeccably polished black
English dress shoes

Staring at me through your
designer sunglasses

Haughty, confident, insolent
Stepping out of your Porsche
before you enter your office building

So smooth, clean, assured and perfect
Maybe you are 35 years old, maybe 40
the world is yours


Transformation
I have news for you
The tables are turned

YOU have been the one in power.
The one in control.
So proud, so arrogant, so confident

Starting at me, a total stranger
Just part of your usual day
I am just an object to you
I am an OBJECT to you!

Your beautiful smooth shaven
face turns...
but wait...

Wait! No more

NO MORE!

The world has turned upside
down

Now YOU are the OBJECT

I have the POWER to make things happen

NOW LISTEN TO ME

You have a new future

LISTEN. OBEY
Quit your important executive job
Leave your successful corporate career

That's right – now
QUIT!
Call from your phone
Don't enter the
building
Tell them you’re quitting

You are stunned and repelled and horrified
You resist and argue
You refuse and try to leave
Your pride and anger rise
But there is no escaping your destiny

Your power is gone
You are helpless to resist

Forget your MBA
Forget you ever went to a university
Slide the business school ring off your
long finger

Give me the keys to that Porsche
And take your Rolex,
your gold wristwatch,
off your
wrist
You won't be needing a watch
I will tell you the time
We will sell your watch

You slide off your watch and surrender it

Get those fancy, expensive,
polished handmade shoes off
Your pampered, privileged male feet
Yes, your black dress socks too

YOU, barefoot on the sidewalk!

Leave the shoes right there on the
sidewalk, in front of your former
office building, shining in the sun.
Empty and crying for their former owner

Shocked, unable to resist,
you untie and remove your shoes,
peel off your long dress socks

Put your expensive socks inside the shoes
and drop the briefcase too

Now get back into the Porsche
you used to own
Yes, in your bare feet
Your smooth, clean size tens
No - NOT the driver's seat
Get in the passenger side
I am driving

I'm taking you to your own home
as my Trophy

How many times
have you
had a woman in your passenger seat?

You behind the wheel,
smiling your proud smile
your perfect white teeth gleaming

Straightening your necktie as
your bragged about your corporate successes
You and your car the proud conquerors
Your handmade black leather shoes pressing the pedal
of male power and privilege

Now you - just a passenger!
along for the ride in your own car
the rich carpet of your Porsche
under the smooth soles of your bare privileged feet

Now the plan!
We will marry
and you will clean and cook and look very beautiful

Now your LIFE LESSONS:
Dumb down your smug,
expensively high-class male executive
SPEECH.
More slang. Much less education in your voice
Don’t talk – just listen to ME

And you have to wipe off
That arrogant male grin
like you own the world.

Destroy that haughty attitude
of conquest - so much a part of you until today

Replace it with humble respect
And attitude of submission and obedience

Give me those sunglasses
You can't wear them anymore
Look at me
with submissive adoration in your clear, blue
eyes

No need to make decisions now
I will take care of that

I will take away your ambition
Your self-assertion
Your independent thinking

We'll take apart your self-confidence
and throw the pieces in the trash
All of your initiative and desire to succeed
will be replaced
by the desire to make me happy

I will change your prestigious upper class name
You will take MY last name now
Your identity will disappear
What is your first name? William?
You are Billy boy from now

Your male executive image and power clothes
No longer have
Any place
In your new existence

We'll pick up some nice tight cheap jeans and
some nice tight undershirts for your
new look - the one I choose
Show off your chest and your arms
Flip flops and work boots
and sweatshirts and flannel.
You will LOVE them!

I want you tougher, grizzled
Blue collarized
Working class male
You’re too clean, too smooth, too perfect
We’ll fix that...

And your clean-cut corporate haircut is
now forbidden
I hate it. Too perfect

Grow out your golden brown hair into
A scraggly ponytail
a beard too...
Put some dirt under those clean fingernails
Calluses on those smooth clean palms
An earring in your ear

And no more SUITS!
I hate suits
symbols of white male power and authority
and no more ties
those symbols of oppression
your neck and long male
throat will be open and exposed
for the world to see

No, that pinstriped suit you're wearing
that you had made for yourself in London
and the silk tie
and the starched white shirt
will all be sold to a second hand clothing shop

The monograms taken off your
cufflinks before they are sold
Your golf clubs – sold
Your tennis rackets and
sports equipment - sold

Your credit cards in my name
Your condo is now ours
Your Porsche is now mine
You will drive my beat-up old Ford

All of your fancy clothes will be sold off
That will be tomorrow



You're gonne be barefoot in my kitchen
You won't be needing shoes anymore
on your privileged, pampered feet


Now - your soles on your own kitchen floor
Making dinner for me

Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

If society was a person
it would be a girl with
perfect hair.
If society was a person
it would be a burden too heavy to bear.

I society was a person,
it would have rotten insides.
If society was a person,
it would be a Rottweiler
or a runaway bride.

If society was a person,
it would be a student
and ideas it would seek.
If society was a person,
it would be as sharp as a mountains peak.

If society was a person,
it would smell like sweatshirts and gigs.
If society was a person,
it would hide behind colourful wigs.

If society was a person,
consider it suicidal.
If society was a person,
its acts would all be genocidal.

Society is a thing,
heinous but misunderstood,
Society is ruined,
like the embers of burnt wood.

We broke it
Not bothered to fix it
Want to know it
Want to change it
Go and understand it
Change it
Break it
Make it
But I’m just a writer,
What should I know about it?

Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay

Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose

Standing target for practice

A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this  “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water

Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures

Standing targets for practice

Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription

Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept

We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din

Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—

Thinking it over”

A big transition happened one night that made the old man tear to pieces…

“Well, you’ve done it again Harry, except you’ve shocked both of us. Why do you do these things Harry? I assume you like to embarrass me a whole lot!” said Susan (wife of old man Harry)

“My dear Susan, please don’t get frustrated with me, for I have done no such crime to deserve this,” replied Harry.

Susan pauses for a second to calculate what her husband, Harry, had just said. When she does, she narrows her eyes and points her finger at him.

“You are a fool of a husband, wearing suits and tuxedos out to libraries, animal shelters, parks. What a coward you are! Just because money is our main priority in this household, doesn’t mean you should go around bragging about how wealthy we are!” yelled Susan.

“But getting dressed up is what I love to do. It’s not as exciting to wear just a plain sweater with a pair of jeans Susan,” said Harry trying to make a point.

“If that’s the way you would like to be, then I’m not a part of it anymore Harry… Goodbye Harry,” said Susan.

The foolish man’s sixty-year-old mouth dropped as the love of his life, Susan, slammed the front door and wasn’t coming back.

… The minutes later, the old man’s son walks into the house. He looks very bubbly and eager to say something. However, before the son could say a word, the old man talks right away.

“She’s gone Tom; your mother has moved out for good,” said Harry.

“Oh, no dad. You two got into another argument again?” said the son (Tom).

“Yes my son. Your mother always… seems to start bickering with me about something, and this time, it was based on my dressing in public,” said Harry.

“I can’t take this anymore dad! I’m not married, don’t even have a girlfriend, and now don’t even have a mother to live with,” said Tom.

The poor, lonely son starts looking very upset and begins to cry. The foolish man begins to tear a little as well.

“If mom really loved and supported us, she wouldn’t have left,” said the son.

“That’s enough Tom! You’re thirty-two years old now; that doesn’t give you the right to cry like a baby! It’s over son; life moves on,” said Harry

All of a sudden, the depressed son ran out of the house as fast as he could, being only in his shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was already on the third block when Harry called him.

“Get back here young man! Please Tom, please!” cried the poor man.

The sixty-year-old man ran as fast as he could to his son. He kept running for as long as he could, and when he reached his son, he followed him up to the nearest train station. The foolish man had no clue of where son might be headed to on a train.

“Don’t you use your head boy? Where are you headed to?” said Harry.

“I don’t know father; I just needed to get out of the house to be alone. I don’t need you in my life anymore dad,” said the son.

“Tom; Tom look at me! I don’t want to lose my son, for I’ve already lost my wife. I love you very much Tom, just remember that please.

“I love you too dad and I’ll try to show it much more often,” said the son.

Harry puts his arm around his sons shoulder and smiles warmly to him with tears of happiness in his eyes.

“Lets get off this train Tom; what do you say? Asked Harry

“Alright dad,” said Tom.

At that very moment, the train began to move; move rather quickly.

“Tom, you’re in big trouble… Nah, just joking. Would you like to tell me of where you are planning to go to though?” said Harry

“Manhattan,” said the son.

Tom smiled and his dad looked a little baffled.

“Tom, why don’t you tell me about the good news you had before,” said Harry, suddenly changing the topic.

“Sure. I got a new job working at the docks and am actually making higher profits now,” said Tom.

“I’m very proud of you son. How are the docks treating you?” asked Harry.

“I love the docks. I enjoy working on the docks and appreciate what God has to offer for me,” replied Tom.

“And what is the quantity of hours you’ll be working for?” asked Harry.

“Forty hours a week dad,” said Tom.

“Phenomenal,” said Harry. “That’ll keep you occupied.”

When the train moves around the waiting area outside a little bit, the prettiest girl walks on the train. She looks as if she’s in her late twenties with dark-brown curly hair and brown eyes to match. She takes a seat two rows in front of Harry and Tom.

“Dad, did you see that girl?” asked Tom.

“Yeah boy, she looks single to me,” said Harry.

Harry giggles and Tom elbows him right in the gut.

“Owww!” Harry managed to say through his non- stop laughing.

The girl was reading the newspaper from today while Tom tried to occupy himself by spinning a quarter several times.

The next hour had passed on the train and they had a long way to go until their stop. Tom looks at his watch as he sees that it is exactly five in the morning.

“Harry. Harry,” Tom whispers. “Harry,” he said a little bit louder.

Tom began to get a little frustrated that Harry wasn’t waking up. Mostly everyone was fast asleep on the train except for Tom.

“HARRY!” Tom yelled as loud as he could.

All of a sudden, all of the passengers on the train woke up startled and baffled.

“Tom, what the hell was that?” said Harry.

“I have a problem,” said Tom

“Tom, this is pure abuse that you’re giving me. Firstly, you knock the guts right out of my stomach, and then you yell as loud as a trumpet blown right in someone’s ear! Was it necessary to wake up the whole train?” said Harry.

“Yes because I really like this girl, you know the one you called single. What should I do?” asked Tom.

“Can you lower the volume a little? Okay; here’s my advice… propose to her,” said Harry as he went back to sleep.

“Great advice; I’ll take it,” said Tom sarcastically.

Before Harry and Tom got a chance to walk off the train, Tom stopped to introduce himself to the beautiful girl. As he was talking, she thought of him as rather funny than cool, but offered her cell phone number to him.

“What’s your name?” asked Tom.

“Victoria,” replied the girl.

The foolish man felt so insane as if to go on a train unexpectedly.  

“Well, here we are dad,” said Tom.

“Now we’re going to have to check into a hotel for three days; for that’s how long we have to stay here until the next train home.” Said Harry

When they arrived at the hotel, both Harry and Tom rented a small room that cost fifty dollars a night.

“This is a really old room, but it’ll have to do,” said Harry.

“There are cobwebs over here in the bedroom beside the lamp,” said Tom.

“Since we’re staying here for three nights Tom, we’re going to have to go shopping at some point, so why now?” said the foolish man.

“Father, why would you go and buy some more fancy clothes, when Susan already told you that you looked foolish in it?” said the son.

“I hate to break it to you son, but the coward is gone, and the new ***** has arrived!” said Harry.

Tom could not believe what his dad had just said. He formed the biggest smile on his face.

“That’s very impressive dad; I’m sure mom would really appreciate that,” said Tom.

“I bet she would’ve,” said Harry giving a small frown.

Harry and his son, Tom were out of the hotel within ten minutes. The store in which they were headed to was only a few blocks from where they were. The store in the mall in which Harry and Tom were walking to was called, “Sarah’s Sweaters.”

Harry was not at all tempted to walk in the store, but with the help of his son making him go in, he had no choice.

“What a grotesque place Tom,” said Harry

“Relax and try on something that suits you best here,” said Tom

“I don’t like anything here. Sorry, but I loathe these kinds of stores,” replied the foolish man.

Tom rolled his eyes and began trying on jeans and a couple of sweaters to wear over polo shirts.

Harry stared at Tom speechless as he came out of the fitting room. Tom brought the clothes up to the woman at the cash register while Harry started looking at clothes for himself.

“Your total is $62.49 sir,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Tom as he walked away with his clothes.

The foolish man went to go try on two pairs on jeans with two sweatshirts and three polo shirts. He opens the curtain.

“It fits you well,” said Tom.

“I’ll do whatever makes my wife happy,” said Harry.

“Oh, c’mon; change is good too.”

They walked out of the clothing store carrying two large white bags filled with casual clothes. As they were walking in the mall, Harry notices a Calvin Klein store with all different styles of ties, shirts, suits, and dress shoes through the glass window.

“Tom, I’ll just be a minute,” said Harry.

“You said that you weren’t going to buy anything fancy while we’re here dad,” said Tom.

“I’ll just get a suit; I’ll be in and out within five minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll be waiting on the bench outside the store,” said Tom”

“Okay Tom.”

An hour and a half later, Harry comes out of the store with a tired, yet warm smile on his face.

“You’re back so soon,” said Tom sarcastically.

“There was a long line Tom. Hey, I went in your store.” said Harry

“For a half hour.”

“Oh, well then I apologize,” said Harry.

“It’s fine.”

“Here, I’ll make it up to you; we’ll go pick up something to eat for dinner,” said Harry.

“Okay, thanks dad.”

We both smile simultaneously.

Harry and Tom exit the mall to go and walk to the deli to get some sandwiches, a snack and a drink. When they arrive home, they turn on the T.V. to watch some comedy shows while eating their sandwiches. Tim lies down and kicks his shoes off. The foolish man was sitting at the edge of the couch now with his son’s ***** feet on him. While Tom looked very relaxed and comfortable eating his chicken sandwich, Harry looked very tense as he was giving his son a cold look.

“Get your gigantic, filthy feet off of my upper thigh,” said Harry annoyed.

“Oh, sorry dad,” said Tom surprised.

Harry looked at the T.V. eating his sandwich while Tom smiled a little from his comment before.

Harry and Tom didn’t do much for the next two days. They walked around a little and saw many people walking their dogs. Both Harry and Tom ate two meals a day in their hotel and slept on the uncomfortable couch. Harry figured he’d wear his sweater and jeans with sneakers on the third day of his stay. He was going to the park this morning and he certainly didn’t want to look foolish.

“What a nice day out today Tom. Not too hot, not too cold, but perfect weather,” said Harry.

“Yes, I agree,” said Tom.

The man and his son walked along the walkway in the park, leading to a playground filled with little kids, elders and parents sitting on benches or walking around. As Harry and Tom sat down on a bench next to a water fountain, Harry couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Susan, is that you? Asked Harry shocked.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said without looking up.

“Nice seeing you here Susan,” said Harry.

Susan looked up from reading her enormous book and saw something unexpected about the foolish man.

“Oh, Harry, you’ve changed; changed for me. You are the sweetest husband and you’re not at all foolish,” said Susan full of excitement.

Harry smiled and gave Susan a big hug.

“Tom, love you son,” said Susan.

“I love you very much as well mom,” replied Tom.

After Harry checked out of their room, they all were headed to the next train home.

As Harry, Susan and Tom walked into their mansion in Michigan, Susan asked what Harry was holding.

Harry blushed and said, “Just clothes.”

“Can I see them Harry? asked Susan.

“They’re not that clean.”

Susan took the bag from him and looked inside.

“Not again,” said Tom.

Susan laughed on account of her already knowing that her husband couldn’t keep his eyes off of nice and fancy clothes for a minute.

“Harry…you’re one fastidious gentleman.”

Cuban in America,
you know how my great grandma stung her fingers on lime when the screen door muscled open.
You know the grip when they tell her,
“Your husband is under arrest for conspiracy against the government.”
Your grandpa is also 6.
He watches his father torn from a wicker chair;
this is the last he will be seen for 30 years.
His mother shudders every time his children ask why he is gone;
they are stuffed with mango skin and salt, she is hoping they won’t leak,
hoping the Cuban government doesn’t strip more of her veins,
maybe he will come back. Maybe he will come back.
We know the price they paid for knowledge is twice the wrath they received.
When he is released, my great grandfather is only eyelashes.
His children run deep to him and he does not know. But you do.
Ten days later, he is found hung from the kitchen ceiling,
limes and mangos and salt and his children spilled underneath.

Dear Cuban in America
You and I have spent summer after salt-soaked summer,
staring at our grandfathers as we eat breakfast
you know his pan cubano sprayed with  I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,
the lemon colored oil creeping into the holes in the bread.
Corn flakes, heavy with whole milk we were never allowed to have at home.
we were seven and waiting for him to say anything,
he was seventy, waiting for us to do the same.
We are too shy and our grandfathers  are not forgiving.
When we does speak, it is too thick,
so we sit quiet peeling mangos of their acidic skin and listen to  his accent tumble by.

When our Abuelos left Cuba, they were 30,
they ran to the U.S. leaving windy promises they wouldn’t stay long.
They were beautiful and crumbled,
and Castro never let them come back.
My Abuelo stumbles on words and pieces of mango
and tells me about his father, his donkey, his ache streaked sister.
He hasn’t been home for 50 years.
Our relatives shatter to this country and he knows what they have left behind.

Dear Cuban American,
I do not know why I say we
Our abuelo ‘s are more Cuban than I can ever try to be.
When I try and speak, the language is molasses
I grasp at a country I say I love.
I am no Cuban American the way you are.
I never got to feel the way a street crumbles under dictatorship,
never taste arroz con pollo the way you had,
never walked with the most beautiful girl in *****,
never clasped a lime stained kitchen.

I didn’t know how much my Abuelo wanted to see the Cuba he left etched onto my palms.
How much he wanted to hear me sing guantanamera
You two know the history of the island,
the red stars and blue stripes,
the shackles and homes falling underneath  palm trees bled out.

Cuban in America,
the years on our grandfather’s wrists grow plenty.
I realize the chances for me to become a true Cuban are slipped.
Now our Abuelo’s sweatshirts are stained with salt and whole milk
they fall asleep on benches and trip in grocery stores.
Our moments are hung  from the kitchen ceiling,
milk, and salt, and mangos, and limes, all spilling.

i.

the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like

us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.

ii. (at the dinner table)

there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down

back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn

and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs

and the japanese

iii.

my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****

city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they

used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.

your grandfather and his grandfather and i

iv.

awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew

up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts

and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.

v. (back at the dinner table)

i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,

preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:

“pa,”
“ma,”

v.

it is not cowboys that give us our names.

A big transition happened one night that made the old man tear to pieces…

“Well, you’ve done it again Harry, except you’ve shocked both of us. Why do you do these things Harry? I assume you like to embarrass me a whole lot!” said Susan (wife of old man Harry)

“My dear Susan, please don’t get frustrated with me, for I have done no such crime to deserve this,” replied Harry.

Susan pauses for a second to calculate what her husband, Harry, had just said. When she does, she narrows her eyes and points her finger at him.

“You are a fool of a husband, wearing suits and tuxedos out to libraries, animal shelters, parks. What a coward you are! Just because money is our main priority in this household, doesn’t mean you should go around bragging about how wealthy we are!” yelled Susan.

“But getting dressed up is what I love to do. It’s not as exciting to wear just a plain sweater with a pair of jeans Susan,” said Harry trying to make a point.

“If that’s the way you would like to be, then I’m not a part of it anymore Harry… Goodbye Harry,” said Susan.

The foolish man’s sixty-year-old mouth dropped as the love of his life, Susan, slammed the front door and wasn’t coming back.

… The minutes later, the old man’s son walks into the house. He looks very bubbly and eager to say something. However, before the son could say a word, the old man talks right away.

“She’s gone Tom; your mother has moved out for good,” said Harry.

“Oh, no dad. You two got into another argument again?” said the son (Tom).

“Yes my son. Your mother always… seems to start bickering with me about something, and this time, it was based on my dressing in public,” said Harry.

“I can’t take this anymore dad! I’m not married, don’t even have a girlfriend, and now don’t even have a mother to live with,” said Tom.

The poor, lonely son starts looking very upset and begins to cry. The foolish man begins to tear a little as well.

“If mom really loved and supported us, she wouldn’t have left,” said the son.

“That’s enough Tom! You’re thirty-two years old now; that doesn’t give you the right to cry like a baby! It’s over son; life moves on,” said Harry

All of a sudden, the depressed son ran out of the house as fast as he could, being only in his shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was already on the third block when Harry called him.

“Get back here young man! Please Tom, please!” cried the poor man.

The sixty-year-old man ran as fast as he could to his son. He kept running for as long as he could, and when he reached his son, he followed him up to the nearest train station. The foolish man had no clue of where son might be headed to on a train.

“Don’t you use your head boy? Where are you headed to?” said Harry.

“I don’t know father; I just needed to get out of the house to be alone. I don’t need you in my life anymore dad,” said the son.

“Tom; Tom look at me! I don’t want to lose my son, for I’ve already lost my wife. I love you very much Tom, just remember that please.

“I love you too dad and I’ll try to show it much more often,” said the son.

Harry puts his arm around his sons shoulder and smiles warmly to him with tears of happiness in his eyes.

“Lets get off this train Tom; what do you say? Asked Harry

“Alright dad,” said Tom.

At that very moment, the train began to move; move rather quickly.

“Tom, you’re in big trouble… Nah, just joking. Would you like to tell me of where you are planning to go to though?” said Harry

“Manhattan,” said the son.

Tom smiled and his dad looked a little baffled.

“Tom, why don’t you tell me about the good news you had before,” said Harry, suddenly changing the topic.

“Sure. I got a new job working at the docks and am actually making higher profits now,” said Tom.

“I’m very proud of you son. How are the docks treating you?” asked Harry.

“I love the docks. I enjoy working on the docks and appreciate what God has to offer for me,” replied Tom.

“And what is the quantity of hours you’ll be working for?” asked Harry.

“Forty hours a week dad,” said Tom.

“Phenomenal,” said Harry. “That’ll keep you occupied.”

When the train moves around the waiting area outside a little bit, the prettiest girl walks on the train. She looks as if she’s in her late twenties with dark-brown curly hair and brown eyes to match. She takes a seat two rows in front of Harry and Tom.

“Dad, did you see that girl?” asked Tom.

“Yeah boy, she looks single to me,” said Harry.

Harry giggles and Tom elbows him right in the gut.

“Owww!” Harry managed to say through his non- stop laughing.

The girl was reading the newspaper from today while Tom tried to occupy himself by spinning a quarter several times.

The next hour had passed on the train and they had a long way to go until their stop. Tom looks at his watch as he sees that it is exactly five in the morning.

“Harry. Harry,” Tom whispers. “Harry,” he said a little bit louder.

Tom began to get a little frustrated that Harry wasn’t waking up. Mostly everyone was fast asleep on the train except for Tom.

“HARRY!” Tom yelled as loud as he could.

All of a sudden, all of the passengers on the train woke up startled and baffled.

“Tom, what the hell was that?” said Harry.

“I have a problem,” said Tom

“Tom, this is pure abuse that you’re giving me. Firstly, you knock the guts right out of my stomach, and then you yell as loud as a trumpet blown right in someone’s ear! Was it necessary to wake up the whole train?” said Harry.

“Yes because I really like this girl, you know the one you called single. What should I do?” asked Tom.

“Can you lower the volume a little? Okay; here’s my advice… propose to her,” said Harry as he went back to sleep.

“Great advice; I’ll take it,” said Tom sarcastically.

Before Harry and Tom got a chance to walk off the train, Tom stopped to introduce himself to the beautiful girl. As he was talking, she thought of him as rather funny than cool, but offered her cell phone number to him.

“What’s your name?” asked Tom.

“Victoria,” replied the girl.

The foolish man felt so insane as if to go on a train unexpectedly.  

“Well, here we are dad,” said Tom.

“Now we’re going to have to check into a hotel for three days; for that’s how long we have to stay here until the next train home.” Said Harry

When they arrived at the hotel, both Harry and Tom rented a small room that cost fifty dollars a night.

“This is a really old room, but it’ll have to do,” said Harry.

“There are cobwebs over here in the bedroom beside the lamp,” said Tom.

“Since we’re staying here for three nights Tom, we’re going to have to go shopping at some point, so why now?” said the foolish man.

“Father, why would you go and buy some more fancy clothes, when Susan already told you that you looked foolish in it?” said the son.

“I hate to break it to you son, but the coward is gone, and the new ***** has arrived!” said Harry.

Tom could not believe what his dad had just said. He formed the biggest smile on his face.

“That’s very impressive dad; I’m sure mom would really appreciate that,” said Tom.

“I bet she would’ve,” said Harry giving a small frown.

Harry and his son, Tom were out of the hotel within ten minutes. The store in which they were headed to was only a few blocks from where they were. The store in the mall in which Harry and Tom were walking to was called, “Sarah’s Sweaters.”

Harry was not at all tempted to walk in the store, but with the help of his son making him go in, he had no choice.

“What a grotesque place Tom,” said Harry

“Relax and try on something that suits you best here,” said Tom

“I don’t like anything here. Sorry, but I loathe these kinds of stores,” replied the foolish man.

Tom rolled his eyes and began trying on jeans and a couple of sweaters to wear over polo shirts.

Harry stared at Tom speechless as he came out of the fitting room. Tom brought the clothes up to the woman at the cash register while Harry started looking at clothes for himself.

“Your total is $62.49 sir,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Tom as he walked away with his clothes.

The foolish man went to go try on two pairs on jeans with two sweatshirts and three polo shirts. He opens the curtain.

“It fits you well,” said Tom.

“I’ll do whatever makes my wife happy,” said Harry.

“Oh, c’mon; change is good too.”

They walked out of the clothing store carrying two large white bags filled with casual clothes. As they were walking in the mall, Harry notices a Calvin Klein store with all different styles of ties, shirts, suits, and dress shoes through the glass window.

“Tom, I’ll just be a minute,” said Harry.

“You said that you weren’t going to buy anything fancy while we’re here dad,” said Tom.

“I’ll just get a suit; I’ll be in and out within five minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll be waiting on the bench outside the store,” said Tom”

“Okay Tom.”

An hour and a half later, Harry comes out of the store with a tired, yet warm smile on his face.

“You’re back so soon,” said Tom sarcastically.

“There was a long line Tom. Hey, I went in your store.” said Harry

“For a half hour.”

“Oh, well then I apologize,” said Harry.

“It’s fine.”

“Here, I’ll make it up to you; we’ll go pick up something to eat for dinner,” said Harry.

“Okay, thanks dad.”

We both smile simultaneously.

Harry and Tom exit the mall to go and walk to the deli to get some sandwiches, a snack and a drink. When they arrive home, they turn on the T.V. to watch some comedy shows while eating their sandwiches. Tim lies down and kicks his shoes off. The foolish man was sitting at the edge of the couch now with his son’s ***** feet on him. While Tom looked very relaxed and comfortable eating his chicken sandwich, Harry looked very tense as he was giving his son a cold look.

“Get your gigantic, filthy feet off of my upper thigh,” said Harry annoyed.

“Oh, sorry dad,” said Tom surprised.

Harry looked at the T.V. eating his sandwich while Tom smiled a little from his comment before.

Harry and Tom didn’t do much for the next two days. They walked around a little and saw many people walking their dogs. Both Harry and Tom ate two meals a day in their hotel and slept on the uncomfortable couch. Harry figured he’d wear his sweater and jeans with sneakers on the third day of his stay. He was going to the park this morning and he certainly didn’t want to look foolish.

“What a nice day out today Tom. Not too hot, not too cold, but perfect weather,” said Harry.

“Yes, I agree,” said Tom.

The man and his son walked along the walkway in the park, leading to a playground filled with little kids, elders and parents sitting on benches or walking around. As Harry and Tom sat down on a bench next to a water fountain, Harry couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Susan, is that you? Asked Harry shocked.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said without looking up.

“Nice seeing you here Susan,” said Harry.

Susan looked up from reading her enormous book and saw something unexpected about the foolish man.

“Oh, Harry, you’ve changed; changed for me. You are the sweetest husband and you’re not at all foolish,” said Susan full of excitement.

Harry smiled and gave Susan a big hug.

“Tom, love you son,” said Susan.

“I love you very much as well mom,” replied Tom.

After Harry checked out of their room, they all were headed to the next train home.

As Harry, Susan and Tom walked into their mansion in Michigan, Susan asked what Harry was holding.

Harry blushed and said, “Just clothes.”

“Can I see them Harry? asked Susan.

“They’re not that clean.”

Susan took the bag from him and looked inside.

“Not again,” said Tom.

Susan laughed on account of her already knowing that her husband couldn’t keep his eyes off of nice and fancy clothes for a minute.

“Harry…you’re one fastidious gentleman.”

When I look into my bedroom
I see a shelf of various book
genres that I read over and over
again, when I look into my bedroom
and look beyond the rest I see a
window which I have seen many, many
different things through, when I look
into my bedroom and door ahead I
see a dresser with many clothing items
I will cherish for life. Above I see some
of my most valuable collections, when
I look into my bedroom and look down
I see a box of various types of *****
which I have kicked and thrown all over
the house When I look inside my closet
and look down I see board games that
I have played over and over again.
When I look inside my closet and look
straight ahead I see sweatshirts that
have kept me warm in the winter months.
When I look inside my closet and look
up I see enormous puzzles that I have
spent days and days and days to complete,
when I look into my bedroom and look
right I see my bed where I have had
good dreams and bad dreams and dreams
in between. When I look into my bedroom
and look right I see soccer cards which
I have spent hours organizing and putting
in their holders. When I look into my
bedroom and look beyond my bed I see
a shelf with fidget spinners, nerf guns,
athlete cards, travel games, and remote
control cars everywhere, when I look
into my bedroom and look beyond my
dresser I see a big box of athletes cards
which I have studied over and over again,
when I look in my bedroom and look at
the walls I see posters of athletes who
inspire mes like no other,
when I look into my bedroom and look
above my closet I see my mini basketball
hoop which I have attempted many shots
on. when I look into my bedroom I see
my very own personality.

Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.  
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.

He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.

Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.

I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.

Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy  brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.

With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.

    
                                  Paul  Anthony Hutchinson

I'm thirteen years old again. Sitting in the doctors office answering the question, "have you ever thought about committing suicide?" That questions hard for me. I've thought about dying. never doing the act myself. If I was hit by a car tomorrow never waking up, I would be ok with that. The doctor ended up telling my mom I should probably talk to someone. Crushing the "perfect family, my kids are flawless" picture she wanted a second opinion. Two years went by before I got that second opinion. In those two years I cut I stopped I cut I stopped. Doctor number 2 told my mom I should talk to someone, before I hurt myself. Doctor I'm 15 years old now a freshman in high school I've been talking to someone yet I still hurt myself. No one knows! I do the walk of shame, wearing sweatshirts and long sleeves in the summer. My answer to "why" was always, "I guess I'm just cold." My mom read my poem once it mentioned cutting. When she asked me I said no, she believed me. See I was scared my mom was going to lock me up in a psych ward. Tell everyone I was in boarding school, forgetting all about the ******* child who couldn't do anything right! I'm 18 years old now, I haven't cut in 3 years. I talked to the old me today, I thanked her for letting me live. But where were you, when you found out your child was imperfect?

I walk through a ghost town
where I’m never alone,
kicking empty cider cans across the road,
whispering secrets to the stale, morning air
where my life, at a standstill,
hangs over the beat of a single heart

and a single large Eye,
watching,
always watching,

judging my footsteps as I cross
the path, to a flatland, between the forest
and the streams of music playing in my ears -

there's a spring in my step this cold winter.
Even though I don’t see the sun until it’s too late,
I dance, like the dead, poison in my veins,
because I’m free from my grave.

I’m free from monochrome soil -
draped in a bright pink dress,
I kiss the days away with a warm hand in mine,
and a stolen, back-washed bottle in the other.

I skip on the pavement, rocking back and forth
to high notes and drum rolls,
where I find myself moving between friends and pages,
collared sweatshirts and daydreams.

I whisper my moments of happiness to the North Wind
and hope it travels South,

down to you, down home,

where you’ll hear of my vices
and understand everything.

The way the dragonfly

across your chest stares at me,

through a lawn of pinwheel hairs;

and the way your beard

tickles me in such a way

that I believe at any minute

you are going to accumulate 
flannel and chop me a tree

subtly confuses how I feel

now that we have played

a skilled game of ring toss.

I am used to our conversations

while you drag quill and ink

across my skin and leave scars

in all the right places.

But the way you look at me

a masterpiece to be devoured,

and poisonous makes me

ask if you can scratch my back 
for hours,
but ******* get raw

being rubbed like sweatshirts

against bare skin all day.

I don’t know how I feel about

palindromes now, 
but I know how you feel

when you make it snow inside

and hand-rolled cigarette

smoke fills the room

chasing ferrets through sheets

leaving bruises in the shape of dental x-rays.

How does it feel,

Once all of your tattoos have met?

I know what to do with the polaroids we took over the holidays--
I can burn them.

I know what to do with the seven t-shirts, two sweatshirts, and one jersey you gave me to sleep in and wear while we held each other in bed every night for three years--
I can throw them away.

I know what to do with the necklace you gave me when you visited me, the bracelet you gave me for our six months and the earrings you bought me when we fought last year on my birthday--
I can sell them.

But I don't know what to do with your voice ringing in my head, saying I love you, and then I hate you.

But I don't know what to do with the image of your eyes lighting up when I would greet you at the airport, and then of your arms hesitating to hug me the last time we would ever see each other.

But I don't know what to do with the thought of you holding someone else and giving them your t-shirt to sleep in after a long night in.

And I don't know what to do with the memories. Three years of memories. Of loving you, of you loving me. Of holding you, of you holding me. Of fighting. Of every moment I caught my breath to make sure we were real and then of every moment I wished you hadn't lied or cheated or done something hurtful. Of every little thing that made me want you and want to get away from you all at the same time.

What do I do with all of that?

we both got sweatshirts for christmas
i hope we can trade sometime

Baggy sweatshirts
Faded cologne
Pass the pipe
So I don't feel alone

Crinkled letters
Miles apart
Take a shot
To ease my heart

Foggy memories
Dreams of you
Pop some pills
I won't feel so blue

Drugs and distractions
My mind isn't clear
But my biggest high
Comes from you, my dear

My pillow smells like sneaking in,
past midnight, making you tiptoe to my bed.

Your cologne smells like my pillow,
the night when all we did was cuddle and tell stories.

Blue sweatshirts smell like your cologne
that time we drove all the way to Chicago to watch the sunrise.

Late night walks smell like your blue sweatshirt
on the night we walked 7 miles to the bonfire.

Summer smells like late night walks
and I go on those all the time.




*With or without you; You're everywhere I go and you're everything I feel.

I am sick of writing sad poems.
I want to write a happy poem.
My only problem is,
I don’t know how to.

I mean,
if I were funny it would be one thing,
but my humor consists of bad puns knock knock jokes.
Knock knocking on the inside of my brain wanting to push a smile onto your faces but the only look I get back is confusion because I can never seem to get my tongue to work in times of...
In times when a belly laugh would come from their abdomen and satisfy my hunger for becoming a comical genius.

Heres a joke for you.

Knock Knock.

“Who’s there?”

Orange

“Orange who?”

Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

Orange

“Orange who?”



Orange you glad I didn’t finish my joke?
I keep my tongue dormant so the punchline doesn’t come out wrong,
to save myself from the embarrassment of being an idiot.
I’ll laugh it off,
but n my head I hear myself say.
“Max, what the hell was that?”
Listen, brain, I know I’m not funny,

I get my humor from either my dad or the internet,
and even then,
Tuna fish and pianos,
Oranges, apples, any kind of fruit really,
couldn’t even save me.

Three men walk into a bar.
I don’t know how they didn’t see it but that isn’t my problem,
my problem is that I am not funny, or a cool pal to hang out with.
In all honesty,
I’m pretty much a stick in the mud that wears hoodie sweatshirts every day.

So the next time I come knock knocking,
I advise you to shut the door.

My boyfriend used to take me to Pizza ****
(as we always called it)
after every home basketball game.
We'd fill up on bread sticks,
box the leftover slices,
just so they could sit in the back seat
of his green Chevy jeep
while we made out in the parking lot
with Eric Church's new CD on the stereo.

I told everyone the bruises on my thighs
were just an accident,
when really he pushed me
into the tires
after he had a few or dozen beers
at the party down Bear Run.
He never did like being told
what he shouldn't do.

We'd lay down the seats
and sleep on sweatshirts
with a cooler lid for a pillow
until 10a.m. on a Sunday,
an hour late for mass.
Silently we'd ride
until we'd reach the power plant.
He'd cough and I'd sigh,
quietly singing until we'd reach my driveway.
He never did kiss me
whenever he'd drop me off.

I came back spring break
the following year.
The jeep in his yard with a for sale sign
propped against the hood
and his cell number
written in blue window chalk
just above the windshield wipers.
I saw his little sister
peek behind the curtain
when I knocked on the door,
but no one came to answer.
So I lit a cigarette and drove home
listening to "Springsteen."

I sit here on the corner.
That park bench,
Next to the tall buildings

It smells of smoke
Overworked waitresses and workers sit where I sit day in and day out
Wonder when things are going to get better
Sit down with there sorrows
Chain smokers who just want it to be over
I breathe it in because I am lost as well
I sit where the cars rush past, and don't stop for anyone
Where the sounds of people and cars clash on sidewalks and in the air
The bench where no one wants to sit, but has to in times of desperation
lost hope and sadness
Here I sit.
On the streets, and on the bench
Where a novel could have been written
Where that man passed out drunk
Where people of all races and creeds have sat and waited for an everlasting peace in their lives
Something that never came
Amongst trench coats and stained college sweatshirts are those who have sat here
The bench and the street more like it

It does not discriminate
Everyone of every class, race, gender, religion shares the bench
Not a single word can describe the hate
Sadness and lonliness
That has occurred on that bench
And yet here I sit
I breathe it in

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say
But could anyone find beauty in me?
With my tousled golden blonde waves that fall in my face
And cover my crystal blue doe eyes
Legs too long, feet to big
"You'll grow into it," they said
But never did
Skinny, but never quite skinny enough
My oversized sweatshirts swallow me up
So tell me, someone, anyone, what do you see?
Is there beauty in a girl like me?
I'll never smile, when I look in the mirror
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder they say

i like it when we talk.
but i like it more when we're totally silent.
listening to what the tapping rain
is trying to tell us.

i like when you wear dresses.
but i like it more when you wear sweatshirts
with stretched-out necks.
one shoulder struggling to keep you covered,
the other threatening to reveal more.

i like your smooth hands.
but i like your callused fingers more.
they remind me of how much
I love you
strumming a guitar.

the smallest things about you
take up the the largest place in my mind.

I dated a wrestler,
Mom liked him,because he was white and had red hair like me
He bought me things, even though I didn’t ask
He carried my books to class, and opened the doors
He held my hand and sometimes grabbed my ***

But I didn’t mind because I’ve been taught
Through society that when things are bought
****** payments are what females give with no afterthought

So with much gratitude
I sent him a ****
And he send it to the whole school

Starting with the wrestling team,
But some of them were football players so they sent it to their team
So on and so forth until the extreme

Sexualassults were happening constantly
Hallways turned into a runway of grabs and brushes against my ***
Some even slipped a dollar into my pocket as payment for the peak

When a **** of lingerie for a nice guy turned into a beacon that I’m a *****
People starting victim blaming me, ‘you shouldn’t have done that’
And the principle doesn’t care

He overheard from a group of boys
He got the picture and had it printed sitting on his desk,
“This is chidpornography if I see you sending this again you’ll be in trouble”

I realized no one was going to defend me and so the strong women I am known to be
Hid, when I need her strength the most
Once confident head held high, I try to blend in with the crowd

I changed the way I dressed into sweatshirts and baggy pants
But they continue because it’s not the way I dress, but that I’ve become inferior
And the open palms that graze me burn with masculinity

~Emma Rose

some are hidden by
baggy, old sweatshirts,
loose gray sweatpants,
long sleeves,
and jeans.

some are hidden by
****** makeup jobs,
bracelets,
and bandaids.  

some are hidden by
the dark nights
and cold winters,

by leather jackets
and over-sized sweaters
and leggings
and pajama pants
and high socks.

but some
cannot be
hidden
at
all.

{-m.j.}