I wanted to hug you
but it would have be unprofessional.
Four years,
we have worked together,
and I was finally able to talk to you.

You started to joke with me
but it didn't feel unprofessional.
You said,
'I almost didn't recognize you!'
and we walked along the canyon rim.

Every time out paths cross
my thoughts become unprofessional.
Your blue eyes,
make me dizzy and I get tongue-tied,
maybe that's why I couldn't speak.

I packed you a lunch since you forgot yours
and it didn't seem at all unprofessional.
You said,
'You've made me week!'
and the baked goods were all you could talk about.

I offered to make you a cheesecake for your birthday
and I hope our relationship gets unprofessional.
You said,
'We can trade beer and baked goods!'
and I couldn't keep the smile off my face.

Now I have to wait until April
and I'll try to be professional.
Believe me,
I still want to hug you
and I hope you call me for that cheesecake.

My backpack ready for anything, I left for a voyage across the pond. As fellow passengers climb aboard I met a 27 year old traveling musician named Russ carrying his cajòn. He told me of his travels from Massachusetts and pending divorce. We related on this and exchanged CD's. Behind us sitting on the Ferry were two young girls working on a puzzle. Russ imposed himself and tried to impress them with his musical endeavors. These girls were in America from Germany attending college. One was 17 and the other was 18 but I am sure they knew better than to play into his hand. After talk of language and culture we disembarked. Russ invited me to his show that night but I had plans to meet a girl at a board game pub. I walked to the bus stop while smoking my pipe and caught the number 40 from downtown to a trendy neighborhood up north.

After I stepped off I found myself amongst the overgrown players of games and drinkers of fine beer. Brittany arrived and we chatted over IPA's. I explained my recent challenges to get the topic of divorce out of the way before we left for Mexican food. She was very open in saying I should play the field and not have a serious relationship. I agreed with her take but could not read her as well as I had hoped. She said I need to get the rebounding out of the way and explained that she too is struggling with commitment. Being 34 with no marriage or children under her belt she feels that therapy is essential to figuring this out.

We walked to our happy hour destination and shared Nacho's while drinking "Colorado Kool-Aid". Both of us having spent a lot of time in Denver we could relate on much but I felt there was an elephant in the room. Afterwards we walked to a nearby record store and browsed while talking about music and interests. She needed to leave soon having obligations to housesit and watch pets. Dog walking is her profession since her departure from the world of corporate accounting. We walked to her unkempt sedan and she gave me a ride back downtown. We talked of hanging out again but our schedule may not permit for some time. I wonder if she will entertain my company without reservation, only time will tell.

I decided to phone my old friend from Denver who lives near and devise another plan for the evening. The sun was still shining and I had no reason to return home yet. I walked to a nearby brew pub while waiting for him to meet me. I sat at the bar with another traveler named Dave. He is an airline pilot close to retirement from the state of Texas. We talked about my time in the Navy and my pending legal woes. He's been proudly married for 30 years and counts his blessings that he is still in harmony with his wife. My friend decided to meet me at a concert in close proximity to my date with Brittany. Once again I would take the number 40 uptown. Dave bought my IPA and gave me words of encouragement and complimented my persona. It meant a lot and I thanked him as I said goodbye.

While waiting for the bus I asked for information from a woman in her early 50's. She works for a tech company nearby but was happy to help as I had a more pleasant vibe than most of her young, urban, unprofessional colleagues. While unsure of my way she directed my move to get off at the next stop. I walked up the hill another seven blocks to the show. While smoking my pipe along the way another bus rider was two steps ahead named Nate. He was curious about my pipe tobacco and we gave brief anecdotes about ourselves. He offered to buy me a quick beer before my concert. I took him up on this offer as we walked into a nearby market. He purchased several large cans of domestics and afterwards we headed back down the dark boulevard towards the Abbey drinking our brew. As I arrived at the former church venue we parted ways peacefully.

I ventured into the bustling scene concealing my open container while finding my friend. I sat just as the opening act started. We enjoyed three musical performances but the star of the show was the beautiful woman from Denver that we both enjoyed during our time there. Feeling that we should explore the venue where Russ was performing we made our way there. I was sad to discover the brewery was shutting down before 10pm and the band was long gone. We decided to walk to the nearby singles bar playing music so loudly it could be heard from a block away. This strange place was crawling with many folks of the beautiful sort but nothing seemed to be attractive about it. We had a glass of wine and a shot of bourbon. I spoke to the fellow DJ for a moment but there was no dancefloor to be found. We decided to venture on.

We walked up and down the avenue and discovered another Mexican food restaurant, beaming with the young and the foolish. Our community seating was met with overly affectionate couples to our left and valley girls to our right. Our Tequila mules hit the spot with our Nacho's and late night platter. The girls spoke of Denver people which I thought strange. Why so much co(lorado)-incidence in one evening? I injected myself into the discussion and was met with friendly conversation. Unable to finish my Nacho's I knew I had fulfilled my share of fun for the night. This was the fourth time I had eaten nachos this week. We proceeded back to the urban adventure wagon and made our way to the slums of the tech-boom. My 2am slumber was met with an air mattress of great quality and woolen blankets.

I awoke at 7am to the clouded sunlight peering through the sliding glass door. I laid awake with my stomach turning from the many Nachos not yet digested. My housemates called me about needing to move my car for restriping the parking lot. Fortunately I left my keys so they were able to do this for me. I smoked my pipe on the patio while my friend "hit the gym". When he returned we decided to walk through the arboretum by the university and enjoy the sunny autumn day. Afterwards he dropped me off by the ferry where I waited an hour drinking beer at the commuter dive.

During my ferry ride home I walked up and down the passenger compartment looking for a fellow rider to play cribbage. I had no such luck and headed for the observation deck. While the city vanished behind us I struck up a conversation with a young lady from Manchester who had just returned to living in the US. We talked about the nature of selfies and the conflict of living in the moment. As we spoke a man approached me who had overheard my request for a card game. We walked back inside and sat next to an abandoned puzzle with pieces scattered about the deck. Mark introduced himself and we shook hands. It was not until he shuffled and dealt the cards that I realized this 45 year old Asian man only had one arm. His ability to shuffle and deal was impressive. His skill with cribbage was more than rusty, after one game I had a victory so great I felt guilty. He too is going through divorce and seeking a new job. It was a great way to pass the time with a fellow passenger.

As I readied myself for the porting I noticed a familiar face, a young sailor I served with in Mississippi. Our time spent together was met with sorrow as we faced similar career challenges. I had not seen him for several months but he almost did not recognize me. I had lost 50 pounds, left the Navy and become single all in a matter of a few months. I assured him I was on the dawn of newfound joy and wished him luck on his upcoming deployment. I patted him on the head as he seems like such a lovable scamp to me at this point. I exited the terminal to saunter back home. I smoked my pipe while crossing the bridge enjoying the last hour of sunlight.

I settled my belongings at home while serving myself a can of chili and a cold IPA on draft from my housemates tap. I joined him for the end of a baseball game in the den and shared a few moments with my community. I slept for a couple hours and then made my way to work. So much can happen in a day.

Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...

I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****!

My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.

I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.

I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!

I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!

I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!

So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.

No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.

And yes,
Music is indeed food to the soul!
I devour, in view- the next meal...


© Raphael Uzor

Bones for Breakfast
July 2014

Bones are like peanut brittle.
Gnawed on til toothless,
by us old mangy mutts.
Tastes sweet tender as a drop 'o dew,
Feels soft in a bride's whisper, "I do."
But speaks crunchy crackles of Tic-Tac language,
instead of ******* out bad breath breathe shards in.

Although bones may break,
become buried under archaeologists' noses,
slip through crevices cracked and crumbled.
They were once anything but brittle,
covered only by skin yet to be bruised,
backs yet to be battered,
blood yet to be spilled,
faces yet to witness the history yet to be written.

I do not believe we are supposed to eat bones,
but we break them down into shreds of paper-back tidbits,
consumable by children during the snack time called 'history class.'
Our teachers are creating cannibals,
consuming culture on textbook platters,
but pay no mind while wearing bone bibs,
they leave out the thickest cuts of meat and just eat the ribs.

History is a living thing, dressed to deceive those who blindly believe.
I remember reading George Washington's claim to fame,
"I did not chop down that cherry tree."
But Mr. President, what about your enemies?
Because every revolution needs people to die for the revolutionaries.
Ain't that a sweet piece of cherry lie pie?

I learned Genghis Khan sure got it on with many women,
but didn't read about Alexander the Great's great ***,
much of it involving a same-gendered mate.
Wait, was that a mixture of patriarchy and hetero-normativity?
Words that weren't worth the pennies to print?
Who hired these fact checkers for the publishing industries?
I'll give you a hint,
Learn who has the most to gain from condemning intellectual content and corrupting it with a corrosive lack of social conscience.
As textbook reps tell professors, "Buy our books with cute new features."  But since when was that what made good teachers?
And so, these chapters get served to us on poo poo platters,
passed off to be refreshing as fresh mint pours in for corporations like Pearson Education.

I surveyed the lay of the land in Egypt,
purveying the literature of pharaohs.
Pyramids meant to portray a portrait of powerful people,
not a foolish riddle.
"Who built them," we ask.
But not of curiosity for whose backs broke building.
Its whose bones mummified beneath are made into mythological creatures along with Sphinx features.

I was taught the Holocaust was a unique horror story,
along with the catch phrase "never again."
Yet those 600 pages neglected to educate about the "re-education campaign" against the Cambodians.
Where was I to learn of the Rwanda civilization's tensions and exterminations?
Perhaps those pages were buried in the mass graves and dirt ditches, deserted and desecrated like the indigenous individuals we now call Native Americans.

Tell me more about art again.
It conveys a message about the historical humans experience,
but I think that message got lost sometime in the Renaissance Period.
When men had beards and wore colorful clothing,
but now that is either unprofessional or deemed gay as a bad thing.
When women were depicted full-bodied as that meant social status,
but now they are painted in photo shop with air brushes and slimmed slick.
We've created a glorious new empire of gastrointestinal bypass Groupons, and have either **** out or surgically removed all the bones we swallowed to get here... So, who's ready for lunch?

The circus is here
For all of America and the world to experience.

Hats off to you, Mr. Clown
Seated in the Oval Office,

Juggling our country
As if it is a toy for your own amusement
Dropping ***** everywhere.

You sit there with arms crossed,
Your pockets full
Your heart depleted.

Rich in dollars
Poor in spirit.

You are the fool
Ready to jump from cliff to cliff
Taking our country with you,

Never looking back
To see the sewage you leave
In your muddy tracks.

You are the itching powder
That gives our country a scaly rash.

You are orange dye
In a well-preserved tube of poison
Ingested by fools
Rejected by those with common sense.

You pretend to love women
Secretly fearing them
Knowing that if it weren’t for a woman
You would not be here.

You, the all-powerful king would not exist
If it weren’t for a woman.
So, you must show them who is boss
Because you are so **** afraid of them,
Of your own loss of control.

You fill up your angry gut
With know-it-all tactics
And then you crap all over the sick
With your insurance plan for the rich.

You knock down people with preexisting conditions,
People that can’t afford a bottle of Insulin,
Heart surgery,
Cancer medication.

You knock down babies and children
Diagnosed with lifelong illnesses
They fall prey to your ugly world of disillusionment.

You help the insurance companies
Handing them a free pass,
a pass that lets people die
If their wallet isn’t deep enough.

You just nod in approval
As the large companies thrive
Murdering the sick with their indifference.

You know nothing about people
The people who make up this world
The people who count
And you blame everybody but yourself.

You bathe daily in your power
Yet you leave such a stench
An odor of greed,
Obnoxiousness,
Racism
and Homophobia.

You drip profusely with your own self-importance
As you clumsily trip over your giant orange ego
As it follows you everywhere
From tweet to tweet
From fiasco to fiasco.

You leave the public With jaws wide open
The White House becomes an unprofessional screening
For your larger-than-life Reality TV show
As you continually play games with our country and world.

We chuckle at the daily puppet show
At your do-gooders and cabinet members,
As they are dragged across the floor
Right into your madness
Hanging on for dear life
To your fickle coattails.

We watch daily
As you slowly implode from the inside out
Your ice-cold exterior doing little to reassure us
That you are not simply insane.






2017 Stacey Handler

When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always *******.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.

They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.

A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.

There’s something about you that
makes me want to write
        bad poetry
and half-assed short stories.  

Something about you that
makes me want to take all my
unspoken words and turn them
into something beautiful,
something worthwhile.

You make me want to be an artist
like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath;
you make me want to create.

Maybe it’s that blue wave
that crashes down like
an incoming tide on the beach—
        your eyes
when you look at me in
a certain way, in
a certain light.

Or maybe it’s
the way that you say
my name and then say all
those horrible things that make
me want to rip something
        open.

Those words that rip me open.

You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my
head like lyrics to a bad pop song;
I can’t erase them and the
only way I can think of to cope with it
is to write them down like a schoolgirl
with a well worn diary.

I think I might as well have hypergraphia.

I am an unprofessional
medical doctor with
a pen, paper, and
Word Document
suffering from a form of
verbal ***** because I
can’t possibly think of a way to
        speak my mind.

I think I would make a very good mute.

I wish I lacked a voice box
because then I wouldn’t have to
be the one that has to
say all the right, comforting things
at the all the right times
and all the right places.

Sometimes it feels as if I’m
being eaten from the inside out
by some sort of paratrophic organism
that sits atop my frontal lobe and
dictates my life and fluctuates my
anxiety and I can’t even think about
some things anymore because of this
nervous clench I get in my gut when
I let my thoughts get too jumbled.

But you—you make me want to write
the most heartfelt and sappy sentences
and you make me want to
be more than just ordinary.

You make me want to be extraordinary.  

I guess that what I’m writing is
an apology in the shape of
a few stanzas and a few metaphors.

And this is an “I forgive you” for that night
that we spent outside your house
arguing over the stupidest of things,
so stupid that I can hardly
remember a single word I said to you.

Nothing gratifying is ever
painless to obtain
and I want to be a fighter like
Hercules or Alexander the Great.

I want to be extraordinary with you.

The way you scrapped me
solidly so the meat on my bones is picked clean.
Malingering with the charm of a sweet cream
but filled with distaste underneath,
neatly putting me in the box beneath your bed.

I find it unweildy, inconvenient;
To be carrying such a scene
in parts of me that you outlined without knowledge
They tell you to say grace before a meal
or at least wipe your hands first.

You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014

“You are cute.”

No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.

No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.

No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.

No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.

And finally, No.
I’m not ‘****,’ ‘***,’ ‘*****,’ ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or ‘****,’ either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.

She thought she has understood it clear
That love is only a game to play
When she feels bored and out of place
Someone is there,  a game to share with

She understood it so very clearly
A game of heart, so let's play it fair
To Win some, To lose some
A love game between two players
The game of hearts,
Attracting, flattering, sweet talking, seducing...
losing or winning
doesn't really matter...
the pleasure is the game...

Just a fling of romance,
In the name of a game
Steal each others heart...
and be safe and sound
a risky game...
to love for
to die for
and  to leave free upon a game over
no strings attached....understood it clear
after all.... its only a game of love

She thought the game is in the grip of her hands
understood the game so clear
Played with the rules of the game...
A game is nothing but a game...
Too egoistic to admit...
That emotions and feelings cannot be bought
can never be part of a game...
To these.....
She Lost herself in her own game
Unplanned, Unprepared, Unprofessional...
Both players were

A dangerous game... love is...
What she thought as a play of love
Is a strong flame indeed, hard to put out..
hard to cool off...
what a dangerous game of  heart
to play fire with fire
a fire of real desire...
it burns the skin so deep....

The players are hooked in the end..
lost their navigation....in the game they thought
They have understood...
What they thought a GOODBYE
after They grabbed some tokens
as the exchange of love..
is an unexpected FOREVER stays...
In this game of the hearts
Success or defeats...
unskillful Players become lovers...
attached... inseparable...
even when the game is OVER!

When she falls, she falls hard...
play not with the game of heart...

I have nothing against the person,
But the profession can be irksome.
You may get argumentative,
But that’s part of the dance:
To step on some toes.
So, I leave you to choose,
And add some of your own.
o Dentist
o Teacher (for the disenchanted/entitled)
o Oncologists
o Auto Mechanic
o Clerics
o Lawyers
o Funeral Persona

I couldn't believe the pathetic look you were giving me,
As if I was the one who needed saving.
Let me profess once and for all that I do not want your pity.
Once and for all, that you never realized what I needed from you.

Friends,
He shrugged at me when the fiery arrows came,
And he kept my secrets,
but only when I was present.
Friends,
I gave him my utmost devotion and he
dismissed it for the bat of pretty eyelashes
Friends!
He abandoned the sacredness of friendship
For the sake of professionalism.
It's "unprofessional"
to care for someone
Who sacrificed everything for you.

10:13 am. A text from you: what time are we leaving for Cornell? I’m embarrassed by your apparent lack of enthusiasm so I overcompensate with emojis, enough for you and I both. Three hours later I pick you up from your driveway, turn my music down, and hope to God you don’t hear which boyband I had been listening to. You get in and immediately fill up the entire passenger seat. You grow and grow and fold your right leg over your left until it’s encroaching upon my personal space and you turn the music up a little and then reach to roll down the window (to grow some more, I guess) and I have to tell you that my window won’t roll back up if rolled down and you acknowledge this but grow even more anyway, regardless of the fact that there’s nowhere else for you to go.
We’re awkward for a few minutes. This was to be expected considering our first few interactions had been drunken arm touches and Snapchats asking where are you? on nights we wanted to find each other even though we had no right to know where the other was. Then you break the silence, and we talk about where we’re from and where we want to go, and suddenly it’s not so awkward anymore. This is a conversation I feel like I’ve had before. I can envision conversations with you for miles to come. This is a conversation that makes a forty-five-minute car ride feel like five.
When we finally make it to Cornell, it’s 2:17pm and we decide to walk around a bit, together, to help you get your bearings. You can hardly contain your excitement when you see the baseball field – it’s endearing. We split up once we’ve finished our tour of Lincoln Hall, which is, appropriately, the music building. I leave you and walk around campus before finally settling in Goldwin Smith to journal for the fifty minutes before it’s time to meet back up. I’ve lied to you – you don’t know that the only reason I’m in Ithaca with you is to be with you, but I think it’s better that you don’t know.
2:46pm. I’m having fun with Peter. He’s cool. My journal tells a story I’d never be able to say to your face – I enjoy the time I’ve spent with you, though it’s limited and I know I’ll never have time like this with you again. This connection that I seem to have made has pushed my anxiety down into a part of me that it hasn’t seen it a while. Being here for today has been good for my soul … I feel good right now. These are words my journal hasn’t heard from me since at least April. Today has been a lot less awkward than I thought it would be I thought it would be a lot harder to just hang out, one on one, yet here we are. It’s really hard to be uncomfortable/an anxious mess around him.
I think about the stop sign that I almost ran in front of the admissions building, on our way to park at the Schoellkopf garage. I think about seeing my ex-boyfriend in front of the philosophy building. I think about the dance class I interrupted when I was trying to write poetry in the science building.
You text me and we meet in front of the statue of Ezra Cornell. I hardly recognize you, in your flannel, your legs crossed, on a bench, and I realize that I’ve never seen you sitting down. You make a phone call and I pretend not to eavesdrop but I can’t help it. I’m admiring the professional tone you adopt, watching people go by, wondering if they think we’re a couple, but we’re not sitting close enough for anyone to think that.
3:47 pm. We walk from the Arts Quad to Collegetown Bagels and I think that maybe you’ll offer to pay for my meal – I don’t know why I think this – but you don’t. You follow my lead, walking up to the counter to order your bagel. You decide to try the Big Sur because that’s what I tell you is my favorite on the menu, and I feel a warmth radiate outward from the center of my body until I’m sure I must be leaking happiness from my fingertips. I know then that this day won’t have been a waste of time in any way.
You ask questions and I respond, my mouth full of apples and honey and cheese, and I’m grateful that you don’t think any less of me for talking with my mouth full. I ask questions and you respond, bashfully, blissfully unaware of how intrigued I am by your every answer. I drink my Hubert’s Lemonade – mango flavored – and you drink yours, a brand called Nantucket’s Nature. The cap has a fact about whales on it, something about how hundreds of them live in the waters surrounding Nantucket, and you get excited, cleaning it off, gushing about how you’d like to give this to a certain Moby ****-obsessed professor.
4:31pm. The Ithaca Commons during Apple Fest is more hectic than I’m used to, but we make it all the way down to Taste of Thai and then back to the playground before deciding on a destination. As we meander you ask me if I’ve ever dated a boy shorter than me. I blush knowing my negating answer will make me seem vain. I catch your grin with my own and we walk into Autumn Leaves, a used bookstore.
We talk about The Hobbit and David Sedaris and my favorite poets and poems and I buy Dracula, because it’s four dollars and because I’m so intoxicated with adrenaline that I can’t not. I learn that your favorite movie is Fever Pitch because, honestly, why wouldn’t it be. We leave the bookstore, my backpack a little heavier and my heart a little lighter. We should be holding hands, I think, and immediately I’m terrified you can read my mind but I know there’s no way that’s possible.
As it’s Apple Fest, you claim it’s only appropriate that we eat an apple each, even though I’m pretty sure I’m allergic and I’ve had more than enough apples already that day. You offer up two dollars in quarters to the man behind the stand and ask what he’d recommend. He turns our attention to the resident apple expert, who asks what our favorite apples are, and you tell her that mine is Fuji. I don’t remember telling you this about myself. We are told to try an apple called ***’s Orange Pippin, and we’re intrigued until we find the basket – it’s full of ugly apples. The apples we do eat are too sweet, too big, and we can’t finish them. We laugh together – what if those apples, the ugly ones, the ones too ugly for us to eat, were the best apples of the bunch? We tell each other that we’re *******. We’re *******. We just stereotyped those apples! How could we do that?
We duet “Africa” by Toto as we leave Ithaca, the sun warming my face, your laugh filling the car. On the ride home we talk, more than we did on the drive down to Ithaca. You ask if I’ve watched Doctor Who and I smile because there’s no way you can’t read my mind, at this point. I tell you about the T.A.R.D.I.S. shirt I saw on the Commons and how I almost asked, but I didn’t, in your words, want to sound like a ******* nerd. We talk music and I find out you’re a Beatles fan who’s never seen Across the Universe so I ask you to play “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” and as we sing along it dawns on me how this would seem if we were in a romantic comedy. I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we’ve just met.
7:41pm. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date, I tell myself as we pull back onto school property. You’ll be getting out of my car soon, my car you just helped me name, and you’ll be heading back to your apartment to catch up on Saturday night drinking, and I’ll be scaling the hill to the athletic center to watch my friends kick each other’s ***** in a game of unprofessional basketball. We’ll go back to our lives that probably will never intertwine again – and maybe they weren’t meant to in the first place. As I walk back to my room, I’m hit by how exhausted I am. I’m hit by how hard I must have been working without even realizing to seem like a normal human being, one whose brain isn’t constantly trying to keep them from going outside. I’m a firm believer in having to work for what you want, and I worked for you, but maybe I didn’t work hard enough. Or maybe I’m working for the wrong person.

so there's this girl that i met
about a month ago
yeah, maybe a little over a month ago
might be two months, for all i know
but i digress

my point is that this girl
she likes me
she likes me a lot
and i like her
i like her a little more than a lot
maybe a little too much more

but there's this problem
it's been around since the first words we spoke
and it's been clouding my brain
for as long as i know her
and i just can't seem to let it go
and i'm usually good at that sort of thing
but i guess everyone gets a little
broken
sometimes

see, this girl
i work with her
we talk for hours
and hours
while we're serving customers
and trying to hide the fact
that we might talk a little too much
from the other employees
and the management
because that's bad for business, you see
customers can't take notice
or even have the slightest cause
even for a moment
to wonder
or think
that anything may
or may not
be going on behind the scenes
between the people
that serve them behind the counters
at the movie theatre
it's just unprofessional
people have gotten fired for this
lots of them, so i hear

we have a problem with that though
see, when we're around eachother
it's hard to act normal
per say
it's hard to seem unassuming
when the person you want
is right there
only inches away from you
it's hard to fake something
that's just so real
so we don't do that good of a job
to say the least
of keeping what we are
what we have going
on the down low
so we constantly get things like
"you two better be dating"
and
"you two act so much like a couple"
and, the classic
"aww, you guys are so cute together"
i shrug it off for the most part
or i just smile
just a bit (because i can't help it)
and say something like
"no, we're just friends"
or
"no, it's not like that"

but it is
it is like that
i want it to be like that
i wish and i hope that it could be like that

but going back to what i was saying
that little problem that's been shadowing me
and prodding at my thoughts and my dreams
is that
she already has a boy

**** the weather !
It always seemed when you planned ****.
Things always turned to ****.

I had been fed the **** up far to long.
No I was more like hand me a gun and get the **** out of my way.
the ride had been the boiling point  the conversations were as mundane as the Oklahoma  
landscape.

It's sad when you see a tree and you want to get out the car and kiss the ground.
I had to distance myself and the nearest bar called me like a ship to shore .
And maybe after a few stiff drinks I could somehow convince myself the trip was worth the burden of putting up  with half the ******  I listened to out here.

The show was going to be hell dealing with some lame *** ******* with there family friendly *******.
Hopefully my set would be over fast.

Get up there talk to the deadlights crowd and get the hell off that stage before my drink needed refilling.

Hey so what's your deal?
The strange looking guy had asked me on the way up.
Just prefer silence to a ******* chatter I guess.

Whatever man.

He didn't seem to enjoy my reply and his leaving me alone for the rest of the trip was a pleasant reward  indeed.
Little early don't you think?

Another had asked as I broke out my flask and mixed the first of my drinks I like to think as
******* tolerance serum.
Well honestly being it's already ten in the morning I'm actually running late.

**** he's going to be wasted by the time we get there how ******* unprofessional.
I had met far to many of these self righteous ****** on many trips across the states and they all were the same.
To busy watching other's to even realize they had no place being in the company
of actual men  they were more like a annoying ex who nagged the **** out of you till you either said  shut the **** up *****!

Or just walked away silent as she rattled on a mental tornado in a self absorbed existence.

I rarely gave people like this my time let alone my thoughts.
For empty minded ******* could look to other halfwits to fill there heads.
me I had a hard enough time believing my own ******* to care about anyone else's.

It was a hour till my set   and as I knocked back a  luke warm beer in a first class *******
I had to think man I really should have chosen a less interesting career path.

But hell there were like almost ten people in dire need of some saving from the clutches
of candy *** humor and Lord help them if a improve group was around.

I staggered from my stool towards the door as the barkeep said.
Hey buddy need me to call you a cab to get home.
Home hell amigo I'm getting ready to clock in to work.

Maybe I could have chosen a more easy path.
But the drinks seem awful watered down driving a school bus.

Besides who would save the bored few from the family friendly
joke tellers of this world.

Till next time.

Stay crazy.

Cloud-vacant darkened sky,
muffled ears
under woolly coolness
of chocolate-icing water,
choppy,
unsmooth,
iced by an unprofessional
child-chef.

Stretched-out limbs
like a blown-up starfish
floating dumb and mindless
and alone.

Bobbing apples, eyes obscured
temporarily, under cold salt
swishing
swashing
slipping sliding.

Sticky candy-apple lips
pursed tight against
salty smoothness
licking
lapping
lisping loving.

Slow breaths flow freely
through nose,
sticking upright from the water like
ancient uncovered bones
from sand;
Wind whipping off years of hiding
to reveal
the unknown death.

Slowly floating, bobbing
silent, unaware
from the sand: waves washing
gently, nudging
against the starfish boy.

Leading him
away
from shore.

I slept. I woke up early. I got ready for my day early too.
I slept in my clothes, hair done and makeup too.
I had plans for the library and to wash the car, but i did nothing
I slept
I had dreams of things ill never remember.
I had dreams of things ill never relive
I had much needed sleep ill never give.
And then i met him and went to the doctors
Where i was treated out of taste
"Did he at least make you ***?" Says my doctor
His tongue hanging out
Hes going back to teaching
His divorce on the rise
I told him nothing only moved my head thinking to myself the unprofessional words he said
When my appointment was over and it was time to go
He said if things dont work out with my fiancee
To let him know.
Today I slept and the world still went by
Looking out the car window watching the trees fly by.
Here comes the crisp of night.
Im wrapped up with my love
Protected and safe
Away from inappropriate doctors
Away from the chores I put off
Tomorrows already here
And Im rested to go
Time to sleep and forget about yesterday woes.

My poems don't have a sentence.
They're vague, unfinished, unclear.
And they certainly don't address the reader,
For that would be unprofessional, dear.

My poems don't have a meaning.
They're meant to be read and understood.
And they certainly don't have a title.
Yes, guidance is not at all good.

|
|
\/

Commas and them old fullstops.
Questions? Hah! What do they even do?
Exclamations? What silly ideas!
My poems don't need you!

Yes, my poems never rhyme.
For what use will it lend?
Yes, my poems never hold ironic lies.
And of course, they'll never end.

I -

I am Death
and I am sorry.
Sorry that I robbed you
of your youth
your vigor and your
vitality.
I am sorry that I gave you days
and months and years of black
days and months and years
better spent under the sun
dancing in the rain
prancing in the snow.
I am sorry that I robbed you
of your very first love
your child, your sister
your mother or father
your one care in the world.
I am sorry that I took away
those things that were the
light of your life
the salt of your earth
whether those be tangible
or intangible.
I am sorry for all this and more.

- II -

But this is what I do.
This is the burden that Fate and
Destiny have placed upon my
shoulders.
This is the task that has been
assigned to me by the cosmos.
The universe needs a Reaper
a Soul-Harvester
a Life-Taker
and that’s me.
Death.
It is my unfortunate task to remind
you – man, woman and child
that you are not invincible.
I am an omnipresent reminder of
your own mortality
an ever-present red ribbon
tied around your finger.
Believe me when I tell you that
I enjoy it very little
and detest it very much.
That I should be the one who
coaxes your tears from your eyes
burns my soul – MY soul.
Yes,
I have one, too
however hardened it may be after
all these years.
That I should have to swoop in to
your homes, your hospital wards,
your cars, barge in on your meals,
your vacations, your special time
with loved ones
is, to me, awful, a sin.
Me stealing from you those years,
people and other things from you
is vagrancy, indecency, criminal.
Nothing less.

- III -

I, Death, am a vagabond.
A cold hearted *******. A demon borne
in the fiery pits of Hell.
I am cruel, calculating and ruthless
with impeccable timing, I know it.
I know it, and yet I have not the heart
to give up what I do.
It is the only thing I know.
But every day that I do it is a day
where my heart aches.
My heart aches
and it has for some time now.
It is a pain of which I shall never be
rid. I am sure of it.

Would you believe me if I told you
that I listen to your pleas?
Your moaning, your agonized begging,
your take-me-not-hers, your why-him-not-me’s
fall on ears.
Attentive ones
listening ones.
I promise you, I hear you, and I hold your
hearts in my hands.
But I just cannot give you what they seek.
It would be unfair.
Me letting your brother live and not
his would be unbalanced, unnatural
unseemly, unprofessional.
Mercy defeats the purpose of death.
Mercy defeats the purpose of me
and I hate it
but it is so
and that is that.

- IV -

I am Death.
I am black
I am dark
I am night.
I know your secrets, your darkest
ones.
I know what you desire to know.
When you shall die.
I know it.
You all shall die.
I know it.
You know it.
And that scares you.
You are all afraid of me.
Do not lie. I know it. It’s true.
You all think you are doomed.
You think you are doomed?
You are doomed to succumb
to death?
I am doomed to be death.
I am sorry
but I am Death.

Someone told me
I was someone
But I didn't get it.
Sure, I write
Google knows my name
I've been "published"
But it feels empty still.
What do I want?
Reviews
Comments
Tell me you hate it,
Tell me you love it.
Tell me it made you laugh,
Tell me it made you cry.
That you threw my book out
That you couldn't put it down.
Something.
Anything.
I'm wondering, you know...
Am I good enough?
Will I be discovered?
Or am I full of hot air,
A childish,
Unprofessional
Hack.  
I other words,
Am I a nobody, or
Someone?

Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as my fingers fly all over the keyboard
There's not much time, I need to get it done, I need this to be perfect
It's my saving grace for my lousy performance through high school
It's the leap that will take me to the next level

How's my grammar? Did I spell these words correctly?
Will they finish reading it with a lasting impression?
Am I thought-provoking? Too serious? Too unprofessional?
These questions only continue to clog my mind

I handed the type-written output over
And ask the guidance counselor if I'll do fine
She nods and fills my head with reassuring words
I swallowed them down and stiffly said 'thanks'

The car ride home summoned a couple of daydreams
I pictured myself getting into the honoree list
And making my parents' hearts swell with pride
But let's be real: Am I even going to make it?

Here I sit in front of the laptop again, fingers ready
To explore a wide range of prestigious universities
Maybe they'll require me to write an essay again
I swear on everything I'll write them better than the last

Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl...
Let me tell you about being a black girl
Leave Out
Twist
Frontal
Perm
Pick your poison
"Unprofessional"
Or falling for " European Beauty Standards"

" Why are you so quiet?"
Do you expect me to be aggressive
And snap my fingers in an A-Z formation

Light Skin is the best skin
Or so they say
I'm jealous of my brother, for his caramel skin
Oh what I'd do for that caramel skin

You think that's the worst of it but have you see ****?
Cute girl makes love to -insert famous **** star here

Ebony b-itch gets banged till she squirts

Which would you rather watch?

If you ever turned on a TV you'd see reality shows with the perfect blue eyed blond hair cast and the one black kid who doesn't get enough attention

Ever since Rachel was the Bachelorette I too prayed one day I'll find the man of my dreams

Have you ever had a crush on someone and ever think if they even like girls your skin color?

Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl
Oh let me tell you about being a black girl

As of yesterday (finally) I opened a personal blogger page to post my poetry in, as a kind of personal collection of sorts. While I will continue to post on Hello Poetry- which I am too addicted to to stop- there will be work that will only be posted on my blogger account, along with other goodies.

As it is still being tidied up, I'll apologize for the unprofessional appearance of the blog.

http://sarahquil.blogspot.com/

Thank you to all of the people who took the time to read a few of my pieces. I cannot thank you enough for your praise and criticism.

-Sarah

On 11/16/15 at 4:45 p.m. near 338a Main St., a Hackensack Police Dept. patrolman in car #107 slowed his vehicle down to text on his computer
which he had positioned on the passenger side of the vehicle.  While
using his right hand to use the computer his left hand was on the window slot of the driver's side door.  Keep in mind now that no hands were on the steering wheel and the patrol car was still in motion.  When I mentioned to the driver "no texting while driving officer."  He then turned to face me and stated "*******."  Then he drove away.  This was the most unprofessional act of an uniformed officer that I have ever witnessed Here

in hackensack.

But me, I'm still trapped inside my head I kinda feel like it's a purgatory
So polite and white, but I got family who would ****** for me
Think I'm living paradise, what would I have to worry 'bout?
Dealing with these demons, feel the pressure, find the perfect style
Making sure my mom and dad are still somewhat in love
All these backfires of my experiments with drugs
And I experience the touch of my epiphany in color form
The difference between love and war inform me I'm above the norm
But, give me anybody though, I'll gladly chew his face off, them bath salts
Rhymin like it's summertime on asphalt, hot
Haven't picked a major label think I'm black balled
I still don't got the heart to pick my phone up when my dad calls
Will he recognize his son when he hears my voice?
I put this music against my life, I think I fear the choice
And I don't know what I'm running from, but I'm running still
I conversate with acquaintances, but it's nothing real
I'm from a city that you hear and think a bunch of steel
So a hundred mills wouldn't make me sign a ******* deal
Money kills, that's the truth, it's called the route of evil
But I want that Rolls Royce that the homie Lennon drove
So, if you ain't talkin' bout some money I'ma send you home
Unconventional, special but unprofessional,
Adolescent expression that's lettin' me meet these centerfolds
As troubles fill my mind capacity I let them go
If I was Johnny Depp in Blow, I would let it snow
That's just me all wylin' out and being extra though

And, if God was a human it'd be yours truly
Watching horror movies with some foreign groupies, thinking this decor suits me
I do drugs to get more loopy, I'm in tune to ancient jujitsu spirituals, it's blissful
Looking out as far as eyes can see
I'm glad that me and this elevation could finally meet
I think I'm JFK's final speech
They try assassinating all of my beliefs
But I'm asleep so whisper to me for the peace of mind
And he be high some **** to grind on top a Jesus shrine
Twenty thousand on my watch cause I needed time
If y'all would leave me the **** alone, that'd be divine
Can't decide if you like all the fame
Three years ago to now it's just not the same
I'm looking out the window ashing on my pane
****, I wonder if I lost my way

sometimes i wish i could go back
and tell myself not to go that day
tell myself to stay home
don't use the car
eat at home

sometimes i wish i could go back
and tell myself to not trust him
tell myself he's unprofessional
you can find new friends
in public areas

sometimes i wish i could go back
and warn myself
that something will happen very shortly
if i choose to go out for lunch
instead of stay home

sometimes i wish i could go back
and make different decisions
make a decision to find food at home
and to not trust everyone you meet
because there are some terrible people right under your nose

but i was only eighteen
i had 2 hours to spare
it was lunch
i was hungry
and you offered to bring me out to lunch

i shouldn't have gone
i should have stayed home
i shouldn't have waited in your house for you
i should have seen the signs
and then everything turned upside down

because as i yelled for you to stop
you covered my mouth
and as tears ran down my face
you got angrier
and i got scared

i wish i could go back
and not go out to lunch

i wish i could go back
and not run into that situation

i wish i could go back
because then maybe
just maybe
i wouldn't have been
*****

Love is not a possessive noun
Oh, but all too often it is.
When does the possession begin,
When does the flame become hell,
the hell become swell,
the swell
farewell?

Paw patch scratch
One floor down
Below ground
Where the ***** waters flow
Never knowing its ugliness
Thinking its loveliness
Brown water, groundwater
Brown groundwater swell
Groundswell hell
Makes a lovely sound
Maybe not
Swish, Swish
Below ground
Hush, can you hear a single sound?
Swish, Swish
Swish, Swish
A rumbling, swishing, wishing sound
a grating, whining, pathetic, hissing sound
a howling, fouling, roaring, boring sound.
A scowling, prowling, naught allowing
Unfounded sound
Doesn’t matter sound
Putrefied sound of the underground

Paw, patch scratch
Lonely still sound
Underground pounding
Punching bag sounding
Alphabet rhyming
Say something
I’m crying


The attentions’ not on me
What a pity
What a ******* pity
Because I’m so pretty
Don’t you agree
And if it weren’t for me
Where would you be
Pity, I don’t guilt
I’m so good at it.
Come on. Admit it.
But, I’m not above pointing out
Without doubt
Everything you’re doing wrong
But, that’s not what it’s about
But, don’t take this wrong
I’d much rather listen to a song
Then have a petty quarrel
Your hands can’t hide your thoughts
How caught up
How caught
If there was ever a cookie jar
You wouldn’t get far
You think you would never get caught
But, you give yourself away
Away, away, away
And the queen’s slave shall obey, obey, obey
So you make- thought- a thought-
Ok, but
A line you’d never cross.
And you shall remain boss,
Your good guy status is still intact
I’ll catch up to you on that
But, your thought crossed with mine
(we have a sorta party line)
I never agreed to that line
That really is fine, me I opine
That’s fine
That’s ******* fine
But not mine, not mine

Why am I yelling
Because I’m in hell with you
And I don’t know what to do
I fear it’s a small point I make
Because you never agreed to the premise
What the **** are you
A guru, a nemesis
***** you
And ***** you, too
I laid the premise
It is my poem after all
I can be ******* Cinderella if I want to be
Because ******* Cinderella is me
Anyone can see
That’s it’s true
I have met a prince
And it’s not you


He’s charming
And he loves me from afar
He worships the ground I walk on
He greets me with candles and candy
He serenades me with Rhapsody and brandy
We engage in exciting conversation
And it all comes so naturally


And he doesn’t ******* exist!
Don’t mind my cursing
There are worse things
For me
That’s probably the worse thing
No use confessin
To what you’ve been quessin
But, don’t ruin my fairytale
Don’t ever email
Or text me
Or talk  
Or look at me
See if I ******* care
You were no-where before I met you
Before I met you, I was without you
and I didn’t miss you and
I didn’t know you and I didn’t care,
Surely, I can get back there.
before I met you
I brake for my thought
What am I trying to say
Beyond having it my way
(If it’s ok for frank
frankly, it’s ok for me)
That’s it, I guess
If this ******* mess is mine alone
Why won’t you tell me
I hate messes
And try to fix them every day
But karma catches up to me
Because I make more than I fix
Could be a trick
Or could be me
hiding from me under a storybook tree
Hugging a tree
That can’t hug me  


I love my fairytale confessional
It’s so unprofessional
Obsessional
Impressionable
Digressional
Expression­ able
You know what I mean
If I haven’t explained
No need to complain
No ******* familiar refrain
Just maintain the pain
the unvoyagable pain
Let’s you know you’re real
You can feel
You can bleed
Indeed, you can cross the river
Of pain, once again
But never the thought that never crossed the line
Because you are blind


You are free to go
You already know that
Whenever you choose to go
You can go
You know
Just go, go, go
It’s just



I’m waiting for the crescendo
The ******* endo
When does it end oh?
The thought- that never crossed the line
The star-crossed line was never mine
And all the errant thoughts that followed mindlessly
Telling you what you should and shouldn’t do
Reminding you of the awful consequences, too
Good guys could fall from grace
Good guys don’t fall from grace
Nobody could put Humpty-dumpty together again
Better not to begin

So, I agree
There is no you and me
Stay where you are
Better from afar
So safe from a distance
No social insistence
Take the line of least resistance

There should be a quarrel.
Between us
But, there is not
I’ve censored nothing,
Saved some things-
For surprise
Should it ever get too familiar
And I don’t see that look in your eyes


It’s apple pie in the sky
Why even the apples have browned
But, I like them like that.
I, no culinary aristocrat
So, I baked them in a crusty shell
Told them they're doing swell
And hell,
it was the best apple pie in the sky
as far as I could tell.

Every new canvas or wood I begin, starts with a mental insult, turning into a dark alley street fight. All found objects are used as weapons.
Before my image, color, category, or medium is even applied. I somehow discredit or abuse the medium through extrasensory transference or ***** looks. Or am accused of it. After that, the cloth is unforgiving and taunting. And from there, I can not be placated and must defend myself.
Slights and wounds and offensive disrespects are hurled at me in hopes of defeatism and scarring. And my retaliation is never ready. I slink out into a restless sleep and awkward day, clearing my head, deep thinking and do research for inspiration on fighting a wooden bully. The resurfacing of my retribution comes firing back with thought and truth and defense, until my opponent has heard all it will hear and dares me.
From there I take battle in slinging and taping and throwing off-color remarks at this ***** for what seems like days, until I find the weak spot. And then, just pummel. Continue and repeat with a variety of similar strokes. This is when it gets worn out and I can see progress.
Like a beam of golden light. The pressure to finally usurp and overthrow all that has distracted me, is rolled out like a red carpet until the throne is visible. With violent blacks slung up top and lower, all flavors of blue bashed in the ribcage, muddy brown and ash around the knees and lower. And all over, a melting custard of crimson red drips erratic around this terrorizing yet pleading to just finish off this piece of wood or cloth. Covered in a multitude of cheap shots, unprofessional swatches, gorgeous strokes, and derivatives, we wipe the dust and tears and blood from our eyes and finally my opponent yields, and I am congratulated on another battle well fought.

"You don't always win", the board transfers
"Many have been left undefeated and unfinshed, stay humble you're learning wisdom and patience"

These words ring with echoing sound. On my walk home, my painted and smeared, ripped body and mind contemplative of all lessons and struggles, I long to tell Annie about the war I just had.
Will she listen...?

Dear Black girls,
I’m sorry for all the things you go through.
I’m sorry that society feels the need to bring you down because the color of your skin.

Dear Black girls,
I’m sorry that you had a great dream but society made you into a meme.

Dear Black girls,
I’m sorry that when you upset people label you as an angry black girl.
I’m sorry that some of our Black brothers go for a white chick
because we are considered “loud” and “ghetto”.

Dear Black girls,
I’m sorry that we get sexualized because of the curves mama gave us.
I’m sorry that you feel the need to straighten your curls because society considers them unprofessional

We are beautiful Black girls
We come in many shades dark skin, light skin, and caramel tone.

You see your curly crown of success.
Your melanin glows, your skin is magical.
Your curvy hips
Your thick lips
Your thick black hair that flows gracefully in the air
It comes with the luxurious melanin in you

Your a fearless woman don’t ever let anyone bring you down
Your beautiful curls emphasize how great you are
So rock your crown
Don’t ever take it down

Black girls your creamy chocolate beautiful skin is amazing so learn to love you for you...

feel free to knock out a few
of your sweet teeth,
so you can get down to business
drinking this bitter bean juice

i keep screaming that it's just. not. smart.
if you keep cutting ties, you'll never get a job.
for one thing,
short ties look unprofessional
you'll not make much of an adult
without some more support
you need to put yourself out there
and find it on your own

the real world is scary
if the window cleaner would dig a little deeper
and you were less blinded by the shine of my bleached teeth
i'm sure it would be clear