Ice Melts

Is this any indication of how my week went?

Heh.

5K

So all that stress?

Totally gone.

And I'm breathing deeply and laughing loudly.

Rolling all the windows down and singing in the dark.

Sipping slurpees with my best friends,

this is how things ought to go,

all the time.

We should all be able to crack up

and make a colloquial brouhaha

about all the little fun things in life.

It should be like this.

This awesomeness.

Fridays are the best, am I right?

(Yes!)

We should be able to have those weird little things,

you and I,

where it's quiet and we look up

and sort of stare for a spilt second and smile.

You're so damn cute,

you know that?

There isn't much I can do to keep myself

from just sort of falling all over you,

mentally, of course.

But you got all close today,

it was cute,

I won't deny it.

(Though I should.)

I told myself when I wasn't in high school

all the things I didn't want to be.

I'm a lot of those now.

I am all doe-eyed over a boy.

(I didn't want that to happen)

I drive with my music up too loud.

(I hated people who did that)

I spend time making sure I look alright.

(I always thought it was very vain... it is...)

And I'm one of those girls who just sort of has one group of friends.

(I was always jealous of the tight-knit friends)

You know,

I don't regret becoming what I used to hate.

I am perfectly ok with being this teenager,

who I am is not so bad at all.

(Right?)

To recapitulate:

Fridays = awesome.

My friends = amazing.

I = just fine.

And yeah,

I love you, you silly and adorable boy.

Don't you forget it.

Century of Fakers

We're all unraveling,

Unraveling slowly, painfully.

It's a sad and awful sight,

we're just... here,

stuck out at sea.

Our sails can't catch any spare gusts.

We're just falling down.

What can fix broken people?

I'm not sure.

Not duct tape,

Nor ropes or staples or glue.

I wonder how we patch up people.

I'm lost as to what must be done.

A Century of Fakers

Well.

Two weeks of hell.

But since we're here,

We may as well keep going,

Churchill said something like that,

"If you're going through hell, keep going"

I will, Churchill, thank you.

Because really, only the BIGGEST TEST OF MY LIFE

is next week.

No big deal, you know.

-gag-

It's like being repeatedly socked in the stomach.

No fun.

Belle and Sebastian

I am disappointed in myself

to a high degree.

I've written nothing good

for a longish time now,

and I am not happy with that.

I have told myself

that I would write certain things

for weeks now.

And nothing has come of it.

A dadaist poem.

A little sonnet written about

ordinary things

in ordinary language.

Something of an ironic beat poem

if you will.

Nothing, nothing, nothing

that's been done well.

And not just in my writing.

But overall.

Nothing that's worth it.

But a small little idea

is growing steadily in my mind.

A colossal idea, truly.

A film.

A real one, a lengthy one.

With actors and lines.

A summer project.

Based on my (really, first and last) short story,

"Blackbird".

How I will do this

Is still being turned over and over.

But the idea has quickly sunken its roots

deep, deep into my brain.

I will make this film.

I must.

It is something I must do.

I suppose that's all.

I guess.

Have a second-rate poem.

Coal and Canaries

-

The hazed-over blue mountains

wore twisted peaks, invisible

in the coming rains.

The trains, criss-crossed the

feet of the godly things,

small and black insects,

belching smoke into the mouths

of the guardian giants.

-

Rusting in the spring storms,

the smokestacks cut the landscape,

painted a greying outline of the

overseers, the green trees

layered thick in the coal dust

that settled in the lungs of the towns

All up and down the lifeblood railroad.

The gleaming silver savior of the coal mine canaries.

-

And the majesties,

counting up the glowing flames

of capitalism, small stars in the darkened

lands.

Eastern US' dear bride, coal.

The grit of marriage settled deep in the bones

of the mountains, the folks

All clad in blackened overalls.

-

These tall green things

twisted down,

bent themselves up to cast shadows

of what was never here, to begin with.

Something green breathed deep in the

heaving lungs, deep jagged cuts of the

silky decomposition.

Never have the mountains breathed mossy

green air into cavernous lungs

full of the gold of this place.

-

The yellow canaries

lifted up,

to lie in the mist

of the once-green mountains.

The dull glint of coal dust

sticking to their lungs.

This is Just a Modern Rock Song

I want to wander supermarket aisles

With and while taking nonsense and true sense.

(In post-structuralism is anything true?)

I want to walk in the rain down

Puddle-filled streets in the afternoon.

I want to make you coffee in the mornings

(I have to learn to make coffee first...)

And I'd like us to be able to sit up

Very early into the morning to

Watch the occasional sunrise.

I want to listen to you laugh.

(I'm fond of the strange sound)

We could watch films about nothing

And everything, and we could laugh

Like fools. I want to fall asleep very near to you

And listen to you dream.

We could stand at the windows, watch

Cars pass on the street.

I want us to have perfect silences

In which neither feels the need to speak

But to just stay contented in the fact

That we would be near.

Silence is an ultimate test.

Let's sit in bed on cold mornings

And listen to the small plink-plink

Of the raindrops on the window sills

Without saying words.

There's a lot I wish we could do

That we'll never be able to.

And that's alright, regardless of how much it bothers me.

Because you know, you probably want something very different

From my own small ponderings.

And you should pursue whatever you please.

Darling,

I'd like to be able to hold hands and walk down a dimly lit street

Late, late at night.

What do you want? And from who?

It's a Fact (Printed Stained)

Some days are splendid in that simply swell sort of way.

Nothing too fancy, nothing to glitzy.

Just some fantastic people,

Wonderful adventures.

And chariot racing on skateboards.

Do you want proof as to how crazy school has made me?

This morning, amidst my sleepiness,

I FORGOT my essay I had to turn in today.

Yes, FORGOT it.

My worst nightmare was unfolding in front of me.

So what's one to do, at school, essayless...

With the power of an automobile and fifteen minutes on hand?

That's right, I grabbed my dear friend,

Sprinted to my car, and made a frantic, panicked drive back to my house,

Praying I wouldn't be late.

Well.

There was traffic, speeding, and some none-too-pleasant vocabulary involved.

Plus ten minutes of tardiness.

(Partly due to the fact that there were ZERO. ZERO! parking spots upon our return...)

But it was ok.

Because the essay was turned in, intact and cleanly typed.

And guess what.

Apparently we weren't even counted as tardy.

But even more splendid were the simple joys of

A giddy bunch of toga-clad Latin-nerds traipsing about,

Performing skits (I was a man-eating horse!), throwing discus,

And racing skateboard-chariots.

Nothing beats such a thing.

Nothing.

And then I proceeded to spend three + hours in a supermarket

With my best friend.

On a Thursday night,

Buying Poptarts and laughing at nothing in particular.

Who knew Thursdays could be so grand?

(Every time I use the word 'grand', I think about how Holden Caulfield hates that word)

And now for sleeping!

The perfect ending to a swell day, am I right?

By the way,

I love you.

Hold Me Tight

Nothing ever gets done.

I've realized that nothing ever is

Finished.

Confectus.

Nothing.

We simply abandon it,

Whatever it is.

Perfection is never achieved

So we give up the fight before we just

Go stark raving mad.

On a smaller scale.

My schoolwork is never going to end.

Nothing is ever fully finished.

Essays and notebooks

And latin poems and things

That are being push-pushed into

Tomorrow.

I am not a fan of letting days spill

All over each other.

I prefer a fresh start each time the sun rises.

No such luck for me, it would appear.

I've already got a list of the things "To-Do"

For tomorrow, Tuesday.

Another Tuesday

In a long string of days

That may as well be as bland

As any given Tuesday.

It's a faceless day, really.

Used to recuperate from Mondays,

Which nobody likes.

There is no committee called

"The Committee to Save the Mondays"

No club for Monday Enthusiasts.

The hatred of Mondays is something

I believe we can all get behind,

A universal scapegoat.

I'm sure many a world problem

Happened on a Monday.

Cuban Missile Crisis?

Probably began on a Monday.

JFK's assassination?

Monday, no doubt.

Watergate?

Totally a Monday sort of thing.

(Note: It took reading the textbook, watching a video and calling my genius grandfather for me to figure out what the hell Watergate actually was.

As to its importance, I am still somewhat unawares.)

You know something?

The more time I have to think,

The stranger my thoughts become.

Like the one that took root over the weekend.

Let's go to college together, shall we?

I can say no more on this, really.

I'd give away too much.

But we ought to.

How swell it would be.

Sometimes,

For just one infinitesimally small moment in the course of things,

You get this pained expression,

You look utterly miserable.

You've deflated somehow,

For that one quick instant

And then it is gone.

It's unnerving,

When you look that way,

Because I never know what is going on in your mind.

What thoughts possess you to look so?

Darling, I'm curious, are you alright? Truly and honestly?

Frank

I wanted to say

Something about poets.

How jealous I am of those

Geniuses of verse and meter and

Rhyme and metaphor.

Nothing sounded right.

All I know is

My heart always gets stolen

By Ginsberg and Cummings,

O'Hara, Plath, and Donne.

Neruda, Eliot, and Pound.

You know, all of them.

All of those who make something

Stunning and beautiful.

If I had one ounce of their greatness,

Their madness and inspiration...

Oh, it's be swell.

I wouldn't have to be so jealous of them, then.

Yes, jealous is the right word.

They're so fantastic.

What will it take to catapult myself

Up there with them?

To write something anything at all like

What they did?

Sometimes I just go insane.

Example:

Stream of Consciousness/Nighttime Passes Slowly

-

Talking to myself in these

Cold-breath whispers.Late at night, the air condenses

On my shoulders like snow

Or sin, or something cosmic,

Fallen. It can't get up.

And I'm screaming into mirrors

And these dank, empty hallways.

We're shattering reflections here.

Everything screams back in

Running protest.

Haven't you ever heard of

Passive resistance?

-

Our collective mind

Is all swimming in the ever-expanding

Fishbowl, our corner

Of the four-cornered globe

because whatever came first

Leaves last.

Whisper-whisper breathing.

You're calling from

Under the mountains

Of hypocrisy we're digging through here.

Waist-deep in the muck.

Where are the muckrakers

When you need them?

(They've all died and become muck,

So it seems.)

-

The clock hisses out seconds

That're driving us up these slanting walls.

How could eveything average

Sound so damn good?

praise Ginsberg,

That hold devil,

Praise Kerouac.

Who made the mundane

Into the holy screams of poetry.

They threw communism

Into the throes of political passion

And massacred the comma.

The saints with bleeding

Crowns of thorns.

-

Whilst walking down the street

The sky was a swimming pool

And the people's hats floated up and up.

Whisper-whisper.

Shouting.

Why does the coffee maker

click along

And why does the clock

Tick-tick,

Oh the selfish rhythm

Of the life I cannot capture

With a squirming pen.

-

Praise to the ones

Who could.

Dash After Dash

I love you, you know.

And it may not honestly matter

In what state of reciprocity you are.

It doesn't all, actually.

That has no hindrance on this

Sort of thing.

Because yes,

I am fairly certain more times than not,

That I do, in fact,

Love you.

Not some sort of silly thing

That passes quickly

And not some overtly lusty

Sort of ordeal or dalliance.

Simply put:

I like you more than average

For reasons too numerous to explain easily.

It makes no difference what you think of this

(Because you don't know).

I stopped caring about what could be said of this

Strange fascination and adoration I harbor for you.

You, of course, mean more than you think.

But sometimes,

I think you get it.

How peculiar,

But you'll say some small words

in a small voice

And I must listen very carefully

To make sure I am hearing you right.

But despite all of the barrier-type-things

Thrown up here and there and everywhere,

I am still unfathomably in love

With you.

Piazza, New York Catcher.

I've been listening to a lot of

Lyrically heavy songs as of late.

Songs you have don't particularly

Think about. But you can still feel

The full weight of the words

Hitting you in the chest with an

Enormous amount of force.

Enough to topple one over

If one is not paying close enough attention.

And so it goes, I guess.

Caught off guard by music

And then quickly reminded of what

Exactly I'm doing here.

Or what I'm trying to do here.

Perhaps what I'm only imagining

What I'm doing here.

But really, this'll be selfish.

But I think it's ok, maybe.

It doesn't matter what

Anybody thinks

Of what I plan to do,

Honestly.

This is, surprisingly,

The first time it hit

Me with a full force.

The weight of the realization

Crashed down

Like waves at the beach.

I shouldn't care so damn much

What other people think about

What I want to do with the rest

Of my life.

The criticism always got to me,

(It still sort of does, but it isn't so bad now)

People always saying negative things.

Always going

"What do your parents think about that?"

I realize they've taken care of me for 16 years,

But that does not mean my life is their life.

It honestly doesn't matter what they think.

(In all due respect, of course)

And I'm thinking of hanging up

A lovely photo of Columbia

And a photo of New York

And looking at theme everyday

As to remind myself

Of what I'm working towards.

Despite whatever those stuffy people

Say about this, I don't care.

I've always had incredibly high standards for myself.

I always have a vision of my overly-ambitious dream future.

Perhaps I'll someday meet those expectations.

Perhaps.

There are few people who matter

Who've told me to go with what

I actually want.

What the other ones are thinking,

I'm not sure.

But I'm am newly determined

To end up among people

Who understand this.

I already know a few.

And I love them more than anything.