Closing Time.

"Closing Time" by Semisonic,

that old 90s rock ditty

is wedged in my brain

just a little bit.

I like it there,

because the song isn't

too happy, but it's pleasant.

It's about living and drinking

and not caring about the time

or the place.

And of course, knowing who

you want to take you home.

As the chorus so greatly depicts.

I could sit in the driveway

and talk for hours.

To these people who are

so splendid.

They make my heart burst,

for I love them so.

And if all else were

to fall away,

I wouldn't mind so much.

I don't want to go to sleep,

my mind is in its element.

I am in the mood to pull

and all-nighter,

but alas, I cannot.

For this gig that's ruining me

is ruining my night.

And I feel that it is not understood

among my household

that this "job" makes me upset.

Very horribly so.

People cannot be constantly upset.

It doesn't wear well on the mind.

It makes me jittery and tense

and very unpleasant to be with.

It makes me sad.

Occupations shouldn't fill you with dread.

I shouldn't (I'm fairly certain I shouldn't)

wake up and wish I was severely ill.

This happens and it makes me so

pained.

But I digress.

I want to stay up.

Write and think and read

and call people

and write letters.

Drink tea and make things

that are useless and colorful.

Play guitar (badly)

and look at the stars

and listen to the night.

It makes beautiful cooings

when you can hear past the air conditioners.

The night is the perfect time

to do everything.

But it never works that way.

The Shrine/An Argument

I want to go anywhere.

Anywhere, please,

because I won't be leaving here

all summer long.

I'll be here.

Sitting and waiting for

something

(anything)

to happen.

I want some body of water.

Some little strip of sand

to fall onto. and sink into.

A lake.

A pond.

A stream.

A manmade reservoir.

The Sea.

That glittering beastly,

wave-spewing, crashing,

tideful

beautiful thing

I have seen only on the back of my eyelids,

only in my dreams.

I have no way to get there.

I have a car.

I have maps.

I have a longing ache in my heart.

The will to go is here,

biting at my ankles

like a fickle lap dog,

but I lack the guts.

My insides are simply not arranged

for that kind of rebellion.

I could not pick up in the night

and drive myself to the coast.

Because maybe,

just maybe,

I could sit and read and

breathe in thick salty sea air,

and sit and stare at the horizon,

until it all just blurred together.

Sea and Sky.

Because I feel trapped and strangely

singular.

Because I'm longing for the one thing

I could write about without end,

my constant.

Which has been lost to me,

for two long years. (Nearly three)

Two years (nearly three) without the sea.

Unbearable longing

makes me ache, the soul's depths

grasp like wispy fingers at this

dissipating dream apparition.

To sit on the shore,

and listen to the sea

suck its teeth and to

watch its weaving seafoam

claim sand.

That is happiness,

unattainable.

Pistachio

"So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying,

An intolerable waiting,

A longing for another place and time,

Another condition."

-Theodore Roethke

Marx and Engels

I'm avoiding Facebook chatting,

because I'm trying to write a poem.

So I'll write it here for once,

a novel idea.

Nuclear Winter.

Burrowed deep,

we slept, eyes wide open.

We peered -like fish- wide-eyed

into the dark, a thick cloud,

something of a mask for the

fly-eyed faces that drone

overhead.

Sky bleeds to land bleeds to sea,

it has for months,

like this impending nuclear winter,

I stand waiting for the snow,

my eyes glued to the diving planes,

these metal-clad birds that swoop

like no other, in a starless sky

that is all that is remembered.

Screeching of these new birds,

high-pitched and mocking,

a warning best obeyed,

though the red wailing bird

laughs shrilly in our faces,

as we are huddled in the ground.

Tripping over our own pairs of feet

down flights of stairs

into cloudy metro tunnels,

pressed to the cool, sleek tiles,

who don't know what these birds preach.

The slick tiles like fallen stars,

are an anchor in the dark.

Whispered prayers to a god,

blinded by the plight of annihilation.

Our stretching hands are pushed back

from the heavens, sobs quelled

by a toppling house, a ruined palace.

We stand in wreckage up to our

necks, creeping round corners in the

grey that passes for daylight.

In the grey one shade above dark.

In the night, pitch blackened and still,

insistent cries of warring little metal birds,

the whiz-pop and quick flash like firecrackers.

-It lights the sky in brilliance-

Crouching in the ground, praying on beads

and on this new blackened raid.

The birds are silent,

standing in the smoking remains, the

red wailers are still.

Standing straight and alert,

imagined ears perked up.

On the street corner a green haze of

light flickers.

Illuminates

the snow,

I have waited so long for.

Block After Block

I want intelligent conversation with you again,

I miss that, darling.

I want paint swatches and laughing with you,

and those really great glances

we can sometimes get,

though, of course, they aren't the right kind.

I want your calloused hands and dorky grin.

I want to be silly and serious and to call you

at three in the morning.

I want you to pick up your phone and

answer (I know you'd push 'ignore')

and say nothing and to let the

great pause fill the space between us.

I want to look at art on museum walls with you.

I want to make you coffee that's perfect.

But I can't really make good coffee,

it's always too strong.

This longing fills me with

daydreaming tendencies and I

cannot help but imagine these things,

so sweetly wrapped up in polaroidesque images.

I am a feeble dreamer,

but you, my dear, are the anchor to my

hazy dreams. Your face is always clear

and grinning.

Someday I want just one,

one tiny little daydream.

One moment, or even just a glance

to be as I long for.

Someday, it can be near or far,

or whenever.

I want to drive you somewhere,

anywhere. So that we may do whatever

we would be inclined to do.

I want too much,

it is not a healthy thing.

But enough, enough about what I want.

Tell me what you want.

Tell me about anything.

Someone You'd Admire.

The week is through.

And we're beginning again.

A simply wonderful new baptism

into a new, clean, right-out-of-the-packaging

week. That's something to be happy about,

I think. I am, at least.

This week,

sucked. Hardcore.

I hated this week

with an ungodly passion.

I want this week dead.

It was not enjoyable in the least.

But this one,

coming up on the horizon,

looks nice.

It looks less stressful, more fun.

Like summertime should very well be.

It's so perfect,

that we can begin again,

at will. In truth,

it would be easy to just

throw everything away,

scrape everything off the slate,

shake the etch-a-sketch,

and start again.

I don't know why people don't do it more often.

I honestly plan on having some point in my life

where I leave. Everything.

And begin again.

Because I can.

Because it would be a chance to make things

better.

Life is not about being unhappy.

Though, this week didn't seem it.

I was very unhappy.

I was distraught and upset and depressed.

I cried a lot.

But. Things begin anew.

Things can be better.

So we'll start over,

better this time.

And maybe this week,

I'll be able to write something good.

The skies will clear up, the temperature rise.

Maybe, this week won't be so damn upsetting.

I love beginnings.

They are simply beautiful horizons,

a great and new dawn into which

we may run, arms outstretched in ridiculous embrace,

to greet what may be.

Someday.

With the windows down

and music blaring,

I like to sometimes

close my eyes for a split-second

as I'm driving.

Just so I know what it's like

to have no control.

Just to remind myself of

how much control I have

on these situations.

I find myself crying in my car,

sometimes - a combination

of music and the day itself

creeps up on me.

And I drive bleary-eyed

down a 35 mph at about 42 mph.

Like I'm truly speeding.

I drive faster when I'm crying.

Nine and a half hours

of children.

Diverting fights.

Entertaining.

Feeding.

Cleaning up after them.

Carting them around.

I do the dishes.

I clean the house.

I sometimes do some laundry.

I am a housewife.

I look like all the other 'soccer moms'.

Hair totally fucked up,

shorts, t-shirt,

indifferent look and a very blase smile

to my fellow working women.

I am sixteen.

Why is this happening now?

One day and already

I'm missing school more than

is supposed to be humanly possible.

At least at school

I see my friends,

I learn something,;

at least there I can do something

beneficial.

Something I might enjoy.

At least I could depend on talking to

people. Getting out of this house.

Maybe having an intelligent conversation.

God forbid I try to do something productive

with my life.

And this is how I know I will never have children.

It's like I've already had them.

Three or four of them.

I can't handle it.

Not for a day.

Not for a week.

And definitely not for an entire summer.

I don't understand children.

I have no mothering instincts.

I don't know how to take care of them.

They aren't mine.

I don't really like them.

But here I am.

For nine and a half hours somedays,

others only for like, seven/eight hours.

Taking care of kids.

And the worst part is,

I'm doing it for money.

This is exactly the kind if thing I hate to do.

Do something I dislike just to get paid.

Money does not grow on trees.

And the older I get the more disgusting

responsibilities I accrue. Responsibilities

that take money.

Like buying gas and paying for insurance

and trying to keep myself intact.

Because school stress is one thing.

I can handle a lot of that.

I like that. It makes me more fiercely determined.

It makes me feel like I'm worth something;

like I'm alive.

This kind of stress just makes me cry

like a dumb kid. Makes me long for a hug.

Makes me close my eyes when I'm driving.

Brings me to my edge.

And the one person I want to talk to

is the one person I'm afraid to talk to.

The one person I fear I'm pestering.

The one I desperately need to ramble to.

But I won't let myself.

Not yet.

Not now.

It's too soon.

How I wish I could just pick up the phone

and call.

Let it ring and ring and ring and ring.

It doesn't matter if it goes to voicemail.

I just need to hear it ring.

Just need to know

that if I ever need to for real,

I can call.

I can cradle the phone to my ear

and whisper the classic 'pickuppickuppickup'.

I won't call.

I won't bother.

I let things like this fester.

Sit and ferment for a while.

I build up a tolerance.

An immunity.

I'll be just fine.

I'll get used to being a housewife.

I'll get used to working a bad gig for cash.

I'll get all cozy and numb,

and the summer will speed along.

I'll live my own life at night,

place it on the back burner.

I'll stop crying when I drive.

I'll stop closing my eyes

to realize I have control.

Silver Tiles

In my dreams there are square tables

covered in knicks and scrapes.

Turquoise-colored.

Sometimes they overlook

a big park, buildings swelling

in the distance.

Other times, they simply look out

over buildings.

They are always by the window.

Placed just so under the sill,

to catch the morning light

as it drips through the city.

Always high up, looking out.

Always these tables sit in a city.

And always we sit at these tables,

rubbing sleep from our eyes,

hands running through our

bedraggled hair, small

simple smiles adorning our faces.

You often wear glasses at these tables,

because it's always so early.

You sit on the left, and I on the right.

Sometimes we talk. Others we don't.

There are often steaming cups of coffee

and tea, respectively, sitting on the table's

sagging top. Sometimes a copy

of the New York Times is spread across

these tables. We read each other articles

on some of the mornings we talk.

Sometimes the articles are quite sad,

others are very funny.

The coffee maker clicks in the background

and belches steam.

I wear a nightgown and you're in a white t-shirt,

plaid pajama pants. Your hair sticks up

and mine is tangled.

Our feet rest on the cold linoleum floor

and we gaze out the window at wherever

we are.

When we don't speak

Our hands meander across the tabletop.

Our sleepy eyes crinkle when we smile.

In my dreams there are tables.

We are always there.

Happy

to greet the early dawn

as its rosy fingers roam the city.

The Gate

Realizations will hit you full force

without you being consciously aware.

Like when you're driving, and suddenly

it all just occurs to you.

I want him more than I have ever wanted

anything.

I've found nothing to contradict this yet.

I love him.

His smile,

his voice,

his laugh,

his intellect,

him.

And it kills me everyday

to realize how the odds

are against us.

Oh darling, I love you.

The Loneliness of a Middle Distance Runner

School's out.

(For summer!)

Yippee and hoorah!

And so far, yes.

It's been totally kick ass.

And guess what.

It's only like,

actual day two.

I adore my friends;

they'll make this summer worthwhile and fun

and awesome and rad and crazy and rebellious.

I could use a little rebellion.

Funny story, though.

I literally spent eight-ish hours

in some sort of school yesterday.

The first day of summer

and Jacket and I are at school.

We have no lives.

But it was awesome anyway.

And then we were out and we danced in the rain

on the street corner on a main street.

And we sang and played guitar and

laughed and plotted

and we all had a lovely grand sleepover

because that is what summer is about,

am I right?

I never want it to end.

But a trend is emerging already.

When I'm not home, my life

is fantastic.

When I'm home I feel like throwing up

and yelling and crying.

Because nobody listens to me,

nobody here seems to actually care that

I exist. I am ignored completely

and feel like an interloper (!) in my house.

No need to nag,

no need to tell me, "Well you need to DO soemthing this summer"

HA.

Yeah, because if I didn't babysit whiny kids

I'd just sit on my ass all summer long.

What a joke.

I'm taking an online class,

I'm reading books,

I'm helping teach a class.

I'm studying and learning latin.

Oh, I'm such a lazy bum!

I never do anything with my life because I'm some sort

of god-awful idiot, right?

I hate being here.

I hate that I start babysitting on Monday.

9-6:30.

nine and a half hours of this crap.

This time,

I'm only in it for the money

(and because I was given no choice, my dad can be controlling).

The only thing worthwhile this summer

will be my friends.

I can tell you that now.

They truly make summer seem like a good thing.

*angsty teenage sigh*