Photo Jenny

I'm going to tell you a true story.

It happened to me, today.

It was rather embarrassing,

but I'll tell you anyway,

because it was pretty great,

regardless.

I wake up.

I take my brother to school.

I pick up my friend,

and we drive to school

so she can take an exam.

I park my car.

And as I go to pull my keys

from the ignition

(such a mundane thing, right?)

they won't budge.

This is peculiar,

I wasn't expecting it,

and so I get a little freaked out.

What if my car is broken?

What is my key breaks off in the ignition?

So, it won't lock my keys in,

since they're in the ignition,

so we walk away,

after restarting the car,

wiggling the steering wheel a bit,

all the stuff you would think to do.

And they will not come out.

So we give up.

And it doesn't seem like

a horrible thing,

the car still works, right?

So we go into school,

she takes her exam,

and it ends up that I tell

the teacher we also came to talk to,

Schey, whom I think I've mentioned before, perhaps,

that my keys are stuck.

Being a man I think it was his prerogative

to ask: "Do you want me to take a look at it?"

So we go to the car, right?

I swear up and down that everything's right

but the keys being stuck,

and it's in park, and I tried the steering wheel

and blah blah blah.

And he gets in my car,

and within like, five seconds,

figures out the problem.

And here is the biggest blonde moment,

dumb-teenage-girl moment,

and overall clutz moment of my life:

Ready? Because it's bad.

The car was in neutral.

Yep.

That's right.

I freaked our for nothing.

IIt was horribly embarrassing.

And then we had a good laugh.

He bragged about his car fixing skills.

(Because he's a man, I assume? and they do that?)

Not sure how I'll live this one down,

but it was absolutely interesting.

That was the extremely drawn out version of a ten-minute ordeal.

Thank you.

Goodnight.

And I hope I never pull a move like that one again. (:

Spare Change

Free, unbridled living.

Not existing,

but placing yourself among the

truly living.

Summer just happened,

this is what it should be all the time.

Intensely beautiful places

with water,

climbing things,

finding things,

snaking through trails

in 90-degree heat.

Swinging and see-sawing.

Chilling in your

car with the a/c full blast

with three of your friends.

Without shirts,

because it's really fucking hot out.

Laughing,

and metaphorical boners,

due to dungaree bunching,

and great drives

with loud (cheesy) music

and ice cream.

And more laughing.

And then giggling.

And more laughing.

I think this is it.

This is the good stuff,

the stuff that makes

up the best times of our lives.

And that was only the evening.

I had a picnic and played frisbee

and had fun

this morning with two amazing people.

Two fantastic people.

And an evening full of rad people.

My life is full of awesome people.

I'm glad.

I'm glad that for tonight,

at the very least,

we were living.

Intensely.

And rawly,

and awesomely.

Park Slope

I want to be a poet.

We all wish to be these

wonderful things,

these dreams we tuck into

the pockets of

our sweaters,

these flying aspirations

we let flutter in our

ribcages.

All of these wishes

in letter-envelopes,

waiting to be mailed,

unlabeled and stampless.

I want so much for

everyone to

be

exactly what they've always

dreamed of being.

It's how people can be truly happy,

with themselves and with the world.

What is the world supposed to do

with all of these unhappy people

who were never allowed dreams?

Or the ones who dreamt

but those dreams were

cut short, forgotten

in the face of adulthood-reality.

What about these poor

grey people, who are not

fulfilled? Who aren't happy?

They deserve to be given wings,

these souls whose dreams

were snatched away,

like whispers of steam.

Why in society

do we forbid people

to actually pursue

their highest ambitions?

Or live their dreams

through every glorious dawn?

Some unhappy people cannot

see beauty, they cannot

see adventure.

Something in them has been

blinded, killed, and stamped out.

Those who are unhappy,

deserve to be happy.

Everyone deserves that much.

Because it's not about

possessions, or wealth;

being happy stems from within

and by doing something you love.

Everyone has the right to do

what they love.

To live, and not merely exist.

Everyone's dreams deserve to be

recognized.

Red Paint

It's amazing

how one day you're

pissed

beyond compare

and the next,

after the storm has past,

you can be so

perfectly

happy.

It's amazing the effect that

one day without that kid

can have.

I am happy

and full of energy

and spontaneity.

I think my brother and I

will finally try to build our

Rube Goldberg machine.

You know that'll be an adventure.

Drive

It's what I feel like doing right now.

Getting in my car and just going

god knows where,

because at least I'd be moving.

Forward, too.

And I can't stand the looks

those women give me,

wondering what the hell I'm doing

there, wondering why I'm lugging around

a five year-old, who looks way too

much like me.

I wonder if they ever think she's mine.

Sometimes their looks say they do.

Sometimes I want to just throw up,

because they give me those awful looks.

I know I don't belong there,

in that little office filled

with stay-at-home moms,

spoiling their children silly,

because they're all suburban

soccer moms and that's what they do.

They don't have jobs.

Homemaking is their profession.

What right do they have to give me

those dirty looks?

Why do I have to go

and endure those looks.

Those once (and twice) overs.

As they let their kids flop

on the floor and scream

in front of a room full of

strangers.

As they pick their nails

and grab at the arms of their

kids, who look rotten and rude

and also very upset.

As they chitter and gossip

about so-and-so's baby,

so-and-so's husband.

As the one woman who actually

appeared to have a job

complained and complained

about having to go to that job.

While the stay-at-home mom beside

her just cooed something hypocritical.

As I had a five-year-old hang off my arm

and ask me "how long do we have to wait!?"

I was waiting for my brother,

not my kid.

I was babysitting this clingy

monstrosity,

she's not mine.

So why the hell do these women

give me looks?

Why the hell do I have to

do this?

Why am I a summertime stay-at-home

mom-figure.

Why have I already had to pick up kids from schools

and feed them and help them do homework

and nearly forget to eat and sleep

due to this?

I don't have kids.

I hope I never do.

Because I'm already doing it now.

I feel like a middle-aged woman.

I hate myself for this.

I hate those ladies who

give me those cautious looks,

who wonder what I'm doing,

what's my role?

I hope I don't end up like Sylvia Plath.

Some small part of me is whispering

that I will.

Not to sound all angsty and heroic about

living and dying like some famous poet

(I don't even really like her)

it just seems like she was angsty

like me.

Yeah,

I said it,

I'm angsty.

I'm this angsty little girl

who feels like she's living

like a 35 year-old stay-at-home mother.

I even do dishes, and sometimes laundry,

I iron and cook,

and made beds

and clean the kitchen countertops

of the coffee rings left there

by the people who leave.

By the people whom I cannot talk to,

because they don't trust me,

so I don't trust them.

Lullaby

Sometimes I feel lost and weird.

Like I'm drifting out in some

vacuum of space or

perhaps just the

innards of a vacuum cleaner.

But nonetheless,

there is this feeling of

being lost in the dark

and cold and sometimes

the rain.

There is an illustration in

Persepolis where Marjane

is just floating in space.

It's a very nice picture.

And I feel like that.

But the difference is

that Marjane is in the middle

of the Iranian Revolution,

with people dying and

lots of protesting.

I am only having such things

go on in my head.

There is nothing

even so mildly interesting

or dangerous

or life-threatening

happening in my life.

Because, well,

I live in the midwest,

where we grow corn

and people play cornhole

and talk about sports.

Because I am a teenage girl

who suffers from something

labeled commonly as "angst".

Because I really want someone

to talk to sometimes.

About stuff.

Anything.

About life.

But I don't

want to talk to anyone

because there ends up

being angst and complaining

and then I feel really horrible.

Because nobody should have to listen

to me be a lame teenage girl.

I'm tired of being this way.

I want to fix this state I'm in.

Where nothing is wrong,

though I still feel like everything is.

Holland Tunnel

Sometimes one just happens to have

awesomeness liberally peppered into

a short period of time.

And you're all "This should be a regular thing."

I thoroughly enjoy times like that,

splendid 48-hour time spans

that are awesome.

Things like totally acing

your really dumb health exam,

and being done with the class.

Like seeing him, and talking

for oh, like two and a half hours.

Because he's awesome, of course.

Like being with your splendid friends

and then talking in ridiculous fifties slang

with them, because your friends

are totally "fine dinners" and "hep cats"

(Yeah, 'hep', one letter from 'hip', same meaning.)

Like making pasta and dressing pretty

and having a really rad gathering of

carb-eating loveliness.

And watching "Crybaby" and laughing

hysterically when Johnny Depp rips

open his shirt and yells about the electric chair.

That film is sort of ridiculous, very funny.

Baking cupcakes and trying to shut up a

dog. Reading trashy magazines,

and eating more pasta at 5 am,

then learning that your friend's name

is part of "bathroom" in Indonesian.

Things can be rad.

It's good when they are.

It reminds you of why you're still

actually functioning.

And yeah.

I missed his laugh way more than I thought.

Distant Sures

I hope you are all enjoying my rather pixelated banner

and new font. This old blog needed a bit of

sprucing up, I thought. So I went mild and

did that. I made that horrid banner myself

and it took simply too long

to get the size right, but alas, it works,

right?

But alright, here we go for real.

I haven't written anything in a long time.

Too long of a time.

It's eating away at the edges of me,

like acid and steel wool.

And other abrasive, corrosive things.

Poetry gets like that when it

shows it teeth,

like the true beastly thing it is.

People do not understand that.

At all, I think.

There are like, 3 types of poetry audiences.

I hate one of them, immensely.

And my own mother is turning into one of those types.

The type that talks about poetry,

never really reads it.

Acts like it's just a thing.

And when these types read it,

they read the flowery

cheesy, bad types of poetry.

Or they try too hard

and miss the point.

Or obscure it

and mutilate it until

the poetry is no longer beautiful.

These people don't get to the gritty

real, raw, and absolutely gorgeous, stunning

side of what poetry can be.

The poetry that is so

riveting you can hardly breathe,

The words that align themselves

so perfectly.

The simplistic phrasing that

gets across a complex or simple subject

perfectly.

That's my favorite.

Because while I enjoy

beautifully eloquent, sophisticated phrasing,

nothing beats simplicity.

And when you can accomplish

that in poetry,

you're doing your job right.

I don't think I'm there.

I'm still trying to hide behind that

language itself.

But seriously.

People need to pick up

some intense poetry,

and read it for what it is.

Actually read it at all.

There's nothing worse than someone

who talks like they know what's going on

when they don't.

And I'm not saying I am some poetry queen

over here, but good god,

I at least read the stuff.

I miss poetry.

It's barely gone away

and already I miss it.

Sometimes I am just too

sleepy or sad to write anything.

Even when what I want to write

is practically lying in front of me.

Like how lights look

when you take off your glasses

as you ride in the

car in the dark down

a highway away from a city.

Or how the suburbs look different

from over there.

How they begin to blend in.

Or how the city

feels when you're in it,

when it's just sort of there,

as you're driving by,

how everything looks different

even though it's quite the same.

Or how you can't be a

communist because this is America

and communism doesn't work anyway,

so you want to be a socialist

but are afraid you'll get

beat up or kicked

out of your house because

your dad is in love with Ronald Reagan.

Believe me,

I need to write.

It's how I function,

and I suppose my functioning

just isn't quite right

since it's been a fruitless few days.

I have books to read,

so many amazing books.

And no time in which to do so.

I don't want to sleep,

I want to read

and write something

that someone like enjoy,

someone might pick up

and say

"I get this. I can totally dig this."

I want to learn how to be experimental in poetry,

but learning how would kill the point.

I want to learn how to follow contemporary poetry,

and to understand post-modernism so I don't sound

like an under-educated dweeb who writes

bad poetry.

I never want to become one of those people

who is bad, and doesn't know.

Someone who suffers for art because it's cool.

Someone who writes poorly on purpose

and calls it art.

I don't know how to be a pure artist,

a pure poet.

I don't know,

because I'm not there yet.

And I am yearning

for whatever's coming next,

because it has to be better than

where I am,

at least in the field of poetry.

And At least in what counts

in my life.

------------------

Anyways.

Goodnight.

Please don't be one of those poetry-non-reading-smart-aleck-people.

And of course,

I love you.