Dancing With Myself

Basically:

Today was rad.

On the whole, 

it was amazing.

Details faltered,

but the grand scheme was

kick-ass.

And tomorrow is going to

kick-ass on a high level.

It shall be wonderful.

But today,

chaperoning a 

middle school dance.

Football game with

a group of very rad,

very amazing sophomores,

and I guess it was just awesome.

Because I love these people,

I love the time we all spend

together.

Life is very good.

Yes yes.

Today: About a boy:

You're silly.

And your voice cracked when

you talked to me.

It was really funny, actually.

But I couldn't laugh.

Many Ways

My heart legitimately may have

skipped a beat, for some

highly absurd reason, 

when you were talking

about washing dishes today.

Because the thought was 

overpowering and 

sickeningly adorable.

Sleeves rolled up

and elbow-deep in 

sudsy water

was my impression.

And I immediately 

thought of the

typical scene of

the two people standing

close, bent over the sink

scrubbing dishes,

laughing with each other

and such.

I'd wash dishes with you.

(And I really hate washing dishes.) 

The Way I Am

A poem, 
about a subway I have never ridden.
A poem,
about a subway I would like to ride.

The Subway

I sit picking the callouses

of my fingertips on the subway.

The constant ka-thunk and

flutter of light is catharsis.

Sliding across the orange,

plastic seat, curved so slight

as to encourage this 

rocking motion. 

This is no ship at sea,

no wavering magic carpet

across the Arabian nights.

The wobbling compression

of bodies together, the jostling

like salty sardines, this tin can

hurtling toward the light.

Elbows bumping and newspapers

shuffling into angry forms,

their crinkling is sharp 

and jagged like

the doors' edges,

as traffic flows left/right,

exits located at x,y, and z.

These trains stop for no one

but themselves.

Space rockets in the dark 

caverns. The city steps

with clunky footfalls 

above, the sounds muffled

with the constancy of mumbles,

and sometimes praise and 

obscene rambling to 

christen this new feat

in mass transit.

A flat champagne bottle

busted on this metal siding,

leaving behind

the discoloration staining

lower Manhattan a funny

shade of green.

Sloshing around in the 

cracked seat, the windows

let bursts of blurring

underground strain through,

and the grey concrete 

utters the same hum

as the wheels click-clackering

on the tracks.

Are We There Yet

I may not have known you,

but I am still pained by your absence.

I hope you found what you sought,

I hope wherever you are is where

you belong. I am so sorry you 

felt so much pain. 

Nobody should have to go through that.

Nobody should feel that way.

I'm sorry this life was not

what you needed.

Please, please 

find peace.

Jesse Jane

Life.
Is not about worrying
over the small details.
it's about living them,
joyously and happily.
It's about tossing out 
the bad, to make more room
for the fantastic.


Because I can honestly say
(at this very moment)
I am really, really
content.
Because, well,
fuck chemistry.
So I failed a test.
It's one.
In the grand scope of my life,
it does not matter.


I can revel in the fact that
I am.
We are.
That I have had a damn good week.
Not because my school life is going
well, not because being home is good.
But because I have friends and I love them
and they are rad human beings.


Because this week has been
steeped in poetry.
Because I got over needing my sad playlist,
because part of me has taken on this 
mentality I think I have momentarily
gained from my dear friend Marie:
"I'm awesome!"
(It really should be in all caps...)


Who actually cares
about failures?
Right now, 
I don't.


I care that I went dancing in the rain
with one of my best friends,
and two other really nice human beings.
We had fun.
And jumped in puddles
and danced and sang, and got
soaked.


It was the perfect rain for dancing.


And I'm happy for Marie's current happiness.
And I'm happy for the sake of being happy.


It's so much better than 
any other feeling.


And I'm getting past that trench
I fell into earlier this week.
The trench being the fact that he's got a
girlfriend. (which, still, he should)
I decided it's not worth being so down about.
Because that's now,
the future could possibly be different.


It may even swing in my favor.
I'm feeling rather optimistic today,
and a big part of me says
"Anything's possible".


Because damn straight.
It totally is.


And maybe someday he will love me,
because I already love him.
And maybe someday we could like,
be.
The thought makes me happy.


As far-fetched and preposterous as it is,
I like to imagine it could happen.


He's a sweet guy.
He's also entirely ridiculous,
really intelligent,
and way too hard on himself.
But he's funny, and silly,
and I'm not really sure
what my life would be like
without him.


So, today,
I am optimistic.
I shouldn't be,
but I am.


And I will boldly proclaim my love
for dancing in the rain, 
for poetry,
for life being lived,
and for this boy.


I love all these things
withe the entire extent of my
heart.

Blazing Dynamite

I'm excited.


Attending poetry-oriented things
always gets me especially jazzed 
about this thing I am most 
passionate about.


And this reading,
it was small and quiet
and good. 
And while I was 
nearly the youngest one there,
it was not weird.
It wasn't strange,
and I did not feel out of place.


The poets,
these humble little beings,
who publish in humble ways,
their anthologies, and books,
and essays and stories.
Who get their poems read 
on the radio.
Who are generous enough
to read their poems to people
like me.
(I found it funny, they say they still 
get nervous about reading to an audience,
even after years and years)


And it's always so grand to 
hear poetry.
Hear it read by the person who 
knows it best. 
To be able to distinguish the 
sounds, how it blends together
and makes sense with the actual words,
the formatting of the whole piece.


I love listening to poetry
nearly as much as I love reading it.


And so they read, and it was great.
Six poets, this little group called
"House of Toast", working out of Columbus.
(They're lovely, check them out!)
And then they sold their books
and talked with everyone.


And so I chatted with this poet,
and they were all such genuinely nice people.
And I was awkward and cliche and asked him
"Do you have any advice for an aspiring poet?"


And he did, and then another poet came and we 
all had a lovely little conversation on poetry,
and advice, and things.


I really love that they were nice
and not at all strange or distant,
they were so relatable.
So helpful.
And I am so very happy that I went
to this little reading.


And I'm very excited to give it another go
on Thursday,
reading my own work.


Sometimes I find it an accurate statement to
say:


"Poetry defines me"

Shanghied

I feel a little like this.

In one way.

I wish I felt the other way,

like this.

Because I adore the trees

in a snowstorm.

I like the cutting cold

and winds,

it makes you feel

alive.

But I feel a little

hazy,

a little bit solitary,

in a way I wish I didn't.

It's silly,

I think.

But once the thoughts catch

up to me,

once my head has

cleared a little,

I feel 

bad.

I'm sorry my recent posts have been

so narcissistic.

Have a little poem,

I hope you like it.

20,000 Leagues

Like the flow of green tidal

sea.

There is someplace deep,

wading in the caverns of

mermaids, abandonded

ancient shipyards.

Fingers to trace the long-lost

rot of salty masts underneath

a vindictive swirling spray

of seafoam, the flying spittle

of Neptune.

Baptismal.