compliments welcome

i am devilishly critical of


myself


and no one else more-so


this thought appeared in my mind


like a timid stranger


when i mistook a student's critical gaze


for being settled on my outift


i shook my head to rattle out the nonsense


realizing it was concern for herself, and not distain for me


in her eyes


so from now on i will


decidedly


accept the compliments i receive


about character and physical beauty


as a balm to dry skin


i will rub it in and let it soak


and enjoy the way it fills in the cracks of my


disjointed self to make me one


smooth whole again

a starbucks observation

who designed this place, i wonder? with its curving, dropped ceiling and its rows of uniform lights dangling over a counter stretching the length of the building? neatly painted pictures on canvas, that arent really painted at all. prints that look the same in every starbucks from here to seattle.

who designed shelf after shelf of beautiful ceramic, unique except for the mass quantity. row after row of syrups, organized by type, and bags of coffee categorized likewise. neat rows, neat processes, neat stacks of napkins and muffins in a straight line, parallel to pastries of a different flavor.

why do i want to bypass the barista to move the irish cream in with the hazelnut, and let the muffin types mingle? nothing inside me feels orderly. it's a mess of things, wave after wave of emotion undulating my reason and mixing up the silt so that nothing lies the same when it's calm again.

what do i want to be? this perfect, purposeful composition. not scattered, but grouped and lined up and facing the same way. am i saying that i dont want free will? the panic of the choice, the pain of the decision, the reality that there are too many variables out of my control for my decision to matter in the end? perhaps i am.

memories from a song #3

"although loneliness has always been a friend of mine
i'm leavin my life in your hands
people say im crazy, and that i am blind
risking it all in a glance
how you got me blind is still a mystery
i cant get you out of my head
i dont care what is written in your history
as long as you're here with me

i dont care
who you are
where you're from
what you did, as long as you love me

every little thing that you have said and done
feels like its deep within me
doesnt really matter if you're on the run
it seems like we're meant to be

i dont care
who you are
where you're from
what you did
as long as you love me

ive tried to hide it so that no one knows
but i guess it shows when you look into my eyes
what you did and where you're comin from
i dont care
as long as you love me baby"

i remember the moment i fell in love.

the catalyst was a lie, a desperate bid to be noticed--perhaps popular even, if my cards played out. i didnt even know who they really were besides a boy band on a billboard at the roller rink, but on one pass by their picture as we went around and around under the disco lights, i proudly pointed and said: "oh, those are my boys."

secretly, my best friend allison pearson was impressed that i was so culturally savvy even though she acted nonchalant. i wasnt even sure what songs on the radio they were responsible for, but i had to do something with her chattering away in my ear about how these four super hot guys in another band were "her boys." i was not about to be outdone.

she ditched her boys for mine in the end. we both fell head-over-heels after truly getting to know them...the natural way that people get acquainted: obsessive stalking via internet.

we each picked one out to be our own, like puppies at the pound. then we quizzed each other until we knew their backstories, favorite colors and restaurants and catch phrases. we bought magazines with center-folds to plaster over our walls. i kissed mine goodnight...i dont know about her, but i would venture to say: same.

the real gem was the coveted "all access" vhs that we rented at least once a week. once we found it, im sure no other person ever rented it again. it was hours of pure heartbreaking bliss (at sleepovers often called for the occasion) as we drooled over footage of them napping, practicing dance moves, pulling practical jokes, and stirring yogurt. every other word out of our mouths for the next two years was a quote from this beloved film.

something stirs within me as these first notes sound over the airwaves. notes that will soon have me nearly dislocating my jaw as i belt out each word, still memorized. she and i would sing those notes together and as two talented vocalists, when we got the harmonies down, it was actually something to listen to.

sorry boys, it's not the music; it's not the lyrics; it's not even your sexy sexiness.
it's the memories that fill me to the brim when i hear those familiar harmonies. the nostalgia of a time less complicated, when we could giggle and dream and enjoy. the warm longing of infatuation. the deep connection of simple friendship.

"as long as you love me" by the backstreet boys

a thursday night rendevous

I can hardly think about those fantastic nights at the Art Council’s replica Globe Theatre. They fill me with such longing that it feels like sadness. I wish for those nights, self-assured, overflowing with life and confidence and familiarity. We would arrive after dark had already settled in with its feet up for the duration. Cigarette smoke and soft light filled the air around the small wood-and-glass building, the doors thrown open to emit low tones of bass and trumpet and rolling drum beats. The cobblestone floor was uneven but deliciously cool to the touch when the sweat of a few dances led us to kick off our shoes. We were met with the expressions and words of the delighted. They led me to believe that my absence was emptiness in the room, a loss in the conversation, an unfortunately unmade memory. What did we speak of? Moments at school that I’ve already forgotten. But I do remember the dancing—the songs that played over and over and how the music became a part of me, as though it replaced the blood in my veins to move me. I knew which cobblestones to overstep, could read the language of the pressure at my back: “turn here,” “come back”; learned something new each week and made it bear my name with a unique variation by the time it was mastered. And he was the one I wanted to move with. We knew the feel of each other’s bodies, the height and length of step. The familiarity that required no thought allowed us to settle into enjoyment, to let it happen to us rather than to engineer its happening. I felt his approval like a beam of sunlight.

We would pause to greet smokers idling in conversation at the door before walking into the light and warmth: An open space with a stone floor under a high, open ceiling. We danced there in front of a rectangular stage used for occasional musical guests and the more frequent Shakespearean performance on weekend days. The usual round tables and accompanying chairs were moved to make room for bodies turning, promenading, swaying, sweating with delightful exertion to Billy Holiday and Glen Miller. On either side, overlooking the makeshift dance floor in the center of the small building, were balconies, accessible by short staircases at the end of short hallways and snug under the low part of the ceiling, shrouded by dim light and muted music. We observed the usual pleasantries before eagerly jumping into the music, meandering to the left of the doorway to order a macchiato or café breva and sipping it while standing against the long, cold glass of the windows.

The first request of a gentleman would begin that for which I chiefly came. A shy request, but an eagerly accepted one. A 17 year old, held close, gently to the body of a burly Irishman, smelling strongly of coffee and pipe tobacco. Comfortable without the pressure of exchanging words, without the awkwardness of miscommunicated steps. Hours and hours would go by, but it was never enough, and a week would pass before it was time to start the coveted ritual once more.

a 15 year old girl (in a tone of exasperation)

i want to be heard!
ive got words to speak and they may
not mean much to you
but to me they say that i am
worth something
my dog just died and my finger
got stuck in the door and Dad had to pry it open
and i am hopin'
that someone will read this and care
for what is my life if i dont
share
this moment and that with someone
and why do i have to come on
here
for people to
hear me?
hear me, value me, love me
please.

the stronger thing

it's with a cold heart that she washes down her dinner with a swallow of coke and a handful of pills
burns all the way down
she is stuck in the cog of routine as it turns
and turns
and she feels lifeless.
a series of steps she must take, her day a list of things to complete
before she can call it quits
she's ready to call it quits altogether and escape to something new
or is she?
she settles into bedsheets that feel like a cotton sack,
closing in on her, cinched at the top
she waits for rocks to be thrown in and to drown
she falls slowly under a wave of sleep
the silence, the still part of the 24 hour round and round
that she'll wake to in the morning
she's ready to say goodbye, to hop in the car and drive away
anywhere
but she hasnt convinced her body to follow her soul
even though it's crying out, it's begging, it's taking her by the hand and
trying to drag her to the door
she takes her morning dose to quiet the
raging and pleading
what is this stronger thing that holds her in place like cement?

self-hatred

is there no end to the self hatred, the self deprecation?
by the time i got to school this morning, i had already discounted every admirable quality i own
i had already begun to hate myself
the hate itself incites more hatred
damn myself for not liking myself more!

i am living in a golf-score economy
and according to my waist band, i have no currency to barter with
another reason to despise myself
thanks to living in a world of mirrors
that reflect every detail (except the ones that matter)
i can be reminded of that hourly

these rules are cutthroat
these standards are lethal

by the time i write this poem
i will have thought of other reasons to loathe Me
no discipline
no perseverance
no beauty
and cant write her way out of a paper bag.

even my self-hatred refuses to be a part of me out of disgust
and in an act of portentous independence, disembodies itself so that it can be critical from afar and
speak in third person.

look at how her clothes dont fit!
look at how one eye is wider than the other when she smiles!
look at how many chins emerge when she looks at her shoes!
she thinks she's a writer, but she cant finish a single thing she starts!

these rules are cutthroat
these standards are lethal
truly lethal