He stops me on the corner of state and Johnson
just after the blurry line of switching todays
eyes shiny change purses,
pupils glinting like dimes.
we compare our inked skins
discuss meanings of stained bodies and
shake hands.
reaching into denim tightened pockets
I have a 5.
“If you ever need anything, let me know,” he says.
Handing away crumpled bills,
the paper is too thin to fill my stomach.
I need anything.
i started out a reporter
gathering facts underneath my fingernails and broken pencil leads in my pockets i built stories from the margins in
i drove phrases between parenthesis and cornered broken opinions quilting them into quotes and
slathering the page with all the
shit people never say
i climbed failed classes and family issues
(“I have to pick up another job to pay for school”
ive never even taken the time to sew up the holes in my pockets because
another dollar will always fall between my grubby fingers)
i climbed angry bosses and half empty diet coke cans
(keep the pop tab)
crumbling midnights like exams slashed in red x’s
i was an editor
and then i picked up the red pen, bitter
or just select all delete
the hairs on my arms standing like sentries
stiff in angry discomfort and
I whined about the contorted syntax sprawled
in dog piles at my feet
stories stacked haphazardly
(fire: chimney or tipi?
news papers torn to nurture blue rooted flame)
“four lines for a sentence who fucking writes this”
for word documents heavy
and journal pages inked
i choke on leaden words rising like nauseous tears
i’m destined for kindling
select all delete
I am constantly unsure of whether I am spending too much or too little time on myself.
While performing some much needed dorm room cleaning today, I found a flash drive that had all the poetry off of my old computer. Despite the pressing piles of assignments and beaten calculators that should have been attended to, I spent almost an hour going back and rereading my old poetry. The writing collection started when I was 11, and progressed all the way through my senior year of high school. Continue reading
My high school’s open house, 2010, my freshman year art teacher says to a crowded room full of parents, “I will know your children better than they know themselves.”
Old architecture, windy beaches, springy storefronts, squat palm trees, and expansive marshes = Charleston, South Carolina. Second trip to this lovely coast city, and it is no less alluring on round two. The city has unbelievable upscale southern cooking, hat shops lined in dark wood, clothing stores situated in old theaters, baring their original brick – full of southern charm.
