Trust Fall

Trust Fall

Only in the sunset,
the wind blows
my sleeves
against the hair on the back
of my hand. "His heavy clothes
always looked
so comfortable..." The leaves
are changing, just not
fast as I want them.

Three damn palm trees
in a row like green,
swaying fireworks.
I want them to snap.
I refuse to trust
their stuck-up limbs.

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

My breasts are bigger
than my mother's, but
so are my father's.

Restaraunt Revisted

This might be the first of many updated drafts, or I might just let this be the only one because of how I changed it. All I did was change the line breaks to what I think are stronger places. It's like re-editing a film but keeping all the same shots. There's something incredibly fulfilling, fresh and fun about it. The original draft is first followed by the revised one:

Restaurant

Lesbians always sit in the corner
tables where I work.
It's a phenomenon I don't understand.
Families with children
gravitate towards the middle section.
The elderly don't care.
Neither do parties of teenagers.
Gay males sit against
the windows, but not in the corners.
Straight males don't like
booths secluded or small. Large parties
want everyone to see,
like straight guys. We sing
a birthday song for those who ask for it.
I only sing for the corners
and the windows. They are the ones
who ask for people.
The others sing for the cake and ask
for doggy bags.

* * *

Restaurant

Lesbians always sit in the corner
tables where I work. It is
a phenomenon
I don't understand. Families with children
gravitate towards the middle section.
The elderly don't care. Neither
do parties of teenagers. Gay males
sit against the windows, but not in
the corners. Straight males don't like
booths secluded or small. Large
parties want everyone to see,
like straight guys. We sing
a birthday song for those who ask for it.
I only sing for the corners
and the windows. They are the ones
who ask for people. The others
sing for the cake and ask for doggy bags.

Feeding Five Thousand

Feeding Five Thousand

This bible has been
at the mall
more than Sunday
morning services.
Somehow, it fits
in. These mall kids
won't exactly grow up
healthy. "Organic, fresh
natural" - mall food promises.

Chicken Wrap

Chicken Wrap

The order, given by
Matt, is hung
by the counter.

His guests want a chicken
caesar salad wrap.
I’m reminded of royalty:
“Poor, young squire, I
demand you
do my bidding.” It sounds hot
in the kitchen. Boiling,
water steaming. Flames.
Sizzling. Grilling. Matt

prepares the meal. Me?
I watch from behind the heat
light, turned on. Lettuce lay
in a pan on ice. He grabs
some, throws it on
a tortilla, goes for the cheese
and grilled chicken. Cut
in half. I forgot my french
fries in the fryer. Now well
done. He served
his table. That god-awful

smacking squelch
of mouths flapping
down on dressing,
lettuce. “Healthy food.”

Doctor's Office

"Having a Hell of a night"
All the tiles in doctor's
offices look the same: off-white
with specks of color, baby
blue & pink. Very vomitous.

"Are you making a mess there, hun?"
Everything is metal & sterile. Quiet
except the chatty nurses outside
the open door. I hear incoming patients.

Brittany dove into the shallow
end. Lance's finger is infected.
Mr. Northrop gets a shot.
My toenail is ingrown.

That blood pressure instrument
is called a "cuff." The patient
should have their palm
up & feet flat on the floor. Dinosaur
adhesive bandages, or Band-
Aids are given to kids.

"Wassup Dude...Kyle."
Wassup Doc.
"Would you look at that."
Rather not.
"That infection won't take
the anesthesia." Rip off
the toenail, get it over with.
"What's your hat say? Hobo
With a Shotgun. You have
a shotgun?"
"No, and I'm not a hobo."

Antibiotics.
Pills I can't swallow
without applesauce or something.
Soak my foot in Magnesium Sulfate.
Soul. Fate. My toe isn't that dramatic.

The pharmacy is cooler
than the office which is cooler
than outside. Pharmacists must
be part Innuit. Into it,
I peruse their options of cures.
The vaginal cream is under the foot
and skin section. I stifle
elementary laughter.

On a scale from one to ten
how much pain is your foot
in? "A four." A six.
"Do you smoke?" "No."
"Do you drink?" "No."
"How tall are you." I don't know.
"5'6"?" and a half.
"Do you exercise?" "No."
"Are you sexually
active?" "Inactive."
"The doctor will be with you
in a minute."

In a minute.

Second Date

There must've been something in the way
she tasted. "Like Pringles," I told her,
"the fun won't stop." Though it did
cost me. My heart and gut constricted
when we passed the $200 mark
on our second date. I craved for third
base.

Recipe

My ex-girlfriend's dad looked
like the Tapatio man but not
as hot. Her mom reminded me
of that raisin lady, bags full
with wrinkly grapes. My ex seduced
me with her dried spiciness.

My dad was the Kool-Aid man,
intrusive and couldn't say no. Mom,
Mrs. Buttersworth. Nothing
prevented me from becoming
a slow moving, obnoxious child.

These family recipes
didn't mix. Add baking
soda and vinegar.

Stitch

The bottom stitching was fraying.
Stained strands sprouted from my apron
by my thighs. I tucked it
behind so Boss wouldn’t see
disapprovingly. My mom said,
with venom, I suck out
the hours in her day. Gone.
Spent trying to mend, wash, perfect
that fabric shell I worked behind.

With a pen, I tore the cover apart,
penetrated the gaps and ripped.
The weight of the grease stuck to
the apron fell off my shoulders.

Something

    She looked at me again with her doll eyes and with her dull mouth said, “I just don’t see why we need…” I wanted someone with a defined jaw bone. The skin under her mouth fell to her collarbone, creating a sluggish chin.

    Some would call her beautiful, I just called her Michelle. Her resemblance to the actress Michelle Williams afforded me the luxury of forgetting her Christian name. As she talked, I noticed the ridge between her upper lip and the crest of her nose vanished when she dramatically pursed her lips to make an “ooh” sound, forming a flat flap of flesh, exposing her gums and whitish teeth. The pink on her lips reminded me of raw chicken.

    “—agree, right?” I didn’t answer and the car remained silent until she parked and the brakes squealed. “Listen, can’t you just tell her…” A sickly color vein pulsed as her neck skin was dragged by her smacking lips, like the gills of a fish on a hook shuttering open and close.

    I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care, that she was talking to a wall. A wall that didn’t care about Michelles. For the sake of conversation, I kept my mouth shut. Brow furrowed slightly, her eyes began to search for contact with mine. When they met, I only noticed her mind swimming, searching for a memory to help conjure up fake tears. Her pupils dilated when she floundered upon some past dead pet, or perhaps the inevitable death of her current ones. Unlike sincere tears, her chin didn’t quiver, but, I thought, that could be because she has no chin to quiver. She leaned forward and pulled back twice, like a novelty drinking bird toy, obviously waiting for a response. “Well?”

    “Remember that gift you gave me for our one week? That hippie shell that was suppose to absorb my agony if I had it in my pocket?”

    “I gave you a stone, not a shell.” As quickly as her frustration dissipated with the mention of something sentimental, it flooded back in return at this mistake.

    “That explains it. Well, that’s certainly something,” pulling out an abalone shell from my pants pocket. And there I was thinking that karma, aura, magic wasn’t real. When we first met, she had told me that all objects were designed to hold energies that either repelled, attracted, expelled or absorbed. In the car, as she buried her eyes in her hands, smudging mascara on the base of her thumbs, I wondered what energy the car had. Or if, as she said, all objects had energies, did the manufacturers of the car take this into account when gathering materials to build? Did the carburetor repel anger and the steering wheel attract it? What if the pistons expelled lust and the wheels absorbed sexuality? Michelle’s shoes were made of black leather, but the leather car seats were gray. Did colors matter? The disarray of energies cycling through the car like the stale air conditioning made me dizzy until I remembered I didn’t subscribe to “‘new’ age” thinking.

    “What do tears even mean?” through blackened fingertips. I asked if I could drive us home, unconsciously doubtful of what grabbing the steering wheel might exorcise. The brakes squealed, but I was unsure if it wasn’t just Michelle trying to get attention.

* * *

    The night before, she had confessed the first thing she noticed was the abundance of hair covering my arms and legs. Body hair showed vulnerability and openness, she had said. Were my eyebrows vulnerable? The strands of hair on my big toe did often seem susceptible, I wanted to say. That next night in the car I wondered if it wasn’t true, noticing the blonde strands stemming from her arms, only visible by reflecting the fluorescent street light. They occurred to me as something crystalline, fragile. I didn’t want to lean over and comfort her for fear of breaking them off.

    Emily, or Emma, or was it Rachel? …The girl I was with the night before had shaved her legs. My caress had been met with biting stubble, like my tongue licking below my lips after dinner. She tasted just as salty. When Michelle forced her lips upon mine in the car, to appeal to my male understanding, I recognized the saltiness from her tears and was stirred. Emily, or Emma, or was it Michelle? …Girl, last night, had tasted like artificial, cherry-flavored lip gloss. Michelle was sweet and salty, like a potato chip, I thought. How many calories were in a kiss? Girl’s lips had sat stagnant against mine, waiting for me to grab hold of the back of her neck and push myself against her. As I remembered my inability to act with Girl, Michelle had grabbed a handful of my hair tight enough that I could feel the roots being tugged, like plucking weeds, while still pushing my head against her chest. It was something of a hug, I supposed.

    The girl before Michelle, her name was Michelle, a raven-haired, small-framed, beauty when her mouth was closed, would never have done this to me. Not that I didn’t want to do it to her, but tears and grasps had meant something to me once. When she cried, I felt as if all events in my life had lead up to that single instance of disappointment I had brought upon her. When we tugged at each others bodies, it was like the tugging of souls, I would tell her. Both Michelles had found it pathetic. I wanted to be their savior, Michelle from her goth-like woes and Michelle from her counterfeit, feigned beliefs and cries for attention. I thought they should save me too and Michelle had wanted to. I was never sure which Michelle.

    One night, later, in a different car, Michelle had let me go from an identical embrace. “I don’t think we should see what…” She had already unlocked the car door and I was opening it. As I walked to my front door, I heard a squeak and wished it was a squeal. Next to my Hide-a-Key rock, I noticed a rounded, luminescent green stone. Recognizing it as that energy absorbing gift, I picked it up and rolled in around in my fist. I aimed for the windshield, went inside, ate chips.

Man

Man

She fans herself
with paper to keep her
face coo- "She's so hot.

She'll talk to you too. She's not
arrogant. That outfit is...you know."

"Yeah, b-"

"But I'm too popular."

"She's cut-"

"I want to put my hands in
her hair. Look at her
legs, dude."

"Yeah, bu-"

"She's fucking
cute too." "Yeah,

I'd say cute not sex-"

"Sexy smile. Damn."

Damn.

Stone Age

Stone Age

all he had
was a little banana
nut bread. and a root
beer
float. and a portobello mushroom
pizza topped with a pazookie.

"on a scale of 1
to 1000, how do i
look? like a caveman?"
as compared to what?
"a regular
drunk person...

get this fucking pizza
away from me. i'm trying
to be serious right now."
like a caveman. take control
of the night. "okay, i'm taking

control of the night.
10:45, we're doing
it." i'm trying to be serious.
pazookie, pizza, root beer float.

"i want red velvet, but
you have to order for
me." why? "i can't
interact with people."
1 to 1000. "all i had
was root beer
pizza and pazookie,
don't let them...that's all i am
paying for." his head

perched on the edge
of the table, he lurched
back and took
a deep breath. "that's all
i'm paying for." the night
lingered, hung on.

"Okay. Who wants to take
him to the bathroom?"
already drying vomit
dripped onto his bare
leg and arm. "tell my mom
i'm sorry. i can't move.
walk me in." they knocked
on her unsuspecting door.
"come in.
come in.
come in.

come in."

Disney's Waters

Disney's Waters

Immediately after the sun sets, when the artificial lamps become glimmering sources of light, while the glow from the sun beyond the horizon diminishes from a salmon-meat pink into a midnight blue, the fervor in the park reaches a blinding fog. Perhaps the childlike, uninhibited anxiousness of the nightly firework performance is the culprit, but for those who have experienced Disneyland at night, what explodes in the sky pales in comparison to what happens at eye level. The honeyed, golden light that radiates throughout Disneyland when darkness falls is nothing if not romantic. Fireworks over Utah are the same as fireworks over Anaheim, but the perfectly subdued luminosity, the very essence of Disneyland at night, imagines a clandestine feeling of awe overlooked by the thousands that visit daily. The true nightly performance is not over heads, but takes place aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat on the Rivers of America.

Most older people adore Disneyland because it serves as a transportation from their nine-to-five cubicle and unfulfilled sex lives to places where the struggles of life are put on the back-burner, unimportant, if only for a day. The aura of the wild west is only twenty feet from jazz city central, New Orleans Square, is only twenty feet from romanticized jungle, Adventureland. However, it's all in the modern day. For me, the draw of Disneyland, the reason for my intense gravitation towards the park, isn't for transportation, but for a sense of time travel. With the DeLorean, it's only 88 mph that allows the flux capacitor to work, but with Disneyland, it's only the Mark Twain, only at night and only in specific seats that the feeling is fully evoked.

Last year was the first time the Mark Twain steamrolled over me with an absolute force. Having always been a fan of the attraction, my friends and I had discovered the best, most overlooked place to be on the boat. On the second of three stories next to the stairs, there was a stage, once home to upbeat jazz bands, now a soulless storage space for unused life jackets. Sitting on top of this locked compartment, next to the decorative "This is not a flotation device" flotation device, we found ourselves in the very heart of the boat. From there, we watched those too tired to stand play music-less chairs on the front of the boat where about twenty uncomfortably white chairs rested.

I believe William Wordsworth, who coined that poetry is "emotion recollected in tranquility," would have produced his best work aboard the perfectly serene Mark Twain. Sitting in our choice seats, the buzz, the roar of the obnoxious guests subdued into a humming, soothing white noise, like the unnoticed scheduled train whistles back home, miles away. The Mark Twain, the only place in Disneyland to escape Disneyland. As the ship drifted along, away from the brightly-lit eggshell dock and the purples and blues dancing off the water by New Orleans Square, as it turned around the bend leaving the lights behind it, the lamps, decorated in late 19th century historical fashion, flickered darkening yellow, the only light remaining. And while the sensory details of the Mark Twain and Disneyland are still vivid, a feeling crept out from within my bones, reaching my muscles and nerves and caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was a hard to describe dreamlike quality of the honeydew light. The intensity of it was just dim enough that it refused my eyes to adjust or completely focus on any color or detail farther than ten feet away. Because of this, the scene was full of details without any definite detail, which left me with memories without any definite memory, like waking up from a vivid dream only to remember vagueness.

The Mark Twain roamed farther away from the rides and the bustle and deeper into darkness as a bodiless voice, simply called "The Captain," narrated our journey. Looking out past the railing, I could only make out black waving shadows. I knew these fluttering figments were trees because logic told me, but all sensory perceptions were useless to prove what anything was beyond the tangible barrier of the boat.

While reading Conrad's Heart of Darkness after such Mark Twain rides, I couldn't help but compare Marlow's descriptions of the immense and intimidating unknown mysteries of the African jungle with what I felt on the Riverboat in the middle of a theme park. The droning, homely southern voice of "The Captain," my friends surrounding me, the other passengers, the kids, the floors, the ceilings, the lights, the safe feeling of knowing the river was only a few feet deep, the life-jackets below me, the comfortableness of the wood against my straightened back, the warm, airy draft, the steps of feet on the stairs on both sides of me, all of it fell into the black abyss that circled around, surrounded me. It was looking into my impression of Disney's own heart of darkness, on a steamboat designed in the 1950s, that I sensed a feeling, a feeling dancing on the edge of my consciousness but never fully realized, of forgetfulness that I was in the 21st century, but could possibly be in the 1890s having just woken from a vivid dream, only remembering vagueness.

Of course, being a sane and rational person, the feeling lasted less than a second, but the impact was felt for the rest of the night and even up to writing this now. I can only fittingly compare the moment of timelessness to a kid losing a balloon. As the balloon drifts up, the guilty child reaches, but the balloon only floats progressively farther away, more and more unreachable.

That night on the Rivers of America, I was unsure what had happened and even eerily unaware if anything had, but as the Mark Twain slowed to a reminding halt back in its port between Frontierland and New Orleans Square, as "The Captain" told us of our ended journey and wished us a good night, I found myself, underneath the dim fluorescent bulbs, alone, the last one remaining on the boat.

Happy Hour

Happy Hour

It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.

“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.

The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.

The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”

“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.

“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.

“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.

“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”

“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.

“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.

“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.

His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”

I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.

All Hallow's

All Hallow's

I was told I couldn't go
trick r' treating. With my brother
grounded and locked in
his room like me, Halloween
candy wasn't very sweet. Mom made us
clean our rooms, bathrooms,
kitchen. My dad watched
a scary movie upstairs. We
snuck in under his bed
to watch the screaming, the stabbing.
We cried. Mom and Dad
caught us and forced us
outside, into the dark.
With the phantoms and ghouls
lingering in the bushes, we walked
away towards the night, dressed up
as Hansel and Gretel. We followed
our bread crumbs of tears.

Water War

Water War

I hear screaming from the water spigot.
Sounds like planes when they roar from a distance.
And as I fill up this water balloon,
I anticipate the big splash kaboom.

Class Reunion

Class Reunion

I picked up my "Peter
Epifant" name tag and pinned it
on my chest. The class of 2000
milled about, looking lost.

Amy Gossiper slipped
her tongue across
her butter cream
teeth. Ian, the husband,
now owns 99¢
Stores. Condoms in his wallet,

Henry Pecker hit up
Kathy, the widow. At 18,
Eva Prudeski got pregnant.
Hers was the only name tag
not picked up. Cindy Trampton
did coke in the parking lot
with Bobby Mathasin. Engulfed

by forced laughter, Jeff Bookerson
cleaned his glasses and looked
at the blurs he recognized
from school. Two corporate clowns
had a bragging match over who lived
the American dream. The rest of us
took bets on whose head was higher

up asses. DJ Laygerd came out
of the bathroom followed by my ex.
Matt Gassur said the gym
smelled like those nonathletic few
not adept enough but for regular
P.E. remembered it. Except the noise
had changed. The quiet
hung over the gymnasium
like the pendulum we all were
forced to read about but didn't.

Creative

Creative

I use to sit
alone and write
horrible, dreadful
poetry. Now I
prefer standing.

Over Done

Over Done

eggshells have been walking on me,
heavily. stepping on my visage
with steel-toed boots and arthritic knees.
covering my clean, shaven chin, they
conga when I open my mouth,
swallow.

for you

for you

the only man
you'll ever need
is your father
when he's dead.

Universal Monsters

Universal Monsters

She straightened
her hair, neck
now exposed black ink
drooling to her arms.
She wore a Bride
of Frankenstein
tank-top, her facade
revealed Wolfman,
Dracula, monsters.
She grinned, howled
stared. My gaze lingered
too long. When I told her
she was, "cute,"
she misheard
me as "puke."

walk

walk

the horizon line stretched
before me like police
tape. the sun
wasn't setting so i could
only follow the white
strips of paint in the middle
of the highway with my feet
like eyes and a doctor's pen.

my shoes sunk
into the pavement,
propelled me forward.
lands stretched, waking
my exhaustion. nearby
a market flickered
closed and shut

down. i thought
of the smells of you
and your incessant
scrambled eggs.
i was too busy walking
on the shells to taste.

Square Pegs

Square Pegs

She smacks
her gum, flaps
her hands about
like a chicken.

My eyes roll
like flat tires,
fingers wriggle
like bait.

We're perfect
for another.

Will

Will

To my little brother, I leave
...what's left in my closet
...and clothes drawers
For my friends to fight about, I leave
...books and films and posters
To my older brother, I leave
...the scraps
...of memories of our past friendship.
To my father, I leave nothing.
To my mother, I leave
...some semblance of shame.

But what did any of you ever leave
...me?

Drive Home

Drive Home

on the only cold night,
my dad drove
with the windows down.
my family slept behind
us in the front.
my dad joked. i can't remember
what about. we laughed.
the brisk air punched
my chest like medicine balls
thrown too hard.
i looked down at a speck
on my chest. a bumble bee
had flown through the open
window and died on my personal
front bumper. my dad kept hammering
on the jokes. it was black.
the refreshing air was lost
on the bee when it met me.
the air bit at my face, stung
the tears forming in the corner
of my swollen eyes.

Perched

Perched

Outside my window,
I saw a certain group
of birds. Some flew,
some were sitting
on wires. I wondered,
as always, how
the birds on wires
are never electrocuted.
Lines of wings
fluttered carelessly,
ignored the charge,
ignored the current.

The birds looked down,
taunted me, tempted me.
My stupid sheets
felt heavy on top
of us, motionless.

Chap Stick

Chap Stick

All I know is I want it
gone. Down, with my fingers
digging in pockets, I feel
chap stick you asked for.
You rub it against
your split lips. Bleeding,
cracked. "Thanks,"
you say. I stole
your pain, gave you relief.
Putting it back in my pocket,
the chap stick feels lighter,
knowing it will never be
used again.

The Computer Chair

The Computer Chair

When I open up
my eyes, I see nothing
but the computer
chair I use for reading.
It lies awake for me,
wanting to be used.
At night, the moonlight
through my blinds doesn't touch
the chair. It rests
darker than the black walls
surrounding it. My books are
bent, torn, used, beat, open.
The computer chair scowls
shapeless, empty.

Down Memory Lane

This is a collection of the first 10 poems I ever wrote, in chronological order. (Repeats are just links to the original post)

Without a Paddle

I drove on
a mountainside road.
A Suburban followed
me. A sign reading
"no outlet" bisected the rocks.

I braked before a narrow,
naked, earthy tunnel.
Another notice above
the concrete hall: "low
clearance."

The Suburban turned
around; I accelerated. In the rear-
view, two cock red, rectangle
signs told me "wrong way."

I made a right
turn when I could
and got caught
in traffic behind
a Suburban.
The mountain grew
smaller in the distance. I
didn't recognize the road
signs. I asked for
directions. I was pointed
back to where I came from.

Commentary: I was trying far too hard to be abstract. As I wrote to my professor at the end of the semester, "I wasn't writing poetry for myself, but for the people reading it." I was writing what I thought poems were to others, not what it could be for me.

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

Concerta Tab 36mg

Prodding the butt
mush of my brain, meds
fade like colors on a spin
cycle. This brushed-under-
the-rug-self engulfs. Mom
rushes to refill the prescription. I lose

focus on my home-
work. Elefence on icy
alps, lead by Lecter. Skeeing
down my frontal lobe. Forgetting
how to concentrait, my thoughts
turn to idioms and anymalls. Doctours
are quacks. Dentests
are clucks. Diplomas
are the cat's meow. Myself,

the doomed rat Algerian,
miss using the wards
in my vocabulary, I shoulder
at the mirror thought

Commentary: I give myself credit for trying something so different in only my second poem. Not that I think it's all that good, but I'm glad I took the risk. This poem is responsible for my ever-growing attraction to word play. This was also the first poem that was inspired by someone in my family (so, so many more came after and are still to come).

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
*I'm too lazy to figure out column formatting right now, so ignore the camouflaged periods and the crooked second column. Use your imagination to make it straight.

Reap

my father died...............................after last dinner,

screaming......................................mince his final words.
"burning up"................................."steak tartare"
"damn"........................................."whiskey"

isolated.........................................my dad, in a booth
he lay wincing...............................surrounded
no longer......................................by his life's
living,...........................................disappointments.

we entered....................................me in the corner,
white covered him,........................mom across,
his machines beeped,.....................sister on his right,
begging.........................................smiling.

i wanted to laugh ..........................when he started to choke,
he went out...................................eyes bulged
like a pansy,..................................no one helped.
my friend said. .............................his heart deserved it.

Commentary: Once again I shamelessly applaud myself at taking the challenge of a column poem on so early in my writing of poetry. Even if it wasn't good, people gave me credit for that. This was the first time I ventured into my favorite genre too: dysfunctional families.

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

The Price is Wrong (just given title)

shiv-
ers. eye
on screen
artist, comic
holds the knife.
clock strikes thirteen,
the witching hour of night.
investigate the thump,
heartbeats devour,
open up di-
ary, see
rage.

puppeteer
of skeleton
and horror.
forgotten
70s icon.
now, an ever
aging
must-
ache.

Commentary: I honestly don't know what I was doing here. The letters at the end in the first stanza make "VINCENT PRICE" but at the cost (high price [pun intended]) of forgetting all other aspects of poetry. The first "i" is "eye" and the last "c" is "see." As much as I dislike this poem, I like that mustache image.

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

Nobody Says the "B" Word

My whole life is a dark room. One. Big. Dark. Room.
Until green and orange plastic snakes guide me
up to his musty vest, plastic busting buttons.
Four inch legs spread open on my dresser.

The ghost with the most's arms frozen open
invite my words, "I am alone,
I am utterly alone." He grins, it's showtime.
"I'm thinking of offing myself," I whisper
in his ear. A ring sticks from his back.

Pull the string, "Geez, I don't know,
I mean, I always said if I ever did it
I was gonna do it once and that was it."
Pull the string, "I'm telling ya honey,
she meant nothing to me. Nothin' at all!"

None of it make sense. Or helps
my broken heart. What did I expect
from him though? Figures
around him on the desk grin.
Advice rests in the hands
of a killer, handgun and alcohol.

Commentary: Well then. First of all, this second of my "passion poems" as I call them, (Vincent Price one being the first) just shows that my indescribable love for these topics is just that: indescribable. This one isn't as cringe-worthy as the Vincent Price one, but still...yikers. That last stanza was written weeks after the first three as a tongue-in-cheek response to writing the poem. I'm almost proud of that...almost.

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

Poems 6, 8 and 9 (Family Portrait, Home Field Advantage and Turkey) are at the Thanksgiving Collection post I put up at the end of 2011.

Commentary on Family Portrait: My breakthrough! Tom Waits inspired me to write Family Portrait with his rich and numerous characters living in a run-down but beautiful world. I'm not making an inkling of comparison of myself to Waits, but just pointing out. Literally overnight I went from being completely lost on line breaks to realizing their potential. Nothing makes me happier than coming up with a really great line break, it's the reason I write poetry.

Commentary on Home Field Advantage: I think there's flaws I can go in and easily fix in this poem, but I don't have the passion for it. I'm not a fan of this poem for personal reasons. I think I did an okay job at what I was trying to say and some of those dysfunctional family line breaks make me smile, but I just find it lukewarm, especially after Family Portrait. I am proud of that last line however, I think it's one of my better images in the series.

Commentary on Turkey: Controversial! You can see that I wasn't sure where I was going with the poem when I start talking about the cookbook, but once I hit the word "cavity" I knew where I was headed and it ain't pretty. This isn't the only time I've written from the female perspective, but it's the first. Everyone hated the first line "my apron covered stains," but I was (and still am) here to defend it! I'm a fan of double meaning, so it could literally mean that her apron covered the stains on her shirt but also that her stains are apron covered. The difference is that one hides and the other is covered. By the end of the poem, when she removes the apron, I think both of those meanings fit really well. But I would know, I wrote it. Oh, and by the way, put ejaculation and turkeys in the same poem, professors love it (at least mine did).

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

Going back to my seventh poem:

Specs

On my twelfth birthday, I got a pair
of crimson-tinted glasses,
but what I saw my dad give
my older brother was a model.
Jedediah got the day
off. I trudged to the coop
with my dad, double-checking
I brought my worthless gift.
They weighed down my inside
coat pocket.

My dad picked for the runt,
I was ordered to calm down
the chicken. I focused on
the white wings held steady
by Dad's forceful hands.

I put on my glasses. For Dad
slaughtering was business.
For me, it meant blood, blackouts
and bruises, By Dad's clenched fists
the stump and axe stood stained,
at a tilt. I swooned and my eyes pierced
his gift to me. "Great," my dad said
"You deserve this, hemophobic
runt." Body freed from featherless head.
On the ground, docile chickens wore red glasses.

Later, I woke up. My brother
held up the broken frame,
Complaining to the head of
my family, "He broke it."

Commentary: Right after Family Portrait, I felt pressure to come up with something that could compete. The more I read this, I enjoy the story more than Family Portrait, but I agree that it's not executed as well. I'm really happy with of a lot of the line breaks and was overjoyed when a classmate asked me where the farm I grew up on was. Honestly, I'm proud of this poem and am really surprised I haven't posted it earlier. Another writing tip, start out a poem with puberty imagery, professors love it (or at least mine did).

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

lye

Commentary: I was afraid that my poetry was going to begin to trail into cliches and sentimental crap after the semester ended and I wanted to write something that had potential to be all that while I was on a hot streak. It's not the first of my homosexual poems actually. Without a Paddle, Family Portrait and even Specs were all written with the intention of homosexual undertones. I mean, none of them worked, but I'm glad for that. lye is a curious one. My professor said it was second best to Family Portrait which is surprising because she was the number one enemy of sentimentality. She commented that it gave strong enough feeling of shame that the blatancy of it was honest and not hokey. I think some of my other homosexual poems since have been stronger, but I think this one has the most feeling to, and behind (pun intended) it.

So, there it is; the evolution of my creative poetry writing. Sometimes I look back and am disappointed that these are stronger than the ones I write now, but it just means I have to try harder. The whole reason I wrote this was because I'm having a slight situation with writer's block (or really, I'm writing, but none of it is good enough for my standards as of now). Hopefully this therapeutic trip down memory lanes helps. Thanks to anyone who read all of this and hope it was entertaining and not boring. I realize it's a lot and am thankful that there's even the chance that one friend might have read this and learned a little more about me. Because in the end that's what it's all about, isn't it? ME BABY, ME!

untitled

the girl behind her
is bland, maybe foreign
blonde, no makeup
and a regular
chatty kathy

she's not unattractive. I think
if she wasn't compared to the innumerable
rest, she'd be on top. Like me.
But that logic is just dumb. Like her.

Unfortunately

Unfortunately

She wasn't in
class today, gone.

Oh Dear Me

Oh Dear Me

I can't help
but feel guilty.
After all, it was
my fault. At home
we struggle, as they say,
"To make ends meet."

I beat myself
up over it.
No one's to blame
but me. A loser
doesn't even begin...

Major English Literature II 2

Major English Literature II 2

Well, well, well.
You've read
Melville & both
the Brownings!
Oh, oh, oh.
And you quote
Oscar Wilde yourself!
You've been everywhere?
My, my, my.
Paris, Florence, museums!
and yet you talk like a valley
girl, you don't know
what a scrivener is?
you cheer the Duke
of Ferrera? Unfortunately,
either the curtains go
or Oscar Wilde. You cling
to your decor.
The professor, a doctor
no less, says "Frankly,
you seem a bitch."

English 355

English 355

They criticize Chekov
and Joyce Carol Oates,
say their language
is inaccessible, boring,
pointless. My teacher
doesn't persuade.

They claim understanding,
deep understanding.
Profound understanding.
The room fills
with fog, they continue
talking. Chekov and Oates.
Even the one couldn't
empathize, the other
can't match the bleakness.

I persuade myself:
there's nothing more,
they just seem bitches.

Seven Set

Seven Set

Sometimes I feel
like I'm the only one
walking upstairs.
Rows of feet stomp down
each step, a wall
pushing me towards the rail.
I muffle their voices
with unplugged headphones,
stay to the right with my head

down. I reach the top
floor and get stuck
holding the door for those
voiceless, faceless shoes.
I don't bother
with the stairs
or the elevator
on the way down.

Ars Poetica

Ars Poetica

I am Zachary Harris
I am white
I am a slave to my education
I am whipped by grades
I am lynched by teachers

I am Zachary Harris
I am a slow runner
I am duck footed
I am pigeon footed
I am weighed by scales

I am Zachary Harris
I am huge kings fan
I am royalty
I am your majesty
I AM ZOD! KNEEL BEFORE ME!

I am Zachary Harris
I am not a musician
I am Ray Charles
I am tone deaf
I am Helen Keller
I am Kurt Cobain

I am Zachary Harris
I am failing English
…go figure.

I am Zachary Harris
I am a poet!
I am superior
I am your teacher
I am grading your poem
I am giving you an F
I am giving myself a B.

out of a hundred

out of a hundred

she talks like high
school students, failing
to break for air. brushed
on cheeks. gray blue
light glows on
her face. monotone,
usual, techno-slave.
she sounds like blurred
running zebras

look. Sometimes
you pervert
lost lifestyles,
at least you’re not
just another red
blood cell. you're white
as puss. I can't get
enough.

Ex

Ex

You say you wouldn't date an ex-
pornstar because of their loose past.
You don't want other guys watching
your girl. You don't like
the pleasure they get from her. Fake
sense of ownership, real jealousy.

Maybe a reformed ex-pornstar
wouldn't want to date you. They're not
that desperate. You are stuck with
the ones left on the computer.

on my knees

on my knees

i havent prayed
in half a year
Hell be waiting
for me at home
though. silent,
i fold
small hands

together. wait,
empty of words,
for thoughts to spill,
overwhelm us.
the cross stops
my mouth.
Amen

leopard print reflection

leopard print reflection

shoes & coat have spots.
her chin wrinkles when she talks.
her left eye slightly droops
when she smiles. there's a slight gap
between her teeth. her s's
are sibilant. her tattoos,
discolored, uneven. I
notice her large, bony
ankles and shins.
her large nails, broken,
chipped. hair dyed
to hide split ends. I run
my fingers through her
curls, match the asymmetry
on our face.

Enough

Enough

My mom tells me to put out
plates for our guest. Places
everyone! I know --- isn't there,
but I set their plate anyway.
The bell rings to a tune:
Shave & a haircut...
--- might have answered.

We're having pork-chops
and applesauce, but we're not
The Brady Bunch. Mom dies
laughing at her guest. I
see eyeliner covering both
their eyes. Seeing my meal,
my mom quietly yells
You haven't even eaten
two bits!

--- laughs next to me.
We're sent to our room.
--- tells me it was easy
enough. --- tells me
I had it once,
but I've lost it.

Ode to the Genuine

Ode to the Genuine

she's lost her shock
value. the clothes
she wears, nothing

new. white shirt, jeans,
low cut converse
and a jacket

the same everyday.
i wonder how
often she dyes

her hair. flower
changes from white
in the middle

to black petals.
but finally
i saw her mouth

stretch across her
face. worn out
brand? new.

Tint

Tint

he wrote in
pencil. nothing's
permanent
for him. i
used pens.

he only gave

me yes or

no answers.

i only took

them from him

with my eyes.

Restaurant

Restaurant

Lesbians always sit in the corner
tables where I work.
It's a phenomenon I don't understand.
Families with children
gravitate towards the middle section.
The elderly don't care.
Neither do parties of teenagers.
Gay males sit against
the windows, but not in the corners.
Straight males don't like
booths secluded or small. Large parties
want everyone to see,
like straight guys. We sing
a birthday song for those who ask for it.
I only sing for the corners
and the windows. They are the ones
who ask for people.
The others sing for the cake and ask
for doggy bags.

Baby

Baby

her lips were as red
as her hair. her brows
furrowed. valleys dug into
her forehead. caked in
blemish-cover. My eyes
seek her realities.
her jeans were rolled
up her shins, darkened
legs unshaved. suddenly,
she looked like lost
icons. her makeup cracked.
underneath, her blemishes
radiated.

The Little Mermaid

The Little Mermaid

She seemed to lust
for an age of innocence,
but she was less
Ariel and more Betty
with black and red
hair. A mix of urban and broad-
way. Over her head,
a fluorescent halo.

un tight lol Ed

un tight lol Ed

"can u help me? my bro wont
get over his ex. genius
me said i know how he feels. now
hes buggin me" "Sure
no prob" " u r
the best travis. ty"

Major English Literature II

Major English Literature II

I overheard that she doesn't like Heart

of Darkness, thinking

she's better than Joseph Conrad.

Her voice speaks into empty space,

fills a balloon that no one sees

or cares about. She hates Wordsworth

and Blake. Rivals one's ego

and mirrors the others cynicism.

Simply, she looks a bitch.

For Morale

For Morale

She stepped out

of a 1950s pin-

up girl poster

She wore different

colored flowers each day

in her tomato-red waves

But her face was drawn

on Not like the posters

painted Now out of print.

Mississippi

Mississippi

When the boats were still

on streets, the cars

in trees, the houses

roofless, we slept

on Bucky Sanders' trampoline.

I told him I lost my sleeping

bag before Lindsay Windemere

could say she lost her pajamas.

I felt his legs through

the fabric of his pants. Thin,

muscular. His face began to tighten.

Lindsay, somewhere on the edge

of the trampoline, huffed.

In the dark, he grew

closer. I heard him

groan. Suddenly, I felt wet

soak through his pants, into mine.

It stank of urine.

When the sun allowed,

we all washed

the clothes and bags

in the water up his driveway.

Lindsay laughed. From a distance,

I heard Mrs. Sanders, "That's just

being American."

Floor

Floor

My shoelaces flopped

to pink carpeted floor,

lazily. I realize

I don't need rabbits,

holes. All that jazz

echoes in my fingers,

works the laces

Where the shoelaces loop

and knot, there's dark

stains and frays. My fingers

tend to avoid grime.

Grandpa

Grandpa

I pulled down

the planes on strings.

My dad, under his mom's

careful watch, boxed

the miniature war

machines labeled, "Hulan's

Work." One of the hooks

on the ceiling snapped. I

couldn't avoid the B-26 Marauder

plummeting. Grandma shouted

obscenities at her son.

I felt the loss

throbbing red on my

face. My dad, red with shame.

At First Sight

At First Sight

I was selling out

my faith. In his arms,

he held me. Too tight

to feel threatened. By him,

our crimson love-

seat. Burgundy cloth

unraveled

at the corners. He worked

at home, I was away

until dark. I finally saw

someone else. Worse

happened. People met

everyday, people forgot.

Mother

Mother

My mom slams another

medicine cabinet, empties

her last migraine pills,

and starts vacuuming.

Vigorously pushing

and pulling in

my room, a dirty t-shirt

discarded on the floor

gets sucked up, caught.

“Damn it!” The vacuum

wheezes in high pitches,

coughing the dirt back

onto my bed, into my closet.

“Clean this up! My life

would be easier without you

giving me these headaches.” I

grab my keys and leave. The sun

ahead reminds me of summer

beaches and Sunkist orange juice.

I listen to my engine in waves.