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The Way it Begins

Photo credit: quotego.biz

Photo credit: quotego.biz

There is something haunting
about the series of
blank book pages
at the end of a novel.
The pause,
the realization—
Everything ends
the same way it begins.
Without words.

Your Earthworms

Photo credit: flickrhivemind.net

Photo credit: flickrhivemind.net

Focus, focus
on where your feet are.
Press them in the dirt
as deep as you can,
but make sure that
you will be able to step
out of the indents
once you are ready
to move.
Move to where you are
being pushed—

someone is pushing you
forward with all of their force,
and you have to decide
if you are going to let them.

Focus, focus
on how to move your legs,
bending your knees
gets harder
if you can’t see what direction
you are suppose go in.
There are certain degrees
of certainty.

You pound your feet
on the ground,
like you are demanding
something, throwing
a tantrum.
But you are like a seagull
stamping your feet
to trick earthworms
to come to you—
you need someone
to come to you.

You cannot keep
standing there,
wondering when
your next step will be.
You yearn to walk
with someone,
to feel like there is a place
for you to fall into.
A blank space
aches to be held,
to know what it feel like
to be seen.

Fill the space
inside your hands.
Focus—

Focus
your rhythm.
Too fast.
Focus.
Left foot,
Right,
Lift.

remember how long you’ve
been dying to
move.

White knuckles

My hands hurt

from metaphorically

holding onto you,

tightest grip—

knuckles white.

I still see you

when I am alone

at night and

the TV is flashing

from the other room,

muted.

I try to listen

to something other

than the memories

of squeaking swings

of a swing set

we were almost

too big for.

But you are tall

in my shadows

with that white hat

you used to wear,

your long, highlighted

hair getting caught up

in everything you

carried. And

those Abercrombie

smells embedded

in your tank tops and

in the stitches of your

new jeans

follow me in the mall,

in the movies, and

as I sit in my room.

When Blink 182 played

on your iPod

we threw our arms up.

We jumped, swayed,

and grabbed

each other’s hands

until our knuckles

turned white.

Hypnotized and Focused

Photo credit: spoki.tvnet.lv

Photo credit: spoki.tvnet.lv

Writers write about cats

because

when cats are tired

their eyes are

glazed over

and they walk in a trance,

like they are hypnotized

and focused.

Eyes are slits

and they hum

a low, sincere mumble—

too sleepy to know

what they are

happy about.

Excuse

Photo credit: euobserver.com

Photo credit: euobserver.com

A man tucks a cigarette

behind his ear,

as if he will write with it

later on when he thinks

of something he wants

to say.

He needs to feel it

and not feel it

near his temple

and that soft spot

at the top of

his neck.

He wants to forget

that it is there

and be surprised

by it later.

He will ask,

“Where is my cigarette?”

And then he will light

another.

He will finish

the whole thing.

Then as he bends over

to scrape the ashes

off on the bottom

of his shoe,

the saved cigarette

will fall out.

It will be his excuse

to smoke

another.

Little Bare Feet

Photo credit: subwayblogger.com

Photo credit: subwayblogger.com

I want to call you

the moment I sit

on the train­.

My stomach contracts

with the nerves, turning

up like sewage in a well,

dirty sludge wavering back

and forth.

A little version of me

walks through my body

and has to roll up her

jeans, and surrender her shoes,

because what she is going through

is too deep, and too thick

not to be barefoot.

I don’t call you,

but the little version of me

does.

You two talk for hours

on a 15 minute commute.

You tell her everything

will work out.

She believes you,

and I stand up.

I will be

“What are you majoring in?”

my new doctor asked,

sitting behind her desk,

tall and important,

like this was an interview.

“English,”

I answered, feeling

uncomfortable about

the law-firm feel

of the room.

“Sweetie,”

she begins, and I look up

at her, startled

at the feeling that

the sound of the word

shot up

through my spine.

“What on earth

are you going to do

with that?”

My legs and arms

shook .

My body knows when

I am being attacked

before my mind does.

The things I could have

said, should have said,

were trapped somewhere

inside of me.

If only we could

go back, and dig the words

out.

But this is what poems

are for.

“I will build satellites, and create codes

to communicate with stars.

There will be graph paper,

and venn diagrams, charts,

and algebraic equations

covering my desk, my lap,

my life, and I will constantly

be thinking about my next

blueprint, as I design an

entire town in the formation

of my favorite constellation

(Ursa Major).

I’ll be an architect, a scientist,

a mathematician,

in charge of NASA,

and the founder of my own

corporation.

It will be a non-profit–

something to do with cats,

because that is what it all

comes down to.

There will be thousands of

contributors and millions of

dollars will be raised.

I will advertise for it

using billboards, blimps,

and extreme networking.

I will set up

one of the most viewed

websites in the world.

From there I will be inspired

to start my own magazine,

my own clothing line,

my own painting business.

I’ll move to Cape Cod and paint

the water, and sell my paintings

to all the art galleries in Wellfleet.

People will give me blank checks

to fill out,

and I will start to travel

around the world.

I’ll donate to charities I have

never heard of,

and give speeches at

universities in Europe.

I will think about

getting into photography,

and starting my own band,

but I won’t have enough

time at the end

of the day,

or start of the night.

When the time comes,

as they say,

I will retire.

I will sit at my desk,

and lock myself

in my dark room.

Drink coffee.

Extra cream,

five splenda.

Read.

Drink more coffee.

Black.

Eat ramen noodles.

And, dare I say it?

Write.”

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