Archive | April, 2011

NaPoWriMo: So I Suck

21 Apr

and that is all.

April 21:  Reef

some kind of freedom this is,
that keeps me locked up tight as
an air bubble in pancake batter
fried with too much oil so it stays
down to the stomach acid.

some kind of freedom this is,
that smiles me into repressed
shouts and punches and remarks
sharp as an untrimmed nail,
or an unsanded nail.



14 Apr

What do you know.  I whirl around and nine days have passed since my last NaPoWriMo post.  I’m so bad at commitment.

I’ll double up on poems every day to catch up.  I hope I stay more together until the end of April.

April 5:  houses lol

when i talk to you
i feel as if im talking to myself

the slight bounce of my voice off
the posterpasted walls of my room
announces absence

yet you receive
houses lol

while i speak of enthalpy change
you flash me pictures of
houses lol

you are a presence

This comes from my attempt at using Google Pig Latin Voice Search to search for Hess’s Law and ending up with a search for “houses lol” instead.  I had to go through my Twitter feed to remember what I did on April 5.  Guh.

April 14:  Sluice

A tumble of water,
Sulfur-tinged, gulf-impinged;
An outflow of molecules
upon molecules upon molecules
gripping each other by the
tips of their fingers
and somersaulting into a
summery street.
The morning raises them to the sun.

NaPoWriMo: A Pwooermd for Yesterday

5 Apr

April 4


NaPoWriMo: Day 3

3 Apr

April 3:  Single-Legged Soldiers

Grandma’s knitting needle:  clack, clack.
Crossfade to the whirring machinations of
the marching needle,
Stepping in time with scurrying fingers.

Minty tooth-decay-preventing chewing gum chatter and
railings clanging against hangers
drown out the cyclic stamp of these single-legged soldiers.

Peeking through the hole left by a dropped stitch,
The world is not as clear.

The Best x Years

3 Apr

John Green once said that college won’t be “the best years of your life…unless you have a terrible, terrible life.”

So why do so many of the other adults in my life keep telling me the opposite?  When they tell me that college was the best four years of their lives, they’re just confirming to me that their adult lives have been sad and mediocre in comparison to their college years, and by telling me that I’m going to feel the same, they’re basically condemning me in their minds to decades of crappiness, reminiscing about college and waiting to die.

Okay, maybe that’s a little overdramatic.  It’s just that last week was my last week of classes, so almost all the teachers made a little speech about moving on and tips for the future and whatever.  The majority of them told us these would be the best years of our lives.  And just now, my dad was lamenting the cancellation of the ferry route that he used to take to university every day.  He had to tack on the fact that his university days were the best of his life.  I’m mainly sick of hearing it because I’m scared that it’s going to be true.  I don’t know what I want to do with my life, and I’m worried that after the structure of education completely falls away, I’ll collapse with it and become flat.

If there have to be a best x years of my life, I want x to equal the number of years I live.

NaPoWriMo: Catching Up

2 Apr

So April is National Poetry Writing Month.  I’ve been intending to do this for ages, but yesterday was my last day of school and I spent the entire day lazing around on the playgrounds, running on two and a half hours of sleep, so I didn’t manage to start on time.  As a consequence, I’m posting two poems today.
I’ve been writing poetry for years now, but my productivity has really been lagging recently.  I hope this gets me back into it.

April 2, making up for April 1:  Them

She sits, sunken,
All slackened jaw and bowing spine and withered thighs,
Skin spreading across the easy chair
almost like a cold teabag, one day old.
But even a seaful of hot water
would do her no good.

There once hung a canvas on the wall behind her,
Smeared in a shade that she called green
and they called blue.
They said the same about the beach,
How it smelled like rotting fish
when all she could smell was summer
and learning to stop ice cream dripping down the cone.

She eats ice cream perfectly now.

April 2, the real one:  Verre Vert

He lived with green glass.
The smashed green bottle bleeds as darkly
as his head next to it.

The occasional head turns to
the wall of green windows
across from his green window.
Finally one sees and opens its mouth
and squinches its nose
and twists its eyebrows
and widens its green, glassy eyes.

It looks like the blown green sculpture
gaping on a shelf high, high above
where his head had reached when he stood,
Its abstract twisting giving way
to images of horrified death-seers
like the shadows of a cloud’s surface.