[cursed]

my biggest fear
is that these words i craft
the worlds i draw
the stories i work so hard
to make stand so tall
will fall like rain on dead dirt
on ears too busy to care
on hurts too deep to repair
to give a damn about little words
from a little man
with empty hands
with no future
with no real plans
so here i stand
forever struggling
to say what needs to be said
to live when its easier to play dead
to tame these thoughts in my head
that will surely tear me to shreds
if they ever escaped my lips
or rolled down my cheeks
or seeped from my fingertips
so it seems my fate is set
to either implode from within
or commit a sin i could never forgive
some days i dont know whats worse:
to reside in the back of a hearse
or die every night in verse
i dont know what i did to deserve this
but this is my curse

copy//write

i leaned over as far as i could

and tried to scribble a bit more while he wasn't looking.

maybe he wouldn't mind.

i used to wonder why he didn't come to class every day like everybody else.

does he think he's too good for class?

well actually, if you'd seen his work you'd probably agree.

he's one of those lucky kids who just happens to be gifted for no good reason. straight genius. he'd probably ace the class if he ever actually showed up or turned in work with any kind of consistency. he'll probably do some real good with his life if he ever takes his talents seriously. he'll probably get that same speech in the office again sometime this week.

he turned back around and i swiftly assumed the faux-relaxed, slumped position in my seat like i'd been there all along, like i wasn't wholesale lifting his intellectual property from under his nose.

dammit.

i'd have to wait for at least one more pass to finish making his work mine.

but how is that fair?

he gets to come and go as he pleases?

the rules don't apply to him?

guess not.

my side-eye has gotten so strong i can almost see my own ears,

bending my vision around his slumped shoulders to leech the last bit of gold off his desk...

whew.

got it.

i should really thank him for being here today.

i might actually turn in an assignment for once,

and he gets to raise his F- to an F.

everybody wins.

it's hard trying to pass off someone else's work as your own 

without possessing any actual skill.

unless the fine art of tweaking a little bit of him

to sound a lot like me doesn't count as a skill.

it's totally a skill.

because when he's not here i have to pretend im just having an off day,

or pull a page from his book and take the zero.

better that than admitting i forgot to wake up and bring my intellect to class again.

because when his seat is empty, i am too.

look, if we ever get found out:

that he's masquerading as a mediocre, could-care-less student

who will never get off the ground 

because he doesn't have the stomach to at least beat his wings and look skyward,

getting caught with his work in my hands will be the least of my crimes.

either way, we're still failing.

yeah, it still feels like cheating,

like i don't deserve him.

but maybe it'll work out;

maybe one day he'll take his soiled papers and vivid imagination

and never look back,

reaching outside of these four walls to do what people like him are meant to do:

change the world.

maybe one day, if we're lucky.

but for now,

as i watch him fall back to sleep on his desk,

it's copy and paste.

vow of silence

he slowly fingered a single piece of paper in his hand. the microphone hung in the other, eagerly waiting to project the sound of his voice throughout the walls of the chapel.

but his voice never came.

the jovial, bubbling guy from the day before was nowhere to be found--in his place stood a man preparing to pledge himself to one woman before his friends, his family, and his God. his eyes remained glued to the page, to handwritten words that would change both his life and hers forever, for better or for worse, for rich or poor, in sickness and in health. but those words lingered there on the page, they did not leave his lips.

the room shuffled and squirmed as the minutes passed but the expected awkwardness in the air was soon overtaken by a unified leaning forward in the seats, an anticipation, a silent prayer of encouragement--come on, come on. his smiling bride gently urged him on with stars in her eyes and patience in her posture.

but it wasn't fear that held his tongue. this was more than the point of no return. this was the beginning, a new birth, the final push as all ears strained for the cry of a single voice announcing the start of a new life, a new relationship, a new journey.

"that's a profound point there," the minister quipped at last. a collective chuckle rippled through the room, releasing some of the pressure that had steadily gathered under the ceiling and now threatened to start bending the walls.

"sorry," the man apologized sheepishly. "i guess ill just go really fast." his voice weak but still alive, he faced the page and his bride, and he vowed, he pledged, he committed.

but the minister was right. one man's silence rang louder to me than any other words uttered in that chapel for the rest of their special day.

LUTALICA

I've never been in the eye of a hurricane before (or even a hurricane for that matter) but I'd imagine it would be something like this:
like standing motionless on a busy street corner during rush hour in the middle of a big city--cars whirling about as blurs of steel and color on the streets like trees uprooted in the wind, people swarming the sidewalks like worker ants in an anthill going about their business. All contributing to the cacophony of sights and sounds that give life and color to the tempest of the big city.

Or maybe it can be better compared to the first day at a new school, new faces of all shapes and sizes, each with their own circle of friends and cliques and stories to tell, trying to get to class or lunch or wherever; all someplace to be, something to do, and someone to see. All in motion.

And then there's me--motionless in the center of this storm, in the middle of the school yard, new and clueless as the world happens all around me.

But here I am, I've arrived! That counts for something, right? Me, the FNG, the "I have no idea what's going on" written all over my face goes hand in hand with the dark circles under my eyes. I haven't even moved in yet. Instead, all of packaged me resides somewhere in this precarious armload of boxes and bags and luggage and baggage--all the things they said I would need to survive. Most of these are "necessities", the things you absolutely can't go without--all the neat little cubbies and compartments, tagged, bagged, and labeled appropriately. Without these, no one is gonna know who you are or who you're supposed to be. Without these, you won't know your place--and everybody has a place. It's only fair. Thus, my arms are full and still no one--not even I--knows who I am.

And the other half of my load, the non-necessities? Well, some things you'll always carry with you, no matter how hard you try to leave them behind.

All in all, it really is too much to carry. Everybody else clearly has it down to a science. Most only carry one, maybe two bags, or just a briefcase or a backpack. Some don't even carry anything at all--they hold hands with another. But me? I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous carrying all of this extra weight. I feel worse. 

So it's been a little while now--maybe a couple weeks, maybe a few months, I'm not sure--and I still have all my boxes like I'm constantly moving house but I never actually moved in. It's the nightmare of move-in day that doesn't inevitably end with sleeping in my own bed because I never found my room. Instead, it's always new boxes and new labels for new places and new faces, something for every occasion and circumstance. Always moving, forever struggling to carry everything I'm supposed to need and leaving behind anything else that doesn't fit.

So I learned to think on my feet, to categorize and summarize, to condense twenty-something years of existence into twenty seconds of "so tell me about yourself"--to revise my own history. Eventually, with some trial and error, I learned to bring forward only what I hoped was interesting, leaving out the boring parts, the mundane, the quirks, the details--because no ever sticks around long enough to find out you really are.

And now it seems like the only thing left to talk about is what fits where, and which labels are offensive or acceptable. Take a test to determine your career, your inclinations, your personality. It's all planned out for you, just pick a path and follow it, find a recipe and cook it up. Maybe I really should pick a path, but I can't even see my own feet.

I mean, it's almost comfortable. I'm wearing clothes that almost fit and I've somehow managed to shove myself into the right shape, folding and contorting myself until I almost look the part, armed with a twenty-second sales pitch for a product that I still don't fully understand--or know why I'm selling it.

But hey, stuff happens right? Sometimes things leak. Tags fall off. Boxes break. After all, they're only made of plastic and serrated cardboard. Things get mixed up, mingling into places they're not supposed to be, running the risk of contamination and potentially hazardous chemical reactions. And when stuff does happen, I embarrassingly wear the stains of my mistakes on my sleeves. And now they can see my innards smeared across my chest.

But even with all my compartments and tags and labels and warning signs, I still don't fit.

Everything hit the floor, and it all came crashing down in an instant. I didn't even see her there; I swear she just materialized out of nowhere.

My cheeks hot with embarrassment, I scrambled to pick it all up and stack it as it was before. I spent years trying to learn this balancing act and now it's all on the ground around my feet. Thanks for making me look like an idiot. Again.

I at least expected this round of 52 Pickup to be a two-player game, as she was the one who so rudely bumped into me (or I into her--doesn't matter now), but she didn't even bend over. Can you be more inconsiderate? I noticed her hands were empty, arms free. I don't think she was carrying anything before we collided, nor was she carrying anything now. No nametag, no boxes, just a smile. Who are you supposed to be?

"Are you... lost?" I fished.
"No," she smiled. "Are you?"

From the center of this whirling dervish of trash and broken boxes scattered on the ground, I watched incredulously as she extended a hand to me. If my life had been anything more than lugging useless piles of junk around for the last few years, it would've flashed before my eyes right then. But one hand isn't going to tame a hurricane.

"Thanks, but I got it."
I gritted my teeth, veins bulging on my forehead as I used my legs to lift my load off the ground like they taught me. I'm guessing she wasn't smiling anymore but I can't see much from here. Can't afford to worry about things like that; this stuff is already heavy enough. Everything still smells like cardboard.

My curiosity got the best of me, however, and it took a bit of effort to turn around and look back. I expected to see her standing there alone where I left her but she wasn't.
She was gone.
I was alone.

Heavily inspired by
"Lutalica"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig

broken soles

i tried to call for help
but as i feared
no one came
and no one hears because their ears
are filled with their own screams
the silent ones that populate bad dreams
while you struggle to wake
from scary scenes that you know arent real
but it definitely feels that way
its easy enough to shake those feelings during the day
but when its dark out
the blood in the water brings the sharks out
ominously circling floundering swimmer
as he slips beneath the waves of his own fears
and while he fights to stay afloat
just remember that we're all in the same boat
as desperate cries escape water-logged throats
with the same look of desperation on each face
all trying to escape from the same place
running from nightmares

that empty shriek that makes no sound
like the absence of a crash when a glass hits the ground
was it full or was it empty?
shattered violently or crushed gently?
does it matter now?
just a hairline fracture
the smallest crack in the surface
can make the earth shift
or burst a pursed lip
one misplaced nail can sink the whole ship
a small mechanical fail
can derail the mighty train
or down the fastest plane
and a few days later
theyre put to rest
by strong men in dark clothing dressed
complete with flowers laid across their chests
mercilessly slain before they reached their best
only to live on in verses penned in cursive
once they depart from blacked-out hearses
curses!

but i digress
back to plan b
back to gingerly tiptoeing over tiny shards of me
spread haphazardly across the floor
while i limp around in shoes that dont work anymore
broken soles cant mend bleeding feet
tattered shoes wont hide cuts these deep
crimson footprints smear the wood as i try to sweep
crystal daggers under the rug
would you know it was there
if i didnt tell you it was?
sometimes i think
a lengthy hug is the least of what i need
to keep this straw man from bursting at the seams
but other times it seems
that a little bit of love
would undo me
completely

broken souls
dirty feet
open wounds
killing me

gone fishing

The windows were shut, the door locked; a lone sign hung loosely in the breeze.

He peered closer to read the sign and then threw his hands up in disgust.

So I wasn't in the office today.

Or yesterday.

Or the day before that.

Instead, here I am, tie untied, slacks rolled up to the knee, bare feet swinging inches above the water, trying to tease the Loch Ness Monster out of the shallows with my naked toes. At first, the silence was refreshing to my bruised ears, but now the thick sound of near nothingness was almost painful. I almost miss the dull roar of life, the murmur of movement, of people doing and going about their day--almost.

Now, all I can hear is the faint sounds of calm water lapping against the rotting wood. It's dead out here. The bucket is empty and the rod is still. I feel like the Old Man and the Sea, except I'm not old (yet), I'm not in the sea, and I have no idea what I'm trying to catch--still stressing out over what bait to throw, what hooks to use, which lines are the strongest. Why am I sweating the big catch when I can't even get the little greedy ones to bite?

My patience is wearing thin. Maybe I should go back. At least I get paid to sit there and be miserable. At least there's food on the table every night. Out here, if I don't catch, I don't eat--and I'm starving. The ringer on my phone is off but all the calls I'm neglecting are clanging loudly in the back of my mind.

But perhaps there's a better way to fish than wishful thinking on the dock.

Perhaps I need to get into the water.

i thought i was

I thought I was an apple

I mean, I live in a box surrounded by other apples

I'm shiny and red; I even wear that stupid little sticker just like all the other apples

I fell off a tree, landed in a truck, and now I'm here

but your hand descends and then it leaves again, pushing me aside, picking all the other apples
slowly emptying the crate, leaving me alone at the bottom

because I'm not the biggest apple

because the wax has worn off and I'm no longer shiny

because I'm bruised and ugly

because of the hint of sourness that grows stronger and stronger with each bite
because of the worms that have begun to burrow through my insides

because I'm two weeks past my expiration date and should've been tossed a long time ago

I thought I was an apple

because I thought you liked apples

but I don't think I want to be an apple anymore