my words in poems

are disjointed

cracking on bad structure

the hinge of the meaning

hidden in convoluted phrasing

whereas stories seem to be

more open ended

a way to put together thoughts

without losing sight

of the end result

a poem is merely

a single thought

crushed into uneven

stanzas and presented

with nothing but love

but stories are easy

to follow and lead

us to the very spot

where we left ourselves

the most vulnerable part

of prose being the telling

of how we find our way home

Keisha and I are smoking on our cigarette break when I suddenly feel all bubbly inside, and sad at the same time.

“Keisha, someday I want to be somebody. Somebody cool.”

“What? You mean cooler than you already are?”

“I want to be someone who lives in Europe, travels to Brussels and Russia and China, someone who drinks sherry with dinner every night, and who speaks like four different languages. Someone with two lovers on the side. Someone with several cute dogs and many more cats – “

“Okay, stop right there. I’m already nauseated, and I’m supposed to keep breakfast and snack down!”

“Oh, shush. You want what I want.”

“I want to see you be happy for once, sure. But why all this talk about travel, being somewhere else? You can’t find happiness in places; it’s within you. You’re the one who has to change.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. Isn’t there some saying, from some famous dude or something? ‘Happiness only comes from within, not from without.’ Something corny like that.”

“Whatever. I want to be a world traveler.”

“Good luck getting your dogs and cats and sherry on a flight to China.”

“Thanks, Keisha.”

As we stand outside the rehab facility and huff huge smoke clouds up into the sky, I decide that, along with my New York City dream, being a world traveler and sophisticate are a must for my future.

Screw Keisha, anyway. Whore.

Who says places can’t change you?

“I’m going to find someone someday who actually drinks sherry with dinner and can stand cats and dogs, many of them. Brett even said that to me once: ‘You’re going to marry someone who drinks sherry with dinner every night.’”

“Is that why you’re into this fantasy? Because Brett mentioned you might actually get married?”

“I think it could happen.”

When our cigarettes go out we head back inside. I’m shaking from nerves. Lunch. Ugh. Then I remember I have to have dessert today, because it’s Dessert Tuesday.

“Someday I’m going to eat scones and tea and other pastries without even batting an eyelid.”

“Someday I’m going to be the head of the CIA. Seriously, Ariel, you can get over this eating problem but you’re never going to forget.”

She’s probably right. I’m always – always – going to agonize over food. It’s like, written in the stars for me or some shit. I don’t say as much, but Keisha is right, and maybe my dreams of living in Europe and riding a bicycle to work every day are just horseshit I make up to keep myself from losing it over dessert every Tuesday.

“I’m going to work in a used bookstore in Paris! Or London!” The thought hits me as we sit down for lunch.

Keisha sighs. I can still smell cigarette smoke on her, or is that me? Both of us?

It intrigues me that Keisha never shares her dreams. I know she has them – but why doesn’t she share them with me? I’m always babbling about Paris and coffee shops and she just takes it in, and then reprimands me for dreaming.

I swear to God, someday I’m going to follow through on my dreams.

Keisha is especially timid over her food at lunch, taking smaller bites than usual and then leaving right at the very end of lunch for the break room.

I eat slowly, too, savoring my cookie (dessert!).

Then I walk into the break room and sit next to Keisha, who is staring intently at the ceiling.

“Keisha?”

“Ariel?”

“Where do you want to be in ten years?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

I keep forgetting that depression rules our lives, even more so than the voice inside our heads telling us to take smaller bites.

Staring at the ceiling does nothing for me, anyway. I pull out a book of poems and start reading.

“Enlighten me,” says Keisha, and I know she wants to hear Whitman, too.

I start reading and everyone in the break room stops what they’re doing to listen to my voice, which I make louder, bit by bit, over the course of a poem.

I feel famous.

Don’t get a big head on me, Keisha would say, but Keisha doesn’t have dreams and I don’t listen to cigarette whores.

And then I remember: I am one, too.

I tryed,

I tryed so hard,

there was no turning back now

I lyed

I cryed

I died

inside,

but it didn't matter anymore,

They didn't love me,

I couldn't win,

the war

the ignored

the poor

and more,

they left me in the ground to rot

you can't jugde me

I did the only thing i could

by the saught

I got caught

and forgot

I am the dark

*TRIGGER WARNING*

"I'm here for you."

"You're not alone."

"You can always talk to me."

Lies.

When it's 2:30a.m.

And self- loathing claws its way

up my throat,

I am at my weakest.

Sadness rips its way out my mouth.

In the form of silent tears.

I am alone.

When the blade cuts my skin

And the cuts get deeper

I'm silently begging for help.

But no one is there to save me.

I am alone.

My resentment only multiplies

I grow to hate myself.

My last hope slowly

inches away.

I am alone.

The only real thing is

my tears, and the blood

trickling down my arms.

You say you are there for me,

but you're not.

I am alone.

Officer John Grant pushes open the door to his apartment. His face shows the frustration and tiredness caused by the last twelve hours. Sighing, he strolls over into the kitchen and opens the fridge. His eyes scan over the contents: one can of soda; two-week-old, half-eaten sandwich; one-day-old sandwich; and a bottle of milk. I need to go and do some shopping. He takes out the milk and the newest sandwich. Taking a sip of the milk, John looks at the clock. Four o'clock...That is enough time to clean this place and get some sleep. He starts up the stairs to change out of his uniform, but stops. What was that? He glances at the large closet next to the television that seems to have been where the faint noise had originated from. He listens for a while. It must be my imagination. Even though he already made up his mind, John still waits for a few more seconds before ascending the rest of the stairs.

After ten minutes, he is back to clean the apartment. How about a little music? John smiles at his bright idea and walks over to the radio to turn it on. Going into the kitchen, he takes the broom and returns to the living room. He opens the window to allow fresh air to come in before he starts to sweep in the one corner.

"Eighteen till I die. Gonna be eighteen till I die. It sure feels good to be alive. Someday I'm gonna be eighteen going on fifty-five!" He finally joins in with the song that has been blaring over the radio for a while now.

John pulls the sofa away with a grunt and sweeps behind it. Pushing the sofa back, he sweeps infront of it. He stops briefly and looks over at the closet standing next to the television again. He shakes of the strange feeling when the song ends and smiles as the next one comes on.

"So, I put my hands up. They're playin' my song. The butterfly fly away. Nodding my head like yeah." He starts before the artist even begins to sing.

He heads into the kitchen to get a bucket of water and a mop. Returning to the living room, he moves the sofa and the coffee table infront of the door, and starts in the same corner that he had started in with the broom. John mops the floor until he is infront of the radio. He straightens his back and stares blankly at the radio. Listening to the song, and to a voice that seems to have joined in softly, he decides to try and catch the owner of the voice by surprise. If it is not his imagination, of course. Hovering his hand over the skip button, he presses it quickly and listens closely, but the voice seemed to have stopped along with the song. Sighing and shaking his head at his own silly behavior, John skips a few more songs.

"Everybody! Yeah! Rock your body! Yeah! Everybody, rock your body right. Backstreets back, alright!" He presses the skip button.

The next song comes on and John dances around with the mop for a little while before continuing to scrub the floor.

"Heyyyyy! Macarena!" He sings along.

Throwing down the mop, John starts to dance the line dance of the song.

"Nah-NahNahNah-NahNahNah, Macarena. Nah-NahNahNah-NahNahNah, something something. Heyyyy! Macarena!"

He continues to perform the line dance, but worriedly glances at the closet from which a rather loud noise is coming. It is just my mind playing tricks again because it is tired. He smiles at his "reasonable" reasoning before frowning again. But why does it sound like someone is jumping around in there? Taking a deep breath, he tip-toes over to the closet and places his ear to the door. Yes, something is definately in this closet. He places a hand on each of the two handles and throws open the door. John gapes at the young boy who is busy dancing to the Macarena with his back to him. The boy jumps to the right and catches sight of the officer.

"Oh! H...Hey, Officer. Nice day to dance, right?" He smiles, but his wide eyes gives away his surprise.

"What are you doing in my house?!"

"Apartment."

"Do not correct me! You broke in, didn't you?" He glares.

The boy glances at John and then at the open window. Within a split second, he is past the police officer and out of the window with amazing acrobatic agility.

"COME BACK HERE!"

John can only watch as the boy disappears around the corner. He sighs. No use to try and catch him. I would first need to go to the gym for three years to up my running speed and endurance. I really should go and do that. Perhaps tomorrow. While thinking about a million excuses to not go to the gym, John walks over to the sofa and sits down. He stares out of the window before taking his notebook and pen to write down the characteristics of his newest acquaintance.

"Black hair...Deep blue eyes...Roughly seventeen...About as tall as me...Might be arrogant..." John stops writing and gazes thoughtfully out the window before looking back at his notebook again, "Singer...Dancer...Acrobat...Runner."

He throws the little book down with a smile. I hope, and have a feeling, that I will meet you again.

art is michelangelo

or andy warhol

it's a banana peel

nailed to a wall

a statement

open to judgement

and groaning crowds

'i could do that'

art is paying

fifty dollars

to stand in front

of a painting

with edges

that don't

express

where the idea

really ends

a mystery

that would

otherwise

lay dormant

attempting

revelation

in our thought

process

existing to perplex

even the artist

my dyslexia in full force this morning over coffee

I scanned Prose. and saw a post with "Changes" in the title

made me think of a phone 'charger'

because that's what's on my mind

at 7%

locked and loaded for a day of

minimal contact with reality

and I thought I'd write a poem about it

it's important to not have that

charge go down to zero

how else will I connect to the outside world?

and this poem could go either way

perhaps we are slaves to electronica

(a word I heard recently

from the mouth of an Android user)

one time in the teacher's lounge

the English teacher said, running late to class:

we can send men to space but we

still need to

charge our cell phones

and I felt that

I feel it five years after the fact

we are slaves to these devices

but maybe we are also being

willing consumers

there is no cure for phone addiction

but damn

does that phone charger

become a need

when we are texing

small nothings

hopelessly strangled

by technology

“What I really wanted to ask was if you did it on purpose? Did you plan it for a long time? I mean, I could never understand why you insisted on maintaining unhealthy habits, knowing they were killing you. I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t stop drinking when you had everything you needed. Everyone loved you, at home, at work, strangers. I didn’t understand why you still weren’t happy. Why you still needed to drink and drink and drink.

“So, I really wanted to ask, did you do it on purpose? At some point, did you decide you wanted to die but you couldn’t pull the trigger in that gun in your closet? Or maybe you were thinking about us or your soul? You didn’t want your wife to have to find you? Or God not to forgive you? Did you figure drinking yourself, killing yourself slowly would be more forgivable? Maybe get us used to the idea so it wouldn’t be such a shock? We got to watch you degenerate so that you looked like death long before it came. Was that your plan?

“I really wanted to ask you if it was that miserable, that hard, did it hurt so much, did you suffer so terribly that you couldn’t find reason enough to live in your wife, your child, your soon to be born grandson?

“I really wanted to ask if you changed your mind at some point, realized it was worth holding on but it was too late? You had already succeeded.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I think I understand now. And I think you were right. I just might try it myself.”

The battle fought,

lives lost,

spirits taken.

Among those fallen;

Swift Arrow,

Son of Man On Fire.

His blood flows,

becoming rust red

with dirt already stained.

A small pony nestles,

nudging his nose

to the fallen warrior.

He knows

what happened this day,

refusing to leave his master’s side.

Another brave

grabs the reins,

bringing the pony to Man On Fire.

The pony knows.

The pony understands.

The pony will remember.