To a Child

Threes are what I remember: back, side, more.

I still can cook, Julia. It is the only place where I admit
I don't know it all
but I stay close to it all, sleeping with the books piled around me,
vegetables on the shelves. Would fruits make a good pillow? (Like the one with the lace sham where we ate orange popsicles that August ninth before I had to leave for the first time and you had to say it back.)
The gear on my hindsight gets stuck in reverse so all I see is cannons of snow, bombastic on the sham turned gray and you're dead, Julia.
The threes folded together and the tree I won died on my back porch.

Am I nothing but a tied-up question, ribbons and
left-field allstars?

When I am all, I can picture the great
the great
the great uncle and
the ball going
through a loss and blame
and my dog
walking along.

The possessive of a future object can come from the past. Neither one? We still want you.

Shake and fumble on the rim. Can you
tell me
where to find the names or escape ladders like they have in those three hour films we would have escaped to had we been there in the first place but we were over here, not there, circular and first to fit our adapters to our convex somethings that can't help how much it takes -- all in either or either way.

ATTENTION


If you are reading this, tell me who you are.
Let's play. I know some of you are from Athens and New York and otherworldly destinations so tell me where, who, what, how, and when. Tell me all and then some.
PLEAse?

We are poor but We live well

We removed the red from our lungs:

-purple prose with a pomegranate core

-thank-you notes

-goulash with toast squares

All these mean to the lowlads stews strong inn the Transylvanians, with pulverized peppercorns instead of the noble & sweet pride of Hungary.

That same pride conquered the land, invading the fifteenth centurys’ palate to breeze from kitchen to couty. The very noble admitted the clandestined spice to their banquests (tables) (nostrils).

The housewife now uses the teaspoon or the countertop to measure for clay-like meat, rouged soups. Those who raise chickens have seared chicken (with paprika) or, if there is sour cream, paprika chicken. They have specialties but they are quite content with corn-meal mush or plum dumplings.

I can hear light switches and doors and dog tags that sound like sleigh bells but without the heavy weight and familairity, almost like a ball gown that isn’t gone, a grown up gown that used to be behind doors and behind doors only but Amelia Earhart started the trend of bloomers with her transatlantic nap until we all wake up to find dinner on the table, chinese again, extra tofu and hold the msg please, we have to make it ‘til Dog-Scaring Friday.

I eat a cookie before the road, a bus with strangers and others and sweatpants. Two auroras later and we meet up to hide under a neon martini glass, to hide from the First Avenue crowds until a full moon helped us find our way t Green Bay – this being a sign of warning but with friendly help, we found our way home to where my grandfathers’ name is embedded in the sidewalks, where his Mother found an occupied gallows knot, where we first met under a bridge until, full of pancakes and monkeyshines, where we parted ways with care packages



Ξthree rolls of film Ξhis shirt that he wore on our last night together Ξ

Ξ three flashlights Ξone pocketsized notebook Ξone nude photograph Ξlychees Ξ


But we wish for Minneapolis again so we can make champagne cocktails out of yeasty rivers, prosecco and seasonal bite size bottles of amaretto, butter on the side until we can go where? The No Name Bar? Into the cirrus clouds? A city named Normal? No, for now we will just stay in tangerine chairs until I know I have a heart because it’s breaking.

substitution lime juice

you taught she how to save lives under a wish tree full of spare change but you could never take away the cheeky laugh from the girl on the subway, claiming underground beauty would never hold up what little was left of you. the difference between she (the poet) and you (the writer) doesn’t make a difference anymore. we’re blending forms, turning the pink function into a ridiculous way of telling fortunes or an explanation that an octopus would find repulsive.

you takes no time to tell his own objections to this change, takes a vicodin, takes his time to wash away the sidewalk Van Gogh (crown royal on the side) you takes a breath, a line, align, a pause, an opposition, a sigh, assigning she to watch his thumb wrestle with her nameless finger: because she never pulled my hair as I stared up her torso, she never pulled, she just felt.

you (the writer) {or a writer} tells she (the poet) {or a poet} about teaching, blushing, getting caught in the bramble-branches of language, the art of lose and failure. she (the poet) {or THE poet} tells you (the writer) {or THE writer} how the girl on the subway was only being polite, was drunk, was buzzing like a welcome mat, wasn’t right to say it’s nice to see you. the girl was a stranger for a reason and should stay that way.

Fernando Pessoa

Also known as Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, Álvaro de Campos, Bernardo Soares, António Mora, the Baron of Teive, Thomas Crosse, Coelho Pacheco, Maria José, etc.

Born in Lisbon to sickly ancestors, Pessoa¹ jumped early from continent
to continent
swinging his hips wide, scrawling his life and their lives down
and away into a trunk that wouldn't be open until
his own attempts to raise Cain, full of virulent drink
and even more virulent worry, made him and his seventy-three tongues
fall silent.

He and they were one in the same, both too far ahead
and
lacking in enough hands to write with.

Can you imagine keeping track of all those lives,
all those wishes
all those demands
all those
thoughts
prayers
feelings
memories
stories
words
letters
sounds.
Who would win out in the battle of humor?

they
all kept talking
even if he wasn't even heard during his own being.
Even when his corpse was dormant, they shouted from the
trunk where he tucked them in each night.
Whispering Portuguese lullabies,
sleep baby
at grandpa's house
grandpa doesn't have a mattress
the baby sleeps on the ground.²

1. Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was a Portuguese poet and writer who used numerous yet incredibly detailed heteronyms. Most of his work is still unpublished due to his nearly illegible handwriting.
2. A Portuguese lullaby

I stole a pistachio once when I was seven years old.
Three months later, the summer of 1995 boiled over 600 people alive. I blamed it on myself.
Nana always said I aged quick, like whiskey.
Every night I would pray that my house wouldn't burn down. My routine was flawless.
I never look both ways, a habit of all these one way streets.
Listen, I come off as abrasive. I grew up admiring the Daleys.
You really should floss more. It feels great to look down and see whats left at the end of the day.
If I could afford it, I'd kill the days by baking.
Missouri never took to me but I still remember the sky after getting lost in a state park. I could finally understand the appeal of nowhere.
I don't understand aisles, why do we have to be so compact in life?
Kissing takes more effort than sex, all those chemicals get me all turned around - how can I be expected to kiss correctly.
Popular was never a word related to me.
I wish that everything I say could be recorded, available for playback whenever I needed. I forget too many birthdays.
I wish I could remember the way he said my name the first time we met.
I was the best narrator in the entire sixth grade.
Life has never made sense to me.

Hekla

Nature mimics the fridge when old volcanoes stench just like when I forget to clear the egg drawer. Sulfurous and salty, pungent clouds until you reach forward, expecting a shell but the texture takes over. Bumps that ooze brown, taut slime shakes like a geriatrics’ dessert table except instead of tapioca bubbles we have unlimited possibilities for creation through hot molten core that comes down hot, slow, fast, think, smooth, rough, away and toward.

Thomas knew the screaming, how sound travels during an ice storm up and into ear canals at warm human temperatures.

Bill wrote it all down-published in his prime but Ishmael turned it around – the mariner became the next big thing, not bemoaning but joking about his hot headedness as the two portals down to Purgatory, ironic since residents swore that at night the voices yelled hot, spewing forth cries, hawking up their glowing phlegm as a warning. Humans may understand the why of these pressure cookers work now but the magic remains when eyes look deep from the precipice to a reposed underworld.

For Charlie

It is depressing to look up at the starlit sky, seeing not only the dying breaths of galaxies lightyears away but the pockets of nothingness that lay between them. In that nothingness, there has to be some body making light, doing something but it is too far to be seen by just us. At one point of another, we all wake up in the nothing space in someone elses night sky.

Gold

Our mellifluous present could stand no more
so it took my own pride before I could hide it,
whimpering in the corner of an empty train car
I came to understand just how these things work.

Experiments

I took a fresh breath of bathwater before I dry a martini
to lose at yet another game of Omaha hold 'em down before
they run away too because the world is too dangerous for
those girls who bleach their upper lips and cross their legs
at the ankle. So I'll just watch the window that holds the world
while I move forward and everything just goes by, hand in hand
with all the military men and women who protected things I
never wanted in the first place because it makes life so much more
complicated than it has to be, we could all be free of these
ties that bind and limit our lives but we stay sill as windows.

Realism

We all grow into the mistakes we made years ago, saying how we were meant for more, bigger, better things when really our own minds and problems keep holding us back, further away from where we would like to be.

So I watch out my window as the rottweiler takes his morning walk even though
the rain is hard, his owner wears a navy slicker that helps moisture stay out and his hands free to clean up while my window is dirty and my mind shrinks back when rotary phones ring because I am too lazy to modernize.

Past

The power of blank space
has truly been announced.

I doubt I will ever
look at the whites of eyes
the same way again.

One life can not tell a story.
It is chapters and words
that are wrought together
with emotions
and old love letters
that were never sent but
instead found
when moving out of one apartment
in place for an older one.

These overlooked and garbage thoughts
were criminal in their misadventures
and dreamings of unbelievable cramps.

I should have thrown it out long
ago. But it was here
waiting for one of us
and for some reason he chose me.

(untitled)

The candle was a gift.
The first time I burned the wick,
I left it lit too long and the wax
stained a table my grandmother owned.
Scrambled mess turned into a quick disaster
that I knew would always remind me of
that gift
and you
and how things never really ended,
they just stopped.

Vacation

I dreamt that both our windows were open
and while I watched you undress
you watched me, watching you.
A funny cycle of voyeurs who
had no idea how to stop
except for repeated cleaning of our
panes to keep watching.

When I told you about the dream,
you laughed saying,
that wasn't a dream.
We used to live across the street from
one another
in a past life.
After you said this, your chin shook.

You got another drink and left me
thinking about the dream
and past lives.
So you were a liar,
I know that much,
but I somehow still cared
about all your stories and tails.

Battles

You're armed with yourself
and we can tell secrets
once you lose the left one
carried home in a basket
made by yours truly.
You'll sit at the table
telling your story.
Oh they were tough,
Oh they were big,
Oh they could've torn me
limb from limb.
But instead they only got
one so we made lunch
and forgot about it
while the ice kept melting
and the tea seeped.

Two Down

He couldn't finish
the barely started
black and white
grayscaled paper
with only two
answers, both easy,
when he hid it
in a back pocket.
Black squares stared up,
full of menace
while the whites
wide eyed with glory
had a predatorial
stare while they waited
in the dark.

Deep

There have to be meanings
reasons
logic.
An explanation that reaches
into my own definition
of my who
and what.
But
when I try,
when I lurk
and search
and scour
it doesn't show.
It slides further
beneath the placid surface,
beneath where light
stops
and monsters
take over.
Their skin like
the ancient
bestiaries told,
glowing,
showing
where the reasons
hide,
in their lures
that will trap
any inconvenient
visitor
who doesn't
belong.

Crust

The empty train gave us reprieve from wind and city,
making us whole again.
The overpriced drinks made sense of the sounds,
meeting our minds.
Eating cake on the abandoned car, we were alone
when I confessed
Defeat to losing myself in a concert hall bathroom
with no locks.
The wind wanted in but the windows held strong,
the glass kept us safe
just one of the manmade
nets that caught me.

Modern

The buildings rained after the clouds were empty.
We hid our eyes through blind siding sprints
as the lights kept moving
back and forth
and all around.
Once inside, we debate
you taking the side of art
of the wild still left in the world.
I claim indifference, uninspiration,
all that is wrong with the world I live in
I find hanging on these walls.
You joke about the wheelbarrow
full of popcorn and Christmas
ornaments.
I wish it was just another attempt
at poetic imagery but this was
too good to be true, I suppose.
In a way.
Maybe.

Visit

From Egyptian steps, our city was the view.
A busy street that moves all day
sleeps softly by night, stirring ever
so slightly. My feet were achey,
dull life new shoes and he was making threats.
I can do it. I don't see why not.
But you'll get sick, you'll get sick and sicker.
It's dangerous.
I've done it before.
But does that mean you should do it again?
Well.
Well?
I should've stayed home. I should've stayed on that street
corner while the tunnel was beneath us and he stood while
the lights changed - twice. Our stop was on my side.

Kildare

The sensation of home can only be impossible.
It holds no meaning but for one.
Each individual open to no closure
and as the pavement changes
from a dark charcoal gray to a sparkling
gem dotted street paved with golden skin
as wheels still turn
wearing the ground thin
as my patience for prompt responses
disintegrate as fast as the children
fly.

Mundane

While walking for an important appointment,
I was on the side of a winding road
when a truck tire fought with a robin
for a single, square inch of asphalt.
The robin lost his head
which ended up on my shoes.
On the up side of all this,
it was raining
so the mess faded faster
and was gone in time for
my appointment.

Hooked

The way his skin snaked over his bones,
scars a mile wide under
patches of mistake remembrances
reminded me of an exquisite feeling.
One feeling that I had only once,
a year ago,
the days were all the same
filled with nights that are
muddled
and forgettable.
But this feeling came
with a morning,
inexplicably dire
but an odd sense of ambiguity.
This feeling
knew
as a sun rose and my blood
cleared way for an ancient beast slowly
climbing up my back
curled around my neck
and sat.
The pressure began to heighten.
I knew he wouldn't leave easy
but that knowledge did not compare
to the feeling
of him
waiting
for me
to miss.

Break

The MC on State and Lake danced his way around the microphone stand, the mic stuck between his left arm and ribcage. His Nikes and three tooth grin were his dysfunctional charms so that when he motioned at the young asian female to come dance with him-sneakers inching closer, toothless mouth making nonsense noises but the doors are only open for eight seconds so before he has a chance to pull out the big guns; she's gone.

Five Trunked Tree

Day care center with an alley bound play pen, a chain link fence holding in the children, covered sides by a Chinese restaurant and a dollar store.
Leveled fields of former prosperity with tags on top of tags.
Steel, wire and tubing.
A winter home made from abandoned scraps: parts of a roof, structure, support beams.
It sits next to the city crematorium.
A still life of spokes, boxcars and wheels behind the eclipsing water tower until the new condos spark light from behind their thick, red brick walls while a fiberglass shark waits in line at a taquería.
Spaghetti ramps over the canal while a new turnout of secret after dinner messages are being led out the door.
The last thing I see before I fall asleep is the half inflated football on top of the bus stop canopy at Halsted and Archer.

Blueberries

Blueberry, you are a tart temptation
waiting to explode.
Your skin beckons against my inner cheek,
taught with flavor.
I can feel the prickling tip of your stem
scratch against me.
Simmering on low,
full of your own juice and sucrose swirling
a temptation for my hand
to dive in your sticky sweetness
burn my own hand
to relish your taste.
You remind me of Maine summers I always wanted,
never had.
You remind me of his lips,
sick with a sweet adoration for me.
You remind me of a blueberry,
tart and sweet,
thick skin with lush molten guts,
succulent against my map of tastes.

Caught a Glimpse

Like cooking in the dark,
your arms went limp
against a pale brows wink.
Safety and precautions
unlit and
unproven.
We believe and believed
in the belly of the whale,
full and eerie,
waiting children,
waiting for permission
to get out
from under our desks
and look
to the an empty sky,
threats averted
threats averted
time to leave.

A thin strap,
loose fit,
run stockings, run.
Yellow halogen with a girl
whose hair was long
and mistakes forgot themselves,
with a cheeky disposition
of whatever will be
can't be.
I'd like to think she would
remember,
I'd like to think.

We all fit in,
the dark love
making us
into what we are,
liars and thieves
of one anothers own
everything.
I remember them.
Without a word,
I'd call up
to hear an old voice
tell new stories
about what it used to be.

New Years

The year was forty five minutes old, making every action a first. Another first kiss, first dance, first shot of burning cinnamon schnapps from a friend of a friend, the first memory of regret once the sting settled in my stomach but the burning lingered in my throat. Soon though, life was moving in fast forward again, a new day already full of memories and moments in just a handful of minutes.

Charlie and I escaped the party out the back door. We hadn’t been alone together in over a week, the holiday season consuming all spare time for family and any obligations besides ourselves. Climbing down the back porch, I was blinded, the sudden gust of cold felt in my bones. My legs were almost bare to the elements, hidden only by thin tights. The ground was covered in snow and ice, fresh coats from unsteady storms that kept spinning in circles, showering us deeper and deeper with each blizzard. A realization came over me that we were standing on the platform of California Avenue, the yellow street lights mixing with the red heat lamps to create a soft orange haze. The bars were still full while we huddled closer to one another, savoring the hum of the heater.

I don’t recall any meaningful conversations, there had to have been. Looking back though, anything that seemed significant at the time loses meaning once you’re sober, becoming just another alcohol laced exchange, a jumbled mess of philosophical tangents with no closure.

Making plans was our go to topic as of late, trying to keep things as light as possible out of fearful optimism. Most likely we were talking about the neighborhood. A few nights ago while we were eating dinner I explained how my transient lifestyle had been taking its toll on me. I wanted roots, familiarity, the sense of community that only comes from connections that go deeper then just a name on a lease.
Drunk paired with my excitement, my sense of whimsy began to take over, I declared undying devotion to California Avenue. Or Kedzie, maybe both. Or for the tan apartment buildings that dotted the streets of Logan Square, inexpensive housing designed specifically for students, artists, working class; exemplifying the nature of Chicago, different worlds contained on a single block.

The train eventually slowed at our station, allowing the passengers to file in for their bi-annual free ride, only available on New Years and the Fourth of July. We hid behind the door partition, drunks to our backs and the cold seemed worlds away once we slid into the subway portion of the tracks.

Sitting close, hands resting on each others’ knees, our merlot stained lips moving faster then our drunken ears could chase. So many follow up questions, a ballet of fumbling words and misunderstood repetitions. Circular logic on a ride to the loop.
The train came to a screeching halt at our transfer, we slowly climbed the layers between platforms. The normally busy stop felt silly in the early hours. The bustling hallways were empty, the gigantic advertisements seemed ridiculous with only two people, drunk and suddenly mystified how an escalator works. We kept going though, aware that eventually the trains will stop running, the celebrations had to end sometime.

The majority of the city was either still at home or never even left, drinking the annual champagne at home with friends and family huddled close for their own set of firsts. We waited, peering around the corner to look for the airplane pictograph that signified our ticket home. Two trains passed, sexual tension and winter taking a toll on our patience, released only by complaining about the Orange Line until our plane was in sight.

We ducked in the conductor portion of the last car, two seats secluded away from main compartment even if we really didn’t need it them. We were alone. We felt away from it all. The cold that flushed our cheeks or the voices of other passengers, just feet away in a separate car ceased to exist. The only sounds were the clacking tracks and ourselves. The flirtations turned serious once we were alone. The innocence of a night out quickly turned pornographic. Our breaths shallow and coarse, my right leg straddling its way around his back while my left was trying to keep myself balanced on the plastic seat. Words came between the kissing, the feeling, the searching of each other. Something unmentionable but also unmistakable.

I stopped. Sitting up, my eyes an inch above his.

“I want you. Right now. Here. Now.”

Simple statements, uncomplicated and honest with their intentions. The loop flew past at thirty miles per hour. The buildings were familiar but blurred; focus was too much to ask for in the state that I was in. Charlie moved fast too, rifling, unwrapping, only to rewrap. All in correlation with the glass panes flying past, closer then they ever seemed. If the window were open I could reach out and trace along the fastly fading architecture.

A state of panic overtook me. This moment was perfect, so it couldn’t possibly be happening to me. Not the girl who spent the majority of high school hidden behind books, eager to have a conversation with Nick Adams but never with a real person, let alone specifically a real boy. Yet there I was, the same person except not. Completely different. Nonsensically in love with another person and in total lust for the moment. Absurd almost, how much a few months or a couple of drinks can do to a person.

The thoughts kept racing but I took action. I ripped my tights, hiked up my skirt until our hips were touching, friction filled the nook. We tried to match the only rhythms of the sleeping city that were available to us, the quick catching of wheel on rail that propelled us forward until the train just stopped.

With an abrupt flash of our heads from side to side, we knew we were halfway from Adams and Wabash until Roosevelt, the Polynesian restaurant advertisement I knew from so many rides on that train was the only clue.

However a dormant train didn’t stop us. Our own rhythm exceeded the clacks, the unconscious metropolis that contained us kept dreaming while we, stuck between stations, reveled in ecstasy, fueled with liquor. Millions of people were unaware of the simple beauties of that night. I placed my hand against the Plexiglas, littered with etchings from adolescent dares, felt their marks, understood why the overlooked handles were so important. Those names were not just names, drawn with an old key on the side of a train, barely decipherable from a set of lines yet somehow full of pride. Our breaths were short and deep. We disregarded the heat and we sighed on. The city only slept so long before the echo of a sunrise ran through the raw buildings pitted against the wintry lake, rousing the young and old who would see these same windows, read the same names, watch the same disappearing windows as they go around and around. The fleeting throes of passion were irresistible, causing us to act like teenagers on that winter night, a first to end all firsts. If I hadn’t noticed the weather worn faces standing on the Roosevelt platform, well, who knows?

Midwestern Roots

I've learned of myself,
through fields of old snow
dotted praries
three legged dogs that leap at hawks,
pale taupe wings over my windshield
dashing for themselves.
What it was,
the realization,
the eye-opening term
was how great this all is.
How the darkness swallows my headlights,
the support of a bridge glistens rows
and rows, three eyes high
as the smell of hay and soy rise higher.
But these forgotten places are below the radar,
forgotten with good purpose
because I never should have discovered them
even if they helped me.

Found Gonzo

Knock and roll,
head every of anyway.
You tell the kind of people crowd
the impression let in public.
They'll come here,
in this town,
you have you,
you're shit.
I take me,
no goddamn derby.
You tell in the inlet,
I've learned this,
not a faggot.
And I know
one thing every year
to be giving some cent
is minute.

Found Education

List:
a gain,
a high,
problems.
Depress his identity
to five, encourage
all but the five
in green
and in order.
Problematically acceptable,
with no self critic and late wills
where problems prompt me.
Interest ticked the second
I read, "Stay. Do not want a question."
But sometimes legs twitch,
urging to learn.
Being above has its
disadvantages.

Hill Myna

Memorizing the words of dead men
does not
does not
does
not
make you great.
It makes you a bird.
Passerine and dull
recitations that make you seem
greater,
but you're comparing
yourself
to bird brains.
You idiot.

Lake Michigan Pt. 1

Somewhere in the overflowing bins of photographs, there is one image of myself, at age seven, standing in front of a portal to another world. The entrance is dim but filled with creatures who allowed me to escape my own reality for a few hours. Somehow my eternally fleeting attention was captured by them, I stood at that portal for the entire length of a school field trip. While my classmates dashed like refracted light around the aquarium, bouncing from each glass casing to the next, I stood in the same spot, watching these magical orbs glow.
Thy would float in all directions, the only motion that could be detected was a silent swoosh of their gooey exterior. Their rings would shift colors, blending with the blue background of the container until there was a fluorescent explosion of any and all imaginable colors. I still have no idea why it was these animals that made me want to take notice of their every movement or breath, well they couldn’t breath really. They had no mouths. Or heads, for that matter. Just fragile orbs with no resemblance to me, but there I stood, impatiently fiddling with my instant camera, reading their description over and over again.

Aurelia aurita (Moon Jelly)
Thailand
NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED

My inner voice of reason tried to convince me that I wouldn’t have any photographic evidence of this new world, it probably wouldn’t even come out with the only light source being their outer membranes, only a dull glow. But another voice kept piping up, this voice just wouldn’t let it go. It kept harping on me to just do it, no one was even paying attention to these guys except me. They deserved to be immortalized through film, their phosphorous qualities would live on through the magic of my three dollar camera.
This battle went on for some time. My two selves were both determined to get their way so much so that I didn’t even notice the woman standing next to me until she tapped me on the shoulder.
“Would you like a picture with the Moon Jellies?”
“Yes, but – the sign. It said, no pictures.”
I could barely form words, which happened often to me as a child. I’d flush, my face turning as red as the lobsters in the previous display and hide, mumbling a requisite answer to whoever was talking to me until they went away, leaving me to wait for the blood to stop filling my cheeks and allow my body to function normally once more. She was pretty though, I remember that. Her chestnut hair seemed to reflect the marine world where we stood in perfect harmony, even more so then her aquamarine polo did. Then I saw the name tag.
“Oh, you work here.”
“Yes, I do.” She laughed, almost too loud, the jellies floated to the right side of the portal. She was watching me, I could tell. Even though I was staring so intensely at my own two hands, I knew that she was waiting for me to do something. Yet all I could do was stare at my hands, trying to hide the camera, trying to hide away my thoughts of disobeying the rules.
“I love these guys too. I actually got to go get them from their original home, in Thailand.”
“NO WAY!”
I realized that I was shrieking, like a little girl, which no doubt about it I was but I never behaved that way. I was what most adults would call a “creepy” child, keeping to myself more often then not, busy with my own plans and ideas that engrossed my attention for hours upon hours.
“Yep. It was pretty neat, lots of unique sea life that lives near there, much different then this Lake.”
She pointed out the window at Lake Michigan, a navy pool with patches of earth green underneath the cold water.
“Here, let me take your picture.”
She placed her hand on mine, slipping the camera from my grip into her own. I tried to stammer out a reply but instead just turned to face her, all teeth, and a little gum while standing on my tip toes.

Frozen Toes

Today the weather in Kirksville is at a low, only reminding me of another day from this last break, when the official temperature laid at negative six degress. That was the high. Most people would've stayed indoors, camped out on the couch with a blanket, or five. But I was walking, even more like shuddering my way down around Lincoln Park, wearing a skirt, in negative six degrees.
Charlie and I were searching for a street in this cold, after catching a well-timed transfer we had just gotten off at the Fullerton stop. Sitting in the car, filled with a whistling window and screaming children, we were tempted to stay but still we hopped from car to platform to sidewalk. We're not really a couple to talk about the weather, so we were probably making hateful remarks about anyone wearing earmuffs. We were over half way there, we had hoped. We were not sure which way from the station was the correct way, one of those three street meetings that never really seemed logical to me. Or Charlie, as we found out, so we ducked into a small chicken and ribs joint, Wilco posters hanging on the wall with a crew of prototypical male fronted greasy spoon.
Charlie had wet feet, my epidermis was running low with flushed cheeks but we still had two blocks. And no money to buy anything and stay in the warm confines of the store front. So out into the quickly disappearing sun we went.

Evangelical

There is a man on my street corner,
holding papers that are
rolled into a cone
to yell his words so I can hear.
I overslept.

Stranger On a Train Station

On the start of a brand new year,
we parted ways while old men had warm greetings.
I can't remember the taste of your lips
or the warmth of your tongue.
What I do remember is the way his shoes looked against day old snow
how their prints still held
the pure clay far beneath the snirt covered path,
how when his knees bent
and cracked against a warm wind,
how his face seemed as deep and understanding
of places that I've never seen.
He was the experiences of my dreams
in a stranger who didn't even notice me.

Self-Loathing

I can tell you one thing
the only thing,
that I'm ever certain of
is
uncertainty.
A horrible, trite irony
that never leaves my mind.

Underbelly

I can still remember everything
that I try to forget.
Kisses mean nothing
and october
with a toe-headed boy
who bent from the waist to
wind loops and frizz
until I'd cave.

I remember sliding
through ice and snow and frozen ground.
A wolf who held me hand.
Cushioned by passive voice,
critics who hulled idle hands in unison
while another was betrayed.

I remember a walk in a downpour
of conversation and condensation.
The shirts were peeling like paint,
a false modesty, inching closer
to only wake up and discuss
the weather
and a love for a good dark roast.

I remember my drunk who made claims,
took my hand under flying diamonds and unlit chandeliers.
Exposed to what I had done
and who he wanted me to be.
Maybe, I did it all
Maybe, it was for myself.
These times that I could forget
or regret
but insist on remembering
and lamenting.
For some god forsaken reason.
I'll kill him yet with dulled senses and new experience.

They Were All Inside

IT is his last day
the places wait
along with iced planes
runways full of red lights
with blinking blue
under yellow haze of snow
rain
mixed with more
and more moisture.

IT is her last thought
while driving
across the bridge
with rails
like bicycle wheels
who spin
when she drives past.

IT was his and her but now
who knows.
His mind lays still on a
blank canvas
while hers contemplates
broken windows
cracked book covers
and a seldom seen sense.

No, I wouldn't

The pain of distance is not something I would wish on anyone,
even the most vile adversary to all that is good in the world.
The simplicity held within a momentary touch is too
precious a thing to withhold.
The beauty in the hot sticky warmth of someone
else breathing on your neck
while the wind keeps blowing,
the clouds move further north,
the sun moves just a bit closer,
and everything makes sense.

Of a Curious Sort

A greenness
that can only
be a
starry-eyed, yellow-bellied, blue-soled acquaintance.
Followed by the murmurous quiet
belayed intrusions
New English girls with
flaming crowns and
affectionate indications
gently glancing
the left stage of a mort
who tied herself to the
current of the sea
wrapped in screens
and incandescent candy foils.

Mom

Another Saturday in the world of a seven year old, finally free from all the stress the second grade classroom. I would grab the overstuffed green chair in our living room with s’mores pop-tarts, fresh from the toaster, and watch my Saturday morning line-up. It started off with Doug leading to Darkwing Duck and ending with Captain Planet. Feeling inspired by the environmental message of the Planeteers, I decided to wander outside to ride my bike. I grabbed my hand me down bike with the wobbly back wheel and began my adventure up and down the 64th block of Western Kildare Avenue.
My block doesn’t have many interesting features to it. It’s covered in bungalows with their eight by ten foot patches of grass for their front yard. There are a few trees scattered, one distinct elm at the south end and in the middle is a giant tree with tiny leaves that would follow me whenever I would ride past. One interesting feature of my block is the direction that it faces. There is Lee School, a public elementary school and then half of the block is just an empty field. For some reason the kids from the neighborhood would always seem to congregate there, even though there were four perfectly fine baseball fields at the park one block away. The game was always baseball but I could never join in since it wasn’t allowed for me to cross the street. So I would just sit and watch from my porch while my dog Barney would wander and sniff the grass in our front yard. But before I could hang out with the dog for the afternoon, I heard my name being called from across the street.
The most astonishing thing about it was who was calling my name. I screeched to a halt to see Mary Eileen Dalton (Marsie as her friends called her) to be waving at me. She was one of the prettiest, nicest, most popular girls in our whole second grade. It was a really big deal that she even knew my name. I would’ve given anything for her just to talk about me but here she was actually waving at me and talking to me. She told me to come join them to go sit and hang out. I didn’t even process what was going on because my feet took action for me. I think they were tired of spending their Saturdays doing nothing but riding up and down the block. I had barely crossed the street before I realized what I had done. I froze in horror at the screeching sound of my name from behind me.
“Maureen! Maureen Therese Foody!”
My Mom marched up to me, ignoring my silent pleading to have mercy on my social life. She snatched the handle of my bike and grasped my right shoulder. She dragged me back across the asphalt and back onto our bland eggshell covered sidewalk. She was lecturing me the whole time but I was elsewhere. I kept trying to glance back and see what was going on across the street. Were they watching me? Were they on the floor laughing at how pathetic I was? I couldn’t get a glimpse until we reached the top of the stairs at the platform of our stairs. They were all laughing. I would later learn that this was not because of my incident but at the very same time Kevin Schumacher split his pants, exposing his batman underoos for all to see. From then on his presence always greeted by a chorus of, “Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na, Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na, Batman!” But since I didn’t know this hilarity had occurred, I assumed everyone was laughing at me, forcing me to utter one single word.
“Damn.”
“MAUREEN!”