The invention of poetry

I never liked poetry.

Frustrated
by rules
and precision.
Tired of sitting
and thinking
what rhymes with my last line...
am I coupletting correctly?

Who made these rules?

Not poets.

We, The Normal People,
so in awe of your word magic.
We dissect.
We count syllabus.
Trying to find the science behind the trick,
the slight in the hand.

I never liked poetry.

Until I read some
and wrote some
and realized:
I am not a scientist.
I am not the normal people.
I do not dissect.

I make the rules.

So go ahead
Count my syllables.
Measure my voice.
Analyze my worth.
Someday, you will imitate my structure.
I invented poetry.

Saint Edna spoke to me,
carved her words into my skin,
Like lined paper,
always where they were meant to be.

She sang about the wide open spaces.
About the girl who sang colored pebbles.
About fog so thick, it swirls as you move through it.
About loving someone so much it breaks your heart to look at them,
and about the loneliness that comes from walls like ours.

I read books about childhood and adventure,
books that had plot and point,
and then I read about a little girl
who lived in a house,
on a street named after fruit,
about how aweful it is to be young.
How beautiful and horrid life is.
And she was like me, a red balloon.
She sang in my key.

Sarah writes about food and love.
About messes and remembering.
about sisters and forgetting.

These are my saints.

Edna sang about sadness.
Sandra sang about sadness.
Sarah sang about food and sadness.
And I harmonized,
with my snap crackle voice.
It's broken notes and misplaced vibratos
Sobbing songs that we feel in the hollows of our chest,
like chocolate bunny hearts, that shatter when you press your thumbs in.
That same hollow breaking
mutilates the form and figure
and anyone lucky enough to not know
will look at it and ask,
what is this supposed to be?

Getting Very Philosophical about Fruit.

Honestly, I've always thought apples and oranges were pretty similar. Highly comparable in many ways. Both fruits, which we eat, they can be delicious or disappointing, sweet, under ripe or rotten. Most people have one they typically prefer, (I personally, am an Orange person), but as two of the most typical fruits, either will do for almost any situation. Both make a nice juice, both are handy and nutritious at any meal, and slip into a snack lunch pretty casually. Perhaps an apple will never be a good orange, but sometimes an orange isn't a good orange either, and when I want fruit, either will do.

People say "Apples and Oranges!" to claim that two things are being compared that are incomparable.
I think this kind of logic is essentially flawed. Of course everything in the world is different, which is why you cannot eat only apples your whole life, but claim you know what oranges are. You can't eat one orange and decide they're all bad. You can't read about oranges online and decide they're all bad.

And yes, there are basic differences between apples and oranges:
Apples range in color from yellow to green to red, often a combination of the colors. The fruit is mealy and pith-like in a gross apple, and crispy and sweet in a good apple. Oranges are orange when ripe, the fruit is juicier, and divided into sections by a thin annoying skin. They are easier to peel, but it's also more necessary, and the effort of having to peel them makes them more work to eat.

Of course, there are countless differences and variations among the fruits themselves. Every apple seed inside an apple will grow a new kind of tree, the only way to propagate one type of apple (say, gala) is by grafting. Every single gala apple you've ever eaten, eventually came from the same tree. When I was growing up we had an apple tree in our front yard that grew apples that were green and starchy and very sweet. We would eat them when we were bored. We would eat them till our stomachs hurt. You had to eat around the little worm holes and hope for the best. That house is no-mans-land now, the tree is dead and I will never taste those apples again.

Oranges are a winter fruit. They are a citrusy explosion of flavor, or a bland, tasteless skin sack that you spent five minutes peeling, and your hands are all sticky now. Tiny oranges are the same, but less work. Clementines remind me of christmas. I love buying bags of oranges and eating them all day, my trash bins and pockets filling with bright peels.

Peaches are good too. I love the way pineapples look, but they make my tongue itchy. As I'm writing this I'm eating a pomegranate, and my fingers are sticking to the the keys a little bit. And the name pomegranate means, in latin, "Seeded apple". Because honestly, let's all stop being snobs and admit, in the grand scheme of things, all fruit is basically the same. And for whatever reason, we think everything should be apples...

Anyway, in case you can't tell, this is supposed to be some sort of metaphorical. Except when it got a little bit side tracked and it was actually about fruit, because, that happened too. Also, When I say I'm an orange person, thats not a metaphor, I prefer oranges, the literal fruit, to apples, the literal fruit. I am a little bit orange though, now that you mention it, up on top... Actually now that I'm reading it this is almost all about fruit. Well. I tried. Have a good week everyone, in light of recent events, remember not to oversimplify to a matter of race, ethnicity or religion, there are crazy evil screwballs in every sector of the world. You know, Bad Apples. (*snicker*) (don't laugh, I'm trying to make a point) (yeah, but see how I brought that full circle? pretty clever.)  (shhhh)

Blue Ukelele

If you are going to be this
radiantly--
gloriously
beautiful
could you please do it somewhere else?

I have spent years cultivating this brain,
with books, education and careful synaptic pruning,
then you walk in
with that smile,
and it is all reduced
to a twitching,
soupy,
electric
puddle.

The thrill of just a few moments
-not even with-
simply near
you

and I am undone.
A school girls blush
is so unbecoming
on a full grown woman.

And
there is the slow decent,
in your absence,
back to sanity,
rationality.

But still,
there is a constant craving.
You are a vixen,
and it is cruel of you to exist
if your simply going to leave.

January's Peaches

There are moments that bruise.

Like rotten splotches on pink fruit;
all firm,
Interrupted by brown squish
thumbprints.

And you
survive, ripen, evolve.
But sometimes you run your hands
over sore spots
and feel that tender sting;
the embarrassment-adrenaline of people you have been.

In moments of quiet security,
you remember
her,
the she who you were
and hold her close.
Soothing bruises,
washing wounds.

Clucking, "You're okay."

Goodnight Finals

Hello wind
Grey sky
Sweet-nearly summer,
Not-quite-storm

Hello trees
Swaying in the tempest
paper thin leaves
fluttering like friday

Hello paper.
Due in 3 hours
not half written.
Fly away in the wind.

Goodbye career,
goodby grades,
Goodbye...

I'm going to take a nap
and plan a theoretical pinterest wedding
and sit,
sipping tea by the windy window.

I have readers block,
And I couldn't possibly
elaboratively process
one more
potential essay question

Who needs success anyway?
I can be happy
In all things:
Flipping burgers,
waiting tables,
filing papers.

You say "B.A."
But I say Bah!

Doctor

I tried to get my blood to flow for you
but alas,
it was all in vein.

It's not fancy, but its true

Sometimes
I look back
and blush
at the pages
and pages
I've filled
with poetry for you.

But sometimes
a body comes along
and all you can do
is write them poetry.

Mixed Tapes

Today, I heard a song that you gave me;

The soundtrack of falling for you

And those songs still exist.

But...

I remember lying on my bedroom floor

Blue piles digging into my skin,

And with every song I was sold.

But...

I miss you,
like I always missed you

When you weren’t around

But being together
was never quite what missing you was

Always trading stories.

Always waiting our turn to talk,

Our turn to prove how smart we were.

I’ll never stop missing you

And I’m so grateful.

Missing you makes me better

And while we were together,

I missed missing you.

It’s all broken now.

And maybe I like that better.

I crave the sadness

I crave the loss

And the songs still exist,

But they play in a different order
And they don’t play for me.

Not a Poem

Well, today, I'm going to do the thing the internet was made for, and post some random and irrelevant information that has nothing to do with the supposed function of this site.

I am a Red Head. Except for one, brief and quickly regrown, experiment with short hair 10 years ago (and... infancy) I have always had long hair. For years, it has been common place to receive compliments from strangers. Comments have ranged from lovely to invasive, but all the same, they all have fueled the roaring fire that is my ego.

And can you blame me? Look at this!

 It's a blanket of hair. A cloak. The surface area of my hair is equal to double that of my body mass. Well, not quite, but you get it, my hair is HUGE. Its bright, its loud, its everywhere. My hair is a tourist attraction; like the circus, but with fewer elephants.

Well, two weeks ago, I made the extremely amazing and courageous decision to cut my hair.

Oh wait, no, I'm not a firefighter...

I made the incredibly shallow decision to cut my hair. Why? I bet you're wondering. Well, my laptop broke. And apparently you can sell your hair online for so much shiny shiny money. So I looked into it, took some pictures and spent $14.50 to list my hair on "buyandsellhair.com".

Terrified of being raped and murdered by a hair fetishist, having paid $14.50 for the experience. Terrified of being spammed, mocked, stalked, harassed, or worst of all, getting no response at all. But then the one thing I didn't expect, happened. My hair sold. I listed it for $900, for 23 inches of hair, which would leave me enough for a short bob. I got a variety of responses, many of them highly sketchy. But one person asked if I would be willing to "negotiate for a pixie cut".

And something strange happened in my brain. Suddenly, I didn't want to cut my hair into a bob, I didn't want to leave it long, I didn't want any of it. I wanted a pixie cut. I mean, go big or go home right? If your going to cut off all of your beautiful, healthy, long red hair you might as well CUT IT ALL OFF! So I said sure, and we agreed on $1200.

$1200.

Oh
My
Head.

Ok, just to put this in context, I grew up really really poor. And as fate would have it, I was born a prissy, materialistic princess, and I freaking LOVE money. The only time I've ever gotten a sum of money that big was for my graduation, which I immediately squandered on stupid things like getting a car older then me running so my sister and I could take it to college.

I was skeptical, as you should be anytime someone offers to pay you $1200. And of course, I was going to have to buy a new computer so I could write my blog, and to a lesser extent, do homework and graduate college. But it still felt so good.

Well, in the midst of all this, I got to see one of my best friends for the first time in a while, since she goes to college out of state. In the process of catching up I told her about selling my hair. She responded by giving me her computer.

I can't.... I'm not a person who has trouble finding words. When in doubt, I just... use a lot of them. But how do you respond to such, such, innate generosity? Such immediate kindness! Mostly I just stared at the floor and tried to think of creative ways to say "No, you can't!" while my greedy little fingers gripped the gorgeous aluminum rim of a brand new MacBook Pro. Now, obviously, this isn't a permanent solution. Eventually, I'm going to give this poor girl her computer back. But when you're in college, working a minimum wage job between classes, and borrowing money from your future, you don't spend a lot of time thinking of "Long-term, permanent solutions". It's too depressing. The future is filled with massive debt that is already growing; with competitive interviews for jobs that aren't even the one you want; with paying your own rent. No, what you think about now is how your going to finish your homework between Netflix binges, how much of the essay you can write the night before, and whether or not you have to read/buy the textbook to pass the class. All of these things are made much easier when you actually have a laptop. And suddenly this thing, this huge obstacle that was so discouraging, just... dissolved.

And I didn't need to sell my hair anymore!
On a different note:
I have been wanting to go abroad for a year in France. The college has a program which allows you to study abroad while still enrolled here. All the finances, aid, and scholarships are the same, and of course, room and board is covered. So economically, its pretty much the most conceivable way to see any of the world before I become an official adult. All I need is money to buy a plane ticket. Which is approximately, $1200.
So, plan B. Now, I get a computer, a college education in France, and A SHORT PIXIE CUT!

So far, I'm loving plan B.

I am so grateful.

I am so blessed.

(My sister, the eternal critic, calls that little cowlick in the back of my head my "Katniss Hair". Not because I, like Jennifer Lawrence, have an adorable pixie cut, but because it's standing up going "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!!")

Alice, Escaped.

She is so refined and delicate.
You could pour her whole soul
into a thimble
and not spill a single drop.

But not me.
I will yell
and flail my arms
and roll on the floor,
laughing, unladylike,
too loud,
at my own joke.

I will stamp my feet
and cry
mouth open, eyes shut
gushing.

They say
in whispers,
into their tiny, frail hands-
"Shrink, shrink, shrink."
Till there's nothing left.
"Disappear. Less."
"Less."
"Less."

But not me.
I will be Bigger.
I will fill the space I'm in,
and push my shoulders back
break the roof,
shingles shattering,
and roll blissfully
in the sunshine.

I will fill multitudes.

And when I die, they will say,
"It's quieter now."
But somewhere, a frail women
sitting at her window,
will see my rib cage, skeleton,
and stand up
and smash the glass.

Boat

I would trade you my boat for a life jacket.
A life jacket.
A life jacket.
I would trade you my boat for a life jacket.

This boat on the sea.
The boat with a hole.
A hole so the water rushes in.
Water rushes in from the sea.

A boat
on the sea
with a hole
where the water bubbles in.

I would trade you this boat,
This boat with the hole
I would trade you this boat,
and the hole
and the sea

Trade you this boat for a life jacket.

Hot Pocket Lips

His lips, 
like two Hot Pockets® 
on the plate of his face.

Hot, cheesy, convenient goodness

But he is empty calories;
Distilled monoglycerides, corn syrup solids
Imitation, artificial. Over processed, barely edible. 

He'll give you heart burn.