maybes_smashing

i have nothing interesting to say; however, i'm sick of looking at that freaktastic picture of me in clown makeup.

given that, i'll post some of the work i've gotten out of my "advanced poetry workshop" this semester. i use quotes because this course leaves much to be desired. i miss creative writing classes that require portfolios for entry. that way, the idiot factor doesn't end up being too much of an issue for me.

anyway, most of these have only been through one revision. i appreciate constructive criticism (especially from you, elle). i even LIKE it. i'm considering submitting to etsu's litmag-- it's been well over a year since my last publication. oh, and i've got to figure out whether or not i think i have strong enough work to apply to an MFA program come december.

here they are, most recent first:

Weather as an Indicator of Mood

The persistent rain and grey uncertainty of the clouds in the wetlands
the way the moisture seeps into your shoes,
how a car can swerve so easily from its intended path.

In the desert, the difference is only this:
the searing burn of a hot sun
to quiet things down, to cauterize the wound.


A Freudian Fairytale

      I translated her into pain.
                   Stephen Dunn

We met at the ball, a masquerade in a
messy apartment prone to noise complaints.
White Christmas lights, two months early,
hung from crooked nails in the walls.
Zorro was there, and Robin Hood too.
Prince Charming had prior engagements.

She held her drink, Jack and Coke,
like she wanted it to hold her;
a strong arm to hang on to.
She danced alone, despite her suitors.

I found her later on the tennis court
staring into the nightlight halo cast
upon her, into the eyes of some god.
She was missing one shoe and
swaying, as if with a breeze.

With your ear to the ground, you can feel a
train from a mile away, palms down in anticipation.
We waited, but he never came. Two bodies
parallel and then intersecting, I felt only
her lips and tears against my neck.

We lay there until the clock struck midnight.
She and I, Cinderella missing her prince
and Snow White, his understudy.


At 35,000 Feet, I See Your Face in the Clouds

Ive been mourning your death for years,
prepping myself for the real thing.

A phone call, my fire alarm:
with the building really on fire, you forget which way to run,
which staircase leads where. You wait for direction. You panic.

Nitroglycerin under the tongue quells the pain of a heart
broken with age and mayo, opening up blocked-off pathways
to carry oxygen to the muscle that beats blood through
your body, keeping you with me, a temporary solution.

Sterility sucks the flavor out of everything, even the coffee.
While I wait, they shave you neck to knee. I hold
your hand as they wheel you through the labyrinth.
You tell me to write this one down. You dont say goodbye.

Human hands werent meant to touch human hearts.
We defy expectation. A saw straight through your ribs,
your ribcage, the wet cracking sound it makes. He
lays you open, hands steady, and closes you up again.
Metal o-rings hold your chest together, blood flows through
your heart with less resistance.

When I see you again, arms strapped down, your own blood
keeps you company on the pillow. A machine breathes for you:
my grandfather, the fly, eyes bulging blue.


On the Breaking Down of Social Structure

Historys path folds in on itself again and again
to teach us lessons of human desperation so vicious
that we allow ourselves to forget, be it consciously or un

Two days after the winds have died
down and the waters have risen
claiming their stake of real estate and lives,
the heat of a southern sun on the Gulf Coast
wrings sweat from the brow,
those last beads of hydration evaporating
from foreheads and wiped away on backs of hands.

There is no drinking water save for the tainted
and locked down, and greedy hungry hands rise from below,
their fingers upon the locks that uphold law where law
cant uphold itself, breaking them down,
blurring the boundaries between life and
the path of the righteous man who does not steal,
not even water for his swollen tongue.

and the sentinel, forgetting, guards his stock,
legs crossed one over the other, weapon at rest,
never having seen their wild eyes.


ps: i know my titles try entirely too hard.