Thursday, April 16, 2009
Rather than worry that my poem is fully memorized and performable for tomorrow evening, I have instead put together my imaginary perfect poetry reading outfit. Yes, I want to channel the romantics, apparently. Too bad my own closet is rather lacking in things I actually like anytime I'm flustered by something. Thus, I hate everything I own, (and solidify my girliness).
We were broken, didn't know it
I can go nowhere
I burn candles and stare at a ghost
Deep inside of you.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The poets from both the CHS slam team and the PBHS team. All stellar. Although PBHS is holding the trophy, so that's going to have to change next time...
Thursday, April 2, 2009
still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers.
we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow –
ordaining the racks of a thrift store with
designer jackets and heels,
cracked leather running shoes,
your black pants with the strawberry print.
It feels like I'm stealing from you,
giving your clothes to the poor.
Creating space between each of dad's polos,
an entire bar devoted to hangers.
I look for you in your bedroom behind the door,
speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers,
the carpeted floor where your bare feet
stood to pick out a shirt every day.
They only tell me you
don't live here anymore.
Journal scan, July 2004
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
My "dining room." Also known as my desk. Who cares for the computer armoire right next to it. I prefer dinette sets. And the boy waving from the kitchen.
Luckily, we are only moving across the highway, and about two blocks over. More space and splitting rent for lower payments each month are quite tantalizing. Plus, Michael currently rents a $600 dollar a month storage shed, because he doesn't live there, but this apartment is too small for his furniture and clothes. So, sad as I am to move out of my church apartment, a carriage house from the 1800's with original brick floor downstairs is still neat. (And yes, I said neat).