Young Writers Society

My front teeth feel uncomfortable
in my mouth. They are too large, and foreign,
like Chiclets glued into gums.

That's what hockey players call teeth:
Chiclets. So easy to roll around in the mouth.
So easy to buy more. The rich ones have "teeth."

Are all Canadians hockey players?
And do they all have Chiclets?

i saw a boy working in a sheet music store three years ago; an oval nametag told me his name: bob oster. he had the longest neck i've ever seen, zig zagging high as the ceiling tiles with a blond afro like dandelion head atop a stalk. osters are flightless birds, but he did not need to fly as his neck reached the sky.

his glasses (thick as the walls) reflected my gawk, so quickly, i purchased a copy of moonlight sonata. triplets danced on the edge of his beak: need a bag? here you go. goodbye now.

His beard is a thicket,
yet he is a boy. This boy
watches my roommate pose naked
as he sketches. The final outcome
is her right leg, ankle bracelet rough
as charcoal squiggles.

I drove five blocks to the store
for a can of black olives, whole, pitted.

zip-tear echo of pulling back the lid

Savoring the shining pearl in my mouth,
I wonder if others think it tastes like meat.

Windblown leaf shadows
storm slow outside my window.
Glass is my safety.

The old tomes grow mold
in the stone-walled cellar.
Spines pine for sunlight
as we delve into shelves.
The books hook me as I'm looking--
Bound but brimming with beauty.

Surrealism?

My sister's head is a cantaloupe
and we go to a doll museum.
Radioactive action figures,
devastated by atom bombs,
cry for shame of melted faces.

My sister asks me if I want to live here,
but I do not know why her head is a cantaloupe.

Acoustic strings trickle
over the canyons of my spine,
stretching suspension bridges
for pedestrians of energy.

They glow golden like streetlights.
I cannot sleep. Cat-step treads
pad over the bridges, like pleasant ghosts.

Lullaby

The trees sway mightily with the wind;
they wave their leaves to and fro.
But their trunks are strong, and branches long;
Through storm they'll continue to grow.
Rest, my dear one, rest and dream.
The tempest will pass by the morning;
I'll be here, my darling dear,
But for now, I see you yawning.

Hallucinogens
glue roommates to the wood floor.
Their laughter wakes me.

if you can romanticize my illness,
create a gasp-inducing story
out of my raggedness, the curling
into a ball because nothing will stop
my panicked breathing but pressure,

then why can't you do the same for sunburn?
it is a symptom of enjoyment
(the spicy freshness of exposed roots,
hands marinated in soil, mulch compacted
to the bottom of my shoes), so much
joy that it emerges in pink skin, the roses
i tend incarnated in my flesh.

if you are going to romanticize my pain,
at least pick the pain that comes from goodness.

"get dead," she transmits.
she is tie-dye, tongue hanging out
like a purple streamer. she emits aromas
of men's deodorant, something named
metalwolf, or mountainfire, or wintertiger.
eyes like ancient tapestries; they tell stories
of wounded beasts.

she clambers up a ladder, conveniently
placed right over my head, and breathes
bad luck through chartreuse lips
onto my face. i do not mind.
"get dead," she snarls.

i hunt for mushrooms in the pasture
moor wild, grass knee tall,

and a goddess appears before me,
a white cow with rusty ears.

she approaches slowly, nose dewy.
she is round with a calf, and i stop

searching and kneel before her.
she blesses me with a blink of chestnut eyes;

a crow rasps from the treeline
a victorious war cry.