Young Writers Society

sound bounces off walls and multiplies on itself
[white noise that changes by season]
between raucous yells and comforting voices
[these are the sounds you grew up with]
punctuated by the staccato cling of metal hitting metal
and the yelling of vendors barely heard
filtered through tv mics and a live crowd
five feet away and three blocks over
that still brings the smell of fresh cut grass
[the lawn mowers were out three days ago,
blistering ears and noses alike]
because open windows filter soft chords
with tires squealing two streets down that leave
blacker rings on black pavement
[the sun bakes the rubber into rock]
the sun-soaked remains waver in heat,
burnt smell never quite disintegrating into dying wind.

It was midday when I lost it.
Once there, always there,
suddenly missing.

The sun brought it out of me,
especially in the morning;
particularly in the evening.
But at noon, it was gone.

Vanished--
off to a life that didn't involve me.

The wind didn't return it,
the rain didn't bring it back.
It was off, creating it's own path.

At least, I'd imagine it was.

Unattached, free, allowed to roam
the vast emptiness of the world.
It would never survive indoors
or in cities filled with grandiose skyscrapers.

But in the country, in the plains--
that's where I'd find it.

Frolicking, finding a new home,
enjoying the fresh breeze on it's face,
watching the tumbleweeds
cross an empty road.

Or maybe by a beach--
listening to the seagulls scan for lunch,
taking a shallow swim in the crashing waves,
or overlooking a newly constructed sandcastle.

But I knew, by the afternoon,
it would come back to me;
faithfully reattach itself to my being
once again succumb to my way of life.
Losing any and all control.

We'd walk together, my shadow and me.

Until midday tomorrow.

1.
there are three words stuck in my mouth
every time i cough they cut my throat
baby it hurts kiss my skin and make me forget
baby it hurts fill my my mouth with soap and make me clean again

2.
i love you
no, that's wrong
i hate you
you hate me
we hate life
let's end it
run away together
two people in love--

3.
i always mess up, don't i?
i write and write and write,
but the words are wrong
or maybe it's the people
in the wrong places in life
to find love that works
and doesn't destroy
baby you killed me
baby i exploded like a star
and now i'm just a black hole
baby do you still love me?

4.
i think i died
on the side of the road
in the back of her car,
or under the stars in the bed of his pick-up
or on the floor of the kitchen, covered in batter,
stars in my eyes and lights out so i can't see your scars,
or a million other places you held me too tight
and i nibbled on your neck.
baby, i think i'm dead

day seven

the cold is palpable gray smeared
bone dust against tattooed black skin says
remember who you are says
you won't break my heart says
i am a lion

the world is darker here the clouds
low-hanging and dense whipped
from zircon blood plaster metallic
bravery the way clay eats away at a water supply taints
clear places and conceals drinking water sometimes
darker liquids have to do consider
red alcohols the way to go

i will not put myself in a position to be clouded
eaten away tainted self-removed blasted
black and red and crippled the way you play hearts

Day Nine

How comes it that there were so few a note
as would believe in times long spent to gouge
and torment the hearts of men?

Was it that the crows could cackle no harder
than when they were already atop the head?
Alack, it was not so, for I hath seen a crow dive
it's head through man just to crack his ribs
and torment his heart with stinging beak.

Was it then that man hast risen above such noble
strife as Job with three thousand ducats eradicated
from his charge, and Shylock lost three daughters
all his sons, all his lands, and all his life?

Perhaps we hath cried so hard for so many epochs
the tide has risen high and the starving among us
are seen as starving fat, not bloated. Our temper
claims acceptance of the fat actor beggar, and the
bone-wanting body of our souls, for we are stripped.

We are nude upon the heath, battered by rain
tormented by bullets and shells. We are unfit
in our own comforts, and in our shelled lives blind
staring out into the tempest as a few minor knaves
the fools with wisdom have been hung, and we are naught.

We, who see this, we who read this, we who write this,
we are nothing. We are no fool, no beggar, no royalty
no Cordelia, no maddened king, we are the peasants scrounging
we are all Edmands, all the vilest of lightning bolts cast down
for no purpose but to making glass unfit for use. We are
nothing.

Because I never learned the names of blue

It is sunlight scattered, seeking oxygen, electric sparks.
It is periwinkle invading gardens and a baby boy’s booties.
It is primary, the cornerstone of colors,
But the printer’s pigment is richer, not glaring like its computerized cousin.
Powder blue triggers memories of eyes you can't forget.
Azure evokes turquoise dreams on winter days.
Pantone shines like royalty, Crayola molds the summer sky in wax.
Liberty is tinged by slave-grown indigo.
Ultramarine, a holy blue from the sea, once clothed the Virgin
in lapis lazuli, born from the earth, a gift from radical sulfides.

Resolution is quiet, sturdy, standing with navy’s conformity.
Catalina recalls the Spanish tides, darker than midnight.
Independence is liberty sullied by gray.
The space cadet clings to memories of the ocean, the night sky.
Silver lake blue wraps you in melancholy.
While Majorelle in Morocco matches fire's intensity.

Her shades bring us sky, bring us night, bring us sadness, bring us life.

The Mountain

On the mountain there's no certainty.
One cannot guarantee what they will see,
encounter, enjoy, or run from.
Predictability as fleeting as the leaves in the wind.

I saw him there, behind the boulder.
Ice blue hues staring down my very existence.
Legend would have us believe this was "you or me,"
but in actuality it was so much more.

A soft gale blew through the edges of his thick coat,
causing it to move like a billowing ocean wave--
harmonious creature, equivalent to the world around him;
a watchful, wise soul protecting his home in silence.

Astute, unwavering stillness within this creature.
His beauty was unparallelled,
and rose from the barren cold--
a beanstalk for my eyes only.

I nodded to him, feeling our connection was secure.
A blink let me know he felt the same.
Turning to leave I glance up higher on the mountain,
catching a glimpse of a hollowed area beneath a tree.

Little ears peaking out of the void for a moment
before ducking back into safety.
Glancing back, the wolf had withdrawn.
She left me her trust, and returned home.

White Lies
Sometimes I say to people I’m engaged
though I have no fiancé at all. Just because
it’s such a beautiful thing to say in that honeycombed
lipped sort of way, in that waving a smothered tongue,
applecheek-full-of-it presence of being.

To be some french woman awaking
from her sheets, already flowered up
petal scent to her neck!

I want to know love like that! To masticate
my m’s like a married woman, feel them smelt
in my mouth—
a diamond ring, or a diamond swordsmith?
that sounds refined: my fiance’s waiting for me
like the conversation I heard last week.

What it must be to know
amour so resinous, it leaves grains
across the fingers. A road’s map prints
in these whirls, a road to another world.

Today I walk the tree-lined streets to wait for rain
to drop from crayola skies, and get wet like a married woman
and step inside the shops where you can hear
the people talk about small things like a married woman
and eventually shelter into a neighborhood’s row of married homes.

I am going to pretend,
say I'm a married woman and lie to the man who next comes
glancing at my hand not because I wouldn't want the life,
but because waiting and pretending for this person or that
the thought becomes more satiated than the trying.