I couldn't see the moon from where I was sitting
so I moved.
But when I turned around to tell you,
you were gone.

playing favorites

It's Christmas. And I can't stop crying.

Here's a little known fact about me--when I'm alone and hear Christmas carols-I cry. Sometimes it happens when I'm not alone. Christmas Eve services (this year's being no exception) are usually really difficult for me to endure...only because I'm desperately trying to avoid being seen weeping openly over a candlelit rendition of "Silent Night."

I think in years past, I always chalked it up to the emotion of the season--but this year it was something more. This year, the waterworks started one random Wednesday evening in my basement--to a version of "Hark The Herald Angels Sing." I'd always heard it sung as "offspring of a virgin's womb" but the version I was listening to said, "offspring of the favored one." Cue the tears. I guess that's what's at the heart of it for me. God, Himself, looked down from His heaven and saw this woman--this girl--and He chose her to carry His Son. God saw her, knew her, and thought, "Yeah. She could do this. She's going to be the mother of the Son of God." Which, all my fellow protestants--forgive me, just begs the question...what was it about her? And maybe more importantly...how can I get it? Check this out:

"And the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God." Luke 1:30

So, my fascination with Mary continues...and call it what you want, but I want that thing she had. I have no idea how to get it, but I'm finally starting to believe that change is possible. And maybe favor is, too...maybe it's possible that the Lord sees me and knows I'm capable of great things--even if I don't.

The Twelve Days Of Christmas...

This fantastic version is compliments of a super guy I know-J.R. He's a graphic artist and these are genius (yes, that's him in the pictures). If you want a bigger version of them, just click on the picture. Enjoy!

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

twelve drummers drumming...

eleven pipers piping...

ten lords a-leaping...

nine ladies dancing...

eight maids a-milking...

seven swans a -swimming...

six geese a-laying...

five golden rings...

four calling birds...

three French hens...

two turtle doves...

and...

a partridge in a pear tree!

“Maybe if you just knew what you wanted, it would make your life a whole lot easier.”

Seriously? Did I seriously just say that out loud? Granted, the customer was already off the phone—but I still said it. And what strikes me is not my own propensity to mutter such things after I put the receiver down, but I’m struck by my own audacity to accuse someone else of such a thing.

But I guess my problem isn’t not knowing what I want. It’s more about not knowing how to get what I want. And it’s not because my options are limited. Or the road unclear. It’s because I’m scared. I can’t get what I want because my fat feet are cemented to the ground. I wish I could say it better but I can’t. Although, I have a friend who is a bit of a kindred spirit when it comes to this. And he said it better than I ever could. Hopefully he won’t mind me borrowing his words…

“Here's my deal. I am scared. I am scared that I will choose the wrong thing. I am scared that I am not good enough to get what I really want. I am scared that if I get something good, that I will fuck it up. So, I find it better to choose nothing.”

I.choose.nothing. Or I choose nothing of value. And if I choose something of value—I sabotage it. Barrel over it with all my insecurities. Shortcomings. Misgivings. I am exhausted. And exhausting.

But I think there’s hope. After I received that from my friend, I wrote back and had my email had sound, he would have heard me, panicked and shrill, ask, “what are we gonna do?” But instead, I just typed it. Maybe I wanted him to choose for me and absolve me from any tragic ramifications. Or maybe, I just figured that when someone feels just how you feel and can articulate it better than you can—it’s not a bad idea to see what their ultimate plan of attack is. And his was this…

“Live courageously. Choose, realize that choosing something limits us...it means that we don't choose other things by choosing something, but that's a good thing...or can be. We're meant to have limits. A lot of the battle is knowing that we have the fear and acknowledge the fear, and choose courageously. Choose…always choose. You'll never settle for less as long as you’re choosing. It's time for living.”

So let it be written, so let it be done...

looks like it's time to pay up...

double dose

Grit my teeth until it’s over.
This injection of reality-
skin pinched, needle pointed.
The sting of alcohol cold
on my freckled skin.
You’re unmasked but sterile
(be a good girl)
while you administer
my long overdue shot of
perspective.

muzzle

Let me slip this on-
and forget about talking.
I'm not in the mood
to distract you
with how I feel or
what I’m afraid of.
But I can’t trust my tongue
(the source of this constant barking)
not to disengage.
Morphing into the only weapon
(or weakness)
that keeps me inaccessible.

have mercy...

Here's a tip. A helpful bit of advice from me...to you. Don't wax nostalgic on a random Wednesday night and start reading through your old journals.

I've just managed to embarrass myself...in front of...well...myself.

The poetry's so bad. The drama is so ridiculous. But I guess...I don't know. Is that the stuff that grows us up? Probably. I'm just not entirely sure that I can appreciate having all that "growth" down on paper. My childish penned anguish...

Seriously. I'm thinking about a bonfire.

"the problem with grown-ups was that under that magnificent shell of adulthood, just under, waited a baby full of tantrums." gwendolyn brooks

write-off

pull me out of this nightmare
i'm stuck here and drowning
no way out, i'm played out
pinned down without warning
resistance is futile
this last mile might kill me
i'm filthy and borrowed
you got off but
i'm guilty
of seeing this lie you called truth
in my mind
choke on my own words that
i just can't make rhyme
time won't heal, i can't deal
with these wounds i've been nursing
curse it and throw down
rehearse the whole damn thing
sing til i sound tight
smile and i just might
laugh til it looks right
and then write you off.

september 4th, 2007

i love the ocean. i dream about it. i spend most days, at some point or another, desperately wishing i was close to it. when i finally am close--right next to it, standing on its shore, letting its waves lap at my feet--i'm in awe of it. and on nights like tonight, when i stand back in the dark and watch it--i'm terrified. then i realized that it has little to do with the darkness or daylight. i'm always terrified of it.

i love it. and i'm terrified of it. it's a constant state of joy and simultaneous panic.

maybe that's what it's like for me concerning everything i love. love and terror. one preceding the other whenever i think about it too much. the fear of its depth. the unknown. the predators hiding right below me. the sheer force. the risk of being pulled under. dragged out. carried away. capsized and rolled. bottomless and unfathomable. warm and then frigid. calm and suddenly raging.

and i love it. so does perfect love cast out fear? or does it just love in spite of it. do i wade into breaking waves, sight unseen and hope for the best? how do i cast out fear when all i know how to do is be prepared for possible tragedy?

"i swam, the sea was boundless, i saw no shore.
tanit was merciless, my prayers were answered.
o you who drown in love, remember me."

cleveland...rocks?

I think I have Adult ADD. Either that or my best friend and I only have it when we're together, because I can't think of any other way this could have happened to us. Well, other than the fact that we just simply weren't paying attention (it's a long story, you might want to get comfortable)...

So, B and I went to Cleveland to see Joshua Radin. I love him and she was along for the ride because she’s always up for a road trip and she trusts my taste in music. We roll into Cleveland with no problem. That is, until we tried to get to Euclid Street where the House of Blues was located. It was blocked off. You know the drill, cones, signs, barrels and flashing lights telling me “ROAD CLOSED.” So, I make a left, figuring that if it’s at all like any other US city, we’ll just go down a little further, cut across and get onto Euclid that way. Apparently, Cleveland is nothing like any other US city. We ended up on St. Clair. Then Prospect. Then West 32nd. We circled downtown Cleveland for about 40 minutes until we ended up on the far end of Euclid and found a parking garage close to the HOB. The good news was that we only missed the beginning of Josh’s set. I had really wanted to see him live and he was awesome. (Insert shameless plug here: http://www.joshuaradin.com/)

So, it was a really fun time. We leave the HOB, get back to the car and head out of C-town. About 5 minutes out, B and I have different ideas about which way to go. We sit at a light and she convinces me to take 422 to get to 77. So I do. We end up in the mo-freaksta ghetto. It was actually starting to get terrifying when B announces that she needs iced tea. sweet tea to be exact. I look at her like she has seven heads, but she tells me to pull into a gas station and she’ll be fine. I tell her I will but that there’s not a chance in hell I’m getting out of my car. She runs into the store and while I’m sitting in the glowing light of an enormous Colt 45 sign, she asks four thugs how we find 77. After they laugh at her (which was, in her summation, only “because I’m white”) she gets directions and pretty soon we’re on 77 and heading home.

So. A couple of girls on the highway, talking, laughing, talking and...well...talking. It wasn’t until two hours later that I stopped B mid-sentence.

“Wait. Wait. It’s 1 am. Get out the directions-how long were we supposed to be on 77?”

B pulls out the directions, takes a look and claps her hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god...15.1 miles.”

We’d been on it for 2 hours.

We dig out maps from my glove compartment, and I see that we’ll be fine if I just get on 30 East. We’re on 30 for about 45 minutes when we come to a “T” in the road. And there are no signs for 30 East. I can go 62 East or 62 West. I have no idea how I ended up on 62. We pull over and I don’t think anyone in the history of the world has strung together a string of obscenities like I did. It was actually noteworthy. Hence, the reason I'm noting it. Anyway. That’s when we see the flashing cop lights. They pull up behind us and get out of their patrol car. The one walks over to the passenger-side window, sees two girls sitting there with the interior light on, heads bent over a map of Ohio and states the obvious.

“You girls lost?” Yeah. We’re lost. We tell him we need to get to Pittsburgh.

He looks at me and says, “Oh, then you want to be on 30 east.”

“I thought we WERE on 30 east.”

“No, you’re on 62.”

“Well, I know, but I know I was on 30 at some point. I took the exit, I swear.”

He just sort of shook his head and I wanted to choke him.

Then he walks over to his partner, they pow-wow and he comes back to tell us that they’re going to take us to 30 themselves. He told me to follow him and once they pulled off by the Marathon station I just needed to make a left and we’d be on 30. It was really nice of him, and we thought it must be a testament to our hotness…but then a friend of ours said that it was probably just because we looked really pathetic and it was obvious we had no idea where we were. I maintain it's because we're hot.

End of story: 30 East is a nasty, backwoods, God-forsaken road out of Ohio, into West Virginia and finally into Pennsylvania. We should have been home at 1am. We got home at 5. It was glorious.

the 411

so, i came here to have my stuff posted somewhere all together. myspace is...well, it's myspace. i feel a bit more comfortable here. i've been dodging the "self-proclaimed porn king of pittsburgh" for the past few weeks. it's starting to take it's toll on me. anyway, the poems i've put up are old school with the exception of the most recently posted 3. the others are from the not-so-distant glory days, or something like them.

in other news, i cut my bottom lip on a pretzel today. incidentally, i think i just realized that "pretzel" is a word that isn't going to ever look like you spelled it right, even though you did. or i did. whatever. back to my story. it was a snyder's sourdough pretzel and i broke a piece off and after that...ok, honestly, i'm not sure how it happened at all. i just know it did. that might be a metaphor for something but i'm not touching it.

tow

I'm listening,
helpless and hushed-
trying to let your truth drown out the nonsense.
Waiting for that tangled mess that took my tongue,
that fed me fear, to sink-
weighed down by your words.
The ones you whispered,
the ones you screamed,
and the ones you mouthed-
just hoping that I saw.

dig

Dig deep and uproot this ancient heartache.
Wrap your able hands around this coil of a lie
that was planted when I was too young to know better-
and too stubborn to listen.
Shift this heavy soil that has it hidden but not suffocated
and watch it come to light.
I want to feel the earth move under me as you pull it to the outside
and present it to me.
A familiar enemy that kept me grounded in my selfishness,
and left me stranded on the surface.
Immovable. Unshakable. Untouchable.
Shake me free and cut back this ugliness.
Wrap your able hands around my willing heart and squeeze.




artwork by will kinchlea

ripe

Pick me up and examine me like so much produce.
Squeeze, shake, prod and poke until youre satisfied
Im ripe.
Pull back the peel and shed me of this skin.
A cast-off covering disclosing what I am--
sectioned and sugary,
sometimes sour.
I can feed a craving
or pucker your perfect mouth.

memorized

I know how you feel
because I cant forget
the weight of you-
heavy on my chest.
No conflict
just compliance-
reckless and rash.
Humility stifled
by my self-importance
while we camouflage want-
as need.

close

you are my moving forward.
a hand where there was none
stepping in your shadow
through sand water stone
you remain steady.
placing my feet carefully
where yours have been
each move slow and deliberate
unassuming and thick with purpose.
you walk on ahead;
i'll follow.

foolish

you reach out, i shrink back
off track and put off
trapped in, caught up, cut up
and non-stop. make me stay,
watch me go, push me out
take me home. show me off,
hide the goods, kiss my mouth
if you could. coax me out,
watch me fall, bite your lip
when i call, no solace,
but silence, so golden i’m holding
your right hand and looking
just so fucking foolish.

touch & go

i'm not thrilled that you've managed to turn me into a one trick pony.
i have an aversion to being smothered and pinned down.
it makes me itch. it makes me restless. and suddenly my skin doesn't fit.

i want you to come closer so i can tell you to leave.

down the rabbit's hole

i'm alice. i've tripped down the rabbit's hole and ended up in wonderland. i can't figure out how i got here. i've done nothing wrong except stumble over my own two feet. but i probably could have avoided this whole miserable adventure if i had steadily been putting one foot in front of the other instead of chasing something i had no business wanting in the first place.

all i know is, like alice, i hardly know who i am anymore. and everytime i start to settle into a place where i might know, i'm magically transformed again. taller, shorter, stronger, weaker, harder, softer. one moment i have compassion, the next it's gone. one moment i want to run away and the next i can't move my feet.

alice got out of wonderland by waking from a dream. i can't tell if waking from what was all a crazy dream would be a relief, or a tragedy. i'll guess we'll wait and see....

"Who are you?" said the Caterpillar.

"I--I hardly know, Sir, just at present--at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then."

"What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar, sternly. "Explain yourself!"

"I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir," said Alice, "because I'm not myself, you see."

chained

you me we
weak mean and sordid.
i never wanted you
but i was lazy and easy.
you were sad and bitter
and wanted to rob me of my mad beauty.

you say i am a delicate gorgeous girl
and i am chained to your lying tongue.

anywhere but here

Kiss and coddle me while I stay
lost in this cause and effect.
Trapped with the wounded.
Bandaged but counterfeit.
My brazen heart thumping,
echoing in my ears
telling me to stop.go.stay.still.
As I fight the fear that I’ll atrophy,
watch while my muscles deteriorate
making me weak and wasted.
And you offer yourself as a crutch,
knowing my legs work just fine
but wanting me corruptible, easy,
willing to limp to you.

untitled

You ease into me-
out of what you are
or could be.
Something more than yourself
but less of something else.
A discourse of self-doubt
effortlessly recited then rescinded.
Whisper what you need and
want will follow,
while you strum these strings,
pluck the chords-
the music a symptom of my resolve.
An unaffected melody,
artless and ordinary,
you ease out of me-
into who you are or want to be.
Dizzy with inspiration,
my song fixed in your mind,
on your fingers.
Humming while I mouth the words,
mimicking my kisses.
Conduct this second-rate symphony
with laughable indifference
and look past me or through me,
but not at me.
Suffer this moment and await your arrival.

not me

Not me but you—
the wrong and right of it.
Logic and reason lost on me.
Compassion lost on you—
pointing fingers and placing blame.
I can’t manage how I feel.
You can’t manage to feel at all.
This heavy-laden, break-back weight
you handed me destroyed my spirit and
shattered my heart.
That lie I let in took root,
spiraling around my brain,
whispering to me with your voice.
And I believe it.
Disfigured and disappointing,
empty-handed and hard to love.

too-tight

I taste blood from biting my lip and holding my tongue.
And letting you get the best of me.
If love is pain, then hate is envy.
Ugly and unwanted.
When you met me I was hiding.
Safe in a loose-fitting security.
Smooth hair. Painted face.
You knew I wouldn’t survive exposure.
But you moved in on me.
Tugging. Pulling. Tearing.
Piece by piece.
Stripped bare you left me broken and hating this too-tight skin.

fools gold

I was treasure when you first found me.
Shiny gold buried in self-loathing.
Polished until your face reflected in mine.
You assigned value to my soul and
made me forget.
And then you forgot you made me.
Passed through too many hands,
refiner’s fire gone cold,
tarnished and flawed—
You couldn’t see beneath the surface.