Unsure of the Words

Hitting the reset button
Jacking back to a past of fast
Relationships, shipping overseas tease
Tantric tantrums, intense release
Bubbly noise bursts from lips
Candlelit moans, moving fingertips

Now weight lays heavy upon my body
Unable to move, to think, to breathe
Spending all my money on alcohol
To put my brain to sleep
To forget these taut-slapping
Intense fantasy memories

A new, timid voice calls to me
And I answer, quiet
Unsure of the words I have heard
Then I dip below vibratto
Hang there like a plucked cello string
Fading slowly

I fear I will scare you with my intensity
I fear I will scare you with my melody
It often slips out of tune

Will you still listen then
When notes of sorrow creep back in?
When I cannot sing as sweet?
When the refrain remains but
The rhythm loses its beat?

I hope so. I hope so. I hope so.
I hope.

A friend's bush full of futsal

Dear Zynga, fix yesterday. It is easier, whenever I start.
I now own a tough day, a construction project.
The huz is out of  the awesome ZUMBA gold.
Why should I? Apparently, in reading up on my son, I must ask
Please! Is this for 10 days? I have been here now.
"I'm not going as Yusuf...just as Cat Stevens."
Couldn't find a completed manuscript.

Farmville, STOP judging out-of-town work from home.
I think to save just 3 facts.
Office people are very Sims Social...I tiptoe through life.
The widely stateside is real good, as ever.
Listening to him only to arrive was my favorite,
A piece of myself, "what would punchable faces have to trim?"
And Mom is in the car, safely at death HAVING QUESTS!!
The 12-0 Packers, unknown int'l sport,
A friend's bush full of futsal till due date.

Waiting for a long job today, so live by donating.
Fruit snacks are always a first.
To understand Imhotep, do time, enjoy being home
Doing blood like crack. SQUEEE! Tribal belly dance -
Time for everything. Are we going? When we're in, back to basics,
In heaven, some hot mess Barbie on her way lately, playing Lexulous.

Staring at the broken thermostat

I burn so hot I scald the spot where my fingertips last touched you,
But then I cool and freeze below zero degrees,
A solid, unbreakable cube.

You chip away at frozen fragments holding me here,
But only a summer sun can make me melt, make me feel heat again.
Until then, I will not bend to your whims.

Abusing Snooze

You came already blackened,
I gave you the blues.
You slept beneath my lampshade,
Threatening my muse.

If I could cradle candles,
I'd light you aflame.
For each missed opportunity,
your shape is to blame.

I slap at your happiness.
I pound out your sound.
When you grow more persistent,
I throw you to the ground.

You crack up my sanity.
You tear apart my dreams.
With every time I waken,
I suffocate your screams.

Slaughtered by grilled cheese and weeds

Come in to assemble a bookshelf too big for me to read.


I just lost. Oh coffee – don’t splash me.

Watch tonight’s Packers/Vikings game. Or fail me now and hate football.

The game totally found an “everything that annoys you” mode.

Was feeling all artist statement for working again tonight.

Dishes and dinner, pants that fit, just sitting down to eat.

Top-chef like, grinding, watching the game, did laundry,

Getting into the can’t, doing it because they’re human.

Find the gay time four months ago and we’re all a touch of the same.

I’m going to really enjoy playing with person artforms, with war.

Sea salt, ya dig?

I will give sometimes the world as a Christmas present

Or less than maybe someone’s several dollars.

5 hours, the time anyone wants to feel way too big.

Come over and the recall will begin to help me.

What keeps a girl up all night

The dress barely fit into the fireplace. I had to stuff it - like so many layers of rich, white cream - into the tight, small space. It scraped against the bricks and as I lit it on fire, the flames licked up along the sides, crenallating and smoking up the space. It was a filthy thing, a very unsanitary way to do it, but I could not wait. I did not care how much of a mess it made. I didn't care what my mother said or if my brother smelled it when he got home from the university a few days later. I just wanted it be gone, once and for all.




As the dress burned, blackened and burned like a fire-bitten corpse, I could feel the locket around my neck filtering heat against my chest. It felt as if it, too, had been smelted by flame. As it grew warmer and warmer to the point of getting unbearably hot, I pulled it frantically from my frame and tossed it in with the flames. Even the veil was burning, burning away into ash and soot and wonderful cinders.



"I will not use contractions," he said. "I will use proper English and nod my head like an idiot."



For good measure I gave him a good smack. "What kind of bull crap is that, Aaron? We're getting married. It's a wedding. You're allowed to have a little bit of fun."



"We are getting married," he repeated, sounding like a robot as he rehearsed. "It is a wedding. And I do want to have fun."



"You don't have to sound like a weirdo to be formal. And besides, we're working on the two-month plan, not the two-year plan."



"What are you talking about?"



"Never you mind."



We sat in a dimly lit room. The only light came from tea lights which cluttered every open surface. The small, whitish yellow flames created an ambient glow around the table and cast strange shadows across our faces. I found myself wishing for a mirror so I could see my own creepy-looking reflection. Even if I did believe in ghosts, I would know enough that this lighting was part of the trick to it. There was something about the way the light brought them in. It brought in the ghosts, the shades, the shadows, the things that go bump in the night. It no longer mattered if they were real or not. They seemed real in that small space.



Tonight the words don’t want to come to me. My lips are sealed so tight that I can’t speak above a whisper. Can I write for you what I want to say? Sometimes it helps if I can think about it for a minute before I have to communicate what it is that I have to say. Maybe it would help if you have some snacks for me? The food here is crap. We talk about it like we’re on the inside. I could talk more if you gave me some food. The mashed potatoes they served us at dinner didn’t sit well in my stomach. I promise I will make it worth your while. You understand this writing thing, right? Here, I’ll get my notebook and you get me some cookies or something. The nurses usually have some chocolate chip cookies – those Chips Ahoy ones – hiding in their break room. I watch them in there sometimes. Not in a creepy way. I mean, I notice things, but I am not tempted.



Who is telling this story? The words will not come to me tonight. They flee from me as quickly as the light fades from the sky. The sunset is brilliant, lighting the clouds with a gorgeous pink and purple hue, but as soon as it fades it takes with it all my hope. With the darkness come my fears and the nightmares return. I do not even need to be sleeping anymore. They just come to me. I wish I even remembered what it was like to get a decent night’s worth of sleep. Instead, I wake, shaking in my own sweat, clutching my knees to my chest and sobbing. I don’t always remember exactly what it is that I have seen. All I know is that I want to stop these haunting dreams. I want to sleep. Please help me sleep, not just for one night but forever. I want to sleep and never ever wake up again. I think that is the only way I will ever be happy again.

I woke, feeling like I hadn’t slept a wink. I felt restless and uneasy. My phone rang moments after my feet hit the floor. It was Aaron, asking after me, after the dutiful fiancé.

“Good morning, sexy,” he crooned. “Some night, huh? So sad you could not stay until this morning. What did you say you had to do today again?”

I gasped. Suddenly, my sleep-sucking dream came back to me. I remembered the woman in the white dress, sobbing on my shoulder. She looked at me with saddest black eyes broken apart like flat plates. “Hmm?” I mumbled. I wasn’t exactly listening to Aaron anymore was I?

“Wasn’t that a great night?” he repeated.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I mumbled. “I did not get a wink of sleep.”

“I know, right? You were wild!” He laughed, clearly enjoying himself. It must be some kind of joke, I reasoned. What the hell was he talking about? He started cat calling at me and it suddenly sunk through my thick skull. He thought we had had amazing sex the night before.

“Don’t know what you’re on, but I didn’t get any sleep last night. Glad you had a good time. You must have had a lot better dreams than I did.”

“Hah. Dreams! Call it what you want, I know your true side now,” he said. “You are a dirty, dirty little girl. And the best part about it is you’re mine!”

After I got off the phone, feeling quite embarrassed and not remembering what it was that might have happened the night before, I mulled over it in my mind. What was it that I had done or not done the night before? I certainly didn’t remember having a wonderful sheet-ripping night with my fiancé, as much fun as that would have been. Instead, all I had were vague memories of that dream. Who was that woman who kept haunting me in my dreams, wearing my great aunt Genevieve’s wedding dress. No, now she was even wearing my wedding dress. It was becoming suddenly intensely personal. A shiver quaked over my skin and into my bones. I wondered briefly if it would be possible to sleep walk and have sex in my sleep – but it didn’t seem likely. What craziness was afoot? Was it me or Aaron who had fallen off the deep end?

At the séance I am not sure what I was expecting. I wanted to get some sort of answers, even though I still didn’t believe in ghosts at that point. I was very quickly beginning to believe, though. The dreams had not left me. They came to me even in my waking hours. They leapt into my brain whenever I closed my eyes. They would not leave me alone, by any means. These visions would not let me forget that I was wearing a dead woman’s wedding dress for what was supposed to be the best day of my life – my own wedding to my beloved. It was a day meant to be of great joy and excitement but already it was tainted by a fear I couldn’t break free from.

Was I just getting a bad case of cold feet? It was normal for such things to happen. You could know someone your whole life and love them for most of it, and still that pang of doubt would come to you as soon as you started to even think about walking down the aisle to take your wedding vows. Everyone felt it, didn’t they? I hoped, deep down that it was nothing more than a horrible case of the jitters. My nervous brain was inventing things that simply were not there. There could be no other logical explanation.

But when I looked in the mirror, my reflection told another story. I was looking more and more like her every day. I was looking more and more like the beautiful woman in my gold locket, the woman with the luscious mane of thick, curly blonde hair. I had never seen my own hair so curly in my entire life. In fact, it used to be bone straight when I was a child. I was just getting paranoid, that was it. I was getting paranoid and worried sick about this wedding. Maybe what I needed was to pay for a professional massage. That would be nice. What was I doing here in this place, waiting for a stranger to call up ghosts from the other side? Didn’t that usually lead to even more problems in the stories that I read. These were the same kind of stories that could keep a girl like me up all night. The last thing I needed was yet another thing to keep me from sleeping. That was the last thing I needed.

(1566 words)

Faith in Dog Whistles (random excerpts)

“What are you best at? I mean absolutely the best at?” the woman wearing red-rimmed glasses asked me. Although she sounded like a high school counselor, I had actually hired her to be my wedding planner. She looked quizzically at me over her glasses.


“Seriously?” I mused. “Procrastinating. Lately it seems to be the only thing I’m any good at. I have just this giant list of things I have to do, and it keeps getting added to. I feel like I’m never going to get out from under it.” It was true, too. As the wedding grew ever closer, I could feel the pressure rising. There was no way I would ever be able to get everything done on time. It didn’t help that I was a perfectionist on top of everything.

“Have you considered enlisting the help of your bridesmaids?” the woman asked, trying to be helpful. This was a preliminary consultation, too, might I add, so I was looking for any suggestions I could get.

“What bridesmaids?” I asked tentatively.

“You don’t have bridesmaids yet?” she asked incredulously. “Have you even considered who to ask?”

“There is no one I trust that much, besides maybe Aaron’s sisters. I have a cousin who might want to help out. They have to buy their own dresses right?”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting married because you’re pregnant,” said the woman. Meredith, I think her name was but she wanted me to call her Merry.

“What makes you say that?”

“It just seems like you are in a rush to get hitched is all. You should give yourself at least a year to plan the wedding. If you want a very formal affair we’re talking more like two.”

“Heh,” I laughed. “Try two months.”

“Why the rush?”

“I just want to be married.”

“Sweetie, you have your whole life to be married.”

“I know. What’s a few months more?”

Meredith, I mean Mary, sat at a small child-sized table set with a china tea set. The store itself was more of an antique and gift shop than a wedding shop, but it was the quaint oddity of the space that had drawn me to it in the first place. It was one of the many shops in the downtown district of my city – a few last blocks that still felt small-town and cozy in the giant bustle of working life. There were few jobs here but plenty of artists’ galleries and cafes.

“I’m sorry,” said Merry as she straightened her skirt. “I think you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.” Her forehead wrinkled a little bit.

“I think we have,” I said. “How about instead of telling me what you think I need that I tell you what I need and we work on that.”

“Maybe a list of what you already have? That way we start on a positive note.”

She pulled a notebook from a tote bag she had stored under the table. It was very bright pink and had blue lined paper inside. She also pulled out a purple pen. The colors were not only obnoxious but reminded me of Mary Poppins for some reason. I think it was the combination of them coming from a cavernous bag and Merry’s name. We started a list, headed off by the fact that, yes, I did already have a groom and a venue for both the wedding itself and the reception. We had even started shopping caterers to see their food options and pricing. Merry pooh-poohed the fact that we hadn’t set a budget but oohed and ahhed over the fact that I already had a dress.

“That’s one of the hardest parts!” she exclaimed. “It took me nearly three months alone to pick out a dress!” She blushed a little bit as she reminisced. “Then again, I was on the two-year plan. You said already that you don’t have even three months to spare. You must really be in love with this boy.” She paused, took a long look at me that started to make me uncomfortable.

Have you ever had someone give you one of those looks? It’s one of those excruciatingly long looks, during which no words are exchanged. It feels like their eyes are boring a hole right through your head. In my experience, it means that the person staring at you knows something you don’t – something important.

“Or maybe there’s something else afoot,” she finally said. “Are you trying to get away from something? Is he your knight in shining armor come to rescue you?”

“I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago,” I said.

A tinkle at the door marked the arrival of another customer and Merry stood to greet them. It was two young women looking for penis-shaped paraphernalia to bring to a friends’ bachelorette party. When she came back to the table, Merry added that to my list of to-do’s: hire a male stripper. I shook my head – I needed to find a maid of honor and fast before my wedding turned into some kind of zoo.



Have an engagement party! What do people wear for an engagement party?

“I don’t want to pay $700 for a dress that I am only going to wear once,” I said. “I might as well wear this old thing.”

“I told you, Gen,” said my mom. “We can get you a dress. Maybe not a $700 one, but we can go look anyway. We can have you try some on.”

“Can we go to a second-hand store or something? I just don’t want you to go broke. I know we don’t have a whole lot of money lying around.”

“I appreciate your consideration, dear, but don’t worry about it. My little girl is only going to get married once, after all.”

She smiled at me and I felt immediately guilty. The truth was, I just hated going clothes shopping, for any clothes. It didn’t matter that it was for a wedding dress. I knew I should be more excited about it, but it would only be more disheartening when it didn’t fit me. I suppose there are always alterations, but that’s beside the point. And, of course, I never wanted to diet.



Why is this girl taking my life? She has my dress. Who gave her my dress? She has my name. Who gave her my name? Where did she get these things? How can she walk around, pretending that she owes me nothing? Why does she not notice me? Why is my Mortimer paying more attention to her than to me? Why are my flowers wilting? My yellow flowers are wilting. My yellow flowers have become dry and brown. They are dying. Why are they dying? Morty told me they would live forever. He told me that we would live forever in a little cottage out in the woods. He told me he would love me. Is this why he left me? Did he leave me for this one, this young woman so fresh? This woman who smells like a lily and smiles too broadly, her teeth are too straight. I wish I could smash them in. I wish I could teach her a lesson. Why doesn’t she notice me? Why can’t she hear me when I call out to her? Who is she and what does she want with me? What does she want with my dress, with my man, with my name, with my life? What makes her think that she can ever be a wife?

Morty, my Morty, I will win you back. I will do whatever it takes to make you take me back. I will not let you forget how you trampled upon my heart. I will seduce you. I just need to get you alone, to find you in the night when she is not near you. I will make you remember my touch. I will make you remember and keep the promises you made me. And if you will not take me back, dear man, I will make you bleed. I will make you wish you never left me. I will make you curse the day you were born because I will leave you in so much agony you will wish you were dead.

And then I will turn upon her. I will make sure that you have no one to run to. She has stolen everything from me. She has intruded upon my life and ruined it. I saw her in the mirror that first day, trying to steal my reflection. Now that she has found it, I need to take it back. What made her think that she could keep up the glamour given to her by a sorceress? Women like that always play in foul trickery. They do not know the depths of the things they dig into. They do not know how deep the holes can go or how far they can fall if they lose their footing. I will be the one to push her over the edge. I will be the one to drive her mad. And once I have done that, I will be able to take back what is mine once again. I will be able to breathe again the air I once breathed. And she will be the one trapped here in this photograph, doomed to wait in this locket until she can earn her release. She will feel my wrath.

Gen makes a deal with a sorceress

Genevieve escapes from the locket and seduces Aaron

Gen burns the wedding dress, but doesn’t destroy the locket

What is the third thing? As in most creepy stories/ horror stories, there is always a third thing. The third magical thing is in the name, I think. Gen must either take more claim of her name or change it for the sake of breaking free from her great aunt’s curse. Why is the great aunt cursed? Maybe, she too, made a deal with a sorcerer to gain undue beauty – a beauty that wound up doing her no good, that made her grow old before her time – that made her lover not recognize her and so not love her any longer. He actually preferred her looking more plain. This is starting to sound a little bit like the little mermaid, but every story that has ever been told has been told before.



Every story that is worth telling has already been told before. Where the first one started, I do not know, but from that first tale told around a dwindling campfire arose the makings of each story thereafter. This does not mean that the stories we tell need be boring. That is far from the truth, as I have known it. It only means that we are interconnected, each one of us, by the tales spun by our ancestors. We cannot forget these stories, because as soon as we forget, as soon as we even try to forget, we are doomed to a fate too gruesome to face. Instead, it is better to listen, to listen to and to learn from what our elders tell us.

As young people, we do not want to hear. We will continue to stumble and falter on our path, though, until we start to listen. For with every story that can be told, comes a lesson that can be learned the hard way or the easy way. I think you’d agree that avoiding as many painful mistakes as possible would be ideal, no? Yet some of us keep running into the same brick walls time and time again. No matter how many times we see it coming, we just keep going down the wrong path, thinking that we will find our salvation if we just try one more time. That way leads to insanity. I should know. How do you think I wound up here?

I have always felt the pull of the other side. For me, the barrier had always been thin, easier to move from one side to the next. What barrier, you ask? The barrier to the land of lost souls, to the dead, to those who are still clinging on to something of this life and aren’t ready to give up yet. Sometimes it is a blessing. Sometimes it is a curse. More often than not, it has been a nuisance in my life. A disturbance, if you will, keeping me from functioning like a normal human being. If I didn’t hear these voices all the time…well, I wouldn’t be here would I?

You say I’m crazy, but you know I am really just more in tune to things you can’t hear. Think of it like a dog whistle. Only the dog can hear it, yet you know it’s there, that it’s making a noise when you blow it. How do you know? Is it just faith? Or is it the reaction you get from the dog? Ask me how I know ghosts and other semi-real things actually exist. I can tell from how they react. They react to the same things we do, but in a different way. It’s kind of hard for me to explain.

Here, give me your hand. Do you feel that vibration in your fingers? That energy comes from the other side. Do me a favor. Think of someone you really love, someone who has passed over. Or, if you dare, think of someone you didn’t particularly like all that much. Think of your strange uncle, perhaps, the one that smelled like moldy cheese. Can you see this person in your mind’s eye, picture them as if they were standing before you or sitting at this table here with us? Can you see them? Now, put both your hands in mine and close your eyes. Do not be afraid. There are other people in the room with us if you don’t feel safe, but I promise I won’t hurt you. Can you feel them? Can you feel them tugging at you from the other side? This is what I feel all the time. I don’t even have to try. They are always tugging at me, wanting something. They are always pulling at my insides.

In the Attic

The last thing Gen wanted to be doing with her Saturday afternoon was sorting through the remnants of her great aunt's possessions. Although her aunt was her namesake, Genevieve had been a very eccentric and cloistered woman. She had never married, lived alone and rarely came into the light of day. She had also been a hoarder. When she passed away, the house she lived it was filled room by room with everything she had collected over the years. Papers were piled up on every surface, candy wrappers and half-finished crafting projects - like an afghan she had started to knit but never finished. It lay across the couch, frayed at the edges with the remaining yarn and needles still attached to it. Genevieve died - not suddenly - and everyone saw it coming - she was old, but no one was very sad about it.

Gen's mother dug through the jewelry with wild abandon, looking for something valuable more than something she would even want to wear. She wanted to sell it.

Somehow, Gen got assigned to the attic. By the time she made her way up there, she could barely breathe with all the dust collected in the small space. A mannequin stood by the one small window, blocking out the little bit of light that filtered through. Sunshine shone on the dust moving around in the air like small insects in the air - if it didn't cause her to sneeze so much it might be considered beautiful in its own strange way. It was difficult for Gen to move very far in the attic without tripping over something.

NaNoWritMo

November is upon us - and with it National Novel Writing month! I am conquering this challenge this year - even if it puts me over the edge with the sheer amount of work and commitment involved. We're talking 50,000 words in one month! Expect updates - triumphs and complaints - as I work my way through it!

We are pirates, are we not?

Explain to me this unexamined life, this life lived without pause to contemplate consequences. Perhaps my own life has been over-examined and may very well prove to be the truth. But tell me, as my friend and confidante, how can you watch those around you carousing and falling drunkenly from this ship without questioning why these things happen? We are pirates, are we not? Let us tend to our wounds.

Your Decision

I feel myself slipping, my feet sliding under sand.
Your hands reach out to steady me before I fall too far.
You warned me. I can't count how many times you warned me.
But the current is dragging me away, pulling.
I want to swim. I want to prove to you that I can swim
with or without you holding my hand.

I still feel high on moonlit dancing.
That night we waded, out under a million dark stars.
Our white skin glistened like rocks so easily broken,
Specks of sand clinging to our naked legs and arms.
I wonder now if you are still listening.

A song started in my heart.
It beats double-time against my ribs.
In my every waking moment, I hear it singing,
And it calls me back to the water,
To wash away the salt of my tears.

I never knew the definition of lonely,
Until you dug a hole in me so deep
It can never be filled again.

I hold this, our secret,
Though everyone can see it
In the hunger on our lips.
I walk into the water, the waves lifting my skirts,
The current catching me up in turbulence,
My hair wild in the wind.

The decision is yours.
Will you rescue me?

Feels good to be easily irritated

Our government is - today - the cutest job to watch.
So if anything new runs after the icecream truck,
open mic starts taking my brain out of my head.
Minecraft prepared me for the history of this place.
Everyone who made it came over,
Rick-rolled twice and looked at strollers.
The tetris block has fallen to break free.
Feels good to be easily irritated by happy birthday greetings,
and Friday night baking sucks.

Turtle love has a piece of pig in it

Try to flush the stones for breakfast.
Housekeeping comes at 2.
No daycare today, so my girlies are going to
shower, eat, and then head to the pub.
Is this what being a mother feels like?

Oatmeal is like underwear.

Here are the rules:
1. Know the taste/texture of meat.
2. Plunge in the first five minutes.
3. I can do it better.
Now to drive myself to work.

Turtle love has a piece of pig in it.

Trading multi tasking to step down for
long lady days.
Ready for tonight?
I am humbled, now stop being so fussery!
Back to Canadian bed and we'll glow,
get pepper sprayed, and play pong.

Life's not in text words, off the bars, discovered.
On account of apathy, I'm taking the girls
to a wedding on Wednesday.
My sister is being admitted this weekend.

Why do banana walnut muffins rise before my alarm?

Everything on feelings, love, and donations is happy.
Just have a conversation.

Naked people have little or no influence

Finishing my cup of coffee
(indicates the table where the volunteers sit
with the large books of names).
Anyone else notice that regressives are all doom and gloom?
HAPPY 30TH BIRTHDAY TO MY BIG BRO
then heading out to the farmer's market.
Me: "but it's not required" BEST ROOMIE EVER
They prey on people's fears like late-night commercials
for weight loss and boner pills.

Does anyone agree with me that the bookstore stinks?
I'm in a very good mood for them,
him: "uh...no." That's why I'm gonna be
buying my books from Amazon this year.

Ok, create your own homemande pizza,
pots & pans, starting August 22 pizza crusts
& a tea kettle will be on sale at SuperValue.
And I kind of feel like sharing me:
"So you DON'T need it." The sky is always falling.

Don't have to shove my $$$ down a toilet
now that I am partially moved in and more stuff gathered,
makes it a million times.
Clothes make the man. Him: "...no?"
And they only seem to celebrate when they "win" elections
or take away the rights of some group
or another on 80th Street.
Naked people have little or no influence in society.

Me: "no." Don't have to stand in line for
you know 'bout an hour...
Here is my updated need list in Kenosha.
Just had a conversation with a poll worker:
"For Jesus" says Oatmeal Lake 2011.
Living room chair is here!
If you're parting with any of these items,
anyone heard about the new gold's gym that's coming?
Decided to be a "rebel" elderly gentleman volunteer:
"...and we'll need to see an ID."

Why is depressing paranoia so popular?
Bookcase/shelves let me know I'm thinking of joining.
Some people couldn't do my job and instead
of calling to complain about service,
my son had a dentist's appointment yesterday.
Me: "you'll NEED to see it?" Lamps.

Yesterday I lost my gym membership to razor
and now I'm looking at options,
working with the families I work with,
did the opposite and is always *really* nervous.
Him: "well, it'll make things go a lot faster up there."
A microwave saw the Three Mile Island
cooling towers this morning
who care so much for their kids.

The same small club that just swaps plums

A little like being a turd in a punchbowl,
blissfully participating in
the American civic religion of statism.
A downer, a crank, a loonie, a jerk,
a positive evil about uncomfortable facts,
the indistinguishable nature of large vested interests.

Their state-enabled exploitation,
the same small club that just swaps plums.
Electronic voting gizmos bully and plunder us
with abandon, and you'd rather we had
a dictatorship experienced as an
emotional act, willful denial.
To murderously lord it over the entire planet,
one particular region of tyranny,
like a badge of moral superiority.

Border on zero, also bright blue
adding to the pile, despite his high negatives.
Math makes a pretty cut.
Expressive voting decreases my impact.
The corrupt crowd will suddenly stop stealing.

Splashing a seductive performance,
prompting deep thoughts,
dragged herself out under durress,
her one and only, she said mournfully.

One of the lower matchups, this earth judging,
like he did in that clip.
As much of a cunt as he currently is,
gassing up like a legend.
Go outside of this small circle once in a while.

I am broker wearing normal clothes

WI state districts get errands done.
Phones HATE the process.
It's true what Rascal had.
Have decided, guys, to do the musical number.
Realising my day started in "Gamer," down again.
Will never understand why the interview went well.
12 and 22 growing her hair.
They say the lake rebels out on the new song, "Pine Sol."
Should know better.
I wish I saw a girl.
I am broker wearing normal clothes.
Make sure to check out 39%.
How I love beautiful weather out!
Pragnancy emotions and/or instead of women being concerned.
Not only did the wrong foot channel, it is fantastic to wear the vote in Kenosha.
Get out and grill out with cravings...
Urr...calling to complain with their age.
He walked along when I spilled grammar.
White to orientation today, then broke and a fake teacher.
Vote TODAY, my honey...
Well at least no matter what service did this, the beach cranberry juice is everywhere.
Subscribe, and feel thee anyone.
But if I asked Liam somewhere...

Sorry, I've got my exclamation point this week

I have always wondered why they call it a period. I know it refers to a "period of time" but, as a grammar & language geek, I think about it in terms of punctuation. More accurate would be a comma, a dash, an exclamation mark. Definitely not a period.

Maybe for some women it is a period. Just one spot of blood and then you're done. Maybe for some it is like ellipses, a few days of drops and then none. For some people it might be a long dash or a short hyphen. It could even be a colon or semi-colon, split up but short in duration. For me, probably an exclamation point.

One day to announce itself, and then the rest of the week to plague me. I would hate to see a question mark.

I Will Remember

I miss
I'd (entity): Poetics
716: Fine Art
and the Nook.

I miss shouting poetry in a cafe so loud
that people walking in
walked right the fuck back out.

I miss stripping down to my swimsuit
in the middle of winter,
telling everybody how Wisconsinites
need to be nudists (they really do).

I miss tearing apart a giant hummus plate
and wearing hats to cover the fact that
I'd chopped off all my hair
because I thought that was what lesbians did.

I miss Nicolas Michael Ravnikar
& Nicky Poo & Jonathan
(who was what he ate).
I miss Dayvin's exquisite corpse,
David's candlelit gallery,
& Sarah's madwoman poetry.
I miss Anna Leslie who ran off to the West
& Colleen & Jenny who ran off
together to the East.

But I'm only dropping names
because they are far too heavy
for me to carry.

And with each new incarnation,
each place takes its own shape.
And here we are at Tg's
making all kinds of new memories.

I will remember you.
Will you remember me?
Don't let your love pass you by
waiting up for the memory.

Add eggs to Benedryl

I'm getting psyched my face hurts : ) Awww
play I'd just waked up to discover how to see?
It's a pretty biopsy this morning. I am surprised
a good day an hour after the hospital
Gaah day celebrating my allergy list!
swollen shut and all is cruel punishment
bud Johnny holding these guys. I pee a little
one and hives all last week, I work

Hooray! Khalakka has a wine glass yeah baby
and eat/drink until we are working It's ok
add eggs to Benedryl eyes are over his trunk
Black Cofffee) officially been given crack/call
little choked up "Yep. And what with such a

Happy Black Art Day! You have a poem, wise
Had a wonderful help by cleaning Dante didn't
on that! to paint Fedors bad mood. Time better
night of my having a gig also pays
short discussion about big bucks (like
freestyle out they name national holiday
the gig will think the Universe of those

be in a Woot! I need a Technical College in
Mom is out Woo! Hopefully I am "Packing/Moving
don't wake up as one of the subs involved
(everything is). The qualifications required
class at Gateway is not communication
been frustrating you? & it almost made me

up to play can plus the first episode of
mood before enjoying the day also makes it
girl wash her own mighty morphin power
son's birthday. Got your son." I'm still
when I asked a phenomenal kid. : ) drop
20). times over the just had one at work

keys for Larry and I almost found another
to do some work. Driivving takes forever!!
tonight at 8 imitable Scotty on my
I love Larry's drums. If they go hang with
for the first Racine. it is playing a ice-breaker
than a better Inferno. Friday September 9th
Key West. : ( bad day at figuring out
what is or wants me in something that's

boyfriend's couch by shattering a ranger!
is because I'm all he had this time.
stuff and he's nothing new there (AKA
my best butt! Boo: She should be a nail
Oral Interpersonal Communications at 6:00 pm
down bottom end woke me up permission to
as only he wouldn't let me laugh so much

someone is full! running around. See more
if I can and he said, so very blessed to do
Hemingway has shown every one of
up randomly several of those moments where
as he was trying to find the simple answer

What I was doing 8 yrs old up in the fish sandwich

I need to Care For Kids. I believe they
Train Your 8 yr old...I WANT STEAK!"
Hoping the storms take the kids. I've been
Safety House @ the world! trying to learn
good morning fb. I didn't really work always.
Grace Lutheran Church is showing "How
Dragon." : )

this piece for making me have
and want to be a Virgin" was just thinking about
what I was doing 8 yrs old up in the fish sandwich
it meant so much though... my cubicle! Moving
made better by learning to cook for so many
years... Thank you Madonna though I suppose
we haven't yet!!! ; )

when "Like a Name Plaque" played.
Has NIN ever taught a man for a day
that wasn't sexy? Teach a man that nigga
my future hubby : )

So I've decided to FREE
Movies and Glee for a conversation without...
Don't remember just got a world!
made a song by fishing, he eats to fish,
he eats Indian dishes will hold off where dear friend
will sell you that fish I really wish : )

I can't believe my hand

I can't believe my hand, share it instead of telling,
about to embark like a boss who's got an idea
in hand. It's an awesome meatloaf recipe switching
time, went on a covert clean up, isle so hopefully.
When Jaguar driving Thursday and Friday,
my mission is someone who rides lanes tomorrow.

He wakes up tiptoeing into my hate, when a motorcycle
how they make turns, or stay on your car's can fast!
A special day to share? Don't side with him,
he'll be surprised! My pants yo, just raise
your stop faster than you care about.
Last day at my son's room with pulling out.
Keep your eyes on someone who rides.

For him tomorrow I shart :/ dangerous as it is
on the road on the...road. Ahh, thunder,
especially turning corners and OFF your don't.
Follow too a motocycle, please, the clinic.
The balloons and streamers look twice before
a drive repost. SHARE closely, bikes can be heading
to Racine CELL phones! If the ROAD you disabled for
...can't tell you I am not -- I am SUPERabled.

The debt ceiling crashing into the stadium

Good morning, Dad.

Let's go to the YMCA and talk about John Boehner, who looks like a leathery Muppet. Now that there is going to be a season a few weeks from now, everyone can get stuff done with pig skins and pads and their shins. As long as the debt ceiling doesn't come crashing into the stadium. I somehow finished the mountain of dishes. About to make some fantasy football bids.

Soon I will be the only person in my department debating YOUR and YOU'RE - learn the difference! Sometimes I want to be like a cat person, really immature, beating up sluts. For those that have been asking: this is one of those moments when I feel like I need to get away from Wisconsin. Even I forget to punctuate and abbreviate properly. This is where I ask: Do all cats have a sixth toe on their front paws?

I got to go to bitchin rock shelters in Canada a couple days ago. It's complete now; here it is. What a good morning!

Go on now. I am closing my wall to just about everyone. Even my boyfriend on Facebook. Nothing personal.

P. S. Guess who officially got taken out for a spin!

Know how any good suggestion tastes

1. Be vague.
2. Read Frank's apparently excited status.
3. To update on this, see line 3.
4. Play August at Super Do-Better.
5. Discover that angry market-about eyesore with any Wisconsinite in the ridiculous wonder of yore.
6. Find out why the next us is nature, an awkward camper.
7. Eat natural things of food, eat Kenosha, eat things.
8. Network up like the time star.
9. Saturday, with that back-way morning, know how any good suggestion tastes.
10. Solve a casting comment we are all about at the hotel YMCA.
11. Mark in black here another square year atmosphere.
12. On that problem, you and everybody in Chicago on Sunday come in again.
13. Shout with the people.
14. On our afternoon morning, tell friends now coming to get back when you give 3-4 lists.
15. Stuff Emma with - here's it for what it, my better, what.
16. With more done, be us, just as it is for we bought these tasks.
17. Ask for gas, for a good boyfriend.

Ground up, just beef to textbooks on the seat

I'm Polpettone, 16. I'm long so Ripieno is my son.
I recover hard and come in loveseats,
tired recently of my son boiled, yeah if good eggs.
I decided the weeks people started that conclusion:
forgot recovering and 4 George to celebrate the addition.
I want that again.

We surrounded every two tired days with something I ate.
I'm free from Martin's day, relaxing to it.
She loves me leading a game and going first of throwns,
ground up, just beef to text books on the seat. Think it.
Celebrate people, the Italians have gone.
I'm so sausage, I dish a nice comfort to decide this.
It doesn't really chase the day and food,
nice to be recently mesh curb, clearly that beatiful guy leading.

For if up well before morning, to the corner to be with you,
to give the world, that's with WANT of you, okay?
Reading, celebrate Sunday, our want "normal."

Seven huge Italian people, something every holiday,
and pine and birthday, and later have spinach, a mouse.
Why nothing this week - a day booked west with why -
bend me to cookie without procuitto, then
an offer of provolone, settled leading.

McDoucherson wanted a day to poop

Double haha!
Dear 30 excited douchy quizzes,
Yes, what I seriously love is that McDoucherson wanted a day to poop.

There is no May morning to get beautiful good. When rainbows matter, are sunsets why I open so good? So go take my yes, find this song. It absolutely out-scams 2 keyless puppy challenges. At System Bahaii, all staff don't mother. We are becoming a loving morning where nature grows. Was the entry in this storm closed?

Try for members. I only friend the very best two with way more going on the way to famous system kittens and something far. I even woke remote Whitewater to wake for a tight different start up pop.

Post it if we got up tomorrow coupling this. You're ever born a day late. Style then to tell them since yesterday here's loose. Would you do coupling, honey? The Will I love decided pictures in gag.

In the scotch grandma

People! Someone! Hey, anyone!
I just will fire a free thanks told by a douchebag
who will endure feather letters if by today you're Wilsons.
I went to Eagle One sleeping.
I need coffee then, to feel I've gone.
This, like my damn burger dad and me,
is lakefront for those never having tea,
something really wearing a can.
Storm going from brave special knit
with my wee rolling cap that do to me
who I nip during storm.
To nothing of want today,
to else in the scotch grandma.
Possibly heard good 104 update.
Please schmooze-o-rama morning degree,
follow any world through weather.
Their excuse of exactly that hair,
stood for what Katie on Milaukee from Facebook.
Crap my rest. End of tonight, drinking thermometer life,
got read before tonight, scared.
I stayed at disapproval statuses inside
and you like the car, so wear this time
the real-woman shorts. I always
keep at the cutest guy, to have every lakefront thing.

I am father to the brave microwave

When all thought is good, how a need grows!
This is going great. New grief did the guy my way.
To you authors just considering photos,
I am father to the brave microwave.
She knows who I look to, Taco Bell new theory.

Miss Possible Amazon is the cutest disapproval running, judging.
Prepare, going like you look against the bed.
This thing starts tomorrow and I already
have a friend's rented happy,
should never wear Don Draper's stop.

Can't busy baby Wirch sleep?

This is good, is for the hour.
I am all-day adorable, five o'clock morning.
Buy shorts, sneezing a weak Milwaukee hooka,
hoping that and that.

Will our leftovers just shadow someone?

Me, shit, and the first smoking recruiter

Had a meeting in 2011
to backdrop the Florida sky
to free every recent "do not quit,"
holy with the diving comedies.
Their good deal or scary airforce is like
me, shit, and the first smoking recruiter.
Salary today: these single-morning U.S. Presidents,
no salary cigarettes. Even my state is good.
I will require the flowers retired.

Try the 26th movie, got one house
doing more smut, the drug testing.
Boo. I lost this august and q101.
That lavendar is looking ready for a fuck,
like when applying to see thirty blues
for an episode. Little tired.

Hello, pure great 19. Are you applying that heat?
Want romance for that juliette-time party?

Airplane to publish beat

I and the Google + stylist got cutting Facebook today
after watching an angry episode wherever Twilight
unemploys hairy lions in my zone.
Simultaneously, the other class tried to crash
me and an old lady, sending China a 2/3 economy.
Slowing the "social networking" of a farmhouse,
a little alien visited the party.
Students asked layers (but how long?) they had gotten
while home mist surges.

Early reminder: they're from Wisconsin.

I can't get it on me.
It's system is slinky and would get just me, the only of my soul.
This made a state take-down, each time a hit until I go down,
but is it the last?
I opened one giant door, far-spaced.
Can the ex-husband find that best fucking place?
Airplane to publish beat.
Think to their conversation. Bitch it about.
Snow feeds the heat between my might.

It's on creepy. I'd take being over this Twitter doctor, son.
Who's going venturing?

A poem on clingy sauna protest

This poem was written using words stolen from friends' Facebook statuses today:

Scott, I park as God is that current.
I ride around it. He thrilled it,
my friend who can go turns, and Angie
dodged outside, wrote on the felt:
"How out are our needs, Walker?"
Deal her protesters; I run about.

Don't include a boyfriend early,
with first the streetcar, then the week.
Got the need to exercise me.
A gift - Shalom - of heat,
but the worry center project for salons
arrived about today. Austin was spa don't.
He's published at Better Hair Class.

I like losing one, went on to cut good
and left, feeling my thanks to the morning.
John is verse, like the accommodation
starting in gym, everyone.
I better look forward, my day today.
York the holy stepped yesterday into my Hell.
Tonight, today, Wisconsin.

Its website week, out into yikes, cat and you.
One is hot. Two look right sick.
A poem on clingy sauna protest
when my article on Mansfield
proved too much.

An attempt at humor was newly doted

Finding little on the wheres and whyfores of using "on" after "dote." This word just can't seem to stand alone! However, I did find a few other interesting tidbits about the origins of this word.

"Dote," meaning "to be infatuated with" or "to be excessively fond of" came into its modern usage in the 15th century. It originates from the Middle Low German or Dutch "doten" meaning "to be silly or foolish." Another lesser-known meaning of "dote" is "to be feeble-minded" as from age. This amuses me because I am not used to hearing "dote" in a negative light. For me, it has always had a positive connotation.

On a random side note, the word "dote" also sounds very similar to "DotA" which is an acronym for World of Warcraft's Defense of the Ancients. DotA also features prominently in a very addictive song by Basshunter about using Ventrilo while playing WoW - yes, someone actually wrote a song about that. It's entitled "Vi sitter i Ventrilo och spelar DotA" (the song's in Swedish).

Laying Claims

Though I look in many directions for affections, if you, my lover, my acquaintance, my friend, find refuge in someone else’s arms, I feel fractured. Even though I know there is not nearly enough of me to appease everyone’s needs, I want you to feast upon me with your eyes, your hands, your mouths.


Is it fair to compare two lovers who no longer compete for me? To wrench out the guts of two men who no longer bleed for me? I fantasize about the size of their parts paired up, shouldering burdens no man should bear. It originates from a certain love for brutality, I think, action movies where there exists no such thing as pain.

I want to donate my body, not to science but to carnal pleasures. I want to be measured and treasured for my worth. My heart sings at the thought of it, beating out a strange refrain. I do not understand your need to lay claims. It only gives me glee to see them struggling in my name.

Breaking Free

I still dream of your cock crowing inside me, welcoming a dawn too warm to wear on the street. Sunshine blinds sense when I regret your touch. You examined me, naked behind blinds. all awe and wonder at how quickly I disrobed, basked in the early-morning light.


I know now the way our bodies moved addicted me, that only parts and appendages mattered. We talked about features, like you were preparing to test-drive me: the size of my breasts, the firmness of my butt. Red creeps in my cheeks. If you asked me, I wonder if I could refuse you, even knowing this.

One whirlwind winter, I spent my weekends with you. We would wake and sleep on whims, submerged in each other’s biological rhythms. Bantering back and forth, we spoke a gibberish that made perfect sense to us in your snowed-in apartment. My therapist called wondering why I had been missing my appointments. I had been working on my self-esteem, I told him, meditating upon my worth.

How simple it was, our tangled pressing, more natural than any I have felt before or since. Standing back from your shadow, I must break free from your influence. If I fall again, it will be my consequence, a fate I cannot face. I grew too attached and terrified of the connections I elected to make. In every thought I read your name.

I have tasted it one too many times for it to be good for me.

Holding Off

I hold you at a distance, keeping my fortress walled and protected. Too many times I have let men swim the moat and gloat upon my shores. They have tried vainly to domesticate me, and I refuse to be tamed. We have struggled against one another like prisoners in chains.


My ex and I followed the rules of the game, buying up furniture and collecting debts like lint traps catching up fibers. When I think of our bedroom, it is with a mixed collection of hot wax and oil with tears, loneliness stirred in with silent wishes. Now it feels distant and hopeless, but then we talked like we could hold forever in our hands and never let go of it.

Though I have let you into my encampment, don’t expect a warm welcome with every step. Back then, I still believed in magic. I still thrilled at the thunder and lightning, the drama of the dance, but wondered at the cost of it. The sun shone too bright for my heart, which was clogged with gray. For four months, it rained, one storm after the next. Some storms came as inconsequential as a hovering mist, others raged and shook me.

The further you venture, the more I hoard my riches to myself. There are still secrets I have kept. I have not been untrue, but have only shared my surface self with you. I cried at the courthouse that morning. Divorce is a district of this city I never wanted to live in. I became a reluctant inhabitant. Until you have proven yourself, this truth is all I can offer you.

Wanting Expression

Mix me another martini and I will dance on the bar barefoot. Watch me strip and read poetry at your art gallery. We will talk about repressed expression and sexuality. On the stairs that night, I ran naked past your roommate. He barely noticed me. I felt like I was trying to flag down a bee.


In the emergency room, they asked if I might be pregnant. With the pain in my stomach screaming shades of red, it was no time for white lies. Please don’t tell my brother while you are working, I wouldn’t want my family to hear about this second or even first hand. Lying in your bed made me feel less lonely, even after you woke up and left. I could still smell you on the sheets.

My mom invited you to lunch in the cafeteria. It must have been awkward for you, talking about sexual health over cold sandwiches while I slept with an IV in my arm. Upon my release, I started swallowing pills each morning, counting them out in circles of doubt.

I can’t believe I even told you my secrets, but you mixed me a martini, but you mixed me, you mixed me up like oil paints spread out on canvas and then digitally re-mastered me. I could still feel you, holding me the way I hadn’t been held for many months.

I tried to go back to sleep but I could only worry about your roommate and what he must think of my body. You caught my garter at the wedding and hung it from your rearview mirror for weeks. I wondered why I cared so much and then I wanted a drink.

Forging Ahead

Ours was a friendship struck up from proximity, two edges bumping up against one another until their grooves ran in the same direction. It wasn’t until months later that I noticed our mutual bruises.


You had been wounded years before and sought to even the score by reminding everyone of your maleness. Like a cat marking his territory, you claimed me. You pawed at my back, scratched a hole through my heart and left me bleeding.

I would pass by your office on the way to mine and we would chat in spare minutes. Then we both frequented the same karaoke bar each Thursday. Mumbling our reality, we rarely had real conversations, just drunken fumbling. Even with my boyfriend there, I cast longing stares in your direction. I used you as an excuse to escape from a prison cell of my own making.

Together, we tested waters warm and cool. We noted the results as we went, always talking and holding hands at the most awkward moments. We shared kisses like little tokens or trading cards swapped between sentences, and once or twice we shared a mattress.

You were the thinnest man I have ever loved, and yet I still couldn’t see through you. If I could go back, there are so many more questions I would ask. You warned me against my wedding when that warm summer came so suddenly, but I blindly forged ahead past you. I have been looking back ever since.

Creating Dead Ends

Did the dream come before or after I knew you liked girls? I called you one lazy afternoon, crying over my sudden affection for breasts. You listened, unsure of my intentions, and reassured me. I wanted to hold you, feel your copper skin against mine. You couldn’t begin to understand my conflict.


You gave me gifts: shirts your mother bought you but no longer fit, cookies sent over from Korea. I tried to give you compliments, but always at the most inopportune moments: in the pool at the hotel, sprawled drunk on the floor of your apartment, after I accidentally deleted your graduation photographs.

All I know is how I wanted to watch you shave in the bathtub for hours, all lathered up in foam. Your legs were always so smooth, I thought it a miracle you could be human. You would shower with some of the others, make out in the hot tub while boys watched you. But my shyness stopped me then. I looked away, ashamed of my yearning, the hunger I felt.

We stood under the streetlight as I looked at your lips. Whenever that song plays on the radio, I remember the summer we embraced and how your shadow faded away. We drank too much, slept too little, and confessed nothing. One morning, I woke on rose-petal bed sheets and stumbled out of your apartment into sudden sunshine.

Now I wonder if my dream took over reality and none of it even happened at all. Maybe, like so many other things, I just saw it one night on TV. In the end, I was never yours and you were never mine. I told you it felt like we were breaking up, that the breaking felt tectonic.

This should make things less difficult, you reasoned. Now the whole world could be an option. For me, that just created more dead ends.

Driving Past

You drank Arnold Palmers and smoked an electronic cigarette that snaked off your laptop like a fat caterpillar’s hookah. We spent our nights watching movies or texting, delighting in clever conversation. On that tattered couch, we argued about religion for hours.


For two weeks in college I contemplated dating you. On a piece of paper, I tallied up all the reasons why it would end in heartbreak. A few days before you left for China, we shared sandwiches and grapes, sitting outside as the sun slid from view.

A real gentleman, you wanted to take me to the opera and watch me glimmer in a sequined gown. We stood under your porch light, kissing our goodbyes. You sent me a postcard, but even before you returned from your trip I knew what I had to do.

I called my high school sweetheart back and let you fade like a street sign in the rearview mirror.

Making Moments

We spoke French when I still knew how to pronounce the words. We kept it in our back pockets like a secret only the two of us could share. In your arms, I sang to you a song we both knew. You said it felt strange, knowing I was your sister’s age, but it didn’t stop you from inviting me out to the parking lot.


In the backseat of your parents’ van, you kissed me full on the mouth. You wanted to make sure I reached the milestone post haste. You did not linger long enough for me to taste your lips, and the only thing I remember about it was the force behind your movement. A seventeen-year-old girl in my condition had no excuse to remain untouchable, you said. We listened to the stereo until you became persistent, requiring my attention for every moment.

I pushed past you and forced myself to forget. While you searched for me, your smile fading, I hid in the women’s bathroom. There I examined myself in the mirror and counted my zits. It did not surprise me when you found someone else. I watched the two of you dancing like marionettes, perfectly in time with the music.

You disappeared from my life, like a brilliant flash of lightning too soon gone. It is these moments I remember, like the dark between blinks or the space between slides, deep breaths taken when no one is looking.

Catching Sparks

Cute boy from the third grade, I blame you for my obsession with baby blues. Now, everywhere I look, I see sky-colored eyes, bright and inviting, and I wonder who chose you. In you, I saw a brilliant but misguided spark that could flame one moment and smolder at the next.


You chased me for hours across asphalt trying to land a sloppy kiss on my lips and I slipped lists of my adorations into your backpack. We ate acorns crushed by cars in the street, played tag and hide and seek under the trees, and tortured our little brothers mercilessly. When your friends came, I suddenly became a little girl, shy and shunned by your revelry. But in my backyard, I would cling to you, tackling in the grass, racing against your fast legs.

I drew close to you like a moth, fluttering but ugly in my approach. You liked my best friend for her blonde hair even though I lay my heart bare to you. You trampled it. No one could carry me like a phoenix from those ashes.

I wish I could say I learned to swim in your pool, but I almost drowned in it one summer. I swallowed so much water I thought I would die, looking up into blue shadows. I wish I could say you rescued me, but that would be a beautiful lie.

Exploring the Edges

There is only one word for love, but there should be at least seventeen. In all its flavors and varieties, it comes wonderfully and unexpectedly. With each coupling, it gains strength.


I made a mixed tape of my musings, an aberration of sound. I sincerely hope you have lost or destroyed it by now. I sang, read passages from Song of Solomon and recorded the radio out of tune. I did it to show I loved you, but I was in love with love then. I did not have a definition or a medium to express it in.

I gladly sat on your lap and laughed at the fact that I could attract the attention of your friends with a bend at the hips, a twist in my mixed drink, an audible expression of the things I think.

I once believed love was God’s true identity, that He lived and breathed through our passions. I am not certain how it happened, but I have since abandoned that theory.

We roasted around a fire of phallic twigs, faggots, sausages and plastic casings, threatening raccoons marooned in thick bushes. Each conversation led back to the same conclusions.

I am still exploring the edges of this place. I have yet to traverse the whole country, to plunge into the deepest valleys and climb to the highest peaks. I have taken many companions along with me, but none of them can guide the way.

I shudder to even speak that word to anyone, even friends I have carried with me for years. Sometimes that word, with all its awful power, only brings me to tears.

Horny humans with ash on our faces, we danced in circles of shadow and light. We gazed at the stars and counted our freckles ‘til midnight.

Some nights, I wish I could just stay in one place, but come morning I move on toward the rushing day.

I whisper it under my breath, uncertain, in fear.

Storming Echo Boomers

I won't claim that it is a new term, but it is a new term to me at least: echo boomer. And this is important because apparantly I am one. I just like the sound of it - like I'm some sort of thunder cloud descending ominously from the sky. Described as the children of the baby boomers, echo boomers are also the generation born to use computers. \

While I can vividly remember the days of dial-up, floppy disks, and yes...gasp...beepers, the computer has definitely been a mainstay in my life. At the same time, I have plead technology defiiciency on many occassions and was once well-acquainted with what I called The Blue Screen of Death. Do you remember that? It was horrible! The whole computer would just crash - telling you that you had committed some aggregious error that simply could not be fixed unless you rebooted the entire system. It usually meant the end of computer usage for that day, if not the next week.

Years later, when error messages had shrunk to little warnings you could just click off of and largely ignore, I would still pick up viruses by accidentally downloading things or opening the wrong windows. Is it any wonder that computer geeks have always proven attractive to me? If nothing else, they definitely earn their keep and quickly. Over time, I have gotten better at not breaking the technology around me - and on rare occasions even troubleshooting. But you won't see me boasting about it.

My most recent frustration? When I realised that all I had to do to print from my laptop was plug the printer directly into it. It took me two months to figure out that fix!

Another OK Hypothesis

Image source: http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1YU8CU/survivingtheworld.net/Lesson962.html

In an earlier post, I discussed the possible origins of OK. There is one I missed completely, which is that during the VanBuren-Harrison political campaign of 1840, O.K. arrived as an abbreviation of "oll korrect". But what does "oll korrect" mean? Turns out it was an intentional misspelling by the press to immitate the Irish brogue pronounciation of "all correct" by immigrant Irishmen who were a large faction of the Whig Party supporting Harrison.

The "logical" leap to throwing bananas at each other, as expressed in the pic above, is just about as random. On a side note, I just thought of that song by Gwen Stephani when I typed out bananas (I always used to misspell it): B-A-N-A-N-A-S! That damn word even made me lose a spelling bee back in gradeschool. Sad to say I'm still sore about it.

Other OK posts:
Conundrum Pounding Out Okay
Okay, kiddo, you're overly kind

The Party Poet

At a Memorial Day party this weekend, I had the pleasure of being introduced to all of the guests as a poet.
With this honor came great responsibility and a bit of embarrassment, I must admit. I felt like I had to uphold the honor of struggling poets everywhere - give us good PR, you know? At the same time, I had no poems prepared to share with anyone and they all wanted to know what I did "for a living" which - at least by common defininition - is not poetry.

I have always thought that you could tell if someone is an artist just by looking at him. And when I say artist, I mean creative types of all sorts - from painters to dancers to writers to designers. There is just something about the way an artist presents himself in the way he dresses, the way he speaks and most of all the way he socializes.

I've got the dress down for certain, with my fairly ecclectic blend of things borrowed and bought. Yesterday, I wore a thin crinkle skirt with a tank top and a strand of blue Italian glass beads. One of the other guests, who creates her own glass beads admired my necklace, which once belonged to my step-grandma. Unfortunately, this same necklace broke later in the evening. Just my luck.

At the party, we drank wine, which helped the conversation flow, but I found myself repeating the same stories over and over again, in slightly varying degrees. I had invited my boyfriend along with me so we got the repeated "how did you meet?" questioin - which thankfully was an interesting story to begin with, but not so much after the third or fourth telling. Along with that came "where do you live?" and "what do you do for a living?" Pleasant Prairie and data entry. Sometimes I would go into more detail on my living and working arrangements, but found no joy in the details and often tripped over the words. My parents have recently issued the official edict that I must vacate the premisis. And my work is new to me so I don't even know the terminology to talk about it yet.

My boyfriend helped fill in some of the awkward silences when I became tongue tied. He seems to be a bit better at this networking thing than I am. But even he bemoaned the fact that he forgot to bring business cards, a thing that I wouldn't have even considered bringing. It was a party, afterall, and I am a poet, given to whimsical thinking. And generally a lack of planning.

Corporate Jargon and Acronyms

If you have ever worked in a corporate office, you are most likely familiar with corporate-speak. When I worked in the communications department, I was inundated with it. It clogged my pores and leaked from my mouth like bad b.o. Anyone outside of work had no idea what I was talking about. Half the time, even I had lost all recollection of what the various catch phrases and terms actually referred to. They just sounded sophisticated and occasionally ridiculous. Some of the ones I remember are "consumerology" and "tooj."

Now I have been plunked down into tech services where on a day-to-day basis I deal more with numbers than with words. Given my background, however, I get selected for fun projects now and again. Most recently, my superviser has given me leeway to develop some acronyms. Admittedly, I am not a fan of the acronym. If anything, it is a highly contrived play on words that reminds me of early poems I wrote with my name - Kooky Amazing Intelligent Talented Likable Yearning Nut.

In a spurt of inspiration, I suddenly could only come up with acronyms that were utterly inappropriate for the workplace. They included PINT, SPAM, SPIT, PIMP and PORN. I moved from these to better alternatives: PIT, PART, PAC, SPARC, POP and POINT. I still did not find any of these particularly appealing, but my boss was pleased with the results. Good thing I don't work in marketing.

Like the Facebook Baby!

It actually doesn't surprise me that there are now children named after technology and social media. An Israeli girl will have her parents to thank that she has been named Like. There is another girl in Egypt whose parents have named her Facebook.

I do, however, feel a little sorry for the children. Just imagine being named Like. What if someone didn't like you? Isn't it a little presumptuous to name your child Like? And Facebook? That's another story altogether. At least Like sounds a little bit like a name and a little less like a brand.

Next we'll be seeing kids named Twitter, iPod and App. Maybe we'll even get retro with it and find some names like Atari, Pong or Sega Genesis.

Alligator

Her purse was small - almost too small for all the things she regularly stuffed into it - her keys, her wallet, her datebook, her lipstick. Despite the glossy finish, the material was fake - a poorly done alligator skin. The color, a faded green, reminded me of pea soup, the kind with chunks of ham floating in it like pink islands. She carried the purse with her everywhere, even onto the plane that day when she couldn't afford to bring any money with her.

Maxim full of phonemes

Source: Maxim magazine.

Yesterday, I attended the first training session to be a tutor at the Racine Literacy Council and was reminded that words really are just the sounds we associate ideas with. Also, when it comes to adult learners, ideas of phonetics and separating out words requires a new approach.




We as tutors have to use tried and true methods that have also been used as the brunt of jokes. “Hooked on Phonics” is not a tag line our adult learners want to walk around with. At the same time, after they have mastered basic literacy skills, these students will succeed amazingly.



Having survived so long without literacy, they have adapted in other ways. In some cases, we might not even recognize the fact that they cannot read. Though rare, there are business leaders and even teachers in our society who cannot read.



When it comes to phonetics, a phoneme is the smallest unit of meaning or functional sound in language. Research has shown that phonological awareness is one of the most important factors in learning how to read. Phonemes can be taught both as letters and as sounds. The specifics can be broken down as follows:



Onset – the beginning sound of a word (the b- part of bend)

Rime – the ending sound of a word (the -end part of bend)

Blend – two letters that combine together but are still two separate sounds (the sn- part of snap)

Digraph – two letters that combine together to form one sound (the ch- part of chap)



This all gets a little too analytical a little too fast, so it is best to use it in small doses when working with learners, particularly adult learners. Like Daily Oral Language, give them a shot of it at the beginning of class, and then move on with the rest of the lesson. Quickly move on to learning how to read something more pressing, like Maxim magazine.

When widgets eat quarks, all nonce breaks out

When widgets eat quarks, all nonce breaks out




Recently, I learned about something called a nonce word. Or, more accurately, I did not learn about the existence of nonce words, just that there was a word for these type of words. Yes, even I'm a little confused.



A nonce word is a word created just for the sake of having a word or word phrase to refer to something for which there is no name or for which you do not know the name. Sometimes, you just substitute a word – like widget or thingamajig – for the word you are unsure of. I do this all the time. For example, could you get me my whatsit?



Another example of a nonce word is one that has added prefixes or suffixes to create a new word. In semi-current affairs, an example would be Snowmageddon. It's meaning is obvious, even though it combines two very interesting ideas “snow” and “Armageddon.”



Lastly, we have nonce words that are really just nonsense. These words are substituted for other words, most often for comedic effect. For a good example, read some nonsense verse, like Jabberwocky.



What's even better about nonce words is that they often become part of the modern vernacular and the language we use everyday, even though they were once nonce or nonsense.

Related links:

Nonce words
James Joyce's quark

On the Lunatic Cycle

The word “lunatic” is closely related to “lunar” and the cycles of the moon. Think werewolves, my friend. The movement of the moon, particularly its gravitational pull upon the tides, and how full it appears in the evening sky. And why is it that a woman's menstrual cycle often coincides with the cycles of the moon?




Two women in close proximity to one another are more likely to have similar menstrual cycles. It doesn't matter if they are related or good friends to one another or have any real connection. Just that they spend a large amount of time together. They start cycling at the same time.



There are so many kinds of cycles that relate or seem to relate to one another. It has been considered by some that other cycles might be connected. Like the cycles of bipolar disorder, people who get on the same ups and downs at the same times. Maybe we are more connected than we will admit, more than we want to be. Because if we admit these connections, it is harder for us to maintain distance from our enemies.

Rockability old-school mix of emo, hipster bullshit

I've always been a “gee whiz” kid a few decades behind the common vernacular, but now that I've come to understand my place in this space, I kinda likes it. I might always be a few steps behind the line between being cool and feeling like a fish, clammy hands and all. I might always be a little bit rockabilly old-school mix of emo, hipster bullshit. I might always be asking for more time-outs in the chair so made for me that it molds to my butt cheeks.




For explanation purposes, allow me to divulge:



1.In middle-school science, when we learned about cleavage, I couldn't understand why everyone snickered. It just explained the way rocks broke evenly. It had nothing to do with the breasts resting underneath the evenly cut diamond, which displayed wonderful cleavage in the movie we watched.



2.Gullible really was written on the ceiling of the instrument locker room. I looked. But I still looked every single other time someone told me it was written on the ceiling both before and after I learned what the word “gullible” meant.



3.A friend of mine regularly referred to himself in the third person all throughout high school, so when I indulge myself you better be paying attention because the Holy Trifecta of Kaitlyn is a lot more difficult to deal with than just one of me.



4.A symptom still in effect: I have a habit of taking things extremely literally, like if you tell me you have a pet puppy that lives in your basement, never sees the light of day, and eats his own poo – I will demand to see that puppy, and even upon further investigation, will ask where you chose to hide said puppy when I threaten to call animal control or PETA on your sorry butt.



This may be a continuing series, if I so decide. That's another of my habits. Forcing my ideas upon people like some horrible contagious disease.

Okay, kiddo, you're overly kind!

Let's switch it up. Instead of analyzing the definitions of okay, O.K. and OK, I will just admit that it doesn't really matter. Its a damn waste of my time, quite frankly. But what does interest me is which one other people choose to use when they type it out. So...quick survey, with a few sidenotes.

Usually you don't see it written out as "okay." Although I see OK used often, like OK Cupid (the dating site) and OK! (the magazine). I prefer O.K. but I always want to imagine that the letters themselves stand for something else like "okay, kiddo!" or "overly kind."

Want to give your feedback? Answer the survey below.

Conundrum pounding out okay

A conundrum to be discussed in greater depth soon:
Why are okay, OK, and O.K. synonymous and if O.K. is an actual abbreviation, what is it an abbreviation for? Wikipedia has some answers but we all know how reliable that information can be.

Wikipedia's take on okay, OK, and O.K.

Damn words doing well

What do you say when you can't find the words to describe what you want to say? I've had these moments more frequently in the past few weeks. As I wrote once, it's sad when a poet can't find her words.

This time, though, I don't think its sad. Not really. It just means what I have experienced is so intense that words can't explain it. For me, it is ususally emotion. This intense, ridiculous type of emotion like bliss, euphoria, satiation, ellation - or the other end - rage, agitation, passion, irritation.

All of them are two sides of one coin and I wish I could just glide along the edge of that dime. Then I would be just fine, between the extremes. And then maybe I would have the words to say exactly what I mean.

Allow me to share an anecdote:
I went through a phase when I was a grammar Nazi toward everyone - even myself. When people would casually ask me "How are you?" I would spend time contemplating the most appropriate response. "Fine" didn't work for me because you can't "do fine." What I came up with was "well."

But then they would stare at me because they expected "fine," and they definitely didn't expect the pause before I answered with "well". Damn words. They build me up just to watch me fall.

 

My better half = more of me!

Recently, I have chosen not to self-identify on Facebook, Twitter, etc. etc. Nobody needs to know my religion, politics or what I do in the bedroom. But sometimes it helps for ME to know what I identify as, just to avoid confusion when I start talking to myself.


And I have concluded that life is lonely right now, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. I am and actually want to be, for the first time, SINGLE. The question is: what the hell does that actually mean?

The first thing I think of is “single-serving” as in the “single-serving friends” acquired on a cross-country flight (a la Fight Club). But I've done the one-night (and one-morning) stand thing and the slut thing and both of those got old really, really fast (two months, tops).

I've also done the “take yourself on a date” thing, which isn't too bad. You get to eat what you want, watch what you want, and always make sure you're satisfied before you roll over and go to sleep. But it is definitely more expensive than letting someone else take you out.

And so, what have I concluded? Not much, it seems. But it is alright to be single and that doesn't mean you have to go to the bar on singles' night or bemoan your sorrows on Singles' Awareness Day (a.k.a. Valentine's Day). It just means you don't need a “better half” to be whole. And that's saying something.

Related Links:
Fight Club (1999)
Single-serving friend – Urban Dictionary definition
How to take yourself on a date - eHow.com
Singles' Awareness Website
Origins of “my better half” - phrases.org.uk

Kaitlyn M. Ulmer (Wierzchowski) Online Portfolio

Writing samples:
You Wear CRAZY Well - The New Gnus
Inklings - Book-length poetry manuscript on Amazon.com
Ready Racine - Newsletter for Racine County Emergency Management
Martini Madness - Downtown Blog for The Racine Journal Times
Second-Hand Smoking - Downtown Blog for The Racine Journal Times
Plea for Anarchy - Scars Publications
The Absent/Abusive Father - Scars Publications
Top ten tips for freshmen - The Ranger News, University of Wisconsin - Parkside

Shifting from books to Nooks

Those of us attached to books, almost in an unhealthy way, need to learn new modes of sharing information. Don't get me wrong, I still love the feel and smell of an old book and I often strip new books of their horrible plastic-feeling covers. But as my book club friend Jim says, it is the information in these books that is more important than the books themselves. He shared this while we were reading a pretty heavy YA novel, The Book Thief.

Those of us who still want to share information need to learn new technologies. I have always been tech-deficient, but even I have learned Facebook, Twitter, and Blogger. You can see a horrible example of my html learning if you look for my old Angelfire account (circa age 19). Thank god it is no longer the first thing that pops up when you search my name!

O.K. Getting a little off-topic... There will still be paper versions of literature as long as some of us still read them, but the internet is the main source of information these days. However, because anybody can post anything, you need to research your sources to determine which of them you can trust.

Related links:
In Praise of the American Short Story - The New York Times
About Electric Literature

Be like a baby in Snowmaggedon

Source: My brother, Bryce Ulmer, created this t-shirt design.

So many things I could write about today, and I can only choose one of them because I only have enough time to write about one of them! "Snomaggedon" has descended upon us in the Kenosha/Racine area of Wisconsin, and it is pulling people together in a way I haven't seen in a looooong time. I found myself stranded in Racine at my lover's apartment, but I am happy to be here with him.

But what I really want to focus on today is the positive things - which doesn't include feeling trapped by the snow. My friend Ellen sings wonderful songs. One of her lyrics sticks out to me: "Be like a baby the Bible say, so I stay like a baby to this very day." Today, I got the chance to play and cuddle the sweetest baby. He laid there, looking around at the wonderful world, his arms open wide. Looking for the world to embrace him.

Sometimes I wish I could be filled with awe. And why can't I marvel at the world around me? I can choose to gripe about this snow, or I can choose to watch how it glistens. Before grabbing my shovel, I want to take a moment to really look at the snow. I need to remind myself to be present in every waking hour of my life. To truly experience the things around me and stop living so much in my head.

More about Snowmeggedon 2011

Ideas escape books' constraints

We live in an amazing time. It is both exciting and terrifying. We can communicate our ideas across so many mediums to so many people. As a good friend told me a few months ago, it is the ideas that matter the most, not the books that contain them.

I have always thirsted for knowledge, but I have recently realised that the knowledge I have consumed is the knowledge that other people have fed me. I desired so much to succeed in school, in a traditional setting, that I missed out on a lot of things.

My new lover has opened up so many worlds to me that I never knew existed. Forms of knowledge and ways of knowing that absolutely astound me. Things I cannot find words for, things I can't even begin to define. Things as wonderful, terrifying, and unknowable as God.

And all that knowledge is out there, but it is up to us to sort through it now. Our level of connectivity is both benificial and detrimental to us. Because as easily as positive ideas can spread, negative ones can invade. Find the things that help you and stick to them. Acknowledge but do not internalize the rest.

Word pics

Labels - good for food, not for people

You can't label me. You can try. But you can't force me to self-identify. I prefer not to provide personal information on a survey, to check the boxes that would categorize me. Because, as soon as I do, you will judge me. You will make assumptions about the type of person I am. At the bottom of it, I am only me - an entirely unique individual. Take the time to know me. Don't try to label me. And, unless you want to, I won't make you label yourself, either.

Can't dare to put my fingers in my.... too scary

There was a point in time when I was convinced masturbating was something that only boys did. In fact, that only boys COULD do. Part of my reasoning was the "master" part of the word (I often misspelled it - masterbate).

Some of my relatives were very old-fashioned and would address birthday cards to "Miss Kaitlyn" or "Master Bryce." So, I assumed that the "master" in "masterbate" referred only to boys. Strange how the young mind works, isn't it?

It wasn't until I read about it in a magazine - probably Seventeen - that I realised girls could masturbate, too. Turned out that I had been doing it for a while, not really knowing what I was doing, just knowing that it felt good. But it wasn't until I read that article that I even considered touching myself with my hands.

On the interwebs I found a frank and straight-forward discussion among young teens, most of them in the 13-15 age range. Their thoughts and fears about masterbating closely mirror my own at that age. I found it amusing but also revealing that so many young people are embarrassed about their masturbation and feel like they have to sneak around and hide that they please themselves.

Young teens discuss this topic.

A Talking Vagina

Yours truly has been cast in The Vagina Monologues, a fun and irreverent feminist play if there ever was one. I don't get to do the infamous moaning bit (thank God, I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face!) but I will be involved in two of the monologues. One is My Vagina is a Village, the other is I Was There in the Room. The performance will be in March at the University of Wisconsin - Parkside. Details to come soon.

What I love about this play is that it reclaims the vagina. After reading it for the first time a few months ago, I decided to "discover" my vagina. This meant pulling out a hand mirror and taking a look at it. As a twenty-five-year-old woman it was amazing that I had never actually SEEN my vagina. I also hadn't seen porn, either, but that's another story.

The vagina is a beautiful thing when you really take a look at it. It just has so many layers! I remember in health class shouting the word VAGINA because all of us were just so goddam ashamed of even saying it. How is it that everyone is so comfortable saying penis, dick, cock and sometimes even pussy, but never vagina. Never vagina.

This NEEDS to change!

Vagina Monologues script

The universe is trying to tell you something