Caught Up

In lieu of you
I found distraction
in a box of petty things
that came to catch
and feed attention
quelling qualms
of diamond rings

In lieu of you
I came to ponder
what light means in brighter terms
and thought about
the eye of wonder
the heat that makes
the fire burn

In lieu of you
I caught a moment
splashing color on the floor
and when I asked it
for its number
it laughed and drew
a twenty-four

How long to wait
for hearts to beat
like drums of dancers on the street
like fragile wings
of butterflies
kissing beggars
on their cheeks

With you I found
another world
filled with luckless lovers’ lore
caught up in this
distraction fails
and I’ll stop to think
of you once more

NS 10.30.2009

Pretty Words

If pretty words could make you love me
you’d have loved me long ago
but still I’m losing your attention
for pretty words are all I know

I can do naught but rearrange them
set them up in metered rhyme
make them say such silly things that I
hope you’ll learn to love in time

But pretty words are lost to your ears
as scenery’s lost to you r eyes
and as my touch is lost to your hands
so is love and so it dies

If pretty songs could make you hear me
you’d have heard me long before
you heard me crying at your window,
beating fists against your door

I can do naught but let the notes fall
from my lips like frozen drops
of summer rain in winter weather
waiting for the snow to stop

Pretty Baby, don’t forsake me,
I know you find my plea absurd
but Pretty Baby, I can’t help that
all I have are pretty words

NS 10.30.2009

The Rain Equation

At what rate should one walk through the rain in order to arrive at Destination A the least wet?

They say if you run, you get wetter.
But if you walk too slowly, it’ll take forever,
and the amount of time you’ll spend walking will make up for the raindrops you’d be hitting if you ran.

So, then, how does one come to determine the ideal rate?

I suppose you’d have to take into account the amount of rain coming down, per square inch, as they say? Though this hardly seems quantitatively sound.

And I suppose you would have to factor in the size of the raindrops –
is there a sheet of petite drips?
Or are there few but massive drops?

And I suppose it would depend on how far you’re going.
And in what direction the wind was blowing.
And through the type of place you were walking,
since the country has trees, and the city has scaffolding.

Would it matter if it were winter?
Would it matter if it were a sun-shower?
Would it make a difference if you didn’t mind
getting soaked as you walked along?
Or if you were dodging raindrops like stray bullets from hunters,
zooming across your lawn?

At what rate should one walk through the rain in order to arrive at Destination A the least wet?

NS 10.22.09

The Butterfly Effect

When the world ends,
I will draw
butterflies
on skyscrapers

in five hundred
colors. I
will give them
their proper wings

so they can fly
over the
rubble of
old city streets:

Painted Ladies,
Monarchs, Tailed
Blues; I used
to know more types.

and as water
rises up,
they will rise
up to the sky,

up to the clouds,
to heaven,
to angels,
to share color

with a world yet
to join the
masses that
drown in the tides.

And they will see
the water that
comes closer,
but will not fear

the waves below
that crash and
rush and cry
out with sadness

because all they
see are these
butterflies:
a mosaic,

a beautiful
masterpiece,
God’s genius
saved in insects.

And when the flood
washes them
away in
a sea of white

the water will
turn black and
remember
they changed it all.

NS 10.21.09

A Barrage of Mixed Feelings

I remember when I didn’t wear blush
When I didn’t wear dresses
When I didn’t wear bras

I remember when I didn’t have earrings
When I didn’t have braces
When I didn’t have teeth

I remember when I didn’t know music
When I didn’t know Mozart
When I didn’t know chocolate

I remember when I believed in the Tooth Fairy
When I believed in the Easter Bunny
When I believed in Santa Claus

I remember when I didn’t wear smirks
When I didn’t wear anger
When I didn’t wear horror

I remember when I didn’t have OCD
When I didn’t have ADD
When I didn’t have anxiety

I remember when I didn’t know hatred
When I didn’t know war
When I didn’t know race

I remember when I believed in peace
When I believed in love
When I believed everything

I remember
And when I remember
It all comes back to me

NS 10.21.09

The Aftermath of a Weekend in Vegas

But I saw them –
They were on the stair,
Right next to the book you gave me on Friday
Along with the tickets
And told me to read soon
Because it meant something to you
And might mean something to me,
But I just took the tickets out of the pages
And hadn’t thought of the book ‘til now.

Or maybe you left them on the counter
Next to the half-empty coffee mug
We have twenty of and paid too much for,
With our faces on it, smiling and stupid.

Or maybe they’ve sunk deep into the coat pocket
Of that ugly purple velvet tux you just shoved into the closet
That smells like smoke
And sickly sweet rotting cabbage and beer.

Or they could be in the new one – the tux we bought for tomorrow?
Have you checked your pants pocket?
Are you sure we didn’t leave them next to Captain Kirk?
Or Marilyn Monroe?
That bitch! I bet she stole them. The whole time,
I thought she was checkin’ you out,
But, damn, man,
It was the rings she was lookin’ at!

Oh, God. What would mom say if she knew we were already married?

NS 10.21.2009

Loose-leaf

He took me in his hands, and opened me up to the world.
With one glance, he saw past my bland exterior, past my paper cover, and into a complex world of events, actions, memories, joy, sadness, success, loss, loathing, indignation, appreciation, fear, hope, love… He saw everything I was and accepted me, looked behind the words and understood me. He took me in his hands, over and over, always knowing what he’d find but never tiring of any of it. He opened me up to the world, and he loved me.
For years, I stayed in his house, lay on his bed, and lived alongside him. I watched as he grew taller, broader, and as time lined his face, I stayed by him; I watched girls, then ladies, then women walk in and out of his door. His love affairs with them were always short, and, as far as I was concerned, inconsequential; for I could always be sure he’d return to me, running his fingers down my spine and caressing me into the nights he would have otherwise spent alone. For I was his faithful, sole companion. When he needed it, I offered inspiration, and when he needed it, I gave him an outlet for his ideas. When he needed me, I was there, at arm’s length; accessible.
Maybe too accessible.
For one day, he found he had filled me up with all the little things there were to think and say, and all the moments I ever had to give had been memorized and stored away in the very back of his mind. He knew me by heart, and so I no longer fascinated him as I had in his youth. I bored him. I was obsolete, and so I was replaced. One warm day, years after my birth, after years of giving birth, he gave up on me, and gave in. And I? I was given away.

And years later, when he’d forgotten my prose and feel of my skin, he would search for me, wishing to hold me again.

* * *

Heavenly Dispute

The angel turned to God and cried,
“I thought that you were on my side!
That I was born for greater things
than singing songs and flapping wings
and lounging in the stratosphere;
so, what, Lord, am I doing here?”
But God just raised a weary eye,
waved his heavy hand, “Goodbye,
if life in Heaven isn’t well,
I’ve naught to say but
go to Hell.”

* * *

A much younger man would take me next, and he would light me afire. He was rough in appearance, inspired by darkness and chaos and flames, and all the things in the world that scream and cry out for attention. His skin was his canvas, and he painted it with bright colors and macabre scenes. Married to morbidity, he knew no other lover.
He took me in so fast, and so believed he knew me well. He scoffed at my love for beautiful words and scorned my collection of events, actions, emotions, memories... He smirked at all the wrong moments, and laughed when I revolted, slicing his fingertips. He took me in so fast it hurt; and then he took the part he liked the least and ripped it from my core.
He tore it out of me, so swiftly I almost didn’t feel it go. And then he held that part of me, and gently rolled it between his fingertips: he touched me the sweetest he ever touched me, just before he destroyed me. He touched me softly, lit his match, and watched me cringe and smolder between his lips. He liked the power to destroy me, to take from me what he wished to take and make of me what he wished to make, to leave me jaded, like him. But, though he took that part of me, though it was gone from me, I still felt it burn. My phantom limb ached as I watched myself glow, and dissipate into the cold night air in a cloud of chocolate-scented smoke.
There is now a permanent hole in me; I can never reclaim what he took. And thinking back upon this loss, I am sure it was a part he really didn’t know; and thinking back upon this loss, I am sure he never really cared to know. Destruction is easy in apathy: before he could destroy any more of me, he came to destroy himself.

* * *

autumn

a leaf that falls

from treetops high

is not aware

it's doomed to die

it just lives on

for a little while

color fading

on top of the pile

and then comes death

a welcomed state

when it can fly again

and watch as bodies break

and crumble

beneath my hollow self

* * *

It was a girl who next possessed me. She was young, but only in measure of time. She was the type who read Hemingway, and could recall Yeats quotes. She sang in elevators. She wore flowers in her hair. She took photographs of strangers. She smelled books. She petted bumblebees. She wore knee socks and vintage dresses. She dreamed of being young forever. She liked sequins. She hated raisins. She owned three pairs of Doc Martins. She cried at weddings, and laughed at funerals, and ran from babies, and spied on old people. One day she lay down in the middle of one of those white profile outlines in police paint on the ground, and, when asked if an accident had taken place at that spot, she replied, “Yes. My life.”
She was the type who loved to write notes in the margins. She was the type who loved to read notes in the margins. And any space that was not filled, she filled with all the pretty things she could think of. She loved me although I was irrevocably damaged; she loved me even though a part of me was missing. She loved me because a part of me was missing.
I was always afraid of losing her. She was sad; most of the time she was sad, and she cried to me on many occasions. She marked me with her tears, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto. Her hands were small, but her grip was strong, and with what I had to give, I tried to make the rest of her stronger as well. But life was too cruel for her fragile soul, and there came a time when I was not enough.
She marked me with little drops from little wrists, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto.

* * *

Gallant Attempts

A little man stood on a hill
To try to reach the stars;
And when that failed, he climbed a tree
But found them just as far.
So he just captured fireflies,
And put them in a jar.

* * *

Next was a much younger girl, but less in body than in mind: she found the world dull and gray, so tried to run from home and time. But even escape was half-hearted; she was not the determined kind.
I never cared for this one much, though I watched her closely with the days; she left me sitting on the side, a silent stranger, an extra, the unnamed character in a modern play. I never cared for this one much, she never cared for me at all – and so she went and so I stayed, staring blankly at the wall.
In the days she spent away, I’d amuse myself with silly things; conversing with old porcelain dolls, scoffing at Cosmo magazines - though romance novels lined her shelf, the girl was only seventeen.
Many nights I’d turn my eye to watch her run about the room, packing pillows under sheets, staring blankly at the moon, before she’d open up the window and slip into the mist and gloom… and into the back of a dark red Mercedes, parked on the corner of April and June. Or a pick-up truck on Maple and Cereus, or a Volvo at Epyphyllum and Broome. Sometimes she didn’t return until the night flowers ceased to bloom.
I never cared for this one much; but I left her soon.

* * *

Push

If hands are hands, are hands
of another girl your plan?
If hearts are hearts, is mine
a hackneyed word in rhyme?
If love is love, in youth
does love appear uncouth?
You’re blunt and quite unfair
when you see me standing there
with scratches on my face;
with leaves caught in my hair.

* * *

There are times I wonder how life gives direction; bouncing around in the back of a dark red Mercedes was one of those remarkable times. I was picked up and thrown down, and I slid around for a minute or two, before being picked up once again, by a boy who was then told to “get the hell out of the backseat of the goddamn car.” And so he did, without a huff or a grumble, and he took me along with him—a companion for the long walk home.
On the way, he flipped through moments, looking for moments, searching for meaning. He started taking me along every time he went out; and it seemed he was always walking home. I was glad to accompany him; he was quiet and thoughtful. When he spoke, he only asked questions, and then he was quiet again. He spoke so rarely, that most people thought he was odd, or a mute. In fact, he could speak seven languages – but because he rarely spoke, no one ever knew.
He always looked at the stars. We’d walk down the street, and he’d name constellations, tracing galaxies with the tips of his fingers. He wondered what else was up there; he wondered who might be up there. Sometimes he thought someone might be watching, sometimes he though he might just be alone; sometimes he thought that nothing existed, and sometimes he thought he saw chimera or ghosts. Sometimes he smiled at his brain’s strange inventions, and his eyes glowed with the humor that accompanied the analysis of his over-active imagination.
He needed answers that I couldn’t give him, and he knew it and was accepting. He never got angry; he was always so even, for he knew he had far too many questions. He simply took what I had to offer, and offered me to someone who needed me more.

* * *

Riddle

Je suis bleu,
je suis blanche,
je suis jaune,
je suis rouge.

J’étais vivante,
mais je pars, maintenant.

Avant que tu ne sois né,
je possèdais le ciel;
maintenant, tu vis
et bois le lait, et manges le miel.

Vois la lumière
qui trouve tes jolis yeux:
ton perception
ment à ton coeur!

Oui, la lumière,
elle chante bruyante:
tu vois une ange!
Ris joyeusement!

Mais, mon amour, je suis morte
il y a dix ans.

* * *

I awoke one morn in weathered hands, callused and rough and wrinkled in their old age. The owner of those hands was quiet; I never heard her say a word. She simply picked me up, and with one grandmotherly look, summed me up. Apparently, she approved of me, for in the months that followed I became well acquainted with her little figure, her little cat, and her little red-brick home.
Most everyday was the same routine, shuffling about in fuzzy blue slippers, dusting old photos, ignoring visitors. Every night she lay in her bed, and listened to the cars go by. But some days she tired of the same routine, and so she’d do meaningless tasks. Sometimes she rearranged all the furniture in her bedroom; sometimes she moved around all the utensils in her kitchen. Sometimes she visited the local cemetery, and talked to husband, or her granddaughter. Sometimes, when the days were dark and lightning lit the skies—and she could be sure she would receive no visitors and no cars would bother to stop—she would sit on the stoop in front of her house, and let the rain soak her skin. She’d sit with her palms open, facing up, counting the raindrops as they bounced off her stiff fingertips. She tilted her chin to the sky, letting water run in her ancient eyes. The rain reminded her that she still could feel.
She was so tired. Tired of life and its disappointments, its osteoporosis and painful arthritis, she looked to me for life-support, as her newly appointed, unconventional geriatrician. My prescriptions were simpler, and far less expensive: I had her popping words instead of pills, sedating herself with thoughts instead of drugs. And so she read, and wrote, and smiled, and even laughed again; and grew in mind, even as her body withered away.
Before she died, I brought her back to life.

* * *

Hit and Miss

I drenched myself in muddy water today.
I found a puddle two feet deep
in the middle of the road
and jumped in.
Maybe it was foolish of me;
but I jumped in.

I kissed a stranger today.
I saw him walking next to me
and he looked unhappy
so I kissed him, and ran away.
Maybe it was foolish of me;
but I kissed him and ran away.

I told you that I love you today.
We were walking through the city
and you couldn’t wait to go home for the summer
and I thought, how I would miss you!
So I told you that I love you.
Maybe it was foolish of me.

* * *

Now I live in a dark place, for how long I don’t know. No one knows me now; no one owns me now. Packed away, I have time; time to reflect, time to wonder, time to imagine, time to live, love, list… All the time there was, is, will be, was, is, will be mine. Was… is… will be mine. Who ever possessed who?

* * *

To read through a book of poetry...

Life. Love. Lists.
Life loves lists.
Life lists loves
in chronological order.

Life. Love. Lies.
Lovers list lies.
and lovers list liars
in chronological order.

Love. Lists. Lies.
Still, lover tries,
listing lives of lovers
in chronological order.

A list of lovers and liars
on loose-leaf paper.

NS 10.15.09

Si je suis vivant, je suis en feu

“Sorry,” she says. “My bad. You look like you’d smoke.” I shake my head.
“Sorry,” though I’m not sure exactly what I’m sorry for.
Having just finished pouring a massive amount of artificial sweetener into her Berryblossom tea, my sister steps out of the Starbucks doorway, just in time to see leopard-print tights retreat around the corner.
“What’d she want?” I notice her right hand, clumsily withdrawing a pack of Marlboros from her purse. I pretend not to notice.
“Nothing,” I say. “Directions.” Tess nods her head. She flicks open the red and white box and lowers her mouth to meet its contents. When her face reappears, a cigarette is between her lips.
“Come on.” I put my hand on her shoulder and steer her toward the sidewalk.
Every time we come into town, we sit on the same bench: in front of the consignment shop, down the street from Dunkin’ Donuts, across the intersection from Starbucks. If we were astronomers, this would be our observatory.
Tess sinks onto the bench and sets down her tea; a pale hand pushes long, dark hair out of her face, and drops it to one side. The same hand now reaches into her shorts’ pocket, and pulls out a faded pink and white Hello-Kitty lighter—anyone could see that this cat gets a lot of attention. She flicks the button in back, and has it lit on the first try. In another five seconds, she is finished, and the small, pink and white cat disappears, back into her pocket.
I watch the smoke diffuse in the warm August air, and breathe in the sweet scent of tobacco. It burns my eyes… stings my throat… coats my lungs. I am pacified; it reminds me of my first love.
Tess leans back on the bench, closing her eyes. “You know,” she says, “I could get kicked out of school for this. If they ever saw me.”
I adjust my head slightly to better see her face. “You mean, on school grounds?” I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, no shit. Most schools don’t tend to like that, Tess.”
She scowls at me, amusedly, and takes another drag. “No,” she chirps, giving her head a quick shake. She blows smoke over the sidewalk. “If they see me at all. Anywhere.”
I look at her, and laugh; then I look at her again. “Wait… like, legit?” She nods somberly. “Can they do that?”
“Oh, yeah.” She stares down at the smoking gun resting between her fingers. “Andrea’s parents saw me on Thursday. They drove by when we were here.” She smiles, and I wonder what’s so funny. “But I lucked out,” she says. “They thought I was you.”
I bring my hand to my face and press down on my eyes. I consider giving her the “you should really be more careful” lecture, but I know she’ll do what she wants to do anyway, and she’ll trust me more if I don’t act like our mom. So I just shake my head, and laugh, lightly: “you dumbass.” I look up at her, and she’s still smiling. She doesn’t know she makes me worry; she doesn’t know she makes me sad.
I grab my coffee off the bench and shake it, to mix it up. I take a sip, and gesture towards the camera around her neck. “So what’s it today? A couple, right?”
“Yeah.” She bends over and puts out her cig on the concrete. The sidewalk becomes her ashtray.
“Well, what about them?” I point out a young couple, canoodling across the street. Why do people always do that shit where everybody’s trying to walk?
“Nah,” she wrinkles her nose. “They’re no good.”
“Okay… them, then.” An old man and woman teeter along—the way old people do—holding hands, and both dressed in a palate of peaches and beige.
“They’re cute,” she says, “but not quite.”
I look across the intersection. “Please don’t tell me you want them.” She regards me curiously, and follows my gaze. A round couple in their fifties wheel their bikes along in tight fitting, frighteningly skimpy spandex. My gaze follows them down the street, past Starbucks, as they move toward the more residential part of town. I think, they’re either very brave, or they have no pride. Either way, I hope they don’t realize how scary they look.
Suddenly, Tess jumps up, breaking my hypnosis. The camera becomes glued to her face, and, as she clicks away madly, I spin around to catch sight of her subjects.
Their backs are towards us, but their bulky, hunched backs are all I need to see. Both are tall and stocky, almost square. The woman has long, dark, shaggy hair; so does the man, with the addition of a large, shiny bald spot centered on his scalp. Lumbering down the sidewalk, holding hands, I have to wonder how on earth they found each other…
By now they’re out of range. “Dammit!” She flicks a button. “My light meter was off. But should come out okay.” I just can’t stand it. My chin drops to my chest and I convulse with laughter, so apparently amused by this tragic love affair. I am a bad person; I am sick. My sides hurt.
“I should have known!” I gasp between giggles. “I should have known. You would go for the most awkward couple alive.”
She shrugs her shoulder, and smiles. We laugh as the day grows old.

* * *

“Before we leave, I need to go to the train tracks.” Tess lifts up her camera, an explanatory gesture. I nod, and we redirect ourselves onto a side street in town, leading toward the rails.
Our town is small – Main Street, Bridge Street, and maybe one or two in between. I guess we used to need a railroad here… but towns grow, and change. The railroad station is now a restaurant, and the trains no longer run through there. But we have no interest in the station, itself. Our focus is still hidden from view: an abandoned train car, parked in back of the station, one mile down an old dirt road.
It rained yesterday. I avoid the pot-holes, filled with water, jumping here and there to keep my shoes clean. But Tess just laughs at me, and trudges right through. In a vintage lace mini-dress, frayed jean shorts, and her beat-up blue leather boots, she looks like she belongs there, with the gray debris and dark water flying around her feet.
The train car comes into sight: a giant red box surrounded by feral foliage that, after so many years, still has not obscured it from our view. As we get closer, we see where the paint has chipped and worn, and where rust has built up over the years. In some places, it’s hard to tell where the paint ends, and the rust begins. Now, we stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the car. We use the hand-rail to take the first tall step up, and then climb in, like this is normal; like we are passengers a long time ago.
The inside is barren chaos. The windows have no glass, and only bars on the floor show where seats had once been. Graffiti covers the walls and ceiling, and empty beer bottles clutter the floor. It would feel empty, if it didn’t feel so alive. We love this place, though it is damaged, decrepit. It’s beautiful; it gives us hope. My sister lifts her camera to her eye, freezing the scene on black and white film.
With the camera hanging once more from her neck, Tess walks to the front of the train car and looks for a space in the graffiti. Once she finds one, she drops to her knees, and pulls a Sharpie out of her purse. I watch as she writes,

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
~ W.B. Yeats

* * *

“We are beautiful… we are doomed…” Tess sings along jubilantly to Los Campesinos on the ride home, to lyrics too sad and true to merit such good humor. The song ends and switches over to one by MGMT. Tess checks her phone.
“Clare is a bastard.” A tired statement.
“What’d he do now?”
Tess makes a face and turns toward the window. She flicks her phone open and closed, and stows it in her pocket. “I think… I embarrass him… I think he’s embarrassed to be seen with me.”
I see. I don’t need to ask, but I do, anyway. “Why do you think that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He says he likes me… but, then, he never talks to me at school. Other people talk to me. His friends talk to me. But he won’t talk to me.”
At this I keep silent; I have no need to speak. I am writing the words as they form in her mouth… and so she takes them, and continues.
She says, “He’s only nice when we’re alone.”
Tess turns back to the window, and a stinging sensation swells in my chest as my heart drops for her. But what can I say? That’s what you get for falling for a boy like that. That’s what you get when you let him make you his secret.
“Fuck Clarence,” I tell her, determined to be the strong, older sister. “Those relationships are best ended early.” I close my eyes, and I can still taste the smoke.
“No,” she snaps, “you don’t understand. It… it used to be so perfect.” She reaches into her purse, and pulls out a small bundle. Negatives: a moment forever. I wait, as she scans the film, square by square, page by page. “Here.” I slow the car for better control, as I squint to see the tiny figures. And there they are, Tess and Clare: Tess in an old fashioned lace-trimmed dress, Clare in a top-hat and jacket; the two holding hands, smiling at each other. “That was on his birthday,” she says. “I bought him that top hat, remember? And he wore it all day. We snuck out of school, and walked out into the woods together, and spent all afternoon exploring. And…” she pauses, and smiles: “and I got my first kiss.”
“But it’s not like that anymore.” She glares at me for spoiling her reverie. I meet her gaze straight on, and challenge.
“Time changes things. And people change. Trust me,” I tell her, “if you let it go on, he’ll only hurt you. He’ll… string you along; throw you out and pull you back, like a yo-yo. He’ll break you down… Tear you apart. I don’t want that to happen to you.” I can’t watch that happen to you.
I should have known: too heavy for Tess. She looks down at her fingers and starts picking at her nails. “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe. But I don’t love him, either.” She pauses, and smiles. “I use him as much as he uses me. So it’s a little more okay.”
I sigh. I tried. “I guess.” I guess this is one she’ll learn on her own. She reaches into her purse for another cigarette. I roll down the windows to let out the smoke.

NS 09.20.09

Whole Grain Spaghetti

“Ouch!” she yelled, jumping off of the oven, pasta pot in hand. The burner glowing red, she turned to look down at her left back pocket. Nope; no harm done – she’d almost expected a swirl-shaped scorch mark on her jeans, like the kind an iron would leave. But, then again, she hadn’t been sitting on the burner for all that long. She laughed, thankful for a lack of witnesses to her stupidity. At least there was no evidence, except for her now literally hot ass. Note to self, she thought, take out all necessary paraphernalia for pasta-making BEFORE turning on stove.
She filled the pot with water and placed it on the burner, taking a moment to stare as the curved surface swayed back and forth. She was the only one in the dorm that evening, cooking by herself, for herself. Her roommate was out with her boyfriend, their weekend guest; her suitemates were at the hookah bar with the boys from next door. And, of course, they didn’t invite her. They never invited her out anymore; but, honestly, she wouldn’t have gone, anyway.
She grabbed an orange off the top of the fridge and dug her thumb nail into the peel. She was halfway through removing the acidic cortex of the fruit before she remembered why she’d stayed in that night to begin with. Her gaze snapped up to the microwave’s digital clock – her laundry had been dry for over an hour. After a quick debate over whether or not to eat the orange before running downstairs, she dropped the scantily-clad produce onto the table, grabbed her keys, and headed for the elevator.
It came quickly, which was unusual since she lived on the fourteenth floor. She pressed C-3 for the basement, and stepped back into the corner, wrapping her hands around the metal bar behind her. The elevator stopped at the ninth floor, but no one was there – the doors opened and closed, and she continued the descent. At the seventh floor, the elevator halted again; this time, she was joined by a boy, followed closely by his girlfriend. Or what looked like a girlfriend. I wonder if they’re even together; I wonder how often they fuck. She glanced over at the couple, specifically noting the appearance of the girl and simultaneously trying very hard not to show her disgust. Is that the only way to meet people around here? she wondered. Dressing like that? Whatever happened to modesty? For enjoying a girl’s company for who she was, not how little her dress is or how big her…
BUMP! C-3.
The elevator landed somewhat harder than usual, and she quickly stepped forward to keep her balance, thankful for the bar behind her. She shuffled out of the elevator, suddenly very aware of the presence of her fuzzy slippers.
Oh, well. Everyone wears slippers down here. And if I’m quick, no one will notice, anyway.
In a few seconds, she was in the laundry room, grabbing her laundry basket off of the side table she’d set it on almost two hours before. The dryer she’d used had been the only one available at the time—stacked on top of a second dryer, it was not so convenient for someone as vertically challenged as she; but she was impatient, and always too prideful. She yanked open the door to the dryer and blindly reached, grabbing at the contents and throwing it into the basket below. Once she’d finished, she closed the dryer door, and headed back upstairs.
Ignoring the orange on the table, she walked straight into her room and dumped her laundry out onto her bed. She always started by folding the larger pieces—shirts, jeans, towels—before beginning to sort out the rest. It wasn’t until now, as she made a pile of underwear and another of socks, that she noticed what she was missing.
If she could name anything in the world, anything, as her number one pet peeve, it would be losing socks. Especially cute socks. After all, a cute sock without its double is useless; even depressing. She wouldn’t want to get rid of it; it’s too adorable! But it’s not like she could wear just one sock—if you wear one sock, obviously you need another (unless its 4th grade clash day and you’re wearing a sneaker and a flip-flop.) But, at the same time, she couldn’t wear it with any other sock – not only would that severely aggravate her OCD, but, really, it would just look silly. Matching cute socks are one thing, but wearing one sock with a happy bunny and another with a fish…? Um, no. Plus, these were her little white socks with the surf-boarding monkeys on them. They were awesome! No way was she going to give one up without an intense hunt and bloody battle.
Determined, she bolted for the basement.
She reached C-3, bounced out of the elevator and sprinted across the common area into the laundry room. She turned the corner quickly, but, as her dryer came into sight, she stopped…
In front of her open dryer stood a boy, maybe six feet tall, and in one hand, he held a little white monkey sock. In the midst of withdrawing his other hand from the dryer, he turned around to face her. He smirked. There, in his emerging hand, she saw them: a pair of rather small, pink, and very lacy panties. “Are these yours?”
“Um…” Oh, god. She held out her hand: “Here.” Still smirking, with one eyebrow raised, he placed the sock and the underwear into her hand. “Thanks,” she muttered, and shuffled out.
Face bright red, she smacked at the elevator button. Miss. She smacked it again, so hard that she broke the little light behind it – it flickered and died. She sighed, and crumpled the underwear up into her palm.
Fuck, she thought. I am awkward.

NS 09.09.09

Third Avenue

I’ve got late night blues
in high-heel shoes
tripping down
Third Avenue
It’s a cryin’ shame
we’ve played this game
too long to know
what the pieces do
Never thought the lights would fade
and dim to grim
violet brocade
to imitate velvet or suede
is almost just as overplayed
as morning music or traffic news

As radio tuners repeat and scatter
“How many times can I break ‘til I shatter?”
my heart races faster
then hardens to plaster
doubled over in pain
this night’s a disaster
So I’ll try to go back
to add and subtract
but not alter fact
or play up an act
of another intention
or failure to mention
the awkward suspension
of love’s intervention
in limbo where lost souls
play tug of war with black holes
and catch with anti-matter

Do you know what it is, what it is that we do
we fall for the worst of the worst of the few
we believe could be good, but are lost and are blue
Do you know what it is that we do

Stumble forward, break my fall
on cold cement or red brick wall
and not one eye directs its gaze
Sometimes feel like I’m one inch tall

Do you know what it is, what it is that we do
we fall for the worst of the worst of the few
in hope of the best, we are stupid, it’s true
Do you know what it is, what it is that we do

Do you know what it is that we do?

NS ‘09

Lazy Friday

Sweet air sweeps overhead
as we walk hand in hand
on soft earth; we are caught,
pulled along by invisible currents
grasping, greedy for a taste
of our light laughter.

I manipulate your shadow
to whisper a symphony
on your lips.

NS ‘09

Our Secret

C'est toi que j'aime: avec tout mon coeur, tout mon âme, toute ma vie. Toujours, tu vivras, si seulement dans le memoire. Mais maintenant? La distance, ce n'est rien: nous rirons! Nous diviserons et conquerrons.

Et ça, c'est notre secret.

NS '09

Love for Simpler Things

Condemn such love for simpler things;
no greater gift is given
when known are all the songs she sings,
and by what signs she’s driven.

An easy way to keep her caught
a stranger to attention:
give more or less a casual thought,
for she will see dimension.

But should you leave and tell her last
with sparse intent to smother,
she will cry and hold you fast
and wish you were another.

NS ’09

Ounces

In ounces, in ounces, I give love in ounces
It boils, it cools, and it dries in their hands
They try it, they taste it, and maybe they buy it
For moments in lifetimes that cannot be planned
But if they decide
They enjoyed what they tried
What, then, may stop them from trying again?

NS '09

Not the Desired One

Pick petals off a daisy stem
but we were never counting them
and wind will move them faithfully
across the land and over sea

Push the sand over our toes
slip through the fields where algae grows
the currents crash and we are free
I don’t want you to forget me

Sinking, I’m sinking
in quicksand of your pick
and all I keep thinking,
Will you kiss me in public?

New York air is thick with dirt
I trip and fall so fast it hurt
to see the girl I couldn’t be
I don’t want you to regret me

Falling I’m calling
for something abusive
I’m desperate, appalling
you’re far to elusive

I turn my head to see your face
there is no love about this place
I’m not that girl, I cannot be
I don’t want you to regret me

We chose, we tried, we traveled far
but what was real was left to scar
upon a clouded memory
I don’t want you to forget me

But I don’t want you to regret me

NS '09

La Morte d'une Etoile

A cold wind blows as she looks with troubled
eyes upon the newly fallen snow; she cries a little
for he who sits on the corner
as if he knew her, as if she knew him.

Star's old light mourns a world ten years past;
new light knows not what's ten years gone;
she admires stars of present black
upon a crowded street alone.

And all those passing on the street—
Dante knows where they reside—
shrug their shoulders, avert their gaze:
they hope St. Peter is on their side.

She glances once more from weathered face
to eyes of glass and eyes of coal.
Her star closes in to become a hole:
a cynosural tear for a long lost soul.


NS ‘08

The Meet-Cute

“Come on, get on,” he says. “This’ll drop you off right in front of your dorm.” I step in and grab the metal bar as the bus begins to move. My friend stands close to me, holding onto the bar above him, above my head. Next to us, the jolt of the bus has caused a very tall young man to lose his balance and knock into a petite and pretty girl. “Oops, I’m sorry!” He’s embarrassed; she smiles. “It’s fine.”
I turn to my friend and whisper, “That could be a meet-cute. Like for a movie.” He says, “What the hell is that?”

NS' 09

No Gentlemen

Two middle-aged women walk down Lafayette, choosing to adventure into one of the Village’s more formal Chinese restaurants. As they follow the hostess to a table, the first woman sends a cursory glance around the room. They approach the table, where one seat faces in and the other is a bench against the wall. The first woman stands back as her friend slides onto the bench seat; she then takes the opposite.

Woman#1: I just find it so strange now when I see so many couples out for dinner with the woman sitting here (she gestures to herself; more generally, to the seat facing the wall) and the man sitting over there (to her friend, sitting on the red cushioned bench).
Woman#2: And why’s that?
Woman#1: Well, the gentleman takes the outside seat because a lady should never have her back to a room!
Woman#2: So why do they do it then?
Woman#1: Because there are no gentlemen left in the world.

NS '09

Selfish

Selfish now, I’m going to be selfish now, when I think of them and I think of you and knives and the metaphorical glue that won’t fix what you’ve literally hacked into pieces, pieces and pieces and pieces, it’s true, pieces of me and pieces of you, pieces of us, pieces of skin, pieces of her and pieces of him, pieces of me and pieces of you, of my sisters and father and my mother, too.

Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, listen how I choose to complain and cry and chain smoke cigarettes in the form of old regrets and all the wrong outlets for anger, and worse because you’re not a stranger, there’s too many ways to displace the confusion that comes with your face and the number seven because you were the seventh and I hate October fifth through the seventh, interesting how things like that happen, how things like that happen to people like us.

Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, when I think of myself and the years I lost, the years that some say are the best in their lives, but I was watching my family die, and I spent them with nothing but black on my mind and in my heart that lost all its blood and stopped beating when the aorta was nicked by the kitchen knife that she used at Thanksgiving dinner.

Selfish, now, I’m going to be selfish, now, and say things I really don’t think and don’t care to say because sometimes it’s good to say things you don’t mean so you can realize you don’t mean them and how much I never hated you for slicing through everything I loved.

NS '09

Do you trust me?

Look in my eyes: do you trust me?
I’ll kill all that which makes you ill,
Drive it all away and save you still;
Don’t worry – you’re safe in my hands.
I promise to keep you when no one else can.

NS '08

Word Play

My bedroom is a veritable paradise of play.

Even when empty, every stimulus –
weighty word or petty onomatopoeia –
becomes speech,
becomes verse,
becomes rhyme, limerick,
ode to another moment:

my door is an emotional treasury
of greetings and goodbyes,
my pillows whisper whimsical words,
my bed springs screech an anaphora of ecstatic phrases,
my walls are white space silence,
each corner a volta;

and so my closet is filled with songs,
my drawers are filled with poems,
and my life is filled with sound.

NS 11.04.09

Pomme Rouge

Regardes quand je te mords ; je veux que tes

yeux soient

ouverts.

Les lèvres souples écartent
pour trouver ta peau exposé…
elles t’embrasent, doucement, et tout
les deux sont ivres de joie. Un soupir
s’échappe ; nos corps tremblent,
et je pense que quelqu’un
mourra ce moment

et il ne sera point moi.

Je sais ; je ressemble au cancer de l’ovaire.
Je souris en engloutant tes enfants.

NS 11.10.09