Disenchantment
It is a feeling like disenchantment,
like the cleanup crew at Times Square shuffling
celebrators away minutes after midnight to sweep up the ticker-tape.
Like drinking glitter and dancing until it digests;
your whole body is filled with sparkle before settling into your toes,
like pulling the plug of a lava lamp
or setting the snow globe down after shaking it and watching everything hit the base
—how the porches darken one by one as the Christmas lights disappear
and the emptiness of the living room when the tree is taken down
and waiting days to kiss and feeling nothing when you do
and each year realizing the carnival gets less
and less fun and more
and more of a headache.
And when your little sister Amy asks you why you aren’t drinking
your Coconut Cocoa tea—
she pours a cup for Raggedy Ann—you take a sip and taste nothing
And the first time you watch Peter Pan without joining in on the chorus of, “I believe in fairies.”
And if you feel like the last day of summer
you’ve fallen out of love.
Ruby-Throated Roots
The first day of gym class we measured heart rates.
I told Miss Patricia I was a hummingbird
reaching twelve-hundred sixty beats per minute.
I was ruby-throated running my fingers
along the skin of my neck
feeling for the prickly start of feathers
like a boy searching for the first signs of manhood
and Anna, who worked at Lucy’s Diner
where I always ordered a vanilla, never chocolate,
(like Kasey and Michael and Luke ordered) milkshake
told me I was a hummingbird because I never settled down
but I knew it was because I could fly backwards—
and all the Cardinals,
and Blue Jays, and Siskins
and Tufted Titmouses and Finches and
Downy Woodpeckers,
and even Eagles with a wingspan of 90 inches
cannot fly sideways and backwards,
only straight.
But I can sit in sheer space and watch the world around me
or travel back and retrace my steps.
Because returning to your roots is not only a quest in Skyrim,
but is necessary to understand who you are.
Popsicle Nostalgia
Remember those Spider-Man popsicles with the gumballs?
I wish I had one of your face so
I could chew your eyes out.
But then again, you’d be one of those cheap Fla-Vor-Ice freezer pops
in a pack of 75 sold in bulk at Sam’s Club.
They used to hand them out to us on Field Day
at Liberty Elementary School half-frozen, half-sticky sweet
liquid that choked the back of your throat
and it always rained at the end of the day.
We ate Gushers by the cyan colored pool sides
and kissed toads who turned into boys
who weren’t very good at kissing back.
I thought I could chew you into something soft
and blow you away.
But you weren’t easily impressed.
Summer’s sunblock left us cold.
You went swimming in your shorts
I went swimming in my bra
and then we went swimming in nothing at all.
But remember Fruit by the Foot shoved into our mouths
whole?
Sparkers looked like your eyes I wanted to kiss
and burn my lips.
I’ll tie myself to a bottle rocket—
say I made it to the moon and left you in a gumball machine
—only twenty-five cents.
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I really love ur writing! where do u get ur motivation and inspiration? how do u overcome Writer's Block...? This gets asked a lot, so I usually just direct people: here! (: As for overcoming writer’s block, there really is no definite cure for this one. From my own experience, I have three ways to unclog the gears in my head without ramming a pencil in my ear out of desperation. The first would be (and I know you don’t want to hear this) to just keep writing. I know writing becomes an absolute chore when you can think of nothing but horrible ideas, but honestly, the fastest way to be hit by inspiration is by being in the act of writing—even if you have nothing good to say. I listed this advice first, because many people mistake “writer’s block” with not finding the “perfect words” to say what they want to. This is wrong! When you’re writing a poem, or especially a story, it’s best to get whatever is in your head down as fast as possible with as much detail as possible even if it sounds like a spastic kindergartener wrote it. Writing is meant to be revised: F. Scott Fitzgerald did not immediately write paragraphs of smooth, angelic sounding prose; he rewrote much of Gatsby until it possessed its current fluency and eloquence and became the masterpiece it is today. A second way to overcome this annoying block would be to engage in creative exercises/prompts. If you’ve ever taken a creative writing course or workshop, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, you can find many exercises online if you aren’t inclined to spend heaps of money on writing-help books, such as Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway (which I have read and can tell you it is very helpful and includes many lovely and inspiring whole short stories by various authors), or even something cheap such as, 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts by Bryan Cohen (Which, I haven’t read, so I cannot vouch for it. But it’s $3 on Amazon, so really, why not?). For poetry, this is a really great exercise. Try to incorporate each of the 20 things listed in one poem. I’ve found it almost always yields interesting results. Creative writing prompts for fiction online are a bit trickier—most of them are stupid. I’ve found some that suggest starting off with a meteor hitting the earth—tacky and overused. Or titling your story “The Baby Dragon.” These ideas will probably never produce publishable results—but hey, sometimes you need to write about something idiotic to overcome writer’s block. However, this article looks promising. Finally, a third way to conquer writer’s block is to stop writing. Give up for the day and sleep on it (but don’t give up for days). Or maybe, set down your current piece and start a completely new project. This is your final resort—I do not recommend stopping for a long period of time—one should write every day, regardless of the quality produced. Setting a specific time of day and writing for the same amount of time each day is absolutely necessary in becoming a writer. If you think that you should never force yourself to write—you are wrong. This is something hippies say, “Oh never force it out, just let it come to you.” Wrong. If you sit down and don’t let your pen/typing fingers stop moving, it’s going to flow automatically. Maybe everything you write that day will be crap, but I guarantee it will help you—or maybe there’s something—just one usable sentence among trash and it makes it all worth it. If you don’t believe me, you are probably like me, a lazy bum, and making up excuses for why you haven’t written anything in forever—don’t let yourself get behind. Writing must be done everyday. |
Cyanocitta cristata
All these girls thinking if they lose weight they can float—or fly
but they forget the jet plane;
heavy anchors in the blue—
studying fragile frames of fledglings
who become Blue Jays but never Swallows.
Only chews and spits.
I knew a girl who thought donating blood helped lose the pounds
she became her own vampire;
bleeding herself beautiful.
Girls who transform into sheets of paper,
hover on the water surface for seconds
and then absorb like toilet paper and sink.
I think, even if the time came
their spines wouldn’t support the wings.
Oars
On Wednesday his heart stalled
so he put himself in neutral
and told her to get out and push.
Said the last shotgun rider left him with a bang—“right here,”
thumb up
then down, forefinger out—middle of his chest.
She was a pretty little thing
with the strength of a field mouse.
“You’re like the monkey bars,”
her sister Abby would say. “People always slipping off,”
sweaty first date palms
“sometimes the strong ones make it across.”
But he wasn’t a date, just a friend—just
an ’07 yellow Camaro driver
nicknamed “Buttercup,”
just a Transformers enthusiast,
just a Paper Mario champion,
just 140,000 hairs on a head.
And she wasn’t a girl,
just an oar used to propel himself
further down the river.
Ribbons
30 minutes spent on hair flying out the window
and I’m sure more cautious girls would keep the thing rolled up—
check herself out in the passenger side mirror
legs crossed and heeled feet slightly tapping to the radio
enough to seem interested in your taste of music and look sexy
without appearing to have a seizure as I do
when I hear a song I like
—and politely ask you to turn on the air conditioning.
“How can you hear with your hair wrapped around your ear?” he asked.
I laughed and the girl who smells like limes and ties her hair with green ribbons
says, “Nice mop,” and giggles,
but not with me.
It’s a shame she had such a pretty laugh
and beautiful blonde hair that didn’t match her disposition.
I looked to you who said nothing.
If I wore ribbons in my hair: pink or baby blue
or lemon colored curled bow-ends with scissor sides
and sprayed Sun-In in my hair bleaching streaks and smelling like lemons
and together that girl with the ill-fitting laugh and I
would create Sprite or Sierra Mist; would you have kept your mouth shut?
But I have no ribbons in my hair
or pigtails or plaits or strawberry-printed scrunchies.
“It’s got the wind in it,” I said. “I think that makes it beautiful.”
The Architect and the Pine Tree
You’re sitting, silently wondering if you can trust me
as I’m running eyes over bookcases thinking about colored spines
and author’s last names and the Dewy Decimal System.
I think a book on the Middle East
and a book on America might both be in the geography section
together
but they don’t leap off shelves, balanced sideways on hardcovers
purring pages and ram each other like Robot Wars fighting
over oil.
Somewhere in the conversation you infer your doubts about my integrities
wondering out loud if I am a serious girl
or a party girl
and I think of the pine tree out the window
and wonder if it was planted strategically to beautify our view.
Not mine and yours specifically—
but I am scared I and it are alike
stuck in front of a window placed to pretty.
Planted for people like you to look at, occasionally
when studying gets tedious,
to look up and see me as you flip pages in Pride and Prejudice
or Integrated Algebra II,
instead of a concrete building or a sidewalk;
tall and evergreen, rooted at your window.
I am tired of boys with schematics,
aspiring architects,
who see and must know the basics of something beautiful—
the structure of happiness
as if happiness is built with Legos and the design written
in the instruction manual; but maybe it’s just because I’m a kinetic learner
that I don’t determine my fondness on how sure I am
that you are fond of me.
Jack Sparrow Verification Syndrome
I’m sick of Jack Sparrows, or maybe William Turners
and girls who hold beauty like buds can bloom only once in fists against chests and hide it under X’s in the sand.
Girls who think of their beauty as if it needs to be discovered
like they’re a diamond hung in Walmart among the Cubic Zirconia and Hello Kitty key-chains
waiting for a pirate to verify her prettiness.
Girls who wait like a moon for Neil Armstrong to claim them with his flag, to revolve around—
and guys who want a girl who’s buried, who hasn’t been opened
a diamond in the rough
gold under sand
as if he can shine her a smile after he’s dug her up.
Flakes of sunset color, palm leaf hair, and Hawaiian Tropic cocoa butter skin under fingernails as if she is a paradise that can save his soul
and he can tell her things no one knows about because she is his
and then he’s angry when he grasps some other captain had to entomb her in that chest—
beneath that sand—
for him to find.
