Unconventional.

oh baby the way you walk.
you bounce those hips back and forth,
you spring from one step to the next,
you work those legs like you're on a catwalk,
oh baby you're beautiful.

and your face.
oh your face.
brilliant green eyes.
that green deep dark green of an alligator's skin.
but not dull,
oh not at all,
brilliant.
that dark green has a spark.
like your soul is trying to fight it's way out of you.
a thin, elegant, christian nose.
small ears trapped under a mass of thick blonde locks,
pursed lips wrapped in blood red lipstick,
nobody cares if you smudged a little on your teeth,
cause baby you're beautiful.

oh baby that fine figure.
your greatness reflected in every inch of that 6'2 frame.
large firm breasts portruding from your chest,
and wider
wider
and your hips.
long smooth and perfectly aligned.
a great flawless sumptuous rump,
and narrower
narrower
those lightning legs,
striking the ground with every step,
cushioned only by those small feet with the painted toes.
oh baby you're beautiful.

and they don't see you the way I do.
they don't get it.
they don't understand.
they're they and I'm me.
you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.

but I don't know why.

New Home

November 1, 1886
“That’s her! It’s her!”
“Kannst du sie sehen?”
“I’ve never seen anything like her.”
“Sehr schön, sie ist sehr schön...”
“Bitte, Papa, I want a look!”
Henry pushed his way to the front of the crowds on the deck of the ship. After weeks on the overcrowded boat, he had finally arrived in New York Harbor, and Henry was impatient to see what all the fuss was about. He had waited for this day for eight long years, ever since he had sent his wife and children to live with his brother in America after the family’s Westphalian farm had been swept away in a flood. For eight long years he had worked odd jobs, roaming every corner of Germany to find employment where he could, writing to his family every week hoping they would finally be able to send for him. They had settled out west in a town called Naperville, a little farming village where they could live by the same ways as they had in Westphalia.

Henry knew his journey was nowhere near over: immigration officers awaited him at the mouth of the harbor, bringing days of paperwork and inspections, and after that a long journey by train to reunite with his family. But Henry did not mind. He knew he would never be a new American again, and more than anything he wanted to view his country for the first time. He shuffled to the railing on the deck of the boat to catch his first glimpse of the country, and as he gazed upon the harbor sparkling in the crisp fall day, what he saw astonished him.

It was a statue of a woman facing outwards from the harbor, hundreds of feet tall and gleaming in the faint November sun. Her enormous copper arm held a torch high above the city, as if lighting the immigrants’ way through the harbor. Some on the boat called her “Lady Liberty”; some wept at the sight of her, while some merely stood in awe. Henry felt a sudden pride for his new country and his new life; after eight long years of waiting and wishing and hoping, Lady Liberty, the sparkling queen of America, was finally welcoming him to a new home.

Eternity

The moon casts a shadow over the tallest tree in Maine
Two figures walk underneath the shadow and pause, feeling the darkness wrap around them

Safe
They think

And their held hands become held souls and the wrap themselves around each other

Gone
They think

They lose the notion of individual self and love just a little bit harder

Again
They think

It isn't the first time this shadow has cast insomniac circles under her eyes
Or the first time it's brought out the insanity of his smile

Tomorrow
They think

As twilight breaks he takes out his Swiss Army knife

Forever
He carves
In letters so skinny and fickle that she knows it can't be true

"Forever doesn't exist"
"Then let's imagine it"

The shadow is gone
The sun is there
And they run away from it
Two shadows in broad daylight.

obliviate.

edjo has always been good at matching names with faces. whenever he plays those get-to-know-you games at the beginning of every school year, he is always the first to be able to point at every single person in the room and rattle off the names correctly. people like him because he always remembers them, even if they've only met him once before. faces simply come naturally to him, the way numbers make sense to some people and the way words flow easily to others.

this explains his perplexion when, after turning the TV off one afternoon, he notices an old family photo in the living room and realizes that he cannot recall the name of the boy standing next to him. the ghost of a familiar ache tugs slightly at his gut. it tells him he should know this. two years ago, he would have known this face by heart, as if they had known each other forever. as if their connection had been as deep as blood, perhaps deeper in an indescribable way. as if the two had shared thoughts and instincts implicitly, without needing to say them aloud.

was he a brother? but his face, so similar to his own, registers nothing but grey fuzz in edjo's memory. the muted pain blankets over the old recollections so that the once-vivid images of the years past are lost in the muffling static of the white noise. the longer he looks, the more this stranger seems like nothing but a boy who looks almost exactly like himself, only that the eyes and nose are not quite right.

who was he? how did his voice sound like? how did he know him? why doesn't he remember him anymore?

what was his name? what was his name? what was his name?

when he cannot bear to gaze at the photograph any longer, he sets it back down to its place on the coffee table and goes the bathroom. as he washes his hands, he stares at the mirror, trying to remember the face of the boy he once knew better than himself. a faint, nameless frustration pounds at the white walls in his subconsciousness, but they are unyielding, silently crushing the pain and the memories until nothing remains but his own face in the reflection. by now, he has forgotten. he has completely forgotten.

he dries his hands and walks out, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sally Sells Sea Shells

Sally's sitting on the swing set on Sunday

Just swinging back and forth and back and forth

She's only six years old, but she knows she knows everything

Because she knows that, contrary to popular belief, Santa Claus does exist

And contrary to what her sister Susan believes she knows that Mommy and Daddy are always right

And she knows that if she swings hard enough she can fly

Up

into the sky

Away from all the screaming

She's alone now

Just swinging

Susan's off in the bushes with her boyfriend

Looking for the rabbits

So she's swinging and swinging

So that she can fly up into the sky

Away from the screaming

And Daddy hitting Mommy

Because she knows that he's always right, but he's not always kind

And that's how she knows that, contrary to popular belief, her dad can't be Santa Claus

Now she's swinging and her feet are melting into the sunset and the earth is spinning sideways

And she knows that if she swings hard enough she can fly

All the way to the North Pole

She can feel her body lifting and she knows that she's gonna have to let go

So she closes her eyes and sees the world with Santa Claus

Where Mommy and Daddy are friends and Susan doesn't leave her for the rabbits in the bushes

She lets go

And she's flying

And the North Pole is only a couple of minutes away

And she just has to think about it hard enough.

But she opens her eyes

And as the sunset melts into the earth

She feels herself

Falling

And as she feels herself start to melt into the playground cement she hears Sally's scream

And for a moment she smiles, because she knows she'll never have to hear it again.

slam.

slam

this is poetry and it's about everything and anything

and you're just watching the words dribble from my mouth

slam

damn right, this isn't poetry, this is basketball

and you just got slam dunked

slam

somebody just shut the door

maybe it's our doctor bob in a stuffed wildcat suit

because willie mad

slam

it's probably a daddy

who doesn't love mommy anymore

slam

his palm, her face

his fists, her body

her body, the wall

slam

how does it feel like to be raped?

i bet it sounds like this

when all the breath is being crushed from your lungs

i bet it sounds like this

slam

i need to close the book

i cannot look anymore

slam

watch the walls come falling down.

Espresso Stories, 14 August 2011

Just keep telling yourself that you're crazy...that's the only way you'll know you're not.

She didn't think she was fat; she just wanted more than anything for there to be less of her.

Sometimes I feel like indigo: part of the rainbow, but always left out.

he was the greatest tease there ever was. the invisible dancer.

standing over his newborn child, he'd never felt more pregnant in his entire life.

"I could never marry a man who didn't give me a diamond," She said nonchalantly over their anniversary dinner. So he kept the plastic gum ball machine ring in his pocket, sadly realizing that she wasn't the girl for him.

She tied a scarf around her neck; it was a hot summer day, but she figured better a scarf that a noose.

I don't care what anyone else thinks, my momma says I'm pretty enough to be a prostitute.

The problem with living a lie is that often times, it becomes true.

never again will I trust someone who lists their occupation as a fudge packer.

a hole in the heart is easier to fix than a hole in the head.

dreams are born from pain: fluorescent colorful bombs waiting to explode with all of our hopes of escape.

People think that I don't take advantage of the sunny days, but they just don't understand that rainy is my favorite kind of weather.

I don't know whether to love or hate the fact that I will always be in love with you.

When my boyfriend calls you "faggit" and "homo", I will have him know that even though although he gropes these breasts he will never touch the heart within my chest because that will always be yours.

I'm writing you love letters with every word I say, and every look you give me back says "RETURN TO SENDER-- ADDRESS NOT FOUND".

You are not a dog, so when the world asks you to play dead while they strip away your morals and laugh at your humiliation you better well refuse.

The next time I wrap my arms around you I'll expect you to turn blue.

It's easy to fall to hell; good luck climbing back to heaven.

It had come to the point where the only warmth she ever got was the laundry, fresh out of the dryer.

--Julie, Patti, Mark, and Christie

Instructions for Greatness

Everything you do,
do it to the utmost.
Do it to the very reaches of your ability--
do it covered in cuts and bruises,
gasping for breath,
muscles screaming for release as you forge ahead.

Do it as you would a battle with a mortal enemy--
do it leaving every obstacle bleeding on the ground from a hundred places,
beaten into a quivering Jell-O salad from the force of your effort.

Do it with sweat pouring from your brow,
heart pounding in your ears,
all neurons firing full blast as you race across the finish line,
screaming "Yes! I have done it! I have done it--

Or it is not worth doing.

--Patti

Clocks

I don't have time
I don't have time
I don't have time

I'm like the White Rabbit
Running running
Cause I'm late, I'm late
For a very important date

And that date is my future
That date is college and education and the very foundation of who I am
But I'm late I'm late

I'm always late and I can't keep up with these
tests
and home work
and MUN
and Religion
and TOK
and basketball

What am I dribbling?
And what team am I dribbling for, again?
I'm so lost
so confused
I don't know where I'm going
but I know I'm late getting there.

yeah
I'm like the White Rabbit
but I haven't found my Wonderland.

Bubbles.

hot water flushed into the plastic tub.
ricocheting off of the bottom and splurting against the sides.
whilst the tub filled, a male of around 17 years gathered his necessities.

Razor
Cell Phone
Towel
Bubble Bath

he put them all on the sill beside the bathtub.

he took a pair of scissors from the drawer beneath the sink and cut away a long 1-inch strip from the towel,
putting the strip on the sill and leaving the rest on the floor.
he stripped slowly,
pulling off each garment carefully before throwing it into the corner of the room opposite the bathtub.

once completely naked, he checked the water.
steam was billowing from the bathtub,
hot water filling up three quarters of the tub.
he turned off the hot faucet.

he dipped his big toe in and recoiled instantly, finding the water far too hot.
he turned on the cold faucet.
after about 30 seconds or so, he dipped his toe into the water again.
still too hot.
another 30 seconds.
another dip.
and perfect.

he poured in a sizable amount of bubble bath and watched bubbles pop up all over the water's surface.

his body seemed to slip into the water.

he submerged himself beneath the surface,
letting the water curl into every crevice of his cracked being.
1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10
upon rising, a mound of bubbles swarmed into his mouth.
he spluttered.

he never took baths without bubbles.
they were pretty white pearls in the water.
the bubbles covered him up.
shielding the world, and himself, from what he hated.

he lifted the strip of towel from the sill and wrapped it around his mouth,
tying it at the back of his head.
gagging him.

next he eyed his razor.
a fine metal blade.
he eyed it curiously, as if it were capable of actually causing pain.

he let his arm, razor in hand, fall into the water.

he sank deeper below the water, until water trickled up his nostrils.
he closed his eyes and bit the rag in his mouth tightly.
he drew the blade across his wrist.

he arched his head, his eyes clasped tightly together,
a muffled grunt broke from his mouth.
he dared only open his eye a fraction.
the bubbles were turning crimson.
he groaned.

the second cut wasn't as bad.
the third even better.
they all blended together after a while.
before long he was sinking deeper in to the carmine ocean.
unaware of time, emotion, pain, anything.
and why should he have been.
he was alone in life and he deserved loneliness in death.

he sank beneath the surface for the last time,
his body invisible and immovable.
laid to rest.

he was normal, they would say.
he was a good kid, they would say.

nevertheless,
he was in that bathtub until the last bubble popped.

Alone

"It's not that you're dreaming, you know...it's just that you were never really awake..."

"If I'm not awake, then I have to be dreaming...what you're saying is a just a paradox."

"Well, you were  born into a coma, babe. Maybe in the real world right now you're parents are silently hoping that you'll wake up in a sterile, white hospital bed."

"That's impossible. You can't be born into a coma."

"Well, you'll never know, will you? You'll never know anything about the real world. Not if you don't wake up."

"I am awake!  Jesus, can't you just be normal for once. I wouldn't be able to make this up in my head. Make you up, make me up, make up this meadow, that rainbow, those horses."

"Maybe you're parents read to you everyday. They read stories about meadows and horses and girlfriends. If you're brain is stimulated, it'll respond, you know."

"What, are they reading science journals to you."

"Oh no, I'm just a part of a book. They're reading science journals to you. They are your parents, after all."

"You're being ridiculous, let's just enjoy this day. It's freaking perfect, you know...and days like these are rare, here, in the real world, where we live...the real world. Not the one I made up."

"That's just the problem, see, it's always been today."

the 30-year old mexican farmer man.

Chico, I have always been a farmer, si, a wheat farmer—wheat and sometimes soybeans. Ever since I was a little boy, I would plant the grain at seeding time and collect the grain at harvest time in the spring and the fall with Mama and Papa and all my brothers and sisters. Oh, those were the good times, back when the government paid us good money for our wheat here in our corner of the Yaqui Valley in Mexico. Papa says they gave us thirty percent subsidy, but I do not remember—I was hardly ten back then. As I grew into a man, I spent my youth years doing what all youths do when not working at the fields, si. I learned cards, I drank with the other men, I set my eye on the prettiest girl of all of las chicas on the next farm…ay, her smile was as golden as the wheat fields at harvest time! But work was harder, and everybody felt it. One year, when I was ten or twelve, the price of fertilizer went up, and it did not go back down—the fertilizer subsidy eliminated, they said. That was in the 1990’s. Before I was twenty, the fertilizer price was over fifty percent more expensive than what we were paying before. But it didn’t end there, no señor. The government also wanted the ejidos to own more of the land—small plots were inefficient, they said. My family, we were lucky enough to buy out some more land to survive, but some of the neighboring farms didn’t make it; they got bought out within a few years. What’s more, the price of water for irrigating the fields went up by more than half, too. Fortunately, the price of our wheat rose too, and that helped pay for some of the growing costs. The girl that I had eyed for so long eventually married another boy, but soon I found a nice girl from another nearby farm, and we married. Meanwhile, though, droughts drained the supply of irrigation water, and we spent more and more money on fertilizer as per government instruction to modernize our farming techniques. Today, I am thirty years of age. The farm makes more wheat than ever, yet growing it has become so expensive that my wife, my children, and myself are barely getting by.

This free trade that the Mexican government has embraced may be good for them, but it is not good for me. First, they make our necessities more expensive by eliminating subsidies so that the prices of fertilizer and water increase by more than half, then they fix up the ownership of the land so that all of our old neighbors are gone now and the ejidos rule the Yaqui Valley, the landscape changed. They make us do all of this in the name of modernized agriculture; they say it is for the good of the country, but frankly, I find it hard to see the good when I produce more wheat than I ever have before, only to get less money per bushel in return every year since the increase of wheat on the market drives the prices lower and lower. It is unfair that we must compete with America’s low grain prices since American farms get so much money in subsidy for their production. They absolutely flood the market with their cheap wheat. But in the end, are we better off than before free trade changed the way the government wanted us to farm? No señor. Overall, the family is making more money than before thanks to the increase wheat exports, but the work is hard and the pay is still not enough, especially with all the children to support. My wife and I wish we could send them to university, but ay, that is a daydream. We are living from season to season, and there are still harvests that cause us to lose money. The fertilizer and the water for irrigation are as expensive as ever. The price for irrigating the fields will most likely increase in the future, too, because droughts render the water supply inconsistent. Even when it rains, weather that is too warm also produces smaller crops, reducing my income for the season. The vast amounts of nitrogen fertilizer might also be unhealthy for the fields—my family never used this much before—but the government wants more wheat to export, and I do not have time to worry about how these farming techniques will affect me in the long-term. My main concern is producing enough wheat for the next season.

I hear that perhaps, America will have to eliminate their farm grain subsidies, or at least make them lower. If that happens, then grain prices will be higher, the way they should be. Then we will be making the profit that we deserve so that our farm may prosper on the global market without any unfair advantages on any country’s part. Our dream would be to save enough money to send one of our children to a college to get a degree and a better job. Our eldest one, Esperanza, is studying hard. She hopes to get a scholarship, and it puts a smile on my face when she tells me that, but when we are pinching pesos here and there in a struggle to gather the money for application fees, it is hard to hope. Perhaps college is still too far-fetched of a dream. Right now, while the government’s agricultural and export policies still hurt us because of free trade, I have few choices. If fortune smiles upon my farm, I may be able to obtain more land and produce more wheat to trade. If not, perhaps my family will move to the city or move to America, wherever we might be able to succeed the most. I hear that America is not such a good place to live in because of the recession.

But hey, chico, I figure that what goes, goes.

The White Horse.

a foolish boy and his white horse sat by the stream.

it was a clear spring afternoon in Chambord.
sumptuous aromas spun through the air,
the sun shone gracefully over the château grounds,
water trickled through the stream, fish and small amphibians visible beneath the glassy surface.

the boy popped open a large vial of crimson fruit juice and took a swig,
letting the cork fall into the stream below.
his horse grazed on the lush riparian grasses,
occasionally tilting it's head upward, as if monitoring the boy.

the boy turned his body to look back at Château Chambord,
spilling some juice in the process.
a wonderful stone structure with thick circular towers erupting from the keep,
a marvel of early French architecture.
the château's white walls contrasted perfectly the neat green lawns stretching the grounds.
the horse continued to graze.

the boy pouted and turned back to the river,
staring in disappointment at his now inadequate amount of juice.
he began to drink.
the horse's eye twitched.

before the boy knew what had hit him,
he was pushed heavily into the water.
his vial of juice fell from his grasp as he broke the pristine grace of the stream.
he spluttered multiple times and turned his head towards the shore.

the horse was staring at him, apparently bemused.

a small breeze blew the white hairs towards the chateau.
the boy stared in disbelief.
'...comment?..'
he shook his head before groaning lazily.
he picked his hand up from the rocky bed of the stream,
noticing blood trickling from a large cut in his palm.

he started to cry.
and crying turned to sobbing, sobbing turned to wailing, and wailing turned to screaming.
an uncontrollable flow of tears poured from his eyes.
he wrapped his hand in the fleece sweater he has been wearing.

the horse stared at the boy.
and then it got bored.
the horse turned back towards the château and trotted away.
watching as the horse departed,
the boy stifled his screams and sniffled slightly.

and then he followed his horse.

From This Little Island

Here we are, babe. The big city.
22.7 square miles, and it's all gonna be ours. 
Cause we'll rule this island someday, you and me. 


We're gonna start like all the other dreamers do
from this little two-bedroom apartment four flights above a falafel stand and a Currency Exchange
and we're gonna dream and dream 
until this roof over our heads fills up like a hot air balloon and we can fly


And we'll see everything from there, baby, you and me
Higher than the Empire State Building
And everything we'll see will be ours--
we bought it all fair and square, paid in dreams and a little elbow grease
and from our throne over this little island we're gonna rule the world


And someday we'll have kids, see
and we're gonna teach em to fly just like we learned
we're gonna teach them everything we know and everything we don't and everything in between
and then when they're ready--


We're gonna push em out onto that great big island
with those eighteen million other dreamers out there screaming for space
and set em up in a little two-bedroom apartment four flights above a falafel stand and a Currency Exchange
and we're gonna see them rule their own worlds from this little island--
just you wait and see.