Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Like I Do?

Do you know death?
Has he breathed his foggy breath in your ears?
Did you recognize the smell of the attic?
Did his dusty demeanor make you sneeze?
I know I did.
He sits behind me in the family portrait.
It gathers dust on the mantlepiece. I beg.
And there's nothing I can do to ignore...
There was a knock.
It was against my ribs. The low moan
Like the bloat was weeping again.
He coddled my new flesh as it bubbled like soap.
Midnight the clock trilled.
The cleansing was fleeting; quiet but not lonely.
It was a total repression, regression; born into Death.
He was everything- in totality, a mother, but
He was a stranger.
He does not smell like rot. He is not bone.
He does not wear a shroud. He was not alone.
You went with him that day. He was not for me.
He was not in my head.
He is the face of my mother. He is the hands of my father.
He speaks in tongues only I can decipher.
He is a beginning, breathing slower than Death.
He entered my Life.
He is not to be mistaken for Greed - his eyes are flat brass.
And his strange disposition will turn one blue.
But when he took you away, that was the Death. The Black.
He stole your Light.

He made me dead.

I'm Too Lazy To Think Of A Good Movie Pun...

...So Here's My Word Count Wednesday!

What I'm Working On
I'm definitely still working on my Spectra series, have no fear! It has not been abandoned yet. I just don't want to put out my next installment for a little bit because it's a bit risky right now. I might end up having to go back and change something later, so to spare you the confusion, I'm putting the installments on pause for a few days until I have a solid idea of where I want the story to go right now.

Word Count: 3500

How I Feel About The Process
Oh my god, it's slow going. I'm in the process of switching jobs, so most of my time has been dedicated to balancing them both while I wait for my two weeks to be up. I haven't been able to write much at all, but I get a few hundred words in here and there.

What I'm Reading Right Now
I was reading The Rule Of Thought by James Dashner, but I was an idiot and left my book someplace while I was out and now I can't find it. Oh well, good thing the local library has a couple copies! So I switched books, and I'm now reading A Wrinkle In Time by Madeline L'Engle.


Sunday, April 16, 2017


"[...]But all they want to do 
is tie the poem to a chair with rope 
and torture a confession out of it. 

They begin beating it with a hose 
to find out what it really means."
- Billy Collins, "Introduction to Poetry" 

'It's not in your typical fashion', say you.
Well, good sir, kindly explain!
I'd very much like you to
Pick apart my very brain!

You see, I am alone with my thoughts
More than you are with me
So, you have said more than you ought
To have- a bit tongue in cheek

And if you ask me - which I am -
Me. I am me, not you,
'What is your typical fashion?'
I would reply: 'What do I do?'

To which, accordingly, say you:
'A poet, of course, by any other name,
A lyricist, and a novelist, too,
If you liken each the same'

In turn, I would scoff
And ruffle my hair,
'My dear friend, did I not ask you,
what I don't and dare?'

To which, being your witty self,
You would respond with a smile,
'You apply yourself to bookshelves,
Is that not your style?'

'My fine fellow, indeed I do,
But you're missing the mark,
You did ask me, untrue,
A statement of remark?'

''Tis not your typical fashion' 
Say you! Not who or why
Twas a claim, my disposition,
Did fancy your mind's eye!

A poet is not 'do', 
Despite your quick retort,
A poet is 'who'
Or 'how' of sorts!

'Oh, I should have never spoke'
Say you, cheeks puffed so red!
'A poet will choke
Every word till they're dead!'

And I, with great breath
Might liken a smile,
'Now, which to the death?
The poet or the style?'

Ears alight with frenzy 
You counter my drawl,
'Tis you who has slain me!
The poet brings death to us all!'

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Spectra - Installment 5

Chapter 2
I know the drive to the cabin better than I know the back of my hand. Having visited every summer since the third grade, and recently taking weekend vacations every couple of months, the trip has become second nature. It’s a bit of a drive to the forest, but it only takes a couple of hours at most if you take the backroads. Needless to say, the drive was pretty much effortless, physically and socially. It was muscle memory of the brain and body.
“Hey, Luca,” Alice said, leaning over the middle console of the front seat, “Don’t you think we should get some gas, soon? We’re only at about a half a tank, and the closest station to the cabin is six miles out.”
I smiled. Alice always knew best.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll stop at the next one.”
A half tank of gas and twenty bucks later, we were driving deep within the woods of Wenatchee National Forest. We were blasting My Chemical Romance and singing along nearly as loud. It always happened this way with us. Sobe might have felt hesitant before - afraid of being the third wheel - but the fact of the matter was we were a tricycle. If one of the wheels were gone, then what was the point?
My suspicions were confirmed when Sobe leaned in between Alice and I, smiling wider than a cat.
“Man, I’m so glad you two dorks dragged me along. It’s been a while since I let loose like this.”
She shook her hair in front of her face as Frank started wailing on the guitar over the car's stereo. I couldn’t help but watch her orange fringe whip across the pinks of her cheeks. It was a pleasing sound, coupled with the music. It was like they belonged together.
It was then that I understood why people preferred different types of music. Watching her dance made me realize that you don’t choose music. Music is made for you. It jives with your wavelengths, you know? And Sobe’s wavelength was set to early 2000’s emo rock. The shit was ancient, but it never stopped being good.
I was lost in the sound of Sobe’s frequencies when Alice tensed. She turned down the radio and looked at me, her brown eyes practically sending me into shock.
“Something’s wrong,” she said carefully, scanning the horizon.
I refocused my full attention to the road, attentively scanning the trees. She was right. Something was wrong. The trees - that normally emitted thrumming, earthly vibes as they blurred by - were freckled with white noise. Something was coming toward us from the woods... and fast.
I skidded to a stop just in time to watch a pack of wild, white wolves pass directly in front of our windshield, howling as they crossed. Their frequencies blurred across my vision, their snow-white fur shrieking in my ears. Alice and I hid our eyes in our elbows, waiting for the pack to pass. I could see nothing, and all I could hear beside the occasional thump of a tail against the bumper was the quick, liquid beating of my own heart. The two sounded about the same anyway.
Some time had passed before Sobe spoke up, her voice trembling.
“Okay. Okay wow. Alright guys, you can look now. They’re gone.”
When I chanced a glance in her direction to make sure she was okay, her face was pale and her violet eyes were fed with tears. It hurt to look at, physically and emotionally, but I pulled her into a hug anyway, burying her face into chest.
“It’s okay, Sobes. We’re just lucky Alice caught that in time. I didn’t even notice until she said something.”
I removed Sobe from my chest and pulled in Alice in her place. She was shaking, but I knew she was okay. Alice had nerves of steel.
I asked anyway, “Are you okay baby?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed, pulling herself back into her seat, “I’ve got nerves of steel."
I smiled at that, and rested my head against my seat, closing my eyes. I focused on my breathing, listening to the sound of absence. When my heart had finished it’s little episode, I did another perimeter check. Satisfied that no more demon dogs lurked in the wooden beyond, I began to close the remaining distance between us and the cabin. Despite us being a bit shaken, the rest of the ride was smooth. Alice turned the radio back up, just maybe not quite so loud this time, and it began to melt away. Things like that happen all the time in the backcountry, right? Us city-dwellers just weren't used to it.
The only caveat to our good time, however, was Sobe. I could understand, seeing as we just had a run in with death, but something was off. I’ve seen Sobe high off her ass, doing doughnuts in the school parking lot. She’d jump off the Space Needle if she knew somebody would catch her. This shouldn’t have been a problem.
Alice fell asleep about twenty minutes after the fact - probably a side-effect of the anxiety spike. I turned down the radio to let her sleep in peace. Sobe, however, didn’t protest. Something was definitely up. I took a peak in the back and saw her on her phone, texting away. She looked so… intense.
“Hey, Sobes,” I began softly, not wanting to wake the angel in my passenger seat, “Everything alright?”
She looked up from her phone and nodded her head.
“Yeah, I’m okay Luca. Just texting my mom to let her know I’m okay.”
I nodded back.
“Alright. Just let me know if you need anything, okay? I gotta make sure I take good care of my girls.”
“Hey, bud, get with the picture. It’s 2065. Women in 2065 don’t need no man to take care of them.”
She snapped her fingers in a cliche “z-formation”, a smirk lighting itself up across her face. There’s my best friend.
“Okay, okay. Shit, got a classic Susan B. Anthony over here,” I joked, smiling at her in the rear-view mirror. She laughed.
I was just starting to feel more at ease when her phone buzzed. She promptly fell quiet again, typing out a lengthy message. The state of practical Nirvana I had reached was shattered, as her fingers flew wildly across the screen. She usually used voice-to-text anyway. Why was she being so reserved? Was she trying to spare my feelings? It wasn’t even my fault. I mean, I guess I should have been wearing my chroma-glasses, but who honestly wears those outside of class anyway? The world sounded beautiful when you weren't trying to take an exam. Still, I wanted to know what was up with her. Just to be sure.
“Jesus Christ, are you writing a novel or something?” I chanced at humor, adding a small chuckle at the end to make it sound less harsh than I meant. It still sounded accusative, and I knew I screwed up the instant I said it. However, what came out of her mouth next took me by surprise.
“How did you and Alice know the wolves were coming?”
If I faltered, I tried not to let it show.

“What do you mean? We heard them. I mean, I guess I don’t expect you to understand. It is kind of a- y’know, an us thing. But if you want me to expla-”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
She was silent for the rest of the drive. I didn’t want to push her. She was already someplace over the edge. Where, exactly, I didn’t know. I just hoped she’d come around before the weekend was up. It’s one thing being a tricycle with two wheels, but a tricycle with a flat tire is just as useless.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

What's It Called...

What's it called...
When you feel like you're being pulled from every direction at once?
Like Gravity placed its center at your core,
Then decided down wasn't actually down anymore?

My Gravity pushes things away.
If there were things, that is. It's easy to get lost in a Void.
I figure, if everything is nothing,
Why bother trying to orient yourself? Isn't it all just the same?

I can't say I didn't try.
But the endless expanse of gray purgatory was a Void, nevertheless.
And I was right in one sense.
Left in another. Everything is nothing. Down isn't actually down.

And whenever I'd speak,
My words would stick to the back of my throat like sickness.
The Gray was choking.
It was heavy, like the words were my core.

How is a universe born?
Is it conceived in a celestial womb? Or is it just gray
Until it isn't anymore?
Does it choke itself out of existence when it's done?

The thought smothers. Perpetuates.
Now there's nothing here except me and the weight of nothing.
The pressure bursting
Inside, the light is pulsing, but liquid blood still beats.

Am I dying?
Or is this Death? Surely this can't be Life if I'm wasting away.
Tidal forces with The Unknown;
It is my satellite; in The Gray, it looks like Promise.

But how can I be sure?
There is no Horizon, there is no moon by which to pray.
There are no stars to wish.
I am only. Surely this can't be Life.

I make my own Horizon.
I break The Gray into two halves: one gray and the other just.
And I become The Center.
I now lay someplace between the middle and the median.

Liquid blood like tides.
There is a fascination with The Unknown it ebbs toward.
It is shy; The Gray intimidates,
But is it simply foolish? Or is it Promise?

Wednesday, April 12, 2017


... What do you mean that only counts as one word!

What I'm Working On
I've been continuing with my Spectra installments! I have one more lined up for this weekend, the only issue is, I have yet to write the next. I've been so incredibly busy. I'm actively job hunting at the moment because my job has turned out to be less than satisfactory, so I've been dedicating all of my time to that. Not to mention mid-terms! But, luckily, I have thrown in some poems here and there, so I'm not at a flat zero this week!
(I also might be writing another song)

Word Count: 201

How I Feel About The Process
It's been pretty okay! I've been utilizing my boyfriend quite a bit this past week with my poems and songwriting, so give a round of applause to him. He's been the biggest help EVER!

What I'm Reading Right Now
I actually just finished The Eye of Minds by James Dashner. It was pretty alright! I'm very excited to read the next two installments.

A spoonful of sugar helps the crippling anxiety go down!
      -Mary "Grades-Be-Droppin" Poppins

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Coffee Shop Love Poem

You're my favorite coffee shop.
You're jazz music over crackling speakers.
You're a warm fireplace, crackling with the speakers.
You're lemon cake in a glass display,
the enticement of the dripping glaze.
You're the appeal of a leather chair.
You're the scent of a burnt brew,
quickly blown out the window.
You're the brown floors and damasked wallpaper.
You're the varnish that echoes.
You're wrought iron and the wooden clock,
the pendulum that reaps the time.
You're the peeling paintings hanging on the wall.
You're the sound of the city behind glass.
You're the yellow lighting, the warm sun,
the curtains that smell faintly of dust.
You're the crosswords, the old books,
the careless exchange of a regular.
You are the brew, the steep, the pour, the sip.
You are the tongue burnt, the tongue soothed,
the foam that crests the porcelain cup.
You are the stained glass, the stained tables,
the lipstick stain on the mug.
You take things slow, you take things in.
You waft to the senses, you are carefully crafted.
You smile into cups, a nose shrouded in steam,
fogged glasses and pink cheeks.
You are the invitation, the temptation,
another world with an open door.