Considerate

Mr. Motorcycle,

kindly drive by my window 

slowly. I'm sleeping. 

I always thought all that nonsense about small towns being so quiet in the night was bologna, until I tried to sleep by a busy street in the city. I do not know why so many motorcycles speed down my street in the middle of the night and the early morning, but they do, and they are loud. So, if anyone reading this drives a motorcycle, think of the sleepy people in the bedrooms you are barreling by. 

Grocery Shopping

White woman, brown purse,

big bag packed with fresh produce,

no cell phone: bull shit. 

Yesterday was my first day in Chicago, where I will be living and doing an internship for the next 2 months. I am not exactly a country mouse moving to the bit city, but I do have a lot to learn. To make any of the fears I may have worse (mainly, getting lost), my cell phone broke upon arrival. After I settled into my apartment, my roommates showed me around the neighborhood for a while in the afternoon, and in the evening I decided to strike out on my own--- just a 10 minute walk to grocery store. 

On my way back, a man on the side of the street stopped me to ask to use my cell phone and welcome me to the city. He was in trouble and willing to offer me a handful of cash for a quick phone call. Now, I am not sure what I would have done if I had a cell phone, but in this case, I really did not have one. As I said, mine was broken, and the replacement would not be in for a few days. As soon as I told him I did not have one, I realized how absurd that sounded. And he realized it too. His first attempt to call me out on my "lie" was to guilt me out of it. He was in real trouble, and he would only use it for a few minutes. His next attempt was just to call me a liar, then to yell "liar" at me. As I walked by, I turned back to really try to prove that I was not lying, but realized there was no use. 

He was so unconvinced that I felt like I really was a liar.  

Pets

I named my cat Walt.

Then, he pissed up my bedroom

when he smelled females. 

I am getting ready to move in a couple of weeks, and one of the sad steps in my preparation was to find my two spoiled cats a new home. My two male cats, Walt and Malcolm, have lived a life of cat luxury for the past year-- eating all day, sleeping in people-beds, lounging in the sun spot on the carpet, untying my shoestrings every morning. But that is all changing now. This weekend, I brought them to their new home at my parent's farm. They will now be living outside with three dogs.

Upon first arrival, however, I could not bear to leave them outside all night. So they came inside and met my parents' house-cat, a sassy female feline, and her litter of five kittens. This is where my two loving kitties got their first smell of a woman. Like the flip of a switch, they were turned from sweet, purring darlings to sex-crazed beasts! They forgot they were brothers and turned into mortal enemies. They hissed, growled, and scratched up my arm when I tried to hold them back. Finally, I got them wrangled up to my bedroom, away from the pheromone den that Cici-the-sex-cat had created downstairs. Walt, who loves to sit on my computer while I work on homework, then set up camp under my bed where he growled, hissed, and clawed at me every time I tried to coax him out.

I began to fear my darling kitties. I was afraid that if I let them out of my room, they would gobble up the desired female's young-ones and then, impregnate her again. Either that or they might fight each other to death in the night. So, I locked them up in my room where I could monitor their beastly behavior. And guess what... I woke up in the middle of the night to Walt humping Malcolm. Cute kitties.

So, I guess what I learned from this is that animals are still animals no matter how much we treat them like children. Either that, or Walt is more like his namesake, Walt Whitman, than I thought.

A Promise, kind of

I solemnly swear

I will tryta' do better

next time I mess up

In the "ABOUT ME" section of this blog, there is a published lie. Go ahead and read it: it says that I, "your haiku-ist in residence" will write a haiku every day. Now, anyone who knows about a calendar can tell that I am failing to deliver on that promise.

I am sure this is bugging me a lot more than it is bugging you, dear readers. But the guilt is eating away at me. I have been debating about whether I should change the "ABOUT ME" or just try to do what the "ABOUT ME" says I will do. What a ridiculous debate to be having, right? However, after both the prosecutor and the defense stated their cases, I have decided that I am just going to leave it. I need to keep myself in check.

As I am a shifty, often-lazy person, this does not mean I will actually really do what it says and write everyday, but it does mean that I will try. So, readers (do you exist??), you can expect more out of me, but you can also expect less. Whichever you prefer. 

The Line Up

In the second grade,

your spot in the recess line's

a status symbol

The adults at work can't help but laugh at the amount of kids who shed tears over their spot in line at school. 

But the kids take it very seriously. Cutting someone in line is as bad using YOUR tax dollars to buy THIER groceries to these kids. They worked hard for that spot in line, and now that kid (who didn't turn in their worksheet fast enough, didn't tuck their chair in fast enough, and didn't walk to the line fast enough) thinks he gets to be second-in-line. They won't even use that spot for any good. They will buy cigarettes with that spot instead of buying produce for their children with that spot in line. They will walk  slowly instead of hurrying the rest of the line toward the playground with that spot in line. That is just not fair. No hand-outs here. 

I guess I am not sure if we should laugh. We all act like kids sometimes. 

The Obvious Topic for the Day

An eye for an eye...

or all the eyes it takes to

get the eye we want. 

The death and celebration of the death of Osama Bin Laden has left me with thoughts that many people are probably thinking, but those aren't the people posting status after status on Facebook. 

Justice is an interesting thing. As if causing pain makes your own pain feel any better. As if a death really erases another death. As if killing one man really makes the children, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters miss there children, parents, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters any less. We can't take the eye we pluck from another and put it back in our own bleeding socket. So, what's the point in taking the eye in the first place?

I am not saying that Osama Bin Laden shouldn't have died. And I am not saying that I am not glad that I am an American. What I am saying is that Osama Bin Laden wasn't the cause terrorism. And until the world is rid of the despair, hopelessness, ignorance, and desperation that really causes terrorism, then no matter how many men, women, and children we kill, terrorism will still exist. 

Justice. That is what we are celebrating. That and politics and proven superiority.

But I don't feel any safer. And no wounds were healed. 

Food Chain

Kissing the asses

of those that kiss the asses

of those that kiss the...

I am sick of writing papers that I don't care about. I am tired of reading a text book when I would rather be reading a poem. I don't want to think about how I am going to afford an unpaid summer of teaching kids about creative writing. But I do want to teach kids about creative writing, so I guess I will just kiss a few asses to get there. 

This little light of mine

Is it really dark?

Or have you just grown used to 

florescent lighting?

Sitting at a coffee shop, trying my hardest to get some homework done, I cannot help but ease drop on the group of college students preparing for their mission trip to Japan this summer. It is hard to ignore the group of 7 huddling together in prayer, crying a bit, and flashing their promotional powerpoint straight in my direction. I guess it could maybe be inspirational. They are obviously passionate about their mission. They probably feel a strong desire to improve the lives (afterlives?) of people who they have never met. However, I am not inspired. I cannot stop reading this powerpoint they are flashing around the coffee shop. I think I have read this quote with a puzzled expression about ten times:

"I have but one candle to burn, and I would rather burn it our in a land filled with darkness than a land flooded with light." -John Keith Falconer

Is Japan really flooded with darkness? So dark that they need your Christian, upper-middle class candle to brighten the place up? Japan is pretty advanced; I am not sure that they feel like they need your candle. What makes our light so much better than others that we need to spread it around to people that probably don't feel like they need any more light. If you want to help others, to give others a better life, do it because you are compassionate about their suffering, not because you have a brighter candle than them.

Intramural Softball

Idealized:

Stadium lights cast 

shadows on outfield spring grass,

bases loaded, two outs. 

Realized:

Bruised tailbone, sore legs.

Run-ruled in the third inning.

The other team's drunk. 

Vocal Inflections

I can read glances,

inflections, eyebrow placements.

I think you're mad, right?

It's hard to tell what someone wants to say when they don't say it. Though, I'm not sure where the problem lies in this common communication gap. Is the problem in the person listening to noises with no sounds? Or is it in the one making noise without opening their mouth? Is it the eyebrow raiser? Or the eyebrow reader? Maybe it is just better to make your eyebrow raises vocal and ask your eyebrow questions than to try to communicate without opening your mouths. 

Massage in a Bottle

My feet are hurting.

Could someone please rub them with 

a bottle of wine?

What is it about a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories that makes me want a glass of wine? Oh, wait, I know. Because a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories is boring. And wine is fun. Because a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories is tedious. And wine goes down fast. Because a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories takes a lot effort and bull-shitting. And wine is factual and simple. Because when I write a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories I have to sound smart. And wine doesn't judge me based on intelligence.

Wine, you have everything a literary analysis journal over post-modern short stories lacks. Except for a due date. 

Gravity

Living, breathing, Earth

We all feel stationary

while spinning around.

Molehills

Too many little 

insignificant details

crowd the big picture.

I sweat the small stuff. I cry over spilled milk. I make mountains out of molehills, and I fail to see the forest through the trees. I do all of those cliches that my mother warned me about. I obsess over that which does not matter. I fight with my boyfriend over whether I should have asked him for a ride or whether he should have offered me a ride. I rewrite emails four times before I send them. I change my profile picture based on who I think might be viewing my Facebook page. I worry about whether I am using "I" to many times in this blog. I know I have a problem, and I do not anticipate solving it. 

Mistackes

A hero-story

is still a hero-story 

with the words spelled wrong. 

Yesterday, a  kindergartner showed me the book he had written for his teacher. He had illustrated it, narrated it, titled it, and even taped a new piece of paper over a mistake to correct what he had written without having to re-do the drawing. He had put some work into this thing, and he was proud. 

The story was about a crystal that was on an orb. The orb was in a castle attached to the White House, and some hero was trying to retrieve it. This crystal was "ancient," like it was probably around "before my grandmother's grandmother." 

The only problem was that I only could read the story through translation, because crystal was spelled something like, "chrills" and castle was something like, "kassel." But once I had heard the story, I was was damned impressed. Even if this kid couldn't spell, he was still talking about orbs and using the word ancient. And, like I said, he had put a lot of time, effort, and CREATIVITY into this story. 

So, did it matter that he couldn't spell? I would say no. He had still come up with a pretty cool story. He was putting a lot of effort into a project, just for fun. And he had expressed himself creatively. If I, or some other menacing adult had turned the project into a spelling lesson, would he have still be proud enough to show it off? I would say no. Just let him write and draw and create. The more he does this, the better at it he will become. Most likely, spelling will come along with the rest of it. But if we scare him away from writing with spelling lessons, then what good will the spelling do him anyway?

This we know

What do you believe?

And why do you believe in

what you believe? Think. 

I just hope you can answer the question with something more than, "I read it in a book," "my parents told me," "I heard it in school" ect. ect. ect. Believe what you believe, but do not believe it without truly knowing why.  

Penance

Laziness is not

taking time to do the things 

you have time to do. 

You would thing that over spring break, of all times, I would have time to do some writing for myself. As I am lounging in a condo in Colorado, you would think I could take time to write a few lines. If I had time for four hour naps while I was at home with nothing to do, you might think I could spare five minutes for my blog. But I did not do any of those things. My spring break was definitely not productive. I was busy, but I certainly was not busy producing anything.  

But maybe that is okay. Maybe it is okay to take one week break from the world. and responsibility. and the internet. and schedules. Yes, I think that it is actually definitely okay. I feel pretty guilty about leaving my blog unattended for so long, but I will make myself get back on track. And I will be on this track for the next couple of months, so I think it was okay that I took a detour for a while. 

Motorcycles

We seem fragile, but

going 80 on two wheels

we don't fall apart. 

There are so many small parts to you and me. So many complicated parts pieced together by tiny cells. So much that could break. It is hard to believe our skin can hold everything inside of us together. And protect us from everything outside that could break us down. But somehow we stay together. Somehow the two wheels keep moving forward and upright as we fly down interstate with nothing but wind between us and the pavement below. Maybe we aren't so fragile after all. 

Music Man

He taps his toes to

the rhythms of day-to-day

breathing, beating life. 

He makes melody

out of the monotony,

rhymes in droning words. 

Each shoe-step he makes

he takes on a hi-hat. Tap. 

Speaks his words in cords. 

The ism's and ist's

post-modernist?

surrealist? expressionist?

can't get past me-ist

Most nights, I start writing a haiku that doesn't just talk about my job or the weather or some other little detail of me. Maybe something about someone else for a change, you know. I think to myself, maybe, tonight, I could be a bit more creative than just writing 17 syllables of me and my simple, small-town life. But it just always turns out so unnatural that I just end up scraping it. So, I just write about me. And I try to be original about it, but trying to original is hard. So much has been done. So much has been written about. What's left?

So, here is my conundrum: I try to fit myself into one of these high literary styles, and I feel so silly that I give up. I try to write something something originally and subjectively me, and I just feel like I am creating clichés. 

And here I am again. I have written myself into a ramble-corner, and I have no way out. But I think I have done enough self-loathing for the night, and as I said, I have no original, modernist, or Russian Constructionist way to conclude this... So, uh, yeah... the end. 

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

I feed my boyfriend

car hair stew topped with litter

and a hair ball pie.

I am good at all things involving huswifery; it's what the men see in me. Oh, and I love putlucks! 

 

Runaway Hour

Um, excuse me, ma'am,

I seem to have lost my hour. 

Didja see him run past?

Today, I woke up at 9:30 only to find out it was actually 10:30. How does that happen? I am fully in favor of the whole daylight savings time thing. I dig the extra hour of daylight in the evening and not having the sun blinding me on my way to work in the morning. But, come on, whoever runs the world clock, today was not the day for this to start. First of all, I have a zillion midterms to study for, and I need all the hours I can get. Second, my friends came to visit me yesterday so I didn't get enough sleep to begin with. And finally, daylight savings time is supposed to happen in the spring, and it is freaking snowing outside. Having an extra hour of daylight does no one any good when it is 30 degrees outside. So, come on, setters of time, try to be a little bit more considerate next time. 

The Digital Age

 Sitting side-by-side,

no noise but clicking keyboards,

we talk to the world. 

Oxymorons

Poor college students. 

We borrow parents' money 

for our spring break trips. 

I love to complain about being poor. But, what am I too poor to do? I still go out to dinner once a week. I still spend $20 on a night at the bars. I still buy overpriced lattes at local coffee shops. I still pay my college tuition. I still buy gas once a week to avoid waking up 30 minutes earlier to ride my expensive bike to work. I have fresh fruit in my refrigerator. I never eat canned food. My parents still pay for my health insurance, and I have never been without a place to sleep. And, although I have skipped a meal or two, I have never been hungry. And neither have my cats. I may only have $4.81 in my checking account right now, but all it takes is a phone call to my mom to fix that problem. I may only have $4.81 in my checking account right now, but there are plenty of people out there that wish they were as rich as me. 

Inspiration:

Urban Dictionary Addiction

I learn dirty slang 

from packs of giggling teens

on my Friday nights. 

And my Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, and that will probably change to my everyday in a few years. Today, I was asked for the 4th time if I knew what a certain dirty word meant. Honestly, until a bunch of middle schoolers explained it to me a few days ago, I had never even heard the term. 

When I tell people, even college friends, some of the crazy things I hear these kids say, I am often met with gasps. Seriously though, come on! Don't try to pretend like you weren't surfing Urban Dictionary to make sure you weren't the one scratching your head during the dirty word huddle when you were in middle school. As we become further disconnected from passing-period gossip, we become more and more shocked by the things kids seem to be learning "these days." But do you think that the kids are really learning these things at a younger age, or are we just forgetting what we had learned when we were that age? My vote is for the latter. I say, let them giggle about it in huddles; that probably means they aren't moaning about it in pairs. 

Oh, and don't google the term "blue waffle." I have not done it. A thirteen-year-old told me not to, and I trust his advice. 

March showers bring...

Cold, fat, wet drips drop. 

Puddle-jump fail drenches socks.

But it smells like spring.

It is easy to hate on rain. It's cold. It's wet. It wrecks your hair. The bottom of your jeans get wet. And you never have you damn umbrella when it starts to pour. But after months of snow, this rain feels like angels crying tears of joy for the coming of spring. Puddles? Bring 'em on! At least a puddle is honest about what it is. Snow disguises its puddles under a thin later of ice and dainty, powdery flakes. But really, it is just waiting for a heavy foot to break through into the freezing, wet slush below. So, Ms. Nature, if these showers are signaling the coming flowers, or at least some type of green growth somewhere, then let it rain. Let it rain. Let it rain.

Animal House

Clutter. Trash. Shit. Junk.

There's cat hair on my lampshades,

mountains in my sink.   

Some people can ignore messes. I am not one of them. I try. When I get busy with homework, I force myself to ignore them until I find time. But slowly, the small messes around me add up in my mind until I feel like my head is going to explode dirty dishes.

My reaction to my dirty apartment is very similar to the reaction of the characters on Sims. Their mood automatically drops into the red when their houses are messy. That is me. The diamond swirling above my head is red right now, and unfortunately I don't know the cheat codes to fix this mood drop. I guess I will just have to find time to clean. Shucks. 

Date Night

I'll wear my best gown.

He'll be in blue flannel and

hold me through the night.

Oh, bed, how I have missed you. I think we'd better close the door and turn off the light. This is going to get cozy. 

Goodnight, blogosphere. 

Work/Play

When your work is play,

your play will eventually 

turn back into work

For example, I love to read, but when I read for school (even fiction, graphic novels, etc.), it feels like the dullest of chores. Yet, over Summer break, I take in a good book like a cold drink. What is it about being told what to do that makes us resist doing it, even if it is something we would embrace otherwise? Maybe the answer is just to trick yourself into thinking that you never actually work. Eliminate the word "work" from your vocabulary. Just go to play everyday. 

Malfunction

idea transfer

head to paper, canvas, screen

lost in translation

I have this problem a lot, especially in regards to visual art. I have a mental image of something beautiful, innovative, creative, but as that image moves from my head to my hands, something gets mixed up, and that beautiful mental image turns out looking like it was made by a 4th grader. 

This confusion in transfer could be due to my lack of spacial intelligence, and that is probably a big part of it. But I think it is also due to the fact that I was never told I was good at art or encouraged to keep creating. Of course, left me to be my own judge of my abilities, and my art never seemed to look as good as everyone else's. I am not saying that if I had gotten more smiley stickers on my elementary school art projects that I would now be painting Picasso's. There is definitely some "nature" in that. But maybe if my art skills had been "nurtured" a bit more, I would have the confidence to move my head-ideas a little bit past the 4th grade level when my hands are involved. 

No Alarms

Shower-less, bra-less,

keepin' my pajamas on 

nothing all day long

Dang, there is nothing like a lazy weekend. I haven't had one in such a long time; I welcomed my lack of weekend plans with open arms. No commitments for two entire days. I slept in. I ate too much. I cleaned. I watched a movie. I went to a play. You can find time for so many things when you have nothing to do. Laziness is definitely something worth making time for. 

Pub Crawl

Not thinking, drinking

shitty beer from plastic cups

while bad music blares. 

The college-town bar scene is something I am not super fond of. It appears that I am one of the only people in my college-town that feels this way because it seemed like the entire population of my college-town was out at the bars last night. Going out on the weekends, to me, always sounds like it will be fun when I get invited, but it always ends up being trashy. It is loud. It is crowded. And it is expensive. I do enjoy seeing my friends, but its too bad that I cannot actually talk to them. Most of the talking done at the bars is just done to tell the creepers that you have a boyfriend. I guess I just don't get the appeal. 

Academic Intellectuals

Those who can't do teach

and those who can do go to 

graduate school.

I am an education major.

To many, this means: 

I am probably smart-ish, but not super smart. I am probably not that motivated (after all, it's not like my major is challenging). I am probably conservative. I am probably the one who has all the less-than-intellectual interpretations in your literature class. I might have a higher GPA than you but not because I am smarter than you, but probably because my classes are easier than yours. I am probably really sweet though, oh, and really good with kids. 

Don't worry, I have gotten it plenty of times. 

The truth is, I am not an education major because I cannot do something more or I am too afraid to try something more risky. I am an education major because, in my job, I will be impacting the future everyday. I will not teach kids how to diagram sentences. I will teach them to love to learn. I will teach them to teach themselves. I will teach them to teach others. 

So, go ahead and go to graduate school. I will go change the world. 

King Cluck

Mummified chicken

in a gold painted shoebox

wreaks up the 5th grade.

 I know that poem is not very poetic, but it is a true story. Today at work, a 5th grader brought a shoebox covered in mock Egyptian scroll, painted gold, and proudly exclaimed that it contained a mummified chicken. Of course, she instantly became the most popular girl in the room, as her devoted fans crowed in around her. She lifted the lid, and to my surprise, there was. for real. a mummified chicken inside. It was headless, a bit bloody, and wrapped in gauze. Oh, and it smelled. Apparently, the poor chicken was sacrificed for the sake of education. The whole 5th grade class now knows how to mummify dead things! And you were worried that the education system was failing!

To Ezra Pound

Mr. Pound, you're mean. 

You give me a list of don'ts, 

but writing is doing. 

Writing is not restricted to the elite. Writing is expression. It is communication. It is release. It is scribbles. It is art. It is progressive or reflective. It is work or play. It is poetry or prose. It is public or private. It transports our insides to the outside and helps us make sense of the outside for our insides. 

Writing is something different for everyone, but it is still for everyone. Yes, I know that my lines may be cliche and someone may have had my same ideas before I wrote these down, but writing these lines gives me an outlet for reflection and release that I don't find anywhere else. So, Mr. Pound, I don't plan on stopping. 

An Ode to my Pancake State

Yeah, it's pretty flat,

but our birds have room to fly

here in the middle. 

Having lived my whole life in Kansas, it is easy for my dreams to drift to the left or right of my central state. Squeezed in between the mountains and the skyscrapers, it can be difficult to find the beauty in these pancake-like surroundings. But today, driving down a midwest highway, it was difficult not to find it. I marveled at the open spaces, the trees, the hills, and sky. sky. sky. sky. sky.

As a kid, my family vacationed in the Rockies in the summer. Every time we left to come home, I would stare out of the back window thinking about how lucky it would have been to be born in such a beautiful place. It is easy to marvel at the beauty you see once a year. But now, I have learned to marvel at the things I see everyday. Seems pretty lucky to me.

Rogue Warmth

February breaths

his warm breath through his sharp teeth 

then he bites back down. 

I rode my bike for the first time in months today. I rode past joggers, walkers, football tossers, packs of college kids BBQing, children playing in front yards, and a cute old couple chatting on their front porch. The whole town smelled like spring, and a breathed it deep into my winterized lungs. But, sadly, I know it won't last. A Kansas winter is laden with a few days of sweet glimpses of spring that only make the frigidity feel colder. So, for now, I will ride my bike into the Kansas sunset, but I won't be packing up my winter coat quite yet. 

Loose Teeth

Five-year-old fingers

uproot unsuspecting teeth  

for Tooth Fairy change.

It appears to be wiggly tooth season for the kindergartners I work with. Everyday a new five-year-old is jiggling his tooth at me or showing me a new hole in her smile. The whole process freaks me out a little bit. They are loosing these small bones from their mouths to make room for new, larger bones to grow in. It seems pretty gross now that I am so far removed from it. But the kids are SO excited about it. They are fully dedicated to their jiggling mission! 

Personally, I wish they could just keep their teeth in their mouths. The longer they can keep anything that is titled "Adult" out of their bodies, the happier I will be; but as it is with everything else, kids seem so eager to kick the baby out to let the adult in. I know they can't remain kindergartners forever, but what do they really need adult strength teeth or cell phones or divorced parents for at that age anyway. I guess I just like the thought of kids growing up too fast about as much as I like the thought of one of my teeth popping out of my gums. 

Holiday Romance

My love kisses me

even with my runny nose.

I don't need flowers. 

I am sure everyone has read a Valentine's Day-hatin' rant before, so I promise not to rant too long. There were just so many men buying flowers at the grocery store today that I felt I had to comment. Valentine's Day is just a silly holiday, and I feel like any true romantic would agree. Why do we need a holiday designated for telling your sweetheart you love them? Shouldn't we have told our sweethearts that yesterday, and tomorrow?

Of course, I am guilty. My boyfriend and I attempted to celebrated the holiday. We packed a picnic and ate it by the lake. It was fine, but it just seemed a little forced. Honestly, I feel more loved when we are distracting each other from homework at the library or cooking a quick weeknight dinner than when we make an event of it. I would much rather have a tiny bit of realistic romance everyday than a fairy-tale red and pink explosion of romance once a year. Oh, did I mention he gives great foot rubs?... even when they're smelly.

On the eve of my dog's 9th birthday

Pups become old dogs

and grandpa's forget your name

while you're standing still. 

It is strange how people seem to only notice their own growth by noticing the growth of surrounding them: "You're making me feel old."

Do people really not realize that ten years have passed until they see an old college buddy's ten-year-old daughter? Does a teacher not realize that a song isn't popular until she references it in class and is echoed with silence? It is as if we are completely oblivious to our own passing age without seeing someone else's passing age. What is age when it isn't measured next to something else? After all, our years are only meaningful when measured by the movement of the Earth. 

Maybe age really is just a number. 

$5 Night

Sipping martinis 

and contemplating the arts

in a Target dress

The other night, I was just sipping a discount "Venetian Moonlight" martini the with some friends, I couldn't help but think of the irony of it. To begin with, I was in Kansas, no where near Venice. And it was too cloudy to even see the moon, let alone bask in its light. Then there was the fact that I have to wait for Birthday's and Christmas to get things like a Swiffer mop and shoes to replace the ones with holes all the way through the soles; but there I was, spending $15 on drinks with fresh raspberries floating in them. I could have easily bought a mop with that money. I was pretending to be classy, when I am not classy and cannot afford to be. But I sure do like eating those booze soaked raspberries!

No Time for Title

Sometimes twenty-four

isn't quite enough hours 

to find five minutes.

I am not sure where my time goes, but someday I would like to find it.

Electric Blanket Love

Homework piles high,

but winter toes need warm sheets

so homework can wait.

So, I know electric blankets are dangerous and suck energy from outlets, but when the windchill is -10 and a Kansas snowstorm is, once again, beating at my door, I will indulge. Sorry about the fire hazard, neighbors. 

Emerson, No One Listened

Drugs, booze, sex, religion,

books, party-lines, facebook, guns:

We're all reliant.

I am not sure if it is even possible to be SELF-reliant, holding true to only the "integrity of your own mind." I know that I am not. I do, however, try to be aware that my addiction isn't much better than the next. I hope this gets me one step closer to transcending. I have always thought it would be nice to become a transparent eyeball!

The goal:

"Standing on the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball-I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me-I am part or particle of God." from Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson 

The Good Times are Killing Me

ear infections suck 

brown slime drips from my ear drum 

not good for haikus 

Forcing myself to create just a little something everyday is more difficult than expected. Even writing three short lines can be difficult when something like an ear infection/sinus infection combo sucks away all inspiration. Despite the illness, I actually had a really great weekend. I wondered an art museum, overstuffed myself with delicious food, and spend a lot of time with my favorite guy. All of this should have provided me with enough inspiration to write a few lines of poetry, but it seems that all of my creativity has just been converted to pressure in my head. 

Of course, this is a common motif in life. I think most of us are guilty of letting the small bits of bad overshadow all of the good once in a while. I certainly do. I get so distracted by the cold weather, or the long work days, or the overwhelming electricity bill, or the ear infection that I forget to remember that I am young, healthy, happy, and in love. I know it is bad, and I try my best to stay positive; but just reading my poem for today will show you, quite obviously, that I am not good at it.

Kids These Days

Twelve year old sex bomb

wears lip stick while kissing her 

teddy bear goodnight. 

I work with middle school students, and it sometimes scares me how much they know, but almost as often, I am surprised by how innocent they seem. One minute they are dancing in ways that would usually, in Kansas, only be found along the interstate right outside city limits; and the next, they are whispering to me about holding hands (fingers laced!!) with a boy for the first time. Usually adults' opinions of this stage of child-adolescence-hood fall on one side of the spectrum or the other. They are either corrupt by society, sex-crazed, bullies. Or they are innocent, sweet, and ignorant of the world's evils. But just like most things, I find that, most of the time they fall somewhere in the middle: aware of some adult content but also still loving that teddy bear. Not so different from you and me. Just dressed a little stranger and in need of a little more deoderant. 

Scapegoat

I am angry at you;

It's easier than being 

angry at myself.

Today, I was angry at myself, but that was no fun, so I tried to find someone else or something else to be angry at instead (like that damned computer for not working during my presentation or that hot water for burning my pinkie when I tried to drain my pasta using only a bowl and a plate).

And this got me to thinking about all those people who are angry at other people. The people who are angry at other people for spreading anger. The people who are angry at the people who are angry at other people for spreading anger. The people who are angry at the people who are angry at them for being angry at other people for spreading anger. And the people who are angry at other people for no reason at all. And then I got angry at all of these people. After all, it is easier than being angry at myself. 

Thoughts on Snow

Moving bundled blobs

scrape their cars and go to work. 

Adults don't get snow days.

And that is why I am glad I am not an adult, and never plan to become one. I am a student, meaning I get snow days from school. I work at an after-school program in a middle school, meaning I get snow days from work. And I am studying to become a teacher, meaning I will get snow days forever.

Even though I may be an "adult" by definition, I hope I never loose the childlike anticipation of a stolen day of freedom that comes with a fresh sheet of snow. The last couple of nights, I have stayed glued to my computer, obsessively refreshing my my schools' homepage, crossing my fingers as the pages load. It hasn't been much different from when I used to beg my parents to let me stay up for ten more minutes to watch the local news channels scroll through the school closings one more time, crossing my fingers as my USD 306 approached.

I know I should be worried about my diminishing paycheck, as my work hours slip away in the snowstorm. I should also maybe worry about the extra homework my professors will give us to make up for the missed time. But for now, I would rather just sit in my pajamas watching the snow fall on the "adults" scraping their windows in my parking lot below.