First Examples of the Written Word

I realized that, oddly enough, no matter how much writing I've put on here, I haven't actually posted any writing samples for anyone to take a look at. I might open up a separate blog to hold all of those (probably not, I barely post on this single one as it is), but maybe every once and awhile, when I feel like gracing you all with the spectacularity of my scribblings and stylings, I'll just post something I've been working on up here. I was going to post my zuihitsu on here, but I realized that might be an issue. One: no one actually knows what a zuihitsu is, and I would be completely lost in trying to explain it because my easiest definition is that it is whatever I want it to be because I said so. Two: I kind of mention a few personal things about other people that would probably not want me to share those things, and to the people who know them it would be easy enough to identify them. I'm all for sharing personal stuff about myself, but I gotta respect my friends so that I can delay them realizing that I'm a complete and total ass.

Anyways, instead of that, here are some things I've written over the past few days for my poetry class, plus an oldie that a lot of my friends have seen already that people seem to like. Enjoy. And by that I mean read them. Repeatedly.

The Second Night of Halloween

It is 5:08 in Pittsburgh on a Monday, one day

after Halloween and the trees know it, yes it is

2011 and the leaves stop clinging to their branches

because it seems like a good time to hit

me in the face, Halloween is gone and people

are no longer smiling.

The girls go out as crayons,

colored dresses with black electrical tape around

just enough of the dress that it won’t

come off if they pull at it. Before

they go we brainstorm because there are so many slutty

clichés you can wear that we can’t choose, sexy witch, sexy astronaut—no way would she survive

in space—sexy pirate gets less sexy if I think about Jack Sparrow, and soon we have

to start getting creative, wrack our brains up one by one

to think about the next day, when everybody takes their walks

of shame, when the girls who thought the morning

after would be a clever costume shuffle along the streets

in nothing but a white shirt and cowboy boots

and the wind pulls up goosebumps on their

slick pale legs and I stand by watching, wearing

flannel for fuck’s sake and scribbling in a notebook

thinking that maybe the girls were right, no matter how

much we joke about how the girls have options on options on options

the guys have it easy.

As the Milk Falls

There is no such thing as lunch

on the weekends because Sundays don’t

like it when you do things.

There is a bag of chips in my hand,

flaming hot that I got just because

it’s my least favorite. They have an aftertaste

of ashes. Burn my tongue.

There is a Sun, barely shining, but I

almost wish it would leave me alone

because wouldn’t it be awesome if I had

one of those personal

rainclouds hovering over my head, leaving

that couple walking in front of me

fingers intertwined but silent as I used to

be when I tried to laugh, leaving the clouds

to focus on me. I wish I had an umbrella

because that scene keeps playing in my head

and as the milk falls on Gene Kelly’s head

he just can’t help but sing and that’s exactly how

I want to feel right now right here.

The Poetry of Football on a Sunday Night

Tonight, there will be men and women watching television.

Maybe the men will look up once in a while or

            the women will spend the night knitting

            hats for their children to wear during the winter months and

            maybe the children will be sitting

            far too close to the tube and

            their eyes will cross to the point where

            the pixels can only barely form shapes but

            maybe the children will still smile

            and maybe they will feel like a family or

            at least they will feel what it is like to be a family

Or maybe some of the children will be watching

from their bedrooms and the men

            will drink alone at sports bars while

            listening to the cheering that engulfs them while

            the women watch wondering what all the fuss is about or

            maybe a boy will sneak up to his room

            so quiet

            to play with a barbie while

            his sister wears her bears jersey on her fathers lap and

            his mother shakes her head knowing how little they know

            about the world

            or maybe they will take a deep deep breath.

           

All at once now.

            and the father will cheer with his daughter.

            and the mother will look up from her knitting.

            and the son will snuggle up in bed so close

            so close to a fluffy stuffed bear

            his friend will smile at him and with him.

            and maybe that is okay.