murdering the messenger

donc, d'accord.... (so, okay)

2005-09-05T22:02:00.000-05:00

Concisely: All I want is a perfect set of words that say exactly what they want to.

Expanded: The old poems make me want to puke. They are full of extraneous decoration, vulgarity, pretension. I'm sorry. I think poems are similar to people, and somewhere along the line I forgot this. Both people and poems have a driving force that we can't cover up, no matter how we struggle.

I think in metaphors. They will always be there for me, the way that I associate everyone and everything with colour. Both will always be in my poems. But pretension, overuse of thesauruses, garish and unintended melodrama? No, I'm done with those. I do not write to include all of the twenty-word school vocabulary list.

I only want truth, and I don't know if I'll ever quite get it, but I like to pretend I can try.

Examples of simplicity? "Lovesong" by the Cure.

discreet

2005-05-24T22:18:00.000-05:00

I liked you for the way your 5 o'clock shadow ws always here by 1;
for the nervous flurry your hands conjured when you talked,
the way your hair was slightly overgelled.
I liked your for the way that you stopped and stared and listened,
when the boulders fell from my mouth because
I am not the patient daughter from my childhood fairy tale.
I liked the way your shirts were always slightly overpressed
(even though you knew you would be painting),
your hands rough and red as they gesticulated and
weaved too many patterns and your mouth chapped as you
injected your talent into too many parentheses.

notice

2005-05-24T10:54:00.000-05:00

Bonjour mes amis!

I apologise for the lack up updates until recently. Due to health problems/a mounting fear of having my entire life open and public, I have disbanded my everyday blog. In any case, any prose or essays that I write have now been moved to this blog. Yes, it is a different penname, and No, it is not a different person. I hope you continue to read or begin to read and (as always) offer me as much feedback as you can, even if it is not purely positive.

Au revoir,
Angie

bare midnight.

2005-05-24T10:46:00.000-05:00

But I do know that if I could make room,
I would choose to know all of this bare scrap of land we call a planet,
and still have room to both know the moon, and to also love you.

Right. So, this is just a fragment of something that is yet to be written. But I thought it was fairly nice and that is why it is here.

The Love Letter (From A. to B.) revised

2005-05-24T10:41:00.000-05:00

Hello,
Simple greeting.
How are you?
You aren't speaking, you won't communicate, which language must we use? I've got them bound inside my bag of tricks and taped inside my sleeve but none of them will let me mine your brain like the scalpel I use to hold my hair in place.
I am okay.
My acting has been honed, can you sense it in my scrawl? I learned from the best, from you. Who else are you fooling in your amazon jungle, which warrior queen are you now seducing?
The weather is the same as always.
She is not better. Maybe we could bind your lies into my language and make her new. She would be a product of your wine and my whiskey and maybe take the best of the both.
It is rather boring here.
Do you remember grade school, the childish insults that came when we crowed, "it's opposites day!" and then said what we really thought? Opposites day is not today.
The play is going rather well.
Of course I wanted to do the sets but somehow they conspired to elect me lead. I have my paltry lines memorized and I act as though I am acting.
Too bad you will not be able to see it.
You'd be proud to know that my bitchery and bitterness can rival yours. I'm all spit and spite and now I'm a sniper.

Goodbye,

I love you,

A.

well at least i didn't do the acid reflux jig.

2005-03-19T22:49:00.000-06:00

I'm on gizoogle!

I had solo and ensemble today. Just, ughhhhhh. I had a serious case of nerves. You don't want to hear about it. The only positive thing I can think of is that I did not pull an Ashlee.

On the good side, I got Aha Shake Heartbreak and The Cars' Greatest Hits.

On the bad side, I did not get to go to Gauthier's show tonight.

On the good side, my room is clean and covered with pictures of pretty girls. Oh yes, it is my happy place. With a few cute skaters and Conor Oberst and some paintings, ect., thrown in.

Oh the bad side, my life sucks.

Manifesto

2005-03-18T12:01:00.000-06:00

Maybe you, in all your glory,
would talk a little bit less
if you just thought a little bit more.

The Love Letter

2005-03-18T11:50:00.000-06:00

Hello, (Are you there?)
How are you? (You aren't speaking, you won't communicate, which language must we use?)
I am okay. My acting has been honed, can you sense it in my scrawl?
The weather is the same as always. She is not better.
It is rather boring. I am attempting to find the words to say what I am feeling
The play is going rather well. I am attempting to find what I am feeling.
Too bad you will not be able to see it. It's only our method acting.
Goodbye.
As always, and forever
Me.

promise keeper.

2005-03-16T21:07:00.000-06:00

(You taught me that love does not have a cause and that love is sometimes
the quietest gesture and if I do not stop to stare I will miss it.)

I can't love you when I am dead.

My tylenol is in back in the cupboard.

It is not coming out again.

The Lead Age

2005-03-16T17:11:00.000-06:00

You have heard me speak of the Republic of Heaven, the idea that I stole from the book
the idea that we must build our Utopia here but now I know that I've been exiled from there
before I ever had the chance to enter and so I think I am choosing the Republic of Death.
I want to be somewhere where the principal players in my lives are not flightly girls
named Serotonin and Dopamine, girls that will abandon me with frightening ease.
I have my ticket in a bottle and all I want to do is tell you this before i go--

I know you will be better when I am gone, because my existence
will only dull your Paradise.

Belated Valentine: A Work In Progress

2005-03-12T20:26:00.000-06:00

I woke this morning with that shadow feeling I'd been dreaming
significant dreams-
Strong and powerful,
Richly full of meaning.
But I was unable to recall them no matter how hard I tried.
Chasing them only makes it worse,
Like groping for the other tennis shoe
Lost under the bed
Just beyond my reach,
Closing my hand on something,
To discover it is only
So much dust and dog hair.

I closed my eyes,
Breathed deeply,
And reached for that familiar place.

But the Universe asked me a question.
Why do I continue to love you?

And I begin to answer immediately because
Confidence is the feeling we have before we understand the situation.

Why in the face of all we have seen,
and failed to see in each other,
Do we persevere?

I begin to understand it is a matter of pride.
And, pride is, after all,
what we have.
Vanity is what others have.

So, in pride or vanity I offer:
I love you because I have always loved you.

And the Universe knows this is not a whole truth.
It knows it like it knows we can't pray a lie

I try again.
I love you because of all we have been through together.

And the Universe does not like this cliché any better.
It asks, with all the Aristotelian logic it can muster,
Do you not manifest "All that you have been through together?"
The Universe knows and wil not let me get away with half a truth.
We have been through "all that"
Because we have put each other through "all that."

It asks another question:
How can you assert love after all you have seen?

The helplessness after surgeries;
The weakness in the face of adversity;
The cowardice in the face of confrontation;
Weight gain,
Hair loss,
Reduced libido,
Nakedness at forty,
Nakedness at fifty?
The knowledge that the final solution does not involve Bean-o.

And I begin, in answer, to list the qualities I admire in you:
Tolerance,
Patience,
Trust,
Faithfulness,
Forgiveness.

But the Universe will not allow this equivocation either.
And because the Universe is a big believer in the Socratic Method,
it asks
Why do I love my dog?

I confess to perceiving a similiar list.

The Universe sends me the spring songbirds early,
Who sing, and feed,
who show me community in bright colors
And high energy.
The birds know nothing of our sorrow.

And the Universe asks again,
In the face of this sorrow, why do I continue to love you?

It is not because Mothers are better than Fathers.
It is not because women are better than men.
It is not because teaching is better than poetry.
It is not because daughters are better than husbands.

And slowly, the answer,
Or rather the understanding that there is no answer,
Begins to reveal itself to me.

There is no aetiology for love.

I do not love you because
I do not love you in spite of
I do not love you since
I do not love you in so much as
I do not love you for the reason that

There is nor eason,
No logic,
No syllogistic proof.
It simply is.
I love you.
It comes about without cause
And with luck it is returned
without cause.

That is why love fits more aptly into poetry than paint.
It is not revealed to the mind through the eye.
It comes to the heart, through th enose and the fingertips.

The old poet had it right.
"Do not go gentle..."
Even here in this moment of doubt
I don't give up.
I do not go gentle,
Down by two in the bottom of the 9th,
Two out,
Two on,
Two strikes.
I will take one more god damned pitch!

And even if I fail,
We will play again tomorrow.

The story of my life is told between parentheses
whcih you open and you close.
And inside those parentheses is one word.
It is (Hope).

--Steven Marsh

Courtesy of Kara who had it courtesy of Dylan. Read it out loud. You can relate, because you are human.

Undeviating Advice

2005-03-12T20:09:00.000-06:00

You know who I am.
Sitting in front of you earns me
a daily complement, and a daily
discovery that something of mine is yours too now--
It does not bother me. Instead, it is quizzical,
a puzzle to be poured over only in the morning hours.
Why me? I have nothing that no one else does.
You are posssessed of hidden qualities, surely.
But they’re just that, hidden.
But why deviate from this life?
It is a poster for popularity and you have worked for it.
Do not throw it away because of a crush.
Go back to shopping and social drama
and boys that want you for your body:

A life like mine will only make you feel ugly.

To Kelly, who sits behind me in Algebra. I took the situation and fictionalized it. I dunno. This is my alter-ego talking. Come on y'all, I think this alter ego needs a name.

musical intelligence

2005-03-12T14:35:00.000-06:00

Musical intelligence is magic and it forces everything in it's path to twist and shimmer while obeying colour laws
with the flick of a brain footsteps become drumbeats and a smile is an alto's scarlet jazz chord
with awakening the rustling of bedclothes are the strains of a midgetal violet viola
and the tap of a switch is a chocolate staccato beat courtesy of an animated ebony pianist
the chartreuse cries that come with vomit are the screeches of a synth.
the scuff of rubber shoe soles is the whisper of your best bombazine soul
and only with golden death are our bodies finally silenced.

Tell me whatcha think.

production room

2005-03-01T16:16:00.000-06:00

you're my bluescreen, yeah
the bluescreen upon which i project
my private miseries

flattering to be
one of three reasons for your survival,
probably more ironic especially because i would
kill anyone that hurt you
but apparently you're most in danger from your suicidal self.

i was sitting on a pew
In the coral suffocated church in Tourist Florida
thinking that God wasn't there until
I looked at the fake gold of the wrinkled lady on my left and
understood that God is the one word that means whatever you want it to.

But forever, yes, you'll always be
you're my bluescreen, yeah
the bluescreen upon which i project
my private miseries

This reads like the draft of a much better poem.

A Belated Poetic Valentine's Day

2005-02-23T13:11:00.000-06:00

I'd like to direct you all to the fantastic 7th Annual Valentine's Day Poem Extravaganza, as hosted by the fabulous www.pamie.com. Anyway, those have made my day a few times over.

Word of the day: paen

Lyrics of the day: First Day of My Life, by Bright Eyes

Tongue Hush

2005-02-22T18:03:00.000-06:00

The answer to the question
comes out girlish,
the words you pronounce
("True and everlasting happiness")
truthful and well-rehearsed.

Your voice is lavender.

Love, Volume 1

2005-02-20T19:11:00.000-06:00

And if there was a line leading from the left of you--
all volunteers for annihilation of themselves,
in order to erase pain we've thrown on you
I would be right up, first in line,
attempting to express
that by choice i would rather be Nothing
than a cause for your dread.

Sonnet 0

2005-02-18T13:13:00.000-06:00

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
No; for your moods flip as trapeze artists,
where should be warmth of character is fey.
Bright eyes shine and sinewy arms grow to wrists.
When truly pleased you will beam slyly;
but delight dashes as a delicate doe;
shadow of a grin is solely lonely
you know that if you quit, your losses would still be low.
Jealousy swifly sweeps your conciousness
rise of an eyelid; clenching of a jaw.
emotion denys your intelligence
and your hawk eyes hunt out my ev'ry flaw.
You aren't summer-- you shine unlike the pure sun:
too shrewd, too perfect, too prone to friction.

This is a "sonnet" written for school-- it's actually only in pentameter, but it does have the rhyme scheme and structure of a sonnet, if not the rhythym (sp?).

Word of the day: "phantasmagoria"

Other Poem of the day: "Novel" by Rimbaud.

Party Dress

2005-02-17T18:56:00.000-06:00

Okay, buddies! This is a short story that I wrote for my english class-- therefore, not my best work. By the end, I was on the "okay. fuck tina." side. Please read and please leave a comment. Thanks in advance and thank you for putting up with the lack of updates.

The lady’s hand ruffled Tina’s hair. “Oh, you’re so pretty, little girl!” the lady cooed, inbetween gurgly laughs, powdered face flushed and breath stringent. A box was in the corner. It hadn’t been there before, and Tina remembered her father hauling it to the kitchen: “MJ TENSON WINERY” it said on the plywood face. There were bottles littered all over the table, champagne-hued foil laying in tatters on the laps of the drunk.

In the corner, two women clad in black talked while gripping the wall for stability.
“Oh, I know!” the brunette one enthused.
“Good things must come in small packages.” Pursed lips from the redhead.
The brunette gulped her wine, and sighed “Just adorable.”

Someone raised her up underneath the armpits before she could hear the rest of the conversation. “Oh, you’re gorgeous” he breathed in her ear. “Want a drink?” Tina wriggled from his grasp and stumbled into her father’s lap. “Daddy? I’m going now.” she whispered.

Tina picked her way through the dining room. A big man, chair pushed back, tie lying on the floor with a pasta stain-- her mother, picking at her still-full plate and dangling the spaghetti into her mouth like a praying mantis feeding itself an aphid.

The wooden back door cracked open, and the glow of the night grabbed Tina, diamond-bright claws ripping at her lamplight adjusted eyes. She blinked twice and extended her leg, prodding the wet moss that covered the granite stoop with a toe. A chill enveloped her body (she was wearing her best pink posie party dress) and the air, comparable to a dozen topaz daggers, stabbed at her stale-air-accustomed throat. The ivy hung low, and the rhododendrons where the darkest red. Tina’s mother used to fantasize about deep red rhododendrons. They had something to do with a lady named Rebecca. Maybe one of her mother’s “wild intellectual” friends from “Out East,” as Tina’s father referred to them. Tina’s mother would sigh, lean heavily on her arm, and say “Oh, the rhododendrons. Like in Rebecca.” There was probably an entire novel’s worth of words somehow incapsulated in those eleven syllables, but Tina was at a complete loss to understand them. Tina had almost been named Rebecca-- and Tina suspected that if that had been her name, she would know more about Rebecca. Rebbecca, of course, is a gothic novel-- but there is no way that our heroine would have understood that if she hadn’t been told.

There was, however, one thing that Rebecca was aware of, and that was her premature “beauty.” Being informed of it constantly, it would have been quite a feat to have remained completely unawares. It was probable that Tina was only considered to be so pretty because of her youth-- there were not, it was true, very many elementary schoolers in their cloistered, expensive Silicon Valley suburb. It may also have been the distinct scandinavian features that she seemed to exhibit-- white blonde hair, big blue eyes, lips the color of the inside of an eyelid. An anemic eyelid. The other possibility is that other than the author of this story, every single adult in Tina’s presence was blind, or insensitive to an overtly large nose, chapped and bitten lips, gaunt cheeks, and the unnaturallness of a six-year-old in mascara.

Tina was still in the garden. She sat on the mildewed bench, fingering the leaves of a tree that dipped into her lap, invading her human bubble. Being pretty made her noticable. Too noticable.

There was a weak board in the fence. tina checked it. She had never gone through before-- but that was alright. She drifted through the opening, barely needing to alter the formation of her body to glide through the roughness.
Hard asphalt hit the bottom of her flip flops (only the best pink plastic sequins). Breeze that hadn’t been able to penetrate the emerald foliage of the garden whipped her, blowing her dress to form cut-outs of her body. A vehicle sped, the driver giving Tina a wide-eyed look. Why was this little girl here, standing on the road? Where was her jacket? It was winter, even if it was California. She should be at home. But the car sped on anyway. There was another one behind it. Tina wondered what it felt like to be hit by a car. Tina wondered what it felt like to not be told she was gorgeous. And with that thought, Tina jumped into the road.

The Smart Slut

2005-01-29T10:02:00.000-06:00

She spins as a skeleton top that's
slipped a disc, tentative knee
(scraped by a slice of wayward slate)
bent and body bearing nothing but
her happy cotton chartreuse skirt
and summer camisole.
Murmuring her
consolation:
"It's just promiscuity--
like a promise
for something better."
I wonder
which better things
she means.

Just daydreaming.

more than just a pretty face

2005-01-23T17:47:00.000-06:00

I hung strings from steeple to steeple;
garlands from window to window;
gold chains from star to star;
and I dance.
--Rimbaud

Dear Arthur Rimbaud,

I am coming to France so that I can resurrect you, turn you bisexual, make you into a decently pleasant person, and then seduce you. Okay?

Love, Evangeline

so are you.

2005-01-07T20:05:00.000-06:00

Fine then, bitch
whip out your
Hipster Cred Club Card,
flash it in her face and reel off
half a dozen bands.
Fine then, bitch
whine about your hangover
and how that makes you so Punk Rawk.
Fine then, bitch
spit "poser" at the passerby.
Why hasn't it occured to you
that they might just be trying to figure out who they are?
Why haven't you reexamined
to see if you are experimenting to understand?

Oh, gosh, stereotypes don't piss me off! And neither do people who buy into them!

Repeat if Necessary

2005-01-07T19:56:00.000-06:00

A shot in the mirror,
and a step in the dark.
A call at nighttime
and second guessing again.
Guess I was more insecure than I thought,
guess I was more insecure than I thought,
yeah, I guess I was more insecure than I thought.

Half-daydreaming, and half true. I think it's interesting how many times you can use "I." Also, the fifth and sixth lines came straight from the mouth of the wonderful Molly, to whom I give partial credit.

Family Roadtrip Detour at the Hotel 6

2005-01-07T19:35:00.000-06:00

I keep the sheets right here to
suffocate my hearing--
I hate, hate
to hear you breathe.

Pretension Romance

2005-01-05T13:06:00.000-06:00

Love
(you/me)?

Wow. Heh, this was in my planner a gazillion months ago, and I recently occurred to me that it's the shortest poem i've ever written. It also manages to be the most pretentious.

(untitled)

2004-12-17T07:27:00.000-06:00

you have this quartz complexion
and eyes that switch to hematite with rage
mangled wrists sliced with stripes of vermilion and rust
and all the pain you wring from your ventricles and slash from your veins
is carried on our backs

bit of a silence

2004-12-04T10:02:00.000-06:00

So, yes, I am writing poems right now, and I'm sorry that I haven't updated in a few days. Problem is, the one that I am working on is sort of all-or-nothing, so if I don't at least sort of nail it it will suck. Suck extremely. And I'd rather not have that.

Anonymous

2004-12-01T21:32:00.000-06:00

I remember banging the stall door open, the tin walls
dun-colored and scrawled with the history of a thousand romances and rivalries
Bracing the tips of my fingers against the wintry water and waiting for it to heat,
gazing up at the moldering ceiling,
and listening to some things that I should have just been hearing,
or, at least, some things I was not supposed to remember.
"Yeah" the older girl said, oh so casually,
lips curling around what she said like news from a tabloid
"she said she was going to commit suicide"
Just like that, using the full term, the scientific term, as though it was amusing,
repeating someone else's death wish
I stopped and scuffed stiffly over to the paper-towel dispenser
and ducked back into class, mind occupied for the rest of the day.
And at the next school assembly
(legs tight from sitting too long on the cracked linoleum gym floors,
neck aching from pretending to pay attention and brain numb from not caring)
I slipped a patch of a looseleaf sheet into the sterlinghaired principle's palm,
because, yes, I need to see you, yeah, soon would be nice please.
And finally walking into his office and
arranging myself in and picking at the faux-leather teal throne and telling
what had happened, the story that was suddenly
so much shorter than my mental repeat button made it seem.
and being assured that no, my name would not be mentioned,
spiriting myself out of the office and knowing that he was dialing her class,
punching the numbers, brow furrowed.
I remembering returning to the day and
being bothered for information and not even breathing a word
And I'm not sure of what I did or when or how I did it;
besides, I was only in the third grade.

True story.

one plus one

2004-11-25T19:30:00.000-06:00

I am writing for you
and writing is speaking
and speaking is breathing
and breathing is living
so do the math.

Quickie. I realize that there was a math reference in the other poem as well, but shaddup.

Algebra

2004-11-25T19:12:00.000-06:00

This new operation should have simplified the equation
But I think that we're still solving for x
Hate it, how exhausted you sometimes seem to be
6 cups of coffee equals 6 lost hours of sleep
fidgeting in the afternoon (a side effect of fragile friendships)
You seem bent on living fast and at the top
But please don't die young
and if you do, at least enjoy yourself beforehand.
Don't bother to be funny or witty or fill expectations
because you're already exponentially lovely.

I am at my grandparent's house in New York state, and (gasp!) the techno font colors work with their computer. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice. You know who you are, if this poem is about you.

my sister is the next plath.

2004-11-21T11:19:00.000-06:00

Well, I don't necessarily adore my sister. Fio's going to be nine years old on thanksgiving and uses the fact to her full advantage. She's got curly dirty (literally) dishwater blonde hair that's never brushed and no hint of a waistline. Although, of course, she's a sweetie if you give her money. So yesterday was her birthday party, but instead of getting ready, she sat at the computer typing. Now, for me, this would be normal. For her? A gregarious little butter ball? Ahem, no. But she was writing poems. And I'm going to take the liberty of sharing them, 'cause any publicity is good publicity, ya know?

Said (Insert Fio's full name here),
sitting at her computer,
"I am glad I'm not
Allergic to pewter."

and then...

Said (insert Fio's full name here),
in a red dress
"I'm glad I'm not
under stress."

I am not so sure about the wording of the last one, but that's the gist of it.

Allergic. Pewter. Stress. Yes, seriously.

rail.

2004-11-20T15:15:00.000-06:00

you've been torn up and thrown around
but i will sew your rips and reinforce your seams
take you through those desert places and barren spaces

you don’t know how sick she was when she finally heard your explanation
of why you’re so fucked up
and you don’t know how much time I am spending revising my railing at you
and you have no idea how much she tried not to let on but that i caught anyway
and you don’t even want to know why I’d help you since you are so damn exasperating

I can try to help you and i am kind but no one said I would be gentle

you've been torn up and thrown around
but i will sew your rips and reinforce your seams
take you through those desert places and barren spaces

so kid, smooth down your hair and pay attention
shrug off your emo shit and look me in the eye
turn off your angst-ridden album and listen
because over there is the girl who used to love you
and in front of you is the world that you are fucking missing.

Better than the last one, and also quotes from the last one. By no means is it original or even logical. And it's sort half daydreaming and half the situation with a friend of a friend. And the friend of a friend, by the way, may be emo, but he's also smart and not the person in this poem.

you/her/me/she/his/he/it

2004-11-18T19:57:00.000-06:00

if i were you and you were me, would you still like yourself?

"aw, it's strawberry," she says of her popsicle
"guess that's just the story of my life, innit?
don't take appearance as truth"

she's attempting to crack her daughter's pride,
going against the rule of What It Is To Be A Mother
but then again this collapse is so surgically fascinating as she
takes a scalpel and unhinges
the brain from the skull

i know what you are,
hanging inbetween where you are and where you're going

i thought i was showing my barest self
but really it was just the face on a skeleton dream

up--
words float either
pearls (or bubbles) intopeachindigoivoryandgrey clouds

promise: break his heart, i break your face.
(i'd like to think it has to do with me)

'you can have him' is what she said
but it did't matter
if he didn't want me anyway.

you've been torn up and thrown around
but i will sew your rips and reinforce your seams
take you through those desert places and your barren spaces

and consider:
if i were you and you were me, would you still like yourself?

and then, when we're twenty---
we'll be far above this mediocre pseudo-poetry.
but now we're far from both goals
so sit back and taste anxiety

asphalt, fast food, and fire
this is our american dream
she's peachy, perfumed and fake
this is our american babe

If you thought the other one was crap, you just got a spectacularly shitty treat.

Wasted

2004-11-18T19:11:00.000-06:00

And you can strive to manipulate your machines to
define love to the ten millionth place:
It is just that you will fail.

Evangeline trys to fall asleep. Evangeline, half-awake, writes some crap words on the map for her paper route. The words sit around. Evangeline turns them into a crap poem. Evangeline talks like Bob Dole,

Letter to London

2004-11-12T20:57:00.000-06:00

Dear London,
I have a brother, and he is vanished on your streets--
You know you've seen him,
short grey-eyed artist scrawling on your walls with bottles full of aerosol
but because he's gone from me
you'll have to just try to watch now
keep him healthy, happy, and alive and (in a shadowed space)
find the perfect boy for him.
but if all he really needs is luck--
he can have all mine.

Not necessarily great, but the meaning is there. Nafai, I love you and I hope you are alright. Visit us sometime.

Routine

2004-11-10T18:56:00.000-06:00

He secures his silken branded tie
Adam's apple diving as his nameless self swallows
and confesses, "Girl, you are magnificent," or "Girl, I couldn't live without you."
And always I fold my faux furs, adjust my counterfeit pearls,
curl my ruby lips in a reptilian grin and say "Yes, yes, I know it."

See, no one actually watches Great Expectations when we see it in sixth hour English class. Instead, we, say, write poems. Far more productive, yo. Oh, and funner.

Me fail english? Umpossible!

Exceptional

2004-11-07T21:09:00.000-06:00

Girl, you may have
come to the
conclusion that
crying is selfish,
but Boy,
I was crying for you.

Proof that tears are not necessarily conducive to good poems. Which makes me lucky, because I am all cried out.

Makes You Think

2004-11-01T20:48:00.000-06:00

death,
with all of it's drapes disappearing behind
corners and grainy dusks and chemical hospital greens,
makes you think:
how fragile are we, how fragile are we?
you can tip into the abyss
and the rush of the city can mishandle you
until
you crumble,
a hollow bird's skeleton.
how fragile we are, how fragile we are
how fragile
how fragile
how fragile we are, right now.

Messy. Please comment, and I'm sorry I haven't updated.

Anytime.

2004-10-20T18:34:00.000-05:00

This phrase is dropped so often, pennies in a street saxaphonist's case:

you want me to talk to him for you?
you need a kiss?
are you sure you want to know the truth?
you want to talk?
you want me to help you through this cave and rebuild the life that is yours at the other end?

But inflation starves a penny to a strangled sullen copper sprite
this street saxaphonist has got less to satisfy his patched pockets
and this other lover, this one who needed a convenient truth to clutch?
they dip below the poverty line.

New version of an old, old draft. I wrote it right at a point where I was saying "any time'" to just about anything and got frustrated with it-- I mean, no, I will not necessarily go bail your daughter out of prison any time. So I wanted to say it once and for all, that I will do whatever you need, whenever, and that I'll do it any, any time, but to yell it before the expression--anytime-- got completely bled of all meaning, via overuse. Hey, the note was more poetic than the poem. What the hell does that say about me?

Spare Change

2004-10-18T17:47:00.000-05:00

The hours jangle in my pockets
and I spend them remembering my dreams,
because I remember nothing quite exactly
except that they were excellent
and taught me something about you.

New revision of an old poem that has been sitting around as a draft. I like the rhythm.

Relevance

2004-10-18T17:40:00.000-05:00

most unromantic email ever
but then this is
love in the digital world--
where it's life cast in chrome and
left to set in open dusty dusk--
where these equations of zeros and ones
are left so much
more relevant than
melodramatic messages and
red ribbon roses.

Really not happy with this. It deserves a revision. Still, please tell me what you think. Garsh, it's been forever since I updated. Sorry, skanks.

A Blessing

2004-10-18T17:04:00.000-05:00

I love this poem. It's literally up on my top ten. And no, it's not by me. James Wright wrote it.

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Unschooled

2004-10-03T19:58:00.000-05:00

i am sorry for all that i have done to you, but
mostly what i’ve failed to do
because i was watching that movie today
and realized that i am no lloyd dobler, i am not just a Good Person
because i’d never have cleared that glass away for you at the 7-11
I can tell you’ve never seen the movie and I’m sorry this is lost on you

Leaving the marks of my breath
on your window, blinds drawn
and you’d know, i would miss you more
if i didn’t meet you every night in dreams
(first time I saw you your legs were broken)

time to step up and say goodbye
to my parent’s guests
i’d really love to hate them
but they’re just way too generous for that

and as the polka dotted beat song filters through hard air
a cry writhes in my mouth and a tear floats on my eye
see, she’s gorgeous and just so squeaky clean
i want to have a life like hers, ballet and beauty and vanilla beans

because right now i am missing you to death
there are so many reasons that you shouldn’t love me (no, really):
i am younger and you know you’re the only boy i’ve ever hugged
three hours is almost way too long
there are three other girls who love you now (and i know you love them back)
But when I was crying I was reminded that anything that had ever been,
so yeah, thank my lucky stars and talk to me again.

she’s fucking beautiful
and i told her so-- especially since
it was her birthday a week ago
here’s a list of what reminds me of you i wrote to her
but i never thought that she would write back with a list for me.

maybe this is what miss lindsay
means when she says word vomit
but i just want this all sent out to cyber space
because this is one frame of my life
i’d like to think it matters
and i’ve been told that it is beautiful
but eventually it boils down to the same significance
as a shopko advertisement.

maybe i’ll read this when i’m 20
and believe i had split personalities
I don’t sound like I’m thirteen:
closer to twenty-three and floundering.

after the show.

2004-09-23T19:28:00.000-05:00

ringing ears and springtime chill--
gasoline spills (suburbia smog)
city rain (asphalt reflections),
spangled stars (sallow streetlights)
walking alone.

Written pretty randomly. I sat down to tell y'all about my aunt on my everyday blog and ended up writing about this instead. I can't get the arrangement right. Please comment.

Blue Baby

2004-09-22T06:53:00.000-05:00

He has eyes of bruised delphiniums
and pupils of alabaster moon
freckles cast of stardazzle
and cataracts of clouds.
Skin leeched to lavender
and bankrupt breath--
this is his (and our) only dusk.

Attack of the Collagen Lip Implants

2004-09-12T13:23:00.000-05:00

Copy (no, not tracing), of a MaxStudio ad. It's a good ad, except that the model had kind of obviously had her lips plumped. I think I made her nose too long.

Maggie Gyllenhaal

2004-09-12T13:21:00.000-05:00

Hey, Maggie Gyllenhaal models for Mui Mui. And, according to Brigitte, I look like her.

Drawn on the roadtrip.

The Hag, and Nick.

2004-09-12T13:08:00.000-05:00

Drew this in the car, on the roadtrip. Papa Paddy so tastefully called her "A hag." and I will too.

Sketched this during church: It looks sort of like Nick, a friend of a friend. And if he's miraculously reading this, No, Nick, I Am Not Stalking You. But it would be a shame not to bother drawing you.

Drawing.

2004-09-12T13:01:00.000-05:00

Right. Decided I wanted somewhere to post drawings, and this is the logical choice. And I appreciate any comments, but i really like the ones that tell me just what I'm not doing, or that I am. So, Nafai, get your ass over here and say something.

Oh, for backround: I've been drawing/painting since I was 3 or 4. I took a few art classes around 5th grade, and now I'm just starting art lessons with a new lady.

I drew this during church.

dear superstar

2004-09-09T20:15:00.000-05:00

my life is a little indie film:
would you please just play lead?

Okay, so it was a quickie. Maybe I'll expand it sometime.

Brand Me

2004-09-02T19:44:00.000-05:00

Kind of ironic I should post this now, seeing what I've been bitching about in Another Pearl. And yes, it's an essay. Written for WCATY. Enjoy.

The gravel under my feet crackles as the rime breaks off, and I myself am hunched over, even wearing two sweatshirts and a jean jacket. The lake is frozen over, and the fish underneath must look to the sky through their jagged, whitened window, wondering how the sky above is so grey while their ice-cold habitat is midnight blue. A ripped and cold-stiffened slashing of cloth lies on the side of the path. “The North Face” it says, in large letters, and I wonder who left it here. A mountain biker, maybe? Or another girl out for a walk?

It was the middle of winter—last January, and I remember being in the car with my dad as he gave me a ride to school: There was a girl walking along the sidewalk, and my dad asked if I knew her. No, I said, but I kept looking at her. The girl was hunched over, rolled into her jacket. The jacket made me think that she was either poor or just stubborn—it was 30 degrees outside, and all she had was this layer of midnight-hued nylon over a camisole. I walk home from school every day, even in the winter, too—but not in the mornings. I felt bad for her, but then again she’s not bothering to put on a coat. My breath frosted the car windows and the chill crept up my jeans. Her gelled hair, and a house close to school meant middle class or higher, and that she walked to school, instead of being driven, said that either her parents went to work early (they work a lot), or were just lazy (they don’t have to work at all), or she had younger siblings (it takes more money to support more people.) All of those pointed to decent money. I told my dad so—I was assuming a lot, but that was the basics, all by her appearance.

Maybe I see a girl with a super low v-necked shirt, low, microscopic jeans, all of her clothes skin-tight, any brand, really, as long as it’s five sizes too small—I assume she’s a slut. Excuse me now, but I do. I see a boy with long, shaggy hair in a Hurley sweatshirt? He’s a skater. A girl coming out of Abercrombie at the mall, blonded locks swinging? Prep. A raven-haired wraith, wearing what are clearly Morbid Threads fishnets? Goth. A Caucasian boy in a Lakers jersey, wearing low-slung basketball shorts? Wigger. Either a girl or boy in a cross country sweatshirt, wearing Reebok shorts and Nike Shox? Jock. Band t-shirt, jeans, and converse all-stars? Rocker. Smudged eyeliner, black clothes? The endangered breed: eurotrash. Where there aren’t exchange students, there aren’t American eurotrashers following them around. Where there’s no honest-to-god Europeans, there aren’t any converts worshipping them and smearing mascara under their eyes for the sought-after wan look that should come after a night at the techno club.

I’m sorry to brand teenagers like this, to stereotype us. But then again, it’s hard to fit into a particular stereotype unless you’ve tried. I remember talking to Ariel, prep extraordinaire, as she battled her preppy self: “No way! I’m not a prep!” Ariel has long, lightened hair, a tan, a pair of gleaming K-Swiss shoes, Weathervane jeans, and a shirt that says “Aruba.” “I know I have preppy friends, but I’m definitely not a prep.” And later, “I have nothing against punks, you know? I really like Good Charlotte. But why do they wear all that black? I don’t not like it. But why? Isn’t that really weird?” Ariel, dahhling, get over it. You’re a prep: it’s fine that you are, but when you deny it… you’re just setting yourself up to be the most hated person in the class.

I draw hearts with my breath on the glass of a broken, empty beer bottle I’ve picked up, and wonder who the most hated person in my class is. Last year it was a girl named Emily—a wrist-slitting, smoking, snorting, drinking whore. When her Mother came to collect her, take her home for her suspension, the lunch room clapped: “It’s an Emily-free zone” someone said, and although I pitied her, she was so toxic that it was hard to keep my hands from tapping along.

We’re all aligned with a brand, and a lunch table, because we are aligned with a clique. Every guidance counselor’s worst nightmare: the clique. Except that it’s not all that bad. There are two ends of the social spectrum: a clique-less paradise, and high school. There’s no in-between. But cliques make sense. They’re that built-in support system, so that most everyone has a set group of 10 friends. Seriously, that’s the size that cliques are at my school: 11 people per lunch table, with (maybe) some spilling over. Cliques may not be a great thing to reaffirm your individuality, but they’re the reason that most teenagers make it through high school alive.

When I think of the word “Clique,” I think of the sound of the tap of high heels on linoleum, the way that my 3rd grade vice principal sounded, in all her suited, over-gelled glory, did when she walked across the gym floor to talk to the gym teacher about something or other, usually someone who needs to Come See Her And Talk. No, not after class. She wanted you Now. There’s no telling what she was at school, but out of malice I want to think that she was that one clique-less misfit, who grew up into this plastic, anorexic 30-year-old sadist. Like a Barbie doll, click-click-clicking around the school and ruining self-esteem with Chicken Soup for the Soul leadership tips. It’s easy to place her, but I really do wonder what she was like when she was younger and if she’s as much of a witch at home as she was at school.

The crumbling wood of the dock is finally under my feet as I gaze out to the plain of ice. Pines shake their diamond coats of mist, and I am removed totally from my school. And for once in my life, I can’t place myself.

So place me. Now. Come on, place me. Am I as much of a witch at home as I am anywhere else? You’ve got what no one notices just looking: loyalty, honesty to a fault, pride, trustworthiness, attitude, maturity, spunk, creativity, and independence. You’ve got the marks of a rocker: my hair, AC/DC shirt, Converse All-Stars, pleated plaid skirt, lots of black. But the black also suggests Eurotrash as well. Then I seem like a prep: American Eagle sweatshirt, Weathervane jeans. There’s jock-me, in all that Adidas and a swim team sweatshirt. Then there’s the skater: My Vans and Volcom shirt. There’s (sadly) the hint of a ho: the microscopic shorts. But I don’t sit with any of these particular groups, these cliques, at lunch. I sit with my friends: we’re not particularly labeled, but we are a clique. I know I label people—honestly. But I’m sitting here and labeling myself as well. And I’m not denying any of it. Brand me.

frozen

2004-08-29T08:22:00.000-05:00

We are the death virgins, the death virgins
All those suicidal kids with knives,
that's just their libido

We are the life virgins, the life virgins
self help books and therapists, you keep looking for a meaning
but it's still just libido

Chorus:
We are virgins, virgins
We just want what we can't have
We just want what we don't have

We are the breath virgins, the breath virgins
windows carved by jack frost and your fingernail
that's just libido

We are the sun virgins, the sun virgins
paris hilton tans, roast yourself a golden brown
it's just your libido

Chorus

We are the love virgins, the love virgins
Emo kids, guitars & pens in hand
that's just our libido

We are the hate virgins, the hate virgins
that gun hidden in your pocket and the poem hidden in my head
it's just our libido

Chorus (x2)

Because we are frozen, frozen.....

Wow. confusion. But hey, i dissed paris hilton once and myself twice, it's got to count for something. I think i may have stretched this metaphor a bit too far. Anyone want to teach me how to read music? Because that would probably help with rhythm and such.

For You, Lisa

2004-08-29T00:15:00.000-05:00

You are a middle-aged woman, a wife and a mother,
a potter, a drinker, a painter, pothead.
New age, naive, bleach blonde, suburban, indelicate, flighty.
Even though you are still friendly, well-meaning, enthusiastic, generous, and
my aunt--

you are mostly someone I could never be.

Hey, You

2004-08-29T00:13:00.000-05:00

This is another quote, but this time from OperaBoy. Because my friends are just that cool. good advice, eh?

Hey, you:
spread the blanket
of happiness
over the mattress
of depression.

No Overnight Parking

2004-08-29T00:07:00.000-05:00

there is a gravel half moon,
where there was an extra bit of cliff, along the road, and a sign:
No Overnight Parking
but what it means really,
is something closer to
No, you may not sleep here together
smothered in oxygen as light as a nightingale's feathers
on this lucky piece of cliff, clinging to the mountainside,
and looking down to the valley clove open by these razored nighttime stars.

this seemed a lot stronger before i typed it up.

candy in smithereens

2004-08-28T14:42:00.000-05:00

just shoot me. alright? shoot me. apart from being a bad play on words, it sounds like a jingle for a sex shop.

This ring pop can be your wedding ring, Johnny
lemonade, apple, blue raspberry
but no, we should have checked before we gave the man our dollar (our dollar)
shards in this cellophane wrapper

candy smithereens, candy smithereens (x3)

Licking at your sucker, Janie
cherry, grape or strawberry
but with the shove of the wind and a stranger (a stranger)
it's shattered on the sidewalk

candy in smithereens, candy in smithereens
candy smithereens, candy smithereens (x2)

you're a rogue, a heartbreaker, Johnny
not Honey, not Sugar, today its' Candie
but all she did was like you (like you)
broken heart in a box of a body
candie's in smithereens, candie's in smithereens

candy smithereens, candy smithereens
candy in smithereens, candy in smithereens
Candie's in smithereens, Candie's in smithereens (x2)

If you read this, lucky. It will be gone in a few days.

The Missing

2004-08-28T14:39:00.000-05:00

It's not the missing
(you, and them)
that burns, and icicle through my insides,
but instead lacking
the words
to tell
you so.

so close

2004-08-14T16:46:00.000-05:00

say so,
if you've noticed:
how close a
dagger
comes to
a crucifix.

goodbye

2004-08-12T20:25:00.000-05:00

i'm going on a two week road trip with my family tomorrow. it will be murder-- but i'll be locked in a car with music, a pen, and notebook, and a sketchbook. so lots of poems. love you all.

dylan-- call me. my number is in the comments on your door co post.

proud

2004-08-08T11:46:00.000-05:00

'No, i'd rather not.' and 'yes, i'll try it.'
i think of how you're screamed and how you're struggled
and how with every word you say
your footsteps inch towards triumph.

this is short, and probably part of a larger poem. and, yes, someone is reading the blog right now. if you read, please, please, comment. I write for a) practice and b) critique. This is the first time I've ever felt like I'm writing something I'll look down on and laugh at later-- so please help. I'll never raise my writing up a notch if i don't care or are bashful about the whole thing.

<3 angie

i tried

2004-08-07T22:18:00.000-05:00

I tried to write something uplifting for you to read.
But instead, my melancholy hangs in the air,
a secret midnight full to bursting with silence.

Barbie

2004-08-07T22:09:00.000-05:00

(this is basically a quote from my friend jackie, alias Ms. Soccer. So almost total credits go to her.)

she's sort of
like a barbie.
you know,
how you can
twist
their heads off?

unsatisfied

2004-08-07T21:01:00.000-05:00

hey y'all. today is my 13th birthday! so snaps for me. also, my friend dylan started a poetry blog. it rocks.

this is my first attempt at lyrics, and i'm kind of embarassed to post it. it's definitely up for a name change, and probably up for major revisions. and no, i don't drink, aren't uberdepressed, and aren't a ho. actually, my mood is on a definite uptake.

I'm unsatisfied, oh, so unsatisfied
lift this food to my lips
shoot of taste like pins that prick
the carcass of the chocolate box
wrappers strewn across the floor like golden flocks

I'm unsatisfied, oh, so unsatisfied
life this drink to my mouth
a drop of lime, a drop of wine,
heavy bourbon from the south
ragged rib cages of broken bottles
jagged necks cutting through my grasp
while shards lacerate my throat,
materializing back as bloody gasps

I'm unsatisfied, oh, so unsatisfied.
oh, lift your molten eyes to mine
pull me in tights and kiss me slow

I'm still unsatisfied, oh, still so unsatisfied (x3)

anorexic eating

2004-08-05T10:44:00.000-05:00

your attention-- drawn away
from the white-wash walls
and the flourescent buzz-- focused
on this one morsel.
You are the
dead man
savoring another ride
and i am my
secret suicidal self
gasping
at your delight in breathing.
my throat,
corset-tight
and my eyes,
sunrise-wide.

(a/n: as y'all know, i am not suicidal.)

(untitled) revised

2004-08-02T22:28:00.000-05:00

a cloak of fire hair
hides you from
any gaze,
wet and limp from
a scorching shower.
please,
just for me,
shake it to the right.
i want to see
your eyes.

(a/n-- guess who this is about.)

Just Roy

2004-07-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

(Note to all: Just Roy is moving away to Nashville, which is great for him but not so great for us. This poem is for him, Just In Case You Didn't Get It By The Title.)

Just Roy:
A Simon And Garfunkel Shirt.
From an Actual Concert.
Just Roy:
Long Hair, and something to do with Estonia.
Just Roy:
So deeeep.
Just Roy:
Guitar and piano.
Just Roy:
Finding Forrester. Or Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Or School of Rock.
Just Roy:
Kind of cranky, and a bit of a pain in the ass, but we like you anyways.

The Lily and the Madman

2004-07-07T18:09:00.001-05:00

The Lily and the Madman

The copper leaves spill down from elms and oaks
Along the ungraded dirt and rocky road
The mad man is sweeping the path over
over and over again, all because
He can�t bear the idea of a dirty road.
There�s a violet sky right overhead
And the dusk of it serves to mute the leaves:
The color of them veiled in graying air,
The corroded leaves made tougher by cold.
An elm leaf flutters to my ebony hair,
and I finger-comb the crushed ruins out.

I clutch the sharp fragments in my closed palm,
and recall a time; he gave me a lily.
It rose from the stem, newfangled, ablaze.
The ivory hue of it cut across
my tanned skin like fire on water.
With a thousand hopes and fancy faiths
It was shackled to my bedside table.
Praised and noticed and vibrant and flagrant,
We were the unparalleled duo.
But he left. Boredom and the sea, he said,
When I asked him why through my net of tears.
I still kept the barren, withered lily,
Though crushed from my holding it may have been.
Every other hour, on the hour
Hold that milky lily close and safe, and
Pray the seatowns cough up their sailor prey.

The perfect cuts of copper fall from the elms,
And more of them blow away
I examine my lightly dented palm.
While my gaze goes in the leaf goes out,
The madman walks up the driveway to me
Done sweeping!, he says, beaming like a lamp.
I swallow and look at the flying leaves.
I�m done too, I tell him, and I mean it.

iambic pentameter

2004-07-07T18:09:00.000-05:00

I think
That iambic pentameter
Has shriveled
My brain.
Iambic pentameter is mighty useful,
Yes,
And Shakespeare was a helluva genius,
What with Romeo and Juliet and their sonnets,
But once you’re done writing in meter,
You have
Nothing
Else to say.

Episodes 1-4

2004-07-07T18:08:00.000-05:00

I never quite understood how James could do all that on just a bicycle.
Up and over the step, down and around my heart.
Run to catch and kiss him, and laugh at all his sprinting to the lake.
It was really just for all the competition; I stopped at his mother’s censure.
One morning his dad and mine urged James to run and catch me
And I hid underneath the cabinets, giggling and terrified. He didn’t get me.

Kasey was all from a distance. I didn’t know him well,
But what I remember is his curls— a honeyed halo.
A tall cherub with an anarchy sign on his jeans and a Ramones patch on his backpack.
I said one word to him: “Wisconsin.” He doesn’t remember me.

“Sleep is the closest thing to death,” it said on his hand,
and he’s always what I think of when I hear those words,
that deathly wan and slumbering Jerry on my futon in Chicago.
Thin as a blade of grass, he had to be steadied walking onto the metro.
We sat on the ill-formed plastic benches and I looked
as his grey eyes searched and he sketched (I assumed) all those passengers.
I never saw what he drew until the last day.
They were all of me.

I remember Loneliness the most.
He made my stomach ache with his presence,
As did my laughter in his absence.
In all of my relationships I had at least one dalliance with him.

Cobwebs

2004-07-07T18:06:00.000-05:00

Evie

Anyone would think that it’s cobwebs,
Evie’s swaying mane down to Evie’s waist
Braided into half-hearted plait
Around an ivory and wrinkled face.

Her skin, tulle fabric thin; lonely moon white.
Fragile as a transparent porcelain vase.
Little tiny bones and breakable limbs,
deflated shoulders cloaked in stained lace.

Evie’s eyes are infernos of amber
Burning through the humid, nighttime hallway.
Her garden’s moonflowers bloom and brighten.
And with her every step the cobwebs sway.

Gone.

2004-06-25T17:26:00.000-05:00

Hey there. My internet connection has gone to the dogs and I'm currently at Cate's house. Anyway, I'll also be gone to camp in two days, for three weeks. We have minimal internet access there, and I think that the everyday blog will be the priority.

So see y'all.

there/and

2004-06-18T22:04:00.000-05:00

there's grease on my fingers
and pins in my hair
rock on my stereo
and rockaway beach in my head
i did the laundry today
and haven't been paid
there's a yawn in my throat
and fatigue in my shoulders
there's plastic rings on my wrists
and a silver band on my hand
there's lemon in my mouth
and a shadow on the wall
there's my cousin in alaska
and my friend in loveland
and then there is no one,
who is no where at all.

Chills

2004-06-18T10:51:00.000-05:00

you were sitting on the park bench
and the leaves were blowing round and round
around you
a whirlwind gateway to another place
to get you away from here
all i want for you is
to be free
and no matter how much pain
it puts me through
just go
because knowing that's you're here
and miserable, is worse
than knowing that you're gone and feeling lovely
because i would sacrafice my happiness for you
any day
whoever you are.

seizing up

2004-06-17T12:37:00.000-05:00

do you remember?
from when the snow fell
on our leather shoes,
ruined and shining because
they'd gotten wet

and the way that the air smelled
sharp and cutting
and wonderful and fresh and new

and the snow that reflected the
clear winter light
back at you until
you started sun-sneezing?

it's not always
that there's air that fresh
or toes that frozen
or light that bright
or a cheerful chill
and you
next to me.

new and yet to be improved

2004-06-17T12:29:00.000-05:00

hey there. Evidently, this is the first blog post. As of yet, this is a poetry blog, written by me, Angie. I also keep an everyday blog. So come along and enjoy the writing fun. Yeah.