March 1st 2002 Love is never pure. Love comes squeezed and filtered from your murky, messy heart. Love is the sticky residue of all your life's triumphs and failures. Love is the dark stuff that hides at the bottom of the pond, but mysteriously keeps rising to the surface. Love is never clean, never a straight road to go down with a safe and certain destination. Love is hills, and bumps, and curves, and broken-down cars, and big yellow signs that say "Caution." But you keep going anyway. Love is never easy. Love is two imperfect beings trying to be one perfect whole. Love is never quite what you expected. Love is the failed experiment of a mad scientist, who thankfully had a sense of humor. Love is the drug that we're all junkies for, sold cheap and dirty on the corner. We're all just passing our broken, grimey hearts around, hoping desperately for them not to be dropped again this time. For some sweet being to clean us and bandage us, and then send us out to get broken all over again. But we really don't care, because Love is the sheer ecstasy of waking up in the morning next to a person, and realizing that just to be right here with them, you'd go through it all over again. Love is when you're a puzzle. Love is when you can laugh at the missing pieces, and marvel at the ones that fit together perfectly. This is Love, and Love is fine by me. 2/12/02 I'd like to make you my secret sun, milky yellow and warm in the mornings. I'd like the flowers along the path to look up into your face, and smile, blue and yellow and magenta. I wish I were a simple person, I wish I laughed only when I meant it, I wish I could trust as easily as I smile. I wish you didn't sing tight as a broken vase, gathering the shards of yourself around you, fighting me off with your sharpness, while on the inside, you're hollow, and dark, and longing to be filled. I'd like to make you my secret sun. I'd like to be your snake charmer, the one you dance for, the one who guards your secrets from the cold, hard rocks of the world. Nonsense on the Rhubarb Cow Express 10/15/01 Each broken glass grass blade silvered at the touch of her broken wood word. I extolled my virtues knowingly as I pieced together his most alabaster lips, and dabbled gooily in time with my twitchingly luscious fingers and hands. Sun sometimes is red like a rose. Why is love red too? Asked the small mouse, filling her hole with air and the seas of stars. "Let's go on forever," the cowboy spoke like a fragment of the night to his horse. And the horse was already away, grazing the star pastures with her delicate tears. I opened the peach door, and was surprised most admirably to behold a tiny, white mouse whiskering quietly on the doorstep. I've said no to fear before, but never to a mouse, so I took dictation from her snubby pink nose, and offered her a jelly biscuit. His voice is a deadpan song, sung low and falsely operatic across from the California night. I twitch at the end of the phone cord to hear it, phone chords, fish at the end of a string. "A blessing takes many disguises, and leads to many skyliner ruins." The nymph told me graciously, pouring lily tea and basking softly in her own luminosity. Feel free to puddle dive, but be sure to scrape those moonbeams off your shoes before you come inside, and Heaven help us, but get those great big stars out of your eyes before your father sees you! This is what my pen has said, all written down by me on our long journey through Nevada's underwear, sighing at trucks, and stopping to mourn at old diners, where we flush and tear up for the waitresses. The waitresses are fat, and sour, and curled around the edges. They look at our accents funny, but other than that, they leave us to our flyspeck and window-gazing contemplation. 2/6/02 Every goddess has a right to cry. Every goddess has a right to wear old sloppy gray pajama pants, and not wash her face in the morning. Every goddess has a right to make monkey faces in the mirror, and sing along to cheesy songs on the radio, while driving on the highway that seems to go on and on, endlessly. Through corn fields and little towns, and the goddess doesn't know she's immortal, she doesn't know that she's beautiful and will live forever. She looks in the rear view mirror at the circles under her eyes, and thinks "Another hard night, and I just look more tired every day." Another town rolls by, just like the last one, blue sky and grain elevators, a boy in a red pickup at the stoplight who stares at her, and she thinks it must be because she didn't put on makeup today, and she looks as dry and gray as the dirt road. Every goddess has a right to her own self-worth. She sees a billboard along the roadside, plastic-smooth woman, half-naked body posing rigidly for the passers by, her painted eyes cold and haunted. The goddess doesn't even know what the woman's body is selling, it could be anything, cigarettes or life insurance... it doesn't seem to matter. And the goddess feels empty, as though it's her body up there, cold and naked and selling something. And something inside her hurts suddenly, but she just shakes her head and goes back to watching the road. Every goddess has a right to be angry. She thinks about all the things she's never had, and always wanted. All the things she's always had but never wanted. She thinks about love as the stars come out, and sometimes love seems to be the only thing that's holding her together, whether it's missing, or whether it's right under her nose. Sometimes she thinks her life would be better spent if someone else lived it for her. Sometimes she thinks she'd be happy if she just had you. Every goddess has a right to dream. Every goddess has a right to love. Every goddess has a right to wake up one morning and finally realize who she is after all this long, hard time. This goddess is you. 1/17/02 Lips brushing. Flashback. Sunlight sunstruck lover's eyes. Upside down smile, I lay with my head in his lap, absorbing the butterflies that flew between us with a thrill. I think we talked about kissing before it happened. I know I offered up some caveat, but then kissed him anyway. Spread along the sidewalk, I was oblivious to the radio blasting across the street. I was sweetly blind to the gaggle of frumpy businesswomen passing by, their eyes carefully averted. There was only the sunlight and his head haloed against it. He protected me from UV rays and blindness, but he himself got the blindness in return. (from the poetry marathon at Marina's house, 1/14/02) Talk is a way to warm up for the big game. Talk has plastered us together across these miles when there was nothing ot hold us together at all. But now talk has screwed us over and left us in awkward silence, groping for something untouched, something meaningful, something profound enough to free our minds across this new barrier of a few inches, which now seems more vast than when I talked to you from across a thousand miles. * A learned terror is reaching out, prying open your soul, and saying the first thing that comes into your mind, and then explaining. I'm not good at explaining, much less telling. How can I trust you when I don't trust myself? How can we be this close yet have nothing to say? I am a slave for perfection. Everything that happens to me I pick apart at the seams, sighing at my lack of skill. I see how much everything could improve, instead of worshipping the miracle or what I have already attained. * I like this slow walk now, arm in arm. The sun shines hot and balmy like the summer where I come from, and I pick flowers growing bright and tantalizing from the yards we pass, and tuck them behind your ear, right for single, left for taken, laughing unsurely and looking out softly from underneath eyelashes. I bitch to you about everything and I know you wish I didn't have to talk out everything I feel. But I am a writer, and language is my tool, the key to my survival. Everytime someone passes us, they look, their heads spinning around like daisies, nodding in the breeze. At first it seems like coincedence, and then it's not, and we whisper and laugh, and you say it's because I'm gorgeous, and I stare at you, and then into the onlookers eyes, and smile. * The cool night air wrapped around my bare, dirty feet like a blanket, and as we sat on the curb, looking like bums, I realized how different we were, and yet how much the same. There was something of danger in how close we sat. There was tempation in every careful breath. The silence stretched clear as midnight, and you seemed so attainable that I was almost frightened into speech. * Ask them sometime. Sometime when the only sound you can hear is breathing, and the night is dark and cold, and you have ceased to believe in human decency and true love, or any love at all for that matter. Ask them why they do it? Ask them what they get, because all I ever get is pain, And all I ever want is more, when everyone else is contented with so much less. * You are in my poems. Bitter and silent-eyed, silence seems safer than speech, but words unsaid claw their way around my heart and gibber behind my eardrums at night. You are in my poems, but I am so scared to let you into my heart. There is only today, I am told. "Live as though you'll die tomorrow." But I never die tomorrow, I always have to face that which I've shoved away, that which I've done emboldened, and sorrowed for in the morning. * I wanted to hear her secrets there in the lamplight. I wanted her to trust me and quit being an unreadable book. She has so much and says so little, and always tries and never quits, but it's too much sometimes, and there are only so many ways you can tell the truth. I am confident to so many, but really trust so few. I wish you knew that not everyone was going to jump to spiney conclusions about you. I wish that you didn't always question it when people asked you how you really are. * I can hear roaring from somewhere inside of me. Somewhere dark and disheveled and unknown. I am trying with every ounce I have, but trying towards what, I do not know. Looking into your eyes is not enough. Pretending I am free is getting harder all the time. Feeling incomplete is becoming more of a reality every day, and I wish I could just snap out of it, and make you snap with me. There is something there behind the things we won't say. We're both so scared, and won't speak to save our souls. * I am just waiting for peace. I am just waiting for something to feel right. And it feels more right than it's ever felt before. I can't believe it's going to end. I can't even believe it ever started. And now I can't believe that you're going away with no tears. How easy is it? How much do you want to leave me? I'm jealous for nothing and everything, and I wish that by kissing you, I could make everything all right. * I want belief more than anything. I want to know that when I go back home my life won't scream wrenchingly and die. I want belief in True Love, though I've never experienced it, how do you know if you have anyway? There's something I need to tell you, tell you before you go, but I don't know what it is, grasping around and only getting awkward silence. And you don't say anything at all. So when the train pulls away, I am left with something unexplainable and craving, crying doubts and confusion, even though I know I've done the best I can. But is that ever enough? 12/28/01 Being argumentitive and dumb together we seem to regress to little children, screaming just to make the other one scream. When I'm around you, it seems like I can't think straight, all I want to do is chase you around with thinly veiled insults on my lips. But isn't that what flirting's all about? Oh but when are you gonna see me for who I am? What's all this waiting for, where's all this waiting going to get us in the end? I wish on dandelions behind lowered eyelids, worried you'll see my wish shining in my eyes and break my heart with your laughter before the white seeds have flown on the wind. I'm so afraid I'll overstep my boundries one day, say something I never meant and shove you away where I never wanted you to go. I think I see you softening today, I think I see a chink in your armor, a soft, downy spot, longing to be seen, longing to be touched. But then you slam shut the door on your weakness, spit insults at me, and I spit them back, and hide my tears of frustration behind inflicting more pain. I long for trust. I long for just one poppy in this field of fucking dandelions. (Grandad) 12/28/2001 Clattering false teeth, escaping love and racism fleets from his gaping mouth like insults. Those genes sing songs in my veins. How am I supposed to know him when he doesn't even know himself? His good linen shirt, status bought for him with American wages red white and blue, it stretches tight over his cancerous American belly. His own body is defeating him. Old comrade, old chum. My Grandfather has cancer. I should feel something greater than this tenacious sighing, but I am only numb. He feeds the birds like a little child, shoots the squirrels, and must be humored always. He kisses my cheek goodbye with soft sandpaper lips, the wail of waiting hanging in the air like an omen, and I wonder if this will be the last time I'll ever see him whole. Friday Night Portrait of a Girl 12/14/01 Her freshly washed hair smells like candy. It's Friday night and the TV is on, but nobody's watching it, and she's sitting alone and doesn't have anywhere to go. Sometimes people ask her to do things with them, go places. She imagines it, and then says no, sorry, but she has other plans. She can see the sweaty bowling alley swimming before her eyes. She can see the bright, fake, depressed people talking about nothing, and pretending to be having a good time. Or maybe they really are having a good time, she can never tell. But she would rather stay in her house, lying on her bed reading, or wandering aimlessly through the rooms, feeling hollow inside, but dreaming of conversations that mean something, people that smile with their eyes as well as their teeth, boys who look past her breasts. She wants out of this barless cell. If she were in prison, with padlocks and iron bars and florescent lights hot and white on her clammy skin, that would be different, it would be easier than this. She would find some way to escape, chisel through the bars and sneak stealthilly past the guards. But how do you escape if you're already free? She could walk out the door of her house and just keep going, never look back. But she couldn't do that. Could she? So she lets the answering machine get the telephone when it rings, listens to the stiff messages people leave in muted, garbled voices. She lies on her bed, perfectly still, looking up at the pastel glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on her ceiling and wondering when she will get out of this life and begin to really live. Romantic Hero Winter passion I'm your romantic hero, riding in to save you just in time, from the sunset. You're a sinner you're a saint, angel in the cloud colored morning and devil in the dewy fires of night. Remember how all summer long we listened to that one stupid song over and over again til we laughed and hated it? That's a little how it is now, my Romeo, riding in too late to help me. And the flowers on the ground stop you like a chain link fence, so you can just lace your fingers through the metal diamonds of petals, and "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" are the drowning words that escape your lips. But they're not an apology, they're a plea for forgiveness that I won't give. Oh winter passion wearing socks at night, romantic hero, find out what comes after the sunset. Sift all the glitter out of your eyes so that you can see a little of me. Identical People 11/18/01 Squashed together, milling groups, they scare me, the hard looks in their eyes, the candy colored clothes, the carefully manicured hair, the brand names. Welcome to America. Where did individuality go? For all that their brand names promote it, promise it, boast of it tantalizingly, it seems to be something they've spent years carefully rooting out of their minds and bodies. Yearning and straining and repressing and spending and conforming until they look like plants of corn, identical and stiff and surrounded by other plants of corn just like them, encased by their own kind, but eerily alone. Sometimes I envy them. I slip through their midst ducking my head, looking out from under my eyelashes, dreading and longing for their gaze, making up stories about them. But usually I just convince myself that they're aliens, and we were born in different universes. Tough 11/27/01 She called me tough and I think about it as I freeze my fingers off hanging up wash outside. And I glow bright as a firecracker in the winter's gloomy light. I've never been called tough. The word brings to mind squinted eyes, a sexy jaw, and a black leather jacket, fists ready to fly with perfect aim, wit you can break your knuckles against, and a sweet and sour heart hidden deep underneath your tight white shirt. I have always wanted to be tough. But instead I have always been dubbed "sweet." Sometimes that word just makes me want to puke. I have always felt, in a secret place down by my bellybutton, that being only "sweet" must be worse than death. I am itching, burning, to fill larger shoes than Sweet's pink patent leather pumps. I am yearning to be James Dean, just a little bit, though it doesn't show in my face, does it? Oh how I long to spit precisely, and play pool in rowdy bars with cool hands and softly jaded eyes. But I'm bad at pool. I look terrible in black leather jackets, and my face just seems to radiate kindness for my fellow humans. But maybe somewhere, under my smile and sweetness and soft touch and big eyes and sometimes-timid voice, somewhere beneath my skin, beneath my conditioning, beneath my pink patent leather pumps, there is a tough tough woman, just waiting to jump out of the bushes and kick your sorry ass. Girl At The Bottom Of The Glass 11/19/01 Girl at the bottom of the glass. She's waiting, sylph-like. She mesmerizes me in an instant. Her flesh deep blue, her watery skin so dark and clear like a moonless night, her eyes like lost stars, cold and shining with watery light. Her mouth sucks in luquid as mine does, but who is this my drowned alter-ego. She waits for me, nodding, eyes deep and cynical, untroubled by my troubles. I know the boys are crazy for her. Her eyes say "this is what you could be" Her black hair blends with the water. I am terrified of her, siren call. From the depths of the well I see myself. Here is the other voice I hear in my head, come to life. She whispers and stares at me with my eyes. Drowned at the bottom of the glass she is my nightmares, she is my dreams, calling through starlight sadly every time I take a sip. 10/11/01 Inspiration tea was served that day. Nicole ladeled it out in her solomn-eyed way, tiny braids dangling. The masses came shuffling with smiles or lost eyes or runny noses, and drank. On the battered, lovestruck old couches, where couples have cuddled and loners have mourned, we drank. The steam perfumed our noses and misted over our eyes, making everyone we saw a little warmer, making their icy boundries less distinct. 10/10/01 Corduroy questions ran across my mind, as he kissed me. In my fire lined gut I knew it wasn't right, but his pearl-cool words carressed the spot tenderly, so how could I listen to my own shallow puddle of reason? I don't think I ever quite swooned before. But I swooned under him. We didn't get very far. The night was a pool of secrets, held just beneath my skin. I knew if I kissed him again, the sweet little whispers would end, and the regret monster would begin. Winter 10/10/01 In winter I give up on honey. I make prayers to the snowflakes on my windowsill, and the black frosted night turns my cheeks to apples and my nose to a cherry. In the late afternoon, when the clouds curl up over the white frosted fields like gray cats, I make tea and watch as the steam rises up clouding my eyes with winter. 9/23/01 Held his beautiful-thin body on the couch, held his soft-thin hands with their long, sensitive nails. Mumbled little things into his short fuzzy hair, watched his eyes like puddles of rain after a storm. Listened to his funny scratchy monkey voice, sweet little monkey voice. Knew he was flirting with me. Knew it was special. Knew I loved him. Waited for him to leave. Knew he was going to leave. Didn't hang on too tight, didn't squeeze too hard, didn't bury my face into his sweet, lost neck because I knew it would only hurt harder when he was gone. Sighed. Then he left.
-Random- 8/10/01 Say the words Like dust and broken flesh. Wet sounds emerging like new teeth under the belly of time. Groan, what a headache makes me say strange passages and sigh without meaning. To hold him Sun-Boy... long lashes stroke his elfish cheeks, tossled blond hair that I'll never never touch. I walk up the hill like a slave. But then I am a slave after all, to society aren't we all? You wouldn't talk and you wouldn't drink and you wouldn't really do anything except sit around and think about how not to act stupid. What a waste of life. I'm not throwing my kisses away anymore, but they're not going stagnant either. They're growing rampant like roses in a hidden garden. I am a moon child in an everyday world of dust and clay and mesmerizing sunsets. To be held is everything I want and scary fluttering dying heart beat, but to hold is even more terrifying. Hold me anyway and we'll defy them all. 7/29/01 Slip away like water Hate like bubble gum Sticky, surrial, how can this be happening? I hate myself more than was ever fathomable. Is it the melodrama that grabs me down Or something more real? Suicide never seemed more imminent than tonight, Even though I would NEVER GIVE IT UP I tell myself. But what do you do on a night like this? A night that laughs at reason And mocks you til it's finished you off. I live not for dramatic effect, I tell myself. But when my world crumbles suddenly, And leaves room only for hate, I succumb without question Without answer. Only to be understood in a freak moment of insight, I'd give so much for that. Though no one will understand. I'll die for naught and out of naught and naught become. Tell me why I die without reason. And at the bottom of the well is just more or the same. No one will understand. No one will understand. If I can't understand, how can they? Dragon Lady (for Marina) 7/21/01 Good lady, fire tongued With jeweled scales. Musical laugh, Bright into the lairs Of all the sleeping dragons, Awake. Hark to her subtle fingers, To her innocence and knoledge. Hark to her long, thick hair And to her dagger bright. They call her the Dragon Lady, For she stands by the sides of them, Feeling the fire of their passion, Letting the plumes of smoke spiral From their nostrils and twine in her hair, And how their wings reach To touch the stars in full and glorious flight. She throws back her head And climbs on their backs, Shining armour that does not Hurt this girl. And away she goes, And she will keep them safe From Harm. And they Harm will keep safe From her. The people far below her gasp In awe and admiration, And a lone young man with Dark fire in his eyes Breaks from the crowd And stands to see her fly. And she laughs like bells and Dragon-fire, her hair blowing wild, And is gone. Gone to save princes And re-write fairy tales. Toothfairy (for Roya) 6/12/01 She looks at people's teeth, she says. She knows you by your teeth. Eyes are a different story, eyes are a dime a dozen But oh! Is she a sucker for a nice set of teeth. I wonder if she saw only my teeth, if she'd still know it was me. I wonder if she'd date a guy with braces. I wonder "when did this whole thing with teeth start?" and "what can you tell about a man by his teeth?" She could be a toothfairy, Warm, bubbly-eyed girl with the sable hair and the melodic, warm-chocolate syrup voice, the small, white teeth in the dazzling fairy smile. I imagine her with a long silver plastic wand with a glow-in-the-dark glitter star perched high atop it. She could visit the homes of eligible bachelors and inspect their teeth silently and in the dead of night, and if they were worthy, slip a soft, glowing kiss to their lips and then depart with a shower of fairy dust, out the window. AHHHHHHHHH becky i love you!!!! you you you GORGEOUS, DARLING, FANTASMIC GIRL! how do you KNOW? how do you read my fairy tale like that? how do you do it? how do you know exactly what i want? oh god becky.
that made tears spring up in my eyes.
i love you!!!!!!!!!! 6/6/01 A hard, gritty laquer, the day sits softly, like thunder clouds, over the city. She walks, her round bottom moving with her strides, a toss like waves. Her head is up, satin gold coiffed hair. She's too young, but there's a fairy child in a wagon behind. His eyes are wells and who knows what they'll see before he's grown. Shaggy blond hair, and eyes that make you want him; scared, old, young eyes, clutching an apple in his hand. Sad, indifferent, beauty girl mother. Wasted adolescence, going her way in the clouds and sparrows. On Finding Prince Charming 6/4/01 All these people in love. It gives me a feeling deeper than weeping. It makes me yearn with something more powerful than pain. I seem to take sweet pleasure in forms of torture: I read fairytales. Nothing, let me tell you, /nothing/ is worse than reading those wonderful, powerful, sexy stories when you're dying of an unfufilled heartache. I dream of him. Mr. Right. Who the fuck is he though, and /where?/ Spit it out, oh /where/. I need him, /oh/ I need him so. I study boys endlesly, and my feelings for strangers boarder on a lust that is so all-consuming that it's terrifying. I lust after bodies, hands, chests, warmth. Hair. Skin. Lips. A face. But most of all, for True Love. That's right, capital T, capital L. It's gotta exist outside the fairytales. It's gotta exist in this world of flesh and blood and astounding boredom and midwestern accents. I want him. I'm scared of what might happen to me if I go much longer without having him. This lust, this yearning and rose-petaled tenderness, This cannot be a freak occourence, this cannot just be /me/. Oh God, let it not be just me. He'll come through my window one night, And in the morning, there he'll be, asleep like a baby, Curled on my floor. Tatoos vining along his arms, not of lewd pictures or vulger words, but of flowers and symbols and vines. His lips will be parted like a rose fresh from the dew, and I will stare quietly as the morning breeze blows through my open window, and the sun whispers over his perfect, naked flesh. Then he'll awake, all sleepy chestnut eyes and tossled dark hair. And the rest my dear, is history. Check it out 10 years from now at your local library. Or you might want to give us a bit more time to get things to the Happilly Ever After stage. You know I'm not the type to settle down too fast, even if he /is/ Mr. Right. Pass my notebook, will you Charming dear? I need to start writing our story. The Shower Poem 5-28-01 I close my eyes. I want to snuggle closer to the warmth of the shower, confuse my being with the beam of warm water, the droplets singing a rhythm to my wet, slick skin, my naked shining white body, a pearl in the oyster of the covetous shower. The water envelopes me now and I sing, my voice echoing around the tiny cubical of steam, of slick white plastic paradise. Everyone sings better in the shower. I've heard it before and it's true. With no judges, no inhibitions, no expectant faces, just me and the shower nozzle, I let my voie throng and pulse and warble out the feelings in my body. The soap is a jewel in my hand, a magical soft stone with cleansing powers. It foams as I lather my long, sleek back, my arms, legs, breasts and each individual toe. This is a time of silent communion with my body. Quietly spending time with the stripped down, naked truth of me, the freckles and curves and bumps and hairs. And just accepting that this is who I am. The shampoo is as sweet as a flower in my cupped pruney hand. My feet slip along the shower mat like fish as I reach to put the bottle back on the shelf, then rub and rub the gooey, beautiful stuff into my soaking hair, revelling in it's squelch and softness. Rinsed clean as a daisy in the pouring rain, steam-fresh, warm and sparkling, I part the white curtains, their plastic clips whispering along the shower rod, announcing my entrance to the world. Clouds of hot, sweet-tinged steam roll along before me, irrevocably fogging the mirror and windows, dampening the walls and floor. The cold outside air hits my pale, exposed new skin and I bend and clutch the towels to me, comforting terrycloth, frayed edges and faded colors. I wrap them around myself, tuck in the edges, make myself a high turban, one fit for a rajah. Then I wipe a space of mirror clean and stare at my reflection, wet and hopeful and clean. Then I gather my strewn clothes, unlock the door, and saunter out to meet the world. 4/5/01 Deep-edged dissatisfaction rides my back like a sharp-toed broncobuster. I'm trying so hard just to be around you, but you're such a stupid jerk, grabbing what isn't yours and making me pay. I'm just so sick of you. Why don’t' you go ride off into the sunset already, with her by your side? Dusky oranges and reds overwhelming your outlines, your arms already tangled around each other. You're a fucking fairytale couple, so kiss, murmur sweet nothings, I'll hate you whether you do or not. I fantasize guiltily about her dumping you, hurting you, casting you aside as you cast aside me. I dream of discord for your future, then smother my fantasies, hoping that they'll die with lack of oxygen. I really don't know what I want, to tell you the smoldering, black-edged truth. I don't want you. I really don't. Somehow, you're just out of my league, or I'm out of yours. Star-crossed lovers who never loved each other anyway. So bury the pain under a mound of fragrant earth and newly dead leaves in your back yard, and hope that just like that Barbie doll that you buried all those years ago, when you go to check for it later, it will have disappeared. Any comments? thoughts? Everything you have to say would be of interest. ~Becky~ (about the one written on 4/5) That one has so much power behind it. I'm still blown away every time I read it. And I've read it dozens of times. Becky, will you please post more on here? please? I miss reading new Becky poems. oh god becky, it seems like every time i think i love you the most i could love you, you do something else amazing and spectacular and lovable. ;) i love your writing... especially 'State of Perpetual Confusion' 'Long Distance Friends' and 'Santa Barbara'. All your pieces have such a wonderful rhythm, and are understandable while still being poetic. Keep writing! And keep posting things here so I can read them! becky becky becky my darling destined... i think one of the best things about your writing is that when i read it i can HEAR your voice, past the text, past the black and white is Becky's amazing colorful rich and layered voice. I came here to be inspired and boy was I. Hurrah for Becky. Everything you write - no matter how short it is, (maybe especially the real short ones) seems to stab into my heart, or something far inside of me, and cling. That's a gift girl. Keep it up.
Wow, Becky. Your writing inspires. It's amazing to me that you can put that much of what you feel up there on a page that everyone can see. 'A Plant of Slow Growth,' especially, speaks so clearly and deeply to me. Thank you. -Mitchell Thank you so much you guys! Hearing what you say about my writing makes me feel so, so happy, and completely inspires me! I love you guys so much. ~Becky~ I love vynle city even though i can't spell it. just that title brings an image to mind, and the entire piece is a... sensory experience. you make us practically breathe it. hey if anyone ever writes my biography, i think i want it to be you. ;)
love from your destined,
Becky- I love your writings- especially Standing in the Dark. (What is it about Quakers and Unschoolers, anyway? I hate to insult everyone else, but us Quaker Unshoolers must be the coolest people around, since Quakers and Unschoolers are such awsome people even if they're only one of those things.) [/&~} -Lorin
the prince charming one makes me swoon. you are the most amazing heart/soul/mind reader. i think i want you to write a fairytale for me, while you're at it. I feel like so many of your poems are just the places I have been, especially the "Live as though you'll die tomorrow" poem. That...rocks. Your poetry is beautiful, Becky. Never stop writing. -mike NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 90 times, last edited on March 5, 2002 by becky@nbtsc.org. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
