There were days

There were days where you meant the world to me. When things were so simple, and the sun felt just warm enough to kiss my skin and leave me with it's essence for days. I'd lay there, on top of the parking garage, as the sun was setting, and remember the swift sound of the fishing line whip across and drift into the water. I'd see your face, smut with dirt that rubbed off your long fingers, and left memories in your pores. I'd sweat those days for months.

It was just you and me. Until it wasn't.

maybe we were in love, but could never admit it. There was just enough baggage to pretend there was none at all. Like we sacrificed it all to be who we were together, but not enough to admit we wanted to be...us.

I never knew what to call what we had. So I just left it at that and defined it by the coyotes, the long hikes, and alternative rock. I could never read your eyes. Green and broken. The fragmented refractions pleading me to piece them back together. The nights I promised not to leave.

The night I did, and didn't turn back.

Like apparitions in lost museums, you come back from time to time. Remind me of who I was, and who I am. It's like you're the farthest away, but always right there. Like maybe you'll never go away.

Like maybe you were never gone.

But I'm hoping you're finding yourself. Somewhere out there. Finding that missing piece that was lost between the floorboards, or in between your eyes. I hope you realize that you had it in you all along to be whatever you wanted to be. And know that I've let you go, but love you still in every sunset.

seeping lust

Those eyes

a mild dynasty

of destructive lust.

Pulsing through

electric veins

rushing warm.

pooling-

like warm bath water

settling in a naked navel.

--

Don't get up too fast.

I can feel you seeping through my

thin cotton shirt.

an oil painting

translucent

and free.

--

your lips are poetry against ears

and feed me lies on lips to chin.

its magical the way the movements stir

my shifting thighs and grasping hands.

a velvet tongue

that tastes of summer nectarine

and permeates through daytime dreams.

Finding yourself

Finding yourself in puddles scattered on the side walks to where you want to be

reflections ablurr hard to see the truth when memories stand strong

and in front of you

tapping on the glass of idealism dreams of desert sunrises and scorpian cold nights

i found you in my dreams the old me or maybe one thats not quite done.

we're all

And then I realized, we're all Angels, and Devils, and the girl down the street with the retainer. We're black, white, tall, skinny, whatever. We're all self-conscious. Never good enough, cocky, weird. We're the pretty girl who wasn't asked to prom, and the girl who got knocked up.

The truth is, we don't know who we are, but we are all of these things.

We want more.

We want out of here!

We want love

and we hate...

who we are- our lives, our houses, our jobs, our bills

We hate that we are nothing more

that we havent reached our dreams

or even realized them.

We are every little hurricane, every burst of joy, an exclamation point- the passing of a joint.

We bath in cliche, prick each of our fingers on every thorn we meet

and yet...

we all come out of it alive, or not.

its a simple equation. The first breath plus, minus the first kiss, times the last heartbreak, all divided by ambivalence, grief, hope, dreams, money, and persistence, equals death.

in the end, we all are one with the grass.

Awesome Life

My boyfriend seems to think that living in New York City and working in an office job, and riding through Central Park every day would be an Awesome Life. He seems to think that in the meantime, I could write a best-selling novel and we would become rich and famous and they would make movies about the book and lead us into stardom...

In the meantime, I can't seem to keep my eyes open.

It is as if a tiny creature in my head is forcing the blinds closed- deteremined to get one more hour of sleep. The curtains keep falling, but I pull them back up- insisting that my monitors are more important and that the artificial sunlight on my head is warm and appealing. I trick myself into thinking this office is a palace and that my job is meaningful, and that my pay is not solely going into a fund to free me from my slavery to Sally Mae.

It's days like this where I realize, all over again, for the fifth time this month, that I just need to get out. To go where the sun shines more brightly, and less artificially. A place where I am surrounded by more fruit-bearing trees and less vending machines. Perhaps a place of happiness.

The typical human in 2012 would then argue that that simply does not exist.We are pesimists; no. Realists. We call ourselves honest and say that "The grass is always greener." Yet, we drag our asses out of our 95 Ford Escorts, up the dingy stairs of our parking garages, and into the drab, tan colored cubes we call home for over forty hours a week, to stare blankly, and complain about how we hate our jobs.

Wouldn't it be a better choice to explore? What's the worst that can happen? Maybe we run out of money. Maybe we lose our job. But isn't there more out there?

BE PRACTICAL!

...no!

It's all bigger than that. we are only specs.

saved

And maybe one day we'll all be saved.

All be able to live our lives the way our dreams tell us too

like whispers for children.

Maybe we'll fly.

or travel to countries where music is language

and rice is religion

and Peace, our pastel.

Maybe there's more.

But maybe its right in front of you.

the light in your eyes when you're driving to work.

The monotone hum of the radiator.

Maybe that's it.

Perspective is everything.

The way you brush your hair

or dot your i's.

the choices you make.

It's a matter of life and living.

We're all going to the same place

in the end

we are all alone

and all as one.

we're saved.

Bye Beast

It was coming home that felt the best.

The sound of her short and electric snorts mixed with the tap-dancing of her paws towards the door always brought me to a place of pure childhood. A place where there were no bills to pay, or jobs to hold- it was a place for a girl and her dog.

Zoe wasn't the kind of dog I had grown up with. Before her, there was Tasha, A large and calm German Sheppard. She had loved me in the way a grandmother loved the newborn that gave her that title. I would lay with her, on a fur-laden dog bed and wrap my small arms around her mane. I remember the way she smelled- like autumn and hay. It was comforting to look into her large, dark eyes, and there were many nights that I cried myself to sleep with her, because she was the one who understood.

My pup before her- my very first dog- was Fritz, a German Short-Haired Pointer. I remember that he was fast. He had a sharp, whiplike tail, and his hair was short and flat against his skin. Fritz liked to escape and roam the neighborhood, searching for squirrels, I'd imagine. We had a large, chain-link-fenced dog yard in the back for him, with a door that latched open and shut.

I remember having to lure him back into the yard with a trail of sliced bologna. He was always a sucker for deli-meat. It was like winning a gold metal in the Olympics when I had gotten him completely into the gate with me. There was a lot of jumping and shouting- if you could imagine a demin-clad, sparkled-stretch pants, 7 year old with light up shoes doing such a thing.

But Zoe was much different. She was small, and not German at all. I was 15 years old when we went to some lady's house and saw her for the first time. The tiniest Boston Terrier I had ever seen. I had sat on the foreign kitchen floor, criss-cross style, and plopped the small pup inbetween my legs. She cosied herself and looked up at me- her eyes, the biggest feature on her body.

I always adored animals, and constantly wanted to take in strays, so having an outdoor cat was the norm. When we first got Zoe, my cat Meow-Mix was not a fan. Although MM hardly came inside, he did from time to time, and it was my responsibility to watch and make sure they didn't fight.

I remember being downstairs one time, and MM swatting Zoe across the face. I yelled at him, and shoed him out of the house, instantly rushing toward Zoe to make sure she was okay. Her protruding eye had been sliced by Meow, and I knew it was bad. We had to put eye drops in her eyes multiple times a day and throughout the night. She healed, but there was always a scar to remind me of how I had been neglegant. I tried to love Zoe a hundred times better after that.

Zoe slept with me at home. She would borrow herself under the covers and sleep between my legs, or if I was in a fetal-position, behind my knees. She was a wonderful movie companion, because she never asked questions about what was going on througout the movie- though she would often fall asleep mid-way.

Zoe passed away from sudden liver failure at the age of eight. We barely had enough time to say goodbye, or realize what had gone wrong. Her snort. The way she danced on her hind legs to recieve a cookie, and her small but veracious and persistant kisses will always hold a very special place in my heart. This one goes out to Zoe, Tasha, and Fritz- for teaching me the meaning behind each smile, dance, and hug. Dee Ginicola