denial

can't hide it.
blush at the sight.
make moves
of timidity.
reluctant highs
replaced by fear.
see the olive branch
through the forest.
reach out...
just a little bit.

raft of like

sometimes it becomes oh so clear that your delusional kisses come from the clouds of like you suffocate me with on a momentary basis...what stops your reactions in real life when all i want is a little piece of you that's all of me? my eyes give me away each second and you ignore all my signs, my friend, but i don't want you to be clueless forevermore. i'm standing on the riverbanks, alone, and there are you are, floating on your raft of clouds. oh, my, i fear i'll crush you while i crush on you. why must you suffocate me with your like?

an aperture in the family quilt

There is a self-satisfaction, a sort of conceit that unintentionally creeps up on those of us whose family lives have been a calm and loving sanctuary all our lives. Although a norm in our minds, we quickly grow to realize that sitting beside us in class are those children who have two sets of parents or who live with their grandparents because their parents bailed years earlier or whose parents yell, scream and practically murder one another on a daily basis "for the kids." Most people, I tend to think, fall somewhere midway along the spectrum of euphoric and chaotic family lifestyles and as a young child every nuance and variation of crazy are duly noted.

At the age of 9, my cousin Mark observed at our family Christmas dinner amidst all our family and friends, "You know, mom," he said to my Aunt Rhonda as he poked at the mashed potato fort he had constructed, "you scream at dad a lot less when other people are around." My Uncle Patrick, Mark's father, bolted in from the other room where he had been scolding Tyler, Mark's older brother, for having sent our Grandpa Murray careening down the hallway on his skateboard moments earlier. "Mark! Get out here...NOW!" his father yelled. My Aunt Rhonda laughed that awkward, guarded laugh that comes out when your imperfections - in this case her husband and offspring - are sprawled out for all to see. Mark looked up at his father confused and indignant. "But Daaad," he whined, "but I didn't DO anything!" Apparently he had. "Just get in here right now," his father commanded. Then, in one last attempt to bring home his point and martyrdom, Mark raised his arms in defeat over his head and proclaimed to the entire dinner table, "Now do you see what I have to deal with??" Everyone laughed under their breath and amazement. Everyone, but Aunt Rhonda and Uncle Patrick.

Now, Mark was a handful and had been since birth, so his holiday outburst wasn't too surprising an incident. What his outburst had revealed to me, though, was that my family wasn't perfect. At 13, I thought I was the Grand Pooba of our clan of cousins only out-aged by my delinquent cousin, Tyler who set about destroying everything in his path and never, to my utter shock and disapproval, bringing home a grad above a C+. Apparently, mediocrity and decimation of property were his goals in life and I hated him for bringing down the family GPA. I was positive my concurrent acceptances to both Columbia School for Journalism and Cornell Medical Schools would frown upon my relation to a C-average student. I swore they did a background check on every family member and traceable ancestor to determine your acceptance. With that in mind, I searched inconclusively for years for ways to detach myself from this bad apple. One day, my prayers were answered.

I came home from school one day to a driveway filled with minivans and SUVs of every make, model and year created in the past decade. The Aunts had arrived. It was February, so I trucked through the snow that had happily warranted an early dismissal for all area schools. The caravan of cars in my driveway wasn't such an alarming sight. I had always assumed my mother held elegant, gossip-worthy brunches with her sisters and friends while we were away at school. What else could she possibly be up to?

As I reached the sidewalk in from of my yard and began to hear the faint chirping of my aunts inside, a raspy familiar voice called my name from the street corner. "Molly, Molly, Fo Folly!" Uh. I turned and there he was. The red-headed nuisance, my cousin Mark. "Mark, what are you doing here?" I whined in that 13-year-old, PMSy girlish whine I was picking up at school. "School let out early!" he gleefully announced as he heaped a pile of snow in his hot pink, numbed hands.
"Yeah, so why didn't you just go home?" I pried.
"Cuz, only Tyler's there."
"Oh, yeah, your dad's still at work," I was relieved neither my Aunt or Uncle trusted Mark to Tyler's care. The kid was annoying, but he didn't deserve to be accidentally decapitated by one of Tyler's in-home skateboarding stunts.
"No," he said matter-of-factly,"he moved out."
"Oh, he went on a business trip?" I corrected him.
"No, stupid, that's not what I said!"
"Don't call me stupid," I yelled.
"Well, don't ask stupid questions, then!" he retorted.
"Whatever," I said marching up the lawn to my front door. My curiosity quickly stopped me. "So, your dad moved out. Where did he go?"
"He moved in with my Uncle Henry in the city. Mom said if he didn't go she'd kill him and he said he'd rather be dead than live with her."
"Oh." I was in shock. My world was spinning. No wonder the Ya-Ya Sisterhood had converged at my house. "He said that? I mean, she said that, too?" I asked as I looked forlornly at the house on fire with chatter and blinking lights beyond the snowfall.
WHAM! A snowball to the back of the head.
"You little prick!" I screamed as I lurched toward my cousin across the front yard.

The scene inside was gruesome. My Aunt Rhonda paced our dining room into our living room and back again cursing in words I had only heard in movies. She cried and clenched her fists as she painstakingly described argument after argument after argument to my mother and her other four sisters. Mark had had his fill of eavesdropping about five minutes into our arrival and was scouring through my brother's comic book collection. Ryan would be furious and no doubt blame me for the mess, but at this moment all I could do was gawk wide-eyed through the second floor banister and soak up every last word from my aunt's lips. If eavesdropping had been a class, I would have excelled. On most occasions I justified my snooping as preparation for my journalistic career, but that afternoon I was a bona-fide voyeur and I was ok with any consequences.

"He's an incompetent bastard who has wasted the last 19 years of my life!" she yelled in a desperate, seething voice that verged on what I can now identify as heartache. She stopped in the middle of our foyer, her eyes glazed over in dismay and fury and tears, then crouched to her knees and began to sob. It didn't seem real. I felt as though I was watching one of those Lifetime movies my mom refused to let me watch for fear of my impressionable young mind. I wanted to console my aunt, but I was embarrassed. For starters, I was specifically told to get in my room, do my homework, turn the radio up and distract Mark until we were called down for dinner. Second of all, I was embarrassed. Selfishly, I somehow saw this disintegration of my family as a strain on my personal being, my personal history forevermore. I know of divorced people and my mom even had a divorced friend named Emily (categorized by my cousin Tyler as a "Cougar") who occasionally came to dinner parties to meet my father's remaining single friends. Besides that, it seemed like a distant threat. A tsunami whose tidal waves would never reach the perfect shores of my family island. Yet, on this snowy afternoon in February, our family beach was quickly eroding before my eyes.

Ode To My Maddening Love. (my attempt @ a Shakespearen-type monologue)

Undeniably tangled in a web of you, my heart searches for an escape as often as it searches for ways to stay entwined forever. My words spill out in careless phrases, seemingly unaware and unattached to the preciseness of my intentions. I am at times a bemused mute and at others an unstoppable, loquacious monster. There is nothing normal in my behavior because nothing has stumped me so wholly in my life as my feelings for you. You drive me mad. That is certain. No truer words have ever left my lips. There is something about your manner, about the way you selfishly move about this world that makes me want to turn away and run. Yet, in my visions of you and I, I’m right there beside you, moving about quite happily to that same beat. I am certain you drive me mad, yet I am not certain I want that madness to cease. I suppose it is an age-old story, that of lovers driven to one another by the characteristics that drive them mad. Needing, wanting that wonderful confusion forevermore. But, here I am, having never experienced such a frustrating feeling before in my life, wanting to run, scream and make love all at the same time. Fire. That’s more what I am certain of than your absolute insanity, though the latter I still debate hourly. Your fire, your strangeness is what glues me to you in so many ways. There’s nothing normal about what you do; the drama, the way you ignore me every moment until it pleases you, the way you look at me with those chestnut eyes to reassure my wretched heart that you still care. What is it you want, to drive me mad forever and ever? Please, do! I beg of you. Drive me mad forever. Drive me mad so that my hair turns grey and falls to the ground in frustration. Drive me mad every day in a different way so that I know I am here, alive, with you. Life before you, my maddening love, was trite. With you, life has become a hell-raising, hair-pulling, heart-racing experience and I wouldn’t ever want to live another day without you.

lovely fall away

If the mountains should…just fall away,
We’d have no more reason to stay.
Oh, why do we hide all the fun?
When all we need is to run…
Run with me, oh, lovely one.
My heart is certain. I’m ready to fall.
Just give a nod and I will know
That my imagination can flow.
You’ve got me wrapped around,
Wrapped and twirled around in you.

Paolo Nutini

I'm in love with Paolo Nutini's scratchy, soulful voice. His live performances outshine any of the prerecorded tracks I've heard and his lyrics are fantastic. He's Scottish and Italian, with a very heavy Scottish accent, which adds even more flavor to his raspy, melodic voice. There's something about this ingenue that convinces me that some people are plopped on this Earth with vocal chords to shake other's souls. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but when you hear a voice that brings chills all over and evokes tremendous emotion and passion with each original line, it's magic! :)
Here's my new favorite live performance of Paolo's from 2006:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qllpkliWhtk&feature=related

let me sign - robert pattinson

<3 this song!


She was standing there by the broken tree
Her hands were all twisted she was pointing at me
I was damned by the light coming out of her eyes
She spoke with a voice that disrupted the sky
She said ' Come on over to the bitter shade,
I will wrap you in my arms and you'll know you've been saved'
Let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.

I was out for a drink in a soho bar
The air was smoked out liked a cheap cigar
She rose out of her seat like a painted ghost
She was the woman that I wanted the most
As she reached for my arm I gave her my hand
I said 'Lay me down easy let me understand'
Let me sign, let sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.

As I walked through the door she was still in my head
As I entered the room she was laid there in bed
She reached out for me all twisted in black
I was on my way down, never coming back
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.

date from hell...a short.

We sat across from each other gazing awkwardly above one another’s heads at the NCAA basketball final four game airing on every big screen dangling in the sports bar. Every once in a while he’d take a sip of his Stella and look over meekly, give a gruff “huh” and nod at whatever just happened at that instance in the game, pretending or naively thinking that I, too, cared what was happening on the screen in front of me. If it wasn’t triple overtime and Martha Stewart was on TV instead, I’m sure I’d get the same response from him – meek look, gruff “huh” and a can-you-believe-this nod. No, actually, I couldn’t believe it! I had suckered myself into thinking that a second date with this dud of a man could yield anything but the same tedium as the first night we went out. Katie warned me that he was a wet blanket, but in keeping with my new positive, open-minded New Year’s attitude, I gave him a chance. Honestly, a piece of cardboard had more personality than this kid. It was painful to stare blankly at the TV, but it was far less painful that actually having to speak two words to him. Prior to this staring contest, this is how our riveting conversation unraveled:
“So, what are you gonna get?”
“Not sure…you?”
“I love buffalo wings. They have great wings here. You can get them medium, hot, really hot or volcanic. I get the medium ones.”
“Cool,” I lied.
Awkward five-minute pause.
“Do you know yet?”
“Yeah. I think I’m going to get a BLT.”
“WAITRESS!” he screamed at the poor over-worked girl collecting another table’s order. She smiled politely (but rightly annoyed) at him and signaled she’d be right over.
Another awkward pause.
The waitress finishes at the other table and doesn’t have time to think of dismissing us because my date, Casanova, is hailing her down like a New York City taxi. I wanted to bury myself under the table and deny any relation to this redneck sitting across from me.
“Ok,” he starts to demand, “I need two dozen medium buffalo wings with ranch dressing and ketchup. NO NO NO blue cheese – that stuff makes me hurl” (I almost hurled as he said this) “and she finally decided on a BLT.”
Wow, what a gentleman!
“Do you want a salad or fries? Probably a salad,” he says knowingly to the disinterested waitress, “girls always try to look so proper on dates, but you know they want to dig into a whole bowl of buffalo wings like a dude! You were gonna say salad weren’t you? So proper!”
I want to slap him. Not with my girlie hand, but with a huge meaty man hand that could knock some sense into his ridiculous head and perhaps relocate him across the street to Hooters where he wanted to take me in the first place. I feel like his jackass moves would have seemed more appropriate there amidst the orange booty shorts and famous hot wings. Sitting there I feel like I would have expected this rude, degrading attitude from him. TGI Friday’s isn’t a five-star Zagat-rated foodie haven, but at least their menu consists of more than just hot wings.
“Could I actually get potato salad as a side, instead? Thank you.”
She nodded and walked off, hopefully to spit in his order of medium hot sauce.
Breathe. Am I being overly critical? Maybe I should chill out and just change the subject.
“So, Andy, how’s work? How do you like teaching middle school?” This was the one redeeming quality about him – he taught middle school social studies and coached wrestling during the winter season.
“Those little fuckers have been busting my balls non-stop these days!”
And the redemption was lost.
“Oh.”
“Wrestling season is ending, so the parents are all up in my shit to write recommendations for their kids for next year’s transition to high school wrestling. The kids are going ape shit because it’s getting warmer out and all the while we’re driving around the state in this broken down short bus to compete in meets against kids way better than my guys and getting our asses kicked.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s not your fault they don’t practice for shit! I played football, a real sport, but all they had open was this wrestling coach position and I needed the extra dough because the Wii was coming out and figured I could save up faster for it with a little after school work.”
At least he was financially competent to some extent.
“Cool.”
“Do you have a Wii? They are fucking awesome!”
Am I in an episode of the Sopranos? Why does he insist on cursing like a mob boss with anger management issues while discussing middle school wrestling?
“Cool,” I lied again. No more questions.
He takes his phone out of his front jean pocket and starts to text someone. Seriously? Am I boring him?
“Am I boring you?”
He looks up like a kid who was just caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar five minutest after he was told not to.
“No. I just forgot to tell my buddy that he has to come over at eight, not six, to play on my Wii because we’re out now.”
“Ah.” It was 5:30 now and if he thinks we’re going to be out any later then 6:30 he is delusional! “Yeah, I’ve got to be back at my place before seven, so…” I let my sentence linger so he can insert a ‘Perfect I can play my Wii an extra hour tonight!’ or ‘What, no night cap?’
“Whoa, that only gives us an hour,” he says offended.
I feel bad, but why does he even care?
“Sorry. Family obligation,” HUGE lie.
“On a Wednesday night?”
“Yeah. Dang!” I try to hide my sarcasm, but could really care less what this strange, rude guy thinks of my excuses to get the hell away from him.

The Present

Time runs, gallops, torpedoes ahead of us.

Our futures are blank canvases, awaiting their design.

Daydreams morph times yet experienced, places yet seen, people yet encountered

And paint elaborate masterpieces in our minds.

Years pass in moments, decades disappear and we forget where we are: today.

How Many Frogs Do I Have To Kiss?

Blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes and gray

Which one should I kiss today?

Tall, short, or somewhere in between

I’d kiss you all, but what does that mean?

Floozy, hussy, old maid and slut

Would be whispered in conversation as I strut.

Indecisive and tired is how I’d describe

This age-old diatribe:

“One day a prince will come to sweep you away!”

But will it really happen that way?

Waiting and hoping for him to come

Usually just make me feel desperate and dumb.

Traveling, working and vacationing worldwide

You’d think all that banter would just subside.

Yet, more than anything, I want to fall

For some Casanova who’s got it all:

Great job, good car, a house and a dog

Who’d kiss my feet even if I turned into a fat hog.

Cinderella and Bridget Jones both figured it out,

So I suppose I shouldn’t fret or doubt.

One day my prince will come, all gallant and strong

And I’ll just say, “What took you so long?”

Bleed My Stone

The sincerity of your words seems unfounded

This love you’ve conjured for me created amidst the heartache of blandness

Floats as a cloud above both our heads like a cloud of doom...or impending sunshine.

How can the nothing that was have created a something so miserable to miss?

I play the part of a girl in love;

A girl whose heart was stolen from her unwilling, caged chest.

Walking was a fumbling, trepidacious experience;

Now I float on air.

The tides will turn.

I know this to be true.

The feelings of excitement and comfort aren’t steady.

There’s an unease with knowing it’s too good to be true.

A catch.

Perhaps you’re a slob.

Perhaps you clip your toenails on the front stoop.

Maybe you even, god forbid, replace the toilet paper in the wrong direction.

I want to savor the perfect reflection.

I need to keep the pristine view within reach.

The comfort of knowing the truth brings us closer to an end I fear we will face.

Isn’t there a way to covet all the perfection?

To hide my own imperfections, to be exact?

Front to cover and back again.

That’s how you want to know me.

Know everything about me.

The good, the bad, the ugly, the ridiculous, the deal breakers

Why?

Why can’t we sit still and indulge the perfection of the moment when we’re still enamored of the everything?

technicolored dreams

Love flourishes in the remnants of our dreams.

Memories may escape us - 

Dear moments once treasured banished to the far expanses of our minds.

Touches become ghostly traces on our skin - 

Trails of tenderness and passion morph into echoes  of dormant caresses.

But dreams.

In dreams, the shut up boxes of old memories that reside dust-ridden in the recluse corners of our thoughts emerge. 

One by one, the flaps shutting out  the daylight of our reality from the memories we keep creek open. 

The spirits emerge slowly from them like a genie from a bottle, ready to fulfill our wildest desires. 

The smoke materializes into the fresh faces and views of our past that converge into what our dreams are made of. 

Love is of epic proportions - 

the people you loved, who loved you, whom you longed to love all burn like torches of the hottest kind.

Angst and rejection pierce like needles through the skin - 

Leaving open wounds bleeding to slowly torture each victim.

Our inhibitions suffocate or absolve us.

Our passions suffocate or absolve us.

Our luck suffocates or absolves us.

Dreams leave everything to the imagination of "What If..."

Touches may become ghostly traces upon our skin,

Memories my escape us,

But nothing escapes the technicolored world of our dreams. 

lips

the difference between you and i only exists in the space that separates our lips.

overanalytical

We talk as a precursor 

To nothing that 

We swear will mean something - 

Someday.

We ponder and debate

About the "What Ifs" and

Life's mysterious ways - 

Inconclusively.

We scream and yell and cry

And fight

But swear it's for the better - 

It's not.

We lie to others and to ourselves

To make our dreams come to life.

A dream we've chased for years - 

Mistakes.

We toss and turn and swear it

Was worth everything;

Our dignity, our hearts, our innocence -

Destroyed.

We lie in tatters, arm-in-arm,

Blithe amidst our destruction.

History, our constant companion,

Repeats.

  

rockets

undeniably tangled in a web of

propulsion,

i unknowingly strap my life to

rockets

whose designs weave unknown 

riddles to my forecast - 

each jolt designed momentarily

as i rise -

where known only to tomorrow is 

the forecast of today,

filled with wisdom far beyond the

landscape of the moment.