Spoonful of Rice Krispies

wrist watches flutter in the wind.

they always drip spoons, the

                                                     perfect time of day.

the time of today is longer

than yesterday

but all days ahead will be long.

not short like

cinnamon sticks in your

air vent,

but like spaghetti

crisp stuck to the burner.

it crackles in that rice

krispy way on a warm morning.

we lay on your winged roof

and eat pumpkin seeds

that swim inside us

building lego towers

with orange lipstick.

it sticks to my collarbone

like bubblegum on my notebook-

full of pictures.

ones of pocket watches

that stare

with twelve eyes

and reach with

two pulpy hands

through college

lined paper

searching

                        searching     

                                                for perfect time.

The Almanac of Perfume

She is drunk on soft staircases reaching with splintered fingers.
She is a coat rack. The trench is her sandy curls and the windbreaker is her unwavering torso.
She is the radio station that leaks perfume.
She is a starry hairnet that holds light.
She is a bruised automobile at sixteen.
She is a lacerated plane ticket to the Berlin Wall. 
She is the ending of every story. 
She is storming ornaments up the mountainside.
She whistles lemon juice in your face.
She inhales a dainty poker chip. Idly smoke curls up the staircase.
She is a sweater vest.
                                                A chained cross.
                                                                                    A windbreaker stitched with thread.
She is a nose pressed up against glass.
She straightens rivers and blooms skyscrapers. 
She carves starfish into tea bags.
She is spider’s passion.
She is a Christmas wreath, noosed around the poker chip.
She screams the spider’s name on the radio.
She cannot hear perfume from the Berlin Wall.
She whips the windbreaker into a story every time.
                                    You see her face through muddy water.

She is drunk on soft staircases. They reach with splintered fingers towards her.

She is a coat rack. The trench is her sandy curls and the windbreaker is her unwavering torso.

She is the radio station that leaks perfume.

She is a starry hairnet that holds light.

She is a bruised automobile at sixteen.

She is a lacerated plane ticket to the Berlin Wall. West or east, you ask?

She is the ending of every story.

She is storming ornaments up the mountainside.

She whistles lemon juice in your face.

She smokes a dainty poker chip. It idly watches as smoke curls up the staircase.

She is a prophetic sweater vest stitched with a chained cross. The windbreaker is stitched with the same thread.

She is a nose pressed up against glass.

She straightens the rivers and blooms the skyscrapers.

She carves starfish into tea bags.

She is spider’s passion.

She is a Christmas wreath, noosed around the poker chip.

She screams the spider’s name on the radio.

            She cannot hear perfume from the Berlin Wall.

                        She whips the windbreaker into a story every time.
                                     You see her face through muddy water.

Imitation poem for Creative Writing. I don't think it is quite finished but it is due tomorrow, so I guess it will have to be!

The Consequence of Sounds

My smile is a book cover enveloping the transcript of my thoughts.

Regina Spektor narrates my life, although she often forgets my name.

My sense of direction is a broken TV- a plethora of knobs, buttons, fuzziness.

I hail from the land of swastikas, but our potato salad is delicious.

Technology has taken me prisoner. Those jail cells are so entertaining.

My teeth and retainer are in cahoots. They won’t straighten up.

My doctor prescribes a non-stressful life; I stress about not stressing.

I have a cat; he’s a monster, weighs twenty-five pounds, likes to sleep under my bed.

My love life is momentous. Single is infinitely listed as my relationship status.

I discovered the coffee bean to help me graduate.

My bad habits are prevented by laws. I only speed on the highway and text at a red light.

My soul is a microfiche sheet. You need a machine to understand the depths of my tiny print.

I am merely the consequence of sounds- luscious laughter and rambling tears.

Ahh It is so much better! Lots more editing! Thank you Laura and Katie- rewriting is always better with a friend!

The Scattered Eulogy

A farmer’s market-

Johnny’s mom                                

checks them off

they are                                              dripping

Mr. Chan’s sprinkler.

She drips layers,

pollutes telescopes,

dyes starchy sheets red,

they scribble down my driveway; 

                           ricotta                                               

  hides

the pan with aluminum foil. 

When you squeeze tears out,

she covers herself in black,

                                                            dripping                

I attend the funeral

                                   

where you sit, cry,

and eat lasagna.

Thanks to Jess who said this first line, and Laura who tweeted it :]

We’re in the land where pine needles replace concrete

Smashing yellow sticks to the puddled

Houses, all lined up and surrounded by trees of

Fedoras with a single feather- It is the color of lima

Beans that howl with each crunch

Of the mailbox, munching my

Car tires and drawing eyes

That sift through the sickly pine trees.

They shed their yellow youth upon us.

Two poems that I wrote for creative writing:

“The Scourge”

With twisted colors of

bloodied  majesties and painted rivers,

you reach out with your charred

fingertips in the rippling threads-

your veins pulse a

rhythm I used to know.

You do not shed those tears

but pull and scrape

mine out from under me

raw

            and flowing

like the words that pooled

from your tongue-

they were scarlet songs

raw

            and flowing

as the rose that wooed

my spirit-its

petals dripped of ignorance

by my bedside

raw

            and flowing

you pushed and pushed

until I was no more than

a hazy canvas

raw

            and flowing

down, down until I

did not recognize

myself in your image.

raw

            and flowing

Your Loopy Signature

swirling watercolors shimmy

and glide- they are as free as a puddle

            jumping, splashing

letters to my doorstep

where the toaster rings,

my telephone is a statue-

chiseled faces of the ones we’ve lost

in the sunburst of

milky pastels, light

up our heartbeats

they gulp in tandem

like two petals of that same

            heart shape

                                    comma

            your loopy signature