Monday, March 23, 2009


Last year, I lost a job because I was employed by a business that failed.

It was my favorite job that I've ever had, and I was very depressed when it ended.

I am still owed $2,500 in unpaid salary, and was promised ownership of a Nikon D70 SLR camera.
The guy who promised me those things has been an impossible person to locate or contact since everything went to hell. He "went into hiding", as some phrased it.

Today, though?
I was in Rite-Aid, and guess who was on his way out?
You guessed it.
That guy.

And what did I do?
Here's where you'll be really proud of me:
I did . . . nothing.
As soon as I saw him, I panicked and kept walking.
Our eyes never met, our paths never directly crossed.

For several seconds, I contemplated chasing after him, sifting through all the questions I could ask, demands I could reiterate, information I could finally extract.
I stood still, frozen, literally unable to move.

I'm terrible at confrontation, always have been, and when it presents itself, I flee.

What did I really want, though? Answers? Apologies? Money? The camera?
Knowing this man and his shady nature, I'm almost 100% certain that I would not have received any of those things.
And closure is always better in our minds than in reality.
It's never satisfying when it actually happens.

Still, I cannot help but feel like a yellow-bellied coward and a raging idiot.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

::Keyword Poetics

So, Christopher cooked up a new little game for us to play.
We each take turns choosing a word, and then we both have a week to write a poem that includes that word.

He went first and chose Abracadabra.

I wrote this:



In the disarming anecdote served
like a succulent souffle
by my subconscious storyteller,
your mortal coil - having
recently shuffled loose - lay in state
in a bustling room
while a large, imposing screen
displayed a montage of memories
that were mine
and mine alone;
the private smiles you delivered
when only I knew to expect them,
your long, stately fingers swiping
liquid angst from my cheeks,
your hand seizing my head,
drawing my brow to your lips
for a prolonged, tender brush
while every person who mattered
bore witness, and my cheeks flushed
crimson with pride
in the name of Love,
and my synapses spilled euphoria
all over my innards,
as though I'd declared a cosmic
and in those luscious, transient seconds?
You were mine.

Years later, I stood stagnant
in an overpriced dress
as I watched your lips congeal
with hers,
For Better or Worse;
your bliss a jagged wrecking ball,
your blessed union
a wretched demolition.


Comments are warmly invited.
I crave feedback.

Thursday, March 5, 2009


I suppose I would describe my countenance of late as weary.

Perhaps drained.

I've felt oppressed by anxiety, melancholy, physical illness and a general malaise.

Tonight, the heavy cloak was yanked away by a few hours of quality time with my cousin and dearest friend, Heather.

It feels as though I can offer so little in the way of explanation, except to say that she has this uncanny way of extracting all the best bits of me and gently coaxing them to the surface.
The bits that everybody else - myself included - often have such difficulty locating.
The bits that hibernate in seasons like this, concealed and silenced by heavy-handed sorrows.

Sometimes all it takes is an evening with her over dinner at Panera, and I'm a brand new creature, refreshed by the power of a cherished friend.


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