tomorrow sometimes (title by dina :) )

On a clear day you
can see the place where the
ocean and the sky meet, seamless
and blend into one another
barely discernible in shades of
cobalt and gunmetal
and I guess that kind of looks like
tomorrow sometimes

But for me,
tomorrow just looks like
the same laundry list
as the day before:
4 papers
2 grants
1 empty checkbook
3 missed calls
5 unreturned messages
1 getting to Field’s Corner
right as the train crosses
the bridge toward Savin Hill
and 2 cigarettes
while I wait for the
next one.

Tomorrow is crumpled
in the wastebasket

All i want to see is
right now
this bed
and what we can do with it
I want to see my eyes reflected
in yours looking into mine
I want to see our fingers
intertwined
like an elaborate basket

I want to see the
back of my eyelids as I
drift
off
into that
sweet space
between your shoulder
and your collarbone
and today and tomorrow
where lifetimes can be lived
in eight hours
and nobody waits for the T

single serving boyfriend

I don't have one night stands
I have single serving
boyfriends

Like Ed Norton and Brad Pitt
except none of them have
been quite that
fetching

don't get me wrong
I don't lower my
standards
just because I know
they won't call
tomorrow

and this isn't
an
assumption
on my part
I am not making
an ass out of u
it's just me
because I let it
happen
again
and
again
and again

this one just
like
the
one
before....
out the door
as soon as they've
come to the
revelation
that they somehow
needed me
to get to

i don't know how
i became
"that girl"
but I'm sick of
being called
fantastic or
cultured or
different
or whatever the fuck
you think the prescription
is for your ailment
I am not penicillin
and I'm not a fucking
novelty
I'm sick of your soul
searching
and I ain't got shit
to show for it

this isn't your movie
stop playing
zach braff
he's not even that good at it
i am not natalie portman
or kirsten dunst
and I sure as hell
won't cry
if you get on that plane
we don't know each
other that well

if you're thinking
that we might have a
fun weekend
think about what happens
to me
on
monday.

what i cannot be and cannot have

he is neat
and i am all loud
color
mess

he is patient
and i cannot
sit
still

he is wise
and i lust after
every bit
of knowledge

he is calm
and i chain
smoke
camel lights

he is framed
perfectly
in the hallway
with the light burnt out
because I don't bother
to change it
but he is lit
like James Dean
with the light
pouring from my
bedroom

where I lie
waiting
in his shadow

i am not unbeautiful

recently I have found myself
running my hands along the
new smoothness that has begun
to take over my body
and the new curves
that appear daily.

it is like discovering uncharted
land
and yet it is
in words and thoughts
that i have found myself
recently

and i've thought about you
the space between us
and how i feel closer to you
than i did the last time
that you held me close

it becomes more inevitable
everyday
that i will see you again soon
and i go from fear to excitement
and back again
every hour
because i am not the same
woman that you left

i know so much more
about myself
and my place
and my feet fit
naturally in the earth
and the concrete
and my curves settle
against amazing people
who inspire me
and hold me close to them
because i am
beautiful to them as well

and I have become more
beautiful
to your standards
with each calorie burned
and each cookie
abstained
and each hour at the gym
every morning

but it is the beauty
that i feel inside me
beyond the new curves
that my hands can travel
it is the new ideas
that roll in my mind
and the anger that burns my
tongue so that my
mouth stays
open
constantly
flapping to keep some cool
it is this beauty that i hope
you see

so when my friends tell me
how much you
will regret our past
when we meet again
i hope that it will be
for how much more of me
there is to know
and not
for how much less of me
there is to hold

traffic

traffic

Red
Green
Yellow
Stop
Go
Slow Down
Slow Down

Why don't we ever slow down?
Stuck in the constant flux of
Stop and
Go
We forget to take our time
We only know how to
kill it
While we wait in the stand still
both picking up smoking
so that we don't have to think of
the ghost in the passenger seat.


We have stopped so often
That when we
Go
I do... as fast as I can
holding you close
kissing your lips
trying
to get you to take your g-d damn shirt off...
fitting as much as I possibly can in
before we stop again.

I miss yellow lights
the warning...
knowing when to start weaning myself off
of the needing.

But we never did have those
yield signs...
It has always been
hot and cold
night and day
not being able to get enough of each other

and then...
STOP

Never sure what triggered the red light
too much
too close
too fast

But it was you who wouldn't let go

You who kissed first
You who crept to my porch
You who kissed me and told me
how much you would miss me
the night before you left...

And I prayed for a yellow light then
an extension on our parting
But city traffic is unreliable
and I have been stuck smoking
at this stop light for
two fucking years
and I don't think I can listen to
Suzanne Vega sing
"Cracking"
one more time.

I can see the light turning yellow
for the traffic to my right
This is the longest three seconds of my life...
one
did you miss me?
two
who's that other guy?
three
when are you coming back?

the green light is coming
but I'm not sure
if I should keep going
or turn off this road
for good.

whitewashed

I do not have
white pride

because

white
is the absence of color
and although I have sometimes joked
that you can see through the barely there pigment of my skin
I derive my pride from
the colors I have within

red
of sunkissed tomatoes in gardens
from Roxbury to Campobasso

green
like the beans I harvested from my mother's
ghetto garden
stemming them one at a time
in a broken plastic strainer

blue
was the color my baby brother turned
the night he stopped breathing
and the machine that we brought
home with him from the hospital still
sometimes blinks

yellow
in my mind

purple
is the color of the sky against sienna streetlights
on nights when I sat
on a third story porch
letting the summer mist envelop me

black
like the holes
left behind by stray bullets
inches from my brother's
bed pillow
13 and he still sleeps in the livingroom

orange
my gemini power color
sunset
and the crayon i sometimes
used when drawing pictures of myself
as a child

white
is an absence of color

it is a state of mind

it is agreeing to be nothing
in the name of holding others down

it is allowing yourself to forget that
you were once barefoot
stomping on grapes
black hair braided coarse down your back
singing songs while you kneaded dough and
praying for better for your children

it is believing that NOTHING is
better than something that other people
think is dirty

well I will play in the mud
because my sun spots are
sporadic
and you cannot see
the herstory
in my hips
taste the wine on my lips

hear my soul crying out
I AM MORE THAN THIS

hear my soul crying out
i am more than this

so think on it a bit

because if we keep the beourgoise
whitewash our ancestry

it won't be long
until none of us exist

night light

I feel like I learned last night
what it was like to be blind
to have your other senses heightened
by the dark.

The last thing I saw was you
moving toward me
cat like
and when we met in the middle
i closed my eyes
knowing that your night vision
was no match for mine.

And even though my eyes
were looking only at my eyelids
and occasionally in to yours
While the strong muscles of your
back moved
underneath my tiny pale hands
I can still see the smooth caramel
skin
contrasting with my ghostly complexion
pulling out the freckles in my arms
like a blue shirt
brings out the color in my eyes.

the heart is a muscle

I could never love a poet
Now, please don't take that as rejection
It's a challenge

You see
I have
lost my footing from a well
executed
"What did I do to deserve you?"

And I've swooned over
a convincing rendition of
"Baby, you are so beautiful."

I have even
had my heart "skip" a beat
from a simple question like
"Why aren't the other girls more
like you?"

Screw the skip
and the pitter patter
I think that your sentiment
laced with a simile
or a metaphor
might make
the machines
flatline

And I'm sure you could
revive me with your
rhythm and rhyme-
your flow could teach
my blood
And have my heart
dependent on the
breakbeats
that lay the canvas
for your paint

Now that's a serious
responsibility
so if you're not ready
think
before you spit your clever line
and save your poetry
for a girl with a stronger heart

tomorrow

On a clear day you can't see tomorrow
but you can see the place where the
ocean and the sky meet, seamless
and blend into one another
barely discernible in shades of
cobalt and gunmetal
and i guess that kind of looks like
tomorrow sometimes

But when I see tomorrow
all i see is
the 4 assignments i need to
finish
my bank balance
the morning rush at the gym
the smelly guy on the red line

I don't want to see tomorrow
all i want to see is right now
this bed
and what we can do with it
I want to see my eyes reflected
in yours looking into mine
I want to see our fingers
intertwined
like an elaborate basket

I want to see the back of my eyelids
as I drift off into that
sweet space
between your shoulder
and your collarbone
and today and tomorrow
where lifetimes can be lived
in eight hours
and nobody waits for the T

longing

some people say that when
you go a long time without having sex
you don't miss it anymore
i think that they may be right

i don't miss sex

i miss hands tangled in mine

i miss being held too long and too close

i miss forgetting that i have to get up in the morning

i miss fitting into that little space
between a shoulder and a collar bone

i miss stealing the blankets

i miss pushing you out of bed

i miss dvd menus playing on repeat
until i cannot listen to that
stupid song
one more time

i miss the feeling in the pit of
my stomach
when i don't know exactly what to expect
when we get to the door

i miss tiny tender kisses on
every star on my shoulders

i kind of miss being a girl
that didn't miss those kinds of things
and even thought they were dumb

i miss pretending that i am
tougher than i am

i miss you knowing that i am
putting on a front

i miss cooking for 2 people

telling someone about my day

knowing that someone else gets
why the perfect line in a scene of Sports Night
makes me hit the couch
like someone just scored a touchdown

i miss reading things that you
think i'll like

i still buy lingerie i know
you'll like

and i know it sounds silly

but i don't miss sex

My Mother's Hair

my mother's hair
does not curl in an
orthodox way
it does not follow a pattern of
consistent loops or ringlets down her back

much like my own, it zigs and zags
sporadically
and defiant pieces
strike
wildly at the air

its coarseness beckons hands to
understand it in a tactile way
wrapping the natural curve of
the locks around their finger
as my mother often does
before dragging a front
piece through her lips

my own hair has recently
recovered from the strain
i put it through
when i was younger
repressing the curls
like my grandmother did
her accent

sometimes my mother would do my braids
45 minutes on one side
play for a while
then another torturous sitting
then one time she flat ironed it for me
after i begged her
not knowing how else to defy
the other little girls that
called me nappy head
other than to make my hair
shiny and straight
like theirs
as my grandmother had once
tried to flatten her curves
with calorie counting
and diet sodas.

i have been down that road too
pretending that celery and
saltines were a normal
lunch.
trying to make my outside
appearance
fit in as much as i
desperately wanted to
i understand now why my
grandmother lost her accent
and my mother lost her language

i no longer try to smooth
down the unruly curls
as they grow
OUT
and not down
i have learned to embrace
its unwieldliness
as a part of my own
my mother told me
recently
that if i can be patient
long enough
the weight will eventually
pull the curls
down
my sister came into
the livingroom then
her straight hair
filled with gel
and crunched to create
the illusion of curls

i used to think it was
funny
how my sister tries to
create the illusion
of curls
that my grandmother
mother
and myself have all tried
so desperately
to repress

but i understand now
because when my granmother
lost her country and
my mother lost her language
i lost my culture
and that's just her way
of trying to get it
back

someday i'll start using titles

this is not a hostage situation
exactly the opposite...
we demand that you release all of the hostages
IMMEDIATELY
from the shackles of media message fueled
by age old beaurocracies designed
to keep the cogs in place

we refuse to be cogs anymore

the machine cannot work once the gears stop
turning
and we are pulling the plug

here is our list of demands

we demand that the media that informs us
INFORM us
ELEVATE us and
EMPOWER us to EMPOWER others

we demand that fat white american men
in suits stop telling us how COOL it is
to be skinny and glowing tan while
eating McDonalds
smoking Newports
and wearing Tommy Hilfiger jeans

we demand that the corporately owned government
stop using mind control to
make us believe that we are safe by
scaring us into letting THEM
protect us

we demand that the same government stop using
the media and the illusion of democracy to
facilitate genocide of our youth

we demand real education for all people
regardless of origin, race, creed, or wealth

we demand an information audit of Washington DC
so that we can become informed consumers of
political bullshit

we know how to play the game
but hopscotch is for kids
and we've grown up

my ghetto

my ghetto is not brand name
i am not from the bronx, south central, the southside,
or even roxbury like my mom
the gunmen behind the bullets in my baby brother's bedroom wall
or baby keila's two-year old back have never been played by
francis capra or fredro starr

the two burning cars outside my bedroom window
were not part of a protest or riot,
and the rash of arsons that claimed families all over
the neighborhood
only made the local section of the paper

the weapons that we found playing in the vacant lot
did not belong to bloods or crypts
though the latin kings had a strong hold on the block
we used to watch the local news,
to see if we saw our street on tonight, or anyone we knew
the fires were on sometimes, or hit and runs, or drive bys

we were invisible, however, when zero tolerance
swept young people off the street and into
DSS custody or juvie for wearing baggy clothing
or walking home late at night through their own street

invisible still when giant potholes killed the shocks
on the old beat up cars we tried to keep nice
and the sidewalks made rollerblading or even
walking under the dim broken streetlights dangerous
but that didnt really matter, cuz when the streetlights came on
you better have been inside anyway
or your mom would come drag you in

we were invisible when we held meetings in our
backyards
with lemonade and the couple of beat cops who cared
enough to listen
speaking in a communal voice that losing our kids
to guns or jails was not a good enough choice

there was no tape rolling when grandmothers yelled from their
porch to "SLOW DOWN, can't you see there are kids trying
to play?"
and the basketball game would halt momentarily as we
all scattered to grab a nearby piece of sidewalk as the
offending car bounced up and down on the rocky road

there was no photo op as we all worked together to clean
up the empty lot,
using earth day as an excuse to have the city come pick
up the broken couches, tvs, and car parts
and then planting a patch of vegetables so all of us kids
could see how things grow
still no copy when the police chased a robbery suspect
out of his bedroom window
and tackled him on top of a patch of carrots and lettuce
still too young to harvest

still we watched together as house after house on the
block was boarded up and burned into the night
and once, i remember, before school
and the firefighters rolled in,
but not as quickly as they did each fourth of july
when we'd block off the intersection and heap
mattreses, broken chairs, and tables onto the road
filling the sky with our own version of fireworks

secretly i was grateful for the firefighters on those nights
i could feel the heat from the fire in my bedroom, always
terrified that mine would be one of those houses
even kept the things i wanted to keep in a bag next
to my bed, in case the beeping woke me in the night
and i had to get out right quick
before the smoke filled my lungs like it had monique's and
her dad's.

this is just the way i remember it though
and the fuzzy lines of 15 year old memories can be unreliable
but there is not documentation to disprove it
the meetings, the cleanups, the lack of police consistency
the fact that they never found the man that put those
our bullets in baby keila's back while she slept

this is our history and there is no book
there is no movie, no tv show, no newspaper articles
and almost none of it can be found on the world wide web
it sounds trivial, but without being able to see our
history, how can we learn from it?

this is our history
it is a story with many chapters and mine is only one
it is not the first, and it will not be the last
but it is mine
the way i remember it
it may not be entirely accurate
but it's what i've got.

i wrote this when i was 18

i wanted to kiss you

last night

at the park near your house with
too many people in the car.

And I wanted to hold your hand and
feel your lips on my forehead...
so i hit you and laughed and
we played tag like that for a while
18 year old kindergartners.

And I caught you looking at me
and the dissapointment masked
by annoyance when
i mentioned another man.
and do I do that when you mention
another girl?
maybe you saw me wince when you
stung me with that one.

And you said that you liked it
when I bit you
and I bet it will leave a scar

and no matter what happens
all your girlfriends will ask what
that mark on your shoulder is.

A stolen kiss
sheltered by the shedding trees
hidden by the passing clouds
and forgotten
tucked into my back pocket
where i keep a crumpled
picture of you and i
and all the things i
wished i'd said
before we said goodbye
our lips parted
not to meet again
an unspoken promise
sealed by broken promises of
phone calls and late night meetings
where we'd hold each other close again
seconds less each time
my arms growing heavier
with each moment that
you are not in them
and colder with the weight
until you melt me again.

looking through old stuff today

i've though of lots of words, phrases and lyrics
to sum up the feeling in the pit of my stomach
that is you
and i didnt want to make up my own
because you're too new
and i know i'll regret it later
but i know that you're not a you
anymore than he was a he
just an abstract idea
a face to place the butterflies on
to dream about in place of a pillow or teddy bear
and ive thought about how i could be a better you
a salt to your pepper
sugar to your cinnamon
and in a short time youve helped me to
develop more into
the me i want to be
and for that i cannot regret
your face on my butterflies

hardwood floors

My last four apartments had these beautiful hardwood floors in all of the bedrooms and living/dining rooms. As much as I love my new apartment, there is this sterile, hotel like feeling about it that the wall to wall carpeting really contributes to. I remember, the first time I went to New York City on my own was right after I moved into my first apartment, and while I was there I bought an old Josephine Baker record, some Duke Ellington, Count Basie, the Manhattan Soundtrack, and Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company. I kept my record player on the floor then. When I got home, I put on Joplin's Summertime, and laid down on the hardwood floor. It was November and freezing, since we hadn't put plastic on the windows yet, but there is something really nice about that memory, about being 19 and letting the little things be the big things. That was my favorite bedroom. I painted it bright orange and sponged a darker carrot color over it. I had a postcard collection that I hung with clothespins on a line i ran around the room off of the drop ceiling. I didn't have a closet, but a clothes rack that I covered with a shower curtain, and I had this huge queen/twin bunk bed that I hung curtains from, and my bed was like a little cave. I remember the day that I painted it, I was going to a concert with a boy that I liked, who was coming fro out of town, and he wanted to see my new place. So even though the walls weren't done drying yet, and he had to wait a half an hour for me to get ready since I was still covered in paint when he showed up, I made sure the walls were all painted, and that my bed was put together and made when he showed up. The livingroom was still covered in boxes, but my room was perfect. I even set up the ball pit that I had then. I do not remember now, what led me to buy a ball pit, especially one built for toddlers. I guess I've always enjoyed novelty. I also don't know why I woke up this morning thinking about all of this stuff, but I did.

Cara Comma

Looking around my room after my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the pink-orange streetlights, I find my mind wandering more than my weary eyes. With much of my time consumed by the monotony of day to day life, this is the little bit of time I have to myself. Here, in the dark room with shadows as my only company, is where I am myself with no context. The rest of the time I am Cara comma. At work I am Cara, the girl from the coffee shop. Sometimes, even after a year I am still the girl from the video store. At school, the WheatBread girl or "that writer." In social situations: Katie's friend, Nicole's roommate or "wasn't she with that guy?". Once, asked 'what I did' (and isn't that a funny question, as though there were a one word answer that could stuff my whole life into a tiny little nutshell), I responded "I wear many hats... that's all I do."
Sometimes it seems that way, as the time flies by and I morph seamlessly from coffee girl to student to mentor to basketcase, it seems there isn't enough time to be any one thing well. It is this rapid passage of time that takes the joy away from the little things, that turns you into one of them: the whiny unsatisfied worker ants. Worse yet, turns you into a drone, a going through the motions machine. I decided a long time ago that I refuse to let that happen to me. I decided more recently that it had.
Sitting down to write out something important to me, I found myself grasping at straws, being afraid to attach that much importance to any one thing. Somewhere in that battle with myself, I found that I wasn't sure what was important to me anymore. In fact, I wasn't sure that anything was. To have lost all optimism at 21, what a thought. In realizing this, that the jaded cynicism of a 17-year-old had my mind in its clutch and I was just too busy to notice it, I decided to make a concerted effort to remember when I had last let myself dwell in a moment of simple, unadulterated pleasure. It is, after all, those moments that make the tedium of necessity worth the hassle. As Ethan Hawke says, in Reality Bites, "so I take pleasure in the little things."
The little things... I began to ponder what my little things were. As Mr. and Mrs. Poulain in Jeunet's Amelie, I very much enjoy the art of reorganization. The hours that follow a good room cleaning are always among my most productive. These every day occurances, seemingly mundane, should be taken for what they are. For that little bit of magic that makes you say "so what" to not knowing what it's all about.
It is always amazing how much the sting of a hot coffee at six-thirty in the morning can take the edge of off pre-dawn wake up calls. I sometimes have the opportunity, just as the sun is beginning its ascent from horizon to horizon, to step outside and take in a bit of the morning air. My fingers, stinging from the cold in the early morning breeze, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. Taking a drag of my freshly lit cigarette, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or demanding customers and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
It is easy, in routine, to forget the good things. For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC, and his insistence that headphones are an efficient weather-proofing device; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that punctuate my day. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily life. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body.
Walking through the park on a misty day, pausing atop the bridge and watching the ducks swim below, I take a pause. The sky is a thinly grayed blue and the chill in the air is easily thwarted by a sweatshirt. The center of the park is far enough from the street that there is an illusion of aloneness from the civilized world of streetlights and honking horns. I can hear myself think, and though the words I sketch out onto the blank sheet in the back of my mind will invariably disappear regardless of how many times I repeat them, there is a comfort to be felt in being alone with those words. In these moments- the little things that I so take pleasure in- it is hard to understand how I ever get frustrated with life. I kick myself for ever letting a sleepless night, or a boring class curse the human condition. For what beauty there is around us, just waiting to be gobbled up by all of our senses.
No museum, coffeehouse, studio, or theatre need bring us these things, either. Easily, we romanticize things found in these packages. I, myself am eternally guilty of this. When I hold a martini glass I think of Dorothy Parker and New York City literary roundtables. I think of a time when celebrity was sometimes the same as intellectual, but not a replacement for it. When I enter a dark smoky bar, I picture Bob Dylan in the corner repairing a snapped e-string. These are the images that haunt my mind's landscape. These are interchangeable though, and sometimes it is Joey Ramone or Janis Joplin and a bottle of whiskey.
This is historical envy, a decision made by society long ago that flowers in poetry are prettier than flowers in gardens. It is the sensibility that tells us that no film can ever be as good as Citizen Kane, no symphony like a Mozart. This sensibility freezes us in our tracks, makes us give up hope of any lasting achievement, has created generations of cynics. It has made us forget that these little things can be anything, anywhere. They can be the things that punctuate our mundanity with elation. A good song that can steal part of your soul, sometimes just for a moment. The same way that a good movie can, at its credits leave you feeling exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time; like an adventure, a new home, or great sex. When it fits just right, someone else's words and voice can capture exactly what you're feeling, thinking, and not being able to say on your own. Sitting stocking-footed on the hardwood floor of an apartment cluttered with artifacts from busier days and taking in a lazy breath of fresh air. Waking up in the morning and finding the coffee pot recently filled with hot coffee, reading a book you loved as a child, remembering a good dream that felt so real it stays with you all day. Little things like these are often overlooked, tossed over the shoulder or stomped on in favor of dwelling on a parking ticket or a long day at work.
Gliding down a road with no one on it and nothing but blinking lights from here to your destination. Being alone with nothing but your thoughts to occupy you, some revolutionary at the moment, others that will fade away by the end of your journey, or shower, or workout, or period between awake and asleep. These alone moments, these me without a context, within myself moments are the ones in which I am most able to decode where my true nature lies. That is when it becomes clear to me what I am at my core. I am a writer. I am an observer, a regurgitator, a craftsman. Rainer Maria Rilke said, in his Letters to a Young Poet "This most of all: ask yourself, in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? And if this answer rings out in asent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity." If I were forbidden to write, could I live? If by taking away writing, not only is my pen, paper, keyboard taken away, but also those idle moments in which I am able to scribble on the blank sheet of the back of my mind, then yes is the only answer with which I can reply.
Later in his Letters Rilke says, "If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is not poverty." Often times, when I have heard enough lament about a city without a culture, of greener grass abroad, I think of this. What right do I have to blame others for what I cannot find in my own life? If ever there is a time when I cannot find a spotting point, a place to focus in order to prevent dizziness, then I have lost my skill.
When the little bile-invoking troubles of the day come up it is the hardest to stay objective. It is in these moments though, that it is most important to reflect on the good little things. It is in those moments before I slip off to sleep that I feel the most alive, the most aware that anything can happen, and the most willing to believe that that is true. Of course we all falter, it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head. The realm where there is nothing but Cara, and not the anticipation of a box to climb into or a name tag to be worn.

Deep Thoughts not by Jack Handey

Cara Lisa Powers
Assignment #2

Fumbling with keys, my icy fingers have trouble finding the lock. Open. Close. A plastic runner under the door sometimes gets stuck, but not today. Closing the wind behind me, I start the car. Elvis Costello croons to me from an aging tape deck that needs to be cleaned and glows the time. Ten minutes fast for my own good, it pierces the dark car with the digits: 6:03. As the car warms up, and the night street becomes more clear, I buckle my seatbelt and stuff my hands under my legs, in between the cold seats and my cold jeans, hoping some reaction will warm something.
My fingers, stinging from the cold, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. As my fingers dull to a comfortable numb, I reach for the manual window crank and roll the window down enough to fit my hand through comfortably. Lighting up a cigarette, I take a sip of my scalding hot coffee before pulling out on to the street. This is the moment I wait for all day. Knowing my house and all of the lack of obligation that it represents are only five streetlights away, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or frustrated car honking to occupy my non-steering hand, and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
I glide easily down Park Avenue in the post rush-hour lull, an even marker of dinnertime siesta. Immediately following this, the happy time, is the sad time, the title that myself and my roommate have given to the time of day at which we set our cell phone alarms to 5:30 and 6:30 AM, respectively. The time when I shut off the car, and Elvis Costello, Frank Zappa, and Bob Dylan disappear with the haze of the headlights, into the black of the night, and I trudge up the fire escape to the world outside my head. I will in the next two hours eat, shower, discuss my day with my roommates, whom I see far too infrequently, leave a message for my best friend who I see even more infrequently, and give the dog a cookie, so it still loves me and remembers me when I get home tomorrow. Then something will most likely distract me, something that pushes my bedtime back into the vicinity of midnight.
When that magical moment finally happens it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head.
Regardless though, 530am always comes too quickly, and whether I fall into my bed at 8pm or 2am, the alarm always sounds next to my head just early enough to be jarring. I bundle myself like a kindergartner no matter what the weather report, preparing for the frigid wind of the predawn walk to work. By the time I arrive at work, I am slightly more awake, thanks to my friend nicotine, but the half hour it takes for the espresso machine to heat up is always discouraging. The whirring of the coffeemakers and the loud hum of the oven makes it necessary to turn the music up so loud that my co-worker and I often wait until we’re already open to discuss our weekends.
For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that count out my day into segments. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily like. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body. Then another three hours. No matter how excited I am about a class or an assignment, or a meeting, each moment is spent thinking about how many more moments are between me and my car, me and my bed, me and the weekend, me and May and freedom. At the end of that class, though, while I glide effortlessly down the five streetlights of Park Avenue, there is only that moment. There is only me, and Elvis Costello, and my coffee and my cigarette. That is my grounding moment. That is my Zen.

old poem (embarassingly cliche)

we lost our footing
but no one fell
this balancing act is tiresome

if i walk away will you fall
if i let go of your arm
will you fall
will you fall in love

because thats what ive been wanting
waiting craving
foolishly
im not a fool
im taking off this silly hat

under a clear cold night
half naked in a chill
i tripped into you
we kissed and more
and i knew then what i know now
that things would never be the same.