Re(as)semble

Everything here feels like a beginning.
It's a new season,
and love is growing on the trees.
I feel an excitement inside me
building to something,
a climax --
but only we drive forward
to separation --
Turn, turn, turn.

What strange tossing in a familiar sea.
In and out of water
re-learning how to breath.
I feel an excitement growing inside me
building to something
a tsunami --
but only we swim forward
to separ-
ation.
Turn, turn, turn.

The long awaited vista is peaking
out from behind this mountain
asking to be seen.
I feel an excitement growing inside me
building to something
a mountain peak --
but only we climb onward
to separation.
Turn

Juice

This is how a poem looks
the night before a final exam:




Time for bed.

Red and Whites

It's a Tuesday night,
street lights been on,
buzzin'
loud as shit.
I'm on my street corner
'cause that's where I go
Tuesdays.
I'm just smokin'
my last three Red and Whites
'cause I save 'em --
I save 'em Tuesdays
s'I can smoke 'em here
and by the time they's all gone,
I know Tuesday's too.
Why I come here
is what most people demand.
"Get your ass home man,"
they tell me.
Guess you stop appreciatin'
street corners
when they's more like a bed --
more like a dinner table
more like a place of business
than a thinkin' spot.
Man, I don't really have reason
to be here tonight
on Tuesday
chose it pretty arbitrarily.
I just like settin'
and thinkin' with my three
Red and Whites.
Maybe I wanna watch people,
ya know?
Maybe I just wanna feel
like a part of the city --
part of the street
and not the streets,
like I belong
much as this bench
I worn in
belongs on this corner.

Room of Squares

There were once entire afternoons

that I spent sprawled across my bed,

staring at the star shaped reflection of my body

in the round glass light fixture above my bed, 

crooked

because I once hit it with my towel

on the way to the shower,

flailing, trying to fend off a large mosquito.

Sisters

Today I thought of Sarah's
day-of-the-week underpants.
How she liked to show them off,
proud to know which day it was
and proud of the fact
that she didn't have to remember
which day it was
because it was printed on her underpants.

Today I thought of the way
that Jenna did my hair
on the first day of 7th grade.
She gave me a scarf to borrow
and pulled it through my belt loops,
paired it with a blue shirt
(also hers)
and fixed my hair
in a smooth swoop
off to the side,
how I caught my reflection in the
framed wall hangings
and the glass doors that day.
I thought I was the most beautiful 7th grader
maybe ever.

Today I thought of Mom
and how I cried for a long time --
over days and months
and maybe several hours all at once
on one occasion,
sobbing about the absence of love
even though she was
holding me,
"Becky-pie,"
how what I didn't think I could feel then
is what I remember now.

Today I thought of all the times
Sarah asked me,
"Hey Becca,
wanna sleep in my bed tonight?"
how I said no most of the time,
because she had cold feet.
How, when I did agree,
she'd talk until it probably
wasn't worth it anymore
to fall asleep,
And how I wouldn't admit she was brilliant
until I missed her more
than I wanted to be the one that was brilliant.

And I miss the way she wore
day-of-the-week underwear.

85 Degrees

Probably no one ever dies on days

when it's 85 degrees outside

and the sun is so close, 

you can almost catch it's rays

on your tongue like snow. 

But maybe farmers,

who have been waiting for rain

all spring long,

die inside  

when it's 85 degrees

and the sun is on their tongue 

instead of rain. 

Probably no one ever dies.

I don't know...

no one should die today

when it's 85

degrees outside

Critic of the Night

Lynne tells us "The audience
     is stupid."
"You really have to knock them
     over the head with it.
They don't know this music
     the way you do.
So you have to show them what you've found."

Lynne tells us that we sound
     like robots.
"Hey! You got through it!
    but that's the easy part, yeah?
Give it some life! You've mastered the technical
    now add the emotion.
And
    that's the part that's really difficult.
It's easy to robot right through it,
     yeah?"

So I knock the music out of the violin
    and I swell to the highest note
    like my true love is dying.
"Even more!"
    she yells, smiling and nodding
    at me as my bow flies
    and my fingers prance.
I feel like a clown, as I overemphasize each note
    each dynamic, each accent, each cadence.
But where did I get the idea
    that playing well is embarrassing?

And now, as I listen to my peers,
    trying to make music with their words,
I wish that Lynne were here.
"Louder!"
"Surprise me! Where is the emotion?
I don't know this piece,
you have to show it to me.
Can you try that again?
   Yeah, just one more time so I can hear it.
Yep, that's it. Now let's do it again.
More!
That's great. Can you do even more?
Yeah,
     even more."

It's not even about the words,
     when you're reading.
Just like it's not about the notes,
     when you're playing.
It's about how you play them.
It's about how you deliver them.
If you're not yelling the angry words that
     your character is thinking,
why should I believe you
when you tell me he's angry.
If you aren't almost crying
     when Ramona's true love is dying
how can you expect me to cry?

Lynne tells us "The audience
    is stupid."
And if that's true,
    then I guess, tonight,
that makes me a critic.