New Pointe Shoes

[There is nothing in the world like a new pair of handmade pointe shoes. People always see them as being girly, pretty slippers. All I see is strength.]

Blanched pink satin,
just smooth enough,
covering the canvas and glue and paper
that hold me up.
The canvas keeps me from being grounded--
from being stuck on the earth--
The satin lets me do something about it.
My feet know the motions,
my mind keeps the beat,
and my fingertips hold the truth.

The [Epic] Battle of Locke Lake

[For a bonus assignment in English class, we had the option of writing a 40-line epic poem. The resulting poem is shown here, and I think I'll try another sometime soon.]

The sun shone long on a scene,
Which the earth has seen but once,
That shall pass again no more; may the guidance
Of the divine Muses in the heavens from
Whence the sun was born come to my aid
As I speak this fateful tale. Two competitors
Stood out on the floating raft, brandishing
Deadly Fate in their hands: wooden pokers sharp
As the prick of a quill, with minds as keen—
The heavenly rays glinted off the frothing foam
Of the Lake that poured itself around the raft
With the wrath of a thrice-cursed sleeping puppy.
And, lo! the fighters faced each other, knowing that
The victor of this fated swordfight must with
Valiant arm push the other into the murky lake
Of sand and weeds. Locking eyes, blue to blue,
They felt their friendship turn to dust and float
To the floor of the deep, to be crawled over by
The bottom-dwelling slug and snail of the seas;
For just as there is no place for George Bush
At an English language convention,
Nullus amicitiae in bello locus est:
There is no place for friendship in war.
Swift as the falcon sighting its prey,
He struck out first. She leapt to the side
With the speed of a rattlesnake; the initial
Blow passed, they circled each other at the edge
Of their platform, water leaping from its bounds
To snap and spit at their ankles. Suddenly, their
Swords met at once, and with a great crack
The wood was slashed from the tip of her poker,
His was split with jagged edge in two—
Quickly now they ducked and parried,
One shoulder stabbed, another hand sliced,
And with their injuries the formidable foes
Persisted in their quests for everlasting glory.
Now, with a great cry, she pushed forward
And struck; the fatal blow was to the stomach,
A deadly wound. The hero stood defeated;
Once more he raised his eyes to heaven,
And, bowing to his opponent, leapt
Down into six feet of water and swirling mud.

Optipessimism.

[I think I should elaborate on my life philosophy a little more fully; I think it explains quite a bit.]

I am (in fact) a
closet optimist, Against
my better judgment and best interests...
I can't help but Think that somehow
things will get better than this--and
This really ain't all that bad. I am: a
cynic, misanthropist, overall overly overt
worshiper of anything facecious that
brings out the best (flaws) in people, and
a pessimist. A hopeful one.
All because, when I'm alone, I can walk barefoot
and hear the ground sing.

force of nature

[Just some thoughts.]

I like to dance when I feel like this--
to pull at my muscles like they're a dogsled team, running horses,
that feel exactly like I do--
a force of nature. When the trees
strain at their roots in the wind
and the water rises up to meet the air,
when aerial sun battles grounded ice,
the dirt keeps in the force of a thousand hurricanes below,
standing triumphant against molten counterpart and simmering,
burning, holding it back for
the life that rests upon it.

shoebox

[I'm just going off a mood here. It's a short piece.]

They like to say that I have a photographic memory. I don't.

I have an empty shoe box, a quarter full with memories--ideas--
where little things sometimes fall in and rest there
only to be discovered again.
I have a shoebox scrapbook where the dusty pieces of fabric
live, and they fray a little bit when I pick them up,
piece by piece, to watch their texture in the sunlight,
and watch them soften,
and watch them breathe.

A (short) Short Story

The sunflower seeds, as always, lay scattered on the worn down, torn-up, red leather passenger seat, basking in their parents' namesake. They were reflected in the extra-long mirror on the right side of the eighteen-wheeler, and a tattooed hand reached down to pull a handful out of the bag while an expert spit blew a mouthful of shells out the window. Concerned parents would have followed the trucks with shrill protestations, had such people known about the drag races--but they didn't. For these two men, it was just a long stretch of beaten-down highway and a tradition formed through long beaten-down years.

     Bill stepped out of his truck first, as custom dictated, walking away from the faded black lettering on his trailer.
     "Name your terms," he said gruffly to Neil. Only the laugh in his eyes granted any softness to the words. Neil leaned out of his window from the high red seat. "And you have sunflower seeds in your beard."
     "Watch yer' attitude," replied Neil, brushing away the shells nevertheless. Gesturing, he pointed to a familiar sign a mile away. "I beat you again, you pay for burgers down at Lou's the next time we're in Springfield. Burgers and coffees and a bag of sunflower seeds for me."
     "Coffee and the seeds."
     "Burger, one coffee, seeds."
     "No coffee, seeds, and a burger."
     "Done."
     They shook. Neil spit. Bill climbed back into the eighteen-wheeler and started the engine in a small cloud of grey smoke. Neil did the same amidst some suspicious clanging that he never got around to fixing. By now, the didn't need to count out loud with blasts of the deep truck horn; each knew when the other would start.
     Three, two, one. Go.