gingham tressed upon gingham written upon
pages wiped with words that seep between lips
balmed between
blankets taken under and over fireplaces inflamed with warmth
of embers burned and disappeared into air thin that hits cold skin
settles and drys white. 

In summers of Greens and Blooz

Ooh ooh why didn’t I remember

My lips curved around yours when the photo booth curtains closed

I would have caught myself in the spiral.

Into tight spaces is where you left my poetry

In pages of books on dirty shelves and drunken stories

It was nothing to remember

We left thinking that a matchstick would ignite and words

Would spread into quilts of warmth.

Ohh ooh taste that feeling of regret after the fun is over

Stain

I pulled the string to tip the bucket
tip the bucket over.
I knew it would, I knew it would
spill its contents on the carpet.
And stain its fibers, ruining
the color it was made for.

But all the while the carpet was clean,
it was not even noticed.
Everyday it took its wear and tear
from soles not well intentioned.
And everyday each string was matted further in the floor.

Now the stain that leaves a ring much darker at the edges,
Much darker at the edges, a stigma at the edges

Untitled

We sat enclosed in the confines
of leather seats that stuck
To bare legs.
summer sweat.
matchstick lit.
It burned with a promise to never touch
the tips of my fingers.Your hand-moved, consuming the flame as my
lips lowered to kiss
calloused knuckles.
Mimicking sound waves of the seventh son you whisper: “Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar, and take our sweet little time about it.”
It took three seconds until sulfur rose to greet me and
the fresh smell of smoke comforted me,
redolent of a time when we gave in.
You leaned in.
I leaned back.
And “It’s quite possible that I’m your third man” stuck to my neck.
You take your time and I'll take mine.
Tucking my hair behind my ears you think:
Give me three seconds and I swear the stars will align in our favor.
You "just wait"

I better get my ass married quick or I'll

waste my womb, I'll
trench my tomb, I'll

not be norm, I'll
wake not warm, I'll

sit at home, I'll
arrive alone, I'll

grow grey, I'll
soon fade.

I decided to try something different. This is a re-write of a famous poem. See if you can guess the original...

It's almost spring

My mind keeps slipping on
icy sidewalks outside "our place". trying to remember the last time
i uttered the word

nostalgia. I try to explain to fifteen years of life on this earth. A word that can only be fully understood by experience.
And my foot slips...haphazardly, creating a credence of uncertainty.
A change in the frozen air; dryness on my shriveled lips
and wanting to boldly proclaim

regret. a need to speak but words are trapped inside like the concrete that keeps a statue from speaking. Its silence seeps and leaves me no choice but

penance. In sequence with giving up the old.
Outside is cold, but inside it is colder.
like carrying ice to a freezer. Now, amerced for a small offense of not watching where i was headed.

Audrey, Paul, and Frank

You told me to wait.
You told me to cut my hair and in return
I would look like Audrey H.
I clutched those scissors tightly in bed.

You told me we'd swing together behind my house
and watch my parents spin around the kitchen floor,
all the while sipping cokes, because that's
what Frank O would have wanted.

You told me you liked blue eyes.
So I closed my lashes and made a wish.
A wish that Paul N. would come
knocking at my door.

And in my naiveness I was spent.
erasing your syndicating psycho-ness
from my figurative mind,
I told you to "fuck off."

All That I Remember of Tin Cans and Bird Feathers

The childhood tree, which I used to climb, is still here,
but the car in which we kissed is gone.

A memory left in the branches of the backseat,

some of your hair,
I imagine, still in the fabric.

But, then again,
our eyes were closed most nights;
moving to the hum of the headlights.

Outside mosquitoes, living in Diaspora, completely
displaced, we realized
young people will find homes

away from home.

Collaborative poem with Vince Bauters

Statement of Poetics

I found my statement of poetics from a long time ago. I am thinking of re-vamping, but here's the original...
Poetry leaves you thinking the art of writing words is the obvious and most enigmatic thing all at the same time.

"Do You Have A Light?"

You stain like the stale smell of a cigarette
that seeps into my sienna burnt strands of hair.
In your simple stain fashion, permanence lies deep at the scalp.

Sitting there, rotting there, with no
way to wipe away, scrub clean
without first smelling the awful
stench of smoke left in the follicles.
I inhale the fresh scent because the smell of something new is what life is all about.

Breathe it in, blow it out, with no
avenue of keeping its lingering effects out of my goddamn hair.
It's you I hear, you I see when my uncontrolled conscience turns
toward that white cloud of hypocrisy and asks, "Do you have a light?"

Opaque-ness of a hallway

I left my sorrows in the carpet fibers
Of my unfurnished apartment.
A puddle was left around my rug-burned knees, where the redness
of the temporary indentations blazed on my skin and emanated a hot heat.
I rose reluctantly, pushed the door open, and walked down the moth scented orange isle.

Bohemians Sitting on a Stump

Bohemians sitting on a stump.
Scratching the surface of wood with their curled in
monkey hands.
Crouched over in waiting like a homeless man waiting for soup after three days of starvation.
They wait.
They gaze over to the next Bohemian on a stump
and wonder what they look like underneath. What they are starving for.
They twist spines from right to left because they cannot move from their stump unless told to.
Hands above heads, arms stretched out, chin resting on palms. Any position to keep from the dangers of insanity.

A Master comes around and observes the stumps and its inhabitant. Each in its proper place. The Bohemian leans over, stretching as far as their limbs will lengthen, straining to see a glimpse of the Master's parchment. Only what is on the paper determines their fate.

They start drumming. Hands cut from reverberating a noise on the hollow stump, trying to make some small stream of sound.
"Listen to this beat!"
"Louder!"
A postman 20 miles away delivers mail in a small quiet suburban neighborhood.
He stops, listens, and hears the thunderous noise of the Bohemian boys in the distance...

My Birthday in your Kitchen

Collaborative poem with Vince Bauters

What animal will this
sadness grow into late tonight?
A sorrowful knot of precarious lies
crawling out of its fetal position reliving
a soulful past like your car driving
through snow on a New Year's Eve.
Headlights blind an already
drowsy calendar mile.

In the Park

Secrets. He told me, in that quiet place. Were
memories of when my younger days were devoured and savored by the lion
of lust.
We held hands.
A whisper chased in liquid ears.
A look of a giant into naive eyes.
Relinquishing these rays of the antiquated night
I yearn for what only flashes to the finish of nothing satisfying.

My Senses

tasted. in a breathe
the quickness of 500, 25 thousand, 600 minutes.
watched, in a blink
the unraveling of tissue by the hundreds.
took in the smell, wafting of sweets and homemades.
heard, swiftly
the rustling of taffeta, yellow ruffles
hoisted upon two thin legs.
touched, the softness of a face
that only can be the blossoming reflection of a girl whom I've known for years.

Bright White Light

Sitting here, trapped. Surrounded by bright white.
I usually post poetry, so I can mask and mirror life's intentions.
I'm too afraid that someone will find me and challenge my fight under a
bright white light.
A friend considers me important so I smile. It has been a while since I've
felt even a little needed. Thank God for soul mates.
"Thank God I'm back in my car, driving home, driving home"

e.e.cummings

e? How is it that you have a way with words?
e? Why can't I see inside your prodigious, spectacular, preternatural mind?
I can't understand it e. The impeccability of letters
p a
r a d
e d

on

a
page.

e. You leave me with questions that puzzle and pop.

The Descent

This is the part that I should love the most
This is where all my reclusive thoughts should appear.
This is when I stop at the boiling point.
212 degrees drawing near.

This is my selfishness ready to seep
out into and over the pot of despair.
This is my heart saying no to the fall,
and my mind not ready to reason with fair.

I want to change into a tempting release
before Sylvia takes over and clutches my soul.
To grab a hold of that which sums, before sinking
into the bottomless Plutonian hole.

Time

Time is not on my side. Isn't that the opposite of what the Stones put forward that embraced
that awful truth.
To realize that one day there will be nothing left of time but our tired and worn out bodies.
A butterfly...in it's finite being only has so much of this limited allotment.
She flies around the yard creating beauty just by being. It doesn't wait for the opportune moment to parade it's wings around the courtyard. It doesn't wait for silence to say "This...this is my time to come out of the bush." She just flutters freely. The same goes for my words.It is when time is limited that words come to me. When I have no pen or paper to capture them. I need a mental net to trap them in one place until I can scribble my ideas and conceal them in one beautiful glass jar.

Craving, Asking, Partaking

I want to see paradise, but I want a red delicious apple too.
I want to live by the beach, but I crave rhubarb cobbler too much.
I want to be in love, but I covet creme brulee.

Is it the tastes that I long for, or the satisfaction I get from this nourishment?
They go through my digestive system double-time. Before I even get to enjoy them,
they are gone.

My eyes are too big for my stomach, so I eat of the crimson ball.
My body is tired and worn, so I take out my serving knife.
My heart is untouched therefore, I indulge and the flavors that melt on my tongue.

There is nothing like loving this one.

Please remember me...the words i muddle,
the artists i admire, the places I traveled, and the pictures you inspire.

I've come to learn that if you have a round face you're "cute."
If you add a little chunk to that you're "sweet."
People use words like "hun," "sweetie," and "darlin."
I've become the nice girl that's afraid of my own shadow.
I want to be seen as something other than cute. And I sure as hell don't wanna be "sweet."
Not that there's anything wrong with this, but it's not me. It's just my unchangeable exterior that haunts me.

Letter to a Legend

Dear Sylvia,

This world has changed since you've existed in it. Women are well educated now and may become whatever they please. They only admit persons into an asylum if they are truly insane. Courting is for the religiously devout. People don't care about writing or poetry like you did. Anyone can be a poet. I know you would disagree. Relationships are kept alive from afar with as little human contact as possible. Children learn to grow up the minute their father walks out the door. But, as much as I hate to say things have changed, much has stayed the same. There is still war going on; men bleeding for a hope that we will someday be invulnerable. Money is still the root of all evil, there's just less of it. People still lie, cheat, and steal when they think no one is looking. Iniquities still haunt the human soul like it was the first day and the apple was that red. Would you have made the same decision if you knew the future? I believe you would. It just would have been sooner...

The Fall of Icarus

Icarus
The man passes slowly as the creature ascends
into the air within stones throw
the sweltering planet he sweats and
drips into wax
drops into wash
drinks in the splash
of the water. His legs
lifted for aide
muddled in vain
flailing to save
himself in the midst. Here he's forgot
in the water
alone.

The Bathroom Scene

I remember the porcelain chair... my legs pulled up beneath me, my eyes towards the mirror... I was never so fascinated, wondering when it would be my turn. To choose any color I wanted from the palate, and smear it on my face until my eyes opened up surrounded in black and my cheeks flushed in pink. I watched my mother carefully. Where was she going? Her eyelashes curled, her legs pulled in, nestled in the oval shaped ceramic bowl. Accompanied by her bag of tricks and lighter fluid. Who did she think she would impress? I don't think it was me.

If I could keep one poem in my pocket for the rest of my life, it would be this one:
This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
--William Carlos Williams

Today is poem in your pocket day so here it goes:

why is why is why is...
weighted questions of sovereignty
inquest of life, draped over eyes
related to the immoral severity
lines to cross, and paychecks to rise

Statement of poetics

I actually did it. I wrote my own statement of poetics. Can it measure up to Samuel Coleridge's ingenious "best words" or Frank O'Hara's profound discovery of Personism? Probably not. Can it embody the cleverness of my head being ripped off Dickinson. Not a chance. Will it ever match up to William Carlos Williams "no ideas but in things?" Never. but it's mine. all mine. and no one can take that away from me.

I feel as if I have abandoned my blog for way too long. I won't be gone for too long.

An Ode to Sylvia

My not so New Year's Resolutions

What I need to change for New Years ( these are NOT resolutions because I can't commit myself fully to them, but I would like to)

1. I never take anything seriously. If I did my mind would explode. So i guess I could try and change that.

2. My secret life that is kept alive by all that is unpopular within me.(Dunn) Which means maybe I can try and be more open with others if they are willing to listen.

3. Stop getting angry at stupid things like when chocolate ice cream is spilled all over my favorite blanket (not by me I might add). I guess that's why God invented a man that invented washers.

Angry

You know the feeling when you are so angry at someone that you only focus on that one thing? Everything else seems trivial because you wish you had said something different, to let them know how you really felt. It makes you so mad you wish you could re-live the conversation so you could say what you really wanted to say. You know...the conversation you play over and over in your head where every put-down is a burn so bad that they won't know what to say back. That you talk so fast, blow after blow, that they have no time left to get a word in to defend themselves...better yet, they won't be able to defend themselves because they will be so blown away by what you just said, that they instantaneously realize they were in the wrong and beg for forgiveness. That's how I feel right now.

Iridescence

I wish I were an artist. I would like to vividly catch all my dreams in the palm of my hand and smear them onto paper. I think when I get to heaven, if God asks me which aspect of creation was my favorite, I will answer "color". I admire red because it requires completion. You can never leave something red left uncolored. Black is a perfectly loathsome pigmentation that encompasses all colors into one dark soulful ink. Quite the contrary is white. In all it's imminence alabaster manifests itself onto an unblemished surface. Then there is green. A hue created with such disguise, when used with care can create an illusion of happiness. Blue takes on a new meaning when speaking of the heavens. Purple recreates an image of lustrous radiance. Whether rich or light it always embodies fullness. Yellow allows for sincerity and contentment. Orange requires work and dedication in the simplest form. All other colors are just waiting to be defined. They fit in the middle of the road where paints are mixed and ambiguity takes precedence.

My Tears

Sometimes when I can't sleep I cry
My tears put babies to shame
I weep for the broken-hearted, the poor, the let down,
I weep for my own broken-heart
Controlling them is no longer an option
They roll down my face as a ball rolls down a hill
never stopping until it hits the bottom
Without notice the pillowcase becomes a basin slowing absorbing
each droplet into the air again.
Isn't that where the tears come from anyways?
The air?
It surrounds you
chokes you until eventually can't hold it in any longer
Then the flow begins

Here

Here. right here. released. into thin air. into what I thought would be safe. but for now i float. aimless. airless. as if gravity never had a name to begin with. it's cold. dark. i wait for you to tell me where to go. to tell me my mind isn't playing tricks. you lie. you dance on my shoulder and leave marks on my skin. scars. indents that never pop up. they are impossible to rid. i try. to erase them. to expunge. to eradicate. still you sit there. making yourself comfortable, smiling serenely. I look the other way. my head moves back to the malign sound as if i am forced to turn back. i look into the cave. at crepuscular. under the Cimmerian shade. i take a step. into a puddle. into a lake. into an ocean where my feet cannot touch the ground. I'm drowning. asphyxiated.inundated. immersed.

because Karin and Linford can do it better than I ever could

Changes come
Turn my world around... I have my father's hand,
I have my mother's tongue,
I look for redemption in everyone. I wanna wear your ring
I have a song to sing
It ain't over babe
In fact it's just begun.

Changes come
Turn my world around
Changes come
Bring the whole thing down. I wanna have our baby
Somedays I think that maybe
This ol' world's too fucked up
For any firstborn son. There is all this untouched beauty
The light the dark both running through me,
Is there still redemption for anyone? Jesus come,
Turn the world around
Lay my burden down
Turn this world around
Bring the whole thing down
Bring it down

Because

Because
Because I'm sad, because I want more out of life, because to not have you would be hell on Earth, because it rained today, because my heart is no longer an organ to be proud of, because life is too short, because pain is something very real, because I can't control my thoughts, because I think too much, because to give in would be to fail, because loneliness takes it's toll, because I'm just a pawn pushed along the chessboard, because black makes me happy, because I no longer see the big picture, because like the wind I wear and tear, because I only wait to speak, because selfishness grows inside me like a weed, because time never stops, because there's no such thing as unbias, because I am waiting for a world that will never change, because I choose to live in my esoteric sphere, because to open up would be a waste of time.

(These are my own words but the idea of this poem comes from another, just to be fair,... because we all have our own becauses)

When my love cup is full

O:tinker, tinker, tinker...Mimi, Mimi, Mimi,... tinker, tinker, tinker. S: Tinker? You want Tinker? O: yeah yeah yeah yeah tinker, tinker, tinker tinker S:Ok Mimi will play Tinker O:(smile)

Sugarplums

November 15th, 2009: The Christmas tree is being put up. Here is a typical St.Aubin Family "putting up the tree" tradition:
1. Sam puts on Elf Soundtrack and dad complains that one song on there isn't really a Christmas song.
2. Mom tells boys to go into the basement and bring up the heavy tree and ornaments...two hours later, mom tells the boys to go into the basement and bring up the heavy tree and ornaments...
3. Everyone is sprawled out on the couch with a blanket while mom straightens out all the branches on the trees while she asks if there are any holes on a 3 minute basis.
4. Dad asks when we are eating dessert.
5. Time for ornaments. Always the first is the ornament my Grandma Trudy made. It's a golden ball made to look like a puppy. Each ornament is strategically debated on whether it should be placed in the front or the back. This one always gets placed in the back. (I secretly move it to the front throughout the season)
6. Dad wants to turn on Ongbak during our Christmas celebration.. ok...
7. There is not one place to look where there is not a snowmen within view.
8. My dad asks what is left to do when the only thing he has done the whole night is push some buttons on a remote.
9. Trevor stands on a chair and dances to Santa Baby while putting the bow on top of the tree.
10. Fireplace goes on even though its fifty degrees outside. Gotta get in the Christmas spirit!

This is me take it or leave it

1. I always tuck my socks into my pants before i go to bed even if it is 90 degrees.

2. I eat blueberry waffles on a daily basis and I don't care what anyone thinks about it.

3. I over think EVERYTHING.

4. My life would be boring and miserable if I didn't have a Lauren in it.

5. My goal in life is to be shot and live to tell about it.

6. My addiction to soap operas is gaudy and I love it.

7. I think diets are the stupidest thing since sliced bread.

8. My dad always has and always will call me his teenie.

9. If you always tell the truth you will always be a bad liar.

10. My sister is the one thing my life cannot go without.

11. Food is always better at someone else's house.

12. Sometimes I tell people I have Southern roots even though I know it's a bold-faced lie.(but it's fun to pretend!)

13.My life wouldn't be the same if I had never left the country.

14. I have come to find out that third graders are the smartest, funniest, most clever little beings I have ever met.

The End of an Era

I am coming to a point in my life where I must give up something I love very much. It is something that has meant the world to me for five years and counting.(but I guess when you think about it, five years is just a fraction in your lifetime). For five years I have invested my time, invested my energy, invested my zeal into a little box located fifteen minutes from my home. I must leave this place soon and venture out into a place I know little about...the world. But I feel so comfortable here...
Who would ever think you could become so attached to a corporate owned restaurant chain located in the middle of Northwest, Indiana? It is hard to visualize my life if I have never been there. I have cried there, made friends there, gotten sick there, had the best conversations of my life there, learned most of what I know about sex there, ate there, read there when I didn't want to go home...
I think working in a restaurant can be one of the best experiences a person can have followed by the worst. I have never loved something so much and hated it equally at the same time. It is folklore in its' purest form. A culture created. It cannot be like any other because we created it. There can never again in the whole existence of the universe be a group exactly like us. In this small atmosphere relationships are made and broken, life lessons are learned, dirty jokes are told, people's feelings are hurt, people laugh till they cry, yelling, hugs, drinks are poured, dishes are broken along with hearts, different nationalities collide, profanities are yelled, nicknames are coined, company is enjoyed, money is made, tables are wiped, floors are swept, girls are swept too but off their feet, flirting is regular, customers are regular, chocolate moltens are desired, friends are bailed out of jail, feelings are shared, arguments are frequent, customers are rude, time is always on our side... I could go on. This is the time in my life that I will look back on when I'm forty and think that this here and now was the best time of my life, and I never want to forget it. It will be hard to let it go.