I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth. 

- UMBERTO ECO          

-- Spaces

This is the "final installment"* of a series. See Part I, II, III, IV, & V. (*Quotation marks denote lighthearted self-mockery)

Dear                  ,

What do you see in these words?

Comprehension, expression, catharsis?

What more are words,

But ink droplets, coerced into shapes,

Forced into ideas.

No, idea.

What do you connote with connotations?

Words (and again words) of people

You don’t know. I don’t know.

I don’t                             .

            ("Red")

The ocean. It feels red.

Does it feel red?

Full. Of meanings you don’t mean.

Feelings you don’t feel.

Thoughts you don’t think.

He. He thinks for you.

Him over yonder.

He does not like his oceans red.

Nothing. Can be empty.

Perhaps a word, full of permanently stained molecules

Passed over with quivering fingers. Or just                 .  

And how about this              ?

Everything. All at once,

Filtered, contemplated,

Eliminated

The demarcation, intrusions.

Full. Of everything.

            All at once.

So              , you can’t explain.

Of daydreams and night terrors,

Cloud-shapes and closet-shadows,

You.

One cannot look at a                          and see nothing.

--  Spaces                                            

Receptacle

Prior to this receptacle of thoughts, I scribbled on Word documents. 53 (give or take 13) half paragraphs, more eloquent than I ever need to be to myself. Ever the penchant for dramatics, you know.

Like diaries, without the malfunctioning locks and pink ribbon bookmarks. A recent one reads:

          "Dear Jen: You're too young to be old. Love, Me."*

How right Me is. In the past, I've described myself to friends as, "A constant oscillation between a 10-year-old girl scout and an 80-year-old man who only drinks Earl Grey." The latter may or may not be consuming the former (starting with her cookies).

50% of all conversations I've had in the last year involve lamentation about how old we are. After which someone always says, "But we're not, really. We're not," followed by unconvincing nods and unsupportive thoughts. We never really feel our age, someone told me once (doff of the cap). I brushed it off at the time, but I increasingly find this to be true.There's just a lot of faking and waiting in vain for it to feel right.

The purpose of this series of poems is not to throw glitter balloons in your face and flaunt how devastatingly happy I am (because 1. I'm not and 2. glitter-filled balloons sound horrific). Rather, it serves as a self-reminder of what it's like to be nauseatingly young and carefree.**

*Yes, I write these things to myself. Because I sometimes think my life is a movie. You know you've done it, too.
** They were written when I teetered dangerously close to glitter-balloon territory. 

People need loving the most when they deserve it the least. 

- JON HARRIGAN                       

-- Pen that Smells like Ink

This is Part IV of a series. See Parts I, II, III, V, & VI. 

I’ve always liked ballet

            Bars as straight as lasers

                        A backbone

                                    And the weaving

                        In and out

            Out and about

It reminds me

            Of paper, college ruled

                        Lines not dark enough to overpower

                                    Crisp, clean, waiting

                                                For weaving. For a dance

 Between lovers, unrequited

                        I get a high, a thrill of waiting

            At the tip of a rollercoaster

                        Have you followed the feet of a dancer?

                                    Tracing ribbons into infinity

                                                Like so, everyday.

                                                            Butter on a heated skillet

                                                                        Tracing letters on a lover’s back

                                                                                    Waft of pungence

 Of dusty attics, yellowed pages,

 Leather, detergent, incense. 
 Weaving through my ballet bars.

                                    Evidence of my love.

                                               

--Pen that smells like ink

-- Red Keds

This is Part III of a series. See Parts I, II, IV, V, & VI. No, really. Those links are meant for clicking. Otherwise, this poem will just be a face-palming mess of rhymes. 

You’d think I’m made for skipping

But really that’s not so

You’d think I’d want to dance and sing

But to that I’d tell you no.

I really hate it when I talk in rhyme

It makes me want to cringe

To melt into embarrassment

And perhaps go on a binge.

I hate it when I make you look

Prepubescent at best

I’d rather you didn’t swing your legs

And put my anger to the test.

I hate your friends who point at me

And tell you that I’m cute

They’d see I’d rather give you blisters

If they were really that astute.

I hate that your toes cramp into me

Stretching and writhing about

Stop complaining that I’m too small on you

When it’s really that you’re too stout.

How dare you complain about my stench

When clearly you’re to blame

Who cares if I don’t ventilate

When your other shoes do the same

You left me on the bathroom floor

For months and months on end

Where my life consisted naked bums

And the taste-less singing of your friend

Stop implying that I’m juvenile

When it’s obvious I’m not

I’m worldly enough to write this poem

And I can rhyme...bergamot.
                                                                             -- Red Keds

-- Book that Smells like Time

This is Part II of a series. See Parts I, III, IV, V, & VI. 

Waterstained into wavy pages.

Layers, like the rings of a tree

And dead, usually.

And time.

March 23, 1956, Page 34

“O that this too solid flesh would melt”

Thumb, larger than average, rested

2 inches from the top

Barely touching

Pause.

December 17, 1967, Page 68

“Words. Words. Words.”

Wedged within worn pages

Pencil with an over-used eraser

An unstrategic scribbler, no doubt.

April 2, 1978, Page 83

“But I am pigeon livered and lack gall”

A ticket, red with 2 ridges, hastily ripped

Commissioned officers’ mess open

Camp LeJeune.

June 17, 1994, Page 128.

“My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth”

Smear of jam, quickly swiped off,

Licked off freshly manicured fingers.

2 cm from a jotted phone number.

Pages in danger of tearing

Apart. Fluttering at the seams

At every bend. Fragile.

Strengthened by time.

Hamlet.

                                                                    --  Book that smells like time