-- 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                                            

-- 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

-- Me

This is Part I of an interpretation of "happiness" (adapted from an English final project). It is dated and naive -- most appropriate for the topic, really. See Part II, III, IV, V, & VI. 

Old buildings. 7:30 PM.

Cheese. Dusting keyboards

Suspenders. Polaroid pictures.

Mornings that smell like coffee.

Christmas.

Bagels with lox. Men’s undershirts.

Pulling out the remnants of ripped paper from spiral notebooks

Nutella hot chocolate. Semicolons.

Air that smells like camp.

Sleep.

Lord of the Rings marathons. Times Square.

Giving directions in a place I don’t know.

Scuttling leaves. 1^st grade kisses.

Pens that smell like ink,

Post-its.

Hidden smiles. Indian food

Wearing tutus for no reason

Handwritten letters. Rubik’s cubes.

Books that smell like time.

Titrations

Nertz. Leather biker jackets.

Waking up laughing.

Wasabi wars. Red Keds.

            (“Navy or red, Dad?”

            “Red. So your feet will always be happy.”)

Deodorant that smells like my first slow dance

Spaces.

                                                                                                           --  Me