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Potential Submissions
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Hallway Antics
A boot and a book,
never meant to lead into,
this crazy friendship we have.
E-Town concrete meets Kenny Chesney,
as we rock out to whatever song plays next.
These nights become the norm,
like the hugs that happen in midair,
as you lift me off the ground,
just because you can.
I insist that I’m there as the room tutor,
and for short joke purposes only,
but we all know that’s not all there is to it.
No, there’s something more,
hidden in between the fifty times we try
to start an old diesel truck,
the two AM treks across campus
just because we’re awake,
the shouts of triumph as everyone’s favorite team,
makes the final play,
send text messages that make
the English major in me want to scream,
(but keep me smiling nonetheless)
and tell stories of road trips on audio tape.
Eventually we find that,
we owe it all to the boots and the books
that wouldn’t keep the doors propped open.
---
A sharp sound pierces the afternoon silence,
I groan and roll off my elevated bed.
My roommate giggles, the other two shout,
not wanting to go out into the cold November air.
I really wanted to take a quick nap before dinner.
I put my shoes on my bare feet
and grab my sweatshirt off the hook.
The four of us rush outside,
our neighbors bailing out of their rooms too
as the fire alarms echo down the long hallway.
The cold air wakes me up immediately
and I shiver as the wind whips through my hair.
We stand in a huddle, wishing that security would hurry up,
turn off the alarms and let us back inside.
I shiver and jump as our neighbors approach,
one putting his arms around me.
The wind cuts through my thin shoes
my bare feet now numb.
“Come here,” he mumbles,
quickly unzipping his coat and pulling me close.
I laugh and turn so I’m facing him,
my arms sliding along his shirt, wrapping around his back
his coat now my cocoon.
Smiling he puts his cigarette between his lips,
and pulls me a fraction closer,
before zipping his coat up around the both of us.
We laugh in shock that he was able to close it,
and I bury my face against his chest,
my only defense to the November weather.
After fifteen minutes we arrive back inside,
the warm air of the building a blanket to our chilled skin.
He laughs as we part ways and promises that I can take his coat
whenever I find the need.
---
Dublin
We drove through forests in flames,
the black top cutting a clear path between
the red, gold and yellow surroundings.
A man croons a love song,
his voice soothing as it exits the speakers.
My hair whips around as the wind catches it,
the open window letting me see the change of seasons
just a little bit clearer.
---
TruthI.
I sit,
tick, tick, tick,
time goes by. 30 grand a year for me to sit.
Big brother is out, twin brother drops out.
“I’ll go back I promise!”
I hope he means it.
Tick, tick, tick,
each day means I’m still too far from him.
Tick, tick, tick,
the phone rings, it’s him.
We say love and talk of cold nights
without the comfort of each other’s arms.
The phone rings again, a friend.
Another night, another trauma,
bridges beckon with promises of a new life
one of the boys from home answered the call.
Jump, jump, jump,
no splash, missing, another face on the side of a milk carton.
Headlights rush past, I crash to the ground,
hand hurts, there’s a dented sign.
Home again, comfort in his arms,
not enough to soothe the trauma that comes
when the room goes dark.
Tick, tick, tick,
three months go by in a blur,
I missed the call on Christmas morning.
Tick, tick, tick, is it worth 30 grand for me to sit?
Tick, tick, tick,
back again
new class, sit with the ticks and tocks,
summer comes, not the end,
not at all.
Truth II.
Nine months since,
jump, jump, jump.
Two years since,
love, love, love.
My boys were never friends
but at least one is still here.
Is he the one?
“The hell if I know.”
But I can hope.
Tick, tick, tick,
third semester, back again.
Goodbye 30 grand.
Parents are proud.
Tick, tick, tick,
almost a year since
jump, jump, jump.
Eleven months, five days to be exact.
Also two years and two months since
love, love, love.
Stressed out, maxed out, drained.
Yeah I’m going down.
Interviews scare me,
I need the money
don’t want the job.
Too anxious.
Can’t balance trays,
I shake worse than the clientele.
Only time will tell.
---
Central Park
Three hours spent on a line outside the walls
of what will later become our haven, our home.
We shuffle forward,
step by step,
hearts beginning to race with every gained inch.
A rush, a mad rush as thousands surge forward,
trying to get the best vantage point.
Four bodies back, we sit,
our three forms curled together.
Six hours to go.
Night begins to fall,
the lights burn bright against the blackening sky,
sun burned cheeks and anxious eyes turn toward the platform.
A rock god steps up, the noise is deafening.
Loss of hearing, lack of voice,
worth it tomorrow after seeing him under the stage lights,
singing the songs about a town, twenty minutes from my home.
---
Savior
I.
Standing on the edge of a breakdown
twelve hours to go till the clock strikes midnight.
My heart races and breaks at the same time.
Goodbye love, you will be missed.
Goodbye love, I have no one here to comfort me.
Lover is seventy miles away,
Best friend, Goodbye love, has left forever.
Who can I run to?
II.
1:34 PM, the phone rings,
the name offering hope for a saving grace,
something to keep me from breaking.
Down the stairs, to the door,
big ears and a swishing tail,
sanity for the evening.
III.
I tell my story, choke on some words along the way
concern in his eyes.
A hand on my back
a wet nose and warm fur on my lap.
Saved for the time being.
IV.
The dreaded hour approaches,
11:59 the numbers say.
It’s still night time, technically.
You wrap your arms around me
and turn my face away
from the glowing red lines.
You tell me not to worry,
that you’ll be there for me
when the hour strikes.
I cringe, knowing it’s time,
you tighten your hold
and I close my eyes.
Savior.
---
Survive
We write love on our arms,
our declaration of strength
of being able to stand up,
put the pieces back together,
and keep moving.
We’ve lost pieces of ourselves,
friends and family along the way,
gone on their own accord.
We don’t know who was the first,
to take their own life,
the one to start the disease.
But still here we stand,
love on our arms.
It’s just another day
with our badge of honor
(this time it’s actually visible.)
---
Oldsmobile
The moon hides behind clouds,
the pearl of the night sky barely visible
as I peek out through the semi-defrosted windshield,
Headlights up ahead.
It’s in this moment that I can think clearly
(even with the roar of your ’83 Cutlass in my ears.)
You and I have fallen into a comfortable pattern,
our silence may bother some people
but for us,
the light brush of your hand over mine
and the feather-light touch of my lips on your knuckles is enough.
No words required.
---
21:16
It’s winter now, December has arrived,
yet we still go ahead with our plans,
the city is calling.
We’re an hour behind, hurry now,
fast food just isn’t fast enough.
The truck roars to life,
as six bodies fly down the darkened highway.
December 5th, 2008, hour 21:16,
we’ve made it.
We feel the beat of the city beneath our feet,
and hurry across streets filled with traffic,
signals to stop and go not things that get our attention.
We rush, a line of us cutting through the crowd,
and stare at the tree that from a distance looks like it is in flames.
We wander, the mission fulfilled and find ourselves paying
six dollars more for a cup of coffee than we should be.
Laughter fills the night air, our breath appearing in puffs above our heads,
we criss-cross down the street, swerving through the other pedestrians.
I breathe in the biting cold air, smile,
the windows are down, the music up,
Broadway may never be the same again.
Our adventure may not belong on the front page,
but I know that the night has left a mark on me,
beneath the surface.
Somewhere underneath the chilled pale skin,
and frozen blue lips.
He tells me I should have borrowed his coat,
and instead of laughing at my frozen form,
the black fabric that was once his
becomes my blanket,
as we drive home
with 90s music filling the truck cab.
---Labels: poetry, writing
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