tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25692895495121200482024-02-08T10:02:54.927-08:00Wittifyingly CourageousGrace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-79676152539988069632012-04-03T05:20:00.003-07:002012-04-03T07:41:46.803-07:00For YouSmile poisoned apple sliding down my throat<div>sticking and wrapping around my rib cage to choke each breath.</div><div>Barren from my eyes, each laugh scoops a hollow </div><div>deep within my breast until a vacuum holds me up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cobra slinking within bargain slacks</div><div>intent on bruised confidences too small to matter,</div><div>tiny hands are held tight behind ruler straight spines.</div><div>I'll bend and break beneath the weight of your regard. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like a cat held by a canary, each aerial rotation </div><div>quickens my heartbeat, steals a bit of my resolve</div><div>meanwhile she, a cruel puppeteer, is content to orchestrate</div><div>my collapse on fraying strings.</div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-10554544419970088602012-01-06T06:13:00.000-08:002012-01-06T06:59:26.794-08:00Why Rhyming Is For Dr. SeussLeave the glasses on the table.<div>Leave crop circle wine prints on the wood.</div><div>Forget to turn off the TV.</div><div>Spend one more hour here with me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ignore all of the phone calls</div><div>that plague us nine to five.</div><div>Leave errands for tomorrow-</div><div>trust me, they'll survive. </div><div><br /></div><div>Give me time to memorize</div><div>the laugh lines on your face</div><div>before you leave tomorrow,</div><div>gone without a trace. </div><div><br /></div><div>And while you'll gone I'll think of</div><div>lazy mornings left in bed,</div><div>waking to your eyes on mine,</div><div>leaving nothing left unsaid. </div><div><br /></div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-67405830997446548262011-11-21T15:06:00.000-08:002011-11-21T16:40:16.934-08:00My Dear, Your Clocks are MeltingWhen I toe to heel across the marble floors<div>I ride the echoes of the hall</div><div>and run my hands a hairs breadth from the glossy</div><div>stucco images of forgotten royalty. </div><div><br /></div><div>So much is only visible from a distance,</div><div>and while I squint at muted water lilies</div><div>that float with effortless grace on</div><div>pastel waters, I try to internalize</div><div><br /></div><div>the feeling of peace inherent on a sleepy</div><div>swirling town as a supposed God</div><div>guides his lost and mortal flock. </div><div>Currently, my brain feels like it's</div><div><br /></div><div>dripping onto desert sands where it</div><div>evaporates with a hiss on contact and </div><div>my mouth is a oval wind tunnel</div><div>frozen in ghoulish screams. </div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-59078539796358849272011-10-10T17:31:00.000-07:002011-10-10T17:33:59.868-07:00Joining the WorkforceGoing to grad school<div>and teaching full-time</div><div>and trying to make friends</div><div><br /></div><div>is a little like</div><div>learning to juggle plates</div><div>while breathing fire</div><div>if you had one arm</div><div>and were twisted in a circle</div><div><br /></div><div>so that every time you </div><div>took a breath,</div><div>you burned your feet. </div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-56122331894880103862011-10-05T09:34:00.000-07:002011-10-06T04:23:24.010-07:00What I Do InsteadWhen I sit across from you I focus on the names of state capitals<div><br /><div>Since I don't know the names of state capitals I transition to filling</div><div>my mouth with pumpkin bread and almond pastry and blueberry danish,</div><div>ensuring that instead of a retort I concentrate on the number of times</div><div>to chew my food for perfect bolus digestion. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I find myself empathizing and drawing inspiration from a bird</div><div>outside our window that just happened to smash against the glass</div><div>and then laid in the grass looking stunned and confused. </div><div>In fifteen minutes it flew away, and I draw hope from that.</div><div><br /></div><div>These are all probably not good signs. </div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-78474035882646518902011-07-30T18:31:00.000-07:002011-10-05T09:34:14.890-07:00You Can't Poke Out Your Mind's EyeMy mother never told me that broken hearts <div>often feel like swallowing a ice cream cone</div><div>covered in ground glass.</div><div><br /></div><div>At first you barely notice it, except for the slight sting,</div><div>but after a while it corrodes your insides, burning</div><div>from the stomach out, finding its way into your</div><div><br /></div><div>bloodstream, swimming through your veins as</div><div>it places miniscule puncture wounds in each one</div><div>until your body is a sprinkled sky, see through and holey.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to scrub the inside of my eyelids, so when I</div><div>close my eyes they don't show me a picture of your face,</div><div>the skin on your cheeks slightly mottled, the crease above your nose. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tell me how to cut you from my memories, a nostalgic</div><div>lobotomy, that would excise you from the last year, leaving </div><div>cut-outs of champagne toasts, crumpled sheets, and tear stained tissues. </div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-8303958571388042592011-06-16T20:28:00.001-07:002011-10-06T04:24:21.369-07:00I Wish I Were AthenaWhen I was made, they used little dashes of dissatisfaction and mistrust<br />just a smidgeon of sarcasm and dollops of anger and resentment.<br />They folded me together with spoons made of compassion<br />which melted off into the mixture, eventually cracking under the pressure.<br /><br />When they ripped me apart, they found half-naked barbie dolls,<br />and ice cream scoops melting on the grass strewn ground,<br />bee stings that had inflamed my limbs and splinters<br />which had sunk into my skin to rest next to the bones.<br /><br />Now when I create, I drip into my creations, leaving behind<br />spilled water glasses and drops of jealousy and half-forgotten lyrics<br />of summer time classics that stick in your head like burrs on<br />a new red felt winter coat.<br /><br />When I die, I'll leave behind impressions of my head in my pillow<br />and an unwashed cereal bowl in the sink, and a piles of ashes in my wake.<br />I'll forget mornings and afternoons spent telling time by the bouncing sun.<br />I hope I leave tears.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-62745446213997353812011-06-12T22:20:00.000-07:002011-06-12T22:27:38.931-07:00When You Can't Scream You CryIf I were a snake I would shed my skin<br />peeling off layers and layers to start over again<br />slithering to bask in the sun fresh and new<br />But since I'm not a snake, I'll bear my scars<br />that piles on top of each other like worms in a bucket<br />creating hopscotch patterns on my knees and arms.<br /><br />For some of my friends, when you look at the underbelly<br />of their arms you can see the eggplant veins shining through,<br />translucent as an eggshell. At times I feel like that all over-<br />as if my insides have been hollowed out to leave behind<br />the fragile shell of a person, bobbing down a stream<br />with an ever increasing current.<br /><br />If I were an ostrich, I'd hide my face in the sand,<br />let rivulets of tears run off into the soil and sustain<br />forests. Imagine grass and trees and flowers growing<br />in the world above my head. I would close my eyes<br />and relish in the self same darkness that would be present<br />when they opened.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-72484335612498273672011-06-09T17:22:00.000-07:002011-06-12T22:35:03.378-07:00Welcome to the Quarter Life Crisis<span><span><span>When I was five, my teachers taught me to use my fingers to count<br />and to name the colors on each part of the wheel<br />so that now that I'm twenty three, I can tally the number of times<br />I've watched my mother fall down and the colors of the bruises<br />that appear like a sunrise on her face.<br /><br />When I was ten, I was taught of the history of our nation<br />to understand and memorize lines of trade and industry</span></span></span><br /><span><span><span>so that now that I'm twenty three, I can sit outside the routes of production</span></span></span><br /><span><span><span>and gather food-stamps and fill out unemployment notices<br /></span></span></span><span><span><span>that pile like fallen leaves on my kitchen table.<br /><br />I'm not sure when I realized that they had lied when they told me</span></span></span><br /><span><span><span>that I could be anything, do anything; that really those<br />big dreams left me lying on my bed, to myself<br />about the limits of a sky, whose ceiling falls lower<br />each time the stock market drops.<br /></span></span></span><br /><span><span><span>When I was thirteen, I filled out my family tree and<br />imagined the branches that would eventually grow from me<br />limbs and roots that would ground me in an identity I hadn't defined as of yet;<br />that never seemed to grow and now has left me rootless,<br />watching the break down of the 50s family.<br /></span></span></span><br /><span><span><span>I'm holding out for what they promised me.<br />I'm holding nothing but a piece of paper in my hands.<br />I'm waiting to cross a finish line that I can't see.<br />I'm so tired. </span></span></span>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-38708026457458801242011-06-09T17:19:00.000-07:002011-06-09T17:22:46.022-07:00Someday is a Dangerous WordThe way that you dip pretzels into chocolate<div>trying to cover the swirls the bumps</div><div>eventually achieving a smooth coating</div><div>that still leaves wreckage underneath</div><div><br /></div><div>I am the proof that words can be bulldozers</div><div>and broken promises can be wrecking balls</div><div>and that sometimes what you see on the outside</div><div>is just a cherry red veneer that coats whats within</div><div><br /></div><div>Lips stretched into a dentist office worthy grin</div><div>cheek muscles that spasm from the strain</div><div>I'd count out pennies for change if I thought</div><div>it would do any good for you or me</div><div><br /></div><div>But honey "I don't know" is "No" and</div><div>it's taken me 23 years to learn to walk</div><div>with my head up and my eyes open and my hands</div><div>my own, past the picket fence white shuttered dreams</div><div><br /></div><div>of what I wanted someday</div>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-79407140321278634492011-03-01T18:48:00.000-08:002011-03-01T18:50:40.274-08:00Back Again<p align="left">I've yet to understand how hand</p><p align="left">in hand could feel as normal as</p><p align="left">lips to lips and yet send shivers</p><p align="left">up and down my spine, while</p><p align="left">beads of sweat keep time </p><p align="left">trailing from my brow into</p><p align="left">squinted eyes. </p>Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-16542933902504107122011-01-09T20:17:00.000-08:002011-01-09T20:20:10.400-08:00Happy Birthday to MeYouth cast off absent obligations<br />and baby fat and grew into maturity<br />which wrinkled and creased until<br />it folded into old age, which looked down<br />at the infant bouncing on it's wrinkled<br />knees and thought, well damn.<br /><br />I'm getting too old for this shit.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-43246376439526767542011-01-07T14:28:00.000-08:002011-01-07T14:42:10.214-08:00I Forgot Why I CameMy eyes open to images of snipped sinew,<br />joints popped by gnashing molars,<br />earlobes ripped apart by incisors.<br /><br />It's strange to watch yourself<br />shred from the inside out,<br />thumb poised on self-destruct.<br /><br />I drown as my lungs fill up with blood,<br />choking as I swallow words,<br />guard my pride in the pit of my writhing stomach.<br /><br />There's a foot print on the wrong side<br />of the door.<br />I can't stop knocking.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-35839689772307222252010-12-25T20:11:00.000-08:002010-12-25T20:15:53.193-08:00Merry ChristmasBuild me out of fire.<br />Spin me out of coal.<br />Trade all your lot for a second<br />Chance your luck on now.<br /><br />I've thrown in all my pennies.<br />I've coated every wish<br />in roses that reek of blood<br />stained bandaged wrists.<br /><br />By tomorrow I've forgotten<br />every promise made yesterday.<br />But today I'll rock myself<br />to sleep, and wish someone my<br />soul to keep.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-90572227025262244012010-11-24T17:56:00.001-08:002010-11-24T18:10:34.867-08:00When I think of MunchWhat would it feel like to be on fire?<br />It's mentioned in desire and hatred equally,<br />in areas of lust and in moments of pain,<br />where loathing or passion consume.<br /><br />I can close my eyes and imagine mouths<br />distorted in mishapen Os of misery,<br />flesh melting like candle wax,<br />crisping like turkey skin, well-done.<br /><br />In my mind, fingers blacken and curl,<br />over-ripe bananas that burst at the tip,<br />and blisters colonize tender areas like<br />upper lips and forearms.<br /><br />Right now, I feel as if I've doused myself<br />in a barrel of water after the burn,<br />and I'm screaming soundlessly underwater<br />as my skin sloughs off in tallow chunks,<br />rising to the surface.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-6802996114925387692010-11-15T17:08:00.001-08:002010-11-15T17:16:11.642-08:00Stomach VirusInside the braces laden molars<br />you tripped a trap that left me<br />sprawling, falling, tumbling, head<br />over hells, that sprung in 9 circles<br />of geometric unpleasantness.<br /><br />Brick fences popped up like daisies<br />which swung wildly back and forth<br />while chanting radio jingles<br />and spewing fortune cookies axioms<br />that cracked my skull into confetti.<br /><br />I trolled the Claddagh for foreign tongues<br />and slanted eyes and skin thick enough<br />to stave off the burn of gas lamps and pocket<br />rockets and a sun bright enough to let me<br />see you clearly.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-91271927507812902512010-11-14T19:57:00.001-08:002010-11-14T20:46:28.636-08:00Just the Two of UsYou'll grind my bones to make your bread.<br />I'll leave the bread until it molds.<br />We'll eat sandwiches from dawn to dusk,<br />and toss away the crusts.<br /><br />A penny saved is a penny pinched,<br />and you'll pinch copper 'till it bleeds.<br />Leave fear shaped footprints in your wake<br />and me to sit and seethe.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-27236925000389756002010-11-13T19:28:00.000-08:002010-11-13T19:33:53.509-08:00I Haven't Eaten Breakfast YetIf I could weave together words-<br />the way our fingers spliced,<br />filling gaps between our palms<br />and creating bridges from flesh-<br />maybe you would whisper<br />about things you'd forgotten fifteen<br />years ago and I would not be<br />clearing dishes from our wobbly<br />kitchen table.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-33026855231197254782010-11-10T17:25:00.001-08:002010-11-10T17:30:20.118-08:00InsomniaLay my head down to sleep,<br />eyes lashes flutter against splintered boards<br />and an anvil cools the side of my cheek<br />I'll wake at intervals of twenty minutes.<br /><br />Instead of sheep I count sorries<br />that stack up like bricks<br />and dance on my throat;<br />I'll fix it tomorrow.<br /><br />Dreams creep like poison ivy,<br />infect with an itch, that lasts<br />'till they're gone, and you're<br />left with the scars.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-90390663720357915082010-11-07T16:39:00.001-08:002010-11-07T16:39:38.517-08:00Because I'm RichMr. Hughes smelt like mothballs. He collected crumbs in his beard the way coin collectors coveted rare Buffalo Silver Dollars. His house was filled with pictures of celebrities that he took the time to meticulously cut from magazine covers and then showcase in outrageously expensive frames. On Fridays, he would squire up and coming starlets around town in his mother's Rolls Royce. However, on every third Friday of the month he would call up the Sex Phone Hotline and spend his night panting into the receiver while clipping his toenails. Mr. Hughes did not have many redeeming qualities. However, he was very very rich, and usually that helped.<br /><br />His mother, Mrs. Hughes, spent her days directing invisible orchestras in the NYC OldFeller's Retirement center. She believed that the orderlies regularly poisoned her lime jello and would squirrel it back to her room, where she sneakily deposited it in a hat box in her closet. She lived for the second Tuesday of the month when her son, little Jimmy, would visit for the afternoon. He would sit in the mustard colored chair in the corner of the room, sniffing distastefully as he asked her how she was doing. Mrs. Hughes would berate him for his growing beer belly, his lack of style, his insistence of wearing a comb-over, his stooped shoulders. It was the happiest part of her month.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-13904708040380803482010-11-07T16:14:00.000-08:002010-11-07T16:40:31.996-08:00Your Face Looks FunnyOn early curly cue Tuesday mornings,<br />(they say it's the most productive<br />day of the week) I would sit<br />with cheese puff sesame pastries<br />that shocked and dissappointed<br />with every bite.<br /><br />I would attack the pastry<br />with the same enthusiasm and drive<br />people saved for their Sunday<br />yoga classes or their Thursday<br />window washing, but instead of<br />elbow grease I employed<br />molars and spit.<br /><br />In this way, I would prep and stretch<br />for the week ahead. An endless monotony<br />of moments where one is expecting sweet<br />cream cheese, and instead delivered Velveeta.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-35599923120472191712010-11-02T16:47:00.001-07:002010-11-02T16:52:13.824-07:00Today I'm Drinking Tea Instead of CoffeeYou cradled me from near infancy<br />and had me believing in a world<br />that shouted change from roof<br />tops high enough to eat the sky.<br /><br />I brought you presents of nail<br />polished turtle shells and wild<br />flower bouqets and torn and scabby<br />knees ripped on blacktop barricades.<br /><br />Once I knocked the binoculars<br />from the kitchen table and you shouted<br />until your face turned red and locked<br />me outside until my hands turned blue.<br /><br />I'm pretty sure you're shrinking while<br />I grow and that my nose now rests<br />on your collar bones instead of halfway<br />down your arm and suddenly I'm afraid of heights.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-46892946477843097152010-10-24T21:12:00.000-07:002010-10-24T21:18:31.111-07:00Why I Don't Use Ceramic AshtraysWhen I was in high school, I used to try<br />my hand at sculpting, finding a weird sense<br />of satisfaction as I pounded the air<br />bubbles from the lump of clay,<br />slapping the slab once, twice, thrice<br />against the wooden table.<br /><br />I would pump the wheel, finding<br />solace in the whirl and hum as my<br />lump of clay because a pot, a cup, a<br />vase. Something that would hold water<br />better than my arguments could.<br /><br />Sitting on the wooden stool, my<br />ass would lose feeling, and my hands<br />would grow a new skin of cracked clay,<br />as the walls of my vessel eventually folded<br />in on themselves, after too-many reshapings.<br /><br />And finally, when I reached ceramic perfection,<br />my glazed master piece would pop and crack<br />and shatter in the kilm. Because those air bubbles?<br />I had missed one.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-49906654200168452952010-10-20T19:53:00.000-07:002010-11-02T16:46:53.813-07:00Where do I go from HereI am the rubber necked ballet slippered<br />dancer that sits on a wooden stage with arches<br />like canyons, rubbing tired swollen feet that no<br />longer fit into cracks in the sidewalk.<br /><br />I am the tug of war grease stained<br />sailors knot rope that is slung from the gallows<br />over sun ripened marshes, the stink<br />billowing into nostrils, sinking into hair folicles.<br /><br />I am moon-kiss, wind-slap, sun-cracked<br />skin thats stretched over cheekbones<br />resembling wire hangers, each angle sharp<br />enough to poke your eye out.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569289549512120048.post-54823162878295132062010-10-07T18:02:00.002-07:002010-11-03T20:43:57.796-07:00Why NotAlbert’s mom had left him in the lobby of the Doctor’s office. She was in the office getting some more tests done. Every weekend it was the same thing. His mom would pick Albert up from his Dad’s house and they would go out to breakfast at the town diner. After a meal of the diner’s special, particularly runny eggs, French toast made with wheat bread, and not so fresh squeezed orange juice, Albert’s mom would package him into the car and they would drive to see Dr. Munoz. MD.<br /><br />The Dr.’s office with its peeling wallpaper that exposed its grimy white walls, was almost like Albert’s second home. Some kids went to the zoo, others to the playground. Albert went to Dr. Munoz’s waiting room. His feet swung high off the ground, banging into the scuffed plastic seats. He picked his nose complacently while listening to the secretary talking to her friend Janice on the phone about her latest male conquest. Albert watched as her pink plastic fingernails drummed out a rhythm on the enameled desktop.<br /><br />Some of the other children, who were also waiting for their parents, played in the corner of the room with the broken wire contraption loaded with beads and the battered plastic fire truck. Two small boys wrestled over a one-legged fireman, both fanatically pulling at the poor toy by his arms.<br /><br />Albert calmly surveyed the scene while he reached down to scratch his leg through his best pair of jeans, the ones where the bottom hem was almost intact. He jumped down from the plastic chair and walked over to the magazine stand. After several moments of contemplation he chose the new nickelodeon magazine, detailing how to make slime birthday cake, before skulking back to him plastic seat.<br /><br />One of the small boys succeeded in ripping off one of the fireman’s arms and fell back onto the beaten carpet. He began to cry in a high-pitched wail, drawing a glare from the secretary. The other boy triumphantly waved the disabled fireman in the air, before throwing it back in the pile with the other toys. Albert merely sat back and attempted to read his magazine, meanwhile dreaming of grander places than Dr. Munoz’s lobby, places where there was no tapping, or wailing, or inattentive mother. His eyes closed while he sleepily considered this magical place, meanwhile returning to picking his nose.Grace H. http://www.blogger.com/profile/06956326139757102018noreply@blogger.com0