On Hedgerow Drive

I wonder if the birds came today.
Filled their bath last night after work
and the feeder by the kitchen window
early this morning.
I tend not to open the garage doors
because it startles them.
Though they leave gifts of color
on my car when it’s left in the driveway.
The spring will come soon
and I’ll wake them on weekdays—
stretching, chest forward, arms back,
like the birds in the front garden.
While I have the luxury to shower or bathe,
they rely on me for fresh water.
They test the water with their toes
as clichéd cartoon humans do.
I’m sure the birds were here today,
although I didn’t find them there
by the blue and purple slate walkway
or anywhere around this place
that is not theirs nor quite my own.
In thirty years time,
the bank tells me this will all be mine.
But I’d rather have no responsibility
and come and go on a summer breeze
with the knowledge
that I can always stop down
and test the water.

Piece by Piece

Here we are in the failing nation
where we are too proud to pay rent
and not upper-middle enough to pay our way.
So we mortgage our lives
piece by insignificant piece:
a car, a purse, clothing, and jewelry,
a two hundred dollar wallet
with not enough cash carried inside
to purchase movie tickets, a tank of gas,
a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread.
Hope comes in rumors of a tax refund
to purchase instead of paying down
maxed out credit cards or
the principal of your mortgage.
Do what they tell you—
it’s good for the economy.
Short sell your house or they’ll foreclose.
You can always file for bankruptcy
and have a shot at it all over again
in ten years time your coveted credit
will bounce back like the market.
At least that’s what they tell us.

Ullage

I can only hope for smooth sailing
when I leave you behind in New York
with the new puppy
and the hustle and bustle
of superficial competition.
Although it never is easy to leave,
once I hit Grand Central Parkway
there’s no turning back—
at least not this Sunday night.
It becomes hard to keep the car steady
when the wind blows side to side
one hand on the wheel
the other changing songs on the iPod,
adjusting the volume and heat controls
while also readily available
to answer the phone in my lap—
I keep it on vibrate
so I can feel you calling me.
Another week ends, another week a drone,
in trance of anticipation for the next time
we can play family again.
Our hectic parade,
a procession of short visits,
New York this weekend;
Providence the next,
as we continue our short visits
to appease our hearts and our minds.
This mutual philanthropy—
an effort to compensate for lost time
and those Mondays to Fridays
where we long for days
closer together
and more mundane.

The House on Saltaire

Tonight, like so many nights,
Cooush, I hear the sound,
the splash of the sea.
Salty transparent like the sweat
that drips from my brow to lips.
“Kiss me, I’m not crying,” I call out.
No answers except the wind
briskly blowing across the bay.
I imagine you would be as tearful as me,
when the smell of untraveled places
enters your nostrils
by means of the sunset wind.
It’s not painful or harsh like low tide,
I think, wiping my wind-induced tears,
looking out towards Block Island and the Sound.
“You’re not far from there, a few miles or so
from point to point,”
but the Whaler will not take me that far—
not against the waves of a southeastern wind.
Tonight, like so many nights,
I’m not there,
I cannot be.

Clubhouse

Please let me in the clubhouse.
I have candy, dirty jokes and
magazines of filth.
I may not help your grade point average
but I promise to cause it no detriment.
I can help with geometry and algebra,
or maybe help you with your piggy bank.

I wear cool clothes and don’t do what I’m told
all the time.
But I won’t wear your letters shamefully
in public or at the local mall.
I’m different, I know,
but I don’t care about the other clubs.
They’ve always been too willing to let me be a part.

I can lend you secrets of the world you wonder
yet only write about.
Why watch movies in avid research?
I can tell you who she is, or who they are,
I can tell you what it feels like
and the year of the car her father drives.
I turn to new experiences
instead of turning the page
of another’s recollection.

Please let me in the clubhouse
and we can play your games.
I’d like to know what’s so special
that I cannot come in.
I doubt it’s something I haven’t
pondered in anxiety, persona, or voice,
nor dreamed a wet dream’s nightmare
about or viewed in some porno scene.
All I can offer is perhaps what you don’t want.
Or maybe it is that you’ve wanted it for so long
you’ve all given up.
But maybe I hit my social prime in high school.

I just bought another blazer
I’m not sure if it’s your style or mine.
I hope it’s not too cool, I hope it’s not too dull.
I cannot change the way I look, or the way I talk,
or my desire to become a member
of the only club that I wanted to be part of
that wouldn’t let me in.

Syrup (Draft)

It's been a long time
since I built a fort,
climbed a tree,
jumped fearlessly on a sled
down a rocky, half snow-covered hill.
I can't remember the last time
I rode a bike
down to the "One Stop"
to buy penny candy
with quarters stolen from my father's dresser.
I don't miss the scraped knees
and the way the pebbled pavement made
indents in my skin--
those would bleed differently than a
fall from rollerblading--
a chunk of skinned something,
"Look at that. Is that skin?"

It's been a long time
since I stabbed jellyfish with piece of driftwood
found on the beach.
I bashfully wore a t-shirt
while riding waves at the beach,--
soaked, sticky, and wet with salty sea water--
I exit the wake, bellybutton showing through my shirt,
the unique thrill of the suction sound
as I modestly peeled the shirt away
from my husky, prepubescent belly.

After, we made mud pies,
slapping them with water
till they became flat like pancakes
with dead jellies as the syrup.

Recent events, well, kind of.

I'm in no way condoning a man hitting a woman, ever, but I would like to talk about it. People may surprised to learn that greats such as Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra were arrested and charged with similar offenses. Frankly, unless a woman is about to stab me with a knife or shoot a member of my family, I couldn't even imagine raising a hand to a woman. In fact, even in the knife and gun instances, I would feel terribly guilty. Anyhow, I really don't want Chris Brown to bounce back from the situation he has gotten himself into. Oftentimes, many celebrities get special treatment in the form of acquittal by virtue of the dollar, reduced sentences, bizarre and lame community service projects, white-collar jails, and 24 hour sentences--really?!

It's insane the way pop culture has adversely shaped society in the chance of rules, in some instances, that your average citizen must abide by. Since it is the entertainment industry, perhaps society gets a sweeter revenge of sorts because these fools repeatedly do asinine things. OJ for example--anyone dumb enough to hold up a collectibles dealer in a casino should not only be caught and thrown in jail but be forced to watch silly, children's programs like in Addams Family Values. Talk about stupid. In all the many hours OJ Simpson sits around, you're telling me he hasn't watched the various programs and movies which show people winning a visit to the infamous back rooms of Las Vegas casinos after being caught counting cameras, stealing chips, etc. Yes, OJ, there are a lot of cameras in multibillion dollar casinos.

But, I think, Chris Brown takes the cake. High profile, young, successful. On his way with Rihanna to becoming the next Jay-Z and Beyonce. How could he possibly think it would be okay? How could he possibly think he could get away with assaulting your celebrity girlfriend in a car rented out to you. Did I also mention that paparazzi follow them around like dogs chasing the mailman (insert another simile if you're more comfortable, I'm trying to make a point). Dozens of radio stations are boycotting his music, burning his CDs, throwing away t-shirts, etc. We will, and very well should, remember Chris Brown as a weak individual who beat on a woman. If Rihanna is stupid enough to take him back, which sadly and unfortunately happens often in abusive relationships, she will only have herself to blame as the whole world rolls their eyes yet again.

On another note, it's disgusting that a network (MTV) would air a show produced to reduce a sentence of a repeat offender of possessing and illegally owning a closet full of weapons. Without getting too political, Bush and the GOP launched a multi-billion 'war' against multiple countries to supposedly rid them of "weapons of mass destruction." Here, in the United States, however, it's okay to have an adult items store next to a children's daycare, liquor stores next to high school recreational playing fields, and gun stores next to elementary schools (Call me on this and I will list specific examples). Whatever the case may be, our society is basically saying that it's okay that a rapper, like T.I., can have multiple assault riffles and other illegal automatic weapons. If you make a reality show, as if we didn't have enough already, displaying your supposed remorse and willingness to help others, in an attempt to help people who will end up dead or in the correctional system anyhow.

Again, it is crazy the ways in which popular culture has altered our society. We certainly can't live without social freedoms, freedom of expression, and having the right to explore new media such as this blogging platform. Popular culture, of course, should be a representation of the world in which we live. However, what more are we willing to sacrifice in terms of morals and ethical values. It is a double-edged sword, I suppose. Maybe, in 30 years, our kids will have no idea that Chris Brown brutally assaulted Rihanna. After all, many people have forgotten about good old Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.