Or whatever red drink that’s in my fridge.
Slimy, silver-toned saliva,
bird bathing across my tongue,
overpowering the taste buds with a lingering hint of cherry.

How did I get here?
How did I get here.

I don’t like the after taste of cool-aid.

“struggling”

I see the word write. And of course I want to say my brain takes flight. But that’s leaning on the side of pretentious, I’d say. But if it’s not taking flight, then what is it doing?

I close my eyes and visualize gears turning. Intricate patterns, turning into a kaleidoscope. Greens fading into blues, into purple, into pinks. I forget about everything.

But I’m struggling.. and I guess I can’t keep my eyes open.

I know why, it’s because he does performance poetry. See, makes sense, eh?

But it’d be more romantic to say something like,

When I write I hear your voice, I feel your hand patting the small of my back, I feel the brown of your eyes.

But I can’t because none of it was real anyway.

I mean I remember all of those things, but I remember a lot.

I’m not stung by the fact that you don’t remember those things about me. No, I’m honestly not.

Hyper-observant, hyper-sensitive, etc. It’s not something that applies to everyone.

And yes I did mean feel the brown of your eyes.

Synesthesia.

A limp poet doesn’t know when they’re about to write an introspective piece, a fictional tale, a review, or a poem. They just write and then it becomes obvious.

A limp poetic is obsessed with derivates of words. Scratch that. Any writer is.

A limp poet thinks in descriptions and colors.

Alright, I’m done with this.

Basically if there’s a poem on here, I was honestly just clearing my mind.. so they’re not the best thing in the world.

Anyway, enjoy.

You say you want honesty,
But honestly..
It was there all along.
But go ahead, bust it open,
Detonate my heart — atom bomb.

Adam Bums.
I played on words.
You twiddled your thumbs.
And now we’re both here.
Alone.

But that’s the thing, I can’t assume.
I won’t sit here and presume
The lonely nights–
Maybe that’s just me.

Maybe your life moved along perfectly.

Purple players and chocolate
Your two lips

Tulips, two fingers,
Deuces, you toothpick.

But even then, only time will tell.
And I hope you’ll forgive me.

I can’t stop listening to “I’d Be Surprisingly Good For You” from Evita. I think it has to do with the fact that I saw the nearly flawless production of Evita by CCM a week ago. Yeah, that’s why.

I saw a little bit of myself in the santa peronista. It’s been brought to my attention that I’m business oriented and ambitious, the latter of which is currently turning almost every thing in my life upside down. These aren’t bad qualities, in the least, but I can’t say I have complete control over the weapons in my arsenal. My latest ambition is not something I’m used to devoting so much of my time. It makes no sense from the outside. It’s chimerical–wildly fanciful, highly unrealistic. But I can’t lie to myself. I can’t change how I feel.

But you really should know. I’d be good for you, surprisingly good for you.

Anyway. I’m attempting to reconstruct my dream.

I’m personally, very excited.

At the time I loved the concept and implications of the dream, and I only hope to develop my skills by making the piece more believable. The premise of my dream is meeting a former crush(?) in an alternate reality. Hopefully that idea subtlety shines through. And if not, oh well, it’ll be a piece just for me to enjoy–after all it is my dream. No one will understand it better than me.

Untitled dream

The room was whiter than death itself, suffocating the colors of the world as a yellow filter to a black and white image. The walls were full of possibilities and uncertainties, and fuelled by desires and anxieties, an uncanny doublement- serving as sheltering that could as easily be an imprisonment. One window decorated this simple box, one path to lead in the fluorescent light that characterized the outside world.

There in front of me he stood. It seemed as if his pupils took over the deep brown speckled eyes so carefully assigned to his face. Softly he spoke of flirtation and deceit, two things I knew well. He whispered the classic tale- boy likes girl, girl likes other boy, boy is jealous. I’d heard it many times before, so much so that I focused on the eyes before me, the eyes much darker than I remembered.

I managed to block out every word that flowed from his oval shaped mouth, however I was able to decipher that he spoke in the most lamentable tone ears could bear to hear. I couldn’t recognize from the sporadic bits that overcame the barrier dispensed from my eyes, but from the slow methodical rhythm of his lips and the motion of his pupils that urgently ricocheted the pure vivid light.

Like a droid, I moved unconsciously toward the door—my brain intricately communicating to my legs to trek faster than I could comprehend. And outside we stood. It was a parking lot, a cement plane, extending beyond the view of the eye and as empty as the liqueur store on a Sunday afternoon.

Complete silence echoed loudly inside my head. A body heat transferred from his body to mine that happened to be more awkward than the overbearing silence—silence so rare in the outside world. Tension arose like a snake in a garden, ready to bite my shaking hand as it helplessly dangled by my side. He still had that puppy dog, pouty face; the one undoubtedly linked to childhood, yet tinged with fierce maturity, passion. Again, I was struck by his eyes, which had so awkwardly plagued my body with an unwelcomed heat and reflected the snake on which tension rode.

“I never ..” coerced its way out of my mouth after gambling for something, anything with relevance to break the silence. Spontaneity reached out her hand as to guide me to my next actions. With dominance so often linked to a man, I lifted my arm..

The end.

Too melodramatic?
CHOPPY.

Yes, I know, it stops mid-sentence. And yes, I still don’t have the will to finish the story.

I just want to regain my love for story telling.

Interestingly, I chose to write about my first time playing liar’s poker. Reflecting on this piece, I realize how satirical parts became, and that annoyed me, but I am to this day impressed by the implications expressed throughout the piece.

I titled it “ A girl amongst men” to literally describe the setting of the game, but to also address the reality that women are (at times) a minority in the field of science. Ah, subtlety. It’s certainly not perfect and it’s ridden with clichés, but I feel the point still came across quite strongly.

I hope to edit it, perhaps even comprising a collection of shorts. Hmm.

Enjoy.

A girl amongst men

Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle. Tap.

I was dealt four cards, face down. Sweltering hand clenched against my Starbucks iced tea. Pink finger nails melodically striking the table keeping in time with the shifting retinas, eyeing the player to the right.

The grey circle table.

Fierce intensity.

Liar’s poker.

It was just another day out of the five weeks I spent with this group of people— the young, motivated, and talented of Cincinnati; those aspiring to be Neurologists, Oncologists, Urologist, and all the other “ologists”. Within this group amassed three subgroups. Group A consisted of the girls that greet you with a compliment each day, converse about the inconvenience of the one book they have to read for summer reading, get matching salads (cereal on Wednesdays), and, oh, yeah, panic if they do not sit together at lunch. The remaining girls, with a sprinkle of boys, made up Group B, the public school kids. Automatically taking on the role of “the experienced,” Group B served as the portal inside of schools with security guards, diversity, and school lunches that do not offer Chipotle daily. Lastly, Group C, the boys— united on the common grounds of sharing the same gender. Because I am neither an overbearing girl committed to condescending stares or a person who takes pleasure in expounding on the reality of the public school system, I chose to associate with Group C—the roundtable of men plus a girl.

“Are you in?”

“Yeah,” I responded, feeling as if I should know how to play an inane card game after watching it being played for an hour everyday of the past week, but knowing I was doomed. He dealt wildly, spewing cards from his hand faster than I could make eye contact with all of the men of Group C, my opponents. Tapping my fingers against the table, I concocted my “poker face” while swiftly sliding my “hand” closer and revealing the valuable side of my blue, Bicycle edition, playing cards.

“Ace high”

“A pair of eights”

“A pair of eights, a pair of tens”

“Ten high hearts flush”

As if a deer in headlights, I look up to acknowledge the shift of focus—a face projecting fear, and eyes reverberating back and forth, while a voice choked and deprived of air speaks, retorting hesitatingly. I adjust my “poker face” and purse my lips to signify the motions of my involvement in the game.

“Uhh,” I stuttered, “What can I call?”

“Full house, four of a kind, and straight flush are all higher than a flush” they chanted melodiously and almost simultaneously. Of course this is no help, seeing that the knowledge of poker hands was not passed on via Y chromosome.

“Or you can ‘call it’”

I weigh my options, sip my purple passion tea, and fan my cards toward me again, like a lady.

“Ten high.. straight flush of hearts” I finally announce.

The boy to my right reasons loudly, asking the fellow players if he should call me on my combination over thinking of a higher hand.

“The higher I go, the less likely it will be out there” he states.

I recite a silent prayer.

“Jack high straight flush of hearts”

“BS!”

“Let’s see that!”

“No way, Jose!”

Turning over our cards, there were no nines or tens and actually very few hearts. The player to my right warned me that he was going to call me next time. I collected my high fives and sat back down with dignity and a feeling of satisfaction. Behind the façade of my poker face, I awaited the next dealing.

Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle.

Pink finger nails pattering against the table. A quick smile. And another sip of my tea.

I had survived my first round of Liar’s poker.

A girl amongst the men.

I SUCK AT DIALOGUE.
Seriously. Something I need to work on if I ever plan on writing fiction!