a new paragraph

the tree on the hill drops ¶
that roll down & gather by
my back door.

A yellow bird lives
in the tree & sings

¶ ¶¶ ¶ ¶ ¶

in the morning, the tea
¶ out of the kettle ¶
spilling into autumn
air ¶

changes the weather

¶ ¶¶ ¶¶ ¶

clouds that part at lunchtime.

¶ to open Campbell’s tomato soup

the can crunched & reused into ¶

Colon: Semi Colon’s Straight-laced Brother

Colon has lips that press together so tightly that sometimes he catches himself holding his breath. When he fills his lungs with large, lonely gasps, tears seep from Colon’s eyes, dotting his pages with lists of things that would make him happy. Colon weeps: “Things to do: Remember to breathe, learn to smile, speak in exclamations and expletives, fall in love.”

Time passes for Colon, slowly, because he has many lists and sleeps poorly. His dreams are typed on keyboards, rhythmic heartbeats, and his lists are scratched deeply into his heart. One day, finally, climactically, and gloriously, Colon crosses an item off his list: Colon falls in love.

Her name is Parenthese and she is beautiful and sweet and kind. Parenthese sees Colon first (he doesn’t see her, yet). She likes him right away (but isn’t sure why). When Colon finally notices Parenthese, he’s not sure whether she’s looking at him or the small painting of a dog over his head (he is very dense and Parenthese finds it endearing).

Colon and Parenthese fall in love as soon as Colon realizes that Parenthese is looking at him and not the painting. Together, they spend the day crumbling bread for the ducks in the park and eating fettuccini alfredo cross-legged in Parenthese’s apartment. Over time, Parenthese teaches Colon to relax a little and Colon teaches Parenthese to be a little more organized.

One night Colon and Parenthese have a fight. While they have loved each other for a long time, some issues have been simmering and have finally come to a boil. Colon yells at Parenthese to grow up and stand for something real. Parenthese cries and calls Colon a controlling bastard. Colon sleeps on the couch that night and Parenthese has to pee for nine hours straight because she doesn’t want to walk past Colon to get to the bathroom.

The next morning, Colon and Parenthese walk to the park and feed the ducks together. Each gets a little defensive — Colon scoffs and Parenthese rolls her eyes — but in the end they talk and learn that while they can’t always understand the other, they desperately want to help the other understand as best they can. Parenthese presses Colon’s hand to her lips and thanks him for keeping her grounded. Colon hugs Parenthese tightly and whispers into her hair, thanking her for reminding him of what’s important.

Colon and Parenthese both feel so complete in their love, so full of hope, they decide to have a child. Both agree it’s a little soon, a little unplanned, but Colon and Parenthese believe no child could enter a world filled with more love than the world they have in their hearts to offer.

When the child comes, he is strong and certain like Colon and beautiful and sweet like Parenthese. They name him Comma.


Alternate pop-culture ending: Colon and Parenthese have a child who is everything they could ever want her to be. They name her… : )

debating the usage of a semi-colon;

kitchen sink full
of last weeks dishes;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa no comments or postings
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa for the blog today;

wet socks &
book bag on back;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa full of theory, less
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa living during the week;

schedules of movement
without bells ringing;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa washed face, brushed
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa teeth & walked;

cold feet in conversation,
silence on the turnpike;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa laundry day is coming.

Inventory 21 Sept.

response

lab assistant, young with the periodical table in
her eyes, readable & open intentions--protons
rotating around the nuclease at
greater & greater speeds--
element stacked upon element,
centrifuged & distilled to a
small electric spasm.

Now whenever she sees the widower scientist,
eyes to the ground.

copy cat copy

a no homework night for no reason at all
(sleep deprivation builds to lack of attention)
though now I sit down--old desk, green walls--
(the ones i can hear Jared’s music through)
& check my email to find a form let down
(hey that was one of your due assignments today!)
letter with an opening salutation,
(Thank you for your submission to Sigma Tau Delta publications.)
followed by the “buffer zone” to keep me reading
(This year we had a record number of submissions, which made the editorial )
on & on, months I forgot I even submitted,
(selection that much more difficult.)
sent my tiny old poems out
(when i still was writing a lot)
& had hope beyond getting through the week
(more than just repeated patterns)

Bad: A Bitter List

sunday night and too much caffeine for no reason at all
(i am full of bad ideas).
jittery and pissed off at a semester of spanish three homework
(someone else's bad idea).
email to ex-boyfriend is returned with unusual curtness
(i assume this means something bad).
friend's new boyfriend is a decade older
(i try not to assume this is bad).
best friend left for a semester in london on saturday
(before my bad (sun)day).
credit card bill is over a thousand dollars
(suddenly i'm a bad spender).
two weeks in and no fingernails left
(another bad habit to break).
want to go to an artists' colony and sleep and sleep and sleep
(no bad dreams).

Subway 8:46 a.m. September 11.

In a tunnel under the Hudson
riding to work, the first impact was
a subtle shake.

A shift of seismic energy
on the Richter scale,
a 2.3 magnitude shudder.

The subway did not stop,
but continue towards the
burning towers.

It rolled, without rushing,
under anchored beams, through the
station, and slid safely

back to New Jersey.



Inspired by the book , American Ground Unbuilding the World Trade Center
by William Langewiesche

how to make paper fly

How to make paper fly.

September, nine million square feet of office space.

Step one: fold the paper in half. It doesn’t have to be any particular size,
just big enough to fold.

Ninety percent air, ten percent building.

Step two: open the paper & fold the left top corner diagonally towards the middle, along the vertical fold made in step one. Repeat with the top right corner.

Two 767 airplanes 137 tons.

Step three: fold the top left corner diagonally towards the middle again along the
vertical fold made earlier. Repeat with the right side.

Two flashes thirty six minutes apart

Step four: fold the mirroring sides into itself along the first horizontally folded line.

Twin ten second pulses, the south tower at 9:59, the north at 10:28.

Step five: make wings by folding an edge along the entire paper from angled nose
to square tail.

it rained office paper all day.

Step six: throw.

september snow globe

Greg likes snow globes.
The way the world encapsulated
in a bubble can slow,
& each plastic flake
falls, glides to the ground,
settled.

I have one of the city—
the Empire State, the Statue
of Liberty & the Twin Towers.
It’s his favorite.
He shakes it up--arms flailing
as a four year old who hasn’t
fully figured how his body works
does--& waits with breath held
for the ten seconds
of falling to be
over.

“The snow never sticks to the towers,”
Greg says. He tells me:
“It’s because they are so tall,
so tall they are part of the sky.”
They are Greg.
They are.

tea time two

This is what the poem tea time eventually became.




thanks again to cherylin.