Fickle Spirals

Distant glow--

don't blow it out.

This flammable infatuation is

sanctified and dripping patience.

But patients wear thin

when false prescriptions

after false prescriptions

tarnish their beings and leave them bleeding.

Side effects kick in, to start,

and this heavy heart pounds without rhythm.

But you transpose my blood flow

with that distant glow and you send me

spinning and stumbling

down fickle spirals that twist and turn

with us intertwined between the lines,

but the lines split open

and spit out whole truths and half truths

and lies, in spite of that lack of lines.

Because lines divide us, but never truly.

Now I'm upside down, focused on the ground,

fighting gravity with everything in me.

But I'm losing this fight

'cause my only goal is my only enemy.

So let's follow the rules and be closer than friends,

ignore the bends and just trust me

in this.

You're what I'm fighting for and

you're worth some pain,

but if the strain is useless, tell me now, because until you do,

I'm not giving up.

Jana Hengstler

Just as you turned your head

and headed down a different path,

nostalgia trickled through your thoughts

against your intended steadiness.

Hindrances presented by your attempts at rejection

ended with realization and reason.

Neglecting the initial pain, you

ground yourself in your heavy-heart-overload.

Still unknown,

the energy pulling you back

lures you in,

endlessly requesting your

rejuvenating presence.

Renaissance

We laid in the tall grass, blanketed by shadows cast by the trees around us, and the setting sun’s red rays blazed through the branches and lit up our faces. Time did not exist that day. Our fingers were intertwined and we spoke about our thoughts; they radiated around us and sometimes caught us by surprise. Chris told me about his experience while I mentioned my innocence. We felt like William Blake singing his songs. So we sang to our hearts’ desires, letting the world around us hear the contents of our imaginations. Our songs filled the heavy air with philosophy and wishes; Chris wished for simplicity and I asked for more time.

When I made my wish, Chris untangled our hands and sat up with a stern look of disappointment painted on his face. I didn’t expect such a reaction, so I shot up and turned to him with a glance dripping of anticipation to find out what I had done wrong. To my surprise, he initially uttered nothing more than a languid sigh of inability. Chris could not, at first, find the words.

A strong silence grew between us while the world’s sounds settled down to a quiet roar and the wind ceased to rustle the leaves on the trees. The sky got darker and darker with each passing second. Finally, after minutes upon minutes had fluttered by without a care for curfews or bedtimes, drops of brutally cold water slid from clouds and drenched him with compassionate thoughts and a severe need to show me his mind and appreciation for time.

“The time allotted to us right now,” he said, “is not important.” Confused at the statement, I slipped back several inches in isolation from the piercing words. “Seconds, minutes, hours; when the sun rises and when it falls hard below the horizon; the tick of the watch on your wrist; none of that matters. This is what matters.” He looked me dead in the eye, drew toward me, and kissed my cheek. “Our time is limited, yes, but don’t think on it. Live for the experience rather than how long it takes to get there.”

A smirk of ecstasy was glued on my face; the words hit me like a ton of bricks and woke me up to what I’d been missing by worrying about time. Chris noticed my admiration for his incite and he said, “Keep your fingers crossed, ‘cause all we’ve got is slipping past us.” So I locked my hope tightly in my hands, and I kept my fingers crossed. I kept ‘em crossed like arthritis was my passion. And even now, my hope lies comfortably in my palms, safely hidden from fears of losing track of something that really needs not the slightest deliberation. That day, to me, was a long awaited breath of fresh air, and any other clichés one can list. That day was my renaissance.

Evening Echo

It is in the evening,

after the sun has skipped through the sky

and sat upon the horizon--

but before the shadows have disappeared--

when the air is still and the

grass is calm.

Noises are dulled to a bare hush

and motion is minimal.

It is in the evening when

the echo of life reverberates

faintly,

like a soul lost in its travels,

whispering its memories

in hope that those

memories

will continue to dance across other minds

so that soul may move through its

journey,

with no worries of leaving the world

to only be forgotten.

It is in the evening

that the day creates its life.

Tainted Glass

"I want to believe,"

you said, and my heart flew

down flights of stairs to

a steady surge.

The night we sat in the studio,

singing about days gone by and

dragonflies and cloudy skies

draped with lightning.

You said you missed me,

but I was right there

with you,

pinched into a corner,

back bone aligned with

the wall seams.

And it seemed the walls closed

in on us

just enough to bring you closer.

The window to your left,

feathered with dust,

was cracked in six places.

"Should put it out of its misery,"

you sighed,

but I grabbed your hand and

tugged you back

to show you the window for

more than nicked glass.

I ran our fingers over the fissures;

pointed at fallen leaves,

the magenta and tangerine clouds,

resembling ocean waves and

ballet dancers.

Our misconstrued view

through shards of tainted glass

unearthed our world

and painted a mosaic.

I wanted you to believe in so

much more than what lies

before us.

And you said you wanted to believe too.

Truth, Autonomy, and the Life Text Creates

Truth is defined as the conformity with fact or reality. But in every matter, truth is based on the interpretations, perceptions and perspectives of each person involved. In reality, how can any of us be wholly truthful if interpretations differ from person to person? What may seem to be of truth to one person may present itself in a polar opposite manner to another person; we can never be “truly truthful” about anything – even ourselves. Since we interpret our own lives differently than outsiders interpret our lives, there is no real way in which we can describe ourselves and still maintain wholehearted honesty. If the mere factor of being oneself is not a liable enough excuse to state that he or she is truthful about himself or herself, then how can anyone be truthful about himself or herself in an autobiography? Autobiographies are documented thoughts, views, and components of someone’s life, written in that someone’s words. The author of an autobiography has the ability to create whatever life about which he or she desires to write, whether that life includes actual experiences from his or her past or people with whom he or she has interacted through the course of his or her life.

Whether or not an author of an autobiography chooses to include past experiences with people in his or her writing, everyone interacts with other people at some point in his or her life. Without the influences of others, no one would be able to exist, let alone live. Everyone with whom one comes into contact has some effect on him or her, regardless of the weight of the effect. One cannot maintain an individual or autonomous existence because everyone is dependent on other people, directly and indirectly. Without others, an author could not write, period; let alone recount on anything of any interest on which he or she could write. If an author does include the people who have affected him or her, though, there is still the interpretation variable.

If interpretation is the true basis on which truth is determined, then text could, in no way, come from life. There are too many components in one’s life to include in one sitting and along with the components, there are the perceptions of that life. Thus, lived lives do not spawn text, but rather text spawns life. Life has its influence on the content of autobiographies, but autobiographies present new life and an infinite amount of events for people to, once more, interpret.

Bare Skin

Softly blanketed by a moon shadow

and traced with grids of window panes,

her brilliant bare skin glows in the midst of a mist

of wintry breaths

shifting and swaying through open spaces.

Polar breezes decorated with snowflakes

line the air sweetly.

Frigid drops of frozen water lightly kiss

her uncovered shoulders,

waking the hair on her skin,

sending chills down her limbs,

causing heavy heart beats,

drumming thick and

she changes her faces.

Dark chestnut hair strands, stranded on white lands,

tickle her nose and eyelids,

lips and high cheekbones.

Three or so brisk chills crawl across her

blanketed brilliant bare skin.

She turns and unveils piercing blue eyes.

And she thinks back to yesterday

when cold days caused fewer heartbreaks.

Secrets

You can't leave your room

without passing by them

or stepping on

brushing against

walking under them.

They're absolutely

everywhere, unavoidable.

Last week,

your dog buried one in your back yard

by the yellow slide,

close to where he hid

your dad's old left penny loafer -

the one with the hole where his big toe

showed through.

It no longer showed through.

Your younger sister,

though still small,

took one of her own home with her

from the park

and put it on the highest shelf

in her bright pink room,

next to her favourite doll,

where no one could find it.

No one could find it.

She even made it a bit tough for her

to reach back up and get it.

Just last night,

at that big family gathering,

I saw your uncle softly spit one

behind your mom's ear.

I don't know how he kept it

in his mouth

for so long,

but the saliva will surely keep it tightly tucked

in your mother's hair

with her pretty, green, dangling earrings

as a barrier

to keep others from getting too close

for her liking

and

to keep it

from getting out.

They lie under creaky floor boards

in old houses,

where no one would dare to look.

Parents put them

in closets,

under beds,

behind all the monsters,

which keep the kids

scared to peak.

And they are even coated in spit

from uncles' mouths -

disgusting,

repulsive -

but with a shiny, metal exterior

to make people smile and think nothing

of the slobbery, dirty things.

Like the native Americans

who fell for trickery

and traded their land

for shiny metal objects,

because they were pretty.

They, too, lie in the waxy glaze

of those shiny metal things,

which caused the corruption of lands

hundreds of years before your dog

thought to bury his in the soil,

where the same mistake

had taken place.

My own aren't too difficult to find.

They reside in a few locations -

in an art room,

a ceiling tile of a freshman dorm,

the closets of an old school.

Mainly, though, in my room,

behind my canvases,

on the canvases.

Next to the paintbrushes and paints -

watercolor, acrylic, oil.

Usually acrylic.

They're in a wooden art box,

underneath the pastels

and the ebony pencils.

Others have seen them and

received them.

Look there

and you're good to go.

They're good to go

and the price range isn't bad.

Ancillary

Yesterday, you ran through my mind

as I ran through a field.

Simultaneously, my joints unhinged,

and retracted,

while your name ricocheted

from one side of my head

to the other.

My cleanly shaven, pale white legs

propelled me forward,

lifting one foot in the crisp air

while allowing the other to

forcefully pound the Earth,

slowly sending vibrations through

paper thin grass blades of

pine, jade, viridian,

teal, lime, harlequin,

et cetera.

Several of the blades swept

against my exposed ankles and sent

chills up my calves,

ascending toward my thighs

and sky

was the limit for my goose bumps,

which caused every inch of my body

to quiver.

As you lightly brushed

your finger tips against my frontal lobe,

you tampered with the remote

to my emotions.

I tripped over a rock,

distracted by the thought

of you.

In my clumsiness, you too

stumbled, and left a finger print

on one of the buttons of the remote.

My face was covered with dirt

and my elbow had a scrape.

I was not alone, though, in injury.

You bumped your head

and the letters of your name

jumbled up,

leaving me

in my own thoughts' dust.

I steadily regained my balance

and gathered my thoughts.

You were back in the centre,

as if on a treadmill,

running my system.

When my pace increased,

your image,

your name,

all of you became more

prominent.

The brown hair which matched

the bark on the trees I passed

on my way through the field,

and which enhanced the same dark colour

of your eyes,

never fully open -

literally or figuratively.

And your pristine facial structure,

equal to the sheer beauty

of the magnificence by which

I was encompassed.

I suddenly stopped to think about

ANYTHING

but you.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Nothing.

A breeze caught onto my hair

and carried it as far as it could

before it was pulled back

by its attachment to me.

I wish the wind could have carried you

far

far

far away from my being.

But you didn't move.

You stayed constant to your place in my mind,

as you do

every day,

in my maze of a thought process.

My heart,

without an apparent reason,

pounded and

beat, pulsating and waiting

to rip through my sternum and

free itself from captivity.

And I looked down the opening

of my turquoise t-shirt,

and the beat showed through my skin.

I placed my hand over my chest

just in hopes to stop the outrageousness.

You banged just as hard against

the lining of my skull

in an attempt to keep my attention,

which gave me a throbbing headache

of, well, "epic proportions,"

so to speak.

When the pain and the obscurities were

unbearable,

I woke up.

JAMIE WROTE THIS!!: Thomas the Tank Engine

It is only a dream I have,

not to be taken seriously.

I buy the ticket.

I get on the train.

And I ride it everywhere.

Only it speaks to me,

"Now Jamie, don't say a word

about this.

Or we'll both be out of tracks

to ride on."

I never said a word.

Didn't feel the need to.

Thomas was his name.

He was a mighty fine tank engine.

Strong.  Cynical.  Wise.

Compassionate.

The steam he created...

Well it just gives me 

shivers

thinking about it.

One day, I'll be old enough

to own that tank engine.

Then I'll be able to show the world

how much

I love it.

How much

it loves me.

I'll be able to ride it through town,

blowing the whistle and waving

at the curious bystanders.

They'll never understand.

But at least it will be

legal.

Forbidden Fruit

My alarm sounded at 5:30,

as it does every morning.

My body uncurled from its fetal position.

Left leg, then right leg,

my limbs unraveled and

brought me from my bed,

through the hall,

down the stairs,

through the door,

and to my garden.

Three minutes had swiftly drifted past me

on my way.

With time comes age.

I was three minutes closer.

I made my way through the garden -

past the cherry tree and

away from the watermelons -

until I came to a certain fruit.

I planted my feet firmly into the ground,

squished the fertile soil between my toes,

as if to burrow myself in the Earth to be

a little closer

to that fruit,

that spectacular life force,

thriving on all of its surroundings,

no matter its conditions.

I gazed at it, lovingly.

And I stood,

reversed,

and played.

Over and over.

Every day for nine months.

Sometimes, I would take my own time

away from that beautiful being.

But I would,

nevertheless,

return

at the end of every break,

filled with elation to see

how it had changed -

with time comes growth -

and how it had grown.

My time with it was

a euphoria

of sorts.

The rest of the fruit was good,

colourful, bright,

but it always came and sooner

or later

it was gone.

Always the same.

That fruit, though, lived longer than

the others

and followed through, stayed true

to its purpose.

A couple of weeks ago, my alarm sounded

at 5:31.

Late.

My toes curled and I let out a groan.

I had to see that fruit.

It had been nine months.

I dashed through the house

to get to my garden.

I stepped into it,

refreshed by smells of herbs

and tomatoes and cherries and

watermelons.

And the Earth.

I once more steadied myself

in front of that magnificent organism.

I gazed, longingly.

I reached toward it and, subsequently,

received a prick.

The fruit's leaves had thorns.

One bite was all I wanted.

I reached again.

Pricked again.

Again and again.

I stopped.

It wasn't ripe. It was aged.

But it was not ready.

I was not ready.

One bite is all I want.

With time comes age and

with age comes growth.

And that garden embodies one fruit

I have yet to experience.

One bite

from this forbidden fruit

is all I want.

I am not ready.

Time will tell

as I wait and age

and it ages and grows

and I grow and experience.

But I will wait.

Not the First Time This Has Crossed My Mind

Your impertinence is pestilent
If I were you, I would repent –
And I’m not even a Christian.
But damn it, son, your ways prevent
Anything significant
From exiting your orifice.
You might as well have shoved your fist
Down your fucking throat, and this
Is getting quite vexatious.
You illustrate a mannerism
Of – what do we call it? – masochism.
And honestly your malice
For every single one of us
Exasperates and agitates
And aggravates, infuriates
Not only I, but he and she
And we can all agree on this:
You’re pretty much a selfish bitch.

Vocabulary Story (Yes, I know what soup is)

It was 6:32 a.m. when Amyrose's mom knocked on her bedroom door to wake her up. When there was no response, Amy's mom forcefully turned the door knob, pushed the port forward and stomped to the end of the bed. "Get up and get ready for school," Mrs. Stephens said. Amy simply replied with a languid groan. "Get your ass up," Mrs. Stephens bellowed without restraint. "Mom, I'm sick!" Amy pulled her comforter over her face, but she wasn't sick at all. She feigned an illness in order to get away with skipping school today. "I'm sorry, baby! Let me fix you some soup," said Mrs. Stephens. She left the room and fixed a large bowl of that liquid food of vegetables and chicken broth for Amy. When Mrs. Stephens returned to Amy's room, Amy was sitting up, texting and laughing. "You're not sick," exclaimed Mrs. Stephens. Without a moment of silence after her mom's statement, Amy quickly declared her hatred for her. Amy's rancor for her mother has always been prominent, though. So the statement came as no surprise. In a swift and impassive motion, Mrs. Stephens grabbed Amy's arm and pulled her out of her bed. She mad her apathy for Amy's "sickness" evident when she threw her book bag at her, left the room and yelled, "We're going!"

Amy still refused to go to school. She had a good reason, though. Mrs. Stephens stomped back into the room once more, only to find Amy texting again. Mrs. Stephens ripped the phone from her hands and began to go through the messages. "I'm sorry," one read, from a boy named A.J. "Are you in trouble?" Mrs. Stephens wanted to know what could cause the questioned trouble. "What did you do?" Amy ignored her mom. Mrs. Stephens, vehement and full of various emotions, bolted to her computer to email the school. To her surprise, there was already a message in her inbox that read:

Dear Mrs. Stephens,

We have been worried about Amy a lot lately, and we wanted to make sure everything was all right at home. We had heard word that your daughter was involved in impudent "extracurricular" activities. So, we took the matter into our own hands and checked her locker and found multiple media of memorandum; we found texts, emails and passed notes. There were several recipients and correspondents. I don't know how to say this lightly, but we found a whip in her locker and erotic notes between Amy and a few different boys. Obviously, flagellation is entirely inappropriate, especially on school grounds. I wish you would speak to her about her decisions. Hopefully you can influence her and guide her in a better direction.

Thank you,

Dr. LaBorde

In amazement, Mrs. Stephens slowly stood up and walked to Amy's room. Amy still sat in her bed, looking directly at the wall ahead of her. Mrs. Stephens sat on the bed and a tear slid down her cheek. "Why did your principal email me?" Amy dropped her head in shame. "What the HELL is your problem," Mrs. Stephens screamed. Amy jumped up from her bed and Mrs. Stephens followed. The two entangled themselves in a heated feud. "You're nothing but a whore," said Mrs. Stephens, lugubrious due to her daughter's lack of self respect. Amy retorted with another "I hate you" and slapped her mom right across the face. In order to prostrate Amy, Mrs. Stephens pushed her to the floor, which knocked the wind out of her. Mrs. Stephens stood, motionless for a while. She had a "vision," so to speak. In prescience, she saw her daughter waving goodbye and climbing out of the window. Terrified of the possible events to come, Mrs. Stephens picker her daughter up off of the floor and hugged her. Reluctant to reciprocate the action, Amy pulled away, reticent.

A door slammed. Amy and Mrs. Stephens both hesitantly looked toward the hallway. Their neighbor, Topaz Ross had broken in. "I heard screaming and other clamour. Is everything all right?" Amy ran and hugged Topaz. "I HATE her," said Amy. Mrs. Stephens rebutted with a harsh glare and a raised fist. "Come on you guys! Why are you fighting?! Please stop," requested Topaz, in an attempt to intercede and put an end to the quarrel. "I refuse to merely let go of what Amy has done and how badly she has embarrassed me," said Mrs. Stephens. "You are rather obstinate, Mrs. Stephens. So I wouldn't expect anything else," replied Topaz.

Topaz released Amy from her refreshing hug. Before anything happened and before anyone said anything, Amy ran toward the window, lifted the handle and sat on the pane. Topaz and Mrs. Stephens both stood, immobile, filled to the brim with fear. "Don't do it, Amy," said the two in unison. To prove she was indomitable, though, she sprouted wings and jumped. Shocked to no end, Mrs. Stephens and Topaz dropped their jaws, turned toward one another and fainted. An hour later, they woke up, tied to chairs, with double cheeseburgers in their laps. "What the hell," exclaimed Topaz. "After I left," said Amy, "I felt bad, so I stopped by some fast food place and got you guys some food." Mrs. Stephens and Topaz fainted once more and they never woke up again. Amy killed them by gagging them with their cheeseburgers.