Sub-Mixie

When I was little, I thought they were strange, slightly disformed. They were so different from mine. I have large palms and short digits. My hands perform tasks like tying shoes and lighting matches like reflexes, in quick, short, efficient movements. If some people are born ambidextrous, Katie is non-dexterous. Sometimes I write sentences with my weak hand; my left one, in an effort to keep myself amused in boring classes. Once I noticed that my shaky, painfully slow writing looked like Katie’s. Katie’s hands move like she plans and predecides everything that she does with them and with little coordination. So she plays the tru

Brush aside the mustache, Encroaching on your delicious pink lips, That hold everything wonderful and good Turning me greedy and jealous in lovely way. I want them all at once, Every word, smile, non-commental noise But I love you, so I let the syllables dance around the room. And get a little envious. Seeing how they jostle the coloring book world, And tickle the titan’s ears, Is a wonder in its own. And the masses gravitate. Realizing the men who have your clever words, Or your infectious joy, Will never have your wide hands Or those perfect perfect lips.

“My sister’s gotten hurt so many times in the strangest ways.” He said. I was listening to my iPod, not enticed by what the two sitting next to me were saying. There were a bunch of kids skiing the mountain that day with their ski teams from school.  I had gone to use the bathroom earlier and overheard a conversation between two girls in their early teens talking about how, “those bitches wouldn’t stop following and staring at them.” The conversation was ugly and superficial and had put me in a foul mood. The boy went onto say to his companion, “She screwed up her collar bone in band because someone was t

I am haunted by the things I don’t do, And the things I lose. Fingernails tearing at shadows, An impulse I could never refuse. We finally understood, How would could become should. Reality was in the rocks and the water and you. Everything else was a Christmas tree decoration.   A thousand dancing shouting faces, But your eyes were the only effects that held animation. Trespassing on forgotten territory, The singular unique un-love story. The landscape was bright and icy. A hillside of trees and a ruined home. An uninvited guest slinking out of the basement. A fox posing as a garden gnome. Once you had a face to die for,

This road is long, And plagued with ice. I’ll brave it all, To try for twice. You wanted to kiss me once, And I wasted that, With useless words, From the lips you stared at. Could I touch your face, If I convinced you I understood? How you twist life, From the “would” to the “should.” Listen to what you say, And decipher what you mean. Blurred by the exhaled fog, I’m all-knowing aquamarine.

Did you know…      You switch bodies with people intermittently through time.  I think I do it every couple minutes.      You adopt all the memories and personality traits of the identity you’ve acquired and forget everything from your previous identity.       It’s something like musical chairs and I don’t know who’s playing the music or if everyone’s listening to the same tune.       I was you shortly before you left the room.       This is how we’re all the same. &#

Chuck a maltove cocktail, To hear it smash, Knowing on limestone, glass is frail, Like white trash. Stare with eyes of aquamarine At the bright flash, With holes in our jeans, Like white trash. Shooting bottle rockets, From our giant cache. Shivering with hands in pockets, Like white trash. Breaking through ice to swim, And jumping in with a splash, All on a whim, Like white trash. There's laughter In all that's rash. Carried up to the barn rafters, Like white trash.

     “They are never alone that are accompanied by noble thoughts. ~ Sir Philip Sidney” reads the quote off my tea bag.  These quotes are the main reason I buy this brand of tea.  I often read and asses their validity, whether I can relate, or whether it’s just nice-sounding bullshit.  This one reminds me Barbara.      Honey      I was five when Honey died.  That was Barbara’s mother.  At the time I was only grateful I didn’t have to sit in a smelly hospital with some old sick lady that want

This is a hot sun. Nude bodies marinating in the lotion, sweat, and rays, On the back of a pick-up truck. Like white trash. There’s green in the trees. Leaves chatting with streams; Each with a distinct dialect. You can bet they speak of things that last forever. The thin pale boys leap from high rocks, Into pools that we hope are deep enough With silly clear water, Flowing in rhythm with techno tunes. These forests dance in ways I can’t manage to move, But can keep time with, And revel in. There are bubbles all around me, When I open my eyes. They tickle, And call the rocks good-humored names. Bright bikinis a