It's ridiculous really. Since becoming a creative writing major, my writing output in about half of what it once was. This could be due in part to the response papers I have been producing like they are in season year round. I do have some poems I will be posting. The most recent was inspired by advanced poetry class. Our first line was given, and we were to base the rest of the poem around it.

Aqua Marine

I opened a box of my favorite postcards
on the day that Marge, my mother, died. My insides collide when I remember
how her bleached-flour-skin rusted to a chocolaty leather in sunshine.
She went to the beach on the second week of every month,
puckering kisses under the brim of her pastel hat, pretending she sincerely didn't want gone. Faking roses and hearts with her fuchsia lipstick, she'd say, "Kid, you're my big man now. Help nanna and watch your sister good while mommy catches sunshine."
Two days later the post cards would come in stacks of threes and fives, holograming the glitter of a thousand computer-enhanced, aqua-marine beaches.
Mostly five for Sunday- three on Monday. Thursday there were none. The
longer she was gone, the less she missed our pasty, jam speckled fingers and snot nosed wails.
When I lost the second tooth on my top gums, I called Marge. At the beach
she bought a phony picture of a beached whale smiling at the dentist who victoriously held up an over sized tooth.
Beach water isn't aqua marine blue. Whales don't have teeth. Crying over mite bitten postcards only makes my eyes sea salty. Postcards, funerals, and poetry.
I want gone more than
a skin cancered Marge- may she rest in peace.

rust (n.)

O.E. rust, related to rudu "redness," from P.Gmc. *rusta- (cf. Fris. rust, O.H.G., Ger. rost, M.Du. ro(e)st), from PIE *reudh-s-to- (cf. Lith. rustas "brownish," rudeti "to rust;" L. robigo, O.C.S. ruzda "rust"), from base *reudh- "red." The verb is attested from c.1225. As a plant disease, attested from c.1340. Rust Belt "dacayed urban industrial areas of mid-central U.S." (1984) was popularized, if not coined, by Walter Mondale's presidential campaign

I NEED to...

"Is it raining outside?," She asks and I pause. Is it raining. Couldn't she hear the rain? Couldn't she smell it saturate the dusty air? I can't respond for a minute, holding back the things I want to push past the end of my tounge. "I can't see the rain from this side of the house." Something colosal crunches in my mouth as I realize- it's true. If Moses had built a wall of water between her yard and the rest of the world, it wouldn't have made any difference in the long run. "Yeah mom, it's raining on this side of the house. Watering your tomatoes." There was no response...just the cool, wet beats keeping time with the ringing silence in my ears.

Spectrum

This summer has gone by like it wasn't meant to happen, and instead of crying to anyone who has ears about how fast it went by, I have been left in awe and wonder that summer even happened. There can be no regret for what never really was a part of my life. The world I live in has been flipped into a catalyst of a rainbow with each new scene appearing through a color appropriate for the emotion surrounding it. What began as a peachy keen warm situation in May evolved into a blacker shade of plum...I swear at one point I could taste the bitterness of my own breath when I came home to a place where my anger resonated louder than the aging dishwasher. Strangely enough, after two months of the plum-colored movement, the strings choking me cut off the air to my lungs long enough that I had an epiphany: I am not required to endure anything I have power over. I don't need to watch the hands of a digital clock move invisibly around my life until the only thing I can touch is the developing wrinkles around my eyes. Gradually the plum shifted lavender, and within two weeks from lavender (July-ish), the lens were budding into the same color found in strawberry soda. Like most amazing things in life, the high faded in the wash, but now I am finding peace in the graying pink. The only real question left to ask is whether or not I can handle a summer that was a brilliant color instead of an essay worthy event.

Election 101 (Piece of my final project for ENGL 4210)

Blow number three took the cake. His face hit the pavement with the same tender finality of a fish hitting air. Blood peaked between the slits of his swollen eyes. As the boys walked away from Jason McTeague, a certain satisfaction and brother bond filled the air of their crime. Taking note of the cold wind, Salvage Bitton smiled to himself at the touch of fall that swished the heat off of the brawl. It had been a good brawl. A good brawl even if Jason molded in his hands—putty really, smooth and soft from years of winning. The only thing that would have made it even better was Jason had had his buddies there to back him up. That hadn’t part of the deal though. Salvage felt the ever widening spaces in his pockets, searching for Jason’s loaded wallet. It wasn’t there. About half way down the block, Salvage threw his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea, and instructed the boys that since they failed to remember to take Jason’s wallet, they were now obligated to take his shirt as well. Talbot was practically Salvage’s right hand. Reminding Jason he was going to hell a virgin, Talbot slipped the shirt off of him. Trying not to get the blood from Jason’s pulverized face onto his shirt as he removed it; he covered Jason’s face with a meaty hand. A thin line of slobber trailed from Jason’s slack mouth onto Talbot’s hand. Talbot ground Jason’s face back into the pavement. “You sick freak!” he shouted, kicking the boy once more in the gut.
Tearing open the victim’s wallet, Salvage leaned close the boy’s ear. “Tell your daddy my dad said ‘hi.’” The pack moved away. They didn’t see Salvage hang back. As he stared at the mutilated figure, his stomach rocked to a new rhythm. Puke flooded the space between the boy’s body and Salvage’s sneakers. Jason’s last conscious thought streamed somewhere between hoping his assailant would puke up guts- his heart and liver to be exact- and wishing he wouldn’t, because if Salvage died on the spot, he’d die with Jason. Catching up to his team, Salvage and the boys sauntered off with clear consciences, exchanging high fives, knowing they were happier than they had been less than an hour ago.
On Main Street they found the Bag Lady. They waved at her. She waved back, smiling and revealing toothless gums. Forking out the bills they found in Jason’s wallet, Salvage placed them into the Bag Lady’s hands. “We wanted to feed the birds extra today.” Her sunken eyes twinkled in surprise. “Well honey, I’d like that a lot. I bet they’d like it too,” she said as she handed them each three pieces of stale bread. Winking, she said, “Now I don’t have nearly enough bread for this money you give me, so you’ll have to take some change.” Salvage wouldn’t hear of it. “We wanted to give you the rest of it, Granny. We all got homes and coats and nice things. Keep it…and we got a shirt for you too. You can use it as a pillow or somethin’.” As he handed the Bag Lady her new shirt, her hands shook with hope and bits of electric gratitude. “Thank you, honey. You boys done me more good than a whole week’s worth of feeding these fat pigeons.” Salvage Bitton’s nervous twitch started.
At precisely 8:45 p.m. Jason McTeague died next to Salvage Bitton’s puke. The doctors said the untimely death was brought on by excessive internal bleeding and bruising on the brain. Harry McTeague called Susan McTeague at the country club, and then looked out the hospital window with a mean smile lurking behind his distinguished beard. Rubbing his hands together in a polite gesture of sorrow, he announced, “Sympathy wins all kinds of votes.”

Metaphor

The world can be a confusing and scary place through the eyes of a six-year-old. Sarah Jane is the youngest of our DeGraffenried clan and she, like most kids her age, is easily laden with metaphoric concepts. One Sunday after noon she was sitting on my dad's lap during church. Her arms were folded, and she was listening with unusual intensity to the speaker. This particular story the speaker was telling happened to be centered around a man who went into a series of massive seizures and ended up in a coma. Three weeks later after the seizures, the man's parents were told by the doctor that their son was a vegetable; they would either have to pull the plug on their son or risk months and years of financial expense due to the extended time spent in the hospital. Looking at my youngest sister a few minutes after the story was finished, my dad noticed that she had a particularly confused look on her face. As the meeting wore on, fat pools of moisture were gathering in Sarah's big, blue eyes and her hands were out, palms facing up in a gesture of utter helplessness at the situation. Whispering to my dad she said, "That's so sad. SO sad. He will just be...squash."

The Anti-Facebook Club's Constitution

OK. Take note- I did join Facebook but out of obligation more than choice. Yes, some people in this world have taken Facebook to the extreme and made it their only reliable form of communication.
The Constitution of Anti Facebook People
This is our declaration against Facebook. As stalwart warriors paddling upstream in a river of Facebook pollution, we refuse to make our friends into trophies, participate in cyber popularity contests, and define our world by how much money we make off of Mafia Wars. This federation is designed to take a stand against conformity in all its forms. Comparable to the HIV virus sweeping Africa and the obesity infecting America, Facebook has become the pathetic new excuse for claim on connection with the rest of the world. Our hearts go out to those few, floundering souls who feel as if they are alone- friendless in their lack of Facebook. This solitude could be due to the fact that they are not officially any one's friend. To be official, one needs the "friend status" of Facebook.

It really doesn't matter.

I admit to having the terrible habit of overdoing things. From my colossal pile of laundry that has been neglected for weeks, to the dishes spilling over from the sink onto the counter- its all irrelevent. It doesn't matter whether or not they are never done. In fact, it doesn't matter if I am in school or not or even if I am dating anyone. Empty Fridays or crazy nights- they don't matter. It's silly to think that they do. The fact of the matter is, the only thing that really matters is that I am trying.