Snow
I found you in a cotton shirt,
lying long ways in the living room floor,
while the ceiling fan slowed to a crawl
and December chill crept in from the window.
You dropped your shoulders into the Saxony carpet
while the fibers bent around you like perfect eggshell sand.
They cradled the base of your neck, reminded you
of a time when summer filled the room, filled
our mouths, tasted wine thick between us.
And you didn’t seem to notice
when I said your name.
~
Oak
He looks at me with oak tree brown,
wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
He sways but does not sleep.
If I broke apart his skin and searched for green,
I wonder if I would find wilted leaves,
if I would find bark running between
veins in the branches.
Wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Doughnuts, Goetta and Chocolate Delight
“You’ve never had goetta?”
I didn’t realize how my denial would affect the rest of my Saturday night. Ali D., my roommate from the Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts was sitting on my couch, her arm stopping mid-swing as she prepared to bowl her final frame on Wii Bowling. Jen, another GSA alumni came skidding in from the kitchen in her new pair of Christmas socks. They had smiling Christmas trees on them.
“She’s never had goetta?!” Jen was the definition of a fiery red head, always laughing, always smiling, and always making up some new joke about our residence life group from Governor’s School. She was not smiling now. Her brow had fallen into a concentrated curve and she gave Ali one of her serious business faces. Jen and Ali had a sort of secret language I had never figured out. They were both Visual Art students at GSA, while I was Creative Writing. I would often catch them staring at each other, laughs on the tips of their tongues while they made some private joke through their pupils. It was frustrating to be out of the loop, but more interesting to watch.
Ali and Jen deliberated, half in silent looks, half in actual words (most likely for my benefit) claiming I had no life without this mysterious food called goetta. From what I could draw it was some sort of sausage with oats—not too appealing to think about if you asked me. I like to avoid oats…and foods that were, as Jen put it, “kind of like hot dogs—you just don’t think about what’s in it.” Ali assured me it was much better than it sounded. It was a German thing, she said, a Northern Kentucky breakfast dish. Somehow it was extremely important.
“Like hash?” I asked.
They just laughed.
“No, not like hash. It’s waaay better than hash.” I was a little surprised Ali had experience in eating hash at all, but then again, with the sound of this goetta, I couldn’t really be that surprised.
To prove to me how popular this goetta was, Ali and Jen pulled out their cell phones, texting friends and family to tell them all that I had never had goetta. Had I missed out on some major part of growing up—like watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade or tasting PlayDough for the first time? Hopefully goetta was in no way similar. I had missed some rite of passage…and my family claimed German roots. Was I simply a shame to my own heritage? At least I wasn’t alone. Mark, my boyfriend had never heard of the dish, and he was German enough for the both of us.
“We have to get goetta.” Jen clutched her phone and glanced towards my keys lying on the floor.
Oh, right. I was the one with the vehicle.
Ten minutes and forty seconds later we were in my car, Jen riding shotgun, heading to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter. If they didn’t have it, no one would.
They didn’t have it.
We searched the meats, the tubed sausages, the eggs, the frozen meats, the weird cheese kiosks. Ali was stamping down the spice aisle (because that’s exactly where you would find German sausage with oats) calling out: “Goet-ta! Goet-ta! Why—don’t-you have Goet-ta!?” That got us all going. Ali danced around the paprika, legs crossed to keep from peeing and hand over her mouth to keep from howling. Jen’s make-up was running down her cheeks in rivers and I was doubled over on the floor. This was the way things usually turned out between us. Once we started, there was no stop. The odd combination of being together after spending almost six months apart and searching for this mystery food was just comical enough to get ourselves kicked out of Wal-Mart.
Well…kicked out is such a strong word…
Asked to resign from shopping was more like it.
Back in the car, Ali and Jen were more determined than ever to get some goetta. Ali rode in front this time while Jen sat in the back calling Dylan and Thomas to see if they’d ever had goetta. Dylan thought it was some form of inner-city culture he should know about. Thomas thought it was a person.
“Thomas, you’re such a Debbie Downer!” was all Jen had to say.
These girls were crazy. They sang songs about goetta and the moon. They bounced around in my car like a couple of sling-shot bouncy balls. Ali directed me to the nearest Kroger to check their stock while they discussed the ways of cooking and eating goetta.
“You put syrup on it.”
“No, Jen, that’s gross. Mustard. It’s mustard.”
“Sick! Freak-face, you eat mustard in the morning?!”
“Yes! I can’t believe you put syrup on your goetta, that’s so disgusting.”
“Mustard’s disgusting.”
All I had to do was sit back and watch—and drive of course—as they threw down their cases for each topping. I was almost certain if they had both been in the back seat there would’ve been a fight. Over goetta. Ali claimed goetta had to be baked, while Jen said fried. All the while, I doubled over the steering wheel, trying to focus on driving while I laughed.
When we reached Kroger, my partners in crime made a b-line for the meats. They stopped only once, distracted by icing cookie sandwiches made to look like frogs, and then they were back on their mission. We found the sausages easy enough, causing a scene next to the hot dogs. We were all calling it out now.
“Goetta! Goet-ta!”
Deli workers stared. Late night Kroger shoppers altered their paths around us so to not get too close. We were diseased. We were insane. We were too happy for a midnight Kroger run.
We scanned the sausages up and down. Mild, country style, hot, lean, fat-free…
“IT’S GOETTA!!!” Jen’s hand snatched up a small beige tube in the forgotten bottom corner of the sausages and raised it high over her head. Screaming and flailing her arms, Ali grabbed it from her to read the label.
“It is! We found it!”
What I had expected to be a more grand and sophisticated food turned out to be just another tube of sausage. It looked a lot like fruit cake…only with less color and less…cake…
Jen was our parade leader, holding the goetta high over her head as we made our way to the check-out lanes. All the while Ali walked half doubled over, again to avoid peeing herself, making as much noise as possible.
“Ali, Ali. Let’s not get kicked out before we can buy it.”
We made it out safely and were back home in a matter of minutes, huddled around the stove, frying up disks of meat and oats, documenting every second with Jen’s digital camera. These are my friends. I thought, then again…we are the company we keep, right?
The smell of goetta was interesting, more like old sausage…left-over hamburgers. I agreed to try both syrup and mustard to appease the girls (syrup was better) and they began calling everyone they knew to see if they’d ever had goetta. Unabashed by the number of no’s and the many voice-mail inboxes we reached, we left long explanations of goetta and sang Christmas carols to our sleepy friends. We soon raided the fridge. Chocolate delight, doughnuts, pizza, goetta. It was our greatest smorgasbord, all washed down with a couple bottles of Ale-8. It was a night of local favorites, a night of triumph. I had goetta for the first time. The Three Musketeers were back in action. Our appetites and adventures appeased, we soaked up each other’s company in the yellow light of my 1 a.m. kitchen, munching on goetta and cracking open walnuts just to see if we could get them out whole.
I didn’t realize how my denial would affect the rest of my Saturday night. Ali D., my roommate from the Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts was sitting on my couch, her arm stopping mid-swing as she prepared to bowl her final frame on Wii Bowling. Jen, another GSA alumni came skidding in from the kitchen in her new pair of Christmas socks. They had smiling Christmas trees on them.
“She’s never had goetta?!” Jen was the definition of a fiery red head, always laughing, always smiling, and always making up some new joke about our residence life group from Governor’s School. She was not smiling now. Her brow had fallen into a concentrated curve and she gave Ali one of her serious business faces. Jen and Ali had a sort of secret language I had never figured out. They were both Visual Art students at GSA, while I was Creative Writing. I would often catch them staring at each other, laughs on the tips of their tongues while they made some private joke through their pupils. It was frustrating to be out of the loop, but more interesting to watch.
Ali and Jen deliberated, half in silent looks, half in actual words (most likely for my benefit) claiming I had no life without this mysterious food called goetta. From what I could draw it was some sort of sausage with oats—not too appealing to think about if you asked me. I like to avoid oats…and foods that were, as Jen put it, “kind of like hot dogs—you just don’t think about what’s in it.” Ali assured me it was much better than it sounded. It was a German thing, she said, a Northern Kentucky breakfast dish. Somehow it was extremely important.
“Like hash?” I asked.
They just laughed.
“No, not like hash. It’s waaay better than hash.” I was a little surprised Ali had experience in eating hash at all, but then again, with the sound of this goetta, I couldn’t really be that surprised.
To prove to me how popular this goetta was, Ali and Jen pulled out their cell phones, texting friends and family to tell them all that I had never had goetta. Had I missed out on some major part of growing up—like watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade or tasting PlayDough for the first time? Hopefully goetta was in no way similar. I had missed some rite of passage…and my family claimed German roots. Was I simply a shame to my own heritage? At least I wasn’t alone. Mark, my boyfriend had never heard of the dish, and he was German enough for the both of us.
“We have to get goetta.” Jen clutched her phone and glanced towards my keys lying on the floor.
Oh, right. I was the one with the vehicle.
Ten minutes and forty seconds later we were in my car, Jen riding shotgun, heading to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter. If they didn’t have it, no one would.
They didn’t have it.
We searched the meats, the tubed sausages, the eggs, the frozen meats, the weird cheese kiosks. Ali was stamping down the spice aisle (because that’s exactly where you would find German sausage with oats) calling out: “Goet-ta! Goet-ta! Why—don’t-you have Goet-ta!?” That got us all going. Ali danced around the paprika, legs crossed to keep from peeing and hand over her mouth to keep from howling. Jen’s make-up was running down her cheeks in rivers and I was doubled over on the floor. This was the way things usually turned out between us. Once we started, there was no stop. The odd combination of being together after spending almost six months apart and searching for this mystery food was just comical enough to get ourselves kicked out of Wal-Mart.
Well…kicked out is such a strong word…
Asked to resign from shopping was more like it.
Back in the car, Ali and Jen were more determined than ever to get some goetta. Ali rode in front this time while Jen sat in the back calling Dylan and Thomas to see if they’d ever had goetta. Dylan thought it was some form of inner-city culture he should know about. Thomas thought it was a person.
“Thomas, you’re such a Debbie Downer!” was all Jen had to say.
These girls were crazy. They sang songs about goetta and the moon. They bounced around in my car like a couple of sling-shot bouncy balls. Ali directed me to the nearest Kroger to check their stock while they discussed the ways of cooking and eating goetta.
“You put syrup on it.”
“No, Jen, that’s gross. Mustard. It’s mustard.”
“Sick! Freak-face, you eat mustard in the morning?!”
“Yes! I can’t believe you put syrup on your goetta, that’s so disgusting.”
“Mustard’s disgusting.”
All I had to do was sit back and watch—and drive of course—as they threw down their cases for each topping. I was almost certain if they had both been in the back seat there would’ve been a fight. Over goetta. Ali claimed goetta had to be baked, while Jen said fried. All the while, I doubled over the steering wheel, trying to focus on driving while I laughed.
When we reached Kroger, my partners in crime made a b-line for the meats. They stopped only once, distracted by icing cookie sandwiches made to look like frogs, and then they were back on their mission. We found the sausages easy enough, causing a scene next to the hot dogs. We were all calling it out now.
“Goetta! Goet-ta!”
Deli workers stared. Late night Kroger shoppers altered their paths around us so to not get too close. We were diseased. We were insane. We were too happy for a midnight Kroger run.
We scanned the sausages up and down. Mild, country style, hot, lean, fat-free…
“IT’S GOETTA!!!” Jen’s hand snatched up a small beige tube in the forgotten bottom corner of the sausages and raised it high over her head. Screaming and flailing her arms, Ali grabbed it from her to read the label.
“It is! We found it!”
What I had expected to be a more grand and sophisticated food turned out to be just another tube of sausage. It looked a lot like fruit cake…only with less color and less…cake…
Jen was our parade leader, holding the goetta high over her head as we made our way to the check-out lanes. All the while Ali walked half doubled over, again to avoid peeing herself, making as much noise as possible.
“Ali, Ali. Let’s not get kicked out before we can buy it.”
We made it out safely and were back home in a matter of minutes, huddled around the stove, frying up disks of meat and oats, documenting every second with Jen’s digital camera. These are my friends. I thought, then again…we are the company we keep, right?
The smell of goetta was interesting, more like old sausage…left-over hamburgers. I agreed to try both syrup and mustard to appease the girls (syrup was better) and they began calling everyone they knew to see if they’d ever had goetta. Unabashed by the number of no’s and the many voice-mail inboxes we reached, we left long explanations of goetta and sang Christmas carols to our sleepy friends. We soon raided the fridge. Chocolate delight, doughnuts, pizza, goetta. It was our greatest smorgasbord, all washed down with a couple bottles of Ale-8. It was a night of local favorites, a night of triumph. I had goetta for the first time. The Three Musketeers were back in action. Our appetites and adventures appeased, we soaked up each other’s company in the yellow light of my 1 a.m. kitchen, munching on goetta and cracking open walnuts just to see if we could get them out whole.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Earthly Swallow
Pages turned to grey
as each moment lost itself
in sand drips of hourglasses,
in floral couch cushions
and in lightless stars
of the Kuiper belt.
Ink ran down our fingers,
bled from the corners
of our mouths, around
mason jar glasses
full of communion wine,
around planetesimal forms
standing eclipsed in our pupils.
Words erased themselves
from Earth's history.
Syllable by syllable they fled
from the underside
of a billion tongues, escaping
off the edges of open umbrellas
and became memories captured
in a firefly's tail, burning out in summer,
setting the space between your fingers aglow.
We were zeroed in,
back to black-skiy square one
when our languages never breathed
and eyes told our stories
like windows thrown open
to rid our minds of all the smoke,
when open mouths were pressed
in lines and bodies learned to say
I need you.
Pages turned to grey
and skies consumed my goodbye,
wrappped themselves around like wax paper
and banished sound
from our moment.
as each moment lost itself
in sand drips of hourglasses,
in floral couch cushions
and in lightless stars
of the Kuiper belt.
Ink ran down our fingers,
bled from the corners
of our mouths, around
mason jar glasses
full of communion wine,
around planetesimal forms
standing eclipsed in our pupils.
Words erased themselves
from Earth's history.
Syllable by syllable they fled
from the underside
of a billion tongues, escaping
off the edges of open umbrellas
and became memories captured
in a firefly's tail, burning out in summer,
setting the space between your fingers aglow.
We were zeroed in,
back to black-skiy square one
when our languages never breathed
and eyes told our stories
like windows thrown open
to rid our minds of all the smoke,
when open mouths were pressed
in lines and bodies learned to say
I need you.
Pages turned to grey
and skies consumed my goodbye,
wrappped themselves around like wax paper
and banished sound
from our moment.
Monday, November 23, 2009
This Week's Begining is Just an End
This morning is a lazy kind of morning. Not so much tired as an apathetic lazy. I've checked out for this week. There's nothing I can really do to bring myself out of four days from now. I'm already there, waiting on the swing in the backyard under my paisley quilt. Mom and Dad are gone for their black Friday shopping and I am just waiting. It is sunny out and a chilled wind wraps itself around the yard. I draw up the quilt and lay down across the seat, swaying lightly. This year seems to be full of moments like this, sighing moments that just deserve to be observed. Human alterations of these moments would be sinful. They are like silk paintings in the wind, caught by a draft in a split second and then sent flying again as time finds itself and remembers who he is. I wait for the sound of a car, for my phone to vibrate in my pocket, but time seems to have stopped. The browning grass ripples in the wind and the trees make no sound but a low moan between their naked branches. I shush them, dropping my eyes to the back door, watching the house glow orange. Finally it is winter. Not many people can say that, but I have always loved the winter. I have always loved the snow and the shorter days, the whistling of bare oaks and bradford pears, hot tea in a snowman mug, pumpkin pie, Christmas candies, the wait for spring. That is what I love the most about winter--the wait between fall and spring. It is timeless. It is frozen. It is a moment to reflect upon the frivolities of summer that needed no analyzation before now. It is a moment to consider who we are, what we are doing and who it is we miss the most.
Still, I am waiting. I am swinging steadily now, resting my head on the bars, curling my toes under to keep them warm. The dog is laying under the swing, snoring. I envy him. I couldn't sleep now if I wanted to. My notebook lays open flat in my lap, a pen poised between my fingers, but I stare off into the distance and let my eyes slide out of focus. That is where I am. Waiting.
Still, I am waiting. I am swinging steadily now, resting my head on the bars, curling my toes under to keep them warm. The dog is laying under the swing, snoring. I envy him. I couldn't sleep now if I wanted to. My notebook lays open flat in my lap, a pen poised between my fingers, but I stare off into the distance and let my eyes slide out of focus. That is where I am. Waiting.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Les Leçons Dans Le Media.
Il y a beaucoup de leçons que nous pouvons apprendre des actualités et des événements dans le monde. Nous apprenons des leçons dans nos vies quand nous voisons des actualités et lire des journales. Aussi de même, si nous voisons les événements dans le monde, nous apprendrons les nouvelles solutions pour les problèmes dans notre pays et le monde.
Par exemple, ce mois, un homme qui s’appelle Nidal Malik Hassan tirait 13 personnes à une base, Fort Hood. Il est musulman, un psychiatre dans le militaire des Etats Unis. Mais, la controverse n’est pas qu’il est musulman, mais que ses amis et ses collègues a dit que ils pensent que Nidal était peut être psychotique. Selon les actualités, il y a beaucoup d’évidence qui suggérer que Nidal avait des problèmes psychologique avant de cet incident.
Personne n’ai pas disent qu’il était des problèmes avec Nidal. Il était suivant des sites web qu’il était pour les radicales et les terroristes, mais personne n’ai pas disent quelque chose au gouvernement avant de le meurtre. Aussi, il était entrainé avec des groups Islamiques radicaux. Maintenant, il ferait face la peine de mort. Mais, il était des personnes qu’ils pouvaient prévenir tout ce que ce passe. Il y a une leçon ici.
Si nous saisons qu’une personne a des problèmes dans leur vie, nous avons une responsabilité de dire ca. Pour la sécurité des autres personnes et pour la personne dans son tort, nous devons être conscientes de quand une personne n’est pas totalement d’accord. Ceci ne vois dit pas que nous devons être fouiné, mais quand il y’a un grand problème, nous devons dit ca.
Président Obama a ordonné une révision des agences intelligences des Etats Unis pour savoir s’ils savaient que Nidal avait des problèmes. Il est possible qu’il trouve plus que nous savons au sujet de l’état mental de Nidal avant de le meurtre. C’est triste qu’il était des évidences qu’indique ses problèmes. Peut être il serait libre et recevant le traitement pour sa condition psychotique. Mais, non.
Nous avons beaucoup de leçons d’apprendre quand les évents passent comme ca. Il est importante que nous sommes clairvoyantes et entendent quand il y a un grand événement sur les actualités et dans les journales. Ils nous enseignent beaucoup pour nos vies et pour la sécurité, la longévité et la prospérité de notre monde.
Par exemple, ce mois, un homme qui s’appelle Nidal Malik Hassan tirait 13 personnes à une base, Fort Hood. Il est musulman, un psychiatre dans le militaire des Etats Unis. Mais, la controverse n’est pas qu’il est musulman, mais que ses amis et ses collègues a dit que ils pensent que Nidal était peut être psychotique. Selon les actualités, il y a beaucoup d’évidence qui suggérer que Nidal avait des problèmes psychologique avant de cet incident.
Personne n’ai pas disent qu’il était des problèmes avec Nidal. Il était suivant des sites web qu’il était pour les radicales et les terroristes, mais personne n’ai pas disent quelque chose au gouvernement avant de le meurtre. Aussi, il était entrainé avec des groups Islamiques radicaux. Maintenant, il ferait face la peine de mort. Mais, il était des personnes qu’ils pouvaient prévenir tout ce que ce passe. Il y a une leçon ici.
Si nous saisons qu’une personne a des problèmes dans leur vie, nous avons une responsabilité de dire ca. Pour la sécurité des autres personnes et pour la personne dans son tort, nous devons être conscientes de quand une personne n’est pas totalement d’accord. Ceci ne vois dit pas que nous devons être fouiné, mais quand il y’a un grand problème, nous devons dit ca.
Président Obama a ordonné une révision des agences intelligences des Etats Unis pour savoir s’ils savaient que Nidal avait des problèmes. Il est possible qu’il trouve plus que nous savons au sujet de l’état mental de Nidal avant de le meurtre. C’est triste qu’il était des évidences qu’indique ses problèmes. Peut être il serait libre et recevant le traitement pour sa condition psychotique. Mais, non.
Nous avons beaucoup de leçons d’apprendre quand les évents passent comme ca. Il est importante que nous sommes clairvoyantes et entendent quand il y a un grand événement sur les actualités et dans les journales. Ils nous enseignent beaucoup pour nos vies et pour la sécurité, la longévité et la prospérité de notre monde.
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