There is an untouched guidance
Beneath the fingernails
Of a bartender
In a flannel shirt
Do not think of a black
Night and lots of voices
There aren't any short skirts
Or screaming drink orders
Baby blue tile creates a back drop for the glass
Bottles lined along the wall
From the simple print of Effen Vodka
To the detailed scripture
Of its grapes and vines; The bottle of red
On the other end of the shelf
There is a soft consistent
Drip of rainwater falling
Off the edge of the bumper to my car,
Parked in the lot
The brighter, yet lucid lights
Distract the dripping, and
Makes its way to the
Center of my glass
Shining a maroon port
Pomegranate juice and ice
Not a scripture on the bottle
August 9, 2011
May 31, 2011
Diner
There is a plastic film which kisses the edge of this table
More than likely to protect it from coffee mug stains and
Potentially written messages from dragging and digging of forks and knives
I've sat here for about an hour
Two glasses of orange juice
A cup of coffee- which is now cold as I take my final sips
And scrambled eggs are the items which have traveled far
All to end up in the throes of my screaming stomach
There are two Asian girls sitting in the booth in front of me
Taking snap shots of each other while they share a bowl of sweet potato fries and a strawberry milkshake
I fiddle with the peeling plastic on the far left corner of the table
My eyes dart back and forth from the tower of little plastic cups of preserved berries that sits in a metal contraption at the end of the table-
Back to one of the girls
Whose skin reminds me of a manilla folder
And eyes that flip from open to closed faster than the bite of an angry rottweiler
The white moon of her nails were waning to a crescent
She nibbled away
At both the fries and her nails
The awkward gravity freezes in front of me as I paint an ugly, oversized mustache under the nose of my waitress
She snatches up the crumpled dollars I would've wasted elsewhere and I begin to gather my things as
The bustle of keys to black Range Rovers
And wedding planners sipping diner mimosa's
Gives the air a salty taste of constant dis-satisfaction
The Asian girl with her moon nails takes a close up of her BLT
More than likely to protect it from coffee mug stains and
Potentially written messages from dragging and digging of forks and knives
I've sat here for about an hour
Two glasses of orange juice
A cup of coffee- which is now cold as I take my final sips
And scrambled eggs are the items which have traveled far
All to end up in the throes of my screaming stomach
There are two Asian girls sitting in the booth in front of me
Taking snap shots of each other while they share a bowl of sweet potato fries and a strawberry milkshake
I fiddle with the peeling plastic on the far left corner of the table
My eyes dart back and forth from the tower of little plastic cups of preserved berries that sits in a metal contraption at the end of the table-
Back to one of the girls
Whose skin reminds me of a manilla folder
And eyes that flip from open to closed faster than the bite of an angry rottweiler
The white moon of her nails were waning to a crescent
She nibbled away
At both the fries and her nails
The awkward gravity freezes in front of me as I paint an ugly, oversized mustache under the nose of my waitress
She snatches up the crumpled dollars I would've wasted elsewhere and I begin to gather my things as
The bustle of keys to black Range Rovers
And wedding planners sipping diner mimosa's
Gives the air a salty taste of constant dis-satisfaction
The Asian girl with her moon nails takes a close up of her BLT
April 12, 2011
Heel Stompers
We are fragile, but this is not a tragedy
Described as the softer gender
We are the ones with the gentle touch
Who have done the most hitting
Our lips are a specific red
Not a crimson or cherry
Centimeters away from the microphone
Staring at our mouths- not hearing words
The doors of corporate America only remain open so wide
Let’s just hope that is enough
For our lace covered legs to walk right through
So we can stomp our heels onto the soil plowed by the other kind
A monument to commemorate the differences between the stick figures on each public bathroom door
Cold stone, constructed with the proper curves and clashing corners
Standing only so near the statue it sits next to
A monument to commemorate the differences between just us
I am a she, but I am not like her
Her sharp stilettos may be red like my lips,
But my Chuck Taylor’s aren’t as black as her lace
I am not one of those angry feminists
I am a she, but I am not like her
We are whole, though
Softer, but not afraid to strike
A scrape from her manicured nails
Or a dirty punch from my uneven knuckles
We are not afraid
April 11, 2011
Her Real Name is Eleanor
There isn’t much more than pairs of dry elbows which rest on this table
They are white and grey and cracked
No, I am not talking about Gabbie’s hands
I am talking about the elbows
Gabbie is my Grandma
She refuses to be called Grandma
So she asked my mom to have her grandchildren refer to her as Gabbie
Even though her real name is Eleanor
As if it was a Sunday morning,
Grandpa set a plate of scrambled eggs onto the table
Where Gabbie and the rest of us sit
He doesn’t mind being called Grandpa
The bookshelves behind this table are full of Gabbie and Grandpa’s collection of literature
From his favorite- Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby to hers- Gaskells’ North and South
I cannot say that I like eggs,
But they are edible
Home is this apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan
On the corner of 100th and Riverdale- over looking the Hudson
The street is on a hill
Where cars park on a slant- but their tires wont roll back into the river
April 7, 2011
Once Connected
They were all gathered together
Trying to lift the wooden legs of the table which had been the largest accent in my kitchen
My roommate said it needed to go
I suppose she has a point
Its wooden legs were broken
There was only the stained table top on the floor of my kitchen
The legs were in the lawn
Their struggling
Trying to lift them into the dumpster
Trying to lift the wooden legs of the table which had been the largest accent in my kitchen
My roommate said it needed to go
I suppose she has a point
Its wooden legs were broken
There was only the stained table top on the floor of my kitchen
The legs were in the lawn
Their struggling
Trying to lift them into the dumpster
April 4, 2011
Letter
Dear Dad,
It's been almost ten years since you died. A decade. Can you believe it ?
I remember when mom and Uncle Burns took Biz, Jack and I outside in the backyard of our Maplewood house. Jack wouldn't really sit still, he was only three so I wouldn't really expect him to. I remember Mom said something happened to you, and I knew right away. "He died, didn't he?"
I knew you were gone.
I don't remember much after that.
Little things like being angry that there were so many photographers at your funeral. And the big reception with a white tent in the backyard.
Mr. Galante and a few other people were in the garage smoking cigarettes. At the time I knew it was bad. I now smoke daily.
People treated me differently after that. I was in third grade. Mrs. Ryan was my teacher. For some reason, the rest of third grade I can't remember.
I can recall bits and pieces of fourth grade. Like going home early because I couldn't handle being at school. I still have this picture I drew of you and I while waiting for mom to pick me up in the Jefferson Elementary School office. It hangs below my television, right next to the collage mom made for you while you guys were in college. The one with the polaroid of her as a child in the middle of it.
I don't remember fifth and sixth grade. Seventh is when I started growing up. I got my first boyfriend, started wearing make up. I became close with this girl Haley Burniston. She was wonderful. We had sleepovers on her trampoline and fought over who got to sleep in the green flannel sleeping bag, 'cause it was cozier than the red one. We had water balloon fights outside with her sisters and went to Joy together. The youth group at Memorial Church.
Slowly Haley and I drifted apart. For no other reasons but the average. I became close with Caroline Lynott at this point. Our big thing was "going into town". Which basically consisted of a bunch of seventh graders walking into Maplewood to hang out at the Trattoria or on the corner by Bagel Chateau.
Caroline's Dad called town, "Mecca". Because everyone our age seemed to worship it's small streets and local shops.
After seventh grade, summer came around and mom made the decision to move us to Chagrin Falls, Ohio. I guess she grew tired of the "9/11 widow with three children" title. Plus, Columbia High School had its reputation for fights and bomb threats. Mom googled top 100 high schools in the United States, and Chagrin it was. I left Maplewood and went to sleep away camp in Vermont for the summer. After eight weeks of canoeing and sailing, I went "home", but not to Maplewood.
Chagrin was something foreign to me. Aesthetically pleasing, yes. Welcoming? No.
I began to change. I started tanning, and dyed my hair. I wore fake nails and changed the way I dressed.
The details of eighth grade I'll leave out. I just wasn't me, Dad. I wasn't your emmabean.
After eighth grade I knew I couldn't return to Chagrin Falls High School, so mom and I began looking at private schools.
After a long process of looking, we found Andrews Osborne Academy. At first, things were really good. I became close with a bunch of girls, but I got involved with the wrong crowd. I started smoking cigarettes and drinking. I fell into a whole new mind set. Sex, drugs and rock'n roll at the age of fifteen.
Soon enough weed wasn't enough and beer didn't suffice. I started selling drugs and getting in a lot of trouble. I became everything I was ever afraid of, Dad. Again, I guess details aren't needed. People say you can see me while you're up there anyway.
Sophomore year was pretty much the same. However, that was when I came out to mom. I told her I was bisexual. Which I was, but I knew there was something more.
I guess I've never really came out to you.
I'm gay, Dad. I know it's probably not what you wanted, mom is still accepting it too. I mean, I am still accepting it in a way as well. I still believe love has no gender, and I could fall in love and marry either a man or a woman. However, all I know is right now, I am a lesbian. Most people think that's permanent. They think the word "gay" sort of means, forever. But to me, that's not true. Love is ever changing.
I'm now a senior at Montessori High School. I was asked to leave Andrews, and I knew I needed a change. I came here junior year, and it changed my life. I'm sober now. Have been for a year and 2 months. I'm now a published writer... my art has been in shows. I've broken people's hearts, and mine has been broken as well, but I'm slowly becoming who I want to be, but I've never been so scared.
I started writing this letter because I need to know what to do. I was rejected from my top choice of college, which was Bard, in New York. Although, I got accepted into my second choice, Eugene Lang The New School for Liberal Arts. It's in New York City. It's a beautiful school, dad. But I can't help but think you would be disappointed in me if I didn't go to Ohio Wesleyan. Fourth generation... you were the head of your fraternity. Mom was the beautiful liberal arts woman. It feels wrong of me to go elsewhere.
I knew I wanted to go to nyc for college. I wanted to go back home. But now since I actually can go, since I have those acceptance letters on the fridge, I don't know what to do. Would you be mad if I didn't go to OWU? Would you be disappointed?
Are you disappointed in me? For not staying on the swim team like you did. For not treating our family the way I should have? For losing my self respect and dignity. For becoming the disgusting person I was. I can't fucking feel you, dad.
I've been trying to feel you for ten years now, and I still can't.
I'm falling in love with an amazing woman, dad. I know you'd love her.
I'm graduating a prestigious high school.
I've been accepted into four out of the six colleges I applied to.
I've been published in a book.
I've won awards for my writing and my art.
I'm sober.
I have a job.
I've made amends to the people that deserved it.
I've tried to make amends with myself.
I'm trying dad. I'm trying so hard.
Please help me figure this all out. I need to feel you.
Write back.
Love,
Emmabean
P.S. I left out so many things.
P.P.S. I'm sure you already know that.
It's been almost ten years since you died. A decade. Can you believe it ?
I remember when mom and Uncle Burns took Biz, Jack and I outside in the backyard of our Maplewood house. Jack wouldn't really sit still, he was only three so I wouldn't really expect him to. I remember Mom said something happened to you, and I knew right away. "He died, didn't he?"
I knew you were gone.
I don't remember much after that.
Little things like being angry that there were so many photographers at your funeral. And the big reception with a white tent in the backyard.
Mr. Galante and a few other people were in the garage smoking cigarettes. At the time I knew it was bad. I now smoke daily.
People treated me differently after that. I was in third grade. Mrs. Ryan was my teacher. For some reason, the rest of third grade I can't remember.
I can recall bits and pieces of fourth grade. Like going home early because I couldn't handle being at school. I still have this picture I drew of you and I while waiting for mom to pick me up in the Jefferson Elementary School office. It hangs below my television, right next to the collage mom made for you while you guys were in college. The one with the polaroid of her as a child in the middle of it.
I don't remember fifth and sixth grade. Seventh is when I started growing up. I got my first boyfriend, started wearing make up. I became close with this girl Haley Burniston. She was wonderful. We had sleepovers on her trampoline and fought over who got to sleep in the green flannel sleeping bag, 'cause it was cozier than the red one. We had water balloon fights outside with her sisters and went to Joy together. The youth group at Memorial Church.
Slowly Haley and I drifted apart. For no other reasons but the average. I became close with Caroline Lynott at this point. Our big thing was "going into town". Which basically consisted of a bunch of seventh graders walking into Maplewood to hang out at the Trattoria or on the corner by Bagel Chateau.
Caroline's Dad called town, "Mecca". Because everyone our age seemed to worship it's small streets and local shops.
After seventh grade, summer came around and mom made the decision to move us to Chagrin Falls, Ohio. I guess she grew tired of the "9/11 widow with three children" title. Plus, Columbia High School had its reputation for fights and bomb threats. Mom googled top 100 high schools in the United States, and Chagrin it was. I left Maplewood and went to sleep away camp in Vermont for the summer. After eight weeks of canoeing and sailing, I went "home", but not to Maplewood.
Chagrin was something foreign to me. Aesthetically pleasing, yes. Welcoming? No.
I began to change. I started tanning, and dyed my hair. I wore fake nails and changed the way I dressed.
The details of eighth grade I'll leave out. I just wasn't me, Dad. I wasn't your emmabean.
After eighth grade I knew I couldn't return to Chagrin Falls High School, so mom and I began looking at private schools.
After a long process of looking, we found Andrews Osborne Academy. At first, things were really good. I became close with a bunch of girls, but I got involved with the wrong crowd. I started smoking cigarettes and drinking. I fell into a whole new mind set. Sex, drugs and rock'n roll at the age of fifteen.
Soon enough weed wasn't enough and beer didn't suffice. I started selling drugs and getting in a lot of trouble. I became everything I was ever afraid of, Dad. Again, I guess details aren't needed. People say you can see me while you're up there anyway.
Sophomore year was pretty much the same. However, that was when I came out to mom. I told her I was bisexual. Which I was, but I knew there was something more.
I guess I've never really came out to you.
I'm gay, Dad. I know it's probably not what you wanted, mom is still accepting it too. I mean, I am still accepting it in a way as well. I still believe love has no gender, and I could fall in love and marry either a man or a woman. However, all I know is right now, I am a lesbian. Most people think that's permanent. They think the word "gay" sort of means, forever. But to me, that's not true. Love is ever changing.
I'm now a senior at Montessori High School. I was asked to leave Andrews, and I knew I needed a change. I came here junior year, and it changed my life. I'm sober now. Have been for a year and 2 months. I'm now a published writer... my art has been in shows. I've broken people's hearts, and mine has been broken as well, but I'm slowly becoming who I want to be, but I've never been so scared.
I started writing this letter because I need to know what to do. I was rejected from my top choice of college, which was Bard, in New York. Although, I got accepted into my second choice, Eugene Lang The New School for Liberal Arts. It's in New York City. It's a beautiful school, dad. But I can't help but think you would be disappointed in me if I didn't go to Ohio Wesleyan. Fourth generation... you were the head of your fraternity. Mom was the beautiful liberal arts woman. It feels wrong of me to go elsewhere.
I knew I wanted to go to nyc for college. I wanted to go back home. But now since I actually can go, since I have those acceptance letters on the fridge, I don't know what to do. Would you be mad if I didn't go to OWU? Would you be disappointed?
Are you disappointed in me? For not staying on the swim team like you did. For not treating our family the way I should have? For losing my self respect and dignity. For becoming the disgusting person I was. I can't fucking feel you, dad.
I've been trying to feel you for ten years now, and I still can't.
I'm falling in love with an amazing woman, dad. I know you'd love her.
I'm graduating a prestigious high school.
I've been accepted into four out of the six colleges I applied to.
I've been published in a book.
I've won awards for my writing and my art.
I'm sober.
I have a job.
I've made amends to the people that deserved it.
I've tried to make amends with myself.
I'm trying dad. I'm trying so hard.
Please help me figure this all out. I need to feel you.
Write back.
Love,
Emmabean
P.S. I left out so many things.
P.P.S. I'm sure you already know that.
March 25, 2011
& You're Still Dead
A river beneath these bare feet
A coarse surface among the webbed feet of screaming beaks
There is nothing left behind the wings of a broken bird
A theatrical verse is being sung with orange lungs
A splattered oil of apricot tears
There is a gym full of high school hearts waiting for you
A pair of father hands are burning on the stove
A yawning daughter so tired of being 7 at 17
There are no pictures of you, Douglas
A bed with dirty sheets is only slept in so much
A room you never saw is where I sleep every night
There can't be any more of me left for any one
A coarse surface among the webbed feet of screaming beaks
There is nothing left behind the wings of a broken bird
A theatrical verse is being sung with orange lungs
A splattered oil of apricot tears
There is a gym full of high school hearts waiting for you
A pair of father hands are burning on the stove
A yawning daughter so tired of being 7 at 17
There are no pictures of you, Douglas
A bed with dirty sheets is only slept in so much
A room you never saw is where I sleep every night
There can't be any more of me left for any one
March 16, 2011
Heels
Her heels are black and charred
Not because of the lawns lack of moisture
It is softer than the bed floral jumper she sports
Crumbling into little pieces, the tips of her toes are falling off
The way a burnt log turns into a pile of small, dark clusters
Sitting at the bottom of the fire place
It is only used at christmas time
Stomping into the snow with blackened heels
Dripping sweat, she is so warm
Not because of the lawns lack of moisture
It is softer than the bed floral jumper she sports
Crumbling into little pieces, the tips of her toes are falling off
The way a burnt log turns into a pile of small, dark clusters
Sitting at the bottom of the fire place
It is only used at christmas time
Stomping into the snow with blackened heels
Dripping sweat, she is so warm
March 15, 2011
Wander
There is a blister on my thumb
It is from God
He gave it to me
After I hitch hiked all night
I just wanted to get out
I like to wander, God
I'm sorry for that
It is from God
He gave it to me
After I hitch hiked all night
I just wanted to get out
I like to wander, God
I'm sorry for that
March 7, 2011
Concentrate
I cannot concentrate with your eyes on my skin
I can show you anything you want to see
Tell me what it is you want
Just for a passing of time, I walk to the spot where you kissed me first
An overlook of the river which is now flooded from the storm
Somehow collapsing into the dirt, every root is trying to prove that it is connected to tree above
I've been keeping tabs on the footprints over this walkway
Pressed into the misted wooden bridge with the imprints of your shoes, they look how I feel
Forced pressure by the pale soles of your feet
I picture you and I being more then we now are
You don't need to be sorry
It was I that tore this tree down
You had planted its seeds
Nurtured its roots
I climbed its branches, and you joined me for a long while
Until I broke it down
Torn every limb to the ground
Hoping you would chase me with a closed fist full of new seeds
A newer tree to plant for our years to come
You only fell, though
Beneath this bridge
Under the stump
Next to the roots
Trying to prove you're connected to the tree
I can feel your eyes on my skin
Peering upward from the ground
I told you I could show you anything
What is it you want to see ?
I'm trying to concentrate
Trying to remember what it felt like when you kissed me first.
I can show you anything you want to see
Tell me what it is you want
Just for a passing of time, I walk to the spot where you kissed me first
An overlook of the river which is now flooded from the storm
Somehow collapsing into the dirt, every root is trying to prove that it is connected to tree above
I've been keeping tabs on the footprints over this walkway
Pressed into the misted wooden bridge with the imprints of your shoes, they look how I feel
Forced pressure by the pale soles of your feet
I picture you and I being more then we now are
You don't need to be sorry
It was I that tore this tree down
You had planted its seeds
Nurtured its roots
I climbed its branches, and you joined me for a long while
Until I broke it down
Torn every limb to the ground
Hoping you would chase me with a closed fist full of new seeds
A newer tree to plant for our years to come
You only fell, though
Beneath this bridge
Under the stump
Next to the roots
Trying to prove you're connected to the tree
I can feel your eyes on my skin
Peering upward from the ground
I told you I could show you anything
What is it you want to see ?
I'm trying to concentrate
Trying to remember what it felt like when you kissed me first.
March 4, 2011
Final
The final stretch has reached us
Today we will find everything
All that has been hidden from you and I
Will rise from the coffee colored streets
They will knock on our doors and ask for forgiveness
They will play God and tell us to pray
March 2, 2011
Basic
You are basically an inch away from me
And I want to pull you in
Kiss you from head to toe
You are basically the world to me
And I want to watch you spin
Convince me you are more than land and water
You are basically empty
And I want to fill you up
Never stop breathing a hum of avidity
You are basically a celestial glow
And I want to take you from the sky
Run your luminescent mist into the creases of my palms
You are basically everything to me
And I will not let you go
Time is well spent, only when with you
And I want to pull you in
Kiss you from head to toe
You are basically the world to me
And I want to watch you spin
Convince me you are more than land and water
You are basically empty
And I want to fill you up
Never stop breathing a hum of avidity
You are basically a celestial glow
And I want to take you from the sky
Run your luminescent mist into the creases of my palms
You are basically everything to me
And I will not let you go
Time is well spent, only when with you
February 24, 2011
Bench
When the green lights turn red Is when we notice who is sitting on the benches
On the corner of Taylor and Cedar road
A man in a puffy mint green coat
He sits enclosed within three glass walls
The fourth one, an opening for others to join him You can still see his grey breath, even inside the small glass house
On the side of the road
When the green lights turn red Is when he notices us
On the corner of 117th and St. Claire
I sit in my car with a soft hum of verses falling out of the speakers
Warm air creeping through the sleeves of my cropped jacket
I'm sure he can hear the beat of my engine's heart
The sputtering of its oil, the blood of its body
I'm sure he can notice the sheen of its skin
I would much rather be sitting with him
I'd like to see my grey breath mix with his
Side by side in a glass house on the corner of North Main and Bell
When the green lights turn red
We all seem to notice
February 23, 2011
History Test
I had no idea.
Answer the following in essay format. You MUST hand write your response.
Prompt:
Analyse the impact of either the First World War or the Second World War on the development of nationalism in one Asian or African colonial state.
Analyse The Impact
At the end of the day
You're scored by quality not quantity
That's what you said
Throwing paper at us
With questions and lines
As if the thin black stripes with blank space in-between are to guide us
I am unguided
Scored by my lack of memory
Graded by my indecency
This will be my last winter here
I'm tired of breaking down
I've tried breaking down
And don't give me fucking sympathy
This is not a guilt trip
I do not know the answer
And they sit beside me and write their accurate ideas but,
Our elbows rest on the same wooden plate
And we eat our words
And you chew on our thoughts
No, I do not think you are the devil
But hell is much warmer than this room
Pencils rush to fill papers
Pushed by the hands of you and I
Their grey tips leave stories
Are you reading my story ?
Or are you grading it?
Only 17 years old
I have a lot to live for
Much to learn
I need to lose things, find people
Scare myself,
Scar myself
Leave this, learn that
But don't you dare tell me I don't know what it's like out there
I suppose I'm making it seem like you're the accuser
I'm just writing this as I go along, really
My bitten fingernails and stained skin doesn't do me much justice
With the breath of a child, I am still innocent
But with the body of a woman, I am not an untouched freckled bath
The room beside us is laughing through the hour
Quiet in our hour
We are hard workers in this hour
So I'd like you to do this for me
Analyse the impact
What do these words do for you ?
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