a diary excerpt circa 2010

You could say that this is a complicated relationship
and that's why I can never say it properly
I stutter

your name, three words
Never smooth

You could say that this is a complicated relationship
Like a complicated math problem
- the kind you do over and over
Coming up with fresh answers every time but
none of them feel right

You don't feel right, but

It's complicated
Like when you try to explain that poetry isn't easy
It isn't just writing words
It is thinking and compromise and digging when you
are too tired to lift the shovel

But no one sees that when you write something like
"The sea is speaking to me in a derogatory tone"

A Poem - La Dispute

The worry, the wonder, the shortness of days,
The replacement for purpose,
The things swept away by
The worry, the wonder, my slightness of frame,
The replacements for feeling,
The casual lay. And
The worst of the wildlife wears clothes and can pray and
The worry, the wonder, for three meals a day.
Only death unimpeded, not slowing it’s pace,
Brings that petty, old worry and wonder away.

Bob Schofield's "Darkish Night"

"One time I dreamed I was part-Batman, part-zipper, floating over a city of liars. I flashed my toothpick fangs at strangers. I beat my purple wings. Turned out I was the biggest liar of them all. And life was good. I kept moving, my head down. No one ever saw my face. One night my zipper caught on the edge of a crescent moon. I felt some unpleasant truth spill out of me. Even at that height I could hear it, that truth, plopping sad and wet against the concrete, the roofs of cars, the domes of a hundred grim umbrellas. I had never felt so vulnerable, so alone. So certain I was going to die right then in the middle of space, just a hovering closet of senseless human mayonnaise."

- Bob Schofield

scenes from a childhood, listed

I remember hating breakfast.

I remember the worn wooden dining table.

I remember when I ate red gummies with a friend, and we pretended to be vampires.

I remember freckles.

I remember thinking that cellophane was like clear construction paper that was harder to cut.

I remember losing to my father in a game of chess and then, after, crying until he let me win.

I remember guilt.

I remember quarters getting warm in my hand and wondering if they were still valid currency.

I remember pushing a red button to make the water park start.

I remember stumbling over words when giving my order to the ice cream truck for the first time, and then blushing, and then ordering something I didn’t even want but was easy to say.

I remember recorder choir.

I remember watching Austin Powers from a bean bag chair in my friend’s basement.

I remember sliding down two flights of carpeted stairs on a mattress stolen from my sister’s room.

I remember learning to use a stapler.

I remember screaming that time when the space heater I had on my wooden dresser burst into flames in the middle of the night,

I remember how the first thing my mother saved when she ran in was the designer Barbie doll,

The one I’d never touched.

I remember ripping up her sky blue dress and throwing her out my window when I thought everyone was asleep.

I remember telling her not to come back.

journal entry

a sunrise gazette on the kitchen table
you sit staring eastward, running
long fingers through garden dark
thoughts, hair,

swamp eyes
not on me

the wind blows diffluent through the open window
rustling past the empty cornhusks of our skin, our hearts
lampooning my earnest reaching

the kind that never makes it past my nerves
to move
my hands

bucket list

he wants to drive circles around the block
he wants to drive fast

(burning pavement until he gets out of breath and the sweat is pooling at our feet)
we lost five and seven pounds respectively

climbing up Everest
-- or at least to the base camp

the dehydrated chicken curry and spaghetti bolognaise
was never meant to nourish
just to dry up our tastebuds
and suck up our hope like water

I Made A Book And This Is What It Looks Like (feat. my dog)

Seasons

WINTER (DEC 1 – FEB 30)

the forest is restless

I can feel it now, reaching

its cold wooden-limbed arms through my window

it closes it's icy lady fingers in a fist around my appendix

holds tight

refuses to let go

they always made fun of me back in school

tire swings aren't real companions

compared to the real thing, of course

they say that children are mean but I think they're just being honest

is pain the next best policy?

the therapist squints at you when you say this, asks: have you been thinking of self harm?

haven't you? no I don't think so.

a toddler is repeatedly jumping on my heart

I want him to stop but then I wonder if it's really him that's keeping me beating

I have a history of being incompetent, but you know that already don't you

you remember? that time in the car

I cried when I couldn't read the map

how do people read those numbers anyway?

these twisty lines worm their way in my ears and cozy up next to my brain

whispers me jokes to tell at Christmas parties

it's warm in there I guess

I wear warm hats in winter

to keep the humour alive

now you know

SPRING (MAR 1 – MAY 31)

in the spring I am mostly missing

some days the ceiling chips in my dreams

big chunks of space coming into my bedroom

violet daffodils on an uncharted star

I never invited these asteroids in here

they sit on my bed through the night

drinking pink lemonade out of a glass pitcher I set on the bookshelf

they crack open Easter eggs that

forecast the weather

or give you winning lottery numbers

for a night twenty years later

in the meantime,

the pavement is singing chocolate milk into

the pastel gutters outside

the rats are getting cavities

and our fingers are permanently sticky with

the crisp morning dew

a new day

SUMMER (JUN 1 – AUG 31)

the barnacles are working their way up your legs

through to the windows of your eyes

a blue sky

hanging heavy off the sides of the mattress

you dive into it instead of trying to fight it off

like the opposite of the cool dead lake

skin blistering under the aloe vera

I’ve never liked the beach

the sand grits its teeth

as it settles down on the surface of my scalp

reminding me days later that they are Still Here

and that the beach Still Exists

(sounding their horns like the crashing of

waves inside a seashell)

last summer I woke up to find my sailboat had

gotten lost in the sun

her white UV smile opening up

to swallow me into a throat

as scratchy as a worn mexican blanket

her eyes lighting up like bonfires

my sails looking like the

Fourth of July

FALL (SEPT 1 – NOV 30)

inside,

the air in your house is stale, chilly

tens of thousands of open windows line the ever-expanding ceiling

crisp brown paper

a six-pack of beer

later, the lights will be too bright

the fluorescents hurt your eyes

reflecting off waxed floors

shadows settling in hidden crevices

(behind the lockers, in corners, the stairway no one uses)

needless to say,

in four years you will be expected to glow

outside,

the cat is stuck in the tree yet again,

caught in the bare bones of branches

its meows like sirens

fur that glitters like

sixth grade party confetti in the sun

its cold rays

bouncing off the puddles

(the leaves, your hair)

shimmering

shivering

some summer things

At times I feel my fridge should open up to infinity
Like some twisted Narnia wardrobe
The cool smooth of its plastic doors
Turning to beach sand
Or golden locks of hair between fingertips

A bright orange creamsicle lights up the dark on your face
A slow and lazy river
Dammed with colourful inner tubes
And bright red bell peppers

And somewhere else, under fireworks
The bittersweet taste of
Turkish delight and cigarette smoke

the daily haps

There is courage in the kitchen cupboards
I keep it there
For emergencies, you know

Some days I find my house too messy
I organize like it's a bad habit I'm trying to quell
The full moon outside knocks on the door and
I spit in his face

I can't help it

He just walks away after that
Sort of offended, I guess
And I want him to come back but
Then I figure he has somewhere to be anyway

beach thoughts

A lighthouse is stumbling toward me in the dark
I'd try to help
If only she would just stop flashing those lights that way

The sand is slipping through my fingers
And our pyramid is terribly incomplete
So maybe just try harder?

When I'm feeling mean I like to take long walks on the sea wall
The people there so
Chaotic and slow
Like a high definition tornado
They hurry on their way but
Mostly I just like to look out at the sea

Picturing the parakeets
Melting their wings in the Sun