b

a
small
thing.

such a small thing, really.

it was like this... i was sitting and watching the world go by through
the window, while i savored my steaming hot cup of ginger spice
i saw you walking down the sidewalk, cares in hand, ready to be tossed
away and i noticed you notice me
but only for a second
and then you glanced away.

i thought that day, maybe things had changed
maybe i was different, while you were still the same but then
i realized you hadn't even slowed your pace when you saw me
and then i realized you only saw your own reflection on the window.
at least you aren't vain.

i think when i die i'm going to be reborn as a firefly
its name doesn't need to be known, just a flicker in the night
sky and yet how many smiles have been made by a firefly's dance?
a chance at romance and yet it all slides past me when the current
changes and the tide leaves. here i'm standing on dry ground, aching
and cracking under the beating sun and yet, i can give it no water.

or maybe the time will be only remembered, and not reborn. maybe
you'll find me deep among the pages of those who made changes and were
then relegated to the monotonous list you're quizzed on in high school. on the way
out the door to your next period of time and then you find yourself
wobbling a bit, as i did, and unsure of your step or direction. but a chance encounter
with someone who lives on wishes and dreams with a side of bacon for breakfast, and
you're on your way.

or maybe i can really change the world. maybe my enrichment teacher
was not so amiss when she looked me in the eye and said, "you can do it, you know." if only
she knew how big i would make it. can it truly begin?

or will i fade?
at least i'll enjoy the shade in the dim shadows of memory
or maybe i'll just
go. more pleasant that way, i think, with no illusions of achievement
or lust after true fulfillment but i know my nature and that would never be.
so here i sit, thirsty.
can you make it rain?

vanishing man

once upon a time i knew a man
with a desire
a man who would stand
in the water with the
waves crashing against his
toes, craving the moon
shine
he would seek to find

a man who wanted to be
who thought he
could be, and so he ran
hard, and fast, and
believed he would win
heart beating so fast
it seemed he would
burst
he often asked for directions

he used to be,
oh he used to be
i sat right there
and watched him be
i've seen his eyes
and held his hand
and watched him find
the promised land.
he used to be.

the other thing

that fell behind the fridge
buried in dust bunnies, next to the remote
(i must have tried to put it in the freezer)
i picked the dirt out of my fingernails
set it back on the shelf
and marveled at my resourceful nature.

so it's missing a few pieces
and the eyes are misshapen
and its toes are deformed

but it's mine.

i got it for christmas... i think '87
i wanted one because sally, down the street,
said they were wonderful
so i saved up my pennies and brought it home
i carried my knock-off with pride.

it sat on my shelf
with its misshapen self.

i think that's it.
how much can you say?

a new thing

so i'm working on a project that i've mentioned to a few of you about.
i don't think the words in that sentence were in the correct order... but it's all good

i'm writing a book for children about life and death.

it is as yet untitled, as that usually takes me a while.

all y'all peeps should let me know what topics you wish someone had talked about when you were little. not in the answering sort of way, just in the talking and listening sort of way.

things

i drink wine
and savor the flavors of the
appetizing dishes that life creates
even the bitter ones
(bittersweet are often the best)
i occasionally giggle
but don't tell...
i thought i was made to be cold, and distant
but the new path that i've chosen
where nothing is frozen, and everything is odd
i think suits me better.

why is this novel?
well, you see...
i thought i could break me
and mold me and shape me
i thought i knew wiser

but i found i know little
of living or dying
when death's all the meaning
the ones left behind
should be mourned.

i saw my face in the man that
we buried
but maybe there was more to
him than that...

secret

i'm going to be a girl for a moment and give you my favorite beauty secret.

everytime i feel the need to say "does this make me look fat?"
or, "would you think i'd be prettier if my skin was clearer?"
or, "i hate my calf muscles"
or anything such as the above my husband makes me do an exercise.
"say it, audra. say, audra is beautiful."
i mumble a response, vague syllables designed to fool my listener.
he never buys it.
"say it so i can hear it," he says.

i should probably have just said it, boldly, and then said thank you.
it took me forever to stop reacting with tears or yelling or wanting to hide
i haven't the slightest idea why

audra is beautiful. there, i said it. i'm going to pretend those aren't tears, that i just need new contacts. even though i changed them yesterday... i must say, i've been holding my head high a lot more... and i think i'm funny... and i enjoy laughing, because i've stopped caring that my nose crinkles when i do so
i still avoid crying when possible because it makes my eyes puffy for days but i think i'm getting better.

maybe my husband is right.

so

so long ago.
i think, so long
the lines of your face have smoothed in my memory
or the time i think of was before their existence.
but now...
now is what?
a dream? a wish? a future oft revisted time?
they say i've lost the best years
but it took me all of them to find you
and i don't want to lose the ones i have
missing you
but i can't remember where i put you.
a box? a thought? a wishing well?
deep untold secrets that we're too close to share
and yet we know
everyone knows
i'm not good at hiding, unless i'm lonely
but now i'm surrounded, fenced in, and yet
still sanity comes sometimes
not all the times
but enough times.
to know i'm not crazy, i mean.

every day i meet my future self
sometimes i love her, sometimes i want to hide
things become so prosy sometimes
but i'm still a turner of poetic ramblings
and the chaos is best remembered.
so someday i can look back and find myself again,
should i forget me.

i wonder what it's like to be a grown-up
my grandmother, at 80, still said she didn't know what
she wanted to be
but at the end, i think she decided to have a family.
so that's what we remember her for.

would i lose all again to keep you?
don't let me get sated and drunk on my memories
or so lost in perfect moments i stop reaching higher
i was made to go higher
never
stop
climbing
and now my wings are restless.
i hope they don't atrophy
but i stil don't know how to fly
someone push me off, please?
i'm tired of waiting.

god, please make it worth the waiting.

I'm irked.

That's realy it. I'm just irked. Territorial clients make me irritated.

someone cheer me up, please!

London

At Least 30 Dead in London Attacks
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4661059.stm

persnickety

the simplicity
of insatiable profanity
requires incorrigible persuasion
and reiterant loss of attention.

but the possibilities
to inaugurate mischievousness
in inundatory possibilites
of manipulating the outcomes
requires great tenacity.

do you maintain the proper encumbrance?

Ahem.

please note that what follows was brought on by my own psyche, and has nothing to do with anyone else. you see, i used to be known for writing really angry, depressing poetry. i think that i was so angry and depressed that i had wanted everyone else to feel as bad as i felt... and i'm good at making people feel badly with my words.

now i am not only angry, but still partially so... i think when i stop being angered by the idiocy and injustices i see around me, i will be dead. and well decayed.

who gets to say that they know who i am?
can you answer the whys and the whats
can you unriddle the questions that drive me insane?
i think not.
you're so fake.

they hde behind walls, crafted with critique
who's cool enough to find friends with the pretentious set
and here you read this, and say it's not my best
and you're right.
yet who writes my words, but me?

why is it needed to edit to fit a mold
who thinks i'm too weak to be better
who has the right to hold me back from who i am
but there's the kicker.
i've lost me before...

your words, so carefully sculpted to mold
what i needed to hear then
it was years ago, and when i want to dance
they still pierce me
and instead i stand.

you thought you knew my weakness
and you thought you could protect me
but don't hide your own shit in me, and make
me think it's mine.
i believed you.

how many years have i fought what you told me?
will the little girl ever die trying?

i visit your grave, and i wonder
if you could have chosen a different way.
and then i meet others who think just like you
and i wonder.
am i the one who's insane?

take me away, please.
the novelty of brokenness has worn off.
i rationalized the reasons, and gave you the words to say
and now i'm tired.

who broke the music?
why can't i dance?