Omens in Odd Headlines, no. 2

“The judge from Germany
just goddamn said,
‘Men can still pee
standing up.'”

He lost his patience, shooing the pink slip wilting in my hand as I tried not to snag my Ross-bought sandals on the faded Turkish rug. I knew, before Mom got home, that I’d have to dip an old toothbrush in another cup of Sam’s Club soda. Wholesale was never wholesome, and neither was virtue in tongue. The elusive volleyball my hands couldn’t hurt. The soccer ball bruising my face unaware of the snickers and whispers and their intent.

Girls wearing oversized hoodies are gay. Both states of being will call for scrutiny.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It’s my dad’s.”

“And you’re wearing a dude’s hoodie because?”

“Because I’m cold.”

“Because you like purple triangles.”

She laughed. I laughed. But Rachel could not. She asked me the whys behind my absence of thought.

But to feign complacency tires.

So much that after six classes of lazy Tae Bo and sour imitations of my flailing high kicks that I asked, “What did I do?”

Abby laughed, extended her finger, rotated it near her pierced left ear. I didn’t laugh, though Lauren did, and the others looked around as if they didn’t know better, but were proud they mastered the art of not pushing too far.

I didn’t, as I said “Fuck off.”

I certainly didn’t, nodding that yes, I use the F-word, and my middle finger.

“Not exactly ladylike.” Our vice principal, in an insincere murmur. Tradition’s gravitation.


do their best,
clinging to strands
of singed banana peels.

social faux pas,
a culprit
out of a dozen
over which you trip.

covering your ears
to amplified hums
and a tempo
shattering sternums.

you never wrote
a gameplan,
agreeing with all
the bland can say

and write
on rusted, chainlink fences.
cheapened, but
infallibly convenient.

it’s doubtful, that even
seasoned journalists
would’ve scribbled

in frenzied duty,
and precision altruistic.
silenced in the drone,
reflected in eyes of a fly.

The Umpteenth Update

I’ve found myself busier than ever. A craft show each weekend, and a newly secured gig editing someone’s book. I still have my manuscript to complete. I know I had told those who wanted to be preliminary readers that I would have a draft prepared by May 31st. Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it will be ready when it is, I suppose.

Within the next few weeks, expect more of book reviews that I’ve owed people, and the delivery of several craft projects, if we made such an arrangement. I’ve also got some music reviews I’d like to share. While I’m constantly adding and erasing things in a day planner that my friends told me I’d throw away a week after New Year’s Eve, I’ll try to make up for things I haven’t been tending to as much, thanks to the adjustments that come with my “day job” and balancing it with a burgeoning freelance writing and crafting venture.

Oh, and the manuscript.

In terms of maintaining consistency, #NaPoWriMo was admittedly exhausting. But I delighted in participating in my first online blogging challenge. I was especially motivated by the emphasis placed on colors and localities, and I’d like to return to this kind of thing soon. I originally wanted to use the #NaPoWriMo poems as interludes for my manuscript, though I’m thinking about keeping the work strictly to prose.

I’m sure I’ll figure out something. The weekend is a cookie cake, ice cream smirking across chocolate chips whilst sprinkled with matcha powder that never made it to my baby blue thermos.

Wishing you all well,



we walked along trails
that a rainstorm’s snails
colluded upon
in amateur evasion
of crystals settling
on faceless roads.
ice is a blessing
we never expected,
in sweet tea, bathtubs
and documentaries.
gum-stained cement.
it can host the saddest
of bumper car marathons
and unimpressed girlfriends.
but every now and then,
a pair of pinballs
finds their way,
and takes the arcade.

authenticity, and social concerns

Information intercepts
morning traffic.
but not how I anticipated,
with the hum of
emotionless commentary.
riots, and key lime protestations
minimized, yet amplified
by medium-sized, printed tees
we find at Goodwill.

Always, Amanda would comment
on how their will’s
of no sincerity.

“That blazer was how much?”

I stare at my graham crackers,
and she volunteers.


Amanda’s not totally off.

“And people like you aren’t needy.”


Dimes and nickels
drop to the floor
of a Snapple bottle
I haven’t washed.
two years after
withering jokes I remember, as
multiple-choice exams,
I introduce myself
to frugality’s qualifying standards.

For a coworker’s farewell party (I’ll make one for Aggies too)

IMG_2939I slowly teeter
towards selling my soul,
but I do not mind
when intentions are simply
stars at the dimples,
the evening’s smile.

IMG_2948like baseball, college football
is just another
rocket science,
the mechanics of fever.

IMG_2962sending my fists aflutter,
while balls of notes
and test dates
find their way
between headboards,
hot and raw.


IMG_2930going out to see
the wind at its best,
remembering the day
that you squeezed my hand,
to tell me
this world,
that sky,
and these sands.
would always be here.

my toes digging in,
my hands cupping
the assurance
of a salted, toffee calm.

and a bright red bicycle
on shells, cracked and whole.
my basket filled
with fluorescent laughs
and cowrie shells,
reminding me
as you once did,
that still,
oceans shine.