A whole different world

"Excuse me... sir?  Ma'am?  Would you please step this way?"  The TSA agent beckoned to the newlyweds.  "Random security check."

"Random my ass." grumbled the young man.

"Quiet, honey.  I'm sure it's nothing." said his bride calmly.

The agents began rummaging through their luggage, carelessly tossing aside expensive jewelry and silk garments.

"It's because we're Arabic, isn't it?"  said the young man accusingly.

"Aladdin!" his wife scolded.

"I know you've been sheltered all your life sweetie, but this is how the world is." Aladdin said irritably.

"Sir, would you mind explaining what this is?" the agent pulled out a spouted brass pot.  "A gravy boat?"

"It's a lamp." Aladdin said tersely.

The agent shook it "Is it empty?"

"No, but-"

"I'm gonna have to confiscate this.  No liquids over three ounces aboard the aircraft."  The agent casually tossed the lamp into a bin.

"Be careful with that!"  Aladdin grabbed the lamp and the agent tried to snatch it back.  Instantly smoke poured onto the concourse.

"Security alert!  POssible bomb in corridor E!"  Sirens wailed and panic struck the line of travelers. 

"Master!" Boomed an ominous voice through the smoke.  "What is your will?" 

"For the love of Allah!"  moaned Aladdin. 

"What the hell is that?"  asked the frightened TSA agent. 

"It's my genie." Aladdin explained.  "he lives in the lamp."

The agent slowly pulled out her mobile phone and snapped a picture of the ethereal being.  "You're gonna have to buy an extra ticket for him."

Wrirting prompt using the phrase "I have no filter"

I have no filter.  And the sweating!  It's totally disgusting.  I can't stop myself from saying what's on my mind, but I can still hear myself say the stupid shit that pours from my mouth like vapid diarrhea.  Once I realize what I'm saying I get all embarrassed and just start sweating.  Why couldn't I be one of those girls who get that cute rosy blush.  Nope.  I'm a sweater.  Face, pits, cleavage sweat.  Last week I was at this dinner party talking to some Israeli guy when i realized i was talking about persecuted Palestinians.    When I got home there was a big sweaty butt print on the back of my cocktail dress.

It's even worse when i catch myself doing it and try to stop.  then I can only think about all the things I could have said that were worse.  Like, I was on this date with a really hot guy and I realized I had been talking for twenty minutes about the infection my mom got after her knee surgery.  I tried to gracefully segue out of it by finding something related but not as gross, and I ended up talking about the results of my fertility test and how I wanted to have kids with him. 

My mom says "Thank goodness you're pretty." But the thing is I'm smart too.  I know a lot of interesting things.  I'm a nuclear physicist for crying out loud.  I just have no filter. 

The missing pieces

Every time I wake up a new piece is missing.  Sometimes it's a fingernail or a chunk of hair.  Sometimes it's a finger or an ear.  I have no idea how long I sleep.  I rarely dream.  I have no idea how many nights I've slept.  How long I've been here.  I try to keep track, but consciousness fades in and out.  When I sleep I don't want to awaken to the nightmare.  When I'm awake I don't want to sleep for fear of what will be left of me when I wake.  The pain is so constant that i sometimes forget that it's there.  Just like I've forgotten my name, or anything outside this room.

Across America

This is it. 
The way it should be. 
Driving across america. 
The two of us. 
Free-roamers. 
Pick up and leave. 
Go where the wind takes us. 
Through Pennsylvania mountains and golden wheat fields.
With our backs to the wind.
A bowl with a little blue fish in a ziplock bag filled with water sitting in my lap
I'm in pajamas, my "traveling clothes"
The lyrics to Wagon Wheel in my head. 
I know I was born to be a Carolina Belle
And in my heart, no matter where I live, I always will be.

The Fighting Man

I flung him into the filing cabinet, my fists shaking with a rage i had never felt before.  All our years together in the ring man-on-man had never yielded such animosity as I felt now. 

"How could you?  How could you do this to me?"  I howled as I flung him against the desk.  Carbon paper spilled to the floor and i heard a loud clacking sound as his head hit the keys of a typewriter.  My manager had always said to me before a fight, "Coburn, you punch.  You punch hard.  You're not a boxer, you're a puncher.  Get that through your thick head."  Tonight I finally did.

Despite my trade I never had anger management issues.  Not even working my shit job as a clerk, pushing brooms and carrying groceries for stuck-up assholes.  But tonight I learned the meaning of the word 'anger'. 

"Years of playin' in fixed fights kept me from hittin' the big time." I snarled through hits.  "I never had the heart to tell you before.  You ain't shit, Juan.  They keep you around 'cause of that pretty face.  You think you're hot.  You may be the face of boxing today, but let's see how hot you're gonna be after today."

I heard a clatter of things in the hallway.  Probably the janitor.  He was no stranger to brutality.  I kept throwing my fists against Juan's body.  I felt bones crack, and warm, sticky blood flowed across my hands.  Normally I'd be hearing a crowd cheering, but all I could hear was the echo of my baby's screams and the sounds of Juan's pleasure. 

"I told you to stay away from her, pretty boy.  She ain't gonna want you now.  Look at you.  Can't even hold your own in a fight that ain't fixed.  Little bastard.  You stay away form her!"

Juan stared at my in horror, his face contorted and discolored by my fists.  His eyes seemed to look right through me.  I became aware of another presence in the room.  Sobbing and pleading. 

"Daddy, stop!"

I turned around and there was Molly in her pink dress, tears streaming down her face.

"Baby... " I reached a blood-covered hand toward her and she turned and ran.

A Vacation to Heal

No tears for you
No tears for me
Let this vacation be tear-free

A sandy climb
A sunny time
Splash in waters clear and fine

A Sensory Anticipation of Fall

Blueberry pie
Oktoberfest ale
pumpkin spice cookies with raisins
Sugar cookies
Potato soup
Mushrooms with wild rice
cookies and cream
champagne and peaches
maple and whisky
hamburgers with bacon and blue cheese
peppermint patties
Grilled corn on the cob
Fish on an open flame
crisp, tangy apples

The Honeymoon is Over

I wrote this while my husband and I were going through a rough time together.


Will he ever look at me again like I'm the greatest thing in the world?
Like I'm worthy of worship?
Like I'm what all men aspire to have?

Will he ever see someone who isn't broken? 
Who didn't, for a few brief months, belong to someone else?

Will he ever be able to let go of my lead and watch me float back to him?

Will we ever know one another again?

Comfort Grandmother

I wrote this poem after reading an article about the Korean comfort women and the controversy that follows them


Grandmother Seoul sits on the bench next to the bronze comfort woman
and she tells us with a faraway look in her eyes
what it was like to be fifteen.
And people say it didn't happen that way
and she wonders how they can dim the scars on
her arms with their denial

Responsibility

Do distant people on far off planets fear themselves like we do on Earth?
Do they imagine their futures and cringe and weep?
Do aliens roam their streets holding signs made of cardboard predicting doom?
Do they feel senf-satisfied when they recycle a bottle?
Do they criticize the younger generations?
Do they feel nostalgic for simpler times?
Do they blame the schools and the music?
Do they take responsibility for their own ideas?
Do they see themselves reflected in the culture they've created?

A Game

Some days I wake up ready to play the game
Ready to run and play
Ready to win

Other days I long to nap at the beach
not because I want to
but because I feel out of fuel
I can't make myself go

Not because life is too much
but because this body is too broken to handle it
This body doesn't work right,
and for the life of me,
I can't make it play the game

100%

I wrote this poem after the Boston marathon bombing.


100%
100 fucking percent
100% pissed that a race ends with bombs
That a charity event ends in the death of an 8 year-old boy
100% lunacy that we can't enjoy simple, healthy, communal activities
That even spectators lost limbs and blood
100% angry that my iron-count isn't high enough to donate my universal blood
100% heart-broken that another activity has been tainted
That athletes who gave 100% are now left broken, missing legs and feet.
100% confused as to why someone would target families and spectators.

The Smell of Lethargy

Chocolate
Tea with honey and milk
The dishes that need to be done
The trash that needs to be taken out
The anticipation of the rain
Bugspray
Sweat
A full diaper
The promise of dinner,
if only I would get up to make it

Something Someone Once Said to Me

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger."
You never realize just how many ways there are to die
until someone has said this phrase to you in the thick of a crisis
Sometimes in order to gain that strength, parts of us have to die
Ignorance, freedom, ideals, dreams
We are not the people we used to be
Parts of us die and fall off like skin
Even the cells in our bodies are constantly dying
to make room for stronger cells
A thicker hide to face the things that kill us.

With a Silent, Threatening Sound

The title and first line of this poem were taken from the last line of a poem by Atila Jozef.


With a silent, threatening sound I bid farewell to the me of early this year
No more squabbling with myself over the happiness I deny me
No more living for the "good" or the "right", but living for the better.
I turn my face from the wall and walk outside
To see Plato's sunshine welcome me harshly to the reality of the rest of the day

Pretension

I am better than you
My diction is better than yours
My style is better than yours
My hat is better
My music is more ironic
My glassses are thicker
My movies are more whimsical
My books are more significant
My mediums are more obscure
My politics are more shocking
My aspirations are harder to achieve
My love is more tragic
My family is stranger
My food is more foreign
My passion is deeper
My outlook is more cynical
My guitar is older
My coffee is blacker
My shoes are more colorful
My jeans are more worn
I am better than you

How Many Others

I wrote this after learning that my rapist had also raped a good friend of mine.


How many others have there been?
Could I have saved any of them?
I never cried out for fear no one would listen?
Am I a coward?
Have I finally moved on?
What fights are worth picking?
Who is worth saving?

Alternate ending to the Cinderella Story

I knew I had seen that face before.  She was sweet and beautiful.  There was no mistake, she was the girl from the ball.  I knew the show would fit, but I almost breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't.

It was, without a doubt, her shoe.  It just never made it to her foot.  Despite being a grossly impractical shoe, it was bound to fit any number of girls in the kingdom.  I tried to tell his grace that, but he didn't seem overly concerned who the shoe fit so long as he could cease his prolonged search for a bride.  Perhaps it was something about royalty, or perhaps the prince didn't care so much for women in general, but after years of putting off his nuptials he had finally appeared to have given up on the whole love/marriage concept.

The delighted girl in from of me gave an ecstatic shriek and kicked her heals in excitement.

"I'm gonna marry the prince!" She squealed, her beady eyes a-flutter and her puggy nose turned toward the gracious heavens above.  The room erupted into excited chatter.  I stole a glance at the shy little beauty in the corner who was nervously hiding her feet.  She kissed her elated sister with a timid "congratulations" before fleeing the room. 

The room buzzed with an unprecedented cacophony. I ordered the butlers and footmen to begin packing the young lady's belongings.  Suddenly I felt a bit overwhelmed with the need to escape the boisterous gaiety.  I excused myself and followed the timid girl outside.

She was sitting with her bare feet dangling into a small pond.  She held a shoe in her hand and looked at it forlornly.  I could see her hopes and dreams as if they had been spread across her face and were falling out of the corners of her eyes in tears, though she didn't cry. 

"I know it was your shoe." I said to her.  She looked at me like a little girl, pleading for me to fix the whole mistake. "You don't want it.  You don't want that life."  She looked away.

"You don't know what it's like.  To wait on people, day in and day out, to suffer their cruelty only to have them take away the only good thing that ever happened to you."  She spoke with little inflection, as if she had said the words to herself over and over.  I sat myself next to her.

"You had a lovely evening in a palace, dancing, eating sweets, flirting with a prince.  How can they have taken that from you?"

She turned away and tears finally came.  Softly.

"He said he loved me." she whispered.  I felt my face grow hot with indignation.  I pulled her face to look at mine.

"And you believed him?" I couldn't keep the shock from my voice.  She looked away, betraying her incredulity.

"What does a girl like me have to believe in besides empty promises?"

"That's a load of horse shit and you know it!"  I told her frankly.  She looked me in the eye and burst out laughing.  A smile replaced my indignation.  "What's so funny?"

"The whole thing." She sputtered.  "The prince whispering sweet nothings in my ear, and the next day marrying my sister just because she has the same shoe size as me.  You're right.  It is horse shit.  And when I look at it... it's absolutely absurd."  She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at me frankly.  "Thank you for being so direct."  She reached down and squeezed my hand.  Warmth shot through my body. 

"For what it's worth, I think the prince is a fool.  You can do much better."

She smiled at me.  "Maybe I will."

Requiem for a Friend

I wrote this poem about a friend of mine who died in 2010 of cycstic fibrosis.  She was 22 when she died.  She lived next door to me.  We were very close during our junior high years and we went to church together in high school. 


She was the right one
The bright one
the happy one
She was beautiful and silly
No one ever believed in a world without her
Wearing every costume in the trunk
Applying outlandish makeup
She was our star
Her laugh, her words
She was never afraid of her own voice
She was a diva
A superhero
a sex kitten
Unassuming, yet unforgettable
She made you smile
Her memory brings a smile to our hopeless faces
We were all better for having you.