I have a crisis every two years;
and it always sneaks up on me.
suddenly, there I am flailing back and
lying on the floor in shock
with one hand to my head and the other reaching
for
something
I never can


grab.

I always have a crisis on my hands.
I found an amazing website for cupcake and cookie recipes, and I have to cook for class tomorrow. I was reading literature about baking and recipes and came across a piece about Day of the Dead. It's actually two days, and I never knew that.

I want to learn French, and after years of saying so, I think I'll actually start it this summer.

someone's always bitching about something.

I had a dream that I
was in the longest
line I'd ever seen
in my
entire
life.
I don't really remember
what
I was in line for,
but there were
sparkling
gold
flecks
lining the pathway
and everyone was wearing a hat
--except for me.

what happens to the birds
when a tornado comes?
do they finally take cover
on the ground
or--
do they get swept into
a cool, grey oblivion
                          like me?

what if they don't make it
down in time?
do their feathers rumple
while they squawk and
protest?
their bodies being blown
     wildly
before
stopping
still
inside the cyclone?

Or,
  do they float into the
air
--above the cyclone
--above the clouds

to a sanctuary unseen?

Or,
what?

On mornings like these

I open my eyes and think

about how all this time I thought

of myself as a riddle-

with black-hole eyes

and question-mark teeth.

You know me better than I thought.

You say I am vague but I think

my eyes

let on. You chuckle and your teeth

are like little pearls. These

little pearls shaped like a moon from a riddle.

You have plum skin in your teeth

and sleep in your eyes.

And you are the riddle.

We talk and you think

about these things

that I thought.

I remember when you asked what I'd think

if you did things, these

things I thought your eyes

knew the answers to- I thought.

And so I said nothing. I'm tired of riddles.

So, you clenched your teeth.

So here we have another riddle-

one that no eyes

or teeth

could have thought

I knew the answers to. No, these

eyes were glazed, I think.

I am a basket of plums your eyes

inspect and turn over in thought.

I am heavy as I think

"yes these

days are all riddles."

You know. You show your teeth.

I am not a riddle.

I know when I see your moon-like eyes

and little pearls for teeth.

Something I have said,
something I will say,
something I can say,
someday may be important.

If I will myself to do so.

"All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland." -Jimi Hendrix

riding backs that solidly slip into the sea;
a wave crashes over
and I am gone.