Tag Archives: writing

the monster inside my chest.

2 Jul

the monster inside my chest.

i find myself wanting you
like a wave laps at the beach
hoping the grains will take notice
after thousands of years of longing

we could have been a whirlwind of
sea salt and skeleton bones
cracking as we’d collide
in torrid embraces
turning ourselves into dust

i imagine your kisses
taste of tree sap

but who am i kidding

you are nothing more
than a vessel for a
fabricated day dream
that i can never release
as it passes from body to body
searching for its next host

i have a crippled heart
waiting to be serenaded
but you are not my savior

but you are not my savior

The Day Andrea Gibson Came to Town.

2 Mar

So, I had the amazing experience this last week of not only watching Andrea Gibson perform, but meeting her and going to a workshop she gave as well. It was definitely one of those moments as a writer I’ll forever cherish.

For those of you not familiar with the name, go google ASAP. Andrea is a well known slam poet, and for a good reason. Her poetry is absolutely gorgeous, and the way she words her pieces and they roll off her tongue – ugh! – they’re so great. She performed at this year’s That Takes Ovaries open mic night event, and she stayed for the second half and saw me perform one of my pieces. She did a lot of her best pieces, including my favorite of hers, “I Do.”

Then the next day she held an hour and a half long workshop (which turned into a two hour workshop because we ran way over time), and she would read us poems and we would then free write whatever came to our minds. All together we free wrote three poems, and then some of us shared one poem at the end. I shared one and she commended me on how every word was there for a purpose and how good it was. I felt so honored to have someone I admire so much pay me such an amazing compliment. At the end of the workshop, I got the chance to tell her that she is one of the three people who are the reason I got into slam poetry (along with Shane Hawley and Sarah Kay), and she thanked me. It was just an overall wonderful experience.

Anyway, here are two of the three poems I wrote. I didn’t really like the third poem, but I’m quite proud of these two. Enjoy.

——————-

Advice to a teenage Julia Allegretto Gaskill.

Don’t clash your wear and tear.
Run spark plugs through your hair.
Your avalanche back and craning legs
highlight your race car persona,
so cave in the mountain and kill the bird
before someone notices.

Stop Star Warsing all over the place.
Hobbits in your eyes;
pluck them out and wring them dry
till they turn into origami butterflies.

Speak like a queen.
Demand like a king.
Your jester smile is doubling down
your chances of ever learning how to fly.
You Blues Brothers mother.
You finger-clacking lover.
You star-gazing, toe-tapping, dream-lapping
miniature Great Dane.

Fingers grasping for rooms laced in water droplets
to dunk your shins into
and be born again as a broken smile.
Stop snapping wishbones.
Go dye your heart green
and hawk your virginity
to afford admission to this never ending factory tour.

——————-

I hate to do this, but I have to preface the next poem. This is not a poem about rape. It’s a poem about how my first kiss was taken from me, and how I came close to being taken advantage of sexually when I was eighteen, but it didn’t happen the way he planned, so fuck that fucker.

——————-

sunshine.

My body was not your playground.
The small of my back was not a slide
for your hand to travel upon,
looping around going lower and lower.
My ass was not monkey bars to grasp
over and over again
to take you to some other side.
My lips were not a teeter totter
where every “no” was a “yes”
and every “stop it” was an “I like the way
you put your hand up my dress
in front of all my friends.”

You ran around my playground
as if you owned the deed,
but before you could bulldoze me down
with your weed and liquor breath against my neck
to build a strip mall to cover all the places I had grown,
I took that stand.
I said “enough.”
You said “come back” with your carpenter hands
grasping for that monkey bars ass and
feeling for those seesaw lips,
but I slammed the door on you for good
before you ripped my life to bits.
Your broken lies broke down
the second your too-old kiss stole
from me, even after I told you of my dreams,
and after I trusted you as a friend;
my playmate during recess to whisper warranted
secrets to when the teachers weren’t looking.
Apparently I was wrong about you all along.

Now I’ve planted a sign
deep within my bark dust eyes
which forever shall read:
No assholes allowed on this playground anymore.

A Confession.

21 Sep

Do you know what it is that you do to me? Do
you know what it feels like to observe you?
Do you know how hard it is to be in the same
room as you? Do you understand what it’s
like for me to want you? To want you to see
me? To want you to want me? To want you
to want me just like you want her?
Jesus.
Even in a room filled with a hundred other people –
at the least
– I can find you.
In the blink of an eye and a snap at the wrist
my eyes enshrine you.
My thoughts are drawn to you
like a smoker to cigarettes.
I am addicted,
and I can never get enough
and I will never get enough
and I won’t ever get enough
because I cannot bring myself
to stop this rush I
get when you’re around.
I do not dare.
It was only several years ago
you entered my world, only to ensnare
me with a simple “hello.”

You who found your way into
my life in a time when
I was so alone,
miles away from the only
place I had ever called
my home.
A green girl lost in summer.
I had no one.
I was completely on my own…
until there was you.
You.
So nice, so funny, so wonderful, so you.
And while you are not
beautiful, or overtly handsome in the
common known way,
and though you do not stand out in a crowd,
I would pick you out
every time,
every day.

Which has come to make me realize that
I do not want a college boy.
Some dumb teen turned adult, looking
for any whatsoever chance
where I will show some sign of weakness
so he can get into my pants.
No. With them I’m through. I no
longer want those insubordinate, intolerable, over indulgent  boys,
only you.
A goddamn man.
We barely know each other,
but I have been in love with you for years.
And you will never know,
and not because of age and not because of her,
but because this is one thing words and explanation
will always fail and falter.
So I stay respectively silent, I remain painfully quiet,
I lose my voice, my tongue, my peace of mind,
and do not speak…
this time.

————–*/*————–

I wrote this slam poem a year ago and then promptly tucked it away, figuring it was just that fleeting feeling of nostalgia we all suffer from on rare occasion. It took me a year to realize that, for me, this will always be a little more than just a passing phase, which I fear is more tragic than I can ever possibly say out loud. I’ll forever hide this poem in the pocket of my heart, knowing it will never be said to the one who needs to hear it most.

actually making money.

7 Sep

Earlier this week I submitted my first ever invoice to get paid as a writer. An actual, bonafide writer. I’d never written one before so I did get it in late, so I wont be paid for August until the end of September, which while not ideal is okay because I’ll be getting two paychecks at once. Ka-ching.

All that being said, holy fuck me. I’m getting paid. To write. This is… what is going on with my life? Not only that, but I made more in two weeks writing for this site than I do in two weeks working at the motel, let alone two weeks babysitting. And Bruce mentioned that right now I’m on a starting salary, with the potential of being paid more if I stick with the web-site. That’s… just… fuck.

This means that this year, unlike every other year in college, I can save my money. This means not having to worry about rent each month, living off of top ramen and PB&J sandwiches, begging my dad for financial help, and being able to afford Christmas presents without using every penny in my pocket. This means paying off credit card bills. This means when I graduate college and move away from Ashland and quit my motel job, I’m not totally fucked. This means I’ll still have a job when I get up to Portland. This means while I’m trying to get my personal writing out there (ie. stories, poetry, screenplays, etc.) I’ll still have a form of income.

This means when I go up to Portland later this year I can afford to take my dad out to a nice dinner and pay the bill.

This means things might be all right.

some reasons I am happy.

17 Aug

— I started writing for the web-site Buzz Patrol yesterday. Today I wrote five articles for the site in one sitting, and I am getting paid per article.

— I officially can fit in a pair of size six pants for the first time since, Jesus, I don’t even know when.

— The adorable backpack and shirt I ordered came in the mail.

— I’ve only got ten more episodes until I’m done watching the entirety of The Muppet Show in under two weeks.

— My online Web Development course is complete, at long last!

— Grabbing coffee with Beckah tomorrow morning.

— I’m probably gonna go see Ruby Sparks on Sunday, either by myself or with Martin.

— Tomorrow I’m finally going to be through with my first draft of Obsessed, my screenplay, and then I’ll send it on it’s way to Aileen to be read.

— I’m going to start working on my next Cool Gizmo Toys featured article tonight.

— An associate producer over at the Don Bluth company read my wordpress entry on The Secret of Nimh and liked it.

— I went grocery shopping today and am all set on food until my next paycheck.

— My security deposit check from my last house is on its way in the mail.

— Hamburger for dinner, then a late night run once I get off of work.

a wish. a hope. a prayer.

16 Aug

Oh please let this work job out. Oh please, oh please, oh please.

A Fine Day of Fine Things

5 Aug

A couple incredibly wonderful things about my day:

— Today I sat down in a Starbucks, listened to the song “Yer Spring” by Hey Rosetta! for five hours on repeat, and finish my screenplay that I’ve been working on for two years now. I mean, it’s far from being done. I need to go back and write those three or four scenes that I said “Meh, I’ll come back and write these later” because I was too lazy at the time. After that, I’m gonna have a friend take a look at the whole thing, and once I get her feedback I’m gonna delve in. There are over 200 pages, which is far too long for a movie (or, at least, this kind of movie) so many cuts are going to have to be made, probably a plot point or two as well. Shitty dialogue is going to have to be rewritten, shitty characters are going to have to be reconfigured, and shitty plot lines are either going to have to be rethoughtout or dropped entirely. Even still, keeping all this mind, I still could not stop myself from shaking as I stared at my computer screen after I had typed the last words of my screenplay. It’s so close, guys. My baby’s almost complete.

— Martin and I watched last week’s and then this week’s episode of Breaking Bad while eating pizza and cookie dough. It was kind of perfect and an accumulation of everything summer should be (all we were missing was alcohol).

— I went on a 10:30pm run. After my run, I wrote this email to Tom Wilson (Biff of Back to the Future fame):

So, I hate running, but for some reason I agreed to do a 5K with a friend at the end of this upcoming September (I’m certain I agreed under the pretense of thinking how cool it would be to say I had run a 5K). Precisely ten minutes after agreeing to do said 5K I realized “Oh hell, this means I actually have to start running to prep” which is basically what I’ve been doing ever since. Let me tell you, I don’t think running would be half as bearable if it weren’t for your podcast, good sir. Your stories and interviews keep a smile on my face the entire time I run. The longer episodes are perfect because not only do they last through my entire run, but by the time I get home I still have some podcast left over to listen to as I lie sprawled out on the floor feeling like a truck ran over my legs. So thank you. I honestly never thought I’d be running at midnight contemplating how the pepper spray my roommate forced me to take looks a lot like a tiny dildo as a homeless man waves at me on a bike whilst listening to you serenade me about homonyms, but life is full of funny scenarios like that. Your podcast is a delight. Keep up the amazing work!

Yup. A great day. Here’s what the next couple days have in store:

  • Monday: Early morning breakfast with Valerie and her family and then photo shoots with Kaylyn and company
  • Tuesday: Writing group meeting! At last!
  • Wednesday: Muppet viewing party with Beckah