“Bang! Crash! Splat. ‘Damn it!’” Over and over again. Seriously, slow down already. And if another music major comes in here and plays Fur Elise, I will snap! Jeez, I can’t stop blinking…I need to stay better hydrated. If you can’t do it now, another run through isn’t gonna do anything. Ha - another conversation about how many people have had sex in a practice room. Wouldn’t you like to know? Don’t forget your water bottle! Calm down, you’ve played this perfectly a million times. Nooo – not Cage!!

forget what the walls might say
stream of consciousness of
a PMC Steinway

alone at last
walking back
to my childhood

My parents divorced when I was young and my father remarried and moved into a house with Karen, my stepmom. Of course I hated her at first, but I would walk back to the creek behind their house and find comfort. I would sit by the creek waiting for the rain to fill it up and play in it once it was full. Across the creek are corn and bean fields and woods. Eventually I grew close to Karen and I still go out to her house to visit and catch up, even though they are divorced.

There once was a girl from Nantucket
Who crossed o’er the sea in a bucket,
And when she got there
They asked for a fare
So she pulled up her dress and said….

You know, truth be told, I don’t really know a girl from Nantucket. Actually I don’t know anyone from Nantucket; I’ve never even been there. I bet it would be rather nice though. A pleasant little New England tourist town where they take buses full of the elderly on those ridiculous cross country trips that are really nothing more than an excuse to stop at every slot machine owning establishment in the United States. But why am I pondering dirty limericks about Nantucket anyway? I’m in northern Minnesota, in a boat in the middle of a lake. Here I am, surrounded by six gentlemen from Chicago who had paid the resort a rather generous sum of money to have me take them fishing for the day. Having just arrived the night before, they have no idea the weather’s been anything but normal and that the fish just aren’t biting. In such situations, I’m obligated to make cheesy small talk and sound knowledgeable about the lake and area, and of course come up with some scientific sounding reason that fishing is not good today. But instead, here we are, our awkward little bunch, silently trolling on in the rain.

slow day fishing
they wonder
why I’m grinning

As a child I used to hike a lot in the woods surrounding my house. The entrance to the two trails was at the corner of a roadway that was no longer used, squeezed between a small pond and a very steep hill. Roots from the trees were perfectly space as footholds and made a natural stairway down to the floor of the woods. Once there, I would follow down to the creek, where at its banks was a rusted old platform. Its four corner poles were twisted and bent. With my youthful innocence and imagination, I believed it was an old jungle gym that had been wringed by a twister in the past. It was likely just an old tree stand used by hunters before the land was protected as a reserve. To me, it was a ruin of the past that nature had grown around, both destroying it and enshrining it as a memorial to man’s helplessness in the face of nature’s power.

ivy and thorns
strangle rusted ruins
free-flowing creek

While teaching in China, I met my student, Wilma. Drawn in by her curiosity and infinite desire to please, I learned her story. Orphaned after car accidents and disease, she became the property of her caring village by age 7. As the years went by and she was passed hut to hut, she worked hard in school to show her thankfulness. The prestigious school I taught at heard of her great intelligence and brought her there. Now that I am back in the states we email, write letters, and once a month I call. Talking with my beautiful student Wilma, I realize the strength of destiny to have met the sweetest and most giving person who just happened to be nestled half way around the world, in a country of over a billion in a small northern city attending high school on scholarship for her true brilliance.

summer examinations
finally she rests her eyes
to cry

Constantly looking in…
The mirror—
holds her safety

She is a crazy, fun girl. The mirror is where she has the most fun. She loves to dance and in the mirror is where she tries out her moves to see what they look like. She doesn’t know what to do with herself dancing without that damn mirror, it is quite hysterical, actually. She is a good dancer and this practicing is what makes her feel safe. She can be goofy and silly and serious in front of the mirror and only her eyes will see what she is doing. She doesn’t have to explain herself or her moves.

Chicago is a huge, overpowering city. Cars, taxis, buses, and trains rip around every corner. There always is some noise. The city is always busy. The skyscrapers grow taller and taller around each other like trees in competition. They block out all natural beauty until you no longer open the shades to avoid the cold image of a brick wall, sun-barren alley or cramped parking lot. It is for this reason that views facing away from the city towards the lake are so expensive. The lake is the only natural part of Chicago. Even the beaches are man made and lined with concrete and synthetic sand. In all actuality the lake is not even a part of Chicago. There are no final boundaries that claim this section of water as Chicago’s. Moreover, the water itself can never be permanently contained; not even by the locks.

peaceful waves
    remind the city,
of the real world

My grandparents have a summer cottage in Wisconsin surrounded by forest. In the woods about 500 yards away from the house is a circle clearing made by the person who once owned the land. There is much beauty in the woods there, the nature untouched by man is really something to behold. Yet this place, “ruined” by man is my favorite in the whole area. The sun can shine down between the trees with an almost neon green glow in contrast to the rest of the areas in which the trees shadow the ground. I can sit there, just relax for hours thinking about nothing.

in the clearing
i admire,
what’s not there

No single word can describe the ‘specialness’ that is the basement floor of the Des Moines Community Playhouse. The intern staff has attempted, but the best we could do was “igloodungeonthatsmellslikecamelpiss.” As interns, we spend 9 hours a day (for 13 weeks) cooped up in this space with 80 kids. And still, there’s no place in the world I would rather be this summer. Kids enter a different world when they come in the building. Whether this means the world of theatre or the land of Harry Potter, they get to leave their inhibitions behind and just have fun. These kids come from all over, and therefore will probably never see each other again. Because of this, they’re able to cross a chocolate river full of crocodiles with only 7 marshmallows and absolutely freak out if Lupin storms the KGCT as a full-fledged werewolf, his fangs dripping with blood. It’s amazing to see the change in these kids when they’re given permission to be creative, without the fear of being judged by their peers. To me, the DM Playhouse embodies the best attributes of theatre. Our days are full of spontaneity, camaraderie, and bringing great stories to life - without the competition and hypercritical atmosphere that can render theatre stagnant, ineffectual, and uninspiring.

sea of kids ‘round the deck
screams of “Dead Ant!” and
another freckle

My girlfriend Haley, is the sweetest person I know, I know it seems really sappy, and you would figure that someone would say that about their loved one, but many of my friends have the same opinion. She’s nothing but nice to everyone around her, which can sometimes be to her disadvantage as she doesn’t want to hurt people’s feelings by getting upset with them even when they treat her badly. Instead she tries over and over again to gain their friendship, and even when it’s clear they won’t have it she still won’t give up. When it comes to us she is nothing but supportive, but it’s to the level that I can’t tell if things I do bother her or not. In the end, she tries to please everyone else so much that I really worry if she’s getting what she needs.

doing unto others
as they never do
her smile cries

Below the beautiful workings of my parents average-to-large sized suburban home lies the fulcrum of my high school experience. To most people, it is an ordinary, so-called "finished" basement. The barlights glow and hum, there are shot glasses on the wall. The weight bench that never gets used somehow avoids collecting cobwebs. This is where high school happened for me. All the best parties, all the best shindigs, all the best gatherings, even one or two box socials. All of my friends know that there is magic in that basement. It is home.

three years later,
I still hear
the laughter

Red, Orange, Green, Blue, Gold, Pink! Every color imaginable circles the room, and glides between doorways. Indian women greet you at every step as you walk through the festival. Namaste! Namaste! There is no escaping their tender tugs and pulls to fix your sari, or straighten the bindi adorning your forehead. Today is a great day of celebration…for no particular reason. Today they’ve gathered simply to celebrate life. Hands adorned and painted, and jewelry dripping from ears and necks. If the sun were to pierce through deep violet curtains the glare would blind you. The soft tingling of a single anklet echoes upon the ankles of hundreds of women. Hundreds of women that create a veiled mass one can only sway with. The smell of curry is so overwhelming that you smell of it weeks after. It seeps into your pours and you forget yourself.

White face stands out
In a sea of color
Curry perfumed with jasmine

For as long as I can remember, my grandfather carried around in his packet a sliver dollar. He had carried the coin for so long, as well as an abundance of other denominations of pocket change, that the sides of his silver dollar had completely worn down to reveal its cool, smooth, true surface. It was perfect. If you were to throw it sidearm across the glassy surface of a lake, it might have skipped clear to the other side. Had you hired a professional metalworker to create something so symmetrical and flawless, he couldn’t produce such a thing as mere chance had bestowed upon my grandfather.

And the thing that always got me was that he never took it out of his pocket. My brothers and I would beg and beg, and at the end of the day all it would yeild – if anything – was a quick glimpse at Grandpa’s Silver Dollar.

I told myself several times as a child that I would make my own – a worn-down coin of my own that I could take out, and look at, and touch any time I wanted. So, I would carry a pocket of change around for about a week each time, checking hourly to see if there were any discernable changes in the appearance of any of the coins, until I would finally tire of the project and give up, or loose a number of nickels and dimes – either to clumsiness or the purchase of a candy bar – and decide that it really wasn’t worth pursuing.

After my grandfather died, his eldest son – my uncle – decided that the coin would best be suited left in his stead. That was always slightly irksome to me. Not that I wanted or ever thought I even was worthy of it, I just thought that the coin deserved more to be kept in a ornate glass case on a high mantel somewhere, as a symbol of everything my grandfather stood for. Calling out a as a reminder to us all of the subtle, unexpected merits of perseverance and infinite patience, the kind that all of us knew we would never really have. The glass would accumulate the sticky fingers of great and great-great grandchildren as we pointed to the coin, knowing full well we had never lived up to the man whom we all revered so zealously, and say, “You see what my grandfather did?”

But, maybe that’s not what Grandpa would have done. It isn’t. He’d keep it in his pocket – keep wearing it down, more and more, every day. And if you were lucky, and you asked him just right, maybe from time to time he’d let you take a tiny glimpse.

silver dollar
carries the soul
of my fallen hero

When my brother’s and I were young, we had tendencies to pick up, and immediately over use words that were appealing to our moldable, little minds. In our childhood blunders we had stumbled across the word fag and, knowing nothing about the word except that it could be used as an insult, worked it into our everyday vocabulary.

Now, I wouldn’t say my father is the most tolerant person I have ever met, but he does have a very good understanding of human beings, and having such, I believe that he realized a long time ago that all of them truly are people. Every time he heard us so much as mutter the f-word, I could see him cringe and swallow hard, not as if it hurt him, but someone he knew dearly. He had never really said anything to us about it, I assume under the pretense that “boys will be boys”. I don’t know if the word was ever ok with him, but I do know when he put a stop to it.

As my brothers and I cleaned up in the basement, my brother came across a plastic dagger from one of many discarded Halloween costumes. He approached me from behind, pressing his forearm against the spot on my neck which would one day develop an adam’s apple, and pressed the dagger deep into my spine. I struggled for a second, but then decided the best way to resolve the situation was to scream, “Ow! Cut it out, you FAG!”

Immediately, as if he had been waiting for us to slip up, my father growled down the stairs, “Joshua, Brian, Bennett: get up here.” (Now, I knew right then and there that we were in trouble, not because of the tone in his voice, but rather he, as I’m sure most parents do, called us by our full names as well as in age order.) We ran (and I do mean, ran) up the stairs and into the den where we sat on the couch, in number order, as we had been called.

“Do you know what a fag is?” my father asked, pacing the room, his face beat red. The question wasn’t really a question, but rather a dare for one of us to speak, giving him a reason to shut us up again. “Do ya? Well, it’s a man who has sex with another man.” He said at point blank range with a haunting tone in his voice. Then he screamed, brandishing a finger at each one of us while asking, “Are you a fag? Are you a fag? Are you a fag?”

Petrified, my brothers and I neither answered nor shook our heads in disagreement, yet my father knew the intended answer. “Hmm,” he said straitening himself out, his voice sinking and his face returning to its usual hue, “that’s what I thought.”

We don’t say fag anymore.

As I get older, I begin to realize two things: the first being how much of an effect that event had on me, and the second being how homophobic my father really is. I know it was hard for my dad to do that to us – for us. My father’s words may have seemed harsh, but he meant them with the best intentions – as a way to show us that there are hurtful and evil words that people tend to throw around without consideration of even what they may mean or whom they might hurt. While I always knew that my brothers were never really gay, I realize now that there are people who are – people who wouldn’t appreciate being called fags or homos. And while my dad may not agree with it or even understand it, he was willing to help us respect the words, and the people those words effect.

understanding
the words
that start wars

I come from a working class family. Both of my parents work, but like most families my father has the better paying job. He is an operating engineer. He runs every machine from cranes and underground drills, to backhoes, to bob cats. Some may think that driving a machine is not exactly hard work and doesn’t require much thought or knowledge. He may not have had to go to school for years to learn his trade, but that does not make his job easy. He has to be able to constantly learn new things, work with different people, follow safety procedures and construct roads, parking lots, tunnels, schools, buildings, etc that many of us take for granted. It is through hard work and toil that my father sends me to school, makes sure that I have food to eat, and pays for me to go out and have a fun. Often I forget where all the money comes from. It is so easy to spend it when it is given to you and you are just expected to keep good grades and stay out of trouble. The money doesn’t just come from my dad’s job, it comes from his sweat, his long hours, his knowledge. He has to wake up early, work through the day, and earn money that he then has to share with three other people, two of which have no income to share with him. He works not only to make a living for himself, but for his family as well. Parent’s give a lot for their families and sometimes we may not realize how much they actually do. They may work long hours, cook, clean, etc. and it is all for their families most of all their children. It’s easy to spend the money they make because often we don’t see how much has to be down to receive only a set sum. Moreover, they don’t get to even spend all their money for what they want. They share it with their family and its not because the other member’s contribute similar amounts it’s because they love them.

my father’s life
supporting—
my own

One of the most beautiful places I have visited is Johnson’s Shut-In’s State Park. The beauty and natural wonders of Johnson’s Shut-In’s give it a unique character. The weather began tearing down the land, exposing volcanic rock beneath it. Waters from the Black River became “shut-in” to a narrow channel. Water-borne sand and gravel cut deeply into the rock, carving potholes, chutes, and spectacular canyon-like gorges. Water cascading between large, smooth stones, creating natural water slides, and its landscape has piqued that curiosity and interest of me every time I visit. The area is heavily wooded with forests of oak and hickory trees, interspersed with rocky openings that provide opportunities for hikers to stop and enjoy vistas of nearby mountains. It is truly a sight to behold!

a single orange Cosmo
capturing
the beauty of nature

Courtney, the shortbus, sits quietly in her corner, smiling while the president talks. Granted, Kaylin’s words are heard, but the doodles shine with stories and emotion. Line after line she writes his name, thinking of the future. Every few minutes, a slight nudge from the friend beside drags back the present. But Erin isn’t listening either. The girls laugh and joke instead. Now the meeting is adjourned, the days pass, the work is done, and the boy is here. How does she do it? No one knows the strategy, a job well done, and a happy fiancé. Every college girl’s dream!

today I practiced
taking your name
…as my own

Little Crooked Lake is in Columbia City, Indiana, about a forty-minute drive from where I grew up. My Grandparents lived in a red cottage with black shutters on that lake, and every summer my family would spend weeks there. The land and the lake are part of a nature preserve; so it is never cluttered with speedboats and jet-skis, but rather families, paddle boats, bullfrogs and pontoon boats. This lake is my second home- I grew up there. The sunsets over the water are absolutely breathtaking- and right from our own lawn.

summer silhouette
four giggling girls dangling
from the hammock

As she walks in, the atmosphere silently wisps around, showering mystery and depth. The lyre is playing, held by Hera’s sweet hand. Quieting irrational thoughts, the mystagogue silently leads the young one across the threshold. Will she, can she survive? Nothing but time can tell. The fact is, however, that she made it. Unique and compelling, the years will stay forever, shaping her to grab hold of dreams, stand for beliefs, and lead. A ritual she will pass on, a symphony she will live.

By stroking the lyre
the old music
has survived

Alice Martin lunged into the working world as a model in her teens. She used this experience to gain knowledge about photography so that she could practice photography on her own. She never attended college, but got married at the age of twenty and had three kids by the time she was twenty-four. She practiced photography for twenty years before, in 1998, deciding to go out for the Fire Department. After mom joined the department, I did not have what most people would consider to be a normal middle-school life. My mother taught me how to swing an ax at the age of twelve, while most other girls were out shopping with their mothers. (Sure, we did those things too, but they just weren’t as much fun.) I never thought that my family was unusual, or that my mother was anything different from the other moms I knew, but I have realized otherwise since then. One thing is for sure- my mother is never afraid of a challenge.

unabated passion
hidden behind
my mother’s face

My great grandmother, Grammy, was an amazing woman. She was born in 1911, the daughter of Sicilian immigrants, and the first member of my family to be born in America. When I was young, she told me about one of her earliest memories – the signing of the Armistice and the end of the First World War. She had just turned seven, and had the measles. Her mother wouldn’t let her get out of bed to go see the parade celebrating the end of the War. After she graduated high school, she earned her teaching certificate, and the married my great-grandfather, a lawyer who would later become a judge. They had four children, eleven grandchildren (not counting spouses, that would make it twenty) and (as of right now) nineteen great-grandchildren, with another on the way. Grammy taught me some of the most important lessons in life – especially about family. She would use any holiday as an excuse for everyone to come together and celebrate. Even if it wasn’t a Sicilian holiday, we were together (for some reason, my large Sicilian family celebrated St. Patrick’s Day every year with corned beef, cabbage, and bread that had been dyed green. Go figure.). Grammy passed away in 1997 after a long battle with heart problems, but she’ll always be in my heart. Her cookbook, all the recipes handwritten by her with care, was given to me, and whenever I make her almond cookies, I think of her and her smile and her warmth.

experienced hands
show me how
to set the table

still smiling down
her picture
on my wall

Being born and bred in the wealthy North Shore suburb of Chicago, one would expect Greg Zulkie to be the stereotypical North Shore guy: arrogant, intelligent, materialistic. While he is guilty of being smart, he cannot in any way claim the other two attributes expected considering his hometown. Gentle, friendly, and very laid back, Greg stands out from those around him. These assets are merely the by-products, however, of one strong characteristic in Greg: the deep need to please. He needs the approval and encouragement from those around him, be they friends, his parent, his professors, or people he’s only just met. This deep desire is so strong that it has become a hindrance to him. Because his need relies so heavily on peoples’ opinions of him, he has developed a strong lack of self-confidence. This means that, for example, despite all the talent in designing that lies deep inside him, his fear of failing and loosing the respect of his peers causes him to play it safe where his work is concerned. He also tends to spend much more time than necessary brooding over what people think of him, and worrying that long-time friends still like him. He doubts his own like-ability, a ridiculous worry to those around him. Not to say that he desire for approval is a completely horrible characteristic to possess. Because he wants so badly for people to like him, Greg is a very easy going, very friendly guy. There are very few people who have come into direct contact with him who haven’t felt at ease around him. He’s popular amongst his peers, and has earned the respect of his professors. Some of that respect is also due to his immense drive and determination, also the results of his need to please. This combination of drive and friendly personality have already won him the deep love of a woman, and will take him as far as he desires. Success, for Greg, is imminent.

he turns to me for approval--
I wonder
that I can approve
perfection

simple teapot—
his fear of failure
keeps it round

after two years--
he wonders
Do they like me?

He always preferred his books. They didn’t look at him funny when he had another brilliant idea, and they were willing to imagine with him. You could look at him and fall in love with him, but you’d never know why. Maybe it was his warm smile that could pierce you down to your core of doubts. Or was it his devotion? To God, to life, to his work, to his passion? Always moving, always working…you never saw him for too long. Impossible to tie down…maybe that’s what made him so attractive. Whatever the reason, he never seemed to notice. He turned his attention towards God, and getting back to his Italian roots. Walking to church every Sunday at 8 was his favorite thing to do. No one there to try and “understand” him. The freedom to let his mind wander, pray, and find God all over again. Always loved, too strong to give in.

a free soul
is always best
tethered to the ground

My eldest sister, Jennifer Beth, is thirty-four years old. Nenny, as I have called her for my entire life, is a motivated and intelligent woman of the modern world. A college professor of English and literature, she is almost through earning a doctorate in the art of rhetoric. Everything she does, she does because it makes her a better person or because it betters someone else’s life. She has reason, purpose and direction. She is a go-to gal for everyone who knows her because it seems as if she knows the answer to every question that ails us- and she usually does. She is a wonderfully creative problem solver, and gives her undivided attention to anything or anyone who needs it. Named my Godmother when I was baptized as a baby, she, in many ways treats as if I were her own daughter. She is my friend. She is my sister.

one hand in hers
the other feeding ducks
with my sister

my eldest sister—
a role model
for the real world

My grandmother lives in a neighborhood for the elderly, though lately she has spent most of her time in and out of the hospital. She is eighty-one years old, but the stories she tells are only about her younger years. Her favorite story to tell is about her senior prom. She tells it the same way every time: “When I went to prom, my sister Ruth bought me a white dress and bright red shoes. Boy, did I think I was hot stuff! My date was this boy from Feitschens School, and let me tell you he was fat. But boy could he dance! He was this big around but he could dance, and we did the Shag and the Charleston all night! I remember those bright red shoes—you know Ruth bought them for me. Boy did we used to fight over doing the dishes. I’d get her down on the ground and beat her!”

meeting her grandchild’s beau—
she wears a bathrobe
and red lipstick

Can a bird value any place more than its own nest? She may fly far and wide, but a bird always returns to her nest. This nest is more than a compilation of twigs and leaves; it’s an extension of the bird. I chose this tree with the sturdy limbs and delicate leaves so close to the birdbath, the bird thinks. I chose this cat’s fur over stiff grasses.. Likewise I value my own bed. I chose the springy pink sheets and the matching crimson comforter. I chose a comforter made of goose down with soft feather pillows. Now my muscles can relax on this bed after a stressful day. My tears can fall on this pillow after a fight. My body can lie next to another’s, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Though I have traveled and seen many places, my bed remains special to me.

to describe my bed
I would not say pillow or sheets,
I would say home

My hometown of Momence, Illinois is full of tradition, tight-knit families, and unforgettable memories. It’s a small town built around the winding Kankakee River and surrounded by miles and miles of farms and cornfields. The town is known for what used to be huge, colorful fields full of gladiola flowers. The people who grow up here work hard to grow up and move out, though deep down they all really love it here. It is a place of comfort, where everyone’s face is familiar and there is no mystery waiting for you around the next stop sign. Nothing terribly exciting ever happens there, but that’s one of the reasons it is such a comforting place to be.

tiny town blues
now memories
bittersweet

comfort found
in knowing
all unknowns

I talk to my mother often. Three hours away and her voice reaches me through satellites and wires. I tell her of my day: my joys and my sorrows. We chat: my sister is busy studying for a test, my brother bought his tuxedo for prom, my father put a fence up last week. Her phone beeps and I am on hold. It was my cousin; she is going through a divorce. My mother’s phone rings like a knife in her presence. Abruptly, it tears her out of the conversation, into another. The ring grates like a fire alarm. Yet these calls are her branches; she is the root. No matter who branches out where, her roots keep them grounded. Her voice binds us gently, keeping the family together.

bonds, stretching invisible
over the earth
keep us together

The unexpectedly warm day abruptly awoke our hearts. With astonishment, we woke to birds chirping in response to the sunlight. The day was more than beautiful and called for a car drive with the windows down. Not knowing where we were headed (and not caring), we drove to the lake on the South side of town. Upon our arrival, we quickly spotted a diminutive beach, one just the right size for the three of us. Its sand was not clean; nor its water. However, the tiny beach under the sun beckoned us to it. Birds hovered over it, waiting for bread and cawing when it didn’t come. The afternoon sun began to fade slightly; the day continued to be warm, but with less light. We bathed in the rays of the setting sun, and our hearts faded with the demise of it. As we dangled our feet in the water on the cement bridge, we reflected on the simple beauty of the day and of the beach.

sand between our toes
blocking the rays
of the sun

lake shore drive
windows down
and tiny dancer blaring

One of my favorite things to do is going driving. I suppose being in my car is my special place. Sometimes, it’s the only way I can get away – literally driving away. I love rolling down the windows, jamming out and going nowhere in particular. At home, it’s a lot easier because there are the country roads that go on for miles and you sort of just get lost. We used to do that in high school all the time. We would be bored and just decide to pile in the car and go “country cruisin’”. Whenever I have had too much here at school, I just go for a drive. When I think about it, it seems weird that my escape is to a place where you should probably be the most focused – the road. In the country, I think it’s something about the vastness that is so appealing. It humbles me in a way and reminds me that even though it seems like I can never get all of my stuff done, in comparison to everything else, the biggest trials in my life are not that significant. It could be construed as a sad thought, but it’s calming to me.

rearview mirror
my past
grows small

open window
    worries e s c a p e
         with radio tunes

Some people reek of mystery that provokes one’s sense of curiosity. One of my bosses, with whom I share the passion of reading contemporary literature, is a person one never stops learning. Nearly everyday, I learn something new about her past and future. For example, who knew that she has been on the Howard Stern Show earlier in her career? Who knew that she has written a book review for the New York Times? Finally, who knew she has met Chuck Palahniuk, Dave Eggers, Mark Haddon, and Donna Tartt? It’s not so much the details of these stories (which are intriguing enough), but rather the idea of experience. This person had done so much; so much that no one knows about. And rather than bragging about these amazing experiences, she simply brings them up in casual conversation when appropriate. People who are well-versed in life are often described as deep; I think some people are more aptly described wide, though.

summer day—
diamond glasses
scanning
the New York Times

stacks of novels
compared to
stacks of signed novels

My friend Mando has to be one of the funniest people I know. She honestly lives her life the way everyone should. She loves to go out and have fun, but she’s very responsible, as well. She is on the executive board for her sorority and she is also the treasurer. She can make any situation funny and the other great thing about her is that she rarely ever loses her cool or gets overly stressed out. She takes everything as it comes at her and rolls with it calmly. However, something you have to know about her is that she almost no common sense. We were walking in downtown Chicago shopping one time during the winter. I had a salt line along the back of my jeans and she asked me what it was. When I told her it was salt, she started laughing and asked me why I would ever put salt on the back of my jeans. She said she had never heard of putting salt on the streets to melt the ice! We were all in shock that someone who usually is so responsible could be so clueless! As mean as it may sound, she also loves making fun of people. Our group of friends always makes fun of each other – it’s like a competition to see who can be the wittiest with comebacks. She is definitely the best at it. Her mind works so quickly when it comes to something like that. I admire her for the way that she lives her whole life. She really is one of those people who just loves life, loves her friends, loves laughing and joking and I know she would do absolutely anything for me. However, the thing about Mando is, if I had told her any of this or if she read this, she would laugh about it because she doesn’t view her life like that. She doesn’t think that she is anyone special or that she deserves any recognition. I admire her from afar and silently because there is no way I could make her understand what an unbelievable person she is.

laughing aloud
at her jokes
admiring her
silently

two words—
only
her

Have you ever just seen something somewhere that subconsciously reminds you of Grandma’s house? Like you can just smell grandma’s freshly baked oatmeal cookies wafting through the house. Now geranium gardens aside, I think it’s safe to say that most everyone has had one of these moments at least once. It becomes even more eerie after your grandmother passes away. Then those sights and those sounds are so much less familiar than they once were. But occasionally, some small detail stops you dead and for a brief moment, pulls you out of reality. It’s quite strange how something so small can instantly send all of your memories of grandma streaming through your head like one of those scrolling timelines on the History Channel where the important events will just kind of pop up and then fade out to make way for the next one.

across the street
dimly lit window
the curtains yellowed with age

Small towns often postulate about the true story behind their local weirdo. My hometown had Castro, a bearded, aviator-wearing nomad who wove his way through the streets on his old bike, complete with basket full of plastic grocery bags of God-knows-what. In summer, he was shirtless and shiny from sun screen, bronzer, or enhancer, but most likely a combination of both. All other seasons, he wore loose flannel as he pedaled through the town. Sometimes he would break out in front of the gas station or the laundromat, but he preferred the sidewalk in front of the grocery store. What amazed me most about Castro (I never learned his real name, he was dubbed Castro due to his amazing resemblance to the Cuban dictator.) is that he was so in tune with his surroundings, but so out of tune with the people around him. He never realized that people were disgusted by his half-naked biking and his lounging on sidewalks around town. I suppose that if he could’ve been like a creepy bearded Basho if he could realize his zen-like nature or the existence of others.

sunny concrete—
sitting next
to the downed bike

Some people feel special by having huge parties thrown in their honor or by being recognized for doing something spectacular. That’s all well and fine, but perhaps the time in my life I felt most special was when I was on the winning team of the University of Illinois at Chicago’s annual UI Contest. Most of the other teams were from Chicago, and we got made fun of for most of the preliminary rounds – we’d gotten up at four in the morning to be there. After the first few rounds, once my team began to dominate, they all shut their mouths. No one from big-city private schools expected three kids from the “backwoods” of South-Central Illinois to have such a well-rounded team. The questions were equally balanced between culture and academia. While the other two members of my team fielded questions about Neitche and Virgil, I had Black Sabbath and Marie Curie’s maiden name covered. We proved everyone wrong that day, and I’ve never felt more special.

the girl from
the small town
makes good

assuming
that I’m no one
I prove them wrong

From so far away, the wild crashing of the Pacific Ocean is merely a soft blanket of sound. The iron railing in front of me provides the perfect place for my elbows to rest, while the curlicues decorating the railing make a great footrest. Below me, the brilliant colors of the exotic gardens spill onto the pathways that weave throughout the resort. Beyond the white stone walls of the resort, however, there a lay a different kind of beauty. Next to the meticulously cared for gardens and lawns of the resort, the Mexican city beyond appears at first glance to be a mere dust smudge next to guilded calligraphy. But further examination reveals otherwise. Peachy brown hues give a warm feeling to the city, much calmer than the big cities one finds in the states. Mixed with the warm earth tones of the city are splashes of florescent colors, designed to attract tourists to the business attached to them. And beyond the warm spice of the city waver the looming mountains beyond. The deep blue-gray mounds enfold the city in their warmth, and makes one feel as if the city were an enchanted one worlds away from civilization. Standing high on my iron-wrought balcony, I feel warm and protected in the bosom of the mountains, with the city wrapping me in its arms and the resort’s hands stroking my hair. Yet, at the same time, the brilliant blue sky and glittering waves seem to lift me above the protection, and I feel liberated from normalcy. I am protected enough to stretch my wings.

the only authentic
Mexican on the resort
is cleaning the pool

nestled
in Nature’s bosom—
rocky peaks above

leaning on the railing
my gaze skips
amongst the rocky mounds

shrieks from the pool
cut through the warmth
of the caressing waves

He had a lot of potential. He loved everyone and everyone loved him. There was no way for anyone to see it coming. He always had a smile on his face and a certain pep to his walk that cannot be described, only witnessed. No one could have imagined that such a fine and refined human being could ever get sucked into something so dark and unspeakable. Inevitable doom from the start; he is gone.

the dream fades
as he starts a new
game of Spider Solitaire

Deep in Arkansas, there was a cashier at the local gas station, Possum Trot, with the name tag of Margaret. In a thick drawl, she asked me if I wanted any taters as she pointed at the display case of fried food. I waited a little while as she counted out my change for the small diet coke—97 cents. She told me to have good day and god bless as I put the two cents in my purse and passed under the mounted deer head to exit the still swinging door.

resting Ozark dust—
as she fans her southern words
not a single lie