Sophie's Room

Sophie had to write a one page double spaced paper about her room. I told here I'd do it for her, but I guess she liked her version better. The following is an example of why you don't let me do your homework for you.



My Room:
The witch comes here at night. I’ve never figured out why, but I always supposed it was the shade of green on my walls—a toxic green. It’s the sort of green that you only find in nature when squash certain bugs. A shade of green that that is only slightly more vibrant than that color that can only be described as glow in the dark.

I remember the day I picked out that paint color: a wall of paint chips, a tidal wave of color, the visual definition of overwhelming. I was lost, eyes darting, seeking refuge somewhere—eyes praying for a place to rest, and when they found their solace, it was on a color that was anything but tranquil. Springy, youthful, pussy green.

She stares at the walls when she comes, that witch, and I…

… well, I stay in my bed, wedged into a little alcove, and burry myself under a blanket of flowers. On either side of me, a feel the threat of what might lurk in either closet. A wise witch never comes without backup. Never. I peer from under my blanket, steeling light from the aquarium that rests on the piano across from me. The Piano wedged between two portrait windows, is not feeling lonely tonight. Her Highness has taken residence on the piano bench, fingers resting silently on the piano keys, drawing life and absorbing every sound they dare not make. Even they are intimidated in her presence.

It howls on my left. In truth I know it is just the wind sneaking into my closet through my crack in the wall, but in her presence it seams like something more, and I don’t like it.

I turn my face away, and peak at the door on the right. Squeaky, obnoxious door. To it’s left I see my tall white dresser: drawers all in various phases of open, creating a perfect stairway to the top, for any small animal who might wish to burrow in the piles of junk atop the dresser— Ideal summit vacation, or so I’ve heard

The witch is staring out the window now, the one to the left of the piano. The one on the right offers no such view, it’s concealed by a new desk, complete with dry erase boards and magazine drawers. I will become a great writer here one day, assuming I stop eating my pencils. But, for now, I neither write nor eat pencils. I only hide beneath my blanket and stare at the toxic green walls.

Ode to Corky And His Dying Japanese Maple.

My bro was joking about sleeping next to his tree in the cold so it wouldn't have to die alone, so I wrote him this one.

Yes, I know most of my poems are absolutely ridiculous.

But they make me happy.


Ode to Corky And His Dying Japanese Maple.
Beneath the dying maple,
a boy... no, a man, lie weeping
clutching the trunk—
a last embrace,
a last farewell,
a last leaf poised to dry
a last tear.

4:30am-4:35am

from July 1, 2008. I decided to post it here because brett said it was his favorite. It may be ridiculous, but at least he knows I love him.


4:30am-4:35am


Oh Fair Fairest Brett-Brett
The dawn has not yet waked
I hear the wind, but feel it not,
the leaves cease not to quake

I ponder on thy absence
as the refrigerator snores
to the echo of an empty house
and all its empty drawers

No Brett Brett in my freezer.
No Brett Brett in the tub-
and no more Utah Truffles,
In which to drown my love.

No Brett Brett in the silence
or on the fresh Sponged walls
No Brett here to answer to
My Waking "Brett Brett?" calls.

Unwritten- the previous draft (P)

I woke up today
I saw things unsecured
teetering on a shelf above.
Things that, if fallen,
would still exist;
things that would need mending.


(changed a lot, didn't it :))

Unwritten (P)

So many things atrophy without commitment
like unfinished poetry, that lingers in drawers
—forgotten words on discolored receipts—
half written, half felt,
half embraced,
unperfected,
denied life,
denied commemoration.

Perceived Aberrations

Written by this method, as illustrated here.


Forward:

As the flirtatious sun teased of dawn
an unforgotten bike lie drowning in it's oil.
Here, a boy watched his aberrant reflection in the inky soup
considering the naive concept that, in looking, he himself had been altered.
A friendless rain drop rippled oil across the lips of vampiric Brett.

Backward:
A friendless rain drop rippled oil across the lips of vampiric Brett.
Considering the naive concept that (in looking) he himself had been altered,
here, a boy watched his aberrant reflection in the inky soup.
An unforgotten bike lie drowning in it's oil
as the flirtatious sun teased of dawn.