Sunday, March 17, 2013

if you're reading this: i miss you.

 A lot has been on my mind lately. I have written fragments of things in different notebooks and I haven't been able to put them together into something that makes sense. So, here is is something that has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time. Who knows if anyone will read this, who knows if it makes sense. 

All I know is that I miss this class. I miss the writers. I miss being inspired by all of you. 


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In all honesty, love makes me sick.

Love is a roller coaster that has worked several times before, but broke down the first time I got on.

Don't get me wrong, when I think I've found love, it feels good. Key word: think. Truth is, I've never found love. Come close? Maybe, but I've never found love completely.

I think love makes me feel like I'm floating, and gravity makes me sick. My stomach twists into large, obnoxious knots and I curse my self for believing I could float, for believing I could fly away.

Love makes my head hurt. Why? "It's complicated," I'll say. Because it is complicated. It's a lot of things, really.

I sleep with pens and notebooks in my bed because words strung on lined paper are better than humans.

No one has ever tried to hold my hand. That is, no one except for my inky black pen, pleading for me to join him on his adventures.

I would much rather see life from the tip of a pen than through a microscope because a microscope can only see my veins, but ink can run through my veins. And the blood and the ink run to my heart and they both know what my heart feels.

I'll take writing over love any day.

But then, what is writing without love?

So I guess I'll write with love, broken or perfect, and hope that my words will never leave me.

Maybe.        Maybe that is love.



Saturday, December 22, 2012

je pense que c'est un au revoir


All I can think about is ink and coffee stains on napkins. And none of that means anything to anyone, except me.

I wear my rain boots when I walk the streets of Paris. I bought them two sizes too big so that I could catch the rain in my boots. I never carry an umbrella with me. But if I do, I open it facing the ground so more rain pours in.


I've seen the Eiffel Tower, but that's not the reason why I came to Paris. I came to taste the cheese, smell freshly baked bread. But most of all, I came to feel the words drip from my fingertips, drip from my fingertips to the pages. I came to feel Paris take my heart and never give it back.


I came to Paris to realize that it's okay to bleed. The scrapes on my knees will tell you where I've been, where I have bled. And although the cuts hurt, healing is the best part. The stains remain so I can be reminded of my past, but also to remind me of how much stronger I have become.


Paris taught me that it doesn't matter what other people think. And although people stare at me eat as I walk the streets of Paris, I do it anyway.


And I will never know everything, but I still try, reaching my palms towards heaven hoping God will be generous. And he has been very generous, painting the universe on the palms of my hands and teaching me the constellations.


"And that one is Orion," I say. And God nods, reassuring me that everything will be okay.


But when God is busy, I stand in telephone booths, and speak with His angel secretaries. It costs 25 cents to call Heaven, to get unlimited access to Heaven. And the people outside bang on the glass and tell me my time is up. Someone insists that their call to their brother in Alabama is more important than my call to Heaven. But I can't hear them. Months of practice and I have managed to block them out completely. In the end, Heaven is all that matters.


I've made calls to Hell, too. I call the Devil and insist he visits me this afternoon- he owes me that much. We sit in the garden and sip our tea, but we forget, on purpose of course, the napkins for when we spill. We talked about silly things, nonsense really. And when we finished we threw our teacups behind us, letting them shatter into a thousand pieces. We laugh in unison, the Devil and I, and make everyone jealous of our sinful friendship.


I am a part of Paris. I gave Paris my heart and I will never ask to have it back. I find my self melting into walls of caf├ęs and I am okay with that. Paris has become my home, not just some place I dream about. 

I feel comfortable here.

Audrey said, "Paris is always a good idea." And I believed her.

Avec Amour,
Lois Lane

Sunday, December 9, 2012

lois and lucifer: a dance for two


I give up playing your stupid game. I'll never win. If winning gets me to Heaven and I'm pretty sure I am the deepest anyone can get in Hell.

But don't you worry about me because I don't mind it here. I smile and the devil smiles back.

Yes, I am in love with the devil.

Madly in love with a damned soul.

As a child I feared him. He was always a troublemaker, spilling all the finger paint in the art center. I vowed I would never love anyone who dared to be so terrible.

But then he showed me how fun it was to steal chocolates (dark chocolate, of course) from my mother's purse.

"Welcome to the dark side," he said.

It was the best chocolate I have ever tasted.

And when I turned sixteen he took me to prom, but that wasn't our first date. Our first date happened before I turned fifteen. The kiss he gave me made me weak in the knees. We didn't go all the way, but we went pretty far.

The night before my eighteenth birthday we made love till the morning light and you whispered in my ear, "Marry me."

Of course I said yes.

We lived happily down in Hell and occasionally came up to steal chocolates from my mother's purse.

-Lois Lane

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

this is why i write pt. ii



"Shake the Dust" by Anis Mojgani

This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.
This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.
This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.
This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters. Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,
for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,
for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,
for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god. Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,
for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,
for the kid who's always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,
for the girl who loves somebody else. Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that is won't come.
For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.
For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.
Do not let a moment go by that doesn't remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,
for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers' singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who'll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,
this is for the sexists,
this is for the killers.
This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.
Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.
Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.
All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.
So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.
Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.
Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.

Monday, December 3, 2012

liquor and the future.


Dear Boy that I used to love,

I've burnt out all feeling in my fingertips, but even worse you've burnt out all feeling in my heart. You held the the match and lit the fuse that ran through my veins and directly to my heart.

I never imagined I would love another, but I am standing in my heart's ashes and I realize you've really done it this time.

I have a hole in my chest, right where my heart used to be. I'll grow a new one but that takes time. Lots of time.

And somehow that new heart knows what you have done and can't look at you the same anymore.

And I know at church they tell you that we must forgive everyone, but I've never been really good at that.

But I can be good at not telling you how I really feel. And that's what I'm going to do. You'll never know.

And my heart will fight against my Self, but that brick wall I built after you burnt my heart is stronger than my new heart.

My heart no longer beats for you.

Whatever.
Lois Lane

Sunday, November 25, 2012

cake.


We would sit at a table, a table for the four of us, and eat cake. We would laugh so hard we had to bring a backup pair of pants. We laughed so hard we made the old peoples go crazy. We didn't mind, we were eating cake.

I remember the green carpet and the linoleum floors. I remember in every room there was always large stacks of books. So this is what heaven is like, I thought.

We would have swimming parties and sleepovers where we would watch predictable love story movies. We were best friends- nothing could ever come between us.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

But then time became our enemy and we began to grow up. We slowly drifted apart and became different people.

I just wish we could go back to eating cake.

years of rocking