Pieces of Poetry, or, Being Artistic at the End of the Year

Reach For the Moon
in the style of Russell Edson, revised

Neon lights have tiny paint brushes at the ends of their rays, specially designed to paint over the stars with dirty orange and pink.
She says, Let us take a ladder to the shore where the galaxy stretches crystal black and blue and silver for miles and miles and miles!
He shakes his head. Nothing wrong with dirty orange and pink.
She says, It is hard to reach to the moon for unpainting when you are alone on the shore.
He shakes his head. Your optimism is not my fault.
She thinks her arms could stretch far enough to wrap around the moon and pull it down to earth where she could clean it off and tie a satin ribbon around its waist.
He shakes his head.

I will just plant my elbows on my desktop and push my palms against my eyelids, she decides.

Eye-pushing breeds constellations of sandy grey fireworks that explode like spots on an appaloosa in a lightning storm. Soon she is leaning full speed into the galaxy where stars and little pink erasers snap off pencil ends to hit the windshield.
Eye-pushing starts to hurt. She pushes harder and sees the moon. It is a hazy circle that refuses to stay in one place, shaking back and forth like his disapproving head.

She wonders, if she were to jump reaching for the moon and miss, if the stars could still support her.

Pre-post

I'm still at school and I quite frankly wish I weren't. Part of it is the child in me whining “everyone else gets to go home now, why can't I?” But part of it is that I've half grown-up to realize that everything that makes sense is also eating away at my concept of home. It makes sense (to me, at least) that I should go and live in some random school in Appalachia for a summer, because I love ASP and have wanted to do this forever. It makes sense that my brother should move into my old bedroom because it's bigger than his and he needs the space more than I do. And it even makes sense to me that here at school, my room right now is empty and lonely, because I had to move everything out early to give myself a little more time when I have to leave. Except where is home? It certainly isn't here--my present room arrangement makes me feel like a starving artist or an inmate. And ASP isn't permanent. And Tommy's old bedroom won't be mine. Despite the logic I keep encountering, home is becoming some place that no longer makes sense to me because I don't know where it is.

Anyway. I just finished one paper, all I have left to finish is my giant public policy paper (20 pages! eep!), one poem, and the public policy final exam that I will be taking from Virginia. Then my first year of college is done. I don't really have time to process that. What did I accomplish this year, really? Did I learn anything? I think I must have. My writing improved, both essays and poetry. I learned that nobody really cares what you look like in the winter, so long as you can stay warm. I studied and promptly forgot some chemistry and biology and decided that I am not science person any more than I am a math person. And there are certain people I will meet that are not worthy of my time, but also some who most definitely are. I have a greater appreciation for Greek literature. With Habitat, I worked on soffits and cabinets and floors. Mi espanol, especialmente mi espanol escrito, ahora esta mucho mejor que en los anos pasados (perdon, pero Blogger no tiene accentos). I'm pretty set on my major. I think that's it--I hope that's enough.

* * *

Right now, there's a thunderstorm to watch outside my window. It reminds me of the mountains, gentle but angry all at once. Good background music for writing. And there is still a little bit of sun peeking through, giving the grass that neon quality it only seems to have when it rains. The more intense color has something to do with increased levels of nitrogen in the air, but I'd rather not think about that. Pura vida. Just enjoy it.