Thursday, August 23, 2012

Shuttle Huddle

Fall semester is right around the corner and I thought I would share a poem about the shuttle bus that takes Umass Boston students from the train to the campus center and vice versa. Enjoy!

Shuttle Huddle 

Her small hand grips the gray rubber strap. 
Her hand tightens with every curve of the crowded bus. 
Her body sways around the backpacks, 
Why do we need to fill the air with words so a five 
Minute bus ride is less awkward? 
Her coat becomes tighter with every pointless conversation. 
With every intake of breath. 
The hum of the bus is drowning. 
Drowning out particular sentences and words. 
The voices become apart of the hum. 

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Her First Funeral

This is a poem about the first funeral I ever went to a funeral. R.I.P Bluey!

Her First Funeral 

She was running around on Beckler Ave 
Just another ordinary Saturday of her six-year-old life. 
She saw a lifeless body in the middle of the dead-end street. 
A dead bird… a blue jay 
She knew the bird had already passed 
But wanted to put the bird in a safe place. 
The funeral procession started at Beckler Ave and ended in her backyard. 
Gingerly holding the bird, she gazed upon the creature. 
"Bluey" she whispered. 
She worked silently and 
Dug a small grave and 
Built a makeshift cross. 
The bird was buried and with the final pat of the dirt she knew 
Bluey would forever remain in peace 
In the grave that she created 
On that ordinary Saturday.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Trigger Finger

This is a flash fiction piece about the first time I went to New Mexico and the first time I shot a gun. Enjoy!

Trigger Finger 

The desert sun beats down on the red sand. The ripples in the sand become more frequent and wider as the wind blows. The sound of a round of bullets being released from a chamber is the only noise. She feels as small as the grains of sand that surrounds her small knees. She is from a land of tall buildings, constant noises, and guns that are only used to kill people. But, she takes a deep breath, looks through the small scope of the light .22, focuses on the beer bottle, and pushes her cold pointer finger on the black thin trigger.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012


I wrote this poem in a creative writing class I took last semester at Umass Boston. The teacher told us to just start writing and then she would say a word that we had to incorporate into the writing. This is what I ended up with and I have underlined the words she told us to use.

N.d. Photograph. The Blog Is Mine. Slarhel Karotkl, 15 Dec. 2009. Web. 31 July 2012.          <>.

I AM purple
I have been stitched carefully. 
A mistake in a stitch was the mis-education of 
My maker. My color is a punch to the senses and I drip 
Purple like a sparrow dripping with blood. Hateful words can be 
Wrapped around you if you stand on a soapbox and preach. That's what 
My mother always told me. Instead I scream at the ocean. I look up as the sun 
Bursts open like a can of yellow paint. I look at the water and scream. I scream until 
A plastic bag drifts by. It taunts me. I break its serenity and jump in. The water washes my starvation for attention away and I AM the water.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Train Wreck

I started to write this poem when I was waiting for my train to come. I was sitting next to a lady who yelled at her son, who had to be three or four, to "get the fuck back". When I saw this scene, I decided to write...

Train Wreck 

I creep towards the dirty yellow strip. 
"Get the fuck back over here". 
I turn around to the voice of 
My mother. 
Her words make strangers uneasy and 
Turn away. 
But, when they see my eyes they understand. 
Three years ago, when I was closer to her. 
As close as a child can be 
The doctor told her, 
"Make sure to mix probiotics in your juice". 
She mixed vodka. 
The doctor told her, 
"The boy wont survive if you keep this up". 
She didn’t listen but 
I survived. 
"The train is coming you fucking idiot. Come here!" 
Sometimes I wish the doctor won and 
My mother had lost.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Facts About The Moon And Star

I wrote this while my boyfriend was deployed and I was really missing him. We love the movie It's A Wonderful Life. In particular the "you want the moon?" scene...

I decided to write a poem about a moon and star :)

Facts About The Moon And Star 
After "Facts About The Moon" by Dorianne Laux 

A massive shimmering sphere of plasma held together by gravity. 
Its interior power prevents it from collapsing under its own gravity. 
The star scopes out the gargantuan ball of iron 
And sighs at its presence. If the moon is there, she is there. Right? 
The star wants to tell the moon that its presence, not the inner pressure within her, prevents her from collapsing. 
But it's too far away like 
A woman away from the man she loves with a sky between them that is 
The fact that they share the same sky is comforting. Looking up they see 
The same moon. 
The same star.

White Noise

 I have been working on a short story. The character for this story was inspired by a real person. I see him every once in awhile on the corner handing out pens and Jesus pamphlets. I have always wondered what his back story was so I decided to write one for him. Enjoy! The ending is not really how I want it but here it is...

White Noise 

           The AC was on full blast and it hit my sun-scorched face as they opened the door for me. The room I was brought to was even colder. The ancient camera was mounted on a white wall. My clothes matched the peeling wallpaper around me- tattered and drained of color. The smell of three nights of drinking dripped out of me. I stood facing the camera as the photo that would forever capture the pitfall of my life flashed before my bloodshot eyes.

          An hour ago I was picked up for smashing my fist into the glass of a bookstore front. I wasn’t going to steal nothing. I was just pissed that Jack was closing the bar early and there happened to be some ugly motherfucker looking at me. Realized later that the ugly motherfucker was me. Once I broke the glass, I remember seeing this book. There was a sun on and it and I swear it looked straight into my eyes. It looked fucking freaky. Right above this freaky sun was the words and book that changed my life forever, “The Power Of Myth”. Once I got released I went to the same bookstore and bought this book. I was laughing the whole time because these idiots didn’t even know that I was the same asshole who fucked up their store. The girl looked at me like I was on drugs. That night after work I sat down and read this book. As soon as I started reading Joseph Campbell I quit my job, stopped drinking, and fucking hookers. Joseph led me to become religious.

          I went to my local church and some guy with a turned around collar handed me a bunch of pamphlets to give out to “potential brothers and sisters who need to be saved by our Lord”. He promised to pay me a little money and I wanted to “spread the word” as they call it so I took a whole bunch of them. I walked to the corner between Ashmont Street and Dot Ave with the outline to find Jesus Christ in my left hand.

“Hey buddy! You wanna find Jesus Christ on this lovely Saturday afternoon?”

No answer. Not even a glance towards me.

“Ma’am? “


“Hey Kid! Take this home and read it!”

“Fuck off” said the asshole on the skateboard.

I found out quickly that this was not working. Apparently these dickheads didn’t want to be saved by the Lord Jesus Christ today. So, I concluded that buddy, ma’am, and asshole on the skateboard were going to Hell and I was going to go across the street to get a box of pens and a pack of cigarettes. Once I got back to my corner I beat the pack of cigarettes against my right wrist to pack the tobacco down to the filter. I always felt accomplished when I opened the pack and the cigarettes were in a small neat square. Counting to five I flipped over the lucky cancer stick. That one I’d save for last. I got the only lighter I could find from my bag. It was white and that was bad luck. Before lighting the square, I blessed myself. I’m in the clear.

          The flame rose from the metal as I sparked it and soon my treat was lit. Sucking in the smoke I started to remember how good it tasted to have a cigarette with a glass of Jack. How good a cigarette was after beating the fuck out of some son of a bitch that looked at me funny. I shook my head as if these thoughts would plop out of my head and onto the gray ground. I have to remember how good it was going to feel to have this cigarette, then attach these pens to pamphlets, and save people. Everyone loved a new pen.

         After standing out on my corner for hours and down to my lucky cigarette I was tired and ready to go back home to my television when I saw dark suit. “Hey buddy! You wanna find Jesus?” was repeated so many times that he switched to just asking passerbys, “You wanna free pen?” This got more of a response. Dark suit was coming out of the station. He was looking at the ground and making an effort not to look at me. As soon as I saw him I knew I had to ask this person. He knew that face, that walk, and could almost feel the weight they carried on their shoulders. I just knew I had to switch back to my first question.

“Sir?” I also switched from buddy to sir because dark suit looked more of a sir than a buddy kind of guy. I was good at picking up this kind of stuff by just looking at a man’s walk.

“Sir? Would you like to find Jesus today?”

Dark suit slowed down and looked like he was going to keep going. But, he came six inches away from Frank’s unshaven face in three tiny steps towards him and whispered.

“Do I want to find Jesus? How about you go ask my wife who just left me for the fucking neighbor and took my kid. He didn’t even give me back my lawn mower. How the fuck am I going to mow my lawn when the grass grows back? Huh? Can Jesus help me out with this one? Can he resurrect a new lawn mower for me?

Frank stood there motionless then looked at the pen that was attached to the pamphlet and asked, “Do you wanna free pen?”

            That guy made my night. If I wasn’t on the path to becoming saved I would have taken him out for a beer. But, now I couldn’t associate with guys who went in people’s face talking about how Jesus can’t help them out. I was done for the night and decided to walk home. But before that I went to get a fresh pack of Marlboros. When he was in there he thought about Dark suit. If I was at my lowest would Jesus help me out? Let’s see. I bought a bottle of Jack and headed home.

          The clear glass was filled with ice cubes and Jack. I had poured it and placed it on the bible. I’ve done this before. Tested myself. But, this time I had actually poured myself a drink. I would usually go to the store, buy it, walk out the store, and end up throwing it away at the trash can that stood at the corner. Not this time. Jack had made it all the way home to his one bedroom apartment. He was open and poured. I took the glass off the bible ready to dump it down the drain when I saw the ring it had left. Seeing that ring of condensation triggered something inside of me. This is just a book. A book of words made up by who the fuck knows. It’s nothing special. Dark suit was right. Where was Jesus now? Where was God? God wasn’t helping him with the temptation of Jack. He wasn’t helping him get a decent job to pay his bills. For all he knew, all Jesus did was make him hand out pamphlets in the freezing cold and look like a complete asshole. He didn’t need a book of made up stories anymore. He needed someone to hand him a pamphlet on how to get through his life.

          I ran my fingers over the ring and spread the condensation around the book and over the gold letters. This book didn’t make me happy. I poured the glass of Jack down my throat and filled it up again. I quit my job? The second glass was empty again. I poured myself another glass. What was I doing? Thinking I could become this Jesus loving, pamphlet giving son of a bitch. I laid down and starting thinking of her again. She made me happy. I closed my eyes.

        It had been a sweltering summer day and the evening cooled the earth. The sun was setting on the waves and the hood of the 1960 powder blue Ford thunderbird. All the windows were down and time didn’t matter. My cologne reached her sticky seat and planted itself in her black hair as the breeze blew in from the west. Her blue dress stuck to her for a brief moment then released, going back to its normal shape. When the wind stopped she slid with ease to the close the space between us and dissolve the smell of the ocean as I breathed in her beautiful scent.

      That had been one of the best days of my life until I had crashed that thunderbird into another car going the wrong way. She died instantly. I survived. Me. I survived. Why didn’t God give me a flat tire when we were leaving the beach? I realized that God didn’t help me out then and he wasn’t going to help me out now.

     Frank turned on the television, turned his back to it, and fell asleep to the sound of white noise.