I Will Craft My Rebuttal

purposes are

scattered and plentiful,

tangled in

the spindling of

worker bees

and

soldier ants.

in the back room

of my skull,

i have jars full of

these purposes,

neatly labelled,

arranged according to

size

and

obligation

(starting with

the largest.

naturally).

but there is

one jar

which has not

collected dust,

whose lid has

been opened

and closed

and opened again

more times

than it had agreed to.

i clutch it close

and push it away.

it sings to me

and

scolds me.

it beckons me

and

repels me.

slowly lift its

lid,

let its voice

fill the air.

its words are

simple

and it asks

what i always

ask

and what i

always

seek:

how

on this earth

can i

convince you

to stay?

Neighborhood Watch

i ooze into places i shouldn't,

and i drip into holes

that are too deep.

fingers go into soc(electric!)kets,

tongues taste the could-be-poisonous,

toes get too close to passing motorbikes,

scarves whirl dangerously near ceiling fans.

always at the risk of kablam and fizzbang,

always friends with kerplunk and kersplat,(they

are a pair, aren't they?)i am always

on the endangered list,

the kind that sends out disclaimer flyers to

the surrounding neighborhoods:

"she may spontaneously combust!" or

"she may bring about her own demise!" or

"she may talk of beautiful things, but believe in nothing!" or,

my favorite,

"she has issues!"

but there is someone(he must know who he is)

who shoos away kerplunk and kersplat;

who makes kablam and fizzbang

just onomatopoeia-s;

who renews her hope

and renews her courage

and renews her strength

and renews her love

with every touch of his hand

and every brush of his lips.

until she has no choice(no

matter her futile attempts

at stating otherwise)but to believe him.

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.