semi-sphere

at night, in the pitch black
interrupted by a shell-shaped night light
when I was five
in my large room
shelves lined with barbies
and stuffed animals
I would shut my eyes tight
and rub the lids
and then in a flash would open them
and be surrounded by a semi-sphere of
sprinkling, multi-color, iridescent dots
raining down upon my bed
the semi-sphere
slowly decreasing
with the passing seconds
made me feel safe
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

at night, in the pitch black
slightly interrupted by a muffled flashlight
when I was twelve
in my smaller room
at one of the two houses I lived in
walls covered with pictures of dogs
and pre-teen heartthrobs
I would make a protective, tangible
semi-sphere
this time of my pink quilt
with my hand-held luminary
I opened my eyes
to the columns of words
on the thin pages
of a book that some called oppressive tradition
others called a love letter
I called it my comfort
imagining wings of refuge
round my bed
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

at night, in the pitch black
darkness uninterrupted
when I was seventeen
in the new room, smaller than the others
one option of two
floor covered in second-hand clothing
that my mother hated
and a typewriter with freshly inked pages scattered
my semi-sphere no longer constructed
replaced by fantasies
of leaving and creating anew
of falling in love
with my best friend
who hated me
and who I hated in return
finding comfort in faith
and the inevitable ending
of temporary problems
I would hug my pillow
desperate for contact
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

tonight, in the pitch black
interrupted by the flashing screen of technology
I am of drinking age
in my rented room, the smallest of all
walls covered with pictures of loves
and the floors littered with books
the semi-sphere lays in fragments
small sapphire shards
that cut up my safety and confidence
I sob into my blanket
my stomach contracting and releasing
with each uneven cry
I wear a little shard on my finger
to remind me of the missing second home
of the man with the seagull colored hair
and the poise of an eagle
in my little room with the broken semi-sphere
I mourn my loss

CB

I just want to post some pictures of a flower that brings me joy:







The very last picture is done by the very talented Ryan Chambers.

pink blossoms blink
dry, bald, blossoms
close
and dream of a time
when your blooms will be white

a prayer for sleep

faded beige walls
enclosing in

tonight will be filled
with whites, pastels, hope
dreams of walking stuft animals
across the piano keys

dash out this despair
with the moths circling around
my handmade paper lamp

tomorrow will be filled
with blues, bolds, stress
postmodernism and reinventing history
with a side of drug narratives and nihilism

but tonight let this romance linger a little while longer
my polka dotted pillow led me on, pull me down
into slumber

a blog for blogging's sake

I made a blog to write in prose/blog style. Its attach to my profile. Its called Freesia Inhalations, I was going to call it Emotional Constipation (ref: poetry group) but then realized it might jinx me for a lifetime of emtional constipation. Krystal (my roommate and friend since freshman year of high school) put a vase of the best smelling freesia in my room when I can back to Santa Cruz after Dad's service. I hope despite all the shit (sorry to delicate eyes) that is going on, that I am always able to smell freesia.
-check it out if you like

I just realized that this post is very poop themed.

i kinda like it.

i dare you all to write a poop blog.

Sleepless Grief

Kathryn told me this quote and its the main thing getting me through all this. Its from Sleepless in Seattle: "Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great [...] for a while."

I feel as though my entire torso, beginning at my heart (as cliche as it sounds thats how I physically feel), has caved in. I really do need to remind myself sometimes to breathe. The caved in chest is not the best breathing tool...
Today was the first day I was able to really cry in SC.

If you want details about how Dad died, there are news articles- though they hint at suicide- but the cops confirmed it later as murder. Also Robertscoville.com is where people can post about him, my family checks it everyday.

Usually I only use this for poetry- but I haven't been feeling that poetic lately and I wanted to let everyone (cough Joann) know how i was doing ;)

love, dani

My Father

Monday Night/ Tuesday Morning my dad was killed. I am home. Please let people know.