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prickles & shards

In by Poncie on May 29, 2012 at 11:52 pm

my skin is covered in more prickles

than you can count on a cactus

and a tougher shell than the coconut,

the one your hammer could never splinter.


but my insides are a sort of hollowness,

compartments of air separated by a fractal

fashioned from blown glass,

the etched orbs on trees at christmas,

or lightning struck sand.


when you hurl my shape at the ground

my outsides don’t show a scratch

or a dent from first impressions of the pavement.


but the concavity within is filled

piles of shattered shards

sharp on the edges and

swept neatly to the sides.


In by Poncie on April 12, 2012 at 7:43 pm

I can feel the storms pressing on my back as I pedal down the road.  Even the asphalt perspires water from its daily absorbance.

The sky turns dark but before it turns black there’s a moment of deep blue…the deep blue that only exists in the depths of oceans before fish need lights.  It’s not even blueberry colored – before the berries are washed and lose their filmy jackets.  Or blue jean blue – a thousand pigments couldn’t create this resounding blue, this kind of blue that’s draining the last light from the sky while still glowing back at me.

marrying, graduating, moving

In by Poncie on June 2, 2011 at 5:55 pm

She’s moving on to a postdoc position with her husband.  She’s only four years older than I am.

Later that evening something struck me about being married, about finding true love.  Beyond magic or fireworks or serendipitous encounters.

Only for the person you truly love are you willing to give up some of your dreams.

I could see her dreams becoming his, or his dreams becoming hers.  It didn’t matter whose job it was; they were one unit graduating and creating a home.

I’d scoffed at people my age getting married.  Now I hope they’ve found someone to share dreams.


In by Poncie on May 14, 2011 at 3:19 pm

tap tap tap.  One sentence about the conquistadors, one sentence about the necessity of language to communicate, one sentence about sharing ideas and form a cultural identity.

TAP TAP TAP. I pound out a slammed sentence of strung together consciousness, an episode of Tourette’s amidst a carefully formed analysis. A dialogue forms on my paper, between active voice and stunned listener.  One only gets a word in edgewise, the other dominates.

highlight.  delete.  the slam disappears like it was never there.  I try not to notice the irony of writing about communication when it’s the one thing we’re not doing.


In by Poncie on May 9, 2011 at 3:07 pm

I haven’t written in weeks. You cannot understand how noisy it is in here.

Just today:

Sufjan crooned in intertwined melodies,

the B-52’s highjacked their own jukebox, baby,

Florence wailed with her ukulele,

Mumford and his offspring sighed noticeably,

Donald leapt from waffles to wayfarers,

the Dandys told me everyone was totally insane,

Thom greeted the magpie,

and the Foxes argued in perfect harmony

except it was no longer perfect with all the company over.

all while I read Whitman, proclaiming himself through the ruckus.

how can I celebrate myself if

I cannot hear my own voice in this chaos.

I just like being a piece of furniture in your weird life

In by Poncie on February 7, 2011 at 8:50 pm

Andrew liked to photoshop. Namely, he liked to photoshop his life. First the photos off of facebook – places he’d been, people he knew… or at least he could say he’d been and knew. Then the removal of anything unusual and out of character for Andrew. One photograph of Andrew pasted in its place: smiling cornily with her lips against his cheek, standing proud atop of Mt. McKinley amongst his best friends from college, sipping a Corona on the white sands of Oneroa.

One photograph at a time, Andrew filled his life with shared memories that only he could recall.