written by a friend of mine

Languishing in Repitition
April 2010

Rewind. And it comes to your attention at the same time the entire rest of the world does, a few years and a few (more than a few) mistakes late. The guilt sets in and it’s hindsight bias. Thank you life. Congratulations on your inadequacy. Cheers to your failures! Would of, should of, could of. If only. You can’t blame yourself for what you don’t perceive until later. It’s not your fault if you never looked, never knew. It’s okay that you didn’t want to, really, it is. It will be fine...

...You know what they say about bliss.

Oh, I keep telling myself this. Making excuses. It’s perfectly understandable. People do this all the time, I say, over and over again, in my head. Its repetition is comforting; echoing the consistency of a place I find some semblance of safety in. A mantra, a prayer, the excuses become the very things that anchor me to the ground. Except I’m actually stuck knee deep in quicksand, too busy daydreaming and wallowing in guilt to watch where I was walking. Now I’m left to struggle.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my dad would say this. Repeatedly. In one ear and out the other, he would say. His advice was lost on my stubbornness masked as indifference. Fear masked as stubbornness, weakness masked as fear. Whatever you would like to call it. Whatever you would like to say. Go ahead, say it. I know that you do when you think I’m not listening. I need to hear you mock me while I’m drowning in my own mess. I wish I could say that I didn’t ask for this.


Pause. It’s the beginning of Spring, in a city I can’t stand, and every dead plant is blossoming. The roads are colored pink with cherry blossoms. This I enjoy. Yet, the smell of skunk and mulch linger in the street like the warm smell of cigarettes in my car. It’s souring.

The sky is blue again, for longer, and when it rains I don’t mind getting my hair wet. I walk with no umbrella and carry a hair dryer in my purse. Ready for anything, you would have said. Except when I pull it out to use it its covered in a mixture of lotion, loose tobacco, and faded portions of old receipts. You’re not surprised, and nor am I.

I start to wear skirts and sandals, long before the weather gives me the go ahead, but the goosebumps on my thighs are worth it, I tell myself this, repeatedly. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. But I’m still shivering, and you’re still wearing your winter coat with as much pride as you wear your condemning I told you so.

I lighten my hair, paint my nails pink instead of red and smoke cigarettes on my porch by candlelight. I feel rebirth all around me, and I want to join it, but I just light one cigarette after the other, watching the hours fade into morning. Again.
I feel like a raccoon, some creature of habit, coming out at night and lurking in the garbage, just to assuage the hunger that growls from the pit of my empty chest. It all seems too dramatic.

But wait, I start picking apart the dead skin of my life. Exfoliate. Shave. Repeat. I look in the mirror and smile, but I can’t look at my lips while the white spots of pimple cream make a mocking “a” shape, cascading down my face. Small, graceful, steps. I guess.

I try to save. Send more than the minimum payment to the credit card company. They stop calling every day at 8am. Try not to overdraft this month.

Call my grandmother. Drive with the windows down. Order a glass of wine. Pick up a book. It all seems like what I should be doing. I walk around with friends outside. I stare at the landscape in awe. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is peace of mind. I am falling asleep at night.

Hurry and pause this right here. Watch it stagnate into the illusion that it is. Watch it try, try, try.


Play. And this all seems like I found it on VHS in the attic of an old house. The attic in an old house I could have grown up in, that has burnt to the ground.

I’m alone when I play this and there you are, walking across the screen. Waving. Smiling. Remember me, you say. And I do, but you’ve changed, so I fast forward a little but the tape cuts out and the screen starts to snow. There’s no audio. How quickly I lost you trying to find you. Again. In a potential future of the timeless past.

There’s no pause. No stagnating illusion but the one I’m creating as we speak. It’s not an albums new release, it’s that old tattered book on the shelf just out of arms reach. It’s smells like mold and it will repeat. And repeat.

Light a match and all that’s left amongst the ash is the empty frame of a home, and the melting videotape of the stillborn child I have become.

I wrap myself up and become the paradox of the present that I leave at the foot of my bed to open later, but end up shoving into some closet while I clean up, preparing for your arrival in a useless (and endless) anticipation that I have come to know and hate.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

This is not a soap opera. This is not a sitcom. This is not reality television. This is a riptide, pulling a child farther away towards the mouth of a shark while he was only looking for seashells. This is the downpour. The rain, the waterfalls.

This is not a cry for help. Or for pity. This is the song.

I’m dancing with tap shoes on, on a wooden floor while you’re sleeping below me. Wake up. Look at what you’ve created, this dance. Listen to it in all the glory of it’s annoyance. Find the rhythm of it’s consistent beats as it repeats. Repeats. Repeats.

By: Lindsay Gulics

Ode to Hummus

Rough

Hundreds of chickpeas
Smashed and murdered
into one,
With lemon,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.

This Syrian cement;
This symbol of my family;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
Happiness.

Satisfying
my late night hunger
Is as satisfying
as iced green tea
After
a long run in the summer.
The two go together, really.

So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the little chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.


Ode to Hummus (by Ashley Grabowski) REVISED

Hundreds of chickpeas
Destroyed and murdered
By two large blades,
add lemon to ease the pain,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.
Tough,
Tiny,
Hard to please.

This Syrian cement;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
experimentation:
add some:
peppers?
Sundried tomatoes?
Olives?

Drown my pita
In this chickpea combo,
To satisfy
my late night hunger;
Is as satisfying
as cold green tea
After
a long run in the summer..
It compliments a turkey sandwich,
Sometimes better than mustard.

So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the puny chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.

first line trigger poem

– Note: This was supposed to get work shopped but I missed class that day, however I used your notes to revise it !


ROUGH

This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined within our bodies.
As certain as the socks
And pants on the ground.

This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain
As uncertain as her hair band
Still on your wrist
And uncertain as her picture
On your phone.

This unfinished kiss
Is finished.


This Kiss (REVISED)

This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment.
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined around our bodies;
As certain as the white and black socks
With our pants strewn on the floor.

This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain.
As unsure as her hair band
Still on your wrist
With pieces of her hair, still attached.
And as terrifying as her picture,
Still on your phone.

This unfinished kiss
Is finished.

form poem rough and revised

FORM POETRY ATTEMPT

Rough

Food is a Way of Life

The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From devouring breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with your legs
Helps your metabolism to only go faster.

Don’t eat late at night
for you’ll have an awful nightmare;
Unless you eat funnel cake at the fair.
The next day your muscles will fight.

A scoop of peanut butter
Will give your mouth a clutter,
But give the water bottle a chug
And it will give your stomach a plug.



REVISED

Food vs. Me

The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From consumption of breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with my legs
Protein helps my body move faster.

Don’t eat late at night
for I’ll encounter a monstrous nightmare;
Unless I eat funnel cake at the fair.
“Oh Jeeze, these jeans are tight!”

A scoop of peanut butter
Usually fills the belly.
If I may, add some jelly.
A glass of milk would make my stomach mutter.

Steer clear of ice cream and cheese
Or else I’ll scream, “TOILET! PLEASE!”

Poem CUT UP - REVISION

Ashley Grabowski

ORIGINAL

It used to feel a lot more real when it used to be a lot more worse.
It all feels like a dream now that things are the way they
Being held, being smiled at, laughed at; what is this?
Who wrote the script for you? Where are the cameras?
I don't know, I don't want this to disappear,
yet,
How will I ever know the right side?
It's the reeling, the feeling, and the peeling for your intimacy.

CUT UP

and I be the way things I disappear, yet, How all I is cameras? I dream reeling, like script the this Where for used things at; now smiled it like I used reeling, like now don't side? It's the all cameras? I used are cameras? I will the they feels now right is it to a all the the script peeling disappear, yet, How been. Being lot should've now and real feel way peeling the I things this a what Where know to


CUT UP - REVISED

And I be;
The way things are,
I disappear.
Yet,
How all I is cameras?

I dream reeling,
Like script.
The
This,
Where
For used things.


Now smile
Like I used reeling.
Like now.
Don’t side.
It’s the cameras.
I used cameras.

They feel now,
To all the script,
Peeling.
Disappear, yet
How’ve you been?

Being lost,
Real.
Feel the way its
Peeling.

The things;
What we know.