recently in my creative writing class, we have been workshopping. workshopping, for our class at least, is when a student of the class brings in a poem to read aloud for the rest of the class. the writer/reader can offer no disclaimer before he/she reads. they just have to say the title, and read it off. after they read, they're not aloud to talk until the class contemplates and converses about the poem for 12 minutes. they can offer criticism, likes, dislikes, or just mull it over. after that, the poet has a chance to say what he/she wants, if he/she wants to say anything. i haven't been picked to workshop yet, and i'm still undecided as to what i want to bring in. the workshop is meant to be used as a tool to improve the poem and make it the best it can be. i don't know if i have the heart to bring in a poem of mine to be taken apart and reassembled, but i won't worry about that yet. for now, i have to pick one! here's something i wrote about the same relationship i always write about.

"like we used to say"

you stood up and
undressed yourself
laid your jeans on the
carpet, even slipped
out of your boyshorts,
my favorite. this time,
you didn't ask
for forgiveness.
your body was
an apology and
your flesh: regret
and you crawled
back to me
naked in my bed
into my arms and
into my heart and
into my head.
and
I want to feel your
imperfections
inside and out again
"forever,"
like we used to say.

this week in my intro. to creative writing class, we had to write a poem in the form of a letter. those were our only instructions, so i took a literal approach to it with a twisted shift. i addressed my letter to a time period, instead of who or what the time period is about. i thought it offered a different take on an otherwise simple topic. also, being valentines day, we are assigned to write an "untraditional valentine." i'll be posting that when i finish it. anyway, here you go:

"Dear July 31st of 2008 to February 2nd of 2010:"

Dear July 31st of 2008 to February 2nd of 2010:

I'm writing this in regard to your shortcomings--

in retrospect of your flaws, your deficiencies,

in reexamination of your terrible imperfection,

of the scarcity of your good days, and of your

all too common sleepless nights, in hindsight

of your rude awakening, finally, in heed of

what you took advantage of, my body fast

asleep, in looking back to your curves and

choking back my fears, in tears I am writing -

this - in particular attention to your impractical

fidelity, or lack thereof, to your flings, to your

body which I do miss, to your piggy pink lipstick

and its kisses on my neck and, also, more-so on

the necks of others, outlandish elbows under

our covers, and what were we but

misconstrued lovers. this is not in ultimatum,

not in final demand, not in request, not in asking,

again, and again, of change,

this is a lifted weight. it's been real -

no, hell, it's been terribly, regretfully fake. and

for fuck's sake, a year and a half isn't enough

to take my breath away forever.

Yours truly,

Never Again.

i think the poem i'm sharing with you this week epitomizes the way i've been feeling. i've been waking up every day depressed, knowing that i'm occupying the rest of my day with things that don't better me as a person. instead, they work me into a mold that i don't want to fit, where everybody else fits who can't break away. this is the majority of the people i see around me. working jobs they hate, getting paid barely enough to get by, putting their energy into things that benefit the community and never themselves. i say, be selfish. better yourself. be something or someone different. also, go read fight club. and this, what i wrote the other day:

"there's something inside me, dying."

there's something inside me, dying.
my motivation's color, it's going gray,
and my innovation has growing pains.
these days,
my creativity can't throw a spiral
and my individuality can't catch.
I stopped by the supermarket
to pick up Rogaine
for my inspiration's receding hairline.
my originality
my personality
my identity
needs to pay the utilities
so that there's running water
for my ingenuity's shower
before work in the morning.
my soul uses public transportation,
and my imagination carpools.
after work, my passion gets a bite to eat
at McDonald's.
supersized.
my fountain of youth is a clogged artery
and regret is the heart attack,
waiting to happen.
there's something inside me,
dying.

i decided to post this for a couple of reasons. it might not look like poetry, but i learned in class, that it is. it's "prose" poetry. it's a short one-shot, might not seem poetic, but that's what i like about it. also, if you haven't already, i know it's a lot, but read my play in the previous post!

"Our Christmas-tree is Fake"

Our Christmas-tree is fake. When I get home from work, before my family gets in, sometimes, I stare at it. I look at the ornaments that hang from plastic. I touch the golden macaronis I glued onto my first-grade soccer picture. The ball is close to my chest and the bowl-haircut is nearing the smile between my fat cheeks. My brother's rosy kindergarden face is cut out and taped onto an angel underneath its halo. His eyes are big and black and his lips are ringed and chapped. He doesn't like the tree - he told me. Nearby, Santa is hanging, lounging on a lawn-chair in a NY Giants jersey and cap. His thick belly makes him heavy for an ornament, but the plastic branches never bend. There aren't any pine-needles on the floor. There isn't any water leaking at my feet. There's no rich, bitter smell - nothing - at my nose. But there are red and white lights resting systematically on symmetric pipes. I hear our heavy front-door push open and light steps pitter-patter in the other room. My mom is home. She shouts and asks if later maybe I would help her set up the manger, since, this year, I didn't decorate the tree. I walk into my room, and I close my door. I don't shout back. I'm on my bed with my face in a book when I hear my brothers feet dragging. I know they're my brothers feet, because his are the only ones that drag like mine. They stop outside my door, at our fake tree. I keep reading. I hear a creak, a snap, and a crash, and I put down my book. There are heavy work-boot steps rustling when I feel my dad's voice through the wall. He says, calmly, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" And my brother, he says he didn't mean to.

this week i decided i would post my first play. in addition to my creative writing course this semester, i'm taking playwriting. each week, we are to write one 10 minute play, and hand it in for the class to read. the only directions our professor gave us was that it had to have 2 characters with a conflict. that was it. there were 8 volunteers that were having their play read aloud to the class, and i was one of them. i thought that this would motivate me to really try for it, considering it was at the mercy of everybody's critiques--not just my professor. anyway, i wrote it, and it was read in front of class, and the feedback was great. my professor loved it, he was cracking up the whole time. we talked about my play alone for around 25 minutes. everybody had something different, but good, to say about it. there was one girl that it particularly offended, but that just made me more happy. i couldn't stop smiling, and i thought i had a right to. i was genuinely proud of something i had done for the first time in my life. so here it is, "water in lungs."

"WATER IN LUNGS"

by Kyle Carrier

JOHNNY: tattoo artist

BEN: getting tattooed

SHELLY: Johnny’s wife

Lights up inside JOHNNY's tattoo parlor. JOHNNY, big guy, covered in tattoos, is sketching behind the counter. Radio is playing. The parlor bell rings.

ENTER BEN, little guy, glasses. He walks up to the counter, where JOHNNY is still sketching.

BEN. Do you guys do walk-ins?

JOHNNY. Looking up, friendly, What's up?

BEN. Hey, what's up? Do you guys do walk-ins?

JOHNNY. Sure do, depends on the work.

BEN. Just something little.

JOHNNY. laughing, Like what?

BEN. Just some words, in script.

JOHNNY. Yeah? Where at?

BEN. with his hand over his heart, Here.

JOHNNY. For sure. You're looking to get it done today?

BEN. If that's cool.

JOHHNY. Sure is. What've you got in mind?

JOHNNY hands BEN a piece of paper, and a pencil.

BEN. Well… draws for a little bit, finishes, hands JOHNNY the sketch and pencil.

JOHNNY. Yeah?

BEN. Yeah.

JOHNNY. That from a song?

BEN. Yeah.

JOHNNY. Alright, alright.

JOHNNY pauses, mulls over the sketch, then breaks from concentration.

JOHNNY. Alright, cool, man. Tell you what, I'll have this drawn up in a couple of minutes, you take a seat on the couch, fill this out -- just some regulatory shit.

JOHNNY hands him the paperwork.

JOHNNY. I'm Johhny, by the way.

BEN. Ben.

They shake hands, and BEN takes a seat while JOHNNY gets drawing.

BEN. after some silence, She means the world to me.

JOHHNY. Oh yeah? Who's that?

BEN. My wife. Well, my girlfriend. We're going to get married, though, some day. That's who this is for. It's for her.

JOHNNY. still sketching, Cool bro, engaged?

BEN. No.

JOHNNY. No? Gonna propose?

BEN. No, not yet.

JOHNNY. I hear ya. How old are you two?

BEN. I'm nineteen, she's twenty.

JOHNNY. Ah, shit, too young to tie the knot. Way too young. Laughs.

BEN. Yeah. What about you? Are you married?

JOHNNY. Yes sir, five years. No ink to show for it though, you got me on that one.

BEN. Why not? You're covered anyway.

JOHNNY. laughs, Yeah, man, but I've got the ring. And if I catch her cheating, I can take it off. You can't take off a tattoo. laughs again.

BEN. But, you're married--do you think she'd ever do that?

JOHNNY. Truthfully, no, bro. But I don't care how loyal someone says they are. The fact is, shit happens, and I'm not risking my body for it. laughs again.

BEN. Yeah.

JOHNNY. Yeah. Well, what do you think?

BEN gets up, hands JOHNNY the finished paperwork, and looks at the final drawing. BEN nods in approval.

JOHNNY. Alright man, let's get this needle in you. Take your shirt off and lie down on the table in there.

BEN. Alright.

BEN walks over to a chair, takes his shirt off, and lays down on the table in the room over. JOHNNY follows with the drawing, gets a bottle of black, gray, and white ink. JOHNNY gets his needle out and prepped, turns the air compressor on. A buzzing sound.

BEN. She really does mean the world to me.

JOHNNY. I hear ya, bro. I believe you. laughs.

JOHNNY puts on latex gloves, grabs the needle. JOHNNY leans over BEN, the gun buzzing. JOHNNY starts the work, BEN cringes for a second, then relaxes with the sting.

BEN. I mean, she really does.

JOHNNY. Right on, man.

BEN. You think I'm nuts.

JOHNNY. No way, bro. Does she know about this?

BEN. It's a surprise.

JOHNNY. Right on. You must really love her.

BEN. I do. That's why I'm doing this. Because I love her.

JOHNNY. Well, you know how to show it. I sure hope she loves you, dude. laughs

BEN. She does. She has to. She tells me she does.

JOHNNY. You don't sound so sure.

BEN. What?

JOHNNY. You don't sound so sure, man.

BEN. Well, she does. She loves me.

JOHNNY. Alright, dude.

BEN. She doesn't mean the things she does. She told me that. She loves me.

JOHNNY. Oh, yeah?

BEN. Yeah. I know she loves me. She just does stupid things sometimes. That's it. She doesn't mean it.

JOHNNY. She fucking another dude? laughs

BEN. She does, sometimes. But she isn't going to anymore, she told me that. Because she loves me.

JOHNNY. Shit man, I'm sorry.

BEN. For what?

JOHNNY. I don't know, I wasn't being an ass. I was just fucking with you.

BEN. It's alright.

The parlor bell rings. ENTER SHELLY in a jacket with a waitress uniform showing underneath.

SHELLY. Babe.

JOHNNY. What's up, honey?

SHELLY. Tired.

SHELLY walks over to the two of them, kisses JOHNNY while he is still tattooing. He doesn't stop.

JOHNNY. How was work?

SHELLY. Hell.

JOHNNY. Aw, I'm sorry.

SHELLY. Have you eaten?

JOHNNY. No, I'm fine though. I'll eat when I get home.

SHELLY. Here, your favorite.

SHELLY hands him a doggy bag of buffalo wings.

JOHNNY. Aw, you're the best.

They kiss.

SHELLY. Alright, I'm out of here. Just wanted to keep you fed. Love you.

JOHNNY. Thanks, babe. I'll see you when I get home. Might be late, I've got one more guy booked after this.

SHELLY. Okay, see you, bye.

EXIT SHELLY, the parlor bell rings.

BEN. Wife?

JOHNNY. No, my sister. Yeah, my wife. laughs

BEN. She's sweet. That was nice of her.

JOHNNY. Yeah, she's great. What's your girly's name?

BEN. Cassie. Cass.

JOHNNY stops. Lets go of the foot pedal, buzzing stops. Presses back on the foot pedal and continues working.

JOHNNY. Oh, yeah? That's cool, man.

BEN. Yeah, I love her.

JOHNNY. I'll say! laughs.

BEN. Yeah.

JOHNNY. She'll like this.

BEN. I hope so. She told me I didn't love her. She said that's why she does the things she does, sometimes. She said I had to show her.

JOHNNY. Well, I hope this does it for you, bro.

BEN. It will. It has to. She means the world to me. Once she sees this, she's going to love me so much. She's never going to touch another guy again. She said she was going to stop, and after she sees this, she will.

Silence. Awkward, JOHNNY says nothing. then,

JOHNNY. Well, I hope she stops too. For your sake, man.

BEN. She's the only girl I've ever loved.

JOHNNY. That's a good thing, dude.

BEN. She's the only girl I've ever even touched.

JOHNNY. That's something to be proud of, man, you're a rarity.

BEN. getting worked up, I try to tell her that I love her, but she fucks other guys.

JOHNNY. I'm sure it's got nothing to do with you, man. It's on her.

BEN. getting more worked up, No, it's me. But not after this. She's going to love me.

Silence. Awkward. Then, JOHNNY's cell-phone rings.

JOHNNY. Ah, shit. Give me a second.

JOHNNY lets off the foot pedal, buzzing stops. Rushing, he puts the needle down. Takes his gloves off, and grabs his cell-phone out of his pocket. Checks the number.

JOHNNY. Shit.

JOHNNY puts his phone back.

JOHNNY. Fucking telemarketers, man. They've got my cell now.

BEN stares. JOHNNY gets his gloves back on, buzzing going, and starts tattooing again.

JOHNNY. What'd you say her name was? Your girl?

BEN. Cassie. But I call her Cass.

JOHNNY. She got a daddy? laughs. Last name, man?

BEN. Greenwood.

JOHNNY. You don't say? Name rings a bell.

BEN. Yeah?

JOHNNY. Yeah, might've seen her around. Has she come in here to get ink, do you know?

BEN. No, she doesn't have tattoos. I don't think she knows this place exists.

JOHNNY. Yeah. Well, shit, who knows, then. Thought I might've tattooed her. Guess not.

BEN. No.

JOHNNY. Yeah, man.

JOHNNY's cell-phone rings again. He doesn't flinch, doesn't pick it up, let's it ring.

JOHNNY. Almost done here, bro. How you holding up?

BEN. It's fine. It's worth it.

JOHNNY. For sure, man. She'll love it.

BEN. I hope so. I really do love her.

JOHNNY. You do. You've got balls, man. I mean, I love Shelly too, you know? But something's just stopping me from putting it on my body. Cause, you know, shit happens, man. Like, I'll get her name on my forehead, she'll suck off some other dude, and fuck, I'm stuck with Shelly on my skin for the rest of my life.

BEN. Yeah, I guess so.

JOHNNY. I mean, I could tell everyone it's my dead dog, right? laughs. Shelly. My dog. My old dog. Dead. People love their dogs that much, right? That would work.

BEN. Yeah, that would work.

JOHNNY. I hope everything works out for you and Cass, man. I really do.

BEN. Me too.

JOHNNY lets off the foot pedal one last time, the buzzing stops. He takes his gloves off, and stretches.

JOHNNY. Alright, shit, man. Looks great. Take a look.

BEN gets up slow, sore, and stands in front of the mirror. He reads the words on his chest aloud, more to himself than to JOHNNY.

BEN. "I need you, like water in my lungs."

JOHNNY. Fuck yeah, man. What do you think?

BEN. It's perfect. I love it.

JOHNNY. I do too, if I do say so myself.

JOHNNY's phone starts ringing again. He takes it out, looks at it nervously, and silences it. BEN slowly slips his shirt back on over his aching chest.

BEN. How much do I owe?

JOHNNY. Shit man, forget about it. It's on me.

BEN. No, really, how much?

JOHNNY. Dude, house tattoo. It took no time at all.

BEN. Are you sure?

JOHNNY. For sure, man.

BEN. That's really nice of you. I really appreciate it.

JOHNNY. Dude, it's no big. You're a cool kid.

BEN. Thanks. Do you think she'll like it?

JOHNNY. Oh, man, laughs, she'll love it.

BEN. Good.

JOHNNY. Alright, man, it's been real. I've gotta make a call, and got that appointment coming in.

BEN. Alright.

JOHNNY and BEN shake hands.

BEN. Thanks a lot, I really mean it.

JOHNNY. Dude, you're welcome. I'll see you around

BEN. See ya. starts to walk away

JOHNNY. Later, man.

BEN. Later.

EXIT BEN. JOHNNY stands there, anxious, waiting to hear BEN's car pull out.

JOHNNY. to himself, Shit.

He takes out his phone again, and dials.

JOHNNY. Hey Cass. -- Yeah, sorry. -- No, I was tattooing. -- Yeah. -- Yeah. -- No, I'm fine. -- Just something weird. -- I'll tell you about it in a bit. -- Yeah, I'll come by in a little. Just got to wrap up shop. -- No, no more appointments today. -- Yeah, that's it. -- Alright, babe. -- Yeah, I love you too. Bye.

JOHNNY hangs up phone. Starts putting everything away. Lights down.

on friday i read my poetry for the first time to the rest of my creative writing class. i was really, really nervous, because i don't normally read my poetry to anybody. i just decided i would force myself to do it; i was proud of what i had written and i wanted to show everybody that i could write. i screwed up some words here and there, but overall, i think it went well. my teacher said it was beautiful and she picked up on everything i was trying to convey. i figured i would share it on here, so here you go:

"party"

I didn't want to bang pots and pans

with a nurse on our couch watching

dick clark on our TV. I didn't feel like

throwing confetti with that van outside,

another nurse on a cigarette break.

I wasn't going to raise a glass to your

atrophy, or toast to your dead neurons

while someone in scrubs wiped your

ass clean, and, I'm sorry, I didn't bring

a fucking cake. I must have forgotten

my party hat, or my year 2004

dollar store glasses when mom called,

when she said she couldn't take care of

the dog anymore, you know, by herself.

I didn't want the doorknob to turn, I didn't

want to blow my kazoo, not with a doctor

in my old room, not when the ball dropped,

or when your lungs popped from heaving,

and I still wonder why the world didn't stop

when hospice wheeled your carcass out of

our house and into

the new year.

haven't posted in like a week, but now that i'm squared away with school and everything else gone to hell in my life i figured i'd post! anyway, most of my classes this semester are pretty sweet. i'm taking intro. to creative writing, and playwriting as well, and i love them both. they're really putting my writing to the test -- i have to write constantly, read constantly, and apply what i've learned effectively. in both classes i feel a lot of competition, so that's good. i need to be around people better than me, and i need to really listen to what they have to say/write -- not be intimidated by it.

recently, i read a really great, short poem in one of my textbooks. it's by margaret atwood, and it's called "you fit into me." check it out:

you fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye

when we read it in class, most of the other students didn't find it too amusing. "too short," i remember someone saying. i guess i could just really relate to it. we're focusing on structural irony in poetry, and i think this captured it perfectly. the first two lines offer the reader a metaphor which could mean a couple things, but it generally points to an idea of a fit or match with somebody. when you read the last two lines, they hit home -- for me at least. it screams "bad relationship." i just think it's a nice little punch to the gut. whatever you want to call it, that's irony for you, and i like it a whole lot. here's two short poems i wrote, a couple stabs at irony for myself.

"naive"

a friend of mine used to say,
when we'd talk about the pretty girls
we wanted to spend our lives with,
that, "when one door closes,"
well, you know. I didn't really
get the picture, though,
until I was standing on your porch,
where you slammed
your life shut
in my face.

"something clicked"

you have, no, new messages-

you have, no, new messages-

you have, no- click

and then something clicked

(click, click, boom)

that's it for now i suppose. let me know what you think, whoever you are. also, i'm writing a 10-minute play for playwriting, it's due monday so i'll have it up by then. i volunteered it to be read in front of class, so i've got to make sure it's decent. it's called "cocked," and i'll have it up here when it's done. you can only imagine what it's about ;)