jpoet

Sarah’s Reply
For the man who found me after my suicide

Dear Jared

I wish I could say I was sorry for what I did,              
Or at least for making you be the one to find me,              
But I just don’t see the point in lying anymore.              

I only have one question left,
Why is it taking you so long to join me.              
Don’t you know why you are

So comfortable on Halloween
Or during monster movies,
Its because you see yourself in them.              

Jared, I have never known some one more like a zombie than you
(I don’t mean a  B-rate special effects zombie
Covered in fake blood moaning about brains.)                            
I mean, how many times have you found yourself
Shuffling slowly forward in search of something
You don’t even understand anymore
Refusing to let anything stop you
Wouldn’t it be easier
One single shot
To the head

 If you were a vampire, Jared
Would you even notice the difference
When was the last time you looked in a mirror
And saw something you recognized.
They say that a day in the arms of a lover
Can feel like an instant.                            
The opposite is also true.              
How long have these 23 years dragged on.
Does it feel like a lifetime yet             
Do you feel immortal yet

You have always been my Frankenstein, Jared
Built out of spare parts             
By a half mad doctor
More concerned with creating life
than  potential consequences.
And you are so strong, Jared
able to bear more on your shoulder
and in your heart than any man was meant to
      
When the villagers came
With pitchfork             
And torch for Frankenstein, he ran             

 Why didn’t you run Jared?
Why did you stay, why weren’t you strong enough
To just let them burn.              
This is not your job

 You used to call me your guardian angel.
I think this might be true now
our halos are forged of what makes us holy.
 Mine is made of tiny spinning images of your face Jared.
Of your belief in me.
My wings are formed out of every letter you ever wrote me             
(before and after I died)
Even the ones I pretended not to read.                            
You were always my second family Jared

 Let me return the favor
Follow my voice
You remember what it sounds like.
Let me hold you like you used to hold me,

 I am waiting
 know it’s selfish,
But I hope it doesn’t take too long

I will swallow the shit out of you

Just like a snake I will devour you whole.

It will not be for sustenance.

You will form an inspiration shaped bulge in my belly,

Even since I met you I have wanted to be more like you.

I am beginning to think

This will only happen by consuming your strength.

Boa constrictors can have up to 420 vertebrae

Each with a hanging rib.

Their jaws can be disconnected.

These two facts allow them to swallow

Creatures that would otherwise be far too large.

If I am to learn all I can from you

I will have to become so much more snakelike.

I will start by taking all of your writing I can find

Fold it into tiny squares.

Shove them into mouth so my jaw slowly separates.

The pain will be excruciating.

This is fine.

Maybe I will finally learn to use

Enjambment and line breaks like you can.

Make them hit hard enough to break bone.

When my jaw hangs loosely

I will still have to vertically expand my body.

24 vertebrae are not enough to contain you.

I will build the rest like a child’s art project.

Paper mache every failed attempt at form

Into a bone,

Connect them with ideas,

Add the muscle of your form.

NERD HAIKU!!!

I love Transformers.
Proof you can be what you want.
More than meets the eye.

Autobots, roll out.
Chance to show your real colors.
And have theme music.

Soundwave was not evil.
Protected the little guy
Gave even his own body.

apparently when im really sleepy i cant actaully post so here is my day five



Have you ever noticed how much like
An open flame a bassist hands can look.
His palm forms a strong base
But fingers never seem to stop flickering.

I try my best never to look at the fingertips of musicians
Or the ankles of dancers.
I’m afraid of how many scars I will find.
I do not want to be reminded about
How many things must be broken to create something beautiful.

I feel in love with a dentist once.

She was more passionate about her job
Than anyone else I’ve ever met
She told me, I make people feel like their beautiful again.

She turned broken teeth into brilliant smiles
Cleft palates into talkative children.
I never once kissed her.

I was afraid at
How many jagged edges my tongue would find.
I did not want to know
How many things had to be broken
 To create something that beautiful.

Uncomfortable truths

Human beings are better at lying

than we are at breathing. Or walking.

The truth can be so surprising

it can literally suck the air from your lungs, make your knees wobble.

But most of us have told so many lies

That by the time we hit puberty

 It’s possible to tell a lie, even to a loved one

 without our heart rate increasing.

Have you ever told a lie so many times that you started to believe it

I have, I told Elizabeth I could see my future in others people’s eyes.

I thought I was just being flirty. It gave me an excuse to stare,

Like I was playing a game called not having to take responsibility for my own actions.

But I said this so many times that when she would go wide-eyed with wonder

I felt like my possibilities were endless.

So on the day that I told her that I loved

And she closed her eyes and laughed.

It broke me.

Made me realize that the future is not written

Felt like my spine had just been shattered

It was too hard to stand.

This is what the truth can do

He asked her to marry him

She said yes

They both said I do

Happily ever after only lasted

 for five years and five added dress sizes.

She lied to herself.

Said I must have changed in other ways.

Unwilling to admit

she had given her heart to someone this shallow.

That is what a lie can do.

 Protect you from uncomfortable truths

But knowing can open your eyes.

So if you ever need the truth.

Really need the truth.

Take your hand.

Put it up to their chest and ask them

Do you love me.

If they stumble over their words.

If there chest feels like an earthquake.

You have your answer.

If the words come out smooth.

If their rate doesn’t increase.

You also have your answer.

Ghazal

I see you standing there, looking all jittery and nervous, constantly moving,

Your body clearly needing someone to take your hand and ask you to dance.

Cells realigning themselves to block the intruder, but the disease moves too quickly,

Specially tailored defenses are going to be useless in this deadly dance.

When you write down the steps every thing seems so neat, ordered, and perfect.

It would be special, if these children would stop preening and focus on the dance.

When the boy shook it didn’t seem like another attack, it didn’t seem like disaster

When he hit the floor. It didn’t look like a seizure, more like imitating break dance

Pawn forward, rook back, knight L shaped, queen moving along that fateful diagonal,

I wish I could think like he does. For Jared Singer, it’s a game, for him a lovely dance.

Norris Hall. Room 211.

Intermediate French Class. April 16^th 2007

Dedicated to the Ly family.

A collection of images, impressions, and memories from three friends.

I spoke to you for two hours and thirteen minutes that day.

Not once did I tell you, it wasn’t your fault.

I knew that you desperately needed to blame somebody for this,

even if it only was yourself.

The idea that this could have been nothing more than just a random act of hatred

was far too painful for you to consider.

So instead we talked about the fact

that you could no longer bear to listen to the rain

it sounded too much like blood drops falling from heaven-

why would heaven allow blood drops to fall?

We talked about the fact that you had been rubbing your eyes for so long

that you could no longer tell the difference

between staring at the sun

and the shape of your bare knuckles on the backs of your eyelids.

Why didn’t I tell you it wasn’t your fault.

You didn’t start to cry

until just over an hour into our conversation.

The first time that you referred to things that you and your brother used to do as

Memories.

Like the word

memory finally brought home the fact that there would be no more of them.

Why didn’t I tell you it wasn’t your fault.

In Vietnamese households it is a fathers right to mourn his children.

So as the oldest of the brothers

It fell to you to be the man of the household-

You held your mother while she cried,

you held your grandmother, your father

your whole damned family, while they cried.

You never once broke down in front of them.

You talked to the coroner.

You talked to the funeral home.

You made food arrangements.

You only allowed yourself to break down in front of us.

Why did none of us ever tell you it wasn’t your fault.

I know you skipped class that day.

I know you never told this to anybody but your friends.

I know you feel guilty.

But there is nothing you could have done

had you gone to your class that morning

but died too.

It was nothing more than a random act of hatred.

Why did none of us tell you it wasn’t your fault?

Is that why you don’t answer our calls anymore?

I know it will never get better.

But that doesn’t stop me from praying that it will.
Rest in peace.





I feel i need to say that while this piece is dedicated to one family.
it is a composite of several different experiences in this event.

The words will come later,
The feeling is what matters.
            The words will come later,
            The feeling is what matters.
The     words    will   come    later
          The Feeling Is What Matters Most.

I can’t actually read your lips while you rock back and forth,
But I know that’s what you’re muttering to yourself.
It always is when you’re writing. 

Just like I knew before I even looked
That you’re tapping your feet to that 4/2 rhythm that you once told me
You got from a Janachek Opera.
They always are when you’re writing. 

Just like I knew before I even looked at you
That your head would be shaking slowly side to side,
In a pattern a passerby might think indicates disappointment.
But I know your just shaking your head to the rhythm
Of the last aria in the second act of that same Janachek opera-
As it repeats itself over and over in your head.
It always does when you’re writing.

If I want to know what this particular piece is about,
I have to look at your left hand.
It’s the only variable in your writing.
  As your right hand scribbles,
      And your feet stamp,
         And your head shakes,
             And your heart pounds,
Your left hand moves only to the rhythm of the piece.

When you’re happy it moves up and down your body,
Like its caressing a lover,
Only that lover is you.

 When you’re excited your left hand moves forward and backward,
Forward and backward,
Like it almost can’t believe how wonderful it feels.

 But when the piece is sad.
Your hand barely moves.
Just left pinky finger up.
Left pinky finger down.
Left ring finger up.
Left ring finger down.
Left middle finger up.
Left middle finger down.

This time I finally see something that surprise’s me
Something that’s never happened before.
Your fingers are moving to the same 4/2 rhythm as your feet.
I wonder if that finally means you’ve freed yourself enough to communicate easily.
If finally your whole body can move to the Janachek rhythm that so holds you.
Maybe it will finally release you. giving you a moment of silence in your own head.

I wonder if you’ll finally let me read what you’re writing.

 But you see me,
And your left hand changes.

Left pinky finger up
Left pink finger down.
Left ring finger up.
Left ring finger down.
Left middle finger up
Left middle finger down.