I'll post them as replies to this topic-- hope you enjoy. Or not, as the case may be... heh.

Housecleaning

I want to cut my hair off--
reach for the scissors and pull a
handful out from my face,
blades dull and rusty with
steam. I wish I were someone else.

Car alarms recede down Smith Street,
waves of annoyance. Always someone to
push the button, at least for now.

Once I start with the hair, I'd have to
finish, round off the edges. I'd have
split ends, I'd have to go to the
hair salon. Another car alarm, further
away. I wish I were someone else,
with no dreams I shouldn't remember.

Soap scum on the walls in the bathroom,
rivulets slice the foggy mirror. When I was
small, I was afraid of them, invaders
flowing toward me like flames, up and over
the car windows. Fire in the back field
when I was seven, running through
grass and scrub, leaving burnt tar, hot
metal. I never once set something on fire
just for the smell, the change in form.

Spray foam on a dirty blue
sponge, swipe at the wall.
It'll come back tomorrow,
it always comes back, and I am
always the same, dirty walls and
coward hands.

M. Cooper
October 23, 2000

Lunatic

I can't sleep.

Wrists and ankles weak, trembling with each heartbeat, I float from one end of the darkened living room to the other. Just in front of the coffee table, there's a brilliant patch of moonlight perfect-- just perfect-- for dancing, if it were only big enough for my feet.

Cautious, I inch over beside the window and curse at the moon, balefully full. "You won't let me sleep, will you?" I growl. It smirks roundly, turns away.

Glancing down at my hands, I watch them move without my direction. "My God, am I really here?" I mumble, wiggling a thumb in relief when I find that I am here, or at least a reasonable illusion.

It's lonely all of a sudden, silent-- I pull an afghan off the couch, wrap it around my shoulders and shudder, every nerve quivering like rabbits. I try to rest on the floor by the moonbeam, picking out stars and clouds, but the stillness is too much for me. Flinging the blanket around my shoulders, I bolt for the door, stopping only long enough to slide my boots on over my pajamas.

A hundred thousand cars crowd rapidly down Route 1: I want more than anything to fly like them, breaking the earth's hold on me. The snow is too white to look at in the moonlight, but I want it, too. Running into the front yard, leaving the door wide open for the wind, I roll in the snow, kicking and gasping at the coldness against my throat. Catching sight of the moon, I stop rolling.

I know you'd like nothing better than for me to freeze to death. You don't care what happens to me. If anyone's going to care, it's going to have to be me.

The thought should frighten me, but it doesn't. Something deep and tight within me pulls into solidity.

I don’t need anyone to tell me who I am, what I should be thinking, what I should be feeling. Half-frozen, alone in the world, in the middle of the night, in February, I am enough.

I'm tired, edging toward sleep, though snow melts into the cuffs of my pajamas. I think about my bed, my flannel sheets, the dreams I had last night, and wrestle myself up out of the snow. Maybe I should go inside.

Movements slow, I dust melting snow off my arms and legs, and shake out the afghan. It's not nearly as ugly in the moonlight, garish colors melded together into something silvery, otherworldly. Maybe I'm like that, too, and it's up to me to decide which one is real: clear or cluttered.

I sneak back into the house, leaving my boots to drip by the front door. I fold the afghan, though it's a little damp, and replace it on the couch. I brush my teeth in the dark, looking at myself in the mirror-- the glint of one brown eye, maybe two, and toothpaste foam. That's all.

In the morning, I'm positive it's been a dream, but I hear my mother exclaiming over the pair of wet boots left by the door, still dripping snow into the kitchen.

M. Cooper
October 9, 1999

Sometimes, I dream I have a
letter from you.

I've been waiting for it forever,
but every time I look at it, the words
blur and fade. My eyes struggle
open, blackness spreading from the
center of vision.

I try to hang onto one word,
remember what you said,
but reality shoulders
past me again, and I'm alone,
clutching a sheet in one hand.

I'm afraid that if I leave you
for too long, we'll both
wake up, and you'll forget me.
I'll forget how to make you real.
I've already forgotten.

M. Cooper
October 3, 1999

Very nice.

Now I have one for you.

There once was a man from Nantukett........<img src="biggrin.gif" border="0">

Thanks for sharing Mary! I liked the housecleaning one. That's exactly how I feel.

And DJ....*tsk, tsk* ....you didn't finish your poem!! <img src="biggrin.gif" border="0">

thanks Myst! (& DJ... say, do we get to hear the rest of *your* poem? hehe)

If you like my stuff, you'll probably like my friend's, too.

http://pages.prodigy.net/jeffron