I found this poem, along with many others who are only half worthy of archiving. However, I feel they have heart. IT, feels it has heart: something to say. I remember her, remember it.
I turn 27 in less than two weeks. For about a month now, I’ve had an itching, sinking feeling lying beneath the surface like some sort stealthy weed feeding on my soul. I couldn’t figure out why it was so hard to muster up the energy to do even the most basic domestic duty. Hell, I was having trouble assembling myself in a presentable way to go out and buy a coffee. I realize now that it was simply the unconscious realization that the double dozen and three was just on the horizon.
The feel is one of faded desolation, not blatant or severe enough to call a tragedy but painful just the same, to know that your life has been relatively ordinary. You are old enough now to have made it entirely the opposite had you the chutzpah. I find myself falling prey to pop culture’s emphasis on what would otherwise be one of the more random numbered birthday’s. 27 is now infamous because of the numerous books and television specials following the 27 club. Pedestrian as it must seem now, people like Curt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison put me and most of the 27’s I know to shame with the amount of art, experience, and influence they were able to fit into such a small plot of time. I feel bad, sick. I hold my paper-thin life up to the light of comparison and all the empty space is illuminated. I’m 27 and don’t know who the hell I am. If I were to die today, I’m certain that there are only three lives that would be truly impacted: Claudia (mother), Andy (father), and my sweet, sweet Brandon.
I have never
heard the satisfying cracking bind of a new hardback
echoing back to my ear against a Perisian café wall
or beseeched a handsome stranger to point me in the direction of the Dromoland Castle while he responded with a remark of how my eyes were matched in hue only by the greenest blade of grass on the hill on which we stood
I’ve have never
had glowing review by an independent, highly acclaimed print asserting that my music, “couples the sensibility and class of musicianship with the vulnerability and cohesiveness of self-narrative folk artist’s long passed.”
casually smoked a full pack of cigarettes one by one from a stranger’s pack one night while cackling like Cruella de Vil
and in trying to experience myself as urbane, I tried to attracting the attention of an older man. It worked, but I doubt it was the cigarettes that enticed.
performedf “All That Jazz” in its entirety
with all the suggestive Fossy choreography after a two week intensive camp when I was 12
and I made my aunt cry by learning the sign language to one of her favorite gospel songs
stood on the side of a busy street in downtown Nashville at 1:00 PM looking into the tear rimmed eyes of the man I loved when we said goodbye, and I knew for the first time in my life that I had met someone that I would love until the day I died.
Convinced a group of 6 11-year-old girls to hold an impromptu séance in a barren field behind on parent’s 34-acre property. …only to have the group split within the first 30 minutes after one child admitted to doing “witchcraft” with her best friend. ….that fateful night
all good Pentecostal parents had gone to bed
known both the beauty and agonizing clichéd normality of losing your virginity on the 4thof July in the basement his parent’s house
his eyes were a searing yet kind grey with dim flood lights dancing in his irises
I was his Appalachian princess.
I have loved, dreamed, believed, and tried with all my heart.