I Bang My Fists In The Dark

Nicole Marie:

Join me for some poetry over at Tipsy Lit!

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

poem

Photo credit: http://bit.ly/1mMEIiw
Design credit: Ericka Clay

I grew up

missing a heart chamber

one was breathing

the second was laughter

occasionally

then awareness

of something dull and aching

the room

where the last would have been

it was attic space

there is a faint must now

old, unrepaired damage

I grew

into something like a woman

you know, sexiness in moderation

confidence in quiet increments

and now there is a bragging right

being passed around

like a silly childhood photograph

let’s wave her life

like a white flag

we’re proud, we’re proud

so very proud of the

hurt in your words

I bang my fists in the dark

can they even see me?

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every single thing was as it had been

when I pulled into the driveway

I could already feel you.

 

you followed me

to the front step,

always the same bossy musk

that kept me standing

when I got too starry-eyed

in the city.

 

I slipped the key

into our lock

and paused,

I pressed both palms

against the door

and felt for your heartbeat.

 

when I stepped inside

I walked the path to our kitchen

in the dark

 

every single thing was as it had been.

 

I turned on the light

your grocery list waved hello

from the refrigerator.

 

I put a peace sign

to each temple

and breathed in deep,

some unexpected sweetness.

 

there wasn’t a card

this was your way

 

we’d never used words

to explain the synchronicity

of our bodies.

 

I moved to the coffee table

you must have placed them there

expecting me home

 

the petals were as wrinkled

as my blouse,

the dozen hung their heads

like silent grievers.

 

I sat down

and grieved with them.

 ***

This is my take on today’s Daily Prompt:

You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?

 

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Five Reasons with Meg Lago

Nicole Marie:

Just five more reasons why you should follow us at Tipsy Lit, via the brilliance that is Meg Lago.

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

Because why wouldn't you take my advice?  I'M HALF COW.

Because why wouldn’t you take my advice? I’M HALF COW.

When I went to college I had to use a fan to sleep through the night because my roommate snored so loud you could hear it all the way in space.  It was the only thing that helped drown out the methodical buzz drones coming out of my roommate’s nasal passage.

Anywhere I went: sleepovers, camp trips, hotels, I needed to have a fan in order to sleep. I became hopelessly addicted to white noise.

That year, I came home for the holidays and my mom, being the saint that she is dealing with a woman-child, had outfitted my room with a nice oscillating fan that allowed me to drift off into dreamland sans interruption.

Then on Christmas, I was faced with the greatest dilemma of all time.  Do I open the big box or the little box?  It had been so long since…

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I’m an American Citizen

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

It isn’t too often I have to flag someone in the airport, since customers come and go as quickly as I can say onomatopoeia or think of the perfect sound to imitate the projectile vomit someone may or may not be gifting to everyone on their flight (alcohol or anxiety related, it’s hard to tell).

A few days ago we experienced a supermoon which is pretty much code for bat-shit crazy customers; by the third hour of a quiet shift there was a woman, two and a half drinks in, flying backwards off her barstool like something out of The Hangover.

I’m always careful to watch for signs of drunkenness amongst customers, and this lady hadn’t dropped any hints until she landed on her ass and declared herself a klutz, quickly became “besties” with the patron beside her and starting to cry when she realized she’d missed her flight.

I presented her with…

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where loneliness begins

 

I remember drab linoleum

like a jaded family reunion

 

in muggy midsummer there are

flies making figure eights

over the casserole

 

that place is where

my loneliness begins.

 

a fan in the corner

is humming dust bunny confetti

around my bedroom

 

occasionally I hear

a lock turn over

 

the wood is splintered

at the bottom of my door

 

they won’t believe me

 

but it’s louder than

my songs

that rattle paper walls

like sudden cracks of thunder.

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Unremembered (Part 7)

 

(If you haven’t started reading this series yet, please click here for Part One.)

 

“So what makes you think that?” He picked up a clean towel and dried his hands.

“She leaves,” I said. “Days at a time. Never any explanation, only some mumbled words about finding herself, taking a breather. I’m not sure why, but I’ve never asked where she goes.”

Just then I realized how pathetic I must sound, the confused boyfriend alone in a bar while his girlfriend wanders constantly into some adventure unknown to him. No questions, no accusations, he allows her to bounce from their bedroom to her own secret destinations; she could be writing a novel by the ocean, or she could be telling her worries to someone else’s bare chest. I watched as he took the towel to a spot on the bar and moved it for a while in the same circular motion, searching for a bit of bartender wisdom.

“An ultimatum,” he said. “Either she fesses up, tells you what she’s been doing all this time, or you leave.”

She leaves,” I laughed, taking another sip of my drink. “It’s my house, after all.”

“Right,” he said, walking away to help a customer waving an empty shot glass at the other end of the bar. I watched her, a woman with long blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She leaned across the bar and put her lips to his ear. She spoke for a while; I was finished my beer by the time she flopped back down onto her barstool and they were both staring in my direction, avoiding any attempt to not look obvious.

I dug in my pockets for a ten dollar bill and threw it in a water ring, careful to avoid the gazes that were now digging into the left side of my face. I’d made it halfway outside when the shouting started.

“Wait!” Her face was as tight as the ponytail, so close to me now. “Matt,” she smiled. Her lips were cracked and smothered in layers of sparkling gloss. My chest tightened at the sound of my name.

I stepped back inside. “How do you know who I am?”

Two hours later and Jamie and I were downing shots and bumping shoulders.

“Yeah, Lily was a riot in college,” she laughed.

Slowly we eased off our barstools and headed for the door. Outside it was dark now and the edges in my mind had begun to blur, but it felt good. My worries were hazily bouncing off one another and I let my hands move freely to Jamie’s waist. She stopped laughing and caught her breath in her throat.

“I don’t want to talk about Lily anymore,” I said.

She started to speak but I caught her words with my mouth.

I spent the rest of the night in bed, swaying from sleep to guilt to anger at Lily’s absentness. My lips were still tacky with Jamie’s gloss and her words before we parted were still turning over in my head.

“She’ll turn up,” she’d said as she got into her car, too drunk to drive. “She always does.”

Stay tuned for more installments!

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

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realism

there’s no map in my pocket

not somewhere to fashion

big red bull’s-eyes

every time I feel

 

inadequate.

 

it’s all etched in

my half-smile

full skirts

too many glasses

of red wine

red lipstick.

 

you yell out

I shrink in my seat

suddenly these flowers

in my hair

yoko ono sunglasses

look so ridiculous

 

whatever you think you know

well, you don’t know it

you are as insignificant

as insignificant gets

your words spill out

like a dripping faucet

down

down

down the drain with you.

 

my fist is dripping

with striking realism

there’s a mosaic of glass

at my feet

and I can’t remember

how I got here.

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I reach for relevance

versions

my mother

made dinner

then yelled at the sky,

we watched it turn

red as her gravy.

 

is it impossible to think

of all the breaths lost

in every one of your smiles?

 

I am a single note

in your undulating laughter,

throw me on repeat

to keep me around.

 

my mother

told the sun when to shine,

when death came

she scoffed at it.

 

I struggle

in between sleep

to give you each a reason

to plaster my voice

to your skin.

 

I am attempting

the delicate art

of making words dance.

I fashion origami emotions

and throw them into fires.

 

she was the master

of her makeshift world,

tossing out blows of

aging wisdom

in a pencil skirt,

a dishtowel draped

on one shoulder

like fine silk.

 

I think of her

but I reach for relevance,

I watch her spark

as it dances like fine jewels

on the skyline.

 

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Grumpy Old Men

Nicole Marie:

Join me over at TipsyLit for another exciting adventure in bartending! Sigh.

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

ecardrudeandstupid

Happy Friday, everyone! 

This week I received an interesting – and flattering – card from a customer, was asked by a very professional looking woman if the chicken cheese steak is made with chicken or beef, and had to explain to numerous Americans the difference between a pint of beer and a twenty-two ounce! Oh, and then there was that day we called the cops on someone.

About an hour in to the night shift there were maybe three customers at my bar, quietly enjoying some lunch before their respective flights. Suddenly, a nice looking older gentleman appeared and lingered around the first stool. I promptly approached him (with a smile – I promise).

Me: Hi, how are you?

Older Gentleman: Pinot Grigio.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Older Gentleman: Good, Pinot Grigio.

Ahem. Realizing I wasn’t going to win this one. I poured the wine, he mumbled something…

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My House

my house is young

the wallpaper is paisley

it warms every room

it’s only an old soul,

my house

 

there is a snaking scar

in the foundation

of the eggshell ceiling

it looms just over the

bouquet of roses

 

only a shifting

a timely settling

 

there is an aching draft

that invades my house

sometimes I wedge

blankets at the bottom

of every door

 

there is a certain window

in my house

where I watch the sun

rise and fall

I dream through the glass

 

when night comes

I weave through my house

jiggling locks and chains

I straighten photographs

until morning

 

I hang words and shapes

over the puncture wounds

of my house

it breathes regardless

it’s reliable, after all

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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