The Dollar Bill

(sorry I haven't posted in quite a time, things have been kind of crazy in the real world. Anyway, I've actually started working on a real story, but then this scene sort of randomly popped into my head and it really doesn't fit in the story so I wrote it as its own little stand-alone scene)


The barista handed me my change without counting it back to me. I don't expect people to count back my change anymore -- they don't know how. I was shoving the dollar bill into my bag, no time to look for my wallet itself, when I noticed some cramped handwriting on one of the short edges. "Ce que je veux…" On the opposite short edge was "Ce que je veux dire…" I stopped short and the man behind me nearly ran into me.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" he shouted, nearly dumping his elaborate coffee drink all over me. I stepped out of his way and looked at the bill again. I wondered to myself how I had come to possess what was probably the sole piece of American currency upon which was written French words. I sipped at my green tea and then realised I was going to be late to meet him for lunch.

When I got to the restaurant, he was already seated. I strode past a busboy who glared at me. I don’t know why we had to meet at this restaurant -- the staff does not like me since I complained about the absence of tea on their menu. Still, I seated myself at the booth and looked at him.

"Hey."
"Hey."
"How are you?"
"Fine." Ce que je veux dire… "And you?"
"Great. I'm glad you're here."
I looked at him curiously. "Why wouldn't I have come?"
He seemed slightly unsure of himself. "Oh, I don't know. The last time we got together…" He trailed off.
"It's fine." Ce que je veux…
"Well, excellent." He sipped at his water. "We got a new department director at the University."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's me."
"How excellent! Congratulations!" He beamed at me, and I had to smile.

"I can take your order whenever you're ready." The waitress glared at my paper cup of tea.
"I'd like to build my own omelette: egg whites only with spinach and swiss cheese."
The waitress turned me. "And for you?"
Ce que je veux…
"I'd like an English muffin, dry, and the seasonal fruit bowl."
"Anything to drink?" I glared at the waitress and she went away.

We talked for a while, even after the food came. Small chatter between bites. I picked at my food like I always do and so he finished before I did. After a time he looked at me, "Well?"
"Well?"
"I don't know, I figured it should be your turn to talk."
Ce que je veux dire…
He looked at me strangely. "What are you thinking?"
"Of my ce."
He blinked a couple times. "Of what?"
I pulled out the dollar bill and slid it over to him. "And since I got it, all I can wonder is, what is my ce? What do I want? What do I want to say?"
"I see."
"Do you?"
"Well, I don't know… it's a dollar bill. Someone wrote on it. It's not a big deal."
"Look, I don't believe in fate, you know that. But someone wrote on American currency. In French. I speak French. The dollar bill came to me because I was meeting you and you chose a restaurant that doesn't serve tea. And even these weird circumstances that caused the bill to come to me don't really matter. What matters is that I read it, and I've stopped to think now, what IS the ce that I want? What is the ce that I want to say?"

The waitress came back just then and looked at me as though I were speaking another language. I suppose I was in a way. She left the check and went away. He pulled out a calculator to figure out tip. The conversation was over.

Ce que je veux…. Ce que je veux dire…

At the Café

(I'm working on a couple different poetry pieces right now, but they're not really anything I'd post, they need a bit more work. So I wrote a prose thingy. I gave myself guidelines, just like a writing exercise. Since I made them up, they may not seem as important but they included: use present tense, use "I" and "you" as the main characters, include the line "I wonder if it really matters", reference a song. Anyway, it's okay, I guess, not my best...)

I agree to meet you at that little café on the corner by the bookstore. I wear pants because I know you like it when I wear dresses. I am early, unusual, so I get a table and drum my fingers on my water glass while I wait. You enter, smiling, and I smile back, wondering if you can see the strain. I do not rise to hug you, but wait for you to sit down. The waitress brings our menus. You talk while you read and I stare at the menu, not paying attention to the words – written or spoken. Finally the waitress returns; you get an elaborate salad and I order a side of vegetables. How healthy we are. You continue talking and I try to nod at the right places. I’m listening, of course, but am thinking of other things. Deep Blue Something plays in the background and for a moment I fantasise that I am Audrey Hepburn and you will kiss me in the rain and we will save a cat. Our food arrives and you busy yourself with your salad. I chew thoughtfully on a piece of broccoli and then comment on what you had been saying. You look at me, with that intensity you always have, and then begin talking again. I start in on a baby carrot. It seems that my chewing is fruitless; I give up and swallow the remnants with a gulp of water. You are still talking when I am halfway through my vegetables and I ask for the check. I am not certain how you finished your salad between words, sentences, paragraphs. We part ways and as I walk to the car, I wonder if I’ll see you again. I wonder if it really matters.

Summer Storms

(this one wasn't an exercise. I just sort of wrote it at random. I haven't edited it at all, which is probably why it vaguely sucks lol)

Electrifying

The rain starts – a summer storm,
splotches slowly darken the asphalt.
I take off my shoes and give in:
dancing in the rain.
The street is hot and I imagine
I can hear the droplets sizzling.
My cotton dress clings –
transparent as the downpour increases.
The temperature drops and
the sky darkens.
I shiver and realise
it would be safer to leave.
Begin walking but am drawn in,
the thunder so engaging.
I let the water droplets stream down
my neck and back – electrifying.
Lightning in the sky, beautiful,
but I know I should start running.
I am absorbed in the
danger and beauty of the summer storm.

Pantoum and Cinquain

(besides that I got all wrapped up in life outside poetry, I had a more difficult time writing this pantoum than I had expected. It's a weaving pattern of lines as you'll be able to guess. A couple are altered--poetic license!)

Lazy Saturday Mornings

I kiss you just because I can
and the world melts away.
I smile at you;
smiling (at me
and the world) melts away
leftover patches of frost.
Smiling at me,
you pack away
leftovers. Patches of frost
gleam in the morning light.
You pack away
my grey and dreary thoughts --
I gleam in the morning light.
Your eyes conquer
my grey and dreary thoughts.
I could stare all day
at your conquering eyes.
I kiss you just because I can --
I could stare all day --
I smile at you.

(this was not so much an exercise, but rather, we did cinquain in one of the classes I aided yesterday, and I decided to write in hopes to alleviate... well the subject of the poem. I don't much care for it, I'm not sure how to write these without sounding lame and cliché)

Stress
Tensed, flighty
Snapping, fretting, agonizing
Sweat the small stuff
Anxiety

Acrostics

This one was made from an acrostic using the phrase "flipping switches". Then I "stirred", "added some ingredients", and got what we will call a poem. The "w" was too forced in the poem, but worked well for the title (imo). I may do another one later today, I think these will take some practise.

What is truth?

Self-hypnosis combats
heterogeneous thoughts.
Falsities and almost lies,
Pretending and performing,
nothing new really.
Trickery lends to equanimity and
the illusion is impressed
[impressive?]
The happiness is
No longer glazed over, ignorant of cares,
but staid.
False is real.

CrossOuts

(The point here is to take an old document and cross out and add words as you see fit. For the first one I also added a couple places where I had misread the word as a similar word. I think you can guess what the first document was, the second was two old and really shitty poems that I crossed out and combined. Still not totally happy, but it's better)

A Letter from Mama

Dearest Daughter,
pictures – redhead time
A day lovely…
not sure when it’s ending for me.
Keep open; want me to help?
Very bad news
Good news
Sad arms
Won’t use you tomorrow,
go help swans.

Confused Chameleon

A niche
for you.
Awkward.
Not your fault,
friendships shrink, gap.
You illusion,
confused chameleon.
How to care when
you don’t exist?

Two for the price of one

(The first one is easy: pick 20 words, half-rhyme them (some of them I went more for rhythm or syllables, most aren't even real half rhymes), add a colour and the name of a place. Stir until it becomes poetry stew. Usually I toss several of my words, but this time I made myself use all of them (though sometimes slightly altered i.e. laughter vs. laugh). That may explain the forced feeling. I include my word list at the end)

Nebulous vs. Nubilous

I am amassing a collection
of insecurities and little doubts.
Sensations – you are the cause –
fluttery frets: incipient.
Persnickety realism, the dreaming
fleeting.
Encounters, head rushes [maroon]
taciturn countering your brio.
Satin chiffon beach ball [my stability]
Delicate, crushed by ultra indigo night sky.
It’s summer,
sing along with the radio, happy
mental snapshots of the days.
Trembling, quiescent [we are…]
… internecine.
Chess game in the darkness [you laugh]
blast off in a hot air balloon – I fly high.
Your sapid beauty no match for my turquoise thoughts.
The mental moondance ends,
periwinkle porcelain crashes with mysterious celerity.
Sand castles, melon-coloured crayons [sweetness].
Trapped in Siberia
[you imprisoner not hero]
Freedom tastes like key lime pie – contradictions.
More than a little turbid.

My Word List: brio/hero, fleeting/chiffon, sensations/turquoise, mystery/persnickety, taciturn/sand castle, turbid/summer, freedom/moondance, darkness/laughter, internecine/hot air balloon, celerity/periwinkle, realistic/ultra indigo deraming/night sky, sapid/satin, quiescent/porcelain, dreaming/night sky, amassing/chess game, beauty/maroon, fluttery/key lime pie, incipient/sing along, snapshot/blast off, tremble/beach ball. colour: melon place: siberia

(This second one is another poem rework. It didn't come from an exercise, I just thought it would be fun to see if I could rewrite each line in one or two words. The original poem averaged 6-7 words per line, this one averages 3 and sounds less lame and emo)

What’s another word for sorry?

Choking on apologies
murkily interpreted.
Eloquence (attempt 2)…
“Sorry…” [for everything and then some].
Insomnia
monsters in my closet
(née Regret, Restless, Guilt)
Exhaustion … bleary eyes,
bleary brain.
You ignore my “sorry”
maybe I mumbled.
Actions speak louder;
what should I do?
Sorry sorry (I will keep saying it)
dreams ripen
forgiveness.

Insecurities

(I decided to try to rewrite a poem I wrote long ago using a half of a writing exercise. It turned out entirely different, and only vaguely about the same topic, but I got to keep a line that I loved, and I actually like this version better. It could still use some work.)

MISSING: fragment of heart

Memories fade – I remember your stare –
but the emotions like to stay,
try to suck me back into the game.
Mind is blank with the head rush
[it’s not for you]
and I loathe you for making me fear.
I meet him [casually?] and breath fails,
bitten by my terror [blackness].
Hard to safeguard what I do not have.
Please return what you took from me –
I think it’s in your trash.

Confused

(For this exercise you choose a word, write it down 6 times, and then use each letter as the first letter of new words. I used "confused" and thus had a total of 48 words. Then you choose an animal, a sound source, and some song lyric. Start writing and add in words as needed. The topic does not have to relate to the word you used, but since I was feeling a bit confused, I just wrote the poem about that! And for fun, I used some of my word list in the title)

Cursed Other Sex/Do Not Be Obscure

Cautiously sighs the discombobulated chameleon—
umber fire lit in the corner repels the dark but
escalates the secret ecstasies. Completely unglued
I am talking to myself out loud – fighting the negativity.
I cannot deny I am dubious about the ending.
Fork scraping a metal bowl – my ears screech,
I have come completely undone, ultra flustered.
I am fine friend [until I shutdown],
but never omniscient…
what explicitly are you orating in this silence?

Multiple Definitions of Heat

(I haven't written since March!!! Shame on me! This poem would definitely need a lot more refining, but I feel I should just start writing again and get lots of material done as I re-find my groove. This exercise was to involve headlines, references to the time of year, something about food, a geographical feature, and a reference to home. It sort of became two separate poems inter-written because they are about the same underlying topic)


Action urged after flooding
too preoccupied with carefree summers, undeniable cravings
Record highs and bummer fruit crops
prices rise…
Make the cherries last longer taking small bites
around the pit, sitting in the red room—
The house seems so big without clutter… Clean carpet
outweighs the looming emptiness.
Which prince to visit flood victims?
Both are symbols
Symbols
It’s flatter in Fort Collins—
excellent for riding bikes.
It’s flatter in Fort Collins
without your dimensions.
The overwhelming smell of Ginger-Asian Pear.
I can’t get enough…
The watermelon is fresh, juicy
pinkish water runs down chins—
everyone should experience such ecstasy!
The Fire Brigade has no statutory duty to rescue stricken people from rising waters
Moral obligations?
Shame on you, letting me drown
in heat, in uncertainty.
Splash my way through the grapefruit juice to a cool morning,
nothing can stop the afternoon heat.
Opened floodgates,
undeniable cravings,
summer heats up.

Alphabet Soup

(This exercise involved making a list of words 26 words beginning with the letters of the alphabet, a place name, a person's name, and a colour. These are, of course, just ingredients to help you get started. You'll note I added a lot of words and I did not use a person's name, and the place name actually only appears in the title.)

Escape from Oz
You are too open, they will get to you--
the frenzied ululations feeding your self-doubt.
Enormous bendy agression is no match for
conniving divas.
Greed is human,
but your snide jeers are so random,
hiding your hurt.
I lost the key... please
don't be mad.
Persistant fiery tempers--
xeroxes of each other lose quality.
I am iced over -- the red moods cannot break me.
Now what?

Monosyllabic

(I'm trying to do a virtual poetry workshop, so after a three month absence, I may post a lot of (possibly really bad) poetry. This exercise's objective was to use only monosyllabic words--yes I know "smile" is two, and several words have more than one mora... but it's close. I don't feel that it has a lot of "rhythm" but is the same disjointed feel as most of what I write. Still, I kind of like it...)

I want to go to France
Air is cool, fresh (I guess this)
Spread the word that
I love Coke [your green eyes]
Smile on the way to Spain
          Rain and plains
Glad to be not at home, but here.
Would take a plane to see you.
The feat is nuts, my head aches
          Kiss!

The Game

It’s your turn, pick a card.
Hide the results from our prying eyes,
Mustn’t ever let us see your hand.
Shifting eyes, don’t let down your guard,
We play for the ultimate prize.
How much pressure can you withstand?
Roll the dice
Tell us lies
That’s how we play the Game.
Move your pawn through a twisted path,
It only matters that you get there.
Never trust, there’s only betrayal.
You have no right to feel that wrath.
We never said the rules were fair.
This is life not Hollywood’s portrayal.
Roll your dice
Choose your lies
We’re always playing the Game.
You play a card, so naive!
You lift your eyes, I shift my gaze.
Please don’t look to me for aid.
Tenderness, what does it achieve?
Cloudy tears, a pathetic haze.
I make my move, checkmate.
Roll our dice
Choose our lies
We continue to play the Game.
It’s your turn, pick a card.

Mikarn

(Sorry, anyone who reads this, for the lengthy gap. School took over my life, but here is some prose that I wrote with no rhyme or reason)

He leaned against the wall. No sound penetrated the dank air less his own laboured breath and the incessant drip-drip of the blood from his elbow. He looked at the night sky—how long had it been night now? His watch ticked down; there was another week till the sun would rise again. Curse this planet and its 30-day rotation. They had told him he needed to stop thinking in terms of 24 hours, but his watch was Earth-made and that was all he had known for 19 years. Two years had passed since his arrival here. Two years to the day.

“I’m have 21 years today,” he spoke aloud. They said, back on Earth, that everyone is only half. That there is another half to make you whole, and you have to find that person. He wondered, at this time, if his other half was back on Earth. Maybe she was also feeling the pressure of age. What would she do now? Five years of searching gone to waste—he was not going back.

He shuddered involuntarily at the cold brick against his back. Despite the advanced insulation systems, the outside of the buildings began to get frigid towards mid-point. By the end, just before the sun rose again, touching them meant death of the flesh. He leant away from the wall. Always it was there, the urge to lean until the pain came, reminded him he was alive. But running was safer, no chance of irreversible epidermal damage. And so he ran.

***

The council met rarely; meetings were always so long, and the eldest members were hard-pressed to make the trip unless it was a matter of great importance. For some of them, this meeting seemed irrational and pointless. For others it held the utmost important. Shayla entered the room and felt overwhelmed by the tension in the air. Shee stood before the semicircular table where the other council members sat. As the youngest member, she felt the weight of intimidation pressing on his chest and he was momentarily dizzied. After an imperceptible sway, her stomach lurched and then resettled. She cleared her throat.

“I have asked you here today,” Shayla’s voice rang loud and clear, with no hint at the waves of nausea bombarding her, “because of the boy Mikarn.”

Whispering flooded the hall as the other council members commented amongst themselves.

“As I’m sure you know,” Shayla continued, “he has been noted as a possible candidate.” The council nodded its agreement. “But we have noticed faltering in his mental stability lately, and it is cause for a great deal of concern.” Shalya paused—the silence caused strange painful blindness. “He has taken to running for the equivalent of entire Terran days. He does not seem to notice this immense passage of time until he returns to his home, somewhat dazed and seeming to border on unconsciousness.”

“Do you mean to say,” interrupted one member, “that the boy runs for 24 Terra hours?” He seemed incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Impossible.” Murmurs of ascent swept the table. A few members though sat silent pressing their hands to their lips.

“It is not,” Shayla continued. “It is especially not impossible for Mikarn. Though his pace slows to an occasional jog, his movement is without rest. Upon his return his body shows signs of great suffering, but has returned to its previous state if not a healthier one within three Terran days.”

“You make the boy sound like a deity.”

Shalya nodded towards the adolescent boy who stood hunched in the shadows by the hall’s entrance. The boy strode forward—meek, but powerful in his carriage. He delivered a pamphlet to each of the council members and then returned to his submissive stance in the shadows.

“As you know, the Mikarn’s vital signs are under constant surveillance due to his candidacy. You will find before you his daily medical reports for the past four cycles.” Shayla paused while the council member’s deliberated over their pamphlets. When the chattering had begun to recede, she spoke again.

“As you can see, these reports are above and beyond anything we have ever seen before.”

One of the eldest council members stood, leaning heavily on his staff.
“He is the one.”

Bad Poem to Fill the Gap

(thre's a story forming in my head, just give me a few more day to flesh out some of the details. Here's a terrifically bad poem to hold you till then)

Word Train Trip

I’m barely on approach and the light turns
Green – your eyes on me
Piercing the darkness the light
Turns to yellow. I got lost
In thought, you’re always on my
Mind your Ps and
Cues the orchestra for the last
Act like you know my
Secrets kept hidden away from the
Public schools promote sex
Education is free in America the
Beautiful even if you think you’re
Not another car on the entire
Road to Damascus

I guess I broke the pattern

I should probably write some more prose soon...

Untitled (a work in progress)

You have no idea
Tumble down my back
Eighty-seven water droplets
                         “Love is when”
Wrapped in a towel
Spicy chills tingle the inside creases of my elbows
Think of your evergreen eyes
                         I don’t bother hugging you too tightly
I’m going to the grocery store
Naked children play in the park
The same song playing on the radio
                         It will never be close enough
I’ve heard it twice this day
I mouth along
Dark and cloudy, unexpectedly balmy

I had insomnia... so I wrote

A maze of darkened corridors,
I see your shadow in the archway.
Laughing
I run to                  nothing.
My hands caress the cold stone.
I hear your voice
turning in circles
try to call to you.
Silent words pass through lips and
bounce off the ceiling, leaving
empty as before.
Your hand on my shoulder.
I grasp it before you disappear.
Looking back to find
you
fade and the hand in mine                  [mist] shadow.

A Couple New Ones

To You

This is for you
                              (to you)
               Wherever you are…
Did I ever tell you?                              Yes, I did.
You just weren’t there when
I admitted it.
               (My heart pounds – BAM! BAM!)
Listen to me when I’m (not) speaking!
Roaring as I pour
my heart out to you :
Sahara silence.

Freedom/I Can't Tell You

The 4th of July
Red white and ? the blue-grey storm
                              free country! – it’s free to rain.
(We dance the dance)
What                              are you thinking?
               We’re lucky
               to live
               so freely.
What                              are you doing?
               Counting raindrops
               (in my own world)
What                              did you say?
               Nothing.
I’m free to think
                              Nothing.
I’m free to do
                              Nothing.
I’m free to say
                              Nothing.
You’re free to be amazed at
               what's beneath all my
                              Nothingness.

Amensia

“Allo? Allo?”

Pounding. What was that awful racket?

“Monsieur? Êtes-vous bien? Monsieur?”

Someone was at the door. I opened my eyes. Oh god. Bad idea. My head was pounding and I rubbed at my temples. Who was knocking at the door? Where was I? I tried opening my eyes again.

The bedspread pattern was made of oranges and purples in some abstract floral blend and the painting on the wall was similarly abstract and ugly. The mattress beneath me was queen size—and hard as a rock. This was most definitely a hotel, but why was I in a hotel? How did I get here?

“Monsieur? Si vous ne me repondiez pendant cinq secondes, je serais telephoner la police!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I swung my feet out of the bed and stood, fighting waves of nauseau and vertigo. I felt like I’d been run over by a truck.

“Monsieur…” the gentleman at my door trailed off suspiciously. I looked down. Damn, no clothes. I slammed the door. There were pants next to my bed, unfortunately they appeared to be covered in blood. Boxers were my next best option. I reopened the door.

“Monsieur,” the gentleman smiled, but then a pained expression contorted his face. “Why, if you please, is there blood making prints of the feet from l’entrance to here?” His words were overly enunciated and I could tell, from the look on his face, that speaking English to me caused him to want to gag.

I shifted my weight to peer out the doorway. The hotelier was correct; I chewed at my tongue a moment.

“I don’t entirely have an explanation right now. Maybe I could get back to you?”

A raised eyebrow and a snort in my direction informed me that this was not the best answer. I figured I couldn’t make things worse.

“By the way, uh, where am I?”

A perplexed look swept the hotelier’s face before he sniffed and resumed his airs, “You are at the [HOTEL NAME] in Lyons, France.”

I had really been hoping, up to this point, that I was in Lousiana, or some bizarre neo-We Love Europe hotel. My hopes were shattered. I sighed and went for the kill.

“And uh, I registered here…” the hotelier’s look told me not to ask too many more questions. How could I phrase this well? “Do you even know who I am?”

“Monsier Richard Bernard from the California State in the United States.” He paused and presumably mulled over the tone of my previous question. “No one celebrated if I am recalling correctly.”

Richard Bernard. Didn’t ring any bells. So I was a non-celebrity, normal person, with no idea why the hell I was in France. The blood was just icing on the cake.

An Exercise

(it's not great--it's just something I feel like I could play with it in the future, but I get more from poetry exercises than I ever did from the workshop I took at Knox... what a waste)

Your presence will not be necessary.
I must have what I asked for.
(the voice drones on)
The car is dead and needs a jump.
You talk to me like you talk to me
(on the phone)
I wiggle my toes and know
I am weird for you.
(apologising)
Trapped in th elevator listening
to the woman over the intercom.