To become better
acquainted with space,
let's spread ourselves
thin
If our shirts get too tight
let's ball ourselves up
into nothing
Let's make certain
we always have a plan
If our memory is lost
let's remember we
kept another in the
bottom drawer
If we are unsatisfied
with the air
let's hold our breath
and our tongues
should we feel like
speaking out of term

You're a good man, Charlie Brown.
You're the immigrant that hit the ground
running to and from the La Guardian taxis
it's good to see you in this perpetual state
of rock bottom honesty mixed with terse self involvement
It's as if we're watching a critical analysis of you
fucking yourself. It's groovy to me
and you're very aware of this.
I see that your demons don't make it too
far out of your head. They're always within
arms reach just waiting to grope you in the dark.
But you're not afraid, are you Charlie Brown?
You're the boy who cried devastated for no reason
You're the last hoodlum troubled by the threat of one
of those new existential meltdowns that take 24-hours
to clear up.
You make us all proud.
You're a good man, Charlie Brown.

Young Lady listens to Depeche Mode
to think
or she prefers absolute silence
She considered
transcendental meditation
until she found she couldn't afford
a spiritual guide
Young Lady considered just guiding herself
but didn't feel comfortable
with responsibility or holding things
or being a twenty-something young lady
who just started smoking
That's what she gave a homeless man
instead of a dollar
"It's all I have," she said while lighting
Young Lady is convinced that her children
will be free even without
enduring the misery of choice
That said, Young Lady claims
she can still recall aesthetic
as she once could
She just has to sit and
enjoy the silence.

I've made room for you
but my sneakers
are by the door
and your phone
is on the nightstand
Please don't forget it
because I'm on my way out
Stare if you want
while I wrap my hair
Just don't get caught up,
I can't drag you with me
Watch me if you want
while I tie my sarong
Just don't get tangled up
I'm in a hurry
I will call you
I will see you
later
I will make room for you
again
but my cigarettes and books
are in my bag
near the door

When we're high you say things like:
"Our reality is not a THING
but a RELATIONSHIP."
I repeat this, but louder
and putting emphasis on the wrong words.
I don't mind your philosophy
so long as you know we're individuals
and I get my own pillow after our
romp and laugh.
Other than that, I'm not an extremist.
When I remind you of this, your eyes
get shiny and lost
like you're taking inventory of all that's
absent in the world and present somewhere else.
I like your eyes
They tell me there's nothing to the past
and we're just lumping shit together.
We romp and laugh until tears come
to my eyes and I scream:
"Stop, stop, I don't want to be synchronic!"
And then you let me take my pillow
and retreat to my side of reality.
With a smile you let me settle.

Don't Let Capitalism Get you Down

I talked to my sister on the phone but cried half the time
we talked about being positive and making yourself do
things you wouldn't want to do.
"You should make friends," she said to the 12 year old
sniffling on the end.
I'm a fucking adult, I wanted to shout but didn't
"You're right."

Sometimes I feel like giving it all away and going on a
journey like that guy did. Eddie Vedder did the whole
soundtrack and I wouldn't mind living like that.
I don't tell people this.
Instead, I say. "What do things MEAN? And how do
they relate to me? Do I need THINGS?"
People nod thoughtfully.

"Don't feel guilty about consuming," my sister told me.
I do feel guilty. I'm supposed to. I think about the THINGS
and let it slip, that I want to give them all away.
There is silence on the other end.
It stresses me out. "Is there anything I do that's working
for the world?"
She doesn't understand the question.
"What am I doing here?"
She takes that to mean I'm defeated. "You just need to be
PROACTIVE."

I was given a book. Marx says you are at a disadvantage from
birth, any gain you make is at the expensive of some other poor
soul and capitalism isn't worth all the huzzah.
The book didn't tell me anything about my disengagement
from society and my own former consciousness.
"Yes," says Marx. "You are a consumer and you
should feel like a loser." I already knew that.

"You sound depressed," says my sister.
"I'm actually very happy," I say still crying. I am. "I'm just
thinking too much lately. I'll make friends."
"Good," she says too quickly. She's done with philosophy.
"Now get out of the house and treat yourself to something."

Behind horn-rimmed glasses
with a Camel Light between lips
stained the same red
as her cropped duster of a bob
Absolutely soulless
and knowing of it,
she arches her brows
as the non-marginal walk by. . .
muttering under heavy breath:
"fuckin' posers."
Because she still has to watch out for them
She doesn't know that she looks just like
Sally Jesse Raphael
and her friends are not going to be the ones
to tell her. They'll let her mother.
"Dear, those glasses look so. . . severe
on you."
Under her gravel tracked breath
she'll say: "fuck off, mom."
Then take a fatal drag fogging up
the windows covering
her dull mud brown eyes

	Fatboy Slim - Demons .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

What a Young Man Learns from KW

Kanye said, "Why don't we play something these hoes would like."
and I think that's thoughtful of him
'Cause you know hoes, bitches and shorties,
they like to dance
they all shake ass and give good head
And Mr. West's concerns don't just stop there,
like: "Is it raining hard enough on them bitches?"
"What can I do to make it rain on them bitches?"
"Can I do more?"
and I think that's fair.
He doesn't want a gold digger
which makes sense 'cause we know
hoes bitches and shorties like money
and everybody knows the only way you give
a girl some money
is you throw dolla dolla bills at her
after drenching her with cryst-all.
It sticks better.

It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp

Cause at night, I was 'tasty' or 'bitch'. . .
but my real name is Carolina,
said a beautiful girl
almond eyes,
brown skin, wavy hair
never once
fully
realizing her potential
I didn't like being in
jail
for some dick-head
said a lonely girl
named Carolina

It must be hard, I told my husband,
for Milton Bradley to market
those same games.
Every year, a new commercial for
Monopoly.
Family Fun Night?
What about fathers who must be banker?
Mothers who shout from the kitchen:
"Give your sister her hotel back!"
My husband says that these issue
might just be mine. . . only.
I think it must be hard though.
Making a purse out of sows ear,
is what my mom would call it.

Things disturb me

my habit today is
watching
train wrecks

I don't even say
a thing
when they derail

"If you could only eat three foods for the rest of your life
what would they be?"
The adorable vacancy in Om's eyes told me that Tip
had fibbed about the English proficiency in this class.
He smiled.
"Three foods," I held up three fingers and
spooned imaginary soup in my mouth.
For all Om knew,
I could have said three favorite
General Mills Cereals
or three most despised Jello flavors.
His neighbor translates my question in Thai.
"Chicken. . ." he started.
It was hopeful. I sat on the edge of my seat
nodding like an eager child. Come on. That's it.
"Rice . . ."
Yes. . . Here we go. . . you got it.
"Coconut."
I let out the heaviest sigh and thank God he knew
three.
I didn't give a shit if they didn't make a wit of
sense. Or if Om wouldn't be able to make too many
combinations out of the three ingredients. OR
how much diarrhea poor Om would get from
all the coconut.
My dear sweet Om knew three foods in English!

The brother and sister duo

He runs everywhere and blows spit bubbles because he likes organic creation.
He spins around and arms spanning and knocking into things
He climbs on things and makes unintelligible noises with his lips and hands
She holds open the door for him.

Unsuspecting Things about Charish Roderick

I might be one of the worst dancers I know. I depend on a lot of standby moves in my arsenal. "Reckless Arm Flailing," "Aimless Shimmying," and "Awkward Shoulder Shaking." When I'm at home alone, I will "dance" to Bjork's Earth Intruders until I get a headache and the police are called because my next door neighbor thinks that there is a domestic dispute just beyond the wall.

My mother bought me a recorder when I was ten. I learned how to play Taps really well. I performed it everyday in a long somber key. No one told me it was a song for military funerals.

I write newspaper headlines on my hands so I can use them for conversation starts later. "Johnson Boy Falls Down Abandoned Mineshaft for the Second Time." I find it gets the ball rolling and gets people excited. That's how I got through the first few dates with my now unsuspecting husband. He talked with his hands and I read from mine.

I never proof read my work. My hope is that people will think I'm a literary genius that refuses to adhere to the rules of grammar. Though I feel like this will never catch on . So I feel a little embarrassed when people say, "You've spelled Tuesday wrong." or "this is the wrong usage of the word derby."

Someone said that you shouldn't make fun of people's smiles. Laughs, however are fair game. I'm working on making mine a little less wheezy. When I'm really going at it, I sound like I suffer from smoke inhalation. I'm actually thinking of taking up smoking to cover it up. And then I can finally be the first front woman for a Pearl Jam tribute band--- "Freeeeeezin', rest his head on a pillow made of concrete."

When I was a child, I lied compulsively, stole only what could fit in my pocket, and broke what I could fix later. I told my third grade teacher that I got a new dog, a mixed breed of mutt and mongrel and that I named him Trigger. When my parents found out, it .didn't help my case in getting a dog. I was six when I stole a pack of Juicy Fruit, when my mother found out, we drove back to the store so I could be scared straight with the threat of incarceration. I broke a kitchen cabinet door by swinging on it. I could not fix it.

I lose gloves all the time and I'm okay with it.
I lose pen caps and find it too devastating to live with. I usually take a moment out of my day to mourn the missing half a perfectly useful pen.

As a writer I am more than willing to whore myself out to the highest bidder in hopes that one day Oprah will endorse my books with a sticker and ask me how my writing pertains to her life. I want to walk on her stage, give her a hug and talk honestly to her about my ill fitted bras, my fear of food and how I too pretend to read Faulkner. I will make the suggestion that multi-colored cashmere sweaters from the Gap need to be on her list of favorite things.

I am This Man's Wife

I thought as I walk along the trail
He will run ahead in red shorts and black socks
He will leave those same black socks in the middle
of the floor with his underwear and
he will say it's his method
This man who will not clean after he cooks, but will cook,
is my husband.
He will drink "good" tequila and then scoff at the news,
correcting its absurdities.

I will get tired and he will wait on me.
He will be sweaty and smiling and ready to kiss
me.
Because I am his wife, I will kiss him back.
We will have dinner
He will cook and I will clean the counter
In the evening I will move aside those
socks with my toes and take care not
to knock those red shorts off the door knob.

Tonight
I will look into his eyes and ask myself: why
on earth did you marry me
I will kiss him again, looking for the answer
I will fall asleep in his arms
musing with a smile:
I am this man's wife.

When I was younger
I'd swing around on things
to test their durability
and my weight
the suspense of destruction
thrilled me.
The power to impose my will
to throw my weight
around
was a tease that faded with time
Tension replaced it all

careful to touch this
cautious to take space there

You brought pressure back
you made it fashionable
to press toes against the springboard
As I pushed against your space
and explored my own,
the voice that says
horseplay gets people hurt
fades with time
Recklessness replaces it all

Pants with change in the pockets
lay in the floor
a nondescript black sock sits
nearby
and just as dependable as the last,
sneakers that have taken
awkward steps away from one another
are in the next room
This is why
it is hard to leave home
there are no traces of you on the street.

When my sister and I were kids
we'd sit in our mom's car
in the parking lot
of Kroger and talk about life as we knew it.
I was seven years older than she,
I naturally knew more and so I out
talked her.
She liked to sing loudly from the back seat
I would make requests:
"Sing a Michael Jackson song."
Sometimes to be real jackass goof-offs
she and I would catch the gazes of
old white ladies walking past the car,
we'd act frightened, which wasn't hard for
my sister, the ham of the family.
We'd lock our doors to prove a point.
and then we'd laugh.
Oh how we'd laugh.

Welcome Back

I came home to a dream
an obvious american dream
my legs took me to the midwest
I met with a tribe of friends I didn't
know I had

We smoked a long pipe and bragged
of the ways we'd already been high

I could see that things hadn't changed
things were moving along
stagnate and compliant to the mores
that I'd left before