Your Private Investor

Private Investor

The private investor stops and stares through the glass
Pressing fingers, smudging the illusion, crass
It burns, the ill chill of that nagging feeling
It doesn’t let you sleep, or work, or sing

That point where that pain is your constant, your thing
Your high. It’s how you’re defined what you bring, to the
Table. Of a meeting you have no business being in.

Because you’re not my business, you vibrant soul,
You beautiful stranger, you unreachable goal
And my greedy eyes gobble with hunger your face
I sit and my heart pounds like it’s in a race

And I’ve just got to tell you, I’ve got to confess.
Can I clear my chest when my heart’s in arrest?
CLEAR, clear is not here. With greedy grub fingers the glass I did smear.

I bend on my knees and ask for forgiveness
For sticking my nose where I can’t afford business.
Oh you I don’t know. Oh you who I see.
Would you beckon me in from the cold?

I stand here in silence, Hello on my lips
I take a step closer, And dammit it slips. I swallow it bitter and whole. And this hole inside me, shifts out to just black,and it laughs as it gargles my soul.

The private investor stops and stares through the glass
And stares at the prize they can’t buy
A partnership might have a try,
and corporate, owns all of the sky.

I loved you today, you beautiful soul.
And followed you, after a stroke
I’m your private investor, and you I did pester
And loved you until I was broke.

-SDA

My Date with a Fire Hydrant

fire hydrant

He tried to put his hand up my skirt once, but I closed my legs and said, “No!”

He followed me for weeks after. On every corner his red face would pop out and ask me,

“Are you thirsty?”

And then I screamed the no. “No! You sick pervert!”

His cocky curled grin made my heart race.

He never budged as I walked away, so confident that we would cross paths again.

Red was a short bastard, but he was rock solid. It was hard work to be on every corner, always looking out for trouble.

He did his job, so he looked like it. Said he worked with firemen, said he liked poles, said he’d like to work me over a pole, but I said, “No! No! No!”

But, a fever set in. The image of Red seized my sight, until the craving burned and scorched away my flesh the way that only flesh can.

I was on fire, my skin barely contained it.

The smoldering look in my eyes was enough to tip off even the dimmest fire hydrant.

I tried to walk past him, honestly I tried.

“Where ya going?”

My breath caught. “Home,” I mumbled.

I could feel his fingers on my shoulder. He was wet. Why the heck was he wet?

“You’re in a fire zone.”

“So?”

“You want me to put your fire out?”

I was hot; the air was heavy, the night, humid. I swooned in his steely arms.  

I said,  “Yes.”

The Final Showcase

The Final Showcase

The dress has form.

Behold it: a cardboard, paper poetry dress. This collection of words spells out the entirety of my Creative Writing semester. There are quotes from teachers on it, some MFA grad-students, my fellow undergrads, and of course, me.

I love it, I have no idea why I chose birds, but I think I was influenced by Alexander McQueen. (Though this is of course trash is comparison to his brilliance.)

Still, you gotta love it’s Avante-garde proportions. It has deep symbolic meaning hidden behind those feathers and charcoal drawings.

Somehow, my love of writing and fashion has coincided. It is a blessed, calming feeling. Sometimes I feel so scatterbrained.

I need focus in my life.

That realization has changed me. I’m becoming a very organized person, and I revel in that, but I am so happy that my creativity remains constant.

I was afraid I would lose it’s untainted purity if I didn’t make it like I always do: out of complete and utter chaos.

It is like a whirlwind, and I can barely hold on. It is exhilarating, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

However, it is no way to work if one, like myself, wants to survive in the professional world. I’ve worked under deadlines, limitations, and word restraints, but never with my own work. It was copy-editing, revising, and researching for someone else.

Now it’s me, self-checking me. Talk about biased. Maybe I chose a bird because I’m learning so much.

Maybe I’m about to take flight.

Or…maybe, I just like to make bird dresses. Either way, it came out gorgeous.

IMAG0764 IMAG0765 IMAG0766 IMAG0767 IMAG0768 IMAG0769 IMAG0770

And remember what I said about forcing my roommate, the previously unnamed but now named, Sarah Park, into wearing it?

Well, she weaseled her way out of wearing the finished product, but I still got this.

2013-11-09 16.50.58 2013-11-09 16.51.07 2013-11-09 16.51.21

Yup.

Totally. Worth it.

-SDA

Project. Run away.

Project.  Run away.

So, I decided that the perfect way to advertise Prophet Productions was to make a dress out of cardboard and paper for our upcoming showcase. Why? I have absolutely no idea. For about a day it looked like that.

Luckily for me, I’ve watched enough Project Runway, Rupaul’s Drag Race, and Say Yes to the Dress to know how to sissy  any potential garment. A day later, it looks like this.

2013-11-09 18.11.47

Where I got the confidence to simply stand up and say, “I’m going to make a cardboard paper dress,” I shall never know. I’ve never done this before, but somehow, innately I am aware I can pull it off.

I blame marathons of fashion designer shows. Seven seasons and you think you’re a professional.

Me on the couch with Lays: “Oh…she must be blind. That hem is all wrong. How could she send that down the runway? Why didn’t she measure before she cut the chiffon?”

I know this because I’ve measured so much chiffon.

The difficulties I’m having in the execution of this dress are my punishment for mouthing off.

At least after this is done, I get to make my good friend/roommate/live-in hostage, wear it.

Gotta love a silver-lining.

The Man Who Broke into My Bombshelter

The Man Who Broke into my Bombshelter

A rusty can of fade labeled food stuffs crashes to the floor.

It wakes me and I think, what day is it? I turn beside me. There is a black box I  personally painted for such confusion. I stare at the thick jagged lines of white. Hm…supposedly it’s February 14th; talk about irony.

The  box gets another crudely drawn calendar slash and I think, should I have voted Democrat? Eh, it’s too late now.

There is another quake and more cans rattle. My hand moves about until it lands on my lighter. Still kicking after all of this time, Made in America.  I light a stubby creme candle and stare at it. For a moment it brings peace to me. I am glad for the glow. It is the glow I imagine emerges from underneath ashes, embers rising up, stirring in the wind.  It is the glow I will have, when the quakes are over.

My thoughts are interrupted by a grinding sound. Whipping towards the door I watch flakes of rust sprinkle to the floor. A creak fills the silence, a horrible creak, a terrible, life threatening creak. Then, I hear the snap of a chain being broken.

I never thought it would end this way. I had prepared, done everything I had been told, watched every PSA, Fire Marshal Bulletin, and News Conference. It wasn’t fair. Not after everything I had given up to get down here.

I scream as I’m blinded by light, pushing back into the shelves like a burning vampire.

“Are you alright?’ he asks. His voice is gruff and authoritative like a soldier’s, but with a soft undertone like a country singer.

“Stop it! Stop, we’re all gonna die!” I shriek. My eyes can’t take real light, not after all of this time. They water madly as I push away. I feel his finger on my arm and I gasp. The first touch in over a year. Would it be my last?

“Close the door,” I command, pointing to where I believe it should be. “We can stay here together.”

“I’m not here to stay,” he chuckles. “I’m here to take you out.”

My fear is renewed. The booms still sound, the ground still quakes. It can’t be over.

“If it’s not over, we’ll die from the radiation,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s the point,” he says. “Come on.”

His words frighten me. I pull away from him, knocking my heels into something hard. I’ve hit the wall.

“No,” I say. “I’m safe here.” A crash booms overhead and dirt sprays into the shelter.

“But, you’re not,” he says.

“I don’t want to die.”

“Everyone dies. At least we’ll be tog–”

“Not me,” I say. “N-not today.”

For a long time he is silent. I pry my eyes open. I can’t see his face, not past the black shadow. He stands over me. For a second, I reconsider. The sound of gunfire changes things. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Not me,” I whimper. “Leave me alone.”

He waits, before letting out a long heavy sigh. “Alright maam, if that’s what you want.”

 I hear him moving away. I squint. The man climbs out and locks the steel door behind him.

Above, I can hear the sweep of fire as it ravages the land.

A day or two passes while I huddle in the dark. For a while I cry. Then, I forget he is there, busying myself with melting candles.

Time passes, seconds, minutes, years. The chalk runs out when the sound runs out. I run out when the food runs out, when there is no more hope.

I step out of the shelter. The land is burnt black and the sky is a haze of gray. I could breath it, whatever it was.

I called out. “Hello?”

No reply.

There is nothing, the man has probably died.

I am alone, alive but alone.