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Monthly Archives: September 2014

A fellowship of two, we walk

for days on strips of sand,

from point to point the long way;

 

Set up tents in gaps

where gnarled forts – built by day –

let in the sky.

 

You pick driftwood sticks while

I tear sheets from journals

either emptied of past Sin

 

Or full of futures still possible.

The stray that chose to join us

stands sentinel beyond our glowing ring,

 

Thundering at each rustling mortal thing

like his Olympic namesake. Before life

fractured the frame of our best-laid plans;

 

Before girls and jobs and debt

took all our time. When we were warrior

poets in our moment of the possible.

 

After the dream but

before the sober light of day.

We watched Night trip and fall,

 

Scatter stars to the foggy gloam,

as we stared into the shifting sandy embers

of crumbling logs, warmed by our quest

for the ineffable flame.

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Police were called three times between midnight and 1:33 a.m. Saturday as students entered the dorm, unable to stand or walk and with color-coded X’s on their hands from the same party

 

Marked at the gate with a red or black X. Unlike outside red means go.

Do what thou wilt. Forget the law.

She walked in with a target on her hand, red to tell the bartender

her drinks get mixed out of sight.

 

Red so everyone who needed to know could see. Red so some bull

shit with a god-complex could keep her in his horns,

Keep an eye on her until she started slipping,

needed a helping hand and he’d rush over, “You alright?”

 

She’s getting hazy like the vodka shots she almost thought to question.

His face is featureless safety. “Don’t worry, you’re VIP. I’ll get you to bed.”

Did he bump fists as he led her from the dance floor? He smiles and

slips his hand further down. “I’m glad you made it out tonight.”

 

Red like the ambulance flash she sees next. Red like blood

on a sheet she must have imagined. Red like hearts he used to draw

for girls that always trapped him in the friend zone. Red like a

slap to the face, like when you realize you might

 

not be alright again. When you can’t remember him

though he seemed so nice. When questions crush

like rockslides and you know you’ll never know.

When you try to be polite

 

but deep inside you’re seeing red.

Scared but not too much to stand and fight.

I was sitting down with a nice cup of coffee, just getting started on my weekly poem (a bit later than usual, but plenty of time before my deadline), when I receive a letter addressed to me and my roommates from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Apparently we are being evicted for non-payment of September rent. I’ve only lived in the place for two weeks, so this came as something of a shock. I was under the impression that when I paid first month’s rent in my deposit that would, you know, take care of that first month. Not so! Apparently the deposit only included last month, though our agent said otherwise a month ago. The devil is in the details, as they say. Our paperwork said last month’s rent as a deposit, the agent said first month’s.

Looking around the web I found that I may have the single worst landlord in Boston. Lucky me. They are notorious scammers, dishonest to the core, and are known for no-fault evictions. Since we actually (arguably) made a mistake and owe them rent, I’m even more worried. If these are the kind of people who are happy to throw people out for little to no reason, giving them an inch is terrifying.

Rather than continuing my rant at this time, I’m going to try and hunt down their office and get this sorted out before I’m on the streets come October. If you would like to learn more about CRM Property Management, please read this delightful gem about one of their agents flipping off protesters speaking out against their unprofessional and generally shitty behavior: http://www.metro.us/boston/news/2013/02/27/brighton-tenants-to-protest-rent-spikes-and-evictions/

For more information read their glowing reviews on Yelp: http://www.yelp.com/biz/city-realty-group-brighton. Gregory M’s is my personal favorite: “I sincerely hope you own a trident or a hand grenade because you’re going to have to fight through a horde of obnoxious, arrogant and rude realtors.” Classic.

Her home is a tupperware container.
Sealed away at night, she shines all day. Fresh
as the day’s catch. She knows love is the answer,
the panacea for each imagined illness, the final
product she was built for.

Each morning she activates, exfoliates,
puts on her best face – just in case –
always ready for the first date to take
her place in his arms…
once she meets him.

For love she starves herself,
works out (though never in),
wears clothes she’s told by magazines
work best,
stresses between a pink or polka-dotted dress.

Lost to love before it’s found,
she doesn’t know the face behind the mask.
Gears turn to tilt porcelain just so,
but when he asks who she is
she only smiles, confounded by the task.

Debbie dreams of Stepford
without irony, only knows herself
in terms of family. She was not built
to be both alone and awake,
only sitting standby on the shelf.