I’ve Always Hated My Blog, Sorry WordPress.

The day is near when I’ll be able to visit my own blog outside of admin without gutting my eye sockets with a dull wooden spoon. TheCoolSide2.0 is not yet ready but is in progress. It’s a birth of sorts for me as I begin to learn all things web with the help of Caleb. For now, I’ll just include little nuggets of my writings.


my mornings were mirrorless when i had them,
and my boots never left my feet.

black nail polish
acrylic paintings
coffee shop tshirts
on my bed sheet.

miniature bottles of saki
sleeping all the wrong hours
my first pumpkin beer and the cold
warned off two in three showers.

road tripped to fayetteville
and stayed in a sideways frat.
the roads were nearly vertical
we blamed our sideways nights on that.

in the cleavage between the states
reno’s retarded cousin kept a moon.
i called him crying from the parking garage
half breathless
my lips curled into prunes.

the learning that happened that winter
i numbed with invented days
the few i didn’t sleep through
i detached in invented ways.

i’d rather go hungry
while tasting all the wrong food

than lack the craving, and be the


call it my winter as a broken hearted fool,
but not the meal in which i was lonely.
recent scribble.

The skin on my knees took form to the strip of carpet under my closet doors. A girl at school had shapely legs since 6th grade and when she wasn’t filling out her perfect jeans, she framed her perfectly smooth walkers with hemmed denim that never fell past her legal fingertips.
the knees that now supported the yet to blossom frame i claimed, had also followed suit with the rest of my body and remained that of a little girl.
the bottom of a large green plastic container originally meant for sewing supplies was, and still is, a haven for my personal keepsakes.
there was less than a dropper’s full left, and the as the golden wet disappeared along the bottom of the glass container it looked much like when saline solution runs into your bottom lid from the crier of your eye and spreads perfectly across the rim.
I limited my sniffing. Mainly out of fear that each of my breaths served to deplete this life source of mine. Songs “get stuck” in our heads play from the tune of our tongue, and visual repeats of the imagination recount scenes from past. I always believed that a  smell, however,  can only haunt when it is physically detectable. Haunt me it does.
From yards and yards away, a woman stands among other people and says, “I wore it yesterday, but today is just deodorant.” But I can pull that scent from anywhere, as long as it’s there. And there it was, the remnants in the bottom of the bottle she gave me when she said, “I got a brand new bottle for my birthday. This one can be yours.”
At 12, the smell of my mother intoxicated me. I experienced the her scent probably 9 times per year, and four of them were spent kneeling in my Texas closet searching for a breath of her Kansas being.
At 23, the smell still intoxicates me. A haunting on my nose that I rarely encounter but never easily escape. It was this year’s Thanksgiving I hugged my grandmother in her first moment of joy since the eve before the last day of giving thanks.
my face reached her neck as we hugged in the most natural of ways, not partnering our embrace with calm and polite manners. It was this year’s Thanksgiving that I smelled my mother and can nearly smell her now. Grandma didn’t dress up for Thanksgiving. Nor did she wear perfume.


1 comment so far

  1. ketta24 on

    You are a powerful writer. My ex used to always say “you smell like you” and I cant attribute it to wearing or not wearing perfume because he would say it on any one of those instances. I guess our beings have their own distinctive scent

    Don’t forget to include a link when its finally finish – CoolSide2.0

    PS Admin – I have to give wordpress their due but I can remember when someone tried to access my account and I simply asked for an IP address, they said no. Lol-I’m sure they shouldn’t but come on WP.

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