What is this? Why do you keep emailing me this? I’m not sure that you have the right email address, but you’ve sent it so many times now that I can’t help but ask. Please respond to me when you find the chance.
Also, please find the correct email address for whomever this is meant for. I’m guessing you really want it sent that way.
All the best,
~R
Folding up my blankets,
Tying up my sheets.
Soaping up my body,
And listening to my heart beat a rapid beat.
Cleaning dirt out of uncut fingernails,
Blowing snot out of cement-filled holes.
Pouring perfume over foggy skin and scales,
And watching as the moon becomes full.
Wrapping layers,
Grabbing papers,
Zipping zippers,
Trading places.
Flannel over skin,
Dirty caramel in back pocket.
Rage Against the Machine,
Tape Deck broken.
One last breath of suburban air.
Breathe in dog hair, earth, and oaken chairs.
Lace up boots with open toes,
Door will open and then will close.
Future, future, future.
This future is not in space.
Ground crunching under footsteps that guide me
Away from this place.
This poem, written by fourteen-year-old runaway, Annabel Caster, seems to be the only thing I can look at recently. There’s something about runaway teenage poetry that always gets me going. And I’m not a dirty old man….well, I’m not an old man. But, no, it’s a syntax thing. It’s a diction thing. Only little girls with deep-seated problems can concoct this sort of bullshit that seeps through paper and tickles your whole “being”. I mean, the metaphor “cement-filled holes” for nostrils. Come on. It’s cute, it’s young, but it’s also hard. It’s heavy. It’s too heavy. But it’s that hyperbolic metaphor that makes me go “OH!”. I got it, you know? She’s all oaken chairs, and dirty caramels, and full moons, this Ms. Caster. And that’s how I know she will go far with a couple hits of your standard anti-depressant. Anyway, the girl lived on the street for three months before returning home and kudos to her for roughing it out that long. It’s not easy task for a writer with such feelings to be out their on her own.
Anyway, I guess you’re right. This wasn’t meant for you. But now it is for you, because, well, I’ve given it to you. So enjoy it, I guess?
~Y
That was a pretty interesting explanation. I didn’t know it was a poem. Kinda weird. But, alright. Are you a writer? Or a college professor? You seem pretty smart. You knew how to talk about the poem. I don’t know much about writing or poetry…but you could probably make money doing something with that.
Oh, it would be funny if you wrote a poem. Or a book…about this wrong email.
Best,
~R
I do make money doing “something like that”. So thanks. It was very nice of you to compliment me. I’d like to talk with you on the phone sometime. Would you like to speak on the phone sometime? I can’t talk about poetry over email.
~Y
O.K. Sure.
~R
Folding up my blankets,
Tying up my sheets.
Soaping up my body,
And listening to my heart beat a rapid beat.