Alexa Lash

So, my last post was in JANUARY! Talk about inconsistency! But never fear: I have an excuse (of course). I’ve been writing: lyrics, more lyrics, and even more lyrics. I thought about joining the circus, but in its stead, I joined a band. And it’s been an absolute wonder. The people I’ve gotten to meet, to become friends with, are creative, diverse, full of energy and a sense of determination specific to artists trying to share their souls with the universe.

Waiting for Shoes to Drop

Pessimism was not in my nature
when I was eight,
or nine,
or ten;

but then again,
there were hints of it
simmering beneath a surface full of smile and a sheer love
of cookies.

To be young,
is not to be optimistic:
it is to be inexperienced
in the matters of disappointment.

I was disappointed when I was young,
a time or two (it’s true),
but we don’t know the impact it has
on outlook
until it’s too late to un-speak sarcasm
that bites at the heart of others,
to keep our depression words, our anger words at bay,
to not say what’s really on our mind
no matter the extent of the negativity,
a proclivity for pretending to see
the glass half full,
when really, your focus is on the air
in the space beyond the liquid.
(Though in reality, the glass can never be empty (since air and liquid are things), so, cheers to that.)

But I’m not eight,
or nine,
or ten,

then again,
I remember being so happy
it felt like the stomach pains of ever-laughter,
the deep type of guffaw where it tugs at your
tum like a rope.

The potential for optimism isn’t gone,
but fear disguised as pessimism is there:
it creates uncertainty, frustration, doubt—
things we’ve tried to live without…
but then experience tends to train you
like a dog with a bell,
classically conditioned into
waiting for shoes to drop,
a personal hell of self-created unhappiness.

But shoes can be tied tighter,
this is a possibility we tend to forget,
that we don’t have to give up on love or hope, just yet.
Or that there are so many types of shoes,
or the reality that I’ve never really seen a shoe drop, per say,
not in the way, at least, that pessimism intends.

Or you can choose,
to wear no shoes at all,
like you did when you were eight,
playing on a beach,
toes digging in the sand like you imagined
the head of an ostrich might do,
knowing full well where your shoes were.

I’d much prefer to stay barefoot.

Pass it on...

So in an attempt to find inspiration, I asked my Facebook friends to provide me with a prompt from which to be inspired. I promised I would create a post around each idea I received some time between January and February. So here is the single post based on the only prompt I received—from my mother. The prompt: chemistry.

This isn’t Chemistry

If you’re under the impression
that there were sparks,
fireworks,
a chemical reaction

then you, sir, are mistaken,
your sense briefly taken
to places unknown.

What this was:
a momentary lapse in judgment
your judgment,
my normalcy…
smiles, kindness, the occasional,
“that’s awesome”
sans subtext
that awesome could be the enzyme
to speed up the reaction
of our love.

This isn’t chemistry.

And no, there exists no desire
to study anatomy,
biology,
to experiment
dermis to dermis,

to hypothesize how our kids might look,
your chin,
my everything else.

Oh, boy, this is above
and beyond
what was intended,
the reach of your imagination extended
from solid to liquid to gas

getting into the atomic mass
of every word I say,
to reach a nucleus
of something not quite there.

I know deep down you have to be aware
of the lack of a single bond,
of substance,
of chemical composition;

that chemistry
was never your best subject.

Pass it on...

The dinosaur at the end of her bed was green; her socks, magenta.
She leaned over and clutched it,
her hands gripping onto its skin, fuzz rather than scales,
and making it dance—
all big legs and tiny arms aflutter,
jaws open in a contented gape.

She clutches Rufusaurus Rex when
she needs to feel closer to the center of the earth,
from the crust, to the mantle, to its inner core
feeling for
some semblance of depth,
the way her socks dig into rivers of carpet,
the way her toes curl into rivulets of synthetic fibers,
the way her crescent moons atop her nails dig into dinosauric fluff
all claws and roar and stuffed
from tail to teeth.

Prehistoric comforts
that hide beneath mountains of pillows and clothes
she meant to put away,
but Closet Mountain still stands,
a pile of t-shirts at its peak.

Instead, she builds blanket forts extending from bed to floor,
crawls flashlight in hand through an entrance of fitted sheet
and drags Rufusaurus Rex behind her,
past hills of homework,
deserts of girly and grown-up expectations:
a girl and her dinosaur
little arm in little arm,
her socks, magenta.

And together, they roar into the dark.

Pass it on...

The wait is all-consuming, hours pass and people: chargers in, chargers out. They’re pulling wires from the wall, bobbing heads to alternative rock, whispering to each other about how long they have until they board. They wait, transfixed on the passage of time. The flight delays. They look angry. Their faces soften. They go grab a pretzel or a glass of wine from the appropriate food vendor. A man peeks up from a laptop. A woman glances up from a book every five minutes or so, checking on her purse and backpack. But she just watches them, unable to help the analysis of humanity. To her, the differences in people are so spectacular; each person who waits the makings of a book.

Pass it on...

The pillow is about the length of me curled up,
knees locked on puffs of cotton
like a child climbing the base of a tree,
shimmies and uncomfortable starts;
until a groove is settled into,
and sleep or success comes in an easy wave—
for found is comfort.

-A

Pass it on...

The Older We Get, the Younger We Feel

Sometimes, there’s a dream:
we’re eight or ten or twelve,
hands interlaced like tufts of braid,
all smiles and soft voices and giggles in the dark,
hiding under blankets, building tents from couch pillows
as if they’re castles made of stone.

Some days we’re on a pirate ship,
crossing oceans, pools that undulate with the wind;
or on a carousel that spins, pirouettes.
We dance, mimicking the merry-go-round,
following the waves in a side-by-side sway…
how could you know there’d be a day
when the music or the breeze would quiet;
that reality would hit in tidal-esque form,
the ship tilting,
the carousel jolting into a brake,
and we stand facing each other,
glances interlaced like tufts of braid.

But deep in dreams these promises are made—
to make our dreams come true:
me and you,
our hands, our eyes, in tangles.
The world, our ship.
The wind, our music.

Pass it on...

@okwithwords A dear friend asks you to help them rob a bank. #writingprompt

— (((david golbitz))) (@davidgolbitz) June 17, 2016

I asked my friends for a prompt, and as always, Dave obliged (thanks, Dave!). I apologize for the lateness of utilizing this inspiration…

Let’s Rob a Bank

You and I
aren’t Bonnie and Clyde:
we’d rather live through the ages
together—your hand in mine,
the other hand holding a bag
so full of cash,
our private stash
to carry us to an island,
an ocean,
filled to the brim with salt and sunshine
and better days ahead,
better breathing
than car and cliff and dead.

Let’s rob the world of happiness,
steal moments like golden bars
from bank vaults, your hand still in mine,
and run away
from everyone and everything,
freedom in the form of bullet
or a ring,
instead of car or cliff.

Let’s rob the world, but first:
let’s rob a bank.

Pass it on...