Monthly Archives: October 2013


dear readers: “not your average day police claim” is NOT a true story, despite the fact that the places i mention do exist.

Kirsten had always dreamed of working at the post office or the county jail. Daily living and house chores were her bread and butter, and she craved it with a passion. Everything that was banal seemed to sing to her with an effervescent joy, and even the prospect of brushing her teeth filled her with a strange sort of wonder. Today was a Monday, and her school was having a taste of danger.
Wanted serial killer number twelve had just escaped from the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex and was passing through the small town. Kirsten did not like the sound of it at all- and not because she was afraid of menacing criminals, but simply because it was disrupting her average Monday drone.At the moment, she was fumbling around in the dark, musty classroom of Mr. Bingler’s English class, trying vainly to whisper a conversation to her friend, Nora.  Nora suffered from over twelve different illnesses, none of which Kirsten could pronounce or differentiate from one another, and all of which seemed perfectly plausible at any given moment. Nora’s favorite of the twelve was the piercingly white hair she acquired from living with Waardenburg syndrome.

Unfortunately, this ailment also left Nora with a very bad left ear, and blurry vision, which bore Kirsten’s whispering attempts quite fruitless. As mentioned previously, Kirsten also had the inability to remember all of the diseases Nora suffered from, and so she carried on whispering, unfazed by her friend’s lack of response. Andrew Klein, who sat next to Kirsten, was enjoying the awkward exchange between his fellow pupils. Most of the school knew of this unusual friendship, but had failed to communicate this knowledge to their peers, for fear that it would be considered unthinkable to speak of such lowly peasants, or-as they were affectionately called by the rest of the student body -“nerds”. This label, oddly enough, was not quite accurate in this case, despite The girls’ nebbishy outward appearances. Kirsten was failing three of her classes, and Nora was quite unable to work in the school environment at all. The disabled program at the school was unable to find a suitable category in which to place her, and had no option but to file her under the title of “hopeless case”.
Of course, in order to resume this saga of unusual proportions, one must be reminded of the horrors awaiting Kirsten and Nora’s hometown. As the students sat cramped and sweaty in the dank unlit classrooms of Alpine Mountain high school, the Wanted serial Killer (whose name was Artie) was sweeping across the city in a frantic rage. Fortunately, the townsfolk knew how to carry out the mandated precautions like the backs of their hands. They had all been trained at early ages on how to prepare for all types of disasters, due to the hard work and effort of the late Martha James Brawn (1875-1960), a nurse and educator at St. Mary-Of-The-woods College, and the pride and Joy of Terre Haute city.
Artie the serial killer was not that surprised to see that the place was in a state of great angst. He had escaped from prison on a dare. He spoke in a strange dialect not known to most city dwellers and was having a hard time communicating his situation to people. In reality, Artie was not trying to pose as a threat to anyone. The act of looting and thieving was second nature to him, almost the same as an impulsive reflex. No, on the contrary, he had been forced into most of his earlier gang activity and found it quite unfair for the government to rule him out as a real danger to anyone.
Or, as Artie would have put it “I had more friends nutted up than me most times. The whole thing is just a load of bum beef. All I got was a case of broke weak when they called me a cracker. They just made me do shit cause all I had was drag and they said they heard it a thousand times already. I put it on my skin!” The killer took the rest of the day committing crimes until he was captured fisherman named Gregory Ipswich, and was sent back to the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex, safe and sound. Kirsten could have sworn she had never been so happy.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Not your average day, Police Claim — a fictional story by me, golden star poetry


Unidentified artist #1


I’m not in the mood to post right now. my brain is having a stomach ache.
please refrain from shouting
because my headache was caused by a hangnail on my left pinkie.
I’m not all that well,
and my teeth are sore on account of my third paper cut.
please don’t judge me
I’ve been judged too much, you know?
so you can take your whole “thats the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard of” shtick
and the “you obviously have no logic” routine, because the fact of the matter is:

the Story of the Parka


Amy is wearing my sweater
she pinched it on wednesday
but i wont say.

Amy is wearing my coat
she stole it on the weekend
but she’s my friend

i followed her to the end of the road where mud would splash in puddles and the rain left scar marks on earth and that street we would cross as kids and that old tractor nobody uses and the tree stump under the orange tree and the grove of trees where it gets thicker-

and the grove that suddenly has five types fruits and three types greens and lemons and apples and then turns corn fields grape vines pine trees oak ,burl, in a whirl, and there-

is the tallest tree in the world,
and five hundred coats are lying there,
and a hundred sweaters
and i swear
she kneels down and puts mine on the branch
and i see this head peep out
and then five hundred kids and a hundred adults
are waiting for their share
that amy’s going getting beds
and she can get them there.

and i run back home pass the whirl and the burl and the oak and pine and the grape vines corn fields apples lemons greens and fruits-

and i pass the trees and i pass the stump and the tractor, street and scars on earth to the end of the road where the mud splashes puddles and makes for chocolate rain

and i heaved and sighed and realized
ill never wear my clothes again
and i know the reason why.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry


Tony vents about his sisiter-Monologue


Tony vents about his Sister-Monologue

There was a fine line between her space and mine in that Apartment. Like, It was always really crowded and we got caught up in our own space sometimes, like she would open the door and it would almost swing in my face. One time I got a nosebleed. She didn’t even bother to say she was sorry. Well, last night I went by the park and I just sat there, and thought. About living like that. I share everything with her, almost. Well, not a toothbrush. Anyway, I’ve just come to the sad conclusion that I hate her, just about as much as I hate my dad. I don’t care if  she’s my sister!  I can just pack up and steal away in a U-haul in the middle of the night and make it look like nothing’s happened for all I care. All I want to do is camp out at the library, work on my thesis, eat junk food and sleep. And Last Friday. Last Friday was the worst day of my life. Bea told me she was going to psychotherapy and that dad isn’t paying, so we’re gonna have to buckle down and find some way to get the money, which, by the way, is 4,500 dollars for all the sessions. I just ended up screaming at her for an hour, saying that it was her fault for screwing up our life and spending all that money on all that useless sh** and thinking she could get away with it all these years. I mean, she made so many stupid excuses. And I tried to make her do the right thing, but she ignored me. And then dad looked down at me like it was my fault, like I wasn’t the one looking out for her, said I’d have to live with her and pay for everything. I mean, what was my family doing to get us so messed up like this? Not once did my dad Look at Beatrice and say- Bea, you just made the biggest mistake of you’re life. No you go on and fix it.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry




Monolouge-Bad Influence


I felt like writing a monologue today. Don’t ask me why.


You wanna hear about it? Ok. So basically we had this big barn in the backyard when we were little and Emma would always pretend to be a chicken in there. And she would flap her arms out like an idiot and say things that chickens might say if they had brain cells. But she would scream. When we went into kindergarten it was the same torture all over again, only she wouldn’t let me speak. It was her game, she said. Eventually she just didn’t want us to be friends.  It was weird, you know, cause most of us would play in our little groups, and we didn’t, so it kind of made me feel special. But then she turned out to be some brat from the valley who had no clue on how to get by in school. She was like that all through Junior High even, I remember her getting three D’s and she didn’t even know it was a bad thing. She ended up going to Juvie or something. Wait, no, Sarah told me about that. Sorry,  that was a rumor. Anyway, I guess I’ve been used like that most of my life. And I never get any wiser after,  And then came the whole problem of relationships, which, on the whole, do make me want to gag. But Paul was different at first, you know? He loved me so much it was almost Ethereal. Well, that’s what Amy and Daisy and Leah all said about him. So that’s that one. And the rest of my girlfriends have all gone to become waitresses at some dump restaurant at I don’t even know where, and they’re just making minimum wage on the side so that they can even afford college. It’s sad, you know? My friends. I was the only one who ended up with a A in any of the classes they failed last year. No, actually, It’s pathetic. I can’t make friends with one  good person, and it’s really itching me to know why. Can you get the hell out of here?

Ruby Fly


She was only five at the time, so it seemed natural. Her feet were like turrets on old english castles.

But they had five toes each, that she knew

ruby touched the ball of her foot and squealed. It was ticklish.

the end of her toenail glistened int he sunlight

it was a bright reflection

but she couldn’t quite see her face in it.

Likewise, her toenail couldn’t see her.

The magpies on the street were all a hollder

the murder of crows darted through the unblemished sun scrapings

that were inevitably burnt into a sea gray sky.

the butterfly nest is now filled to the brim with wings

and ruby is a child again

feeling soft orange feathers flutter on her cheek.

She squints, and sees a shard of glass in the grass

she can’t see her face in it,

and the glass can’t see her.

She smiles, because life seems so funny.

She puts the shard of glass on her sill

and her mother doesn’t bother to spot

it’s invisible light shows.

her brother is a magpie

her mother is a crow

and she, a butterfly.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry