Fear, sensitivities, misunderstandings, anxiety
My eyes stayed lowered
My hands quivered and shook
My body tense
My mind in turmoil
Lost to wander alone
The past
Now I stand stronger
My eyes can fleet back and forth across the faces
My hands still speak my emotions
My body is calmer, my mind more focused
Now I have confidence, direction
Once people saw only my differences
With hard work and believing that I could
With understanding and patient supports
Now people see me but question my diagnosis
I now sit on a fence
Which way do I go?
Home, where I can honestly be me
Or to the world that I thought was what I wanted
Both offer different gifts, different aspects of life
I will not choose but instead remain comfy on the fence
Part of me on either side
Connected in both worlds

 

 

 

In this dark den,
a stillborn game of chess—
characters carefully poised
atop a table for attack; the shadow
of a spider plant, a black afghan,
a map of some unknown peninsula
somewhere near the Arctic ocean

I read in the news
that some explorer once got stranded
off the coastline of Kamchatka—
the snow made him blind
but he didn't really mind
until he got lost and couldn't find
the way back to his helicopter—

The brain is a confusing place,
a space of fear and forests
and tests, where the inquisitive
won't rest until each corner's
mapped on some handy GPS,
but if passion leads you
to burn all the trees
and ask too many silly questions
you'll be left with only brushfires
and a bad case of depression

there are places you can only find
when you give it all up
and leave the mind
to follow its own calling

and falling into sleep, I notice
in the dark, a pattern of brocade
I know is green without looking
on the sofa; a clock ticks
and I wonder this:
those scientists who insist that
you can't see colors in the dark,
they're wrong, they're all wrong,
they're missing the point completely —

and my brain, like a refrigerator
with its invisibly delicate ventricles
void of concepts and numerals
emptying cerebrospinal fluid into the dumps
of a sullen nervous system that pumps
water through the subconscious,
inflow and outflow, exchanging liquids
of life that remain locked inside us,
preparing iced tea for the characters
in my dreams

it's all good, it's miraculous
how the elements connect
so spectacularly when at rest —
analysis is a job best left
to the quiet skill of the pineal,
Magritte's magician,
its surreal juxtapositions
portraying me
in compromising positions—
juggling snow, clock, leaf

and how the cleaning crew comes in,
sweeping the 3am streets
of the corpus callosum
with giant trucks that buzz
their brushes over fallen blossoms
of false hopes, ripped-paper mistakes
that build up and blow in the breeze
causing traffic obstructions

and the cerebellum, didn't you know
instincts as well can cause disruptions
when not met with their usual interruption
of a much-anticipated coffee break?

tick tock tick tock—
I let my thoughts off their leash
and under the covers, I release my grasp
on the future and the past,
entrusting the world my soul to keep
and allowing myself the silent luxury
of sleep

© Sarah Noack 2007

Watch the new world form,

watch molten sea creep to shore.
Three women watch from lawnchairs.
"Move back!" my sister cries,
as the lava rush creeps forward —
liquid red, livid heat.
"Remember the time," I say,
rubbing her feet through black socks.
"The most beautiful feet,"
my mother says.
They're like flowers beginning to form.

Aeons.
Asleep in an amethyst cave
under a canopy of stars:
a struck geode, my skull's soft cockle forms.
The shore evolves —
rhythm wet, slowed and cooled,
water — salt — moon —
shroud.
The pointillist smile of stars.
On the black shore,
bauxite — giant crystals,
opaque, white, and sandstone —
cacti of calculus,
tall mothers of the tide,
pale in the moonlight.
We sing songs without words,
ask questions that sparkle and have no end.

I run naked through tidepools,
catching silver fish with my hands.
Bone, sand, bauxite — the monoliths stand,
marking the place of my birth,
sentinels for the stars:
guideposts to Casseiopeia and Rigel,
to Orion hunting baby blue dwarfs,
his belt pouch lined with shooting stars —
trajectories on my roof.
Crush, soft, slip, release —
the tide goes in, the tide goes out.
Under wet blankets, I sleep deep:
with every star thrown,
another soul born.

Cold daylight:
My mother takes me to an abbey.
Fog clouds the mountain;
I want to go home —
not knowing precisely where,
but not here —
the road narrows.
She'll stay overnight, then leave me alone.
In the abbey, votives burn —
the priest welcomes us.
I don't belong here, I think,
dreaming of bauxite gods.

The shore's eyes are closed.
Germany was born, I've lived too many lives.
I don't know where I am anymore.
My brother finds me asleep on a San Francisco street.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
I lost my sister by the molten shore,
my mother at the abbey.
How can I call this my home?
He takes me in and feeds me cracker jacks,
plays Stones riffs on the guitar.
He asks me if I'm homeless.
I tell him about the bauxite,
of the caves made of stars.

He laughs. "That's not bauxite!,
that's just some German national monument!"
He offers me a bed.
I lay awake under dry blankets
thinking of my father,
of the paleness of my brother's face;
I've come at the wrong time.
In my sleep, I return to the caves —
naked runs along tidepools,
music with no sound,
molten wakings of lava.

Each night I hide under bleachers —
travelling into other people's dreams,
picking up dropped scarves of dancers, lost.
Can I ever go back?
I dig deeper,
searching for buried songs in my bones.

—Sarah Noack

This is the story of a girl
who had the name of Jenessa A. Pearl.
Although Jenessa is smart,
she tears her learning apart.
She's driven to pure distraction:
when someone speaks, she gives a mean reaction.
Jenessa started to stare at the floor
when the teacher asked, "What's four plus four?"
Everyone answered except for Jen,
who was picking up a broken pen.
Someone asked, "Why is she in la-la land?"
Another said, "Her brain is sand!"
Jenessa saw the two kids laughing,
then she saw the teacher frowning.
The teacher said, "Ahem, I'm waiting."
Jenessa said, "I am creating
a cool invention from the spring of this pen."
The teacher said, "Oh Jen, not again,
you've earned a ticket to detention."
The next day at recess she sat by the fence
and said in her mind, "I wish I had friends."
A girl saw Jenessa whimpering and sad.
She said, "Poor girl, I'll make her feel glad."
She went up to Jen and said, "Hi, my name is Laurie.
You look so sad. Tell me your story."
"Nobody understands the good stuff I could do."
Laurie said, "I believe in you."
They became the best of friends
even though people made fun of Jen.
Never judge a book by its cover;
always get to know one another.

By Jeni Millogo
January 2012

Chainsaws of conversation intrude into our consciousness,

No one to listen to or care about our brilliant thoughts,

Destined by genetic misfortune to be outsiders of society,

Always living with loneliness,

Trying not to follow genetic compulsion,

"You are weird"

Strangers in our own heads,

"You can't trust the quiet ones!"

Shy, insecure, no self esteem or confidence,

"Why don't you speak up?"

"Cat got your tongue?"

"The squeaky wheel gets the grease"

Does the silent one have a gradual breakdown?

And get replaced by a shiny new one?

It can be the same with children,

"This one's no good, let's have another,"

The lonely Autism spectrum gloom surrounds us as children,

And we are shunned by the "normals",

Then we grow to be,

Depressed adults,

With a multitude of diagnoses,

Perhaps it's Aspergers Syndrome?

 

Ralph Nelson

I'm like  square peg tryna fit a round hole. And my congeniality map is malformed. With great effort I struggle to discover abilities that come as second nature to others. Communication is laden with unwritten rules and for their discernment I was gifted with insufficient tools. The goal of developing people skills couldn't possibly have been made into a steeper hill. My social sensibilities are short circuited so it seems I'm destined to be misinterpreted. But I only got one brain so instead of throwin my hands up and cursin it I try to work with it. My interests all lie upon a narrow field and very few people are subject their appeal. The  understanding of others seems unattainable and sharing my own interests makes me unrelatable. I tend to perseverate on a few topics like comic characters and Jazz soloists nuances. Like how the West End Blues trumpet solo follows the same pattern that the opening cadenza models. Or how the same image is on the first and last pages of every single chapter in the Watchmen graphic novel. I start talking you'll wanna pull out fast. It's like I'm destined to play the role of an outcast. As far as close friends I don't have a long list. Solitude is who I spend most of my time with.  We currently retain a strong involvement because she's the only one I get along with. I've noticed other people tend to avoid her but ever since our first encounter I have enjoyed her. As long as I live she will always remain a constant companion and a pleasure to reconnoiter.

Can’t you see
I just want to have a friend
Can’t you see
I need the same connections in the end 

Can’t you see
I want a good job
Can’t you see
I need to have stability and dependence and part of the general mob 

Can’t you see
I want to be independent on my own
Can’t you see
I want to be able to have my own home 

Can’t you see
I want the same things as everyone else
Can’t you see
I want to be appreciated for myself

Never knowing what to say
Never knowing what to do
Always looking for clues
Just a normal day 

Feeling unsure
Totally perplexed with everyday life
Always on edge never certain
I wish I could lift this curtain
Needing to constantly satisfy my need for information
Always online searching for new revelations
Going from site to site
Obtaining new insights every night 

Trying to connect with people my age
Attempting to reveal my unique vision
But ending up alone and unengaged
Feeling like my needs a total revision
Just a normal day

Try to understand the challenges that I face
I would like to be accepted as a human in all places
Where I will end up in life I don’t know
But I hope to be successful wherever I go
I would like to expand my social skills in life
Making new friends would be very nice 

Stand proud for the autistic man
For he will find a new fan
I hope to overcome the odds I face today
Increased acceptance will lead me to a brighter day 

By the age of 20, I will have made tremendous strides
I know in the future, life will continue to be an interesting ride
I have made new friends by the year
I will be given tremendous respect by my family and peers
I hope to get noted for bringing the issue of autism to the common man
So that autistic people can be accepted in this great land

Stand proud for the autistic man
For he will find a new fan
I hope to overcome the odds I face today
Increased acceptance will lead me to a brighter day

THE SILENT VALLEY

In the silent valley
Dialogue of two
Fathoming such wonder
All around me you

Flooded by horizons
Folding out in me
Land of no intrusions
A place to simply be

Intensity of no-one
Far-resounding peace
Speak unspoken language
As if words had ceased

Darker sky brings coolness
Rainfall's gentle hiss
Gorging eyes in blankness
Witness to your bliss

Grand and enigmatic
Light and darkness surge
Human life forgotten
Spirit lives, we merge.

 

They walk beside you
They may pass unnoticed
You may see them
Once they stand away
Seem different
Off on the side
In their own space
In their own movements
In their own world
They may make you laugh
Maybe you will get angry
Or, you may just shake your head
Walk away in disgust
They do not wish to harm anyone
They are just different then most
They are the invisible
They want to fit in with you
They may want to be your friend
There is a part of them that tries so hard
But they cannot change who they are
They cannot change what is real and true
So they will forever walk alone among you
They are the invisible
They are autistic

Nancy Getty

I am an individual
You may think I have oddities
They may be odd to you
But they are not odd to me
I can't change
It is who I am

I try to do it the way you asked
I can see you get upset with me
I have tried to understand
Do you try to understand me
Why am I always being made to feel wrong
Feel I am bad

Everything has a flow
The current sometimes splashes away
The force of the water will cut new paths
When the way is clear the water will be free
It can now venture a new direction
I will cut the path

It is the very things that seem odd
The ones that stand out
Have a strong sense of self
They will be the ones that form new paths
Paths for others to follow
Guide them in the right direction

Something can only be odd
Until you discover it's true self
Once this is accomplished
You can choose to embrace the oddities
See their purpose
And then understand that they are not bad

Nancy Getty

Through many years of solitude,
In a dark and complex maze,
I have struggled in confusion
To find the answers that explain
The rhythm pounding in my head
Seeking sequence in my deeds,
The thoughts that overwhelm meAnd divide me from my peers.

Am I a bird gliding freely,
With no need for earthly binds?
Or a ship tossed on a stormy sea
In a torrent that never ends?
Those others who seem so normal,
What do they think of me?
They must know that I'm different,
That I don't belong with them. 

Yet on I stumble, fighting fear,
Pretending to fit in,
I think I nearly fooled them
With chameleon-like skin.
They let me see into their world,
They showed me how it would be
If only I could change myself,
If only I weren't me. 

Then, quite by chance, a flippant word
Draws an understanding ear,
My differences at last explained,
At once, everything is clear!
I no longer need to feel ashamed
Of what the others see,
I'm perfect in my own parameters –
I'm not a freak, I'm me!

Nova 

 

This is the place of confusing maladies, simple children’s melodies
Of constant not knowing where to teach to fit in or where to not fit,
Making me face childhood jeerers all alone again through his eyes.
Uncovering his little perfect heart, purify the messages held within
Exuding out from all the extra static and noise and too loud silences.
Is hard enough to hear and see outside without my own echoing mind
Hard enough to do when I do not know how this special story starts
Much less how to help it along to a pleasant enough ending for both of us
How much I desperately wish I could just hug him to make it all better
Use the cure-all powers that other mommies have and take for granted
Not understanding the amazement I have for their magical mommy-arms
As I fill my empty, rejected limbs with hard books and cold pages to hug
Reading bedtime stories to myself each night in bed, attempting to heal,
To hang a tag on, to blanket, all my daytime fears with cleansing science
An appropriate scientific phrase… or blending all my startling stories
With anonymous, strangely-validating anecdotes written on paper and ink
Thus proving I’m not crazy after all, telling myself that at least it’s true
That if someone else has felt this, that it must be a real way to feel. 

Jessica D. Lovett 

4 freight trains full of tears
3 tons of threats, that
2 souls cannot bare more of 

Smoothed softly, healing
by only
ONE
glimpse of your smiling eyes
**

Bernd Rathke

A fish can´t shout
A couch won´t rage
Wanna be a Fishcouch, sometimes.

Bernd Rathke

The birch stands alone
It is within the forest of pines
But the birch is like a ghost
Its white bark seems brilliant
Brilliant to the darkness around it
The rough bark and sharp needles of the pines, fall against the birch
Pieces of the birch tear away as the pines throw down their needles
The birch stands strong
Under each layer of its bark there is a fresh new layer
It will call upon it to protect itself
It is like a ghost, not part of the forest, yet within the forest
Silently the birch stands
The wind will blow through its branches
The rain and snow will place weight on it
But the birch will stand strong
The pines soften the ground with their needles
Slowly they will rot at their base
The sap that oozes from within each pine, scars the bark
Large masses of sap gather on their exterior
It produces a scene of discard
The birch retains its essence
It does not cry away its life juices, they are its strength
Like a ghost it stands silent, unemotional
Ever so slowly, the birch grows between the pines
It learns to use the pines to fade into the forest
It allows the pines to feel they are superior
The birch stays quiet
The birch does not try to be a pine
The birch is solid within its bark
Like a ghost in the forest
The birch stands strong

Nancy Getty

Do you look so hard into the future because you fear your past or are you are not satisfied with where you are in the present?
Do you feel you can always do better by forgetting what it was that has brought you to where you are in this moment?
Your past is part of you but it does not define you.
To change the future you need to embrace the past, learn from it and understand.
Then from the past you may learn where you are in the present so you may look towards the future.
But how far do you dare look ahead before it becomes an assumption.
If the present is now and in the next moment or day you see the future then as each changes it then becomes the present.
To look to the future is to guess the outcome of something that is guided by your past and present.
In order to change the future you must first live in the present, each moment, each day so you may prepare and be able to imagine the future.
If you take each moment in the present and work with it individually always using what you have learned from the past, then the present future is within your grasp.
The distant future is a possibility if you guide your course from where you are in the present.
Do not fear where you have been; it is the past
Be comfortable where you are, it is the present
Take your learned knowledge into the future
Past plus present and future equals you
Trust in the moment.
Trust in you.

Nancy Getty

My Solitude

The thinkers mind enjoys his solitude but not so his heart

Alone in my world, tedium shows no respite
Time and space coalesce,
a shield, encumbering my heart

Giving me time to imprint my thoughts upon eternity

Sébastien Corbeil-Rabbat
Montréal, Québec   
October 2011

This is a poem I wrote for my Granddaughter who has Asperges.
It’s just about me trying to show her I’m trying to understand and will always be there for her.

A Friend In Me

I see a loneliness in your eyes
and I don’t know what to do
I know you’d like to be different
but then you wouldn’t be you.
You just want to be the same      
as your friend’s appear to be
but you need never feel alone
when you have a friend in me.

Sometimes when we’re together
I see the sunshine in your face
then something takes your mind
to a different and darker place.
Perhaps I say something wrong
or maybe it’s other things too
but if you talk to me, I will listen
and bring the sunlight back to you.

It’s not easy at eight years old
to have worries like you do
you feel different to all of us
but mostly we’re just like you.
So don’t you hide from your life
just live it the best you can do
and if I’m near, let my smile
find the happiness there in you.

Smile please
Teethy smile please
at four I thought you strange - why teethy smile Joe
I didn't know - faces blank and plain not registering in your brain

At six walking on the pavement cracks breaks your mothers back
come on Joe don't be so slow
I didn't know - multiplying pavement slabs takes time

At 10 working hard, so bright, I feel alert a rush, so proud
Read, write, science questionaires
I didn't know - so alone in the crowd

At 11 Mastering the stars - black holes look, mummy their, inside out the energy
confirmed by the programme I watched late at night
Whilst you thrashed at the bedclothes
I didn't know - No sleeping bag no sleep

Always followed by inadequacies
Socially unacceptabilities
Change must happen,
I didn't know -  I should have!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Alison Bingham (mother 12 yearold Aspie boy)

So here is the poem that led to me writing this book. It got lots of feedback wherever it went, and even won a prize.  I started to feel like there was a lot more where that came from. New Zealand poet and doctor Glenn Colquhoun saw a (much longer) early draft and told me it needed to be a whole collection of poems. I agreed. So did the ACT Government – they gave me a grant to work on it one day a week. Now I am writing it lots of brothers and sisters. The full CircleQuirk collection of autism poems is coming out in April 2012.

This particular poem explores the frightening and bewildering world of an autistic child, assaulted by everyday sounds most of us don’t even notice. Some of what happens in the poem has happened to my son, the rest has happened to children I know.

autistic child with acute auditory processing disorder

in the foetal position in the museum toilets, hands clamped over my ears, shrieking
trying to say there’s a dryer, there’s a dryer, any second now someone will set it off
the sound will be a faceful of boiling water

I’m sorry, your patient explanations are not getting through. It’s a very bad line.

at the indoor swimming pool, crouched behind the waterslide, poo-ing into my damp trunks
trying to say I have to get out, the echoes are attacking me in four dimensions, I’m on a bad trip and I can’t come down

at the backyard washing line, moaning and trying to burrow under the grass
trying to say there’s a bird, there’s a bird, it’s going to swoop down and screech in my ear
the sound will feel like an ice pick in my skull

Your cognitive behaviour therapy is not getting through at all. It is a very bad line.

at a birthday party, buried under cushions and wailing like a siren
trying to say I can’t stand it, the music and the voices are tearing at me, pecking me apart

in my bedroom after school, kicking my three-year-old sister in the face
trying to say go away, go away, you’re noisy, you’re unpredictable
I’ve been clinging to a cliff face for six hours and you’re dangling yourself from my ankles

running across a six-lane road, terrified of a toy poodle on the footpath
trying to say there’s a dog, there’s a dog, it’s going to bark
the sound will slug me like a sandpaper boxing glove

Your elaborate reward and punishment system, your guilt trips, your lectures, your bellowing and tears aren’t getting through either. This is a very bad line.

***

I’m on my first school excursion, going through the bus-wash and laughing with the other kids
I’m trying to say I can cope with this, I can even enjoy it
because you made me a schedule with lovely safe pictures and let me look at it all day

I am
a calm buzzy feeling of happy
the stuff I need seems to be getting through—

just not on the very bad line.

 

 

See more poems by Melinda Smith at www.circlequirk.wordpress.com

This poem is for all of us ASD parents who have had a ’moment of clarity’ in the middle of one of their child’s meltdowns.

Incidentally, the poem is an acrostic, meaning the initial letters of all the lines spell out a word or message.  Can you read what it is?

Autistic Acrostic

Any day now, it will lift.
Under your mask of howls, I see
Two knowing eyes reproaching me,
Incensed that I should try to shift
Some blame, for this, our hell, to you.
Mummy feels like howling too.

 

 

See more poems by Melinda Smith at www.circlequirk.wordpress.com

This poem is in the voice of an autistic primary (elementary) schooler.

The poem plays around with a common writing exercise, where you have to write a series of statements in the form of ‘I prefer x to y’. When you try writing one of these poems about yourself it is almost always BORING and unavoidably solipsistic. Try writing one from the point of view of someone else – say, an autistic child – and the result is, hopefully, more worth reading…

This poem will shortly be published in Quadrant magazine.  When it appears there it will have a different title: ‘Wish list for autistic primary schooler’ (I needed to put that information in the title because in the magazine I don’t get to write an explanatory note like I do with a blog post).

I prefer

serious illness to surprise
computers to my brother
reading number plates to Christmas morning

straight lines
submerging my ears in a warm bath to waterslides
deep fat fryers to matchbox cars

torture to haircuts
libraries to birthday parties
standing ankle-deep in ocean

tenpin bowling to climbing trees
looking at things out of the corner of my eye
Sonic the Hedgehog to family time

death to dentist visits
my mother with her glasses off
plastic wheelie bins to petting zoos

not to see my school friends outside of school
cricket statistics to Toy Story
chewing clothes-pegs to talking

rules to freedom
truth to sarcasm
home

to be left alone

 

 

See more poems by Melinda Smith at www.circlequirk.wordpress.com

This is one of the hardest poems I have ever had to write. I say ‘had to’ because I have tried several times to abandon it but it has kept on coming back to haunt me.

The poem is for parents. It is a pretty frank account of living through the first few years of life with a child with neurodevelopmental problems, including diagnosis and starting therapy. If you yourself have lived through this you may need a kleenex or two handy (although the poem ends on a positive note, it doesn’t pull punches about how dark things can get). If you have people in your family or circle of friends who still don’t get why you’ve been acting so weird since your child with difficulties was born, make them read this.

Please feel free to comment below. I should also acknowledge that this poem was written with the support of artsACT.

First…Then…

First change nappy
Then Thomas the Tank Engine

First clothes on
Then sandpit

First wash hair
Then chocolate frog

First the only baby crying all night in the hospital
Then the only baby wailing for the whole of mothers’ group
First the only mother convinced her child was permanently angry
Then the only one holding him in her arms and doing deep knee bends to calm him down

First thinking it was normal to scream until throwing up whenever we changed routine
Then shocked when I realised other families didn’t have to live like that
First astonished he could read at eighteen months
Then astonished at his shrieks every time his baby brother cried
First proud of every fact he could recite about the planet Jupiter
Then wondering why he needed twelve weeks of physio to learn how to jump

First hair cut
Then play with spray bottle

First stop biting Mummy
Then play with sliding door

First poo *in toilet*
Then flush

First letting his father talk me out of it
Then talking myself out of it
First knowing those therapists just didn’t get my child
Then googling autism with a chill in my heart
First joking about ‘our little Rain Man’
Then realising the joke was on me

First paralysis
Then fear
First incomprehension
Then overload

First Music Therapy
Then Homeopathy
First Triple-P Parenting for Parents of Children with Disabilities
Then Encouraging the Reluctant Eater
First Occupational Therapy
Then the social worker
First trusting the system
Then realising the system didn’t care enough or have enough money

First sit at table to eat
Then spinning with Mummy

First swallow medicine
Then build washing machine from cardboard boxes

First reading lots of parent testimonials
Then feeling like scum for not doing six hours of therapy with him every day
First wonderfully affirmed by Welcome to Holland
Then convinced Welcome to Holland left a lot of shit out
First talking to happy well-adjusted mums of older kids on the spectrum
Then terrified our family wouldn’t survive long enough for our kids to get that old
First poring over Autism and Asperger’s Syndrome for those who love and care for three-to-seven- year-olds
Then realising the only book I needed to read was The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time

First joining support groups
Then walking out of meetings because the horror stories people told at them could not possibly be true
First counselling
Then drugs
First sobbing to my friends
Then avoiding my friends and hating their normal uncomplicated children
First hearing that carers of autistic children are as stressed as soldiers in combat
Then bawling my eyes out

First thread the beads on the string
Then letterbox-counting walk

First stay at special needs soccer for ten minutes
Then computer time

First nearly destroying my marriage
Then clinging desparately to my marriage
First regretting the second child
Then realising the second child would probably save us all
First wanting my husband to see things my way
Then grateful he didn’t
First mourning my old life
Then understanding you never really get it back anyway
First obsessed with getting the whole family to accept the diagnosis
Then learning to take what help I could get and live with the elephant in the room

First shame
Then resentment
First desperate for pity
Then desperate for respite care
First whining
Then laughing

First crawling through it
Then writing about it
First today
Then tomorrow

 

See more poems by Melinda Smith at www.circlequirk.wordpress.com

I am
Wound tighter than a spring with Relief
Always felt<(0.5+0.5)
Bound up till i blurt out
Stuck between expressing and explaining
Finally pieced myself together
How do i show what they could see
Speak there words i can not hear
I have joy for a key
That unlocks no door to break free
Colors are formed as shapes emerge
Illuminations travel on free flowing curves
Light contrasts, allow arcs to flow
Smoothing rounds begin to glow
Combinations blend into one
Bring forth multiples to run
They re-emmit, while inter-wined
Transparency thru strait lines
Twist apart and pro-create
Suppling spirals fluent to figure eights
Cylinders, Obliges and domes
Establish themselves to be home
Up until, the bend occurs
Ever steeping the curves,
Pushes out the light
And clouds over into dark
Sensory issues tend to start
Let me try to break apart
Incorparative colors numbers letters even fonts
Automation thought response
Interconnection thru out my mind
Continuum reflection linking place an time
Numbers, words and songs defined
youth indifference, not knowing why
Any explaniation, asked "you high"?
Described as a rigid mind no ability to flex
Hypertensive states, migraine headaches
Feel a freedom to extract
No speech to hold me back
Comunication method in abstract
No verbal laws to navigate
leave open to mis-interpretate
In youth i experienced no end
My mind was fresh free to pretend
No restraints or guided bounds
Curious with all i found
Knowledge grew as years moved on
Memories based on sight and sound
Comprehension fomulates
Tightens a noose to create
Simulations of right and wrong
Broken lies turned into song
Laws enforced, terms dictate
The were and when, seasons and dates
Why all these rules?
Who drew these cards?
Born into ease, raised into hard
Joy of life, before i knew
Just what it meant "bills are due"
Damn it all you can have it back!
Evolution went off track
Telling all i feel just fine
More mediocre or sublime
But i work most of the time
From day start until the end
keeping track, making ammends
Controling all, not letting go
My eyes they dart, to and throw
Become confused then get enraged
Over little things, someone did change
Take it on to do it all
Intelligence begins to fall
Signs emerge when weight does drop
"Its just a job you need to stop"
Communicate from me to them
With words they do not comprehend
This was my mark you have destroyed
Accomplishment it brings forth joy?
Its never done theres always more
My thoughts cannot be ignored
Interpretations and multi-task
You know i can't but still you ask
Expansions thru to re-designs
With subtle intagrated lines
Exhausted and i am over tired
Have i trully lost my mind
Did my shelf life become expired
Split in two divides in half
The journey down twin sided path
Up and down, side to side
A spark connects both black and white
From left to right, back and forth
The dots connect to trace the course
A map of sorts a trail of crumbs
Chain links its way then come's undone
This static motion chasing unstated facts
In leaps and bounds all else retracts
Leaves only the place my quest was for
Founding solutions supplies half a door
The otherside and patterns change
All clarity turns to haze
Travelling a road that soon transcends
Into a maze free of dead ends
Searching the corners of a round
Inbetween sight and sound
Nothingness's endless stream
The parrellel of reasoning
This overloaded constant feed
Unbalanced spills out negativity
Filling up and drowning out
A day of hope replaced with doubt
Confused and lost to find the words
Interconnectedness thru every thought
Place and time disapear
Lost in thoughts escaping whats real
I came and went completed the line
Solved a puzzle by destroying mine
Piece by piece escapes my brain
Allot thats left is fear and pain
Like memories of long ago
Try on the smile say hello
You best put on a positive show
No more mumbling speak up loud and clear
Of that talk no one wants to hear
Measure of truth inside some lies
Spend years wishing i would die
Lost of chances given up so many times
Fabricated this talentless generic rhyme
There were options there for me?
Socailly inept, confused too
Struggled everyday at school
But everybody has it tough
Was raised with love, but felt disgust
Tryed to hide the negative in me
Its overflowed started to seep
An oddity of the human race?
Apathetic outlook held in place
I seek isolation most of the time
To much information streams in outside
Overloaded by a distorted algorhyme
Always there, never clear to see
In my brain thoughts run free,
Like a perpetual contingincy
No it's not insanity
At times feels like its destroying me
Can not function socially
Erratic swings emoitionally
Paralysied with anxiety
Pushed away those who are close to me
I don't know who i am supposed to be
Attenion lacks in focusing
Conversing, but don no know what you mean
God i hope this life is just a dream
Wake up at night and want to scream
Speech locks up, now stuttering
Continuum connecting train like string
Automates fluent visual imagery
Colors and shapes form memories
Sounds and times of used to be
Drowned by endless negativity
Helps extracting as its emerged
Maybe i just need to purge
Do you understand these words?
To me it comes across completly absurd
Talking about things like the general heard

My jig is up
The missing piece of my puzzle is not in a box
Yet the box supplies a false sense of comfort
Torn apart not for entertainment
Just to pass the time
Stripped of all value
It remains the same outside
Empty of substance
Without purpose
And once again by whose hands
No one can see how much was damaged in assembly
When your framed and hung on display

 

New ebook of poetry and prose, available for purchase at susanmoffitt.com

Now he is a salmon
swimming against the current
encountering many dangers
on his rugged journey

Simple joys of childhood
elude him
there are no play dates
no sleepovers
a birthday party
makes him feel like
a kitten in a teeming jungle

Awkward with his body
never picked for teams
alone at recess
acting a play
where he holds
all the parts

Teachers scorn him
children tease him
loud noises strike as pain
He stutters racing thoughts by day
thrashes in his bed at night

Even so he scoffs
when the psychiatrist asks him
if he wants to end his life.
He doesn't want to change
anything about himself, he says,
except he'd like to be calmer.

He breaks and remakes my heart
on a daily basis.
My son, my intrepid traveler,

Swim on, swim on...

 

New ebook of poetry and prose, available for purchase at susanmoffitt.com

Tom feels alone most of the time.
He feels left out, and out of place
He looks for some signs.
His voice doesn’t ever match his face.
He cannot drive, he is an underdeveloped man.
He tends to focus a lot on overdeveloped plans.
And the night comes through to haunt him.
The mysterious fears that never go away.
Can’t he make it through another day?

Almost all alone.
Nobody at home but his father.
Almost all alone.
Nobody at home but his father.
Right now.
He can make it somehow.
If he stands at the edge
He can feel proud.
And good.
Not just misunderstood.

Tom has been on many dates.
Yet they always fall to parts.
Nobody really gets him.
His honesty tears them apart.
He cannot always argue
About things he doesn’t know.
Too bad that his realm of knowledge.
Is specialized yet interpreted as slow.

And the night comes through to haunt him.
So many thoughts he cannot sleep.
Not even counting sheep can make him sleep.
1,2, 3, 4
Nobody in his dream but his mother and father.
1,2, 3, 4
Only reliable people he knows.
Add some relatives, a few friends
It may even grow.

And soon it will come, all dreams can come true.
But they may always alienate him while it lasts.
Maybe the only peace is eternal peace when he is 99.
Or maybe some smiles can make it all pass.

Right now.
He can make it somehow.
If he stands at the edge
He can feel proud.
And good.
Not just misunderstood.

 

Merrick's website is www.merrickegber.com

You open you mouth and say something
Yet it seems no one hears you
It got lost in translation

You try once more
You say your say again
Yet they still don't seem to be listening
It got lost in translation once more
It's got corrupted some how

How is this possible?
We speak the same language
You try a third time
It still does not work

You are given the look or reprimanded for your trouble
Your reaction to this, is to keep quiet
Don't make a scene
The frustration it brings
How do you get them to understand?

 

For more of Dapper's poems, please go to www.scribd.com/dappermuis

You are 3 nearly 4
You are going shopping today with Mommy
She places things into the basket
You walk with her
She stops at the toy isle

She has a surprise for you
New puzzles
Suddenly you feel funny
Things look funny too
But you have no words to say it

Mommy looks at the puzzles some more
You don't know what to do
Mommy asks if you like them
After a pause
You manage to nod your head

But you are not really looking at the puzzles anymore
Your mind is racing a mile a minute
Why won't this strange thing that is happening to you stop?
Strangely you are not scared

But you are confused
You don't know what to do
Why doesn't Mommy see?
Mommy starts to move
You follow her

By the time you leave the shop
The worst is over
It is almost all gone now
But why didn't Mommy say something about it?
Because she hasn't
This must be the way things are

Over the years I have had other such incidents
But because no one made a fuss about it.
Therefore I didn't get scared
Some surely should have notices something was off

But I didn't throw a tantrum about it
Like most would do
They took it as been just quirky me
Because of this
I took it to be the way life was
No matter how confusing it was for me

 

For more of Dapper's poems, please go to www.scribd.com/dappermuis

I forget the man's name (if I ever learned it). He said he was a disability self-advocate with an autism spectrum condition. When he learned that I, too, am on the spectrum, he told me how he was repeatedly refused the legally guaranteed accommodations for his multiple disabilities, which range — he informed me — from autism to a visual disability requiring that everything he is given to read must be provided in large type.

Smiling like an Olympic medalist, he pulled from the pocket of his jeans some documentation he had prepared. He explained that he shows this paperwork to every government agency, organization, and business he deals with, either when he arrives or once they make life harder for him by not (for instance) providing him with large-print copies of forms and brochures.

The documentation — at least eight pages of closely spaced small type, detailing his disabilities and the accommodations he should receive for each — was faded, worn, grubby, and fragmenting at the edges. Several words and phrases were grimed beyond reading. Others had disappeared into holes worn by pants-pocket transport. (He said that he has been carrying his papers around for years, replacing them whenever they finally fall apart or when there is a change in the rules or in his requirements.)

The man with the eight grimy pages complained of irresponsible office staff who ignored his needss. After all, he had bothered to list his requirements, list the applicable laws, then print out new copies whenever the laws changed or his documents fell apart completely.

"Those bureaucrats are breaking the ADA law," he explained — "Most of them won't even pick this up and look at it when I tell them to. The rest take one look and either won't bother to unfold it,  or claim they can't read it and say it's my job to put it into a usable format if I want action. Even the ones who do bother taking a look — well, sooner or later they say it would be prohibitively expensive in time and effort for them to meet some need I have. They talk about how the law lets them off the hook if the expense would be damaging."

"About them not looking at your documentation — why not carry it in something other than your pocket, so it can stay safe? Maybe get the next copy laminated? A laminated copy would not need to be replaced so frequently — and office staff would have less excuse to ignore it, because it would be legible."

"No, laminating would make it harder to carry around. Also, I shouldn't have to spend money on laminating because I'd have to do it again each time there was a change in my needs or a change in the laws."

In other words, he objected that it would be prohibitively expensive in terms of time and effort. That exempted him, he was sure — and he was equally sure that other people, if they could benefit him, should not be exempted.

"If it even was necessary to go to such trouble for me to just get my disability needs met" — the self-advocate continued — "then it would be something that should be done for me as an accommodation anyway. I should not have to be the one to make stuff happen."

"Lamination can be costly," I agreed — "When paperwork can't be laminated, another way to protect it is to put it in a zip-lock freezer-bag. That costs much less than laminating, and is simple to replace when needed."

"But you're still suggesting that I should handle my own needs at my own expense. It isn't my job to put out effort and expense for my needs — that's their job."  

He cited his need for large print.  "Any office with a copy machine can use the ENLARGE setting. I tell them to just take whatever they need me to read, and photocopy it on ENLARGE, and they complain it's too much time and trouble.  Do they think it takes time to push buttons? Do they think it costs money to run a Xerox machine?"

I agreed that photocopying is easy (though not free) and wondered if he'd used alternatives when he couldn't get enlarged copies.

"Do you have a cell-phone?" I asked — "You can enlarge things on a cell-phone camera, too. If they won't give you large type, take a picture of whatever's in regular-sized type, and enlarge it. Lots of people do this when they have trouble reading fine print."

"Sure, I could do that, but why? Are you putting the onus on me to meet my own daily needs?"

"Yes," I told him.

That was the first time I'd heard self-care called an "onus" as though it was wrong and stigmatizing. (In my shock at hearing this implied — by a self-styled self-advocate — I failed to reach a better answer: that self-care and self-advocacy were not a burden created by me. The burden was on him already, whether I said so or not.)

"But that's not fair — " he sputtered — "to talk as if I'm the one who must take action to get my needs met! It's supposed to be the agencies making this happen: that's the law! Thinking I should make the effort is a denial of my civil rights!" He frowned, folded away his grimy self-advocacy aid, and shoved it into his pocket as he turned and left.

I recalled a quote from the biography of Viktor Belenko (ex-USSR fighter pilot): "If you want milk, take your pail to the radio." That saying had been common during the Stalin and Khrushchev years: the citizens' way of summing up the frequently announced new laws, new directives, new goals, new mandates, new ideological criteria that (the announcements claimed) meant fairness and abundance for everyone. While production and delivery systems erred, collapsed, or failed to materialize, radio broadcasts and the newspapers fed the public on announcement after government announcement of unprecedented bumper harvests, of supermarket shelves full to bursting, of clothing shops and hardware stores full of marvelous new items which were now to be had because citizens had a right to them.

On the radio, there was milk; at the store, there wasn't — and on the farm, the cow was gone: it had died, or been killed, in the famine concurrent with the previous wave of announcements.  "If you want milk, take your pail to the radio."

That fellow with the eight pages of small type, I judge, has been taking his pail to the radio for some years. He resents the radio for not giving milk — and resents anyone who queries the flaws in his milking procedure.

He is not alone. As a person with disabilities, I notice when others with disabilities have been taught to "take their pails to the radio" and, by implication, to ignore other ways of getting what they need.

Take your pail to the radio and wait, because the radio guarantees you'll have milk. If the radio does not give milk — complete more paperwork and twist the dials harder. If someone suggests looking for a grocery store or a cow (or a neighbor with a full fridge, who might be persuaded to share if you fix the neighbor's computer) — condemn the suggester as an opponent of your civil rights.

We people with disabilities are constantly, officially reminded that we are "people first, and disabled second." People exchange things they have for things they need or want. Often, it's money — just as often, it is at least minimal effort (if you want an enlarged picture, push the ENLARGE button). Other exchanges are less obvious but are still present. (Children, for instance, receive care because of the intangible but real rewards that they bring to their parents.)

But when it comes to people with disabilities ... too many of us have been taught that it is unnecessary, that it is even an "onus," to wonder what we might need to do, or might offer others, as part of gaining the goods or services that we want, that we need, and that we believe we have a right to. We've been taught to "milk the radio" (or to expect others to do it for us) — and wonder why we're thirsty.

As I was heading homeward on the bus at 6:03,
I overheard two people, and they were discussing me:
My workplace supervisor, Ann, complaining to her boss
That, though I did my job quite well, I was a social loss.

"She does not like the office parties our department throws:
She comes, she tries to be polite — it's _trying_. Well, that shows.
She's helpful, kind, she stays on task. Subordinates and I
Depend on her for research ... still, we wish she'd quit or die."

Her boss asked questions. Then she said: "Yes, Ann, that type I know.
I cannot put my finger on just why they ought to go.
I do not care how well they do: when folks like that are hired,
If we can't make them want to quit, it's best to have them fired."

Ann said: "Oh, yes, she's got to go. I sure agree that's true.
I've planned a little accident. I'll share the news with you.
You know the First Aid training all our staffers have to pass?
Her name's been dropped discreetly from the roster for the class."

(I'd heard no hint of this before. In fact, I had been told
By Ann, that very afternoon: "Tomorrow you're enrolled
To take the First Aid session. Please be here by half-past eight —
The first floor auditorium: no credit if you're late.")

So I spoke up (in terror at how rude I must appear) —
"Why, Ann! And Mrs. Sánchez! What a pleasure meeting here!"
They turned and glared and frowned because they knew I knew they knew
I'd overheard each single word of what they aimed to do.

I kept that job — because by eight I'd memoed Personnel,
And "cc"ed several advocates the tale I had to tell.
(But other times I've lost a job, I've wondered: "Was it me,
Or was it conversation on the bus at 6:03?")

Down in his playpen, early in the morning,
Stevie lines his toys up in a long straight row.
"How awful!" says the therapist — "Pay me to extinguish that!
Forty hours each week will make it go."

It's Autism Sunday, that one day a year
We welcome in fellowship "those folks" 'round here.
We pray to become more autistic-aware
On this one special Sunday: the rest, we don't care.

We'll pray for you all, you're the cause of the week:
But please don't imagine that you ought to speak.
We pray for you, speak for you, we shall decide —
We steer the course, you're along for the ride.

We'll pray you get healthcare and all of that stuff:
We'll pray once again — now, that should be enough.
Sure, come here next Sunday if help you still seek,
And we will inform you: "We prayed that last week!"

The service is ended, we rush to the door.
Till Autism Sunday next year, we'll ignore
The folks that we pray for, this one day a year:
It's Autism Sunday, we're _so_ glad you're here!

Words

Words. They are stuck.
It’s stuck in my throat.
No place to go.

Easing it out with very little tools
Sharp objects obstructing its path
Worrying its way through. There.

Some words still left behind
Deeper down in the pit
In the stomach, hastening to escape.

Unsure how to let go
How to form itself into a phrase
Is it too sharp, is it too loose?

Will it hurt others
As much as it hurts me?
Should I bury it for eternity?

It tumbles around and spins inside
The ruckus is overpowering
Jumbled. Bumping into the walls.

Loud noises of chaos from within
Unable to stifle, patience wearing thin.
How to transition from this phase?

What will these thoughts reflect
To those who land with it
And what will they perceive it to be?

Once it is out, it is free
Free of me but free for them too
And never can you know, what they will do.

For ‘tis the soul
That weaves your essence into cloth
Sparkling in the sun with its glint

Taking with you a story of your past
To wear on your sleeves for all to see
True intentions, merely a hint.

Inhibitions exploding like a raging sea
Cloudless skies not marring your thoughts
Your words are free to soar.

http://ponderingprose.wordpress.com/2011/06/13/words/

Henny Kornbluh-Kupferstein
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Autism, from A to Z by Jenny Gibson, parent of 9 year old Aspie girl

Any poem that I write these days will
Begin with Autism,
Certainly will end there, too.

Doesn't feel like I'll
Ever be able to
Fathom its icy depths, or its vice-like
Grip on my heart.

Helpless
I watched it invade our lives -
Just flailed its way through,
Kicking and screaming,
Like those meltdowns that last for hours.

Mostly it is this unmovable presence,
Never relenting,
Only conceding the smallest victories - a word, a look.
Peddling our dreams and
Quelling the future...

Running it down has worn me out.

Surely Strength lies on the autism spectrum too -
The kind that forges
Unsung heros and everyday miracles to
Vindicate - because the
World is not always right.

X will always be an unknown quantity, so one day,
You just drop the
Zealous pursuit of normal...

An imprisoned mind guides the imagination to a new world unlike reality. Reality consists of a 3 dimensional world that allows our bodies, minds and spirits to wander about freely. When the mind is bound in isolation the imagination creates a 4th dimension that makes free will unattainable. Within the 4th dimension, the body, mind and spirit creep about from corner to corner as a prisoner within their creation. The imagination appears as an uninvited entity which holds the mind captive. It is in the 4th dimension of the mind that the uninvited entity becomes a savior of solitude. Imprisonment of the mind and isolation of the body creates psychosis as the savior weaves through every fiber of the mind, body and soul.

There she stands at the crossroads, glancing left and right as she waits for her savior to guide her beyond the ghosts that haunt her. She is a witness to this curse of riddled eyes and silent breath; hallowed eyes that stare and voices without words.

In her poem "Fallen into Nothingness," Lynette McAllister bows to her savior of solitude:

Fallen into a convoy of nameless seekers,

Burning bridges and twisted trees lie among those waiting to die.

Shuffling feet stir the smoldering gravel bed,

Iron chains tear jagged wet flesh deep into nothingness.

Creeping bodies slither to the caved alter,

Each isolated from their pain, She appears to cease the rain.

The razor's edge release crimson blood,

Numb minds dwell in solitude as flesh bleeds for You.

Suspended in a void and unaware of reality, a savior is created. All that is within is concealed without expression, a numb soul peers through hollow eyes unable to see and unable to flourish. She creeps from corner to corner as a creature summoned by her master. Her fate is buried in the tomb of forgotten poets; her words hidden beneath the coagulated smears that once inspired brilliant minds, but now symbolize the destruction of her journey. A poet's journey, a fate of self expression and freedom to expand one's mind is destroyed when chains confine the imagination. The imagination is a creative entity within each being. Bound by constraints the imagination will find refuge within itself, creating a world that no other being can penetrate.

The imagination is wise to the outside world and will appear sane to protect its creation of the inner savior. If the inner savior is seen creeping with its conquered, then brutal anguish is cast upon them from the unbelievers. All that is within you is judged by the outside world, you become an outcast in society and medicated until you lose your imagination, until you lose your savior and become one with society.

As a duel entity in a world created by your imagination, you creep silently on the verge of insanity. You creep over any barrier that crosses your path. The path has many twists and turns but inevitably must end. The mind is powerful when it is free to be creative and express ideas, but when the mind is confined, darkness appears. The imagination unleashes a divine entity that creates a new world where you have a purpose. It is there that your savior reveals your purpose and guides you to the light through space and time. The fate that you wished for, the fate that you hoped for is lost. You are lost in time, unaware of time and left to wonder where time has gone. In your imagination there is only one that walks with you, your savior that guides you to the end of time. There are no more questions since time does not exist.

I can see that you need me

but I don’t know how or why,

and I can see that you’re brokenbut I just can’t understand - understand me.

It’s not the things in front of me that I can’t see.It’s everything that’s behind your face

and all your neurotypical waysthat confound me.

If you only took the time

just to try to see through my eyes -

the way I spend my life,

trying to unravel your mysteries.

Then maybe we could be fine.

Maybe even normal.

Until then I guess we’ll wait,

you on one side and I on the other -

because there is no halfway point.

So sick of trying to be normal, 

why should I have to change for you?

It’s like I’m blindfolded, 

and deaf to you - and everything you are.

 

By Willow

www.willowhope.com

Crack open my veins, and tell me

that I don't feel. Perhaps you might miss

the sparkle, the stardust, or the

spectrums that hop a ride on the backs of my blood cells

once they have leaped out of my DNA: but you won't miss

the scarlet oozing from ripped-open wounds,

the black from the feathers that I keep pulling out of my throat,

or the clouded crystalline from the rain that sometimes

falls from my eyes. Look carefully: if you hold

a droplet up to the light, a rainbow might emerge

in spite of your disbelief.

Please understand something. Autism

is not a vacuous body, a carnal vessel devoid

of any essence. It was said that Martin Luther made that mistake

500 years ago, declaring what was likely an autistic boy to be

an empty CPU with a demonic operating system. There is

a soul, rising and sparkling up from the depths

where chakras glow and pulsate: and from there

is where the jubilation, rage, and tears may come. Our veins

are simply stripped open: look closely, and you will see

the circuitry hum and glisten.

 

And because we are stripped open, we also know

when you glow, when you throb, and when you

rage. Some of us are blind to the colors, and some of us

only see bold print. Some of us wear suits of armor,

shutting off receivers and retracting antennae

to make sure that we don't detonate from signal overload.

A meltdown means all circuits are busy.

A lack of eye contact means we are crystalline

and breakable.

 

And if we are all a spectrum, then I am amethyst.

Royal. Aubergine. Keep listening. There is a little boy in Brooklyn,

enchanted by lampposts, who is sable and emerald

just like the giant streetlight gods that he admires. There is

a livestock expert in Colorado who is denim, red, and black

like the shirts she has carefully embroidered with cowboy language. I know

a poet in Georgia who can become carmine, sienna, or umber

like the mud beneath the feet of its millions of souls. And the

man that I love is black and white like the organ keys

that he pulls his music from. Now, tell me

that we don't have color.

 

Please understand that we are transparent.

We burn and grow lucent by our faith, not by your sight,

for sight can be blind and we kindle and flare under

the cover of your eyes' darkness. If not tempered, we might

absorb the whole world in our veins,

swallow skyscrapers into our bones,

and purloin every one of your gazes into our own: but it would all

be too much. Because of this, understand

that we cannot afford to expand without bursting our skins.

I will still watch you laugh, rage and weep: and when you do,

crack open my veins. You will see every reflection of yourself.

Yes, crack open my veins.

And tell me that I don't feel.

 

By Nicole Nicholson

You don't see it, but some days

I drag moonlit danger behind me like a veil of milky dust

casting itself off of my crown. I balance

armies of fire on the backs of my arms and

use them for wings. I hear

the stars rubbing their legs together for the want of music

and hanging gold fiddled notes on Venus' earlobes. They

chime, making love in the solar wind.

I strap bass lines onto my back;

wrap chain mail angels around my chest;

strap thunderclouds to the soles of my feet;

and I dance.

 

You wouldn't know it,

but I have a thousand Heavens

and just as many Hells burning inside. You see

the computer mind, but not the

glass shatter heart. I sometimes wonder

if I am a transparent kachina in your line of sight, if you can

already see how much I burn; but you

always prove me wrong. You

try to unzip me, and see my eyes fleeing away from you

like startled ponies. Do you really

know me? If you did, you would know that

if I look at you too long, I might burst.

 

But you don't know. And how can I tell you?

I consult the dictionary of human behavior every day.

I had to load it into my brain and make it learn

that you open doors with hello and

that you close them with goodbye. I had to learn

the mechanics of when to smile, when to laugh.

If I like you, I tear encyclopedia pages and pictures from off my walls

to give to you as gifts. And if I were to love you, I might

serenade you with music channeled from the

stereo installed into my brain that I first noticed

when I was ten.

But small talk still feels like grease on my

fingertips. And some days, I hear

my own voice rendered in Greek and wonder

when I will speak my own tongue again.

 

So I will speak my own dialect of

encyclopedia notes, photographs, trivia bank entries,

badly sung covers of the originals, words shaped

like arrows. There may be no smiles, no

dance of our eyes, no oil between us to make things

easier. That's not how I work, and I am

not ashamed of this. And maybe some day, you will

see me dance.

 

By Nicole Nicholson