The emergency department at Sketchy Eastside Hospital is sprawling, spread out over five or six treatment areas connected by corridors routinely filled by sick people on stretchers.  Everyone working there knows their job, and knows that doing their job will take every ounce of their energy that shift, so there's not a lot of room for pleasantries ( Read more... )

I'm not sure what to make of this poem.  The relationship described seems too complicated to parse.  There's some chilling imagery of a partner casually poisoning and imprisoning the speaker, but also little endearing details, like the naming of bugs.  And then there's the archetypal symbol of connection across a distance: hands held palm-to-palm ( Read more... )

and seem written for your life in weird ways that couldn't possibly be intended.  To wit:

( Spring Forward, Fall Back )

Every three months, I go to the university pharmacy to pick up three more packs of oral contraceptive pills, and in the 20 minutes it takes for my script to get filled, I usually go browse the university bookstore.  More often than not I buy something -- it's kind of a ritual.  Lately I try to pick up poetry that catches my eye.

Last time I picked ( Read more... )

 So it seems that I am never going to be a licensed driver.  Ever.

The worst part is, this time around, I have no memory or understanding of making the mistake she failed me for.  I thought I had done pretty well on the test, frankly.  But when we got back she informed me that at one intersection, I made a right turn at a stop sign that forced an ( Read more... )

I have a lot going on in my head at the moment and none of it is interesting.  So!  Poem?

I think this is, unfortunately, the kind of poem that makes people hate poetry.  So hang in there, if you're reading this -- don't give up yet -- I'll try to talk you through some of it but it's not like I'm some kind of expert.  Just hold on tight, it's a bit ( Read more... )

Oh, the meandering nature of journal-keeping.  I've started the process several times over now.  Each time I have the best of intentions.  But each time I fail for one reason or another: schedules, complex personal requirements, the sheer boredom of my life sometimes.  Then again, what's "failing"?  This poem makes me think I've been succeeding all ( Read more... )