I Love You Carl Kolchack

I Love You Carl Kolchack

Although, as a child
I was afraid of scary
monsters and other
night creatures I really loved
me some fucking Nightstalker.

heidi
written 4/11/13
5-7-5-7-7

tanka

Happy Holidays!

Hey y'all! I hope you have a wonderful and joyous holiday season this year!

heidi

For the Holidays

This year for the holidays, what I'd most like to eat

12 turkey meatballs
11 cups of pasta
10 homemade cupcakes
9 slabs of bacon
8 squash casseroles
7 quarts of field peas
6 chimichangas
5 turnip greens!
4 pounds of potatoes
3 fruit pies
2 fried chickens
and several gallons of sweet tea!

heidi
written 12/22/13
submitted to MLM "Holiday Stories" prompt

I couldn't help myself.

On Blogging...

attention whore

     that i am


posting for the validation

     for the thrill
          of approval

ignoring the potential for art


focusing on the eyes on me


naked

     exposed

          receptive


validate me
approve of me
love me

heidi
written: 11/18/13

Sometimes, I write something and all I can think about it is that I may have wasted my youth being a "good girl." Other times I think that my counselor would probably make some sort of deal about this.As for this poem, I think both of these things. 

Writing Cascade

Writing, for me,
is like a period
cyclical, flowing
frustrating, inevitable
how I will miss it when it's gone
for good.

Days, weeks, months, years
drift by casually and
I am dry, void of a spark
then a painful gush, and I can't stop
that's what it's like
writing, for me.

I am overwhelmed
with the opportunity
to create, to birth
something that was not here before.
Then, full stop, writer's block
is like a period.

It's like creative constipation
all my ideas backing up pressing for release
other times, I can stop and it won't bother me
not even a little tickle in my brain
I know this will pass,
cyclical, flowing.

I feel like a toy
an out of control spinning top
exhilarating,  dizzying
spewing words that seem
that do not feel like the come from me, it's
frustrating, inevitable.

As with anything,
my storytelling has had
a beginning and it follows
there will be an end
if writing dies before me...
how I will miss it when it's gone.

At that point,
I hope that I will have made some
sort of difference...
helped someone laugh
or someone cry
for good.

heidi
written: 10/30/13

I think there are some more cascades in my future. I really do not know how to evaluate my own work, so I never know if what I post is good or not. I do know what is fun to write and this was fun. (I also like to talk about periods, much to the chagrin of my husband and my brother, so that was another reason this was fun.)

Why I Hate Mayonnaise: Thank You, Stacy Corbin

The first sandwich I remember liking was banana and mayonnaise.  I can remember being very young, maybe three, and wanting a banana and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread.  I loved the combination of the sweet banana and the salty fat of the mayonnaise. As I write this I can even remember the smell...

As I grew older the banana and mayonnaise sandwiches stopped. I think one was left in our car during the summer in Montgomery, Alabama, which would equal a stinky car and the possible cause for me never eating another one again. I did, however, eat other sandwiches, and they all had mayonnaise.

I grew up in Mobile, Alabama, and when I started school, I went to the Julius T. Wright Preparatory School for girls. In third grade, I heard a story that changed my life, and sealed my current relationship with mayonnaise thirty-five years later.

I was eating lunch with my best friend, Rachel, when Stacy Corbin came over to our table (our class had three Stacy's that year). I really liked Stacy, but I had learned that eating lunch with her was like eating Sunday dinner with my cousins on my grandparents' outdoor picnic table. It was gross. She loved the see-food joke and she told really disgusting stories. She said, "Hey, y'all know where mayonnaise comes from?" and then proceeded to tell us this story. (If you love mayonnaise, you may want to skip this part, pick it up again at the asterisk.)

There once was this boy who loved mayonnaise. He loved it so much that he would eat it straight out the jar. He often got into trouble with his mom for eating all of the mayonnaise. One day, his mom brought home three jumbo jars of mayonnaise and warned him not to eat it out of the jars. That night, after everyone went to bed, the boy couldn't go to sleep because he kept thinking about that mayonnaise. He decided to sneak down and eat just a little bit. He ended up eating every bit of mayonnaise from all THREE jars. He was sleepy from eating all of the mayonnaise and went to bed.

The next morning he woke up and remembered eating all of the mayonnaise. He knew that he was going to he was going to be in so much trouble. He got ready for school and prepared himself for his  mad mom. He walked into the kitchen and his breakfast was waiting for him. His mom looked happy and was making his lunch to take to school. She was using the mayonnaise from one of the jars she had bought the day before! When he got home from school he checked and all of the mayonnaise was in the jars.

That night he snuck back downstairs and ate all of the mayonnaise again. The next morning, it was all filled up. He snuck out of his room the next night and the same thing happened. He was really curious what was happening, so the last night, he snuck into the kitchen and ate every bit of that delicious mayonnaise. Then, instead of going right back to bed, he hid. A short while later he saw a woman walk into his kitchen. She was wearing a turban on her head. She went to the utensil drawer and got out the biggest spoon she could find and put the empty jars in front of her.  Then she took off her turban. In the center of her head she had a huge oozing hole. She scooped the pus out of her head and filled up all three mayonnaise jars, and put them back.


I looked at my Vienna sausage and mayonnaise sandwich and gagged. All I could smell was mayonnaise and all I could picture was pus. I looked over at Rachel. She had also stopped eating and was a little white. She also looked pissed at Stacy. I "eeeewwwed" and Stacy left, laughing.

*

I have a rather vivid imagination and a very sensitive gag reflex. I have actually gagged twice while typing this. I don't eat mayonnaise on purpose. If it is mixed in something and the flavor or smell isn't prevalent, then it's okay, just don't tell me. Because I hate it. I hate the word. I want it banished from the face of the planet.

And that is the true story about why I hate mayonnaise.

heidi
written: 12/14/13

My first attempt at a non-fiction essay. I feel like Erma Bombeck, if Erma Bombeck wrote gross stories about mayonnaise.  I am completely open to critique on this one.

fear

I hate
living in fear of my own brain
in fear of the truth of who I am
or who I may be.

I hate the worry
that I may be the worst thing
that ever happened to my
children.

I hate the
uncertainty.

I hate
the fear.

I am scared that I may be nothing more than
a stereotype...

     and I hate it.

heidi
written: 11/2/13

Sometimes I think the poetry is scarier than the short stories.

sweet girl

so many years later
and I still want to be
your

sweet girl.

i watch their blonde heads
bent,
conspiring together.

i think about how you should be

here

in

this

moment.

i imagine you call her

sweet girl

and make myself jealous
of my very own
daughter.

i know how much
you would love them


i know how much you would
like them.

delighting in their stories.

i wish you could have met them.

i wish i could hear you call my Aoife sweet girl.

i wish you were still here.

i wish that i could see you smile at my babies.

i wish i were still my grandma's sweet girl.

heidi
written 12/5/13

inspired by Fathers and Sons and Men by Buddah Moskowitz at I Hate Poetry: The New Buddah Moskowitz Archive.

for my Grandma

Some Thanks

Hey y'all!

So the reddit No Sleep contest is over, and Peggy got either nine or ten votes, which put her pretty solidly in the middle of the pack. I think that's a rather respectable showing. Thanks for everyone who voted for me and for your continued support of the lasagna. I have another story gestating right now that I'll post in a couple of months. I have to brush up on parasites and neuropsychology, so if anyone knows any "for dummies" books that address these two topics, let me know,

Thanks,

heidi

How It Feels to Be Mrs. Roper

you interrupt me
     mid-sentence
to say you are going to bed

                                                           now

and then talk for
     ten
          more
               minutes

leaving me the

butt

of some joke
that I get
     and is never funny.

with each
            rejection
you insert both hands

into

my chest

removing my

beating

heart

to stare at
before
     casually tossing it to the ground
                                                walking away
as I scramble to

stuff
it
back
in.

heidi
written 12/3/13
edit 12/14/13

you bastard.