one line wonder

A place to rant, rave, and ramble about anything and everything.


i say i want to change the world

but i don’t know where to step first

all i can do

is make sure

i don’t step

on someone else.


am i a hypocrite

for shaving my armpits

but not my legs

citing time saved

and the wrong type of men turned away

am i a hypocrite

for listening to kendrick lamar

and kanye west

with my windows rolled up

even though their words are important

am i a hypocrite

when i read feminist literature

but still talk about

the differences between

men and women

am i a hypocrite

for wondering

if i am a hypocrite?

i’m a rattlesnake babe.

swirling into bed

i heard a whisper

a sweet poem

a note

of utter happiness

and i fell asleep with a smile on my face,

humming along,

singing to the tune

that i made up

just minutes ago.


a sweet smell of sweat

leaks in

i breathe it up through

my nostrils and revel

in the taste that i can almost taste.


it reminds me of that time

that i ran a million miles

or was it three?

that time when i wandered in a forest alone

when i walked cobblestoned streets alone

when i would wake up alone

in the early morning light

hot and sticky with my sweet smelling sweat

and dreams of what i might do


running to yoga.

it’s hot so i ran

to yoga class today

the breeze whistled by

as i literally ran late.

but i didn’t mind

because the streets were so full

i ran and i ran

until i couldn’t anymore

red light.

then just when i was feeling

a little bit tired

and hot

and sweaty

i got to my class

and got to feel


and hot

and sweaty

all over again.

morning walk.

a breath in

and one out as well

a growl

a snarl

but gentle, as if to say

I am a friend for now

but not for long

if you don’t get out of my way

i stepped aside as the truck growled on by

and an amicable wave came from the window

i walked onward

to classes

to friends

to foes

and all the ones in between.

the future.

the future is as scary

as a fire breathing dragon

mostly because


i have never seen a fire breathing dragon

so i’m not so sure

that it could even exist.

truth & me & you.

Truth comes out softly

Like a whispering font

Or disappearing ink

I always turn around

And take another look

But by then it’s gone again

Truth comes out boldly

Like a steady, pounding drum

Or feelings finally coming out

I always see the colour

But miss the words

And then it’s gone already

Truth comes out of you

Like the way you say my name

And smile with your whole face

I always catch your words

And hold them for a while

But I forget them all in the end

Truth hides inside of me

Like a child forgotten in a game

Or a sign being taken down

I get a glimpse or two

And close my eyes to remember

But it always slips away in the end.

crewneck sweater.

He couldn’t fit into his blue crewneck sweater anymore. Which sucks because it’s a fucking sweater. Those things are supposed to get you through Thanksgiving and Christmas and old age. But he looked in the mirror and saw his gut hanging out from under the blue stretchy rim of fabric.

God fucking dammit, He swore as he tore it off and threw it on the floor. He walked into the kitchen and opened up a beer, swung himself on the couch and splayed his legs into a comfortable position.

It was ironic, really. He was a fucking gym teacher at the school he worked at. He whistled at kids to run faster then had to take three deep breaths to recover from the strain. He couldn’t remember how it happened. He had worn that sweater every winter since his freshman year in college. He’d had sex in that sweater and watched porn in that sweater and stole street signs in that sweater and skipped class in that sweater and swung at speedballs in that sweater and used to fit in that sweater.

Then he graduated and fell in love and gave up his dreams of the major leagues to work in the same town as her then fell out of love then moved towns then drank beer then drank beer then drank beer.

He got up and took the sweater in his hands. He balled it up and threw it outside in the freshly fallen snow. Then he went outside and brought it back in. He laid it out on the floor, took the last swig of his beer and pissed all over that fucking sweater.

He let it stay on his living room floor for a week before he washed it and folded it and took it to the Salvation Army across the street so some other fucker could take his turn in it.


Once she was offered a rose from a boy who liked her. She smiled and took it and threw it away when the boy turned the corner. She hated roses. But she liked boys. So she would always take the roses that they gave her, but she’d never keep them.

One time she told the boy that she liked how much she despised roses. He never talked to her again. She reminded herself to never tell a boy how much she hated roses.

As the years went by and the girl got older, roses came in and out of her life. A couple of roses stayed for a while but they withered away soon enough and, like them all, ended up in her rubbish bin before the week was out.

Every Sunday, when her rubbish bin got too full of rejected roses, she threw them out of her window and watched as the roses, new and old alike, soared past the brick apartments and into the street below.

Her neighbours kept their curtains open to watch the spectacular event. Some wished they had the roses. “I would love to have so many,” They’d think. But still they sat by their windows and watched. Some wished they knew the girl. “I wonder why she throws them all out?” They’d ponder. And they would sit by their windows and watch. Some thought it was wasteful. “I think that girl is mad!” They raved. But they would gather around their windows and watch. But one thought of nothing except the beauty of the roses racing each other to the sidewalk below. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” She thought. And she would run down her stairwell and dance in the street with the fallen roses.

Before too long, the girl’s rubbish bin was full again and she opened up her window to toss her roses out. As if by magic, her neighbours ran to their windows, eager to watch and think and judge. All but one. The dancing girl ran down her stairwell and waited in the street below for the roses to fall. The girl above grabbed a handful of roses and scattered them into the air, watching as they floated and glided downward in an airy dance. And there was a girl below too, dancing and skipping and singing while the roses fell around her.

The girl above stopped throwing the roses. Her neighbours gaped. Her neighbours gasped. Her neighbours gossiped and wondered and pouted and stamped around, angry that they no longer could sit by their windows and think about this strange girl who hated roses.

The girl ran down her stairwell. She looked around the corner where her roses had fallen. She saw the dancing girl, prancing around amid the handful of flowers and singing, quite unperturbed. “Hello,” said the girl. “Hello,” sang the dancing girl back. “What are you doing?” asked the girl. “I could ask you the same thing,” the other girl said as she frolicked in the fallen roses. “I hate roses,” the girl said, “So I throw them out of my window when I have too many.” The girl stopped dancing and stared at the woman holding a rubbish bin full of roses. “If you hate roses, then why do you have so many?” The girl asked. “Boys give them to me,” the woman said. “Why don’t you tell them to stop giving them to you?” the girl asked the woman. “One time I did and he left.” The girl simply looked at the woman then said, “Well I love them, they’re perfect dancing partners!” And she plucked one up from the ground and, grabbing it by two leaves, started twirling around with it, humming to herself, quite unaware of the woman still standing there with a bin full of dead roses.

The woman went back upstairs and tossed the rest of the roses out of the window, watching as the girl danced and danced and hummed and smiled. The woman closed her window and called all of the boys who had ever given her roses and told them that she hated roses. Soon, she stopped getting roses. And calls. And letters. And visits. Soon, she was alone. She noticed that her neighbours has drawn their curtains and resumed their lives. All but one. The girl would run down her stairwell and wait in the street every Sunday, but the roses never came anymore.

The woman realised that roses were not the only things she hated. She also hated first dates and awkward silences and going to dinner with a stranger and watching a movie with a stranger and getting roses from a stranger and having a stranger come into her home and her kitchen and her bedroom. But she loved being alone. And she loved the dancing girl.

So one Sunday, the woman went to the corner of 8th and Flint and purchased the whole stock of red roses. She brought them home in an old wheelbarrow that she borrowed from her landlord and rolled them up ten flights of stairs into her apartment. She opened her window and saw the girl down below. The girl looked up at the sound of the open window and smiled. The woman threw the roses out of her window and sang along with the girl. None of her neighbours saw because their curtains were tightly shut now that they could no longer wonder about the woman who hates roses.

The girl danced and the woman sang and the roses fell.

Now every Sunday, the woman goes to 8th and Flint and buys all the roses in the store. She wheels them home in her landlord’s wheelbarrow and she drags them up ten floors to her apartment. She opens her window and throws them out in handfuls. She sings to the street and she watches the girl dance. Then she closes her window, sits on her couch and thinks to herself how wonderful roses are.


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