Caitlin Rose

An Aisle For Those Who Don't Like Tap Water
Aisle nine--
Bottles and boxes of
Cool refreshing
Drinks. At the

End is water, shelves over-
Flowing with blue,
Garnished in green, lavender, red, yellow, and a 
Healthy flesh pink that Evian hints at being able to 

Induce in my own
Junk-food-and-soda-intoxicated skin.
Keepin' it healthy here, boss, I promise.  A religion of
Luminous blue bottles of Aquafina

Meditate liter by liter in
Neat little glowing blue rows, waving me to join worship.
On the third shelf, oddly mirroring the Diet
Pepsi 12-packs just across the way, water in boxes to trick a 

Quick anorexic teen shopper or occupied mother
Running in to the 
Store for some calorie-defying soda and finding it
To be not so.

Ugly Dannon bottles hide in masses behind plastic 6-packs.
Veering along the top shelf is a school bus of fluorinated
Water that Dannon sells by kid sized 8-packs, about to crash into
X-quisite glass bottles of mineral water,

Yawning deep and proud along the top shelf.  Minerals must give
Zest for the water connoisseur. Me? I prefer tap water.

Ode to Rats
Rats
Really aren't as
Terrible
As you may think
The tickle in your ear
As they ride
Your shoulder
Whiskers flicking
And then dive
Deep down
Into your
Preteen bra to
Huddle or
Cuddle--to
Hide.

Rats have a tail
Not like
A worm.
Not like
A detruncated
Baby's finger or
Penis all
Scaley and
Scary and
Gross.

But rather
Like a baby's hand
It wraps
Around you 
In a gesture of
Love and
Trust and
Comfort and
Need.

And as you
Cup
A dying rat
In your
Cradling
Hands 
You'll see a look
Of sweet rat love
Filling
Its deep
Black 
Burning
But 
Beautiful
Eyes.

And then
Your tears 
Bead to
Match
And your 
Beady eyes
Meet one
Last time
Before you
Bury it
Deep in your garden
And it lies
In the bosom
Of the earth
To huddle
Or cuddle--
To hide.

Laundry
Frothing, bubbles pacing above the drain like sharks.
My floating intimates shriek faintly "I'm getting wet!"
Before submerging completely into the vast clear dark.

The lid clangs shut with the air of a prison door--
Finality.  The waters seethe at a beat behind and
One can only speculate at the fate of my stained underwear.

The waters, tired, drain and wane leaving slight residue
Of bubbles, popping upon the limp pink bodies
Strewn about the washer floor.  A red shirt has imbued

My white underwar to a faded lost pink.  I think
They look like blushing cheeks or engorged sweaty lips
Or an old hand-me-down T-shirt turned inside out.

I lay them to dry in wrinkled patterns acorss my heater.
Hot air pumps life into them, inhale and exhaling them,
Thrusting them about as they get dryer and sweeter.

I put a pair on, still hot from before, never fully cooling
Until placed neatly in the hamper or thrown aside
Beside my bed to await another day in the frothing, pooling
Washer.

This is the first real poem I ever tried to write

A Romance Overseas
Crisp toast he coats with peanut butter,
Spreading crumbs all around.
I swipe my finger for a taste,
But as a Frenchman would he swipes me away.

"Not until the fromage!" he says,
And cuts slices out of the whole, as a Frenchman would.

"Cheese on peanut butter on toast,"
I exclaim.
"How putrid. How come?"

"Ordinary is ordinary
Only on its own.
Ordinary upon another,"
And kisses my lips to shut me up.

As a Frenchman would.

Miles away I stand in my kitchen
No toaster but some bread.
I stoop for my cheese and peanut butter
Bur arise begrudgingly instead with only one.

"The for-mage is gone!"
I cry and howl.
"Someone has stolen my love."
And now I am but only one
Ordinary one.

This is my new journal, an extension of my other one, taste_the_tears. I wanted one that was a bit more focused in its intentions where I will primarily post poems, short stories, pictures of my art, or other such things I like to pass the time with. These first few posts will be old stuff from a while ago, so most of it will be reruns from my other livejournal account. Please feel free to comment with any sort of feedback. Cool.