Caryn Begeschke
5000 words. Exactly. -- Impressive I know.
The Prologue
In the pages to follow you fill find a body of working containing nothing ordinary and
everything extraordinary. Allow me to give you a little preview, a preface if you will, of
what you are about to encounter. Brace yourself. Hold on to something. A chair perhaps.
Your hat. The table if its near. Clench you teeth and grasp tight. Till your knuckles turn
white. Because you are about to embark on something: “magnificent, opulent,
tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement, a sensual ravishment. It will be:
Spectacular Spectacular. Spectacular, Spectacular. No words in the vernacular. Can't
describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment. You must agree, that's
excellent,” (Moulin Rouge! 2001)
Let us begin at the beginning.
You will see something familiar. It is my Ode to Lysol. I’ve found my paradigm shifted
while writing this piece. You see here, reader, that my original intention was to write
about something that was NOT poetry. I could not use something full of imagery, or
common to the masses. It had to be different. Ahhhhh. As I looked around my living
room for some inspiration. COUCH! a couch is not a poem. Or poetry. Ah, no. A couch is
a poem and poetry. it absolutely is. The people who sit on the couch tell a story. A poem.
So to those who lay on it. Those who love on it. The crumbs and change that fell
between it. This will absolutely not prove my point -- I said. A couch, is probably the
most fantastic poetry ever written.
What else. Kitchen, no. Door, oh absolutely not. Carpet, no, Table, no. Goodness my
why is everything in this apartment poetry I screamed [internally]. So I wandered to the
pantry. Where I keep food for cooking and supplies for cleaning. A toxic idea in
retrospect. I went there, to search for more inspiration. Tomato paste, no. Styrofoam
plate, no. Tea, no. Medicine, No. AH! LYSOL! YES! There is absolutely no way Lysol
can be poetry. Ah-ha! Fantastic. I have my inspiration.
As you will see, or have seen, in the 1200 word Ode To My Murderous Home
Disinfectant, my hypothesis, theory even, was proven wrong and Lysol, much to my
dismay, is absolutely poetry, as much, if not more, than everything else in the world is.
Subsequent to this piece proven wrong by pushing and purging of words and a
paradigm shift is something else rather lovely. My Emily Dickinson Cento.
What a challenge this was. OH yes. Challenging like a Rubix cube or playing Scrabble
against Dani Fox.
My Emily Dickinson Cento is divided into pieces, ones that are sensical rather than
being one long superfluous mess. Perhaps my favorite part of that cento is a section
titled: Life Cycle. Read it. Enjoy it. It includes, naturally, lines from Dickinsons work,
some lyrics from MC (Mariah Carey AND Miley Cyrus) as well as a few words of my
own. This alone did not fill your OH SO Generous word requirement. So I continued
through the Index of first lines which laid out some poetry quite nicely for me, though I
do wish I had a correspondence. No wait, wrong word, concordance, to complete this
task.
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Caryn L Begeschke
Continuing with this Cento theme, is my Lorine Niedecker Cento which, is, I must say,
my favorite most fascinating fantastic piece. However, I must warn you, reader, that
there are more of my words that Lorine’s in this cento, however. Nonetheless. It is
fantastic. Let us talk about it a little. So after pulling random lines out of her collection.
One per line, front and back, of a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, written in green pen, I
decided to go through and pick out the ones that fit best together and tell some sort of
story. And that is when the fantastic idea came to me. The setting: Just after dusk, in the
woods, opens up this piece and well. I refuse to give it away. Read the rest.
Let’s talk about centos a little. Cento. I thought this meant 100. clearly I was wrong.
Century. 100 Years. Centipede. 100 Legs. Cent. 1/100 of a dollar. Cento. A literary work
comprised of quotations from other authors. Nope. No correlation. And you, were not
ever kind enough, to say, oh cento is so much like a hundred that is how many words
you need to use. no no. how about 6 cento. 3 cento. Thats fine. I took your advise. I
lowered my standards. And it is rather amazing how quickly the words came to me after
that. They just kept coming.
Back to the Ars Poetica.
The next section I titled: A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness That May or May
Not be Considered Poetry.
Whenever strange things would come into my brain, I would write them down and run
with it. Or, in the case of “A Fiction Fallacy,” the first piece of this section, I sat down with
the intention to write something brilliant and strange, create something comparable to
Edson or Knox, and what I ended up with was something much better, and nearly
effortless, except being a scribe to fast talking eight-year-old was not my simplest take.
But, I did not have to create at all. I just recorded. And well, it was something more
compareable to Counter Daemons, in that only I, the author, and Jake Castiglia (the
computer if you will) can ever understand. Interpret it you may try. But you WILL fail.
The next piece in this collection is something titled “Advice from Below” which is the
personification of feet. The feet are talking to their owner, telling them all the things they
wish their owner knew about their tragic life. It is rather insightful and anyone can take
advise from it. I hope they do.
Following “Advice from Below” is “An Insomniac Inspiration.” I sometimes have trouble
sleeping and I found that I could do two things with this time I wish were spent sleeping.
Write for this class. OR, watch infomercials. I decided it would be best to write but only
after having enough of the Sham Wow man tell me all about that fantastic chopper that
slices and dices my vegetables effortlessly. Why is he wearing that headset I wonder?
I also found inspiration for strangeness in our class being just betwixt (I have an affinity
for that word) two months. May and June. So, I wrote about it.
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Caryn L Begeschke
And Finally. The pinnacle of the piece, the strangest of the strange (not really):
something i posed on Craigslist expressing my desire for elf traps.
Premature Post: A first attempt at estranged greatness.
Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant.
ACTIVE INGREDIENTS:
Alkyl (50% C14 40% C12 10% C16)
dimethyl benzyl ammonium saccharinate ... .10%
Ethanol......................................................... 58%
OTHER INGREDIENTS: ............................. 41.90%
TOTAL:......................................................... 100%
What?
Half of what makes up this product is another ingredient?
But it is not active?
What is it?
Thank you for adding them up for me Lysol bottle.
My Lysol is a Murder.
KILLS VIRUSES
KILLS BACTERIA
KILLS MOLD & MILDEW.
What beautiful alliteration Lysol, maybe you are a poem after all.
My Lysol carries the scent of an Early Morning Breeze at a chemical plant.
Which each spray my sensitive noses wafts in a scent that leaves me nostalgic.
It brings me to a place where I would wake up, in the Early Morning, and stick my head
out the window to catch the cleansing Breeze.
The Breeze like a power-washer coming through to freshen and clean everything.
Oh no. That was not a freshening power-washer.
That was a power-washer that KILLS.
It is a murderer.
A Breeze that takes your breath away. Essentually. It drowns you.
Watch out Staphyloccocus aureus you are no match for my Early Morning Breeze.
You better hide Enterobacter aerogenes on hard non-porous surface. Because 99.9% of
you are goners. Total. Goners.
Oh you pleasently colored can. You remind me of the Crayola, Purple Mountain
Magesty. It really is my favorite crayon, such a lovely shade of purple.
Purple.
Like a bruise.
Or a dead body.
Laying with a toe tag in the morgue.
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Caryn L Begeschke
Lysol reminds me of garbage cans. That is where my mom used to spray it as a child.
This giant blue, sometimes brown, slightly rusted home for waste, is not poetry.
This filthy vermin infested garbage receptacle. Oh no.
I was taking my trash out one day. I flung it high and heavy over the metal walls.
Clank, crash, rustle, break, OW.
“Hey watch where your throwing that.”
“Oh Iʼm sorry.”
And that is when I met him.
The poet that lived in my dumpster.
Iʼve seen him often collecting cans and sorting recyclbles.
Every homeless man has a story.
Usually, they lose their house in a bank foreclosure.
They gamble their lives away on a Harrahʼs boat.
They drink their lives away thanks largely impart to Heather who hands him another
glass, divorce papers, another bottle, another, a DUI.
Losers.
Thats who live in the dumpsters.
Those, who have lost.
Thats what I thought of the poet in my dumpster when I met him. I thought he was a
loser.
Hes cleverly obvious and wears small round eyeglasses. Hes nose slopes like a slide
at a summer fair and if his eyeglass happen to enjoy the ride they never make it past his
colar bone where they are collected safely. Because of his eye glass catchers, that
form a nice bifocal necklace. It will never be part of the Tiffanyʼs collection, but it is nice,
for a poet.
I sat there for a minute unsure of how to respond to this barbaric being, so gentle and
diligent in his search for buried treasure. Then, he climbed out. Two bags in his hands.
He spotted something shiny. He took a few step towards the mystical metal and bent
down close to examine it. A penny. Tails side up.
I watch him as he lifts the penny, flips it over, and stands again.
He turns to me and says, “its your lucky day” and shifts his eyes to Lincolnʼs profile that
resides cordially on a copper, and then he looks back at me.
Money.
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Caryn L Begeschke
When I think of things that are dirty. Just down right filthy. Full of germs not visible to
the human eye. I think of currency.
Touch. Touch. Touch. Tap. Tell. Pass. Borrow. Play.
Money.
From the bank teller, to the client. To the woman in the drive through at McDonalds.
Given as change to the car behind her. An allowance for her 10 year old son. To George
at the candy story down the block for teeth rotting treats. To the 14 year employee who
works under the table. To the senior who bought him cigarettes. To dealer who gave
him cocaine. To the prostitute for her services. To the clinic for her screening. And back
to the bank.
Filthy money is.
Money is poetry.
Poetry is the story that money tells through its travels.
Its what everyone notices but no one watches.
Its blue.
Poetry is a small child. Observant. Eager.
There are a few children I can say Iʼm incredibly fond of. Bradley, and Anthony. They
are twins I nanny for while their parents work their average jobs.
They are very curious and funny in the way they view the world.
Its big. Its kind. Its full of fun and answers.
As we are driving down a country road they notice a horse, standing with a cow and
some other live stock.
The horse is lonely claims the boys.
Horses are not friends with cows, or ducks.
Horses, are friends with horses.
There are no other horses for this horse to play with.
He has no friends.
This horse is so sad.
He, is lonely.
I wish I could be friends with him.
I wish I could be a horse.
That, is poetry. The working observation of four-year-old twins.
Children are the best poets.
They dont process anything.
They observe, and then report.
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Caryn L Begeschke
There is no other influence except their tiny frame of reference.
Innocent.
Ignorant.
Beautiful none the less.
Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant.
It does not KILL or contain OTHER INGREDIENTS.
Or does it?
My Lysol Home Disinfectant does bring up a great point.
It contains this they are not simply defined.
It gives an outline.
But not instructions.
My Lysol is colorful and vibrant.
It contains imagery, alliteration.
It kills and it saves lives.
It makes things fresh, and new again.
It makes you look at things differently.
Its a perfume that Whitman smells.
It is a line of a patriotic song.
Yes. It certainly is a poem. All of the things add to 100%. Even if they are other, and
you dont quite know what they are. Maybe you cannot pronounce it. Or define it. But it
serves a purpose. Isnʼt that just what a poem does. I certainly believe so. It notices
something in the world and magnifies it. Like an amoeba.
Swim swim amoeba. You lucky .01% that survived the death of your viral bacteria
roommates. They died a painful chemic death. They are in a better place now. A place
with white flowers that smells lovely. Like a breeze, in the early morning.
Emily Dickinson Cento
Where?
To see the summer sky, 1472
To tell the beauty would decrease, 1700
To the bright east she flies, 1573
To their apartment deep, 1701
To this world she returned, 830
To try to speak and miss the way, 1617
To undertake is to acheive, 1070
To venerate the simple days, 57
To wait an hour is long, 781
To whom the mornings stand for nights, 1095
Today or this noon, 1702
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Caryn L Begeschke
“Tomorrow” -- whose location, 1367
My Savior, My God
God is a distant, stately lover, 357
God is indeed a jealous God, 1719
God made a little gentian, 442
God made no act without a cause, 1163
God permits industrious angels, 231
Going to heaven, 79
Going to Him! 494
Good morning, midnight, 425
Good night, because we must, 114
Good night! Which put the candle out, 259
Life Cycle
[How soft a caterpillar steps, 1498]
“Caterpillar in the tree, how you wonder who youʼll be
[How soft this prison is, 1498]
you cant go far but you can always dream.
[Cacoon above! Cacoon below! 129]
Dont, you worry hold on tight.
I promise soon, that there will come a day.
[From cacoon forth a butterfly 354]
Butterfly, fly away.”1
“I must open my hands and watch you rise.
Spread your wings and fly.
Butterfly.”2
[Morning is due to all, 1577]
[Dew is freshest in the grass, 1097]
[Had I known that the first was the last, 1720]
[Had I not seen the sun, 1233]
[Had I not this, or this, I said 904]
[Had I presumed to hope. 522]
[Had this one day not been, 1253]
[Had we known the ton she bore, 1124]
[Had we our senses, 1284]
We could have saved her.
[Death sets a thing significant, 360]
[Death warrents are supposed to be, 1375]
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Caryn L Begeschke
1
Butterfly Fly Away, Miley Cyrus
2
Butterfly, Mariah Carey
[Deaths waylaying not the sharpest, 1296]
[Death is a dialogue, 976]
[Death is like the insect, 1716]
[Death is a supple suitor, 1445]
[Death is potential to that man, 548]
[Death leaves us homesick, 935]
Death, was her fate.
[How far is it to heaven, 929]
[How firm eternity must look, 1499]
She prayed.
[“Faith” is a fine intervention, 185]
[Faith is a pierless bridge]
She drowned.
[Heavenly Father, take to thee, 1461]
[Come slowly Eden, 185]
[Heaven has different signs to me, 1575]
[Heaven, is so far of the mind, 370]
[Heaven is what I cannot not reach, 239]
[Except the heaven, had come so near, 472]
[Except to heaven, she is nought. 154]
[I went to heaven, 374.]
His/Her
Her breast is fit for pearls, 84
His bill an auger is, 1034
Her face was in a bed of hair, 1722
His bill clasped, his eye forsook, 1102
Her final summer was it, 795
His cheek is his biographer, 1460
Her losses make our gains ashamed, 1562
His feet are shod with gauze, 916
Her smile shaped like ohter smiles, 514
His heart was darker than the starless night, 1378
Her spirit rose to such a height, 1486
His little hearse like figure, 1522
Her grace is all she has, 810
His mansion in the pool, 1379
Her sovereign people, 1139
His mind like fabrics of the east, 1446
Her sweet weight on my heart at night, 518
His mind of a man a secret makes, 1663
Her little parasol to lift, 1038
His oriental heresies, 1526
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Caryn L Begeschke
Her last poems, 312
His voice decrepit was with joy, 1476
Eye
I am afraid to own a body, 1090
I am ashamed, I hide, 473
I am alive I guess, 470
I asked no other thing, 621.
I came to buy a smile today, 223
I cannot buy it, tis not sold, 840
I bring an unaccustomed wine, 132
I could not drink it, sweet. 818.
Lorine Niedecker Cento
if only I was able [to save the sun, 53]
[i face the east and the windʼs in my mouth, 97]
the slowing ((speeding)) traffic light [disappearing, 147] beneath the horizon.
then.
with the absence of alabaster.
[came night, 117]
[lets play a game, 127]
whispered words my [big blind ears, 107] did not hear
to my back two fingers [shaped like a gun, 128]
[a monster, 103]
sometimes
as i wander this wood at night.
i [stop to eat people, 7]
[isnʼt it funny? 141]
i come across [lonely women, 115]
strange, desperate women.
women wasted. wasting away.
sheʼd sell anything she got her hands on.
[sheʼd sell dirt,
sheʼd sell your eyes friend in deep grief, 108]
he circles me.
iʼm panting.
there is nothing more appetizing then a wo[mans sweet breath, 104]
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Caryn L Begeschke
with a machete he [breaks my hand, 54] away from the bone
he raises my mangled mano to his lips and samples my flesh and sips crimson as it
bursts from broken veins.
[youʼre my type, youʼre okay. 148]
i feel no pain aside from the [mosquitoes bite,147]ing my ankles.
eat what [i give to you, 137]
i clench my jaw tight.
would you prefer it better if i served you on platter
[and gave you lettuce,141]?
he forced open my mouth
like you would force [open a door, 145]
with a crow bar.
with nails like claws he pulls skin away from bone.
he shoves it into my mouth.
with hand crowning cranium and
another clutching my chin.
i manually chew.
under his control.
a self-consuming cannibal
[i donʼt spit. 132]
A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness
That May or May Not be Considered Poetry.
A Fiction Fallacy
snorlax
is so sleepy
and grumpy
his is fat. he eats alot.
if we cant do
pagolime thats
bad news
may paragolime can do
thats giritina
he is in the reverse world
i had heathen
and traded him
for a level x
i used to have a legendary
a dragonita
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Caryn L Begeschke
ARTICULTIO!
i can play one player
but 2 player
i split the deck
i be the player and computer
i just do this
get it?
plowsien or something
i catch them
all of them.
this awkward 8 year old
sifts through the sunflower deck
making awkward songs
from his mouth
maybe i can do
story mode
sift sift sift
this room smells like
wet dirty
dog laundry
he mumbles to himself in audibly.
a very long time ago
when guarantino
was in reverse world
i think i told you before
now hes in the real world
what theres a message
whats he saying
youʼll never know
aslkfjiosjdflkjsdofij
comes from his mouth
ppppssshhhh ccrrrrrr
reverse world is mine
if it can be ruled i sugest.
he crashes into my foot
sorry. i used you.
ppppffff sshhhhh
AHHHHHHHHH
whipshhhoaahhh
roarrr shh ooofffeeemmm
HA! take that!
he makes what would resemble static with his hands
how do i get out
be careful down there
oh great
showmen
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Caryn L Begeschke
yes
oh be hack
sssffffeeesshhh
i dont have showmen
iʼm going to pretend
you dont have to do that either
show man
how was it
good
ssshhhffffaacceeenntt
he gargles and hisses the saliva and air in his mouth
this is the real world
AH MONSTER
its me
haratina
where are you
from water world
theres no water there
sorry its not raining
the fighting game
sorry thats my faut
it came with the thunder
oh my bad
hands on fight
happpooossskkk kapooosshh
i think you lied
iʼm not a very good owinker
ssshhppphhh
here we are
bubble world
i hate using this
turn it off
turn it off
i should be a goner
iʼm a bubble
OH I DIDNT KNOW
popp popp pop po po popopopopop AHHHHH
USE THINDEROLD
why you like it
yes.
ahh thunderbold!
chew chew chew
righhhttt chew AHHH
silence
heavy breath.
i am.
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Caryn L Begeschke
look at this
a
ar
tuh
nope
nope
nope
nope
water
nothing
nothing
nohing
nothing
water
nothing nothing
fighting
nothing
nothing
water
nothing
nothing
fighting.
Advice From Below
please take care of me.
i know i did not come with a users manual
but you learned how to use me at a young age.
it started out small and innocent enough.
there was a lot of stumbling on my part -- i was wasnʼt ready.
but together we got the hang of it, you and i.
from there on out it was history.
you used to walk around outside with no shoes on,
in the itchy grass or on the hot hot sand.
i guess that was much better than the confinement of socks and shoes.
it is so dark in there.
hot, very hot, and sweaty.
i couldnt even see where i was going. or what was coming.
you would much rather spend money on clothes
who cares about me really?
go ahead step in that puddle.
fine.
i mean really?
there is nothing fun about jumping in a puddle.
iʼm wet,
cold,
wet.
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Caryn L Begeschke
have you ever heard of rainboots?
i mean sure they arent the most fashionable thing
but iʼm only lookin out for number one,
and my buddy over there number two.
you up there,
you with the eyes,
just watch where you are going.
i know we are all supposed to work together
and be a team here
but sometimes you just walk into all sorts of trouble,
like the said puddle.
how was i supposed to see?
i cant really even warn you either.
i just get the aftermath. which is never fun.
and you know what,
i know that there are two of us
but i really feel discriminated against.
so your right handed, fine.
and your right brained, fine.
but with us down here
its a little different than with your hands up there.
we are a team.
and if one of us is missing,
well then you are a gimp.
which happened quite of a few times
because of your discrimination.
admit it you take better care of right.
there is no logical explanation that i am the one you swing full force into soccer balls.
you made a spectacle of your poor peds
by turning them into harry hobbit feet,
how embarrassing.
An Insomniac Inspiration
White.
The color of this blank document in front of me.
The color of my skin.
The outermost part of my eye.
Fresh paint
A picket fence.
The color that is most pure
Or the absence of color all together.
Fresh linens
Egyptian cotton sheets
When I find my mind racing in the middle of the night its oftentimes hard to keep up with
the pace. Thoughts bouncing off the walls of my brain to quickly for me to keep track or
catch up. It is during this late hour, when I desperately want to find my sanity and get in a
few hours of sleep, that I try, try, try to get my mind to focus on one thing. White.
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Caryn L Begeschke
Clean. Pure. Simple. Absent. White.
What is it that I'm keeping my mind from?
What exactly am I trying to numb?
I choose my words wisely. They flow eloquently from a well rehearsed articulate tongue.
My words more often than not are my own. Sometimes, though, a song can speak exactly
what my heart strings are playing. Through all of this soul searching I often wonder.. WHY?
What is this all for? I thought I had found my passion, but that fire was extinguished with a
cold glass of what I wish was water and a slap in the face.
An instant.
A moment.
A second.
A thought.
It can change EVERYTHING.
I take advantage of that fact of life. Because for this moment I am typing on this expensive
mac, in my own room, in a beautiful house. In front of me is a 300 dollar phone. A
prescription bottle cap and a spilled bottle of pills. To my left, my sunglasses that I couldn’t
afford while summering in California, a statement for my Von Maur credit card, and,
ironically, a gratitude rock.
I want to find the rock in my life.
Grasp it.
And learn to be a little more grateful.
I want to learn love.
One that is unconditional.
One that is selfless.
Love in its purest form.
Forgiving
And for giving.
For others
And for myself.
My eyelids are beginning to feel the effects of that antihistamine.
And as they close, instead of darkness, I see white.
An Ode To the Passing of May and The Welcoming of June
may
im free.
not for long.
may term
sings a new song.
may
peace be with you
may
your days be merry and bright
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Caryn L Begeschke
may
i go to the bathroom
may
i might.
in may
the sunshines
and there is memorial.
in may freedom rings.
unless your taking summer school.
in may
the girls go wild
and tan in bikinis on the quad.
in may
i think of tulips
and swimming pools.
last may
i went to romania
in may i found God
and met Jesus
and was saved
and baptized.
may is really the time to start over
if you ask me
they tell me the first day of spring
is in march, i think
but the season really changes, in may.
may my
heartsong
sing
to you.
iʼm an english major
dont mix up can and may
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i do not know anyone with a birthday in may
except for my rich aunt carol.
and my friend cara.
and the 5th of may.
cinco de mayo.
i love mexican food.
june
i like june.
i like the number 6.
i like the way june feels.
it never gets too hot.
usually in june,
i catch a plane to california.
but this june i will be here
living in bloomington normal.
june is kelly kleins birthday
she will turn 21, again.
last year she faked her birthday
and had a party with all her friends.
in june beth and randy will get married
and iʼm invited to the wedding.
iʼll wear a pretty dress
and hopefully a handsome date on my arm.
i hope he says yes.
when june comes
iʼm sure iʼll have memories
missing being in california
the beginning of camp season is always my favorite.
june is beautiful and awkward.
i want to love
like johnny and
june
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whats a june bug?
is it their birthday?
crystals birthday is in june too.
the same day of the bales wedding.
shes getting old.
in june i will sit on my deck.
and drink lemonade.
and play my guitar.
strum strum strum
sing a little
country song.
sing sing sing
all day long.
in june i will wear flipflops
and tanktops
and short shorts
iʼll swear sunscreen
and sun glasses
and the weather will be
nice enough to turn the air on.
WANTED: TRAPS
elves are a greater pests than you could possibly imagine. they play incredulous tricks and cause
household destruction such as the following:
wearing all of our clothes and then leaving them on the floor.
hiding things, such as keys, cellphones, sunglasses and money.
eating all of our food.
dirtying ALL of the dishes and leaving them in the sink.
leaving lights on.
making messes in our bathrooms.
stealing socks (usually one from a pair), probably to be used as a sleeping bag.
Word Count: 5000
Caryn L Begeschke
these little elves are very sneaky and love to get on our nerves! as soon as the apartment is clean
is when they begin their mischief. within hours of cleaning our rooms or doing laundry/dishes,
they being their destruction.
we do not need an exterminator, rather we would like to trap the elves in a safe way. we need a
good system because they probably were trained at hogwarts in efficiency and posses the much
sought after invisibility cloak. probably stolen from harry. those dirty thieves. anyways. we
believe that if caught these elves are trainable... we’d like to use them to fold laundry, do dishes,
clean the living room and bathroom, and our bedrooms.
at first we thought it could be trolls causing all of this mischief. that would explain the mess in
the bathroom, and use of our hair products. then we realized that trolls wouldn't be the ones
wearing our clothes and messing up our laundry.. they generally just go topless with their
occasional belly button ring, and to have that kind of confidence they probably aren’t eating our
food.
so they are absolutely elves. assumably on the off season from the n.p. we do believe that if
caught, not only can they be trained -- they can be bred. so upon catching the little scoundrels
and teaching them how to keep house, we will sell their offspring to those in need of a tidy home
and cant afford merry maids.
thanks.
Word Count: 5000
Caryn L Begeschke
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