the relentless tide
keeps lapping me
pounding me
the day comes in
the night goes out
in
out
in
out
over and over
such fast
passing
i can't get
my breath
can't wrap 
my head around
the speed of things
can't see over 
the ridge
can't seem to 
get ahead
can't seem to
even stay
in the same place
tide pulls me
back back back
towards the
end of my days
like a roller coaster
racing
like a race boat
soaring
i'm flying
towards the finish line
nothing's slowing me down
and then that sleep comes
and steals my hours more
and i think, oh god
when will i get it all done
and where's all those landmarks
i was supposed to see 
and stop for
and what happened to my
youth
and where'd the old
childhood go
and how did i make it here
already
how did i make it here
already
and yet still find myself
so behind
so behind
so behind
and alone
this thing called time
keeps beating me
over the head
my arms flail and reach for
a branch to hold on to
to keep me from getting 
ahead of myself
and my life
as it is swirling by
so quickly
so quickly
so quickly
it all goes
goes
goes
and where's the pauser
and when do i get to
stop and take it in
and isn't it so true
oh, thornton wilder
that we never truly
appreciate it 
while we're here.

youth is embarrassing
and beautiful
you don't know enough yet
to be embarrassed by it
and though it's ever passing
you feel it in slow motion
as if each and every beat is
everlasting
the stakes are so high
you feel like you can fly
indestructible
special
extraordinary
the limit exceeds the sky
your youth stretches out
in the middle of the night
cozy, like a pie
so happy you could die
hard knocks roll off your back
you bounce back
easily
your gawkiness is awkward
and unsettling
to those past the tide
your inhibitions and goofy looks
sit raw in the stomachs of
older brothers
you can't help it
and don't care to
until the day your youthdom dies
the bounce ceases to rise quite as high
you look in the mirror and see all the flaws
you stand agape in halls
as others find you foreign
and you yourself agree with them
who is this beast?
and what is this body you dare to strut around in?
nothing is good
nothing is right
anger comes over you
unrelenting sadness
and even though your life
hasn't suddenly plummeted to the very pits of hell
you feel it has
and a grand injustice been served you
your youth is fleeting, leaving you
your death, surely imminent
nothing will be the same
as those hot, summer, youth filled days
you're growing older
bills gotta get paid
you gotta look the look of your days
you gotta be a certain kinda way
or that age old embarrassment is gonna
come back to haunt you

that person
place
and thing
show up
unannounced
unforeseen
the arrival is happening
---but perhaps not?
unknowable future
taunts three jaunts ahead of you
the person is unpredictable as yet
and may or may not be at the place
and may or may not illicit that same
thing 
that was just beginning to be brought up
there is sudden vomit forming
don't worry
it's just the slow torture
preceding
the imminent arrival
of love.

As an artist you must confront yourself constantly

this is why I think it is the only way to live

how can you ever become your most evolved self

if you are not constantly confronting the un-confrontable things

in your beliefs, in your head, in your heart, in your dna?

You have to learn to empathize with everyone

in every situation

you must learn to understand certain motives

that may make your stomach churn

you must live a thousand lives

and believe each one

the artist's work is never done

and the work- though often questioned

by both society and the artists themselves

is extremely important

we must be scientists of the soul

the human experience

we must be doctors of the deeds

we deem humane

we must tread paths

yet undiscovered

use imagination to see what has yet been

unseen

we are the receivers and the givers

the vessels through which all can live and feel

we are the memory recorders

living human time capsules

here to introduce you to yourselves

and where you've been

and the cautionary tales of things ahead.

My appearance is a passing entity all its own,
separate from me.
It's like the atoms of my being are still shuffling around
putting puzzle pieces in different places,
trying to find the algorithm of my soul,
but no appearance seems to match it perfectly
so they just keep shuffling around, 
unsettled and unsatisfied.
Similarly, I find I have the need to try and try,
and while in moments rare I feel a closeness to the end,
by morning's yawn I wake to find the similarity's gone and
I'm left an awkward shell housing this strange soul
whose appearance can't be found.

I'm just a physical object.
I'm here. I'm there.
I'm putting things together,
while life slowly pulls my
atoms apart.
One day I will break.
I will break in all the ways
that count.
That will be the day I cease
to exist in all the
matter-able ways.
My body will still be here
for a little while,
unless I explode into
pink mist.
If not, some scientists or
doctors will take apart my parts
and make use of any that they can.
I like that thought.
I like to be useful.
I like to keep busy.
No good to be laying limp and lazy
under earth.
No good burning up all these useful goods.
Even in my death, I'd like to think I have some goods.
I like to be useful.
If I can.
I consider it a joy to be utilized.
There is much I have to offer.
I am an incredible physical object.
I can do so many wonderful things!
I can lift and pull and build and dance!
I can reason and learn and question and become surprised!
I can emote and create from scratch and emulate and empathize.
And I have thumbs!
I can sit, stand, fall in love, scream and sleep and dream!
I can see sunsets and smell flowers and cuddle animals and eat ice cream!
I am extraordinarily lucky in life.
I could have ended up a pen or a cup or a watch.
I could have been mud or a truck or a truck stop.
I could have been just a single, simple molecule floating in space.
I could have never evolved to live, to love, to leap, to yearn, to read, to experience, to hear music, to be embarrassed, to fail and then succeed. I could have never lived at all.
But my object was chosen to Be.
I won the lottery of Being.
I am lucky.
I am here.
I have lived well.
An incredible physical object am I,
to be so well utilized.

After a morning bemoaning my body
while I run my errands on the town,
I slouch into position to begin my work.

iTunes up and a slow jazz song plays
piano keys, some soft horns and a hi-hat
rat-a-tap-tat, ohhh, eeeh, ohhhh.

Okay, I think, okay...

My mind can drift away now,
leave my body and be light as air.
A squiggly line dancing on a blank white page.

And, like that, I reprise at noon.

LARD & LETHARGY
by Andie Bottrell

I’m worn
    and drained.
I wrote
    an elegy.
I sprained
    my name.
I gave up
    everything
to gain
    what was
nothing.
    Again,
I am
    nothing;
still reaching
    for it all.

ONARIA, ROUND LITTLE DUMPLING
by Andie Bottrell

A round little dumpling
with red hair and oil for skin
that shines and reflects
and her dimply checks get fatter
by the meal.

Onaria, Onaria in a state of being.
She is always in a dream-ward state.
She plucks her fingers and sucks at teats,
Onaria is a hungry, pretty-little beast
and her favorite color is purple.

She tumbles down hills
at the speed of whales
and rumbles on swings
in a wake of her bouncy curls.
She blows kisses to the orange tree.

Onaria, Onaria in a state of being,
she is always heaving and believing,
but her beliefs live only in her head
where squirrels mate and scurry
and her actions are as good as dead.

A round little dumpling,
born of Irish descent,
she jigs in her sleep
and she’ll never think too deep
but she’ll always succeed
at role-playing.

UNIQUE DOLLS
by Andie Bottrell

We’re all a beautiful mess
A masquerade ball of imperfectness
A million unique dolls
Propped up on shelves, hung on walls
Waiting for epiphanies
To burst out like symphonies
And save us from destroying
Ourselves
The best art is blind to itself
As you and I are as well
A million unique dolls
Feeling depleted in all
Though adequate beyond poetry
Never knowing our rarity
We stumble most often all over
Ourselves.