I went to this event called "The Round" in Fremont where lives musicians play and live artists paint. My sister had gone countless times, and my mother once or twice. They both raved about it, but, even though I'm a writer and would normally be incredibly excited about an event like this, I also enjoy holing up in our cave-of-a-condo and being anti-social. They dragged me into the car and off we went. We arrived late, managed to scam some chairs, and sat down. The singers/guitarists played beautiful, haunting songs. The artists painted vivid, forboding landscapes. The poet, though....the poet inspired something in me that has simply refused to cease. He introduced me to slam poetry; he was, in fact, the Seattle slam poetry champion. His words were so powerful that I couldn't even look at him, I could barely breathe, and his furiously-paced verses were just as potent as his heart-robbing breaks, his pauses, his intentional breaths. I have a folder on my computer titled "The Round." Since that one event (I have not had the opportunity to attend another, even though they're hosted every month) I have filled that folder with sixty poems. So, here are a few.

I want to make you chocolate

dark cocoa-dusted truffles, no grain, a smooth illumination on your tongue.

You smile.

God, I love that grin.

What about a framboise torte, dripping raspberries; gushing

in their own exuberance?

You stand behind me.

You place yourself behind me.

A cappuccino cream cake? Push your teeth through 

the barely-there filling?

You rest your left hand on mine, on the counter

on the cutting board.

A chestnut cream roll? I ask, heart beating more than it should.

Sliced thin to appreciate the intensity.

Chocolate profiterole? I have to whisk constantly to remove all the lumps

from my throat,

I have to thrash my heart back into place,

mix constantly.

Black-and-white paves? They say you have to be patient

and wait for the exact right moment before you pour

(your heart out) the layers of chocolate.

You lay your right hand on mine, slowly moving each of my fingers to the correct position

on the knife

standing so close I'm aware of your white coat against my apron.

L'étoile? 

You push down on my hand against the fruit, slicing through skins

and juices

cradling my small frame with yours.

Bûches de Noël. Swollen with mousse, buttercream...

You tell me to lean back until my spine touches your hand

then you turn my shoulders gently until the angles are all right

and replace your hands on mine 

to remind me the reason you're standing behind me.

I wish I could look at you, but I'm afraid of what I'd see.

No. I'm frightened of losing what might be there.

I'm terrified that what I want isn't there.

So I can't look, I just stare at your hands enclosing mine.

Hot chocolate?

How about hot chocolate?

Yeah...

let's start with that.

- E.R. Womelsduff

Your toes are little pencil erasers

I use them to rub out my words of hatred

Innocence spreads from your skin like a disease

and I sneeze at this intake of life

of pure love and adoration

and a simple, simple smile.

You drool a lot and I think they should bottle it

and sell it to people with too much grit in their lives

just take a whiff of you and remind themselves

what the hell life is all about.

You have no lines around your eyes

and some people would say "what great collagen"

but I know it's because you aren't capable of seeing the evil in the world, not yet

and your eyes just look and look and only see what's beautiful

because nothing can seem ugly, not through your eyes, not yet.

And I pray that that "yet" will never come,

but I know that something somewhere down your line

something's going to shake you up

and tear you down and salt you with grit

and for that I am truly sorry.

But for now your grin makes me grin

and my song makes you calm

and I sing to you until you droop-

(over-laden branches of winter trees)

and settle-

(tons of rock trembling)

into sleep.

- E.R. Womelsduff

The words are endearing

and the mood is ensnaring

and your eyes are incandescent:

"brilliant; masterly; extraordinarily lucid."

And your smile content, complacent, placid.

But the food's turned rancid

and my stomach is acid

eating at my other organs in abandon

reality crashing as the police cordon

off my body

from the crashing flash of photographer's bulbs

glass flying to my eyes

and cutting out the light faster than sound;

flash, flare, falling to the floor.

I want to scream, but apparently I'm dead

and I wish I hadn't eaten all that bread

‘cuz then I couldn't finish my dinner

and I figure if I'm going to go out

I'm going out with a good steak in my belly

not flat Ciabatta and olive oil.

But they've brung out the chalk and the press bares their teeth

drooling on my Versace

and there goes Liberace playing at my funeral.

And there is no light, no dark,

no warmth, no stale or snappy winds;

I'm in a vacuum and 

then:

a fracture

and understanding implodes.

- E.R. Womelsduff

I'm eating hot CHICKEN WITH EGG NOODLES

in 80-degree weather.

I'm walking around an empty condo 

in my underwear (because I can.)

My hair is pulled back

because I lack the motivation to do anything else with it.

My big brown combat boots are resting in my room;

tired after treading restaurant floors all day.

I ordered tiramisu from "Mom"

but could only eat six bites because damn that stuff is rich.

I'm vaguely tired

and vaguely content

I have things to do

but my energy's spent

thank God I don't have rent to pay

or I'd be working now, not writing about my day.

I need to take out the trash and unload the dishwasher

and splash my face with cold water to wake myself up

this heat is like opium

dragging me down into humidity

and stupidity

just make me want to sleep and get nothing done

nothing done ever

and golly-gee I like to think I'm clever

but I'm just like you

walking across the street; avoiding

the truck-drivers' rather blatant stares

even though there's no cleavage to show

no butt to bare

nothing besides an innocent face that they want to make not-so innocent

and I just keep walking

because what else am I supposed to do?

I don't even have to chew this soup

it just disintegrates against my tongue

just push it against the roof of my mouth and it's gone

sliding down my throat like ice, only warm

because it's soup.

And I forget how stressed I get

just by trying to not mess up

even though they wouldn't care; they'd forgive; they'd forget and move on

I'd be consumed; not quite able to shake

off the guilt of messing up, however small.

And the man on the motorcycle yesterday called

out to me at his red light

as I walked in front of him-

head bowed-and said

"Hey, you're beautiful."

And shit I want to cry because that's not what I was expecting he'd say.

"Hey, you're beautiful."

"Hey..."

"...you're beautiful."

- E.R. Womelsduff