Amanda Rountree

This is not a poem.

But it has words.

The kind that are efficient in their sitting, pencil shading on the side in the 75% post-consumer recycled content sketchbook.  Graphite words that I smudged with my hands–the smudges of honor still visible when I ordered tea at that place down the street with the quiet, lonely strangers plugged into the walls.  I didn’t wash my hands ’cause I was hoping someone would notice that I am an artist.  I’m not an artist.  I am.  But not that-kind-of-artist.  They noticed (that I am messy).

I am not a poet.

but I love words.

The kind of words that can cascade out of your mouth like that waterfall in the mountain stream where I went hiking all alone because I am so independent and love nature and needed to think (or to not think) and oh yeah, also I’m not really seeing anyone (but wouldn’t that be a great place to take him once I am?).  Refreshingly satisfying words–saying ‘em is like takin’ that last bite of chocolate cake.  It takes up every part of your mouth and each syllable has a different taste.

So this may not be what it’s called.

But it is what it is.

Which is possibly your projection of what you’ve always wanted it to be–that singular moment when you read a phrase and everything lines up for you.  All the answers are there like in an old classroom when you’re young and writing the answers on your paper (properly spaced) with the smell of chalk and pencil erasers and that sawdust they use to cover up the throw-up from that one kid who you don’t know very well ’cause you don’t understand him (but you don’t understand yourself either and first things first, right?).  You look down at your paper and are nervous that you don’t know the answer, but then you look up and realize that the teacher has posted it on the bulletin board opposite the windows–it was there all along.  It’s always been there–all you had to do was look around.