I will be making a Haiku out of lines from my own Micro Fiction which is in the last blog. I will also be composing a Found Poem from 10 of my Tweets from Twitter.

Wrong Way

The window is open,

12:57 stares at me.

This is my stop, empty.



these are the tweets I used:
jar2389 jorie rao

got a paper cut today. not fun.

jar2389 jorie rao

my living room is a mess, not a fan #twitterive #wrt2

jar2389 jorie rao

the edu lab it quiet except for the clicking of my own keyboard as i write this #twitterive #wrt2

jar2389 jorie rao

The jeep has bumper stickers, but not on the bumper. I have put a few on there. #twitterive

jar2389 jorie rao

A story is something that constantly unfolds.--Tarentino #twitterive

jar2389 jorie rao

this was in someones bathroom. it made me laugh #twitterive http://twitpic.com/3vl12y

jar2389 jorie rao

sunsets, red bulls and your hand in mine. I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile #twitterive

jar2389 jorie rao

the dirty floor mats in your car, the broken cupholder, the loose change in my hand. its taking its toll. #twitterive

jar2389 jorie rao

faded tans and leftover shells from where the ocean meets the land #twitterive Im california dreamin on such a winters day



1989 Jeep Cherokee Laredo

Sunsets,

Red Bull’s

and your hand in mine.

 I'd travel anywhere as long as you smile.

Familiar place:

the jeep has bumper stickers, but

not on the bumper. It made me laugh.

The dirty floor mats in your car,

the broken cup holder

and the  loose change in my hand.

It’s taking its toll.

It’s old, a mess.

We drive a lot.

Quiet, except for

faded tans and leftover shells

from where the ocean meets the land.

A story is something that

constantly unfolds.

In this blog I am going to write two micro Fictions. In the first I will use a line from Anzaldua's work and then the second will be from one of my own tweets. 
I decided to use this line form Anzaldua:  "Y sabes lo que hizo?"
I decided to use this tweet: writing a short story in my dorm while trying to tune out the piano player upstairs.

The Pianist

                 The incessant noise of a piano lingers in the empty space of my bedroom. The window is open slightly, letting the usually calming melody of Mozart, Bach, or some classical composer sneak in and weave through my brain enough to distract me from the blinking cursor on my laptop. I rock back and forth in my chair, twirling my hair between my pointer finger and my thumb.  I need to go grocery shopping because I am out of milk and my apples are bruised. The window lets the noise of Edgewood parking lot creep in with the pianist’s melodies.

                12:57 stares at me from the clock on my laptop. My fingers curl into a fist and then extend over the keyboard again, unable to type a single word. I should shut the window, but I don’t want to stand up. My legs are warm beneath my snuggie and the room is too cold to walk the 10 steps to my window. I hear the hum of the T.V in the living room and decide that the piano is less annoying. I listen for a second and notice the piano has stopped. Looking at my screen makes me laugh. I let an hour pass with the sounds around me filling the void in my mind, while my laptop sits empty.

And you know what he did?

The train is empty except for two older Hispanic ladies and me. The sky outside is gray and the air is cold. The train rattles on its tracks, something that worries me, yet the older ladies take no notice. They speak fast and in Spanish.

            “<Y sabes 1o que hizo?” The older lady with the purple jacket says to the other.

            “No, no yo sabo,” the other lady holding her purse says.

            I only catch every few words, but I think they are talking about someone’s son joining a gang. They also talk about how much they hate Camden because every time they have to say the name of the city where the son lives they make a face like they just drank sour milk and then tried to make the taste disappear by drinking orange juice that expired.

            “Si, es no bueno. Mi hijo es amigos contigo,” the lady holding her purse says.

            “Ay, Mi Dios,” says the lady with the purple jacket. “Pobrecetio.”

            I laugh at this exchange because, not only do the ladies look boisterous with their bright colors and large jovial bodies, they speak with their hands and their eyes. Looking only at each other while they speak, they don’t notice I have been watching the entire ride.

            “Next stop, Haddon Heights,” the train speaker says.

            This is my stop, I grab my backpack and stand. Taking one last look at the older ladies who are still engrossed in their conversation.