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JAM Copyright © 2017 Mihaela Vacarciuc


All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of quotations in a book review.











ISBN-13: 978-1542333146 


ISBN-10: 1542333148 





jam 3

Jam 4

Jealousy 5

Love 5

Introverts 6

Future 7

Travelers 7

Perception 8

Self-hatred 8

Growth 8

Casket 9

Poetry 9

A lot 10

Memory 10

Generations 11

Breaking 11

The Male Gaze 12

Insanity 13

Dead 13

A Writer 15

Writer’s Ego 15

Microwaves 16

Road Trips 17

another year 18

Patio 18

Poetry 2.0 19

Writers 19

Far from the building 20

Bleeding 21

Poetry 3.0 22

Alpha 23

You made fun of my big scar, dick 24

wife and kids 24

The Line 25

Poetry 4.0 26

Fluff 27

Promenade 27

American Dream…but I’m Canadian 28

Self-sufficient 29

Full 30

Calm Waters 30

Good Enough 32





[] jam


my great grandmother used to make jam to put in small and big and ginormous jars


how can you preserve the summer

into the winter, molka?


“eh, you’ll see”


I was never there to actually eat the jam

with a spoon or

spread it on rye bread but

we made it in the summer as if

I would be


yesterday I added

sugar to warm, smashed berries

and I made jam


what a surprise

when I found

how easy it is

to bring July into








when I sink into

a meal of jealousy,

my stomach is boundless,

never satiated, and

I’m left with a bad

taste in my mouth.







because women are sneaky,

and they plan and place;

to them love

is just chess.


“you should learn to be sneaky

so you don’t fall behind”


but when the men love with open hearts

and the future comes pouring out of their mouths and

their large fingers gently trace the

lips of their love


what pain can you inflict to “be smart”

or take them off the market with no payments of affection,

but with necessity,

only because


“you’re getting old.”







introverts turn me on

what do you mean when

you’re quiet


I’m loud and roaring and obvious


but your unmoving lips

can hide depths I wouldn’t

know about


delicious minds


I couldn’t

dream about


it seems like you hold the secret

to the universe

in-between your









I crave to sink my nails into

the flesh of the

future, and

draw blood to test

its DNA

to figure out how

it was








those who dream of travel

don’t crave landmarks, but

places of self-reinterpretation;

they don’t seek new soil,

but to fertilize their minds;

and they don’t understand that

all travelers carry maps

because they are lost.


those that root in the soil

have found all the nutrients to keep them alive.







lipstick stuck on chapped lips

and big houses with mortgages.






[] Self-hatred

there is no need to heckle yourself;

you’ve got a show to do.







the minute I don’t cry

at your opinion

is the minute I gain the strength

beyond the kind your acceptance can ever offer me.








will your followers count



carry your casket



or place flowers



on your














I love poetry because

the audience is who can


and there is no

nice market for

human connection.






[]A lot

they see cars and houses decorated

and consider it a lot.


my direct deposit of happiness

is lavish for me.


should we all be so lucky to experience it,

we’d all understand the futility of








we only look back

when the view is nice

or the disaster and chaos

catch our eye,




like a car crash.






[] Generations

I talk to my grandmother

to shake my mother’s


15 year-old hand

and discover all the mistakes

I’ve only seen the

corrections to.







I’ve broken others

in ways

that made me write

poetry about myself.


when I say

“don’t waste your time” on my


I’m not testing you; I’m saving



and myself


I don’t want to break another again.






[] The Male Gaze

who dressed you in silk because

our silhouettes need to be shown?


the silk slips off

as your mind wants


to run the show.








we all judge insanity

as a deviation from reality,

when social norms and lies

are really the deviations,

and insanity is




unfiltered reality.







I watch you fret about

jack shit


or widen your eyes at

have sweaty palms because of


that will pass



like shit passes through your colon


it’ll roll its way down

into the future

and eventually

land in the toilet

and you’ll be relieved


but now you’re empty.


and depleted.


so just take a deep breath

all will pass.

like your shit. your absolute shit

and almost enjoy it



the dead don’t shit.






[]A Writer

my grandfather used to write

and he was an engineer and an

architect for some time


but with bright eyes,

he’d call himself

a writer.






[] Writer’s Ego

I’m a writer

and my work is



but it’s probably still

the best


and what I write

can most likely

be spun into







[] Microwaves

my mom threw out the microwave

because it can cause cancer


because it could be why

her father died


now we have a toaster oven

that takes forever

to warm a small bowl of soup

and maybe that’s the real killer


it’s a little suspicious

because some people with

microwaves are

perfectly fine.







[] Road Trips

we drive on the rubble and the car rumbles

the winding streets lead to new places

and Europe is vast


we eat sunflower seeds on the way

the shells become fertilizer


and sit between corn stacks


under the tallest and strongest and wildest

monsters we find,

we pull down our pants

and we fertilize the ground.


I came to Canada every September and these thoughts are primitive

I’ve tried to make them not

but gave up


so I write them here

to reminisce about the

freest moments

of my life.







[] another year

why is New Year capitalized?

is it an event

we should care about?

something will change?


or will the drum of life

go by

a different name?







I guess now I know my family

and see forever stretched out

in my mom’s capable walk

and my dad making jokes on the couch


my grandma now sits

on her restaurants patio

with her empire bustling around her;

what she built up after soviet communism

with my grandpa


only one tea cup on the table

and that’s the feeling of being



my grandpa shares space with the others

and he’s probably surrounded

by more company

than her.






[] Poetry 2.0

excursion for the soul

one way ticket to somewhere

and one way ticket back

bought later in time

and when something calls you


but you always return

because that’s another place

you have to revisit

to see what has changed.







they say actors are sensitive

but writers are



actors take something from someone else and

put it on stage

and get judged

on their form and structure


writers take themselves

out to put on


and get judged on who they are


so maybe it is better


to just judge my

form and structure.






[] Far from the building



of parking too close

to the building because

most cars are

parked there


and the closer I get, the more

I have to be careful not to

hit anything.


I walk far from my parking spot

and curse my choice


but that’s

like most things.







they pour their blood on the page

and it drips off into the minds

of others


the knife in their

blistered hands

in-between their fingers,



and they bleed

and they bleed

for most of the time discussing love, death, moments where air was difficult to get into the body, maybe sleep paralysis, poverty, war, death, death


and they bled

and they bled


some were lucky enough to


and be noticed

“holy shit, that woman is bleeding a lot,”


but most bleed and bleed until they’ve bled

and that’s all.






[] Poetry 3.0

my mom read a poem of mine

and said “mhm, okay,”


I told her “you don’t like it? I show, not tell,”


and she said “where are you showing me something new? I know all of these things already,”


“but poems repeat, and subject matters are similar because they’re the things that consume all of our thoughts because we are all the same; and you’re my mom and should be supporting me; I can’t believe you don’t like my work, moms are supposed to be our biggest fans!”


“I guess I just don’t get it,”


“I’m a 20 year old in a university of 40,000 students and I’ve lived through enough to write dazzling poetry”







Life gets beta.


we dream of dreams and dream of the dreams dreaming of us

we design and create in our heads our futures

and we’ll be rich

and we’ll find passion

in the small things,

and we’ll make the small things big

we’ll all be alpha.


but with time

life gets beta

and we need to learn

to be okay with



so that when your kid spits venom in your direction

because why aren’t you a lawyer

or a doctor

or you’re not exactly

like his best friend’s mom


you say

life gets beta,

but I love you,

and it’s only normal

you want more







[] You made fun of my big scar, dick

some people are irreplaceable

and some you don’t even

want to







[] wife and kids

wife and kids rolls off the


I admit


and regret


like the protagonist is the man

and we’re but moments in time

or rites of passage

or something to take care of


I stand on this balcony

my dad sighs


I hear my mother and my brother

and another wife and other children

taking off coats and snow pants

in the warmth of the yellow light

as he collects his thoughts,

and it’s

his wife and kids

to him

to me


who do I belong to

until I meet my husband?






[]The Line

I’m crawling on the line between forgiving and maintaining my dignity


I used to forgive all

but when you stomp all over

me and I say “welcome”

over and over again

I’m beginning to wonder

if my ego needs to grow


most people retaliate,


and with ends that never



we’re all just trying to

gain some footing

in life

and most are



but my 20 years of existence

doesn’t offer much







[] Poetry 4.0

Don’t want poems to tell me things,

like manuals, or


and funnel knowledge into my


“this is how you should


decorated with bullshit



but to honour

all that connects

our stories and


in a way that

makes me go


“Oh, I know that.”







I can write fluff


“He ignites my soul into flames even though he takes my oxygen away”

and that’s the kind of shit people like

because it’s applicable to any generic feeling of love

while also including chemistry

so that when you understand the poem

you feel smart and special


I think that kind of shit

is cookie-cutter


and I’d rather write

about jam.







I walked down the street from school

and waited at the lights


and my mind waited


for things to fall together


the day was nice.


the guy I’m talking to walked by

with a girl

and I’m not one to care

but we were friends

and I became a ghost

to be ignored


I crossed the light

and on the next street

I saw my first love

with his own:

a girl with shiny hair


and what a fool I must have

looked like

to be alone

and clear-headed,

walking at my own







[] American Dream…but I’m Canadian

because 4 years of university

is just a waiting game

to get to “Go” and “Collect 200”


and life is a waiting game

to get to “Go” and “Collect 200”


every round

as the year goes.






[] Self-sufficient

we like to think that any bleeding wound

will be stopped by our mothers

and that cuts will heal

faster around them


a cry on their shoulders

is a phone call away


but allowing yourself to heal

with your own words

is the best aid

of all


and you’re the one that has to

live with the scars,








what’s a ray of sunshine

if you don’t feel its warmth


or a laugh

if you don’t want it to

echo in your memory


what’s a breath

if you don’t let it

sink into your

lungs and take

away your







[] Calm Waters

I read your work

and I see manufactured production

of depression and sorrow,

as you struggle to fit the

pieces of your existence into

a cohesive whole under

the blinding scope




and I get upset

at how your sorrow

strings along the words

you produce.


but then I remember the months of rumbling

my mind went through

when I sat on my bed

and asked “why”

to nobody in particular,

and the anxiety that crept on me

after I watched a man disintegrate into diapers

that made it hard to sit in

quiet classrooms –

I’d run into the hall

3 times in an hour, between

“Tips for Essays” and “Dostoyevsky”

just so that I could breathe



and I remember

that no creation in the world,

be it depressingly beautiful,

is worth the turmoil of the mind.


so instead of broken beer bottles

that seem to fuel your crises,

I wish your thoughts

safe passage




[] Good Enough

you’ll never be good enough for


until you accept that you



that you are flawed;


your skin isn’t made of plastic,

your mind will falter trying to find its path,

your soul will behave like an asshole,

and even your body

will give up on your from time to time,

your nose will drip when it is cold,

and your eyes will

drip when the world

is cold


but shit,

you’re all you’ve got,

and that makes you

good enough.


















  • Author: Mihaela Vacarciuc
  • Published: 2017-01-07 00:35:09
  • Words: 2389
jam jam