The
complete published works of
granmadave
this collection is not for
distribution
Otis and
The Strangers (and Myra)
Otis and
Music (To the tune of Beethoven's Ode to Joy)
Myra and
Otis (words by A. Myers)
Otis and
Roxy pt. 5, also Closure pt. 1
Otis and
the Last Night with Myra
Otis and a
Date (maybe) with Karen
Otis and a
Farewell to Myra, also Closure pt. 2
Otis and
Thoughts about A Possible Err with Karen
Otis and a
Card Game at Karen's Home with Her Family
Otis and a
Really Depressed Moment after a Misunderstanding with Karen
Otis and
Karen's Room, also Closure pt. 3A
Otis and
Karen No More, also Closure pt. 3B
Otis and
Eight Weeks, also Three Days After,
also Closure pt. 3C
Otis and
Thoughts about Karen During a Family Gathering
Otis,
Myra, Karen, and Bernice, Veronica, Andy, and Marcus
Otis and
Karen, pt. 6, also Cryptic Answers to Unasked Questions
Otis and
Karen, pt. 7, also Fear and Pain in
Houston
Veronica's
Thoughts (by M. Elsner)
Otis and a
New Year and more thoughts of Karen
Otis and
Karen, pt. 12, also Consistent Train of
Thought
Otis and
Karen, pt. 13, also Rearview Mirror
Otis and
Jezebel, pt 4, also Closure, pt 4
Otis and
Marcus, also Otis and More Thoughts of Myra
Otis and
Reilly, pt. 2 also, A Blue Dream
Otis and
Reilly, pt. 3, also Castle on a Cloud,
also Pas Miserables
Otis and
Veronica, pt. 2 also White Mice and 50 kV of Electricity
Who is the
Lady in Stairway to Heaven? And other Q-and A
Recovery,
A Poem in Many Parts--
Perpetual
Motion of Synapses and Memory
With all
Geographic Changes, a Psychological Change must also Occur
Smoke
Signals, Reflections on the Movie
People’s
Paths (by Regina Rose LaMacchia)
Also, Tonight, I am Listening to the Cure
Also, Tonight I am Listening to the Cure –
Alternate Ending
Also, The Answer to Question Number One
Also, The Kid Dancing at Midnight
Also, Present Memories of Past Events
Slam Poet seeks Artistic and Fun-Loving Woman
Elderly
Man Behind the Diner in a College Town
If the Apothecary Was Closed for the Holiday
II. Leaves in
Fall, Floating in Wind
Independence
Day Weekend, I-64
Music Soothes the Savage Beast, but the
Minstrels have Gone Astray
Response
to “Poets Against the War”
Language of the Stars and Moon
You Wanted
to Know why I am Here, Bothering You Every Week
On Traffic
Lights and Other Matters of National Security
We at figmentofimagination Productions are dedicated to protecting the freedom of Speech and of the press. We see other production companies censoring the work of the artists to such a degree the editor should be given credit as a co-author! That is no way to promote the growth of art. What they are doing is perverting art into a business. For some, yes, art can be very lucrative. Mel Gibson, for example, is an artist who is compensated extremely well for his work. But, lesser-known talents such as Houston’s Scot Guillory and Baltimore’s Janice Coffey have to take out student loans to continue their respective educations. Far too often do large production companies because of integrity turn talented individuals away. Not integrity on the part of the company, but rather integrity on the part of the artist. The artist, being unwilling to distort his work, walks away from the chance to produce, that he may maintain his dignity and keep his art pure.
We at fP have decided that this approach to art must stop here. We have developed a plan for a production company that begins and ends with the artist’s vision. When an artist comes to fP, an advisor, someone who is involved in the same field as the artist, will view his work. That advisor will then suggest changes he thinks may benefit the artist. The artist then chooses whether to accept the suggestions and make appropriate changes, or to continue as the work is. The work will then go to a production manager who will suggest methods of transmitting the artist’s work to the target audience, and again the artist will have final call. This method cuts out any unwanted disruption to the artist’s vision, and allows the artist to have the final decision regarding the presentation method of his art.
Welcome to the first presentation of figmentofimagination Productions. With this book, we are beginning what we hope to be a great legacy in independent art. fP will eventually expand to produce every imaginable form of visual, performing, and literary art. We hope to provide a means for budding independent artists to be seen and heard, with the least amount of creative restriction. Never will we tell an artist what to create. We simply will allow that artist the ways and means to show the world what they can do.
This book, Otis and Other Issues, features several young authors who write in the open form, also known as “Naked Poetry”, to coin the term from Stephen Berg. The open form is often considered the most accepting of the artist’s choices. The artists are not restricted to rhythm, rhyme, and meter. Instead, the artists are free to let their minds lead and their pens follow.
Initially is our founder, David Schein II with The Otis Series and Other Issues. The Otis Series tells the story of Otis, a man who is searching for something in himself and the world, but he knows not quite what. Often, he thinks he has found it in a lover, and often he is wrong. He tells his tale from 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person points of view, sometimes allowing us to look through his eyes, at other times, restricting us to watching from a distance. Included in The Otis Series are poems by A. Myers and Melissa Elsner. Other Issues is a collection of other poems that have no real common thread. They are simply the scattered thoughts of an artist. These “other issues” range from dark philosophy to flights of fancy. Included in Other Issues is another poem by Melissa Elsner and a contribution by the youngest of our authors, Gina LaMacchia.
Second, Lee Cole brings us The Theatis Set. This is a short set that tells a few stories of love, friendship, and the whips and scorns of time. Included after the Theatis Set are two other poems, one about love and the other about a sort of parenthood. His ancient names give his poems an historic feel, and his references to mythos and mysticism add to the ethereal feel of his words.
Katie Robertson brings this anthology to a close with The Way of the World and a few other pieces about loneliness and solitude, among other things. Her use of imagery and emotion give her work a close-to-home effect as she writes of things that many of us can relate to all too well.
We love, adore, admire, and appreciate these artists for their creative vision, and for believing that we could truly create something that is ours. We send our love and respect to all artists, wherever they may be.
The Story: This anthology is a collection of prosetry and poetry written from the summer of 1998 until the day of publishing. I was in Baltimore, Maryland, where my mom lives, and I went to a local diner in Towson with some friends of mine after a meeting. While I was there, I started to think of one of my former girlfriends that used to go there to the Silver Diner. I got up in my head about what I would do if I saw her there that night- because the last time I had seen her had been... at the diner. Roughly four hours and ten cups of coffee later, as I sat in my bed longing for sleep, and suffering as it eluded me, I continued thinking about "Roxy" and the events of that evening and of the previous summer.
The insanity of my sleepless thoughts left me with only two options: go totally mad or write. As enticing as the former was, I chose the latter. I wrote 'Otis and Roxy', pts 1, 2, and 3 that night. And I didn't stop there. I have continued to write about the people, things, and events in my life and in my past from a third person perspective, that I might find some peace and serenity by exposing my thoughts and feelings to myself.
I am not sure why I chose the name "Otis" for the protagonist. It seemed like a good name. I am not going to try to hide behind Otis. I am not all of Otis, and Otis is not all of me, but he is my window into myself. He is like my alter ego. I can look at the events and thoughts of his life and see the similarities to my life. I then compare that to my own life and realize where I may have gone wrong and what I am doing right. I have given names to all of the involved parties, both to protect and respect them, and to further assist in my self-detachment, again to see myself from the outside.
The Reading: Prosetry is, as the name implies, a crossbreed of poetry and prose. To assist you in the reading, remember: you will know what is poetry and what is prosetry. The prosetry is along the lines of the 'beatnik' movement, that is, shifty rhythm and meter without any set rhyme scheme. This is also often called “open form” or “naked” poetry. The words are making love to the paper. Treat them as such.
On my website:
http://www.geocities.com/granmadave, I have posted copies of my work for free
viewing. If you wish to purchase a hard copy of The Otis Series and \ or Other
Issues, they are available at cost. I am in the process of generating audio
compact discs with my work read aloud by me.
The Thanks: I need to start by thanking the one who was with
me through pretty much everything that occurred since junior year of high
school. Every emotional situation I
experienced, she was there for. She helped me through so much of this stuff
that I don't even know how to begin to thank her, but here goes: "Missy,
Thank you. (!!!!!)" I don't think that really does it, but I'm sure she understands.
"Missy, I love you. Thank you so much for everything." Second, I need to thank Lee. He is a mysterious, beautiful spirit, and I
love him as a brother for the support he has given me over the several years we
have known each other. He has helped me
through many hard times and rainy days. He was there for me on all of the
frightening and frustrating nights that I simply needed his presence on. He was my crutch during the Karen months.
He and I seem to speak to each other better through music than words, and
sometimes staying quiet is the best advice. “Lee, thank you. Thank you for Sarah when I needed her, and
thank you for silence when I needed that, too.
I love you, my friend, and remember: we’ll always have 610, a radio, and
a Blazer.”
I did not write a few of the enclosed poems, as the table
of content will show. "Myra and Otis" was a message left on my
machine this summer by A. Myers, so I have given her credit in the TOC. Melissa
Elsner wrote “Veronica’s Thoughts”.
I have thrown together a quick list of people (In
no predetermined order) that I
wish to thank: Missy
Elsner, Lee Cole, Katrina Hakkinen, Raphael White, Sharyn Blum, Emily “E!” Wiesman, Shawn “The Gay Guy”:
Good luck on “The Couch”,
Sean Abbott, The
Silver Diner, the owners/staff/regulars of The Towson Diner, Several Species, John
Cates, Lifeway, Kevin and Andrew Soliz, Crystal Lee, The Recher Theatre, The Baltimore Opera Company, The
Paper Moon Diner, Club 307, Oliver “OJ” Janney, Erin “Meg Ryan” Foard, Sarah, Wade, OCT, Goucher College, Ildiko
Preszly, “Mommy” Jamie,
“Ma” Phay, Charles “Chipunk” O’Toole, Dennis “The Mick-Wop-Lock” Restauro, Mike Weller, Mike Cave, Lora, Mary Ellen Schroder, The Noser Family, The Jones
Family, Joe Schein, Bradley Schein, Gil Rice, Brigita Miller et al., Alex Myers et al., Alex Green, Ali Koen, Rachel Waldman, John
and Nathan Dexter-Thornton, CJ Stephens: Hang tight, my friend, Cathy Clay and
The Producers of S>P> Waltrip Senior High School in Houston, Texas,
Christopher Redding, Claire
Yeoman, Jim and Jess Rogers, Greg Pipitone, my Mom, Dad, and Ken, David and
Amanda Gonzalez, 'Scruffy' Dave Richardson, Scot Guillory, Noel Ligon, Jenna
Lewis, Rachel Velez, Spencer et al., Aaron B., Matt H., Luke K., Bruce T.,
Abbey Moore, Dave Field, Marlo Delara, Mike S., Patty Elsner, Bob Turner,
Mitchell Cohen, Shannon Darrow, Tyler Davis, Wade and Shane Tyree et al., Oprah Winfrey, Paul Hewson and Dave Evans, Thom
Yorke, and I know I forgot a few names in there, but I love you all, even those
I couldn't think of at this moment.
To every one else
even slightly mentioned in this anthology: "I love you all.
You have all helped me become a better man. Live long and die well." Thank
you all for looking into my life and reading my work and the work of my
friends. I love you all. I hope that my
work might help you in similar situations. In addition to all those listed and
not listed, I would like to thank Stephen Berg, Benjamin Zephaniah, Ani
DiFranco, and my sister, Anna, for being the unknowing models and mentors from
which much of my style is based. Most of all, I thank my higher power for
making this all possible: the experiences, the people, the poetic
inspiration... life in general... everything.
EKAM SAT VIPRAH BAHUDHA VADANTI
THERE IS BUT ONE
TRUTH, ONLY MEN DESCRIBE IT IN DIFFERENT WAYS
-TAKEN FROM THE RIG VEDA
The Otis Series is dedicated to "Veronica" and "Marcus" for the love they have shown me through the years. I have never before or since met better friends than they are. I want to thank them for showing me so much love and support, even when I was too blinded by my ignorance and arrogance to see it. I will always love them and no distance can ever truly separate us. I will always hold them close to my heart.
-David Donald Schein II
he walks through the diner
calmly, sedate, passive
on the way to the restroom, she sees him
nostalgic, amorous, memory
he returns and as he passes, she turns
they remember time spent loving
physical, emotion, orgasm
she kisses him, he is afraid
she releases him, he is relieved
he still loves her, but remembers
pain, dissolution, deserted
-----
Grass Breathing
Trees Sharing
Love Having
Bewilderment Taking
Pain Talking
Fun Leaving
Orgasm Going
Dew Coming
Skin Loving
Velvet Singing
Grip Running
Lost Hiding
Desire Touching
Silence Caring
The Thoughts Careen Through His Head
-----
He remembers parting the first
Time, by far not the worst.
Too young to explore
Emotions, yet yearning for
Experience and a caress,
A body that had not yet breasts.
Years later at the same
Place, they remembered things, no name.
They went to a movie to see a show.
They had each other, but had to go.
Her body, now perfect; his mind, defunct,
Chemicals collided. His thoughts, they were junk.
She left. He didn't say good-bye.
He missed her but he couldn't cry.
Months later on the telephone,
Then they walked and went to his home.
Rekindled were their emotions.
Lusts are confusing potions.
They spent weeks together.
The physical fun only got better.
They went to movies and music shows,
They explored sexuality and got toes
Wet with the dew of midsummer's grass.
They frolicked and in lust collapsed.
With him inside her was much pleasure.
Yet come the next day, he couldn't get her
Back, she had left his world.
Torn inside, he sat and curled.
Into an emotional ball of pain,
But he has healed and does not now complain.
-----
The door was Open
M usic
I mzadi
C an't
H ad
E motions
L ove
L ust
E volve
She was Closed
O nce
T wice
I nside
S ymbiosis
The door was Closed
-----
Pipelines transport his thoughts at impossible speeds as she winks at him and though others have winked at him before, this was different SHE was different. He wants her so bad but couldn't have her, then he could, but he couldn't though he wanted now he can but he can't so he must wait and make plans for when he can. As he watches her adjust her position in her seat he can see her underwear, white with flowers, and he instantly wants her though he already wanted her but he remains silent about his lusts and affections for her, so as not to fuck up his and her sanity, though his is questionable to begin with, and he takes her home and wants her but waits for a time when he won't hurt her or himself, and though he wants her he must remember that time is time and they have plenty of it, and he can have her in the future and if he must wait, then he will wait, because he wants her and he knows that she wants him but they wait.
-----
He met her then, they talked.
He liked her then, they laughed.
He saw her then, they joked.
He accompanied her then, they watched.
He kissed her then, they embraced.
He loved her then, they caressed.
He left her then, they sighed.
He still does. They still do.
-----
he sees her body
he wants inside her heart, soul
but she is taken
he experiments
she responds with smiles and laughs
he thinks she wants him
they see each other
often enough to be friends
affections unclear
as the sun sets now
over the field, trees, grass, leaves
his thoughts unspoken
-----
he thinks he likes her,
but he is uncertain.
he finds her attractive,
but there is fear.
for Myra still loves him,
or so he's sure.
he still likes her,
but she is not present.
nor will she be for a while.
he is uncertain.
-----
as he filters the thoughts of his-
life times
loves lovers
experiences likes
dislikes sensations
emotions and dreams
-through his tired heart and head,
he thinks to himself:
"Where is my life going?
What is in store for the man called Otis?
What plan does god have for me?
What will I do tonight?
What would happen if I died today?
Would I be okay with that?
Would I have remorse over things left undone?
Would I regret things left unsaid?"
And as he watches people pass by as unnamed souls and sees their-
hair eyes skin breasts
legs clothes shoes toes
pants shirts teeth blouses
skirts socks bags and jaded dissolution
-he wonders:
"Are they content with the way their lives have gone?
Do they wish they had loved their mothers?
Did they do what they wanted to do-
today, yesterday, this week, their lives?
Do they have unaccomplished goals as I do?
Do they notice the-
trees grass leaves smells
sounds people children jewelry
light ENERGY as I do?
Do they like my music, or would I cause a commotion if I were to turn the stereo up?
Do they judge me as I judge myself?
Have they attempted suicide?
Do they use drugs and other people to get what they want?
Do they have children, and if so, do they love them?
Does life come naturally for them or do they struggle to awaken each morning?
Do they have jobs?
Do they like coffee?
What color are their dreams?"
His are vibrant with-
blues reds greens women
men parents friends lovers
past lovers deceased relatives and friends and him
Yes, He dreams in color.
-----
She: She is pretty. She looks creative.
He: He is tall. He looks mean.
They: They are talking about fish and the events under way.
Otis: Otis sees Them kiss as he makes his way to the coffee and notices His hand on Her thigh, making its way up Her skirt.
She: She is smiling as they continue their conversation.
He: He asks for the check.
Otis: Otis notices the tip is $1.69. Otis grins at this as he returns to his seat.
Myra: Myra smiles as Otis sits down and places his hand on the inside of her thigh while setting the coffee down.
Otis: Otis asks for the check.
-----
every day he watches
as the sun sets
behind the guise of dusk
and the cloak of the horizon
as the stars take up their positions
as sentinels against
the intruding thoughts
and inhibitions
of the waning day.
and he is calm
-----
|\
ES UL
|| --T-- F------------F--L-------------------S------T----------
|/
NO L R G CE Y
N O A
H I S
/|
---------I--E---RA--------A--U-D---E-R--M-------S----A-D-----
/ | TT RO TH O E
N
| |
-------------------------------------------------------------
|/|-\
|\|
|------------------------------------------------------------
\ | |
\|/ NOTES FLITTER
GRACEFULLY AROUND THE ROOM AS HE SITS AND-----
|
\/
ES R S IT
---R---I---------------G-----N---------E---T-------------U--A----
TA N L
T E I I T
RN R N
E G R
---------T--T-Y-A---H-----L-----H--C---------U--I-G--------------
EN T R E MM TH
-----------------------------------------------------------------
S-----------------------------------O----------------------------
STARES INTENTLY AT THE GIRL IN THE CORNER STRUMMING THE
GUITAR---
HO ||
------------C--R------------------K-----D----------------------||
IN UT
D H T
C C W ||
T--P--G-O--------S----T-E---ES--U-----O------------------------||
AP
TO AW R
R ||
---------------------------------------------------------------||
||
---------------------------------------------------------------||
||
TAPPING OUT CHORDS TO THE AWESTRUCK
CROWD----------------------||
-----
Once again, a pretty face protecting a wonderful heart catches his eye.
She says "Hi." and smiles her alluring grin,
Saying so much more than her words.
But he doesn't speak that language.
He would ask her to translate,
But he doesn't want to come off as cocky,
So he remains silent.
-----
Calm
Emotional boy watches with passionate intentions.
With an erratic, swift bolt, he is paralyzed and engulfed with the rare intent to induce pain on another living thing. He is livid with this irresistible fury.
He is frightened as the adrenaline fades away.
Once again, he is
Calm
-----
There are many things in Otis' life that he enjoys.
On sad blue days, the only comfort is the darkness of ice cream.
When he contemplates his existence, he loves the company of a charming girl to assist him in whiling away the day.
-----
I can feel your breasts
in the palms of my hands.
I can smell your sweat
and pheromones.
I can taste you
and your warmth.
I can hear your loving voice
yearning.
I can see your eyes
closed in anticipation.
-----
As he sits and reads about people who lived through hell,
He thinks of his own life
Never has he felt the pain
These people have,
But he knows pain
The greatest pain
He has felt
Is the pain of losing all
Respect for
The man
He once revered
He knows the pain of betraying himself
The physical pain
That comes with the rain
Is greater than any other
That he has felt
But he knows not
The pain of losing his mother
He knows not the pain
Of infidelity of a lover
He knows not the pain
Of losing a child,
An entity of his own flesh
And blood
But he knows pain need
Not be fled from, but embraced...
...Then Recovery is Possible
-----
Nameless faces surround him as he
Sits stares sweats waits
For the warden
He waits for the whistle to signal
The procession of bodies into the
Cell as they await reeducation.
Conformist ideals shape the walls and
Words of their oppressors.
The light that floods the room is not born of the pale
Tubes recessed into the ceiling, but the minds of the servants.
With increased resistance comes heat.
With heat, light.
From where does the resistance stem?
From the jail-keepers,
As they attempt to restrain
the fleshy membranes
and emotions?
Or from the oppressed?
As they attempt self-reliance and resist -
- CONFORMITY
-----
meao.
are you there?
are you sleeping are you screening?
are you out drinking coffee?
probably the latter.
um...
I've just had...
a really...
Odd...
day...
...with the evening being the first part.
I just wanted to talk to you
mainly because you are like the best counselor I have in the world...
but I guess you're not there either.
either that or you're really, really sound asleep
oh, well
I guess I'll just sleep.
-----
at last the confusion has left his mind.
he knows now why she became mute with her
thoughts emotions time body
in a
casual
conversation, he
conferred with a
comfortable
confidant over a
quite
confidential
cause.
this man was the cause
this friend
(though not at the time)
destroyed the serenity of the relationship between Otis and Roxy.
but he does not resent Sam
Roxy should not have invited Sam in
Roxy should not have invited Sam to stay
Roxy should not have allowed Sam to rub her
neck back shoulders breasts
Roxy should not have invited Sam to kiss her
Roxy should not have let her guard down
Roxy should not have allowed the Sex
Roxy.
Roxy should not have invited Sam to
Do Her
Again, the
Next Day in
Her Home
Roxy should have told Otis
Silence is leaden.
-----
Hey Roxy, I'm just calling to say,
That I thought of you the other day.
And I thought to myself:
"Does she think of me or of someone else?"
And what was it about that night,
That caused you to take flight?
We caressed and frolicked in the grass,
Hands roaming over fronts and backs.
So thinking of you on that warm summers eve,
Brought back lusts so fast, I just couldn't believe.
But now I look at what must be in your bloodstream,
and in your thoughts and in your shoes.
And if you look into mine,
you'll see I have nothing to prove.
(Not to you at least)
But now I know the reason and don't even need to ask
The one thing that I want to know: why did you wear a mask?
Why couldn't you be honest?
Did not want me to know?
You wouldn't tell me what happened,
You just told me to go.
(But not in so many words)
So I found out through a friend of mine,
Why it was that you were lost.
Though a great deal of confusion,
Was the one and only cost.
I don't want to start shit again,
But I do feel I should say:
If you ever need my help, dear girl,
Give me a call someday.
I've known you for six hectic years,
And I consider you a friend.
But until you need he help, my dear,
This has to be the end.
My reason here is closure, Rox
In case you had to ask.
I know now who you really are,
So take off the fucking mask.
-----
I see you converse
She pushes him away
I can see down the front of her dress
The two of you playfully tease each other
He touches her thigh
He holds her hand
They don't see me
He goes to kiss her and she playfully rejects
Holding his arm, they cuddle
And I miss you.
I miss the way
That we would play.
I miss the kiss,
The bliss,
Associated with time spent with you.
I don't know what to say or do.
-----
In the velvet twilight
The moist air in my lungs
Remembering you on this cloudy night
Thinking of your skirt, black and shimmering
You're dark, curly hair covering your breasts
And hanging from your head,
Your necklace gently glimmering
-----
You're a very sweet girl.
I think I could like you a lot.
And I would never ask you
To be something you're not.
We've spent some time together.
And some good times have we had.
I would like to spend more time with you.
Would that be so bad?
We could play mini-golf.
Or drive little go-cart cars.
Or maybe go to an art show.
Then to a field to look at stars.
I know that you just moved here,
But how better to enjoy your stay,
Than to have someone take you all around,
And see the city that way?
And when you miss your old friends,
And need someone to hold,
I've a good heart and a soft shoulder,
I'll protect you from the cold.
-----
Pain grips my chest
I attempted to run from this
By running to someone else
I failed.
I am begging to weep, but the tears won't consent
I am so confused
SHE took that away
But now she is gone
She has thrown my confusion back at me
What a cruel joke
The jester must be ill
The doctor is not in
My heart is corrupt
Seeks a bribe from a new player in this twisted politics
And turning to an old accomplice
One who I all but ignored
With my new toy
Withdrawing from the sand lot
To the warmth of the velvet vise
I was in the hot box
And I got burned
And
Still
I
Wait
For
The
Tears
-----
Running
Driving Around
Getting Lost
And Finding Each Other
Over Pasta
In A Field
In Bellaire
Getting Devoured By Mosquitoes
And Other Insects
And Getting Shot At By Cherubs
Naked,
Winged
Boys
Should Never Be Given Projectile Weapons
Fortunately, He Missed
Got Pretty Damn Close To A Direct Hit
She Is So Beautiful
And Kind
And Pleasant
I Want To Spend Time
With Her
Over Ice Cream
And Prosetry
In A Coffee Shop
In Europe
sittin'chillin'talkin'lovin'breathin'tastin'sharin'smilin'dancin'rockin'cuddlin'
Getting Lost In Those Deep Eyes
Her Single Dimple
Her Small Yet Pleasant Breasts
Her Hair: Each Strand A Different Color
But All Shades Of The Same Emotion
Her Walk: With A Spring She Steps
is there a romantic
word for butt?
Hers Is Nice, Round, Pleasant, Present
Her Lips: Calm, Seductive, Inviting, Teasing
Her Language: Tripping, Alluring, Aesthetic, Drawing
Her Accent: Combined, Beautiful, Sexy, Calling
and yet, I don't know
I wish I did, but her words is foreign to me
-----
BOOM, VROOM, SCREECH, WOW!
SHIFT, MPH, SPEED NOW!
My car she is a tank
She eats a lot of gas
Both God and Dad I thank
Because my car kicks ass!
She fishtails when it's wet outside
But I can compensate
I get money when I give friends rides
My car, she is first rate
This pretty girl says my car's the best
And I believe I quite agree
Menolly rises above the rest
My car's perfect for me.
-----
I hope I didn't Scare you,
With the Words I wrote.
I think it's safe to say you know,
Of whom it was I spoke.
I like you, sure, I admit it's true,
But I never meant to bring you Fear.
It is just something that I do,
Writing makes my thoughts more clear.
I will not make you rush to choose,
The extent of our affair.
Your trust I never will abuse,
You just need to know I care.
-----
Painful Beauty
Exhilaration Surpassing Fears
and she said to me...
Supreme Joy Almost Drawing Tears
The People Mill about
To Their Own Business They Attend
and i know without a doubt
there's no need to pretend
She Asked And I Said 'Yes'
In The Lot Of The City Bright
I Want To Frolic, Kiss, Caress
To Hold Her Through The Night
I Love To Watch Her In The Morning
As She Sits In Her Car
All Of A Sudden Without Warning
I Look And Here We Are
-----
One touch from your hand is as electricity through my bones,
Lancing me with ecstasy
I am
enticed with this
erotic
embrace.
Kiss me
Caress me
Hold me
Love me
Music hovers in the vibrations of the air
And I am there
And I am here.
-----
You are sultry sexy-sweet standing there, exciting
And the wind caresses your multi-hued locks,
randomly scattering them across your brow.
You stand seductively in your rosy gown,
Breathing in the heavy night air.
and I ride the waves
of affection onward
to the stars
and the coming day,
still hours away, when next I shall see you
-----
I want to spend time with you
no friends
no time limits
no expectations
I wanted you to ask me to come back
to hold you
to caress you
to kiss you
to make you chamomile tea and feed you ice cream
to make you scream in pleasure
to make you laugh
to make you feel better
to hold you and look at stars in the pale moonlight of the crisp night air
to be there
to be with you
you asked not
nor did I, though all and more did I want
but hurt you I will not
I Can't.
nor do I want to hurt you
I want to hold you
to kiss you
to love you
to shatter understanding
to charm you
to entice you
to excite you
to paint you with the colors of an overactive imagination upon the canvas of the stellar orchestra in the studio of the gods of love and lust and purity and emotion and nakedness and joy and fun and pleasure and ecstasy and overstanding and fruits and dairy products and silkworms and lightning bugs and music and color and fur and stained glass and Beethoven and Michelangelo and DeNiro and cartoons and pillows
and...
...
...you
-----
Kung-Fu Garfield comforts me
As I drive in the moonlight
without you
He and god speak to me
With the wind and the pale light
without you
My friends greet me
While the epileptic strobe light
Flickers without you
He invites me
Under the porch light
And I leave without you
But what if she calls me?!
Her voice full of light?
But I'm still without you
I fear you don't want me
That I don't spark your light
That I'll be forever without you
Kiss me, Lover, love me
Let me be your light
I don't want to be without you
Ma Copine,
serenade me
In the moonlight
Don't let me be without you
I think of you and me
Watching stars without moonlight
With You
-----
The stoic man sits at the head of the table, paternally sifting through the multi-lingual festivities.
Maman sits to his left, by the kitchen, ready to pounce with offerings of food or beverage. She sits, concerned about manners, then with the familiarity and family, she is able to relax and have fun, and she continues to enjoy the game.
Joyfully, the recovered military man playfully teases the other members of the cast.
The giddy school girl child, youngest of the family, gleefully sings, bounces her way about the evening and the cryptic words (completely unintelligible to the bystander) and she pauses on occasion to translate for her lover, who sits and watches with awe and amazement at the family gathering which he has been allowed to witness. And he is grateful.
He watches the man sit and play in his partially restrained manner. He is obviously a joyful man at heart (evident in his mannerisms). He wears the sinister smile and the solid face of a man who has seen everything, but loves this life.
The mother, the true keeper of the house, the final voice of reason, and the victor in all arguments. Concerned for the visitor, offering sustenance to the outsider. She has the face of Love. The love for her children, her home, her life and living... all of it... can be seen by her bearing. She sits, yet still rules all.
The crowned male, flustered hair and still in military jogging shoes, sits, t-shirt and sweatpants, poking fun at the family. He is the bearer of the family name. He is the next to pass it on, and though this is the farthest thing from his consciousness right now, it is his duty, his role in life. If not him, then whom? But his concern now is his own life, which is good.
And the playful girl sits to my left, barefooted and as my pen dies, they in unison offer a replacement. With her smooth hands, she carefully chooses and places her cards upon the table. The papered walls reflect their Inner Light: combined... as one... collective.
And I, the artist, observe. Honored as I am welcomed into their family activities, their home, their lives. Though I am still slightly nervous, I enjoy time with them. They are a family of the Old Land. They are One. They are Whole. Dislocated, though they are, they are still at home. They are immersed in unfamiliar situations and surroundings, yet they show no remorse for leaving the land they knew and once called 'Home'. They have assimilated and adjusted their immediate surrounding to become all they wish it to be. And they become all they wish to be.
And they Love
And they Live
And I Observe
And We Love
-----
a symphony of silence
the cacophony of the deafening screams of nothingness
rejection?
is she afraid she'll get too close?
does she not want me?
is there someone else?
does she feel she has to be with me?
is that why she stays, but always goes?
does she not want me for a lover?
does she think I want too much?
more than she can give?
do I make her sick? do I keep her ill?
the blinding oblivion
the cloud shroud of the moon
I relish time with her
does she reciprocate my sentiment?
the celibate trees have it made.
no rejection no pain no remorse no insecurity no nicotine no doctors no addictions no fear no infatuation no lust no pain no worries no capitalism no wars no moonlit nights to worry about lovers no disease, pestilence without fear of death no morning no mourning no lovers no consciousness to bother them no movies to watch and be sad after no sadness whatsoever no visiting rights no playgrounds to go to and remember youth no age or aging no headaches, stomachaches, backaches, or stubbed toes or egos no foes or enemies no schools no prisons no institutions of higher learning no racism no pride or prejudice no crime or punishment no law or order
is it, in essence really life, though?
maybe I should enjoy those things.
maybe I should respect the patience associated with her.
waiting for her.
having her, yet not really being with her
I see her, yet she is so far away
I hear her, but she's just in my head.
and so am I
-----
I've had my muse
She is Jezebel
I sense her lust
her desire
It seeps from her pores
I have my Olympia. I show my affections, My wants and she seems not to reciprocate.
I had my Antonia. We loved, but she had to leave me, but memories never die.
Roxy was my Giulietta. We shared ourselves. But lust overpowered trust. She shared with another.
When I meet Stella, Will I know her?
Is she Karen
Myra
Roxy
?
Is she all yet none? Will my muse ever achieve satisfaction? Will she ever know me?
Will Copelius, whomever that may be, destroy Olympia?
Will I die for my Loves?
-----
the books rest on the floor, splayed out upon the tableau of the carpet, pretending to be useful
the pictures stalk about, voyeurs themselves, spying on us as we speak
"I want you"
"You can't have me."
-----
He wondered for weeks
She delayed
He wanted to talk about talking
She needed to talk about walking
He went to her
They delayed
He wanted to kiss her
God does he miss her
He wanted
She couldn't
He was
comfortable
She was un-
He wasn't going to try
to change her mind
that would cheapen the whole
real
deal
this is sick. I am too young for this shit.
-----
I watch the ceaseless procession of cars and people shifting and moving like blood cells in an artery as she walks away.
It is too soon. I can't see her yet.
When I'm around her,
I just want to hold her
to kiss her
to mold to her
but instead I miss her.
Everything reminds me of her.
Every song, Every light
Every word, Every night
I don't understand, don't want to accept
I was her man, and she chose to reject
It's hard to get grips
It's hard to hold on
When the one you watch for
Is suddenly gone.
I just want to hold her
to kiss her
to mold to her
but instead I miss her.
-----
Random woman, hair blonde of hue, tall and thin, stands behind the counter
She answers phones, speaks to clients, and carries on her Friday Fun
The chemical smell chokes the air and the light reflects off her black shirt
Her silver necklace, barely visible below her shiny locks, sparkles in the ambiance and the recessed lighting of the store.
Her head shifts from side to side as she checks out another patron
She bends to deliver money to its resting-place.
Her watch, possibly too big (too many links, maybe) accentuates her thinness as she counts the bills and returns them to the sheer, sheared sheep.
Then she disappears.
-----
She was crying that night
I entered the room and she stood there, just out of arm's reach, weeping, eyes red, tissue crumpled in her hand, wet with her salt-water tears.
She said that she was sorry.
I didn't know what to say.
She had been scared, she had not wanted to hurt me.
Then she turned away, raindrops still streaming down her cheeks.
I walked up to her, placing my arms on her shoulders and she placed her hand on my hand.
And I knew without words what she was trying to say.
We spoke for a while flittering between us and philosophy
Douglas Adams is a hero to me.
"Don't Panic"
We spoke about speaking
And we kissed.
I missed those lips.
Though only three days, they each felt like an eternity, seeing her, but not being able to reach her.
Being with her without being With her
She has returned to me.
She will set the pace.
I just want to hold her.
I love talking with her
I love seeing her smile
I love seeing her twitch and squirm when Veronica pokes and tickles her tummy
I enjoy being with her
She makes me unable to think.
-----
Silent Calm Still Night Air
And You Are Not There
But You Are Everywhere
I Wish To Embrace A Kiss That Is Hot
But Here You Are Not
Nor Are You Forgot
The Cold Steps Greet
The Soles Of My Feet
As Family I meet
And Repeat
My Tired Words Of Affection To Them
-----
and so castles made of sand…
fall in the sea…
eventually.
she cried, then she was better
he beckoned her soul
so did she call out to his
they took what they wanted to take:
each other
and it was good
she had more to tell Andy
Andy was her former, now shattered, lover
They loved when Otis loved Myra
Myra bailed, Andy and Veronica failed
but only because she began to love another
Marcus, the dark friend, introduced to Karen and Veronica by Otis
As time progressed, so did the relationship of Marcus and Veronica
she could no longer love Andy
Miles away, Andy cried, perhaps died, inside
Veronica has Marcus
Veronica freed Andy
now Marcus is also free of the chains that pulled at him when he loved Veronica
They had each other
The door was open
Otis is with Karen, but still waits for her
his animal instincts constantly pushing him for her, yet she says 'slow'
Otis is a patient man
patience that has come over the course of nine-and-one-half weeks
patience that is hard to keep
serenity breaking down
he wants her, yet must wait
he still hurts from Bernice
she was his first, and so far his only
and he felt dirty
he fears the same result if he gets too close or too far with Karen
But that is a chance he is ready and willing to take, if only Karen will tell him her feelings
she is so close, yet so closed
this scares him
but he is stronger from the fear
it leads him, pushes him onward into the depths of her love
this foreigner, barely awake to the 'new world' entices him
she calls him forth from the aftermath of Myra and the ashes of Bernice
he wants
he waits
-----
WITH OR WITHOUT YOU
I can't seem to be WITH you
But I can't live without you.
I recall the still smoldering ashes of my past, my issues never truly dealt with and I can't decide whether to continue looking at the all-too-clear memories with my fogged glasses of time and experience or to douse them with tears and the wet stench of desire
CLOSING TIME
For my memories?
Maybe I SHOULD put them to rest.
Obliterate my issues in you
Move past them into you
No other makes me feel as you do
As I lie here, thinking of you, allowing my eyes to lose focus, the lines become thick blue blurs
The pen becomes two thin, pointed daggers seeing between my past and my present
My present becomes a movie.
I'M NOT AWARE OF TOO MANY THINGS. I KNOW WHAT I KNOW, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
I don't seem to know you, though.
WHAT I AM IS WHAT I AM. ARE YOU WHAT YOU ARE, OR WHAT?
I try to coax you into letting my into your beautifully complex head, but you seem to pull away and become silent, just when I am starting to almost know you.
At the moment, the instant that I step to what seems to me to be an open door, I realize the threshold is a thousand feet high and the sign on the door says "Sorry, we're closed right now. Please leave a message, if you're so inclined, and try again later because we sure-as-hell-is-cold won't return your message, but enjoy the purple bunnies that will accompany your thoughts as you walk home, confused as always and ever."
GOT YOU WHERE I WANT YOU. I THINK YOU'RE SMART, YOU SWEET THING. TELL ME YOUR NAME, I'M DYIN'. GOT YOU WHERE I WANT YOU.
BREAKING THE GIRL
Am I?
Do I pull you apart at the threads and stitches that hold your cherished psyche together?
Does your past pull you away from me?
You are like an intersection at night with a green light, but as I accelerate to cross the barrier of the cross- street, I see the officer holding his hand out, bidding me to halt before plowing into the cars and people exiting the garage and shooting across my path.
CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF YOU, BABY. WHENEVER WE KISS, I GET TO FEELIN' LIKE THIS. I GET TO WISHIN' THAT THERE WERE TWO OF YOU.
One to confuse and beguile me, and the other to hold me and make everything all better, and feed me milk and cookies, and tuck me in at night.
ANOTHER HEAD HANGS LOWLY CHILD IS SLOWLY TAKEN. AND THE VIOLENCE CAUSES SILENCE, WHO ARE WE MISTAKEN?
My head bobs as I floor the accelerator after shifting into a higher gear and I am slowly taken by you and your love.
And the violence of our pasts causes us to remain quiet about what is really going on and how badly I want you.
And how I continually mistake first with reverse as you pull away from my kiss.
EVERYTHING'S GONNA' BE ALL RIGHT. ROCK-A-BYE. ROCK-A-BYE-BYE, BABY.
I've seen my share of devils, too, you know.
And I am, one-by-one hunting them down and shooting them through the heart with my acceptance of my past.
You ask if I think about my past.
And I do constantly.
I make love to my experience, as it is my basic existence.
It is my passionate foundation upon which I have built the temple of my heart and soul.
And I too have a sign.
It says "Welcome, Come In..."
And daily I send you a flyer, a personal invitation to come in and relax, but it appears that you have mistaken it for junk mail and passed it into the 'circular file' with the coupon ads and yesterday's paper shreds, 1/4 inch wide strips of paper filling the room of your past.
But though you have thrown my invitation out with the scraps of your insanities, you return to your cave to make new ones, and build another pile of shreds out of the chronicle of your life, saving it for tomorrow, when once again you will hurl it into the landfill with my invitation and my request for your presence at the feast.
A spiritual celebration of life, table for two, and, as always, as it has been for the past ten weeks, the chair across from me, past the candle and the coffee cup that has been filled and purged countless times, remains vacant, gathering dust as I patiently wait for you to join me.
Did I make a mistake?
Was I supposed to meet You somewhere?
Perhaps at a restaurant on the other side of town?
Are you there, waiting for me to come along to pay the bill and carry you off into the night?
I check my machine regularly.
Leave me a message to tell me where you are.
TELL ME WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? YOU KNOW I JUST CLOSE MY EYES, AND THE WORLD DISAPPEARS.
But I can still see you.
TAKE ME TO THAT PLACE INSIDE THAT IS SO HARD TO REACH.
You do all that and more.
You take me to the place where I can be quiet and calm and tell you how I feel about you.
But then you rip me from that solace and withdraw to your personal mental cavern, while I stand in the rain looking at my toes, wondering if their bulbous presence can make it all better, make it all go away and let me be WITH you, but I guess I COULD NEVER BE YOUR WOMAN.
Cryptic answers to unasked questions are all I have for you.
WHEN I GOT THE MUSIC, I GOT A PLACE TO GO.
But you never seem to be there.
You never leave me a message to tell me where I can find you, how I will find you when I get there, or if I’ll have to go as soon as I get there.
I want to join you.
I want to share with you.
And I don’t want to go home as soon as I get there.
The past is dead. Let the dead bury the dead.
I wave good-bye to my past as I see it drive off into the dawn without any brakes.
I have clipped the lines on that car.
As it speeds off into the sunrise, I see it career off of a cliff and I am left with memories of memories.
Double negatives that have no effect on the present.
Time heals all wounds, and I have had a lot of time.
Communication solves all problems, but we don’t talk that much.
Nothing is mandatory. Nothing is required.
I just want to be with you. Tell me what you desire.
I don’t need to walk
around in circles,
walk around in circles,
walk around in circles,
walk around
in...
----
I asked you for a reply
One get not did I
Eleven weeks is a long time
To not know what is on your mind.
my inspiration is gone; the words don't come
has Rosaline broken the bracelet?
I have needs that aren't being met
if you can't meet them, then I need to
someone needs to take care of me
if I'm trying to care for someone else, then I can't do it
this is a really shitty time to be thinking about stuff like this.
the people hustle bustle wrestle their way to get gifts for people and I don't even know if we'll work for that long
I need to know now
was I wrong? how did you work with the others? how has your life been?
and I am scared that this isn't working
that three months have filtered down into this, have been twisted into this lack-thereof, this awkward, sleepless thing that can't be defined by any language
and still you remain silent
I am scared, I am hurt, I am angry that nothing I have done has worked
I know that I haven't done all I could, but I was afraid to do more... to press
you've done nothing, but I need something
the only emotions I recall you sharing with me were when you asked me back
you said you were scared
you said you didn't want to hurt me
you can't
what hurts is not knowing how you feel when we're together
not knowing how you feel when we're apart.
when we're together, you act like there's nothing wrong or like everything is wrong, but when I ask you what is wrong, you don't say anything and imply for me not to ask
not to hold you, and that hurts me
I can't do this anymore
changes need to be made
we either need to open the hell up, or get the hell out
maybe we can find what we need in other people
it's not what I want, but if it's what I need, by god I'll do it
Fear, Pain, Rejection
life's too short to be this blind to what's going on
help me see, show me how you feel
if you are angry, hit me
if you are sad, hold me
whatever it is, do SOMETHING
Bye...whatever, please talk to me. I NEED to know
-----
Our shadows mingled and caressed as our bodies split apart.
Even as we seemed to pull away, our shadows became one.
-----
The colors flitter from red to green and return to their natural hues.
The young voices pitch and heave in time and grace to this woman's finely trained and training hand.
Upon her magic flute, she pulls at my heart, and while my head bobbed to their younger predecessors, or would they be followers? My ears perk at the growling pipe, pulling pleasant, pretty, painting pictures upon the mind's eye and canvas.
The piano joins.
They frolic in their sonic embrace.
Her tapered fingers dance upon the keys of the silver conduit while her lover assists on the bar-coded man-o'-war
Before long enough, their serenade is brought to an end.
It is beautiful.
In this sleepless daze within which I wander, she is salvation.
-----
There she lies, preening herself
She wets her arm with her sandpaper tongue
And cleans behind her ears
Now she watches me intently while I lounge in the blue easy chair, writing furiously as my mind and heart panic, searching for words to describe the essence of my experience
Now her arm, armpit, chest
She points to the far wall whilst contorting herself to reach the places a tongue should never reach
Her response to my pounding of the previous period was an attacking attention
Now the feet, between the toes, and the wrist
My own toes, wiggling, seeking warmth on this bitter cold pre-dawn, call and receive her attention
And s-t-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-t-c-h-h
And lick the tail
The Calico Queen, a mere infant when I rescued her from a life of many foodless nights in the apple, now an empress
If it can be eaten, It belongs to her table.
If it can be moved, It is part of her collection.
If it can be rested upon, It is her bed.
She prefers the blue chair and the couch by the bay window in the front of my home
She loves to stalk the unsuspecting victims around the neighborhood
Black, her mystery
Orange, her eccentricity
White, her purity
-----
A birthday present at a time when more than anything in the world, I needed a friend.
Henry was more than willing to oblige.
He is an artist, like me.
He loves all things.
He hears the music, sees the transparent colors that filter the actions of the world.
His mysterious eyes, his smoky muzzle, his muscular body...
He is an art form unto himself.
His sister agrees with me, shares my sweet sentiment.
She admires him, learns from him, loves him, teases him, chases him, reveres him.
He reciprocates her emotions.
While once, when they were introduced, he tried to absorb her, to end her life for his own pleasure, he now teaches her how to love.
He, the artsy pacifist. She, the analytic aristocat.
He sleeps now on the floor, but within minutes will rest next to me upon my bed.
We will kiss goodnight and sleep.
Our dreams will mingle, take a walk, get lost, stop and ask for directions, and come home way past curfew.
His silver necklace embraces his thick neck while he embraces the nothingness of slumber.
So, soon, shall he, she, and I share the solitude and security of seductive, sexy, and sanctimonious sweet, sound sleep.
Salut.
-----
With every heart I see unfold itself,
I want you...
With every kiss I notice,
I want you...
With every pair of breasts I observe,
I want you...
With everyone I meet,
I want you...
With the pale, dimly lit walls that surround me,
I want you...
With every picture I take,
I want you...
With every word I write,
I want you...
With every step I take,
I want you...
With every warning shot from 'King Henry' to 'Queen Elizabeth',
I want you...
With every sip of my coffee,
I want you...
With every night I spend away from you,
I want you...
With every thought,
I want you...
With every day without you,
I want you...
With every meal,
I want you...
With every breath,
I want you...
With every movie,
I want you...
With every blink,
I want you...
With every smile,
I want you...
...more
-----
I still remember your words, your appearance as you walked away from me.
You prompted me, and though I wished to proceed, I ran to another.
Without hesitation, Roxy and I embraced and rekindled forgotten emotions and lusts that had lain dormant for years
We absorbed each other.
Then she vanished.
She left me, confused and disoriented, in my own little world where everyone is honest and open to the needs and wants of all others involved in the story.
This cast of characters had a little 'falling out'.
-----
Wow, and Bam, there she was.
I went to see Erix, and she was there with him sittin' and talkin'.
It was amazing!
We joked and reminisced about
Our former acquaintance and the
Former prospect
Of that which never was,
And it was good.
Wearing her new shirt,
Adorning it with a stain
From her beverage,
She laughed, still as
Awestrikingly gorgeous as she was when we met.
It scares me.
-----
and, dammit, I see her again. naked, but for the collared shirt, barely holding back her bare breasts and my lusts, screaming to take her into my arms and my heart and my bed and my life, to envelop her and join with her in some amazing contortion of time and space, to disprove the theory that two bodies cannot occupy the same point of orientation upon the physical plane, to disprove the theory that two souls cannot become one, but it is wrong! I still can't! Not now, maybe not ever. Opportunity is a misconception and in this case, I hope to god it isn't the thought that counts. Again fear creeps into my consciousness and invades my thoughts, corrupts my serenity, and divides my will. What should I do?
-----
alone, though in a crowded room
solitude is the man
deep is his pain
he has resentments against the world whose causes I know not
mysterious is he
dark and deceptive
eluding
hidden
-----
Veronica knows very little
about what is going on.
She doesn't want to know.
She only knows what her id tells her:
Andy left her for too long alone,
Marcus is now where she feels at home.
In his arms, she forgets her pain.
In his arms, she is wanted.
held
feels safe
purrs.
Veronica is a kitten.
playful
jealous
who longs only
for the pleasure of the moment
To be warm
To be cuddled
To be held
caressed and loved
To feel the wind in her hair
To fall asleep
beside the one who cares for her
The one she longs to please
Veronica knows very little other than this.
-----
Orange rays cut across the crimson patch of the sky, sliced by the titanium arm of the bird within which I ride, soaring well above the clouds and the people settling down to supper.
Far off in the distance, cutting off the top of the burning ball of bright gasses in a dagger of cloud leaving only the barest sliver of the sun.
You must stay.
Please don't go.
Don't leave me!
In the darkness, one sees what they want to see, and/or what they fear to be.
Looking down, I can see the snow-covered lawns of the natives.
Geometric patterns in black carve the white that is the icy dust.
The sun is gone.
He has left me.
Apollo has deserted me.
When will Artemis usurp his throne, to guard me while I continue my journey?
There is the blood, covering the horizon.
Above that is the pale distortion of rays.
Then blue, joyous and regal, stretching upward as far as the minute portal will allow me to see, and farther.
Below, the clouds look so firm, as if I could walk off the end of this wing over which I watch and step down onto that firm, fluffy plane.
A prairie of water vapor.
Marshmallows as far as the eye can see!
All I need is chocolate and graham crackers, and I can use the sun as my camp fire...
but no, the sun has disappeared, leaving me in its waning reflection and more snowy hills.
We circle around and he, the sun, retreats out of my range of sight, the windows forbidding me from watching the last of his light as he abandons me and leaves me for adoption on this cold and wet night, and so he glides down over Mulholland and other places.
The Bastard Traitor!
Sold Out to the Damn Westerners for their praise!
My only comfort is the knowledge that he will leave them, too.
And, tomorrow, he will return to me, to watch over me as I prepare for a new day and a New Year soon enough.
The house lights below reflect upon and off the snow, hiding, discreetly, the grass, bidding minute warmth and sustenance to the green daggers, leaves, plants, trees.
The clouds, thinner now, no longer able to support even my meager weight.
We pass through their foggy depths and, for a second, time and motion cease to exist.
It is even darker below their protective ceiling.
The roaring of my griffin's wings can be heard as she attempts to slow herself for descent into this frozen land.
As I look out over the world, I can see my hand, pad, pen, leg reflected thrice in her pupil.
My eyes peer through one of hers to the real world, the tangible plane, and not the self-created universe that I reside in.
The patched sky welcomes me unto this spotted land, which welcomes me into this lighted weir, where I will be but for a moment before departing yet again.
I am a restless soul.
Wanderlust corrodes my serenity.
-----
a new day
the sky a ruddy ochre
purple crimson and the rest of the best
spirit
explorer
voyager
sunbird
bronco
storm
pathfinder
I will quit this awful shit before the next new year
and I will never write another depressed
or depressing
poem about Karen
my affection wanes as I wax poetic
mirage
the center of my attention has drifted far to the left
across the lonely field I gaze
over the deserted cars and unpaid bills
of so long life left unkempt and uncared for
the power lines buzz
the ceramic insulators performing their duties
electricity that she once lit me with
the birds chirp incessantly
it is the lark
I hear Aretha in the distance telling me to think
-----
A screenplay minor by David Donald Schein II
Conceived 02-01-1999 - Copyright 1999, David Donald Schein II, All Rights Reserved
Notation:
EWS - Extreme Wide Shot. 30- infinity ft. from target. Full body and good view of scenery is visible.
WS - Wide Shot. 20- 30 ft. away from target. Full body is visible, but not much else
MS - Medium Shot. 10- 20 ft. Waist and up is visible, but not much else
CU - Close Up. Chest and up is visible, but not much else.
ECU - Extreme Close Up. Only face is visible
CS - Car Scene. Outdoor scene of exterior of a vehicle, either in motion or standing
SS - Slide Show-type Series. Succession of 1-second-long clips or stills. See Kubrick's "Private Idaho"
-----
Casting Suggestions:
Otis: Medium height and build, muscular, but not bulky, blonde shoulder length hair, slightly wavy, "Cute", 'Lawrence Fishburn' glasses (see Cadence)
Karen: Asian, what most men would term 'Drop-dead, astoundingly, painfully beautiful', with an aire of intelligence and whimsy. Artsy hair and dress style
Myra: Pretty. Very short hair dyed many colors, but still looking intelligent. Tall and excessively thin, but with nice breasts.
Lawyer: Old, balding, huge mustache, Arrogant and authoritative.
can be done as written, or in chronological order (as indicated at end of text)
-----
To the Reader:
If you produce film, or know someone who does, and would like to use this screenplay to make a short, feel free to do so. All I ask is that you contact me, through snail-mail, and tell me of your intentions. If you wish to make any changes, feel free to do so. Again, all I ask is direct, hard-copy notification. In this manner, I can receive feedback on my work, and can see different interpretations of my work.
Dedicated to "Karen". Mea Culpa.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene i
Music: Ani DiFranco: Living in Clip: Out of Habit: from the part where she starts singing the actual song
WS1: Dusk. Suburban apartment. living \ dining area. pretty, but very messy. Camera is at front door of the apt. a short hallway leading to the bedroom is visible, but the bedroom door is closed, and has a pile of junk in front of the door, making it inaccessible. slow zoom with slight pan on Man and Woman sitting at a huge oak table. Table has a map of the world on it. They are dressed in sweaters and full length pants. There is a box of assorted chocolates on the table. They each have a cup of coffee in front of them. The woman has the cream and sugar in front of her. they each have a book in front of them. He is reading a T.S. Eliot anthology. She has a copy of Camus' The Stranger in front of her.
Woman: picks a chocolate out of the box, examines it, and offers it to the Man.
Cherry cordial... Want It?
in a not so polite voice. She is obviously distracted and disturbed about something.
Man: looking up from his book, smiles and accepts, with an aire of obliviousness
Oh, thanks.
excited. Cherry cordials are his favorites.
MS1: they kiss lightly
MS2: Camera behind man, slightly above. Woman's face is visible.
Woman: sets down her coffee. angry and nervous
So... who the fuck is Myra?
with a spiteful bite to her voice
MS3: camera behind Woman, slightly above. Man's face is visible.
Man: Pauses, swallows his sip of coffee
WS2: camera at bedroom door, about the height of a small child looking up at the scene.
What do you mean 'who is Myra?'
Woman: very aggressive
Whadda ya mean ' whadda ya mean'?!! I mean who the fuck is she?!!
leaning across table, voice raised, fists pounding table on the last few words
Man: backing away, has gotten up, out of his chair, and in doing so, has spilled his coffee. He is using his shirt to clean it up, but it isn't helping very much
She's my ex. So what?
confused
Woman: Still at her side of the table
So What? So What?!! You said her name in your sleep last week
Man: turns away
You said her name while we made love last weekend
Man: takes a step away
And last night, you fucking called me Myra!!!
she is furious, gripping the table, her hands and knuckles are white
Man: Turns back around to face her
Oh, bull shit!! Bullshit! I did not call you Myra!
Woman: stops, unsure of what to say. she is so angry that her thoughts won't convene. she folds her arms in a defensive position. long pause, eyes welling with tears of pain and anger
who was she to you?
slowly, softly
SS: series of shots of Man and Myra spending time together, showing and making love, ending with clip from scene vii.
WS1: Man is standing with face to camera, he closes his mouth, as if he has been talking. Woman is sitting on table
scene ends with silence
-----
scene ii
CS1: Night. Chevy blazer hauling' ass down highway. Chevy stickers and hippie \ recovery stickers visible on side. CB antenna is adorned with a jack-in-the-box antenna-ball with a cowboy hat
Music: Ani DiFranco: Dilate \ Living In Clip: Napoleon: "...and the next time..."
-----
scene iii
ECU: Night. room very dark, pale light filters over a man close to tears, curled in a ball, camera
pulls back slowly to reveal a bare attic. the man is naked and curled up in an antique bathtub that is in the center of the attic. Antique toys, the metal ones, strewn about, some broken, all rusted. the light comes from an indefinite source. Camera pulls back and exits to a totally black hallway.
Music: Ani DiFranco: Living In Clip: Both Hands: intro
-----
scene iv
EWS1: Field on a cloudless day. Man and Woman are visible in the distance, playing and running next to the trees that line the field. They are wearing clothes that fit the season.
Music: Dire Straits: Money for Nothing: Romeo and Juliet: intro
MS4 Man and woman kiss while camera slow-zooms in.
Man: pulls away with a smile
Karen, will you marry me?
with hope in his voice and in his eyes he drops to his knees
MS5: Camera is in the tree, looking down on them
Otie, I don't know...
Man: is disappointed, but holds back his disappointment from showing too much, he nods in understanding
I love you, I do... I don't know. I just... I need to think.
Man: nods in understanding
Woman (Karen): pulling Man (Otis) to his feet
Tell you what... How about I give you an answer over dinner tonight?
obviously still unsure of what her answer will be, but wanting to give some hope to the situation
-----
scene v
CS2: Night along some northern highway. Same Chevy, on highway, engine dies, he pulls over to shoulder. Otis gets out and goes around to the back to Get his gas can. Camera is following him. Karen, not really visible from the rear, where Otis and the camera are, gets out of the passenger side of the car after popping the hood. she goes around front and opens the hood, and takes off the air filter to expose the carburetor.
Music: Reel Big Fish: Turn the Radio Off: Sellout: "...everything's gonna be...all...right"
or: Fugees: The Score: No Woman No Cry: "...everything is gonna be all right..."
-----
scene vi
WS1: Night. Otis and Karen, Otis on the couch, facing camera, Karen sitting where she was at
the beginning of scene I, playing solitaire. Couch is dirty and ragged, but obviously well loved.
Music: Ani: Living In Clip: Overlap: "...Cause I know there is Strength..."
-----
scene vii
Music: Duran Duran: Duran Duran: Come Undone: intro
WS3: Interior of office building, early morning. People are obviously tired, coffees all around. every one looks as if it has been weeks since they have slept.. Otis, in a black suit, walks through lobby, into office, into room where Lawyer sits on far side of a desk. Myra is on the near side of the desk. She is well dressed in a vibrant outfit. They sign the papers that are sitting on the table, shake hands, Otis and Myra kiss on the lips, they hug, Otis shakes everyone's hand again. While they all stand up.
And a good day to you, sir.
Otis: to Myra
Good bye
nervous and sad
Myra: to Otis
Good-bye
no strong emotions visible
WS4: from behind and slightly above Lawyer, Karen, in dress-suit enters as Myra exits, this is done simultaneously. Karen assumes the exact same place and position that Myra held.
Music: U2: Rattle and Hum: All I Want Is You: "...You say..."
-----
Scene viii
EWS: Night on a rainy street. Otis crosses in front of the car and walks down the street,
screaming "What the Fuck am I doing". Camera is in the car, Car is brand new Chevy Suburban. Camera is in front passenger seat, pans to follow otis as he walks in front of car. Karen is in driver's seat. car is perpendicular to the street, One Way signs are visible, but are in opposite direction from the way that Otis is walking.
Karen: calls after Otis, but he keeps walking. She cries and / or yells in anger, frustration, and pain.
Music: Ani: Living in Clip: Adam and Eve:"...snakes..."
-----
scene ix
CU: Otis leaping up a stair well. In his hands are a dozen long stemmed red roses and a box of chocolates.
Music: I don't know the name of the band, but the song is called "Stuff"
EWS: Time uncertain, no windows are visible. Camera at far end of hallway of a chic hotel. Camera runs, without 'steady-cam' toward far end of hallway. When the camera is close to the stairwell, Otis comes flying out. He is breathing heavy from the running, but is terribly excited. He goes to a room, collects himself, and knocks. Karen answers.
MS6: Over Otis' shoulder. Karen is visible, as her incredibly expensive and clean room.
Otis: hands her the stuff, she smiles, elated, he pulls her to him and kisses her
Karen: after two seconds, pushes him away and slams door.
Music: stops at the slamming of the door.
Otis: still on the ground, confused, looks at the door as the scene ends.
-----
Scene x
CS: Night. Car on shoulder of the highway. Otis at side, changing tire. Karen gets out and goes to help Otis, then returns to the passenger seat Otis stands and walks away through the woods that border the highway.
Music: Filter: Short Bus: Hey, man, Nice Shot: bass intro
-----
Scene xi
MS1: Night. Otis still on couch, smoking Camel Unfiltereds
Karen: still at table, building house-of-cards out of three decks. a six-pack of Heineken sits on the table, next to her. Three empty bottles rest on the floor next to her feet, on open one sits in her left hand, the other two are still in the cardboard carrier.
Otis: lights another cigarette, sips from his coffee, then stands and matter-of-factly states
Fuck you.
He then walks out
Karen: hurls the remaining cards at him (about two-and-one-half decks). They scatter, showering the camera lens. freeze frame while cards are clouding the lens.
Music: Ani Di Franco: Little Plastic Castle: Independence Day: Intro
+++++++
=F=I=N=
+++++++
Real Time Scene Sequence:
vii
ix
v
iii
iv
i + SS
x
vi
xi
-------------------------------------------------
Her spring is gone
She shuffles now.
I can smile again,
But I am still sad.
She APPEARS happy.
Good acting?
She left the stage.
The lights dimmed,
Bathing me in the darkness
Another has taken the stage.
The lights rise slowly
Jezebel stands in the wing.
Is she waiting for her cue?
Or her ride home?
The true curtain call for Otis and Karen.
The act has ended, let us go in peace to love and serve ourselves
The play is over.
Strike the set and pay the cast.
Let's all go to Birraporetti's for coffee now;
We can go home and be 'normal'
-----
ceaseless motion
flooding
lines
contortion
children, not here of their own accord, laugh
the tan-haired girl in the blue sweater talks with the blond-haired girl in the black sweater while we wait
time, never ending
life, never continuing
on this day of reckoning
frustration
resentment
sanity holding on by thin tendrils of consciousness
she is pretty
thin eye-brows, firm yet soft chin, smooth lines, supple curves
life is similar
with her trials, hardships, joys, and rewards
she comforts me
teaches me
I remember
those i've had
those i've lost
those i've loved
those i've hurt
waiting is frustrating
I want to leave this home
I resent the ominous cloud of authority looming over my life
my responsibilities are many
childhood calls for me
I do not answer
i'm walking in the rain away from her
pain lasts a long time
but does leave if you distract it
life comforts me at times
other times, shuns me
an over-emotional woman she is
a worn pair of sneakers that
still repels water
still is coherent
still is functional
still is used
once again, I play the voyeur
I sit and watch the people, listen to their words, smell their perfumes, taste my gum, and feel the support of the ground beneath my feet as I wait to wait some more
the animalistic urges call to me
to take one in my arms and enrapture them
I miss the caress of that type of love
the future terrifies me
I know not what will occur
the undiscovered country lies in anticipation like the virgin maiden on her wedding night, preparing for the consummation
the second hand sweeps by, a dagger on the white face
the blood trail is the minute hand, like lightening fists, bare to the world
slowly behind it follows the hour hand, a passive-aggressive tyrant upon the world
time is forever moving onward
I, a traveler trapped in its wake, am sucked along
I wish to stop time
to deny it its power
to move without motion
to think without thought
to feel without sensation
to love without care
the girls walked away to do what must be done
I resent the wait. waiting hurts
causes unwanted, unwarranted emotions to surge and dissipate with uncomfortable rapidity
so much did I wish to do
that yet can still be done
so much did I wish to do
that can never be accomplished
time neither stops nor returns for anyone
to that rule I am no exception, though I wish to be
I wish to be special, to have all I want and do all I wish
His will is not the same for me
He wills me to learn in painful ways the things I must know
I don't want to grow
I don't want to go
just as the puppeteer directs the marionette, I wish to control others
to be myself without control
autonomous
sovereign
but that cannot be
She wills it not
He wills it not
my will, my life, my grave, my bones are not my own
I must usurp control of my destination
take back self-will and motivation
power-hungry am I, but lack of ambition is the weight at my heels
sucking me into the sea of self-pity and remorse, resentment and regret
the vitriolic fluidity of life, that caustic woman, corrodes my serenity
He constantly holds me, carries me to another day without my self-prescribed medication
my former lover
and my former lovers will not disappear from my memory
will not free me from the guilt incurred by those lost relationships
and the meaning of it all gets lost in the translation
-----
A consistent train of thought is impossible
I seek the foreign sensation of serenity
I miss the compassion
I need to be held
For too long have I missed that
Consistency is the key
Sporadic bursts of love hinder the spirit
She was like a home with a glass door
There was the security of a roof over head,
But we both maintained the illusion of an open door
Or vice versa
I moved out
No longer a snail, just a slug
Or a hermit crab searching for a new shell
I broke and broke out of my former place of residence
Tears enough to spring forth a river fell that night and in the days following
Every song I hear is for you, me us, everyone
I still suffer from the guilt of assumption, expectation, anxiety, idiocy
A fool in the rain was I
And still, I am ranting in the raindrops
I choose to let it continue to rain
Every night it plays back like a Hitchcock rerun
The dark veil of self-pity descends to cloud my vision of the present
I try to move on, but I find myself paralyzed
I fear this may never end
I fear that I may truly love you
The mating of a fish and a hawk
You are all in one: Judge, Jury, Victim, and Executioner.
I want to be acquitted, but I have been found in contempt and placed under gag order.
I can't tell you how I feel. I fear the consequences.
I thought I was okay.
I still think about you.
I still wonder what you're doing, if I should/ could call you
I still long to hear your voice
I still long to hold you
I still want to make love with you
I still love you
I am scared.
I fear my emotions.
-----
It frustrates me and angers me to think that she might have fun on her birthday without me, that she might sleep in someone else's arms, that she might allow someone else - invite someone else - into her. I can't stand the thought of truly losing her, though I have already lost her. When I think of her kissing someone else it tears me to pieces inside. It doesn't make any sense, but as Nick Bottom (a weaver) says, "Reason and love keep little company together nowadays..."
But even Shakespeare can offer no consolation to me now.
-----
I see you do your dance, my tiny butterfly,
Flitter to and fro before the public eye
You smile and laugh and play all day and there you stay
You don't know who you are, but I guess you like it that way
You strut your stuff for them; you really walk the walk
Yet you don't seem to listen to anything when we talk
I tell you how I feel and still you walk away
From your rejection, I bid you please leave today
No, that is not really what I want from you, my dear
And if you ever need to talk, know that you'll have my ear
I still hold strong affections for you, you should know,
And please remember that I don't want you to go
-----
coffee desired
latté
he didn't see her car
watching through the paned glass
hoping not to see her extensive brown locks
he saw them not, and was relieved
FEAR
APPREHENSION
HIDE
run? leave?
GETTHEFUCKOUTOFDODGE
no.
proceed.
(she was there)
((at the counter))
(((serving drinks)))
'may I help you?'
HELP
'latee, please'
little more
no mention of the past
just talk of the future
motives questionable
FEAR
APPREHENSION
exit stage left
-----
exotic queen
knowledge, spirit, beauty
entrancing
within a maze I wandered
weaving, avoiding the wildebeests
'Queen Nephertiti, I presume?'
And we fled.
nerves, themselves, having seizures
synapses quivering with desire
Nectar and Ambrosia were served for us
Then to the pillars of Artemis and Apollo
with Neptune's oceans at our feet
serpents intimidating, leaping into the night sky
then revealing their true forms of mischievous fairies
before coming back down
to bathe and rest
music, ho! Music; such as charmeth sleep
then to the public eye
upon the pedestal, blinding lights
we performed for a crowd of countless insects
then stalked a larger fan who fled from our friendship
sensual and promising
she let me hold her hand
to support her
in a time of vulnerability and weakness and disadvantage
and yet at the same time, so much power did she have over me
Me, a mere worker, a nothing holding the hand of the queen
Haiku
The triune land
three pieces of the whole, yet the whole surrounded by the greater truth
once around
and again trust invested in me by her
trust that her elegant talons
would be unharmed
trust that if she were to slip
I would support her and help her rise again
Trust that it can be the
other way around
even with the bliss
a war erupted between us
check
mate?
upon her defeat, she bid me return her to her chariot and her homeland
again the seduction of music
as the queen grows tired, I make my leave
She demands of me to be at her will on the morrow
and so I shall
-----
It never begins with I'm Sorry
It is always this or that
Some explanation of what I have Said
Done
Thought
Felt
No Comprehension
Taking a black marker and crossing out every other line in the novel, but still expecting to comprehend its
intention
Trying to catch the plot
Characters not fully developed, climax never reached
'Sorry' always comes too late
by then it's not acceptable
pride
ego
self-righteousness
dominance
I don't understand why one would apologize for the wrong crime, a misunderstanding
Searching for words, I feel guilty for not being sorry
But sometimes it needs to be said
Rarely one for obligation, it doesn't strike me to do that:
To start with "I'm Sorry" when I don't mean it
Maybe the gardener should apologize to the flower for pouring on
Weed-killer instead of
Miracle grow
Though the flower withers, he explains "Oh, I fucked up", but feels no remorse
"I'm only human"
Then the flower dies
I'm sorry
-----
Finally understanding how you feel leaves a vile taste in my mouth that not even my emphysema lollipops can take away.
That sense of... whatever, that indescribable longing for that one true thing. The willingness to go anywhere for her
She fears loss, but I don't want to leave her
I want to be the puppy she lets follow her home and sleep on the foot of her bed to protect her from the things that make bad bumps in the night, but I don't want to impose that upon her. I want her to want it, and to want me, to want all of it, and to take it willingly.
I want to be the only one she reaches for when it's cold outside and she can't sleep
I want to be the one she calls at night when she's late and doesn't want anyone to worry
I want to share my pillow and my life with her, wherever she may call home
I want to shovel the driveway with her and make snowmen in PG-13 positions with her
FEAR: I don't know what she wants, which makes me not know-
What I want
Where I want
When I want
Who I want
Why I want
That I want
Her
-----
Out of nowhere
Random
Magnetic attraction,
force gravitating me toward
her- was I too forward?
Broke the silence
Poetry
She the victor, victorious
Speaking, sharing, discussing
Nous avons parler
Au revoir, mon
cherie
And she left
She took her gold and returned to her palace by the sea
-----
Hunting, he wandered through the maze of flesh and words
Spying targets, some of which he took aim at, some of which he ignored
Being hunted himself; he sometimes hid behind society and obligation, running from his feral, would-be captors
Raptors
Rapture
Ahab again has an opportunity
He commands his entourage forward
Demands they obey his will
Some ignore their orders and slow the hunter
He reaches for his harpoon,
dodges harpies,
hurls his spear of literature and experience,
penetrating the flesh of his familiar prey,
so far away,
but for the moment within reach
grasp and hold on
he grapples with the beauty, both succumbing to the other's will, wills being homogenous
the game turns to espionage, exchange of vital information to be used in the coming conflict
check
mate?
-----
Deliriously fast, spinning words, poetry, and a web to grip upon the flower with no victim but a heart as the intended catch
Painful delays
Debates and conversations on liquid paper
Whiting out his consciousness and his memory
Obliterating his fears of the one with his fears and hopes of the other
The black letters scramble across the white field as his fingers strain to keep pace with his mind
His mind the leader in the dance with his heart as a partner
Questions and answers
Finally a verbal connection
I just called to say... I'm confused... and I mean it from the bottom of my mind
Dark depths of the murky dungeon, the dungeoneer peruses the corners of the domicile of his mind, heart, consciousness, soul
Dark waiting room with pink velvet accents, the walls lined with paintings, soft music searing the air from invisible trumpets
Lost in the grip
Desire to reach for the soft purse
A satin touch
He fears the illusion
It is all a mistake
None of it is real
Figmentofimagination
Perfume fills the air
The sweet smell of pheromones and intelligence
A long road
Decisions
Worth it once
Again?
Another dilemma
Another delay
Wonder
Will the queen call her artist again?
Or does she resent the size of the castle as well?
Hard to see, even on a clear day, the full extent of her empire
-----
I find myself doing the little things she does that entice me so much. The way she moves when she talks and when she walks that is so curiously alluring. It is like an addiction. The more I get of her, the more of her I want. The faster the pulsating rhythm drones in my ear, the harder it is to stop the tribal beat.
-----
I had a dream that I had fallen in love. My dream was filled with blues and black. The sky was black, though well lit. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, preventing the light from penetrating the opaque finish. The air was blue. Everything was, really, as if the whole universe was being viewed through a lighting gel or the glass of a fish tank. It was all blue except for her. She wasn't. Her flesh was pure, her clothes were real, she was tangible. I could smell her shampoo and body lotion. I could hear the soft rustle of her garments as she moved. I could taste her toothpaste when we kissed. I could feel the soft, smooth surface of her skin as i caressed her flesh in our embrace. I was there in the momento, and I watched as everything stopped moving for just that instant, just long enough for me to look, see, and smile. But then I was pulled out of that little cardboard box, and the world entire stayed behind. I was ripped away from my love, and now Mother Life holds me while I cry.
-----
She has a smell that no one and nothing else has.
Her smell contains her intellect, her pride, her aspirations, her ego, her determination, her history.
That word doesn't seem to apply to her.
Mirriam, my colleague, append this:
Herstory: the experiences that fill the past of the most intriguing woman in existence.
The one woman who, with a simple blink of her eyes, can both assure you that everything is as it should be, and leave you speechless and naked, standing in the street bewildered, wondering how to respond.
Words cease to hold meaning.
Things like "Thank you" and "Beloved" do not exist.
Time itself becomes fictitious, a figment of a small child's imagination
The world swirls around like a seething cauldron, brewing another tribulation, calling you back from your haven.
You build majestic castles with high walls and townships
Massive, sprawling hills and fields stretch below in an eternal yawn.
Your empire is grand, this fantastic kingdom in your mind.
But it sits on a cloud.
Delicately balanced, it is perched upon pink fronds of the tangible, but nothing substantial.
At random intervals, your cobblestone streets are falling through, and with them, some of your cherished dreams.
Your princess holds your hand as you make your way back to your castle on the cloud, and she inspires new dreams that replace the old dreams, while the tangible world runs for cover because the 'gods' have resorted to throwing bricks at Chicken Little and the other peons who labor daily to earn their living while you sit and dream about a rainy day with your castle in the stars.
-----
The tears shed by this clown
Bleeding down
Dyed black
Falling across her cheeks and back
This painted harlequin I created
This plaster doll I loved and hated
We talked today. She sat on the hood of the sixth rental car that had been imposed upon her. I sat on the trunk of her landlady's car. For the first time, I listened to her. I was teachable and I sat like a reprimanded schoolboy. She spoke in spurts with long pauses between paragraphs.
She spoke of mice and fifty thousand volts of electricity, Shepard and rainstorms, past lovers and our different strategies for dealing with parental obstinacy. For all this time, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was day by day walking farther away with nothing to say, but "I'm Sorry." In the insanity of our friendship dance, I left them to pursue romance. Without taking a second glance, I walked away to take a chance at love.
Beethoven drove by offering eye scream and popsicles, but we refused and returned to the blood-soaked parking lot of our memories. I was given a small, red-cushioned, three-legged stool to sit on, which placed my eyes level with her lavender painted toe nails and her white skin, speckled with many small pinkish-brown scars from the bullet wounds I've inflicted over the years. Is this how we are to remember each other? Little people, full of hate and ignorance, sitting on borrowed cars, stools, property, and time, each waiting for the other to die into the past?
She expects that when I leave, I will be dead to them and they will die to me. They will only have memories of mice and fifty thousand volts of electricity. They will remember train tracks and bayous and many late nights spent driving around, mumbling meaningless bullshit that was really paramount. They will remember rescues at midnight while one friend, soaked by the rain, walked away from her and them, and the other friend, soaked by the tears, drove away from him and them, through the thunder on a bloody new year's day. They will remember being taken for granted.
He knew they would always come back, so why ask them to stay? Life was so easy when they carried him up the stairs through his hangover slumber parties to the attic to rust with his toys, but when he cleaned up and washed his face of the salt and dirt, he would not even hold their hands. Not even when they crossed the streets inherent with life, would he seek them.
He pushed them away to pursue his goals of grandeur and of love, ignoring their warnings along the way. Independent, he left them standing at the altar with their white mice and their fifty thousand volts of electricity. He betrayed the boundless love they had shown him to follow his own intentions. He ignored and/or fell through on far too many occasions.
The pain draws black lines on her white face
And white lines on his red knuckles.
-----
Warm and wet
Salty sweat
Rustled sheets
Ice cream and sweets
Tousled hair
Conditioned air
Night of rest
Naked breast
Eyes closed
Bodies unclothed
Teeth and lips
Quivering hips
The sword wielded
The invasion shielded
Experimenting with the motions
Savoring in love's potions
-----
We entered the room feeling childishly mature, like children playing 'dress-up' in Mommy's closet
There was intense excitement and lust in the air, and we kissed with unparalleled fervor and ferocity
She removed her leather and steel costume and combed her hair while I watched from the bed with acute interest and affection, her every move drawing me further into her.
She lay next to me and we slumbered, each waking at random moments to scan the room and caress our sleeping counterpart
When we woke, we gave into desire, held each other, kissed, pulled, pushed
Teeth hair breasts skin legs clothes toes fingers ears necks ribs thighs warm with rushing currents and pulsating movements and heartbeats
Fear
Insecurity
Assurance
A handshake and a kiss: succulent embrace
Slowly moving toward a common desire - small motions - implying that which we wanted
Checking
Fearing former fears
Fearing former results
Venturing forward
The velvet
Moist Firm Hot Sour
All connected
Hips breath heart mind
Cyclic
Rhythmic
The pulse
desire
The pulse
love
The pulse
Consummation
The fear of an unwanted visitor warranted a fruitful search for protection against such situations
And the pulse
Continues
Throbbing in the ears the heartbeat the gasps and moans and sighs and emotions and pleasure
Surging mix of adrenaline and connection Building-Building-Wanting-Thrusting-Pushing-Friction
Release Pause
Collapse Touch
Gap
Hold Sustain
Kiss Caress
Still
Finally, words broke the heavy air and then the water washed our bodies clean of the sweat and excitement
Wandering about in our carnal suits, we experienced a new behavior and emotional context
The zenith of relations
No fear, remorse, pain, or disgust
A sense of things being as they should be
Things were right and good.
-----
I am not Happy
Sad?
Upset?
Angry?
Uncertain.
Violent wash of emotion
Pain
Fear
Not sure how to handle the situation or the emotions associated
Karma.
The world turns back around and back around.
Twists and turns and curls back in on itself
Wait and wait for the phone to spring to life,
but never
How long should I wait?
When is too much?
WHY DOESN'T SHE CALL?
this isn't how it should be
The waiting should be anxious, not angry.
Filled with anticipation of soft skin and lips.
And strong eyes and heart.
I am restless.
-----
And so I sit now in a bookstore coffeehouse thinking of her, and how I wish I could have loved her more, maybe held her closer, embraced her tighter, kissed her more passionately.
The coffee cools on the counter, reminding me of our first date, and consequently every date we went on. Dates where she would meet someone she knew and they would share an embrace of familiarity. Dates where we participated in trespassing and other fun and slightly illegal things. Dates where we would walk away wetter than anticipated.
Dates where we wound up spending days together, sharing pillows, bodies, love, and ourselves.
I dreamed a dream of her family last night while I slept alone and lonely in a teacup with the twin to the bear my sister gave her.
I drove her to the port yesterday morning. We sat and waited for her flight, and we talked while our stomachs digested cold, untoasted bagels mixed with coffee beverages
We held each other and I begged God to let time cease, that I could be there with her forever, and I wouldn't have to walk away from her as she flew away from me.
But, time bolted onward, and the woman's voice over the p.a. was a dagger through my heart and hopes. My lover stood and I stood, and we held each other as we stood together in the waiting area of the terminal.
We kissed a kiss of loss, a kiss of mourning, a kiss of sadness, a kiss of desire.
We kissed a kiss of love.
We declared our love and she did that thing where she shies down, tilts her head so her shiny hair falls into her face then she looks back up and pierces my soul with her abyssal eyes. Every time she does that, I get thoughts of frolicking in fountains on Main St. and on University. Thoughts of falling asleep with her in my arms, of breaking into the park by my Dad's office, of that first kiss at five something in the morning while we sat in my borrowed van, and the sky wept an ocean, lamenting our short time together and warning of the impending separation.
I remember bringing her flowers and being enveloped by her caress in her ecstatic joy
I remember going to work to find a bouquet, hand-crafted by her.
I remember a card of glue, glitter, and construction paper that solidified my love for her.
I remember coming home to roses and a kiss and beautiful explosions viewed through the lens of a camera.
She is my Rosaline, my Viola, my Ophelia, my Juliet, my Katherine, my Cleopatra.
I want to hold her hand as we explore the undiscover'd country together.
I long for her touch, her voice, her breasts, the warmth of her body contrasted with the chill of the air.
I fantasize about our reunion, the circumstances, the location, the texture of the air, and the adrenaline.
There is, of course fear and insecurity, but all that will ebb and floe like everything else upon the sea of time, with its violent waves, storms, surges, and depths.
-----
And so now I sit alone and lonely in the diner's back corner, writing out my sick thoughts because the booth across from me is empty
I don't want to leave because I just got here, but I am growing very tired very quickly.
I think about how I was going to bring her here, but I was so tired and she said we could go inside and sleep.
We talked in the darkness in each other's arms until we fell asleep. When we woke, it was time to go to the port.
We talked more while waiting for the plane, and I can still feel the fabric of her shirt and I still think I can feel her weight on my legs from when we held each other in the lobby.
-----
And even as I slept in her arms, I thought of you.
When I shifted my weight and my hand brushed against her breast, I thought of your breasts and the way you would exhale a breath of love whenever I tasted your body.
When she placed her head on my chest, I thought of your comforting presence against my heart on many nights that I wanted to last forever, but that ended all too soon.
When I pressed my lips against hers, I was kissing your spirit.
When she touched my neck, your fingers touched my heart.
I miss your eyes, heart, mind, love.
Will you always hold my hand when I wander into the land of dreams?
Will you always paint my eyelids?
-----
Fear:
Almond eyes
Smooth chin
Soft brow
Sleek hair, shiny gloss, pulled back low and tight
Slender neck leading from thin shoulders
Fidgety, she scans the room, in search of something
Strong arms rippling under firm flesh
Toned feet contained within clasped, leather-bound, cork-soled sandals
The back of her shirt is flawless. I don't think she is wearing a bra.
My sick mind then wonders if she is wearing panties, and if so, what that would look like. And if not, what that would look like.
My mind wanders, wonders who she is now, what her values
are, if her name has changed... what is she about?
-----
The air was cold outside when she called. We spoke with questions and answers rolling back and forth like ripples in a pond. Statements dropping like hail, apprehension lingering in the air like a hawk, and a conversation like the western mountains. The cold concrete floor of my basement like the truths I tried to read in the spaces between the letters of her words. The whole time wondering why I had said what I had said the way I had said it. Trying to detect what she was reaching for, thinking if it was but an answer or if it was a conclusion to a kiss. She said she had to go, but that she would call back later, when we both had time to talk in more detail.
Then she hung up the phone.
In the silence of the frost, biting my
mind-body-heart-nose, I stood waiting for something more. I waited for a scream to erupt from the
cavern of my
heart. I waited for the blood-soaked
tears to spring forth from the mirrors of my eyes. The dogs began to cry out a bellowing, pensive
wail. I stood there with my cigarette,
still holding the phone, still holding her.
I realized in that moment that I would do anything for her. If she had said, “Walk away”, I would have, if it were what she needed. If she had said, “Come home”, I would have, if it
would make her happy. I realized I now
know what Marcus feels every time Veronica walks away from him.
-----
She stands there
Welcoming-greeting-inviting
Beautiful and alluring
But quiet, closed
Somehow forbidding
Challenging
Desire to shatter that façade
Is it, indeed, an act?
Is she playing the part of the
mouse?
Or is she a temptress in disguise?
Remove the eyepieces…
Let down the hair…
Open the eyes…
Undo the top three buttons…
Is she then a cat?
Mysterious woman of the night…
Waiting to be discovered?
Like an ancient treasure,
Buried deep in a cave
Entombed by society and conditioning
Patiently but painfully preparing
To be explored
Unearthed
Researched
Penetrated
Revealed to all the world
As the beautiful masterpiece
Been painted over by
Mother culture
Like so many other treasures
Longing
to be exposed
In a gallery
Or a rich home
Or a coffee-house
While the sweet music of
Undiscovered musicians
Swirls around her beauty
-----
It was then
At the moment she hung up the phone
That he knew
The salt-water blood flowed forth
As he let the receiver fall to the linoleum
The questions take off like angry bees from the
Hive of his heart
And so he, too
Falls to the tiles
Throws in the towel
Twisted and torn
Like the bed sheets long since stained
He weeps tears of love
Had she said “go”, he would have
And it kills him now to know that
And to know that he can never tell her.
-----
If only I could describe the loneliness to you
Describe how it is reminiscent of a black
Grey
December
Where the snow covers the landscape like a heavy blanket
And yet it is not the pretty
White
Snow
It is the black snow in the street
The snow that has been driven over by so many cars
It is becoming infused with salt and slag and dirt and mud and trash and cigarette butts
If only I could describe the loneliness to you
If only I could
Let you see what I see
If only I could show you the visions
And the emptiness without you
If only I could describe the sleeplessness
If only I could explain to you
The terror of staring at my ceiling
The terror of looking around my room until the sun comes up
When I went to bed before the sun did
The horror of driving around looking for people
And finding none
Looking for you
And finding only a faded memory
If only I could describe the longing
The desire
The want
A teeming beast fed on by such wonderful
Memories of joy and happiness you brought me
The memories of nights spent in your arms
And if I could, so what?
Would it illicit a response?
Would you finally break the silence you have held towards me?
Would it bring us closer
Or would it push you away?
Push me
Further from your grip
Further from your heart
Further from your eyes
Last time the pain was my fault because I said too much
This time the pain is your fault because you didn’t say anything.
-----
As romantic as it is to think with your heart
Ignoring logic and reason
Sometimes you do need to think with your head
It’s funny how things change when you do that.
I was thoroughly convinced that I was in love
But when we sat down and had a logical conversation about it
It was
It really wasn’t all that big of a deal.
Yes, it was a big deal
But it wasn’t all that I had made it out to be
I know that I love her
I know that I love her
A lot
A whole lot
And I know that I do want to be with her
I do love being able to call her my girlfriend
And I do love the thought of having a girlfriend
And I do love the thought of being in love
But she said it best:
Maybe what I am in love with is not
Who I am in love with
But maybe I am in love with being in love.
-----
I walked behind two
balding businessmen
and it had he think
wow this is very poetic
and I decided that I should write a poem about it
and in deciding to write a poem about it, I thought f you
and in thinking of you, I thought of how you once
described how flattering it was to be my muse
as you labeled yourself
and the thought of how I am in love with being in love
and how even though I may never even see you again,
nonetheless hold you in my arms
kiss your soft lips
touch your smooth skin
I still love you
and this made me think of the voyeur next door
who is not really a voyeur
but rather
a watcher
he is an artist
he films things of beauty
things of intense beauty
the most beautiful thing simply a dancing plastic bag
today was beautiful
I looked out the window
and I saw ants
with two legs, not six
and I saw an entire city sprawled beneath me
offering itself to me
the world unfolded into my arms
But I am, as yet, unsure whether to embrace it.
-----
I passed by a waterfall on my way
And I thought immediately of you
I thought immediately of that night that we spent
In the waterfall
In the fountain
Your dress clinging to your skin
You clinging to me
My heart clinging to yours, my lips clinging, our hands clinging
Clinging
If only I had a camera, I could capture this moment for you
The way that moment is captured in my mind forever
If only I had a video camera, I could sit and watch this for hours
Thinking of your arms, thinking of your heart, thinking of your touch
And I could show it to you so that you could think the same thing, or think what you will
It is beautiful, like you: flowing, smooth
Chaotic, yet uniform
And I love it the way I loved you
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An Irish man walked in with a fiddle
And had himself a drink
Then a fair lass got into the middle
And pushed him o'er the brink
'e said "Dear girl, you're between me and my Guinness,
So you better step out of the way,
But when I get to the bottom, When I get to the finish,
The I'll be yours to stay"
So 'e finished the pint and took to the lady
And they danced around the room
When the night was over, they were both so happy
Soon they were bride and groom
Many a year later they sat by the fire
As he played his cherry fiddle, he said
"I've seen many a lass, and been 'round for a while,
But I love the girl in the middle."
It takes a strong lass to split a man and his pint, but love is stronger than any alcohol.
-----
pale skin
impale
artistic minds corroded by conformity
twisted mental-pedophiles
clouding judgment
money
future
annexed souls
nudes, not nukes
karma
dharma
tearing thoughts apart
oblivion
ignoring original intentions
multi-racial kindred spirits
brought together by desire
swept into the cauldron
who knows what the night might bring
into the great unknown
variable
do the titans feel
emotions and fear
do comedy and tragedy
ought wei
the comedy of tragedy
or am I a materialist
do I care for my children
which will be better
god
what should I do
where shall I go
what should I believe
what fools we mortals be
-----
I wonder if it will be on the news
Probably not
If so, It will be buried
It would be page 13, not
"TONIGHT AT 10:
BOY AT LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL STABBED IN MOUTH"
Apathy affects us all. It is the most deadly of our
Diseases
Kill and grow and our government does nothing about our
Pain
Is a motivating factor. It motivates us to step into
Action
Reaction Karma
Dharma
Must be reestablished if we are to continue as we
Are
We going to kill ourselves, or will we live to see another day?
-----
Why do kids worry about money?
What is death?
Why can't I?
I can.
Why is lust?
Who is love?
Why does she have to go?
She must.
Why are addicts?
Why is hurt?
Why no cure?
Cure me.
Why is theft?
Who is rape?
Why is murder?
Suicide.
1+1=2...sometimes.
Breasts and egos grow and sag with time.
We all die.
So do our dogs.
Children are imperfect because their bliss ends.
-----
Zephaniah is a friend of mine
He writes of racism and people of his kind.
------
CHORUS: And your soul says "No Way"
But you want.
VERSE 1:
Lookin' through all the dreams inside your head
And lookin' over all the lovers from your past
Look at all the aspirations you once had
But you fucked up and now you come in last
{CHORUS}
VERSE 2:
Little girl see yourself inside your room
And remember him while you run around
Just remind yourself he'll be home soon
While you cry to yourself without the sound of his voice
{CHORUS}
BREAKDOWN SECTION:
And through the mist the chain is broken
Your breath is held, your thoughts unspoken
No way to run, to hide, no room
Then in your sickness, you love your doom
You look around; she's all you see
You try to think, but thoughts can't be
{TONE SHIFT}
VIOLENT INTERLUDE:
Is this really what you want?
Is this really what you need?
Why can't you come back to me?
Why is it that you must bleed?
{SHORT INSTRUMENTAL\SOLO SECTION}
VERSE 3:
Your poison tree has withered died and gone, decay
Yet you still long for that awful lie
But you live to see another day
Still when it hurts, you scream "Why, why, why?"
{CHORUS}
{'TRAIN-WRECK' END}
- - - - -
This is a song about addiction, whether it is narcotics,
people, food, or whatever. Your soul screams "NO", but you have that
incomprehensible desire. Here's to all suffering addicts, that they may find
the help they need. Je vous aime.
-Dave
-----
Darkness
Breathing
Legs pumping faster and faster until they inevitably slow
I am taken back
And the anger, the rage, that she would dare say that
Colors of the room tinged with pink, just as you've told me they would be
But eventually the pink fades
I am left with no more anger, no more rage
Only the pain
That, too, will fade to a dull memory
All I want is your arms around me
Your kiss, your touch, soothes the most scarred soul
You are not here, but our tears fall together
Waiting
The morning will bring us to each other
Desire
supple curves caress that which I cannot have
varying colors, textures, sounds, emotions
amusing and alluring
hidden, yet visible
words cease to exist
inhibitions falling away
I fear the loss of control
I want her
she comes closer
she is near
she is here
I reach to hold her
brush her hair from her face
I lean to kiss
her naked breast
warm in my hand
she arches back, offering herself to me
I partake of her body and soul
our bodies bathed in salty sweat
muscles quivering
time inconsistent
shifting
unconsciousness
lost in the moment
conclusions impossible
-----
the bowl filled with red, white, and blue
the red lights blink as the coffee pots brew
blonde women sit at the bar, writing
he asks what I've been up to: "nothing exciting"
-----
- - - - -
I stepped outside to see how I feel
Sat down on the steps and saw a drug deal
I was never so open when I got my 'fix'
It was always in private that I got my kicks
Some secluded park or dirty bedroom
were the places I acquired my doom
In addiction, an hour seems like forever
But it made me sneaky, deceptive, and clever
Inside the hot and cold rooms of the world
I threw down my money, and the joints, they were curled
Suck down some pills with some whisky or vodka
Or trip while I read a little Shakespeare or Kafka
- - - - -
Though resigned to a life of death
it was given up
at the drop of a hat
a ring of the phone
the thought of sex
the future unknown
At the massing, bug burly bears
embraced the young man
said "I love you"
"Don't worry"
"We're not judges"
"We're no jury"
they told him HIS story
He listened
He was impressed
- - - - -
Watch the phone
Sit
Watch the phone
Get some coffee
Watch the phone
Play music
Watch the phone
Read
Watch the phone
Use the restroom
Watch the phone
Hide in the bedroom
Watch the phone
Wonder why they don’t call
Watch the phone
- - - - -
He sits in a grey fog playing guitar and talking to
the daemons in his head.
Jacob and Robert Marley dance around him, their
chains swinging wildly in the air, jingling like coins in a purse.
They asked him to join them.
They invited him to join them.
They taunted him to join them.
They talked him into joining them.
- - - - -
When he awoke he wondered why he had not left the
night before, why he had not stayed upstairs.
He had gone upstairs before when
his daemons had begun to sing, but he went back downstairs to swing with
them.
They had not lied to him.
He knew the terrors of going down, yet he joined
them in the heat of that hell.
He awoke to that green smell infused in his pores,
in his hair, in his clothes, in his lungs.
He showered to wash his memory clean of the night
before.
He lied to wash his face clean of the night before.
He hoped to wash his soul clean of the night
before.
He begged to wash his slate clean.
He could not wash his hands clean.
- - - - -
He walked into the room sat down listened stood up
and took a coin in which he placed his lies.
He placed the coin in his pocket and could feel it burning his
flesh. He got on the plane and sat
there thinking about the coin.
He entered the room and held up the coin as a shield, as a mask. They gave him another to wear around his
neck, and the weight of it held him down.
To them a medal of honor, to him only Hawthorne’s signature. He wore it like a tattoo, fearing the naked body would reveal the hole in
his chest, the emptiness, the lies, the fear.
He wears gloves now because he can’t wash his hands clean.
- - - - -
Mediocrity
The word burned in his head as he drove them to the
bar.
Though his glass was free of spirits, his head was full of
daemons.
When he went home, he continues the lie, but he went back to work.
Soon, he could stand the pain no longer.
He took off the gloves and showed his stains to the
world.
His brothers took his hands and washed them for
him.
What he could not do alone, they as a group
accomplished.
- - - - -
Go to a meeting
Listen
Share
Go to coffee
Talk
Go home
Sleep
Go to school
Sleep
Go to work
Watch
Go to a meeting
Listen
Share
The repetition wore
Heavily on him
They began
Carrying him
They bid him farewell and he went to others, but it
was still the same
He never looked inside
They looked for him
- - - - -
They started coming to his house so he stopped
going home.
He found a playmate and spent his time with her.
Soon, he abandoned them altogether
He took his things and went away, where others
expected him, but he never called.
He Isolated under the guise of self-preservation.
Really, he was tired.
He was tired of doing things that had long since
stopped bringing him joy.
The darkness creeped in and he wept often.
In time, his eyes adjusted, and it didn’t seem so
dim.
He found a new circle and he allowed himself to
become locked within it.
No doors or windows, but also no corners to hide
in.
He found strength and security with them, and soon
serenity, too.
God, grant me the serenity
He regrets not saying good-bye
To accept the things I cannot change
If he is brave
The courage
He can go back and make amends
To change the things I can
But he knows that what really matters
And the wisdom
Is his own peace of mind
To know the difference
Knowing they still love him.
-----
Perpetual fear creeps sadness longing want desire opiate results attraction alluring beauty fear sex heart mind soul love me kiss the small of my back fingers through wet hair chest bare the fan spins wildly from the ceiling the soft chill of evaporating sweat saliva rub touch hold collapse lust affection infatuation despair heard of sheep tripping consciousness conscience bathed want fear run rain heat ice stars are falling for me they rocket from their nests ignite in the atmosphere friction tension resentment rejection insecurity traction push away landing in a cataclysm forgotten words of forgiveness unable to forget memory remorse regret malice want hurt become evolve exit endgame out walk cry foreign freedom not wanted terror jail warden prisoner captive of the soft touch round security warm wet red frustration pain wait watch spot eye subtle mound hot thighs cold air walk away embrace blinding darkness blackness tres noir excavation exhume one year to the day chip shop life banished escape hide Friar Lawrence be one individual estate sale sold mine envy desire lust mined fragrant pull magnetic feral urges fear bail justification rationale paramount the undiscovered country perpetuity sannathana dharma ahimsa hamsa om tat sat drive out of the rain the butter melts out of habit the toast isn’t even warm exeunt.
-----
The cat perched quietly on the tin-can roof
Its fur being melted by the reflecting sun and heat of the mirrored surface upon which he sits
The birds pass by, blinded by the evidence of Apollo's grace
Charcoal embers setting feathers ablaze with the radiance of the god's glory and imposing presence
The Cheshire grins at Alice, returning home through the gauntlet of metallic beasts and no air conditioning while her leather seats chap and char, scar her skin, mar her complexion
Her hair shimmers as her sweat mixes with the expensive oils and perfumes used as mating calls, but still she is alone in returning home through the looking glass to a still empty house
Absorbing the eccentric patterns of energy given off by the capitalist dream as she watches the stock prices catapult catastrophically upward while the newsman anchorwoman reports another bombing in Northern Ireland
She changes the channel as her cat returns inside, now bald and sun burnt peeling scabs licking wounds blisters forming on his back in places he can't reach with his sandpaper, regardless of his contortionist ability
She is intrigued by his new hair style and pets him anyway, ignoring the screams of pain as she rubs his leper skin
She watches cartoons and ignores ridiculous warnings about the approaching Y2K and tornadoes and instead makes herself a drink to obliterate her fears
She returns to her sofa, unaffected by the feline corpse that is still bleeding on her floor from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head intended to end the pain, but instead causing the pain of a million years without form shape number awareness
Tired, she escapes to the security of her bedroom chamber to block out the scars of the world with her bed sheets
Comfortable upon her down mattress, she retreats to Dian's care
-----
And I watch as their heads bob
hair grey with age
But radiating life
Speaking a language
The native tongue of vivacity
Peter Pan syndrome
Telling the capitalistic demon, Hook, to back off
And allow life to the non-working
Those who have earned the right to
Return to the sandlot
Work-time is over
And naptime is fast approaching
But for now,
In these few moments of release
Between the chains and the sleep
Between the whips and scorns of time and the undiscovered country
They sit
Prepared
Teeth bared
Not scared
Because they dared
And they cared
For themselves and their children
To be what they have been
They are what they are now just as they were what they were then
They know what happened just as they know what will happen
They know it's coming, but they know not when
So they're living it up while they still can life is bright
Life without fright
Day without night
Strength without might
Vision without sight
Children play with delight
Separate worlds, but not quite
Muscles fluctuate loose and tight
Bodies moving left and right
Glass reflecting blinding sunlight
A disturbing thought crawls into my brain
While from that decision I abstain
Life courses through my vein
Knife easily cuts off the pain
Slowly we all will become sane
When we have no one to blame
Nor any reason to that makes sense
Makes any difference
Changes anything
Let freedom ring
Sometimes wonder: what was I thinking
When I agreed to try this thing
Called life: that miraculous joy
Brings smiles to a boy
They become his toy
Mother life is very coy
Father God drops a decoy
To distract
And detract
From the task
Work to play
Payback by more labor
For another business day
To layback and anticipate
The wait
Add weight
Tip the scales in the direction
Color of yellow
Enter rooms with great joyous shouts
The young child enters the
Playground
Through life he matures
Grows facial
And pubic
Hair
Mate
Mature
Toil
Till the soil
Drill for oil
Spring the coil
Bite into the apple banished from the ignorance that is the bliss of children
Make him a man
Amen
Then the choice: work to death
Retire to play
Either way
They result doesn't sway
Every dog will have its day
To find all their buried bones then sit and play dead
The endless joke
'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished
perchance to dream
-----
Fat and grey, they hover
Harbingers of the flood
They wait patiently for the command to release their battle cry and flash their swords upon the underlings
Thin and wispy on the blue-gray banner are their cohorts
Spies, they report their targets, brightly lit and unaware of the coming battle
Oblivious to the fast approaching precursor to Armageddon, they assume the winds are those of change, not of war
Leaving holes in the frontline wide enough to see their weaknesses, you can almost taste the freedom assured by the warriors
The protectors of the meek
Defenders of the weak
And so it begins
They wash away our sins
Free us from our chains
Only truth remains
-----
Thorns and vines pulling down in a sea of tears shed from wounds of discomfort Enchained by codependency Waiting just one more day and one more day and one more day Insanity Try again Same result Lather Rinse REPEAT reuse rejection Becomes a cycle Becomes familiar Nothing else known but pain Fall into a pattern Acceptance of bad feelings and deeds and damnation Drawing darker lines Contorting reality to make this okay
-----
Every day is another flower
The roses are hung from the walls and dried or are stripped of their petals and laid out on the satin sheets of life
She loves me
She loves me not
She loves me
Every sunrise is joyful, both the lark and the nightingale singing in harmony
Every star shines in her eyes
A smile for every sparkle
The soft fluidity of motion is comforting
Her touch is intoxicating
You become inebriated on her pheromones excited by the sound of her voice
Useless to resist, you bow to her
Obey her every desire, though you are equals
Symbiotes in a constant ring, the individual bringing balance to the whole
-----
I am going to make A Plan
I am going to make a plan regarding life
I am going to make a plan regarding romance and transportation and food and employment and sleep habits and happiness
Because all these things need to be planned out
It's no good crying all of the time even when you have a home, a vehicle, a job, a lover, and food on your table
I'm tired
I'm tired of having a heavy chest
I'm tired of having a light wallet
Everybody wants money when I have some and they don't want me when I'm broke
Everybody loves to listen to my struggles, then respond with a bill
And Family wants me to return to the security of the harbour
Now I'm crying
Now I'm crying because I'm scared
Now I'm crying because I am lonely
And above all that, I feel I may be alone, even though I have thousands of friends
I still feel as if I am that statue of the thinker; I sit and ponder my life and my troubles, give an aire of determination, but I am powerless to stave off the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, and the pangs of despised love
I'm scared because every time I make a plan, it blows up on me like the mission: impossible briefing
I need this
I need this time
I need this life to learn to live to love life
If I give up now, I will never figure it out I will never solve the Rubik's cube of my life
In this game, there are no stickers to peel off and rearrange and no sledgehammers to say 'fuck-it-all'
Not for me, at least
I can
I can Win
I can Survive
I will somehow find a way to pull this off, without medication or escapism, and I will find happiness
I know it is there somewhere
I wonder if my eyes and mind are too closed to see it.
I have seen it before, held it in my hands, fed it, nurtured it
But I don't know what happened to it
Where did I put it?
Did I leave it in my other pants?
Is it wearing a funny hat?
Is it on vacation?
Where does happiness go on holiday?
Is it hiding behind the ominous rain clouds?
Who can answer?
-----
The mirrored surface reflects the oncoming partners in this dance, the web we weave and bob in through passageways of our mind, created by imagination and fueled by hope.
-----
It is so painful when you wake up from those beautiful
dreams and you realize nothing is quite as you think it seems. Everything you
wanted to do has gone to shit. Every plan you made has blown up in a terrific
collision of blood and pride.
-----
I had always assumed it would be different.
I had always expected there to be more hope, more excitement.
Instead, there is fear.
Fear of what?
Fear of Failure: That I won’t be able to follow through, that this will all have been for nothing, that I will have wasted these precious breaths.
Fear of Success: That I will set too high a standard for myself and will not know when or how or who or where to back down. That I will forget about flowers and poetry with my eyes locked on the goal.
Fear of Resentment: My self-centered nature presents me with many bridges to burn. People will say in their maternal condescension, “He never would listen.” And even then, I won’t pay any attention to their meaningless caterwauling. They will ask if I am happy with my choices, but I will long since have forgotten the meaning of the word and the emotion, knowing only tears and remorse.
Fear of Regret: Did I make the right decision? Should I have stayed? Should I go back? Could/ Should I have loved her more? And what “then”? When we kiss for what may be the last time, what then? Do we plan a rendezvous, a secret liaison in the countryside between the tall grass of despised responsibility and the murky depths of time? Should we spare the pain of time and end it? Kiss one final, monumentous time, and be done with it?
If I could see into the future, all of those fears would be no more tangible than the monsters that formerly held residence under my bed and the toys in my attic that when the light is just right, come to life to creak and squeak and play again. My crystal ball will tell me where I will be happy and why it is so important not expect anything from anything. Humility, the state of remaining teachable, is paramount at this time.
Learn to fear not failure, for failure exists only in the minds of the weak.
Learn to fear not success, for success is an ally
Learn to fear not resentment. Prevent it or accept it.
Learn to fear not regret, and regret nothing. Let the past stay as such.
Learn to fear not being alone. Love never dies. In its reciprocated state, it exists as a constant ring. Here and there are scratches and dents from where time has hit hard, but the circle remains unbroken. From point to point, definite in it’s cyclic progression, it makes its way onward into the great wide open spaces and caverns of time and mental functions.
-----
Different server,
Midnight black
I sit and drink my coffee while I wait
It, the coffee, looks artificial, like enamel, reflecting the lights in the ceiling
Why am I here?
Where else should I be?
The syrup sits in a row in a tray in the center of the table.
I see the sticky liquid shift when I shake the table.
To my left is the bowl of creamers.
I usually don’t use them, but I think I will in this case, and sugar to match.
This may be the last time I am here.
Pour the coffee again.
Why am I here?
Where else should I be?
-----
The dank smell of cigarettes and beer on his parent’s breath
The boy’s heroes presenting sad pictures of role models
There are his favorite Indians: Nobody and Anybody
Sometimes it’s a good day to die. Sometimes it’s a good day to have breakfast.
And the man’s hair cries down from the part on his crown
Momma cries at the wind
The fry-bread made all the difference in the world
Magical fry-bread
So I told a story, now it’s your turn.
Lies or truth? Both.
Shooting in the dark
The boy was magic
Wings made out of TV dinner trays
For at least one day, the Indians won
Fear and pain drawing forth the truthful rain to the draught of lies
Gathering of Nations pow-wow
The dog, Kafka, went with them
A metamorphosis of the soul
From boy to man
From Indian to human
Hands cut on finders of screening
Questions of truth
Fires of hatred
Tears of regret
Running back into the burning house to rescue the future
Go back into the burning house
Pictures of home
And the rain falls on the floor of the trailer home where the hurricane died
Maybe you don’t know who you are
Collision of angry memories
Go for help
Run into the burning house
Talk to the dead girl
I think we were in two wrecks last night
The Lone Ranger and Tonto. No. Tonto and Tonto.
Father and a basketball
A three legged horse
Set the pyre ablaze
Releasing the souls of memories to the skies with midnight terrors
Under the light of day
6:12:32
Yeah, I’m sure
Rise like a salmon
He didn’t mean to leave
The wind carried him the way it carries dust from passing yellow trucks
How do we forgive our fathers?
Maybe in a dream.
If we forgive our fathers,
What is left?
-----
I sit, transparent to the world, see-through, invisible
Bodies pretending not to be naked surround me
Mouths pretending to be silent speak in tongues
The slats of the half-walls show distorted pictures of the false reality that is the outside world
Glass and screen mute the colours that reflect the intensity of that hemispheric projection
Lights hang from the ceiling like vessels waiting to transport us all to another dimension
Take us to another world
My stomach churns the still digesting food while I listen to little boys complain about missing the sandlot
All the colours of an LA sunset fade and wash before me as the din rises to a small dog’s bark, setting an omnipotent glow to my thoughts
The clock on the wall flares a V for victory at 1 and 2 as the line behind me builds.
-----
We were two wild dogs
In the woods
Lost
Hungry
Broken
Tired
We were alone
I by myself
You by yourself
Running from our own
Footsteps
In the blackness
Of the mist
Hearing the twigs and leaves
Broken underfoot
Fleeing the noises
Made by each other
Finally seeing
What is lonliness
You stood atop the mountain
And screamed at Dian
For not bringing you comfort
She stands above us both
And keeps her distance
From
Us
The clouds pull away to reveal
Her full-circle glory
And in her light
You saw me
Your howling, feral form
Forgave
And you came to me
The clouds carried us away until we were alone.
-----
The snow falls from
the sky
Like
teardrops falling
In
the light of the street lamp
I see them shimmer
The tiny snowflakes
Like stars erupting in
the sky
Millions of them
One
After
One
-----
Growing up in people’s footsteps can be rough
Especially when you’re not so tough
How can we share love with each other
If we are never together?
Growing up in people’s paths
Wait
Don’t choose
Your path
Set your goals
Life is going to be hard if you don’t make sacrifices
But on the way, you’ll do the right thing
Here is a poem just for you
My brother
Let us always remember what we had together
On this night
Of February
You’ll always know your path some way
Some how.
Otis and other Issues, by David Donald Schein II is © David Donald Schein
II, 1998-2000, All Rights Reserved.
“Myra and Otis”, words by A. Myers is © A. Myers, 1998-2000, All Rights Reserved.
“Veronica’s Thoughts” and “December 14”, by Melissa Elsner is ©
Melissa Elsner 1998-2000, All Rights Reserved.
“People’s Paths”, by Regina Rose
LaMacchia is © Regina Rose LaMacchia 2000, All Rights Reserved.
The Theatis Set, by Lee Paul Cole is © Lee Paul Cole, 1998-2000,
All Rights Reserved.
The Way of the World, “Happiness is a Dollar Bill, or The Good Life”,
“Shine Alone, by Luv, or Ode to the Insomniac”, “Untitled”, “Letting Go”,
“Bubbles”, “Birth”, “Mantis”, “Modern Society”, “Rememberer”, and “Lone Spirit”, by Katie Robertson are ©
Katie Robertson 1999-2000, All Rights Reserved.
The fP logo is a Trademark of
figmentofimagination Productions
Otis and Other Issues
Forward
Well, I guess there should be some explanation as to what the hell is going on here. What you see before you is a scattered collection of poems that continues the story of Otis and his more recent adventures. All of the enclosed poems have been written since my introduction into the wonderful world of Slam poetry. Slam is competitive performance-poetry. The competitors are given three minutes (plus a ten-second “Grace Period”) in which to perform a piece of original work that can include no props, costumes, or animals. The performance is judged by five volunteers from the audience with a range of 0.0 to 10.0 per judge. The highest and lowest scores are thrown out, leaving the highest possible score at 30. There is no lower threshold, though, because there is a one-half-point “Time Penalty” for every 10-seconds the competitor exceeds the grace period. If you would like more information on Slam poetry, please visit www.poetryslam.com .
On that note, I would like to begin thanking people. “Thank you” to Linda and Michelle for taking me to my first Slam and supporting me every instant thereafter; Delrica, just for being you; Scott, Denise, Tonya, Twain, and David (the 2000 DC National Slam Team) for giving me a reason to be in Providence, and for being mentors and comrades; EVERYONE in Providence for the 2000 National Poetry Slam; Gail, for the wonderful talks we’ve had, and for the support you have given me; Wussyboy Big Poppa E; all of the regulars and ‘Virgins’ at the “DC MYTH” poetry slam; all of the regulars and ‘virgins’ at “MOBTOWN SLAMICIDE” poetry slam; Mark Spurrier; My sister, Anna; Jay at “ARTOMATIC” for fulfilling one of my dreams, even if you did bullshit and say you read my last book; last- but most certainly not least- Stazja, for being simply a wonderful poet and a wonderful friend.
I need to send a very special “thank-you” to Denise Johnson, Twain Dooley, and Nicki Miller for refusing to allow me to sleep in my car at Providence, and for putting up with my shenanigans with “Reilly”. Thank you for understanding, and for being so supportive.
I can never stop thanking people. Basically I need to thank everyone who has heard me read, and has chosen not to throw objects at me. Thank you to every one who loves poetry. Thank you to everyone who has supported fP and put up with my horrific ranting at the Stimson Dining Hall, and elsewhere. Thank you to Goucher College for the use of their Thormann International Center. Thank you to Printergy for the equipment to place these words on paper. Thank you Mom, Ken, and Dad for not attempting to stop my search for happiness in the written and spoken word.
Thank you to all of the Lovers.
Thank you to all of the Dreamers.
Thank you to all of the Poets.
Let not the blood of our pens fall upon deaf ears.
-David Donald Schein II
7:00 am, 18 October, 2000
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
This book is dedicated to Nicki Miller for her endless love and support.
Nicki, you have shown nothing but support ever since I walked into Julio’s that first time. You showed me how to walk into a room and be respected for my art. You have been a mentor, a mother, a sister, and a brother for me in everything from demanding that I room with you at Providence to teaching me how to run a Slam. And, yes, I am still working on that last one. You have helped me come so far, and I have no idea how to thank you.
I have the money
I am on my way
to you
for you
for me
for
us
My pain and longing
are the black marks
I will leave behind
on the pavement
as I speed from the harbour
and away from their
bloody carcasses on the ground
They are forgotten
in the rearview
lost behind me
as I run to you
Enduring time
and distance
though our hearts are inseparable
-----
As my speed
matches the
number of the interstate
I drive faster than the darkness
though dusk has already made her entrance
Again, Apollo has left me
on the doorstep
of a random rowhouse
I saw him today
for the first time
in what seems like years
I looked into my father's eyes
as his bastard son
and said I to him,
"Father, MAKE UP YOUR MIND!
Decide whether to shower me
rays of love
or to walk away from me
as you do far too often"
But tonight, I woke
after he had slammed the door
seeing that he was gone,
I smiled at my mother's
pale gaze
and packed my essentials
I mounted my chariot and screamed battle-cries
against the beasts of
traffic and red lights
and speed traps
"Is there a reason you were going so fast?"
"Love, Sir. I run from you
in search of Her."
"Carry on."
In my mind
in my self-created
universe,
That is the script
-----
Rodents that watch from the
woods lining the highway
fear for their lives
as I streak by,
passing Kirk and crew,
making Dale Ernhardt appear as if he
drove a go-kart,
sending jocks in muscle cars
straight to hell
with my
exhaust fumes,
giving the finger to the cops
because
I WON'T BACK DOWN
-----
I have the money
I have my car
I have my desire
and
I have called out of work.
I am on my way
-----
Kerouak hated the road,
but not me.
I, too, am a
"Dharma Bum"
I know that you
can never
fall off of a mountain
I have slipped
and tripped
been scraped
and bumped
by my travels
Some with you
some in fear of you
some resenting you
all adoring you
but I have not fallen
-----
I am here
I am yours
I am the shining-armour
Laurence Olivier
Louis L'Amour
that you rebelled against
on so many nights
in that
rich suburb
of a megalopolis
But, always,
you would
kiss me
Always, you would show me
your eyelids
Always, you would hold me close
and say,
"You know I love you."
..."Don't you?"
-----
Though he would hurt you
pull you from me to
go comfort and calm him
down from his
hair-trigger, roof-ledge
temper-tantrum-
I awoke to your body
against mine
against the dawn
against my insecurities of the night before
-----
You introduced pleasures
of the mind, body, heart, soul
that were all encompassing
enrapturing
enveloping
-----
I ate a strawberry tonight
for you
for your memory
for your future
-----
And now I sit
thinking of
fountains
and that dress that
clung to your skin
the way
peanut butter clings
to the roof of my mouth
the way your face clings
to the inside of my eyelids
-----
I pass another truck stop
I pass another visitor center
I pass another
hazards-on
jack-out
tire-flat
man-confused
I stop
and rewind
I change a tire for a tired companion
We share the road for a few miles
until his headlights fade
into the rest of the wooded
scenery
with the rest of the ashes
I have
left
behind
I pass another sleeping trucker
I pass another off-ramp
I pass another gas station
I stop
and rewind
Refill coffee mug
and gas tank
Because I CAN-
-I have the money.
I am on my way
To you
through them
through these winding
trail ways
through construction
and roadblocks
and warnings
and self-deprecation
and sleep-deprivation
My excitement keeps me awake
-----
You are
Aphrodite.
You are Venus
stepping from the painting
into my arms
Let me be your renaissance man
Let me paint,
your body as the canvas
Let me put your beauty
into inadequate words
Let me serenade you
Then fall into your arms
into our love
For
I have the money,
and
I am on my way.
- - - - - - - - -
Heroin.
Vicadin.
Novocaine.
Love.
-Wussyboy, Big Poppa E - www.wussyboy.org
-----
And for the moment, I could feel again
I let tears of sadness fall like soldiers in a war
I let tears of anger fall like murdered doves
I let tears of joy fall like beads at Mardi Gras
to their words
on fire
And I went to sleep
huddled in silence
wondering where this emptiness
that now haunts my bed
came from
Could one night
back in your arms
have caused
this rift?
Could
one night
with you
followed by
one night
without you
lead to this apathy
for everything else?
Now I sit in this smoke-filled bar
and can barely utter a sound
feeling nothing but
the humid heat
of a room filled with bodies
like jelly-beans in a jar
How I wish I could cry for their pain
How I wish I could laugh for their joy
How I wish...
How I wish I could hold your
soft body
in my arms and
slumber with you,
knowing I am
safe in your grip
How I wish I could feel something
as strong now
as what I feel with you
-----
So scarred am I by
the past year without you
that now
with you
I still keep my emotions deep
That is not to say that
my scars are all because of you
but simply that they
occurred
without you near to
hear my cries
and lick my wounds
but you see the scars:
fingernails across my back
from nights spent not thinking about you
glass shards in the
souls of my feet
from the crushed crystal dreams in my mind
long white lines across my chest
where the daggers of
lust and betrayal
etched runes into my heart;
ancient symbols for
pain and terror
Teeth-marks paint battle-scenes
on my posterior
while at the same time
my anterior seems to
shrink just that much,
giving flesh to the
scabs that take
so much more
than can be seen.
----
why do you
sit now
freezing the sweat
of my brow
with the
coldness
of silence?
I only came
Speaking what I feel
-----
And you think I settled for you?
think back...
you and I talked while I was still with her
you and I made a PLAN while I still had her
you and I made a plan that
you would come to me
I would go to work
I would clean my locker
and after that
day of independence
I would leave
with you
you and I made that plan
while I still had her
before the red-light
of the district with her;
before the fear of
hope of
dreams fulfilled
all too soon;
you and I made a plan.
where was I
Settling
for you?
she fulfilled wants and needs in me that I had then
she fulfilled a physical desire for gratification
she put it out
and I put it in
she fulfilled an emotional desire to have someone
to fall asleep with other than my dogs
She fulfilled a social desire for someone fun with whom to spend time
She fulfilled a mental desire for stimulation of
grey matters
not just
pink matters
she fulfilled a spiritual desire for someone with whom to burn
cigarettes, incense, and gasoline
discussing theology
leaving Corpus Christi for the clouds of Olympus
she did that
because you weren't here to do that for me.
where was I settling for you?
I was settling for her.
-----
I told you I loved you
you asked me why
I said
"I don't know."
It's not something I can explain, it's
simply
something I feel
simply something I know
I squeeze your hand
three times
the way my mother used to squeeze my hand
three times
I would squeeze her hand
four times
in response
I squeeze your hand
three times
you do nothing
I don't know if you
know
what I mean
when I do that
I said that I loved you
you asked me why
and I said
"I don't know"
because I don't know
I don't know why
I Love You
I know that I Love You
-----
You said that this encounter was perfect
that everything clicked
the way the clicking of a vinyl record
makes the music just that much more beautiful
the way the clicking of a key in the lock
lets you know
that your loved one is home
I squeeze your hand
three times
I look at you
and you smile
turn your head...
I squeeze your hand
three times
I hold you
just that much closer
I look at you
just that much more focused
and you smile and look away
I squeeze your hand
three times
I tell you that
the reason I hold you
that much closer
Is because it has been so long since I have held you
I look at you
that much longer
because it has been so long since I have seen you
I listen to you
that much more attentively
because it has been so long since I have heard your voice directly from your lips
I kiss you
that much stronger
because it has been so long since I have felt that silk against my skin
I inhale you
That much deeper
because it has been so long since I have had that perfume in my nostrils
'nostrils'...
such an unromantic word
but then again,
so is 'nose',
but who knows
when we will next be with each other?
and...
I Know that I Love You
I tell you
I love you
and you ask me why
I say
I don't know
but I do know
that I love you.
And maybe I am holding you that much tighter
maybe I am kissing you that much longer
that much stronger
smelling you that much more
maybe I am doing all of those things because it
has been so long since I have
been able to do them
or
maybe it is because I am "stocking up"
I tell you I love you
you ask me why
and I tell you I don't know
and simply squeeze your hand
three times
-----
how I long for
coffee in Boston
again
I long for coffee in Boston again
and I cry for
coffee in Boston again
my seatbelt holds me
because you can't
and I pull it tighter
imagining that it is
your arms
around my waist
how I long for coffee in Boston again
where I can say that
I love you
and you can ask
why
and I can say
I don't know
how I long for a cappuccino and lemon ice
or mocha frigiutto with raspberry ice-
and it was black raspberry
the way the sky is black now
how I long to be in your arms
off this road
so that I won't have to worry about a
fucking tollbooth
so that I won't have to pay the price
so that I won't have to keep stopping
And I say "thank you"
and they take my money-
money you spared me by paying for the
coffee in Boston
money you spared me by chipping in for gas
money that I borrowed
so that I could see you
even if only for these few days
those few brief hours with you
in your arms
and the chance
to have coffee in Boston
and I looked around, but couldn't find Neponset Circle
but dammit, jack was right
god-dammit, Jack, she is my Carol.
and how I long for
coffee in Boston again
now I drive fast
seeing if I can run away from the sadness
seeing if I can maybe leave it behind
but somehow it seems that I am simply running farther into its grip
as I press down on the pedal
the sadness presses down on my heart
and my eyes hurt so badly because I am forcing them to stay open
so that I can follow this yellow line to my left
speckled lines to my right
as I pass this
broken line of cars
in my wake
and I am barely awake
but I don't want to be awake
because in my dreams
i am still with you
i can still hold you
i never have to leave you
i never have to walk away from you
i never have to drive away
i never left you
in my dreams
i never dropped you off at that airport
i never visited you at that airport
because I was with you on that plane
in my dreams
i never got lost on my way to Gardner
because I was already with you
in my dreams
he is inconsequential
he doesn't hurt you
and in my dreams
you don't have to give yourself up
to that
you don't have to volunteer
to keep yourself from being victimized
and in my dreams
so many of these scars are not here
because they were never laid
my body was bare
and these claw-marks on my back
are not those of these raptors
daemons, these daemonic nightmares
instead
in my dreams
these scratches on my back are
from your fingernails
on nights of passion
and love
and though you don't call it
"making love"
and maybe I shouldn't either
it sure wasn't just "sex"
and I never fucked you
and you never fucked me.
So I don't know what it would be called
and "intercourse" is too sterile a word
but it is love
and I grip the wheel three times because I cannot hold your hand right now
because you are so far away
and I know that
insomnia will wrack me tonight
because there is no way
that I can fall asleep with these tears
spewing forth from my eyes
like the words of the poets
like the words of the prophets
and
like the blood of the martyrs
who died for love
and how I long for
coffee in Boston
again
how I long for walking up that street
and saying "hey, let's go swimming in that lake I saw on Rt. 2"
and so we walked back to the car
but we never made it to that lake
because we sat in that car
and I looked into your eyes
and I looked into your heart
and you looked beyond my facade
and you looked into my soul
and our souls became one
and our hearts became one
and the heartbeats became one
and the heartbeats became faster
and faster
as rapture
enveloped us
enwrapped us
and I held you
and I kissed you
three times
because I could not speak
and how I long for
coffee in Boston
again
how I wish I didn't have to cry
missing you
I wish that instead of crying because of driving away from you
I wish I was crying out of joy from driving to you
I shed tears on that high-way
because I was so happy that I could see you again
coffee will never be the same
every cappuccino will remind me of words with an Italian man
while my bladder screamed
and my heart screamed
and my soul screamed
and I wish I could sing now
but my voice is too tired
my tear ducts are too tired
and my eyes hurt from forcing them open
and my stomach hurts from these wracking sobs
and my back hurts from sitting in this car for so long
and how I wish it didn't have to be this way
how I wish I could sit down with you to
coffee in Boston
again
and how I wish I could pronounce that word
I blow through miles like cigarettes
and cigarettes like whispers
I know that I could stop crying
if I could only hear your voice whisper
"I love you"
again
and I don't know why I love you
so instead I simply squeeze your hand
three times
I simply grip the wheel
three times
as I sit here on this
perverted stretch of land
longing for
coffee in Boston
again
-----
This is my Exodus
this is my flight from the dark city
from the lighted streets
from the clouded skies
from the raindrops
from the oil slicks on the streets of Manhattan
This is my escape from
poetry; from
good; from
love
This is my driving force
the motorcycle enters
the tunnel and screams its own
Gettysburg Address
The cabs outnumber the pedestrians
the cabs outnumber the residents
in this colorful city
in this dark city
clouded by night and judgement
and I have no idea what I am doing here
I was driving home
I was driving past
I was returning,
driving away from her
driving away from fear
driving towards work tomorrow night
driving towards my home
driving towards a
driving force
I spew from this tunnel
like ink from my pen
like sweat from my pores-
lack of air conditioning makes me burn in my seat
I have no idea what I am doing in this city
I have no idea what I am doing on this road,
Heading down this tattooed piece of black-top
speckled with ants
with leaves of paper
upon my back
Headed towards that mother
headed towards the queen
my own queen I have left behind
my driving force
she whom I see when I close my eyes
who I strive for
who I long for
who I hold dear
who I hold true
my muse
my inspiration
my beautiful dreams at night
she is behind me
I left her at the Yankee shop
while she held on to my candle and my heart
And I still don't know what I am doing here
I was driving home and I saw that I still had time
to experience the love of a pen
the love of a word
and so I took a slight detour
through Manhattan
and I have only been to the
Statue of Liberty
once; and I did not go there tonight
I have only been to that statue once
because once
I believed in that
Once I believed in that
As I get my ticket
heading on to this turnpike
going straight forward
I see a sticker that says
"No Fur"
My engine roars in response
I like mink.
And I think again
about why it is that I have never returned to that copper woman
standing on the sea
getting her feet wet
but keeping her ankles dry
Still the hem of her dress is uncut
still she is the model of the puritan society
of which our country is based
because if she were a true “Woman of Liberty”
if she were a true symbol for what this country supposedly stands for
what our forefathers
what THEIR forefathers
Jefferson, Roosevelt, Washington, Lincoln
what their four fathers
allegedly had in mind
If those plans were true,
they would not laugh at me when I walk down the street
they would not call me "Freak" because I walk by without anything separating my two legs
they would not batter a woman because she decided to get a job today
they would not laugh and mock and beat the lesbians and the gays and the transgendered and the transsexual who transcend the barriers of conformity
those who transcend the evil looks they receive and when mocked simply fire back with "I love you"
and yet are mocked again
and those of us who do not have the courage to stand up with a raised fist
sit down with a pen drawn
like the swords of the conquistadors
and whom do we conquer?
who do we come to lay the flag down for?
because we do not even have command of our own hearts
let not the blood of our pens
fall upon deaf ears
-----
I HATE YOU
I screamed at you
as we stood in the cross street
of our lives
my eyes like
water fountains of youth
your eyes
peered
pondered
questioned
I hate you because I love you
and you are leaving me
When I was intoxicated with lust
you carried me up the stairs
when I was so confused
you made things clear
You were my Baloo
When I was King Louie
You were my Bill the Kat
When I was Opus
I hate you because even when I was ashamed
to be with you shocked
by what you had done afraid
of things you had said apologizing
secretly for you
Even then
in those moments where I was so
mortified
I could have been
buried
I was still proud to call you my brother
Not my brother by blood
my brother by choice
when we met
you were a
strange stranger
later I found the key
to your secret garden
and entered with
magic passwords
and metaphors
through many
smoke-filled
chrome-lined
nights in diners and bars
with hearts and microphones
split wide open,
our buddy relationship
blossomed over
coffee and cigarettes
war-stories and tall-tales
water-sports and blood baths
We fought side-by-side
or one-on-one
in missions of espionage
and terrorist actions
You were my Ambassador
when we journeyed to the
crown of Gaia
and into the land of
retarded infatuation
though you were wrong
when she walked away,
you were dead-on
when I tried to do the same
Though I walked into the conversation
I was pulled from the rubble of what was once a promising friendship
You helped me see that I still
had gotten what I wanted
and needed:
understanding
You fed me when I was without food
you housed me when I was without home
You loved me even when I didn't want you to
You have made me laugh
You made me angry
and now
you make me cry
We carried the weight of your world yesterday
and placed it in a
box-shaped-box
That is why I weep
I weep because
I love you
and you are leaving me
and I can't control that
I can't stop this
I can't keep you from going
but neither can I send you off
I can’t throw you a celebration that would rival the halls of Valhalla
But I can say that which your father never uttered
I am proud of you
I am not proud of what you go to do,
but I am proud of you.
I am not proud of who you go to serve,
but I am proud of you.
I am Proud of You.
-----
I laughed the first time I heard the word "Transgendered"
I had no clue what it meant.
I thought gender and sex and sexual orientation went hand in hand in hand.
When I was in Middle school,
there was a boy named Kurt who later abbreviated his name to simply "K".
Well, K wore makeup sometimes.
In other words,
Every time we saw him,
he had on eyeliner or mascara or pancake foundation...
And we didn't understand.
We laughed at him
talked about him
pointed Judas Fingers at him-
I later found out that indeed he was a beautiful child of God
We would beat the shit out of K on a regular basis
Why?
Because he was different.
We would lecture him while we did it, too:
"You're fucked up, K"
(Bam!)
"You're gonna burn in hell for being a faggot"
(Bam!)
"Quit being a Fucking pussy!"
(Bam!!)
I never thought about it then, but I recall that he never once hit us back.
I later became a pacifist...
just like Kurt.
One time, I was at the skating rink, and this other guy
(whom I had also made fun of in the past)
hit me in the back for no apparent reason.
He then said he wanted to fight me for being a dick to him in the past, and I said
"No."
He told me then- with his posse at his back- that he smelled something...
"Pussy"
When my dad came to pick me up that night,
I was too ashamed to explain why the other boys were laughing at me.
In High school, I got into theatre.
I quickly gained the title of "Art-Fag" by the local rednecks
But I didn't care.
I got stared at while perusing the aisles of the Fiesta-Mart because of my stage makeup
But I didn't care.
I would get laughed at in the halls for being in costume
But I DIDN'T CARE.
...about that.
When I got to college, I realized that my hippie peers wouldn't give me negative attention when I wore my sarong,
...but the Hereford boys would
and my female friends would bitch about the fact that I looked better in their skirts than they did, but they loved me anyway
And though my pseudonym isn't because of my dress, I am still flattered to be confused with a beautiful woman named Lottie-Mae
I kiss my male friends in public.
I rarely wear garments that separate my legs.
I haven't worn underwear but once in the past three months.
I get judged as gay, and though I don't have a girlfriend, I simply reply that she would disagree, and continue on my way to the OUT-tober-Fest.
I listen to Ani DiFranco and Hot Honey Magnet at full blast with both windows rolled down, my hair in a bun, my cigarette dangling precariously from my smile like the accusations from their snarls, my accelerator to the floor as I fly past their broken-down way of thinking as the phoenix rising up from the ashes of my former lack of self esteem.
I weep openly in movie theatres.
I LIKE Steel Magnolias, Fried Green Tomatoes, and If Lucy Fell.
I think Pablo Naruda is one of the greatest poets of all time.
I think Kim and Scott should be running mates in the next presidential election.
I want to get "Towanda" tattooed across my knuckles because my mother and my sister are the Pillars of Hercules.
I think Michael is a role model because he keeps searching for that which he seeks.
I like Morrissey.
I like the Cure.
I like Souixsie.
And if that makes me a wussyboy, then I will stand proud next to Big Poppa E and "Ducky".
I am not afraid to be naked.
I am not afraid to disrobe my emotions.
I am not afraid to be who I am.
I am not afraid of myself.
I am not afraid to write about my lovers.
I am not afraid to stand in a room full of strangers at a slam and constantly be beaten by Denise.
I am not afraid to stand on stage as someone else.
I am not afraid to be like K.
-----
Tonight, I am listening to The Cure.
Tonight, I am drinking red instead of white.
Tonight
I am Listening to The Cure.
Tonight, I am reading Rilke instead of Eliot.
Tonight, I am painting all of the rooms black-
No. Burgundy.
Tonight, I am walking around the house naked.
Tonight, I am Superman.
Tonight, I am Batman.
Tonight, I am all of my superheroes because they don't get hurt.
Tonight, I am washing all of my clothes
Tonight, I am taking out the trash.
Tonight, I am mopping the floor.
Tonight,
I am cleaning house.
Tonight, I don't want to think about you, but I am anyway.
Tonight, I don't blame you.
Instead, I can't get over the thought that it is my fault; that it's something I did because I didn't understand; that I made an assumption and I was wrong; and for that, I can't sleep.
Tonight, I can't decide if I want to call you to apologize for the misunderstanding that caused you pain, or if I should wait for you to apologize for yelling at me when all I tried to do was give you your things back.
I tried to be good for you.
I tried to give you everything you wanted or needed.
I tried not to ask for too much in return.
All I wanted was for someone to love.
All I wanted was someone with whom I could share my pillow, and my thoughts, and my dreams.
You followed me to the top of the world and back.
I followed you to your mom's condo.
You made me happier than I have been in a long time.
And I tried so hard to make you happy in return.
Where did I go wrong?
What did I do that hurt you so much?
How did we metamorphose into this debt that I cannot pay off?
-----
Tonight, I am listening to The Cure.
Tonight, I am drinking red instead of white.
Tonight
I am Listening to The Cure.
Tonight, I am reading Rilke instead of Eliot.
Tonight, I am painting all of the rooms black-
No. Burgundy.
Tonight, I am walking around the house naked.
Tonight, I am Superman.
Tonight, I am Batman.
Tonight, I am all of my superheroes because they don't get hurt.
Tonight, I am washing all of my clothes
Tonight, I am taking out the trash.
Tonight, I am mopping the floor.
Tonight,
I am cleaning house.
Tonight, I don't want to think about you, but I am anyway.
Tonight, I don't blame you.
Instead, I can't get over the thought that it is my fault; that it's something I did because I didn't understand; that I made an assumption and I was wrong; and for that, I can't sleep.
Tonight, I can't decide if I want to call you to apologize for the misunderstanding that caused you pain, or if I should wait for you to apologize for yelling at me when all I tried to do was give you your things back.
Tonight, the hawk of ego assassinated the dove of hope.
Tonight, the wild mood swings overtook me and I cried and sighed and screamed and disintegrated.
Tonight, the bloodflowers I once gave you faded and died, leaving only pictures of you; pictures painted in red and gold, lime green and tangerine and they almost seem just like heaven.
I don't care that Monday's blue
Tuesday grey and Wednesday, too
Thursday, I won't care about you
Because Friday, it won't matter what I do.
I know I'll never really get inside of you.
So,
Tonight, I am listening to the Cure.
Tonight, I am drinking red- instead of white.
Tonight,
I am listening to the Cure.
-----
I do not dance for other people's pleasure
I dance for my own
I dance because it gets me off-
NOT because it turns you on
that is simply an added bonus
I dance because I like beating the shit out of concrete floors with my steel-toed boots
I dance because I also like the way the muddy grass feels between my naked toes
I dance because I enjoy making my car shake
I dance because I like pounding on the basement door until Apollo wakes
I dance because I also like rocking him gently back to sleep
I dance because sometimes my soul SCREAMS for release
and is realized
and gratified
by the feral outlashings of the pit
I dance because I prefer to be the center of attention
I dance because I NEED to
I dance because I like the way your arms feel draped around my neck
the way your hair feels draped around my shoulder
the way your perfume feels draped around my nostrils
the way your love feels draped around my heart
I dance because I like dancing alone
I dance because I like letting my hair down over my locked eyelids
so all I can see are the intermittent flashes of the strobes,
oscillating wildly as the beat of my...
hips
I dance because it makes me hungry
I dance because I can't sit still to the music of
Ani or
Celia;
Jonathan Davis or
Art Alexakis
I dance because I am excited to see you
I dance because I am angry
I dance because I am barely holding back the tears
I dance because I am in love
I dance because I am ALIVE
-----
And I just wish for
one phone call.
not one of those
"I just called to say I love you"
phone calls, but a
"Hi. How are you?"
phone call.
And I just wish for a fucking clue
what to do
about you
no...
Fuck You.
If I told my parents,
you would be in Jail.
And I want to SCREAM
but not for you
I will not scream for you
I won't scream, because my throat is so fucking hoarse from crying
but these tears are not for you, no.
These tears are for the 3 1/2 weeks that I have been waiting
These tears are for the 3 1/2 weeks that I have not been able to sleep when I have wanted to
These tears are for the 3 1/2 weeks that I have had to stay awake with only my thoughts as company until I pass out from exhaustion
These tears are for the 3 1/2 weeks that I can now explain
These tears are for the 8 Months I have left to cry.
And how I wish I could be 17 and carefree again
Instead of 17 and (at least) 3 1/2 weeks and Scared to Death
And how I wish I could get
one phone call
because last I checked,
you got
one phone call
when you went to prison
and I am imprisoned in my fear
with your-
my-
OUR child
imprisoned in my womb
and I can't even get
one phone call
from you
And how I wish I could be normal
How I wish, for once, that I didn't have to be the
Point-One Percent
And how I wish I knew what to do
but instead,
I am feeling queasy
as Quasi
takes me to the clinic
And I wonder if I'll see
Geoff Trenchard
and that little kid with the
WWJD
on his arm
because my heart is on my sleeve
and my fear is tattooed across my face
like a brand on my soul
And I wonder if I'll see the
fundamentalist pro-lifers
out front
telling me
that I am going to go to hell if I make
That Choice
well...
too late.
I am living the hell
of fear and sleepless anticipation
and I haven't made that choice
yet
but if I did,
it's MY choice to make
so as I drive to that clinic,
I hope you are happy with her
and I hope she knows how lucky she is that she got
blood-stains
instead of
morning sickness
and how I wish for just
One Phone Call
and how I wish I could just be
seventeen
and carefree
again.
-----
I work at a dance club
where the patrons don't really dance;
Rather, they dry-hump on my dance floor.
But that's beside the point.
We get all different kinds of people in the club,
but there's this one girl...
She has short, spiky red hair,
Eyes like demitasse espresso cups,
Cheeks like marble,
A jaw line smooth and defined,
A slender neck, gracious and soft
And then there is her waist...
it brings out desires in me...
I just want to...
wrap her in my arms...
carry her to my home...
tie her to the bedposts...
and feed her.
-----
The Heat
of my urine
reminds me of the heat of her skin next to mine on many nights of passion and tangled sheets
To the zenith of Atlas did we venture
Upon the tides of Psyche were we borne
Sometimes lost on highways based upon Caribbean geometry
Sometimes locked in the oubliette of a cup of coffee and one more cigarette
Though I saw the end before the final chapter
I was still the stupid one
and I sat back while she pulled a
motorcycle drive by on my heart
she woke me up and
slit the throat of my confidence
The funny thing about pain
is that when you feel so alone
you know you're alive
sometimes the pain is the only thing that's real
She walked through the chrome bars of the diner the other day
where I sat and drank my costumed water
she walked right by me like a
no-parking sign
and over me like a
speed bump
I continued my conversation
after my heart returned from its comatose state
And though she did not hear me,
I told her all of the things that needed to be said
I told her of my unrestrained desire to give her everything she wanted
I told her of the nights that I didn't call first
I said how bad I felt that I made a reasonable assumption
I said how she made me feel when she slammed the door like a guillotine
And I said to her
As I walked away
"Fuck you."
-----
she sits
she stares
eyes wandering
over there
she has casually discarded
those who want to be their own drummers
playing a beat on her bass
her raspy voice
confesses her ennui
and I blush as she walks away
her shirt reveals her backbone
and I wish I could
take her home
feel the satin touch of
skin upon skin
feel delicate hair between fingers
see eyes like
young children running
naked in the street
playing in hydrants
opened to relieve the heat
of a midsummer's eve
she complains of being overworked
and underpaid
and out of time
and out of mind
but still I invite her to dinner
she walks away
curves shifting
sliding
simmering
in my mind
trying to impress her
I show how
I master many languages
and I can bring fire and brimstone
and place it in a small manila envelope
and I can pretend not to be bored or tired or in lust
and I can write while singing out of tempo to the music
and she just smiles and says she'll see me later
the music drones on
while my pen maintains the courage
to scream what I cannot even whisper
the lights flash and flicker
reminding me of the
electricity she shoots through my skin
with her cashmere touch
and i just want the
music to fade
and the
lights to dim
and the
leaves to change
and the
phone to ring
and the
door to open
-----
and the son of sam kills again
addicted to the kill
and he hits the guitar again
and he hits the joint again
and he hits the fag again
and he hits that ass again
"We're all wearing dog collars
You're wearing a dog collar."
"I got these things I like doin'
I like doin' 'em so much
it's like I hafta' do 'em"
"do I really like doin' 'em?"
And the son of sam kills again
Don't blame the world
the power's out
the door opens
the flashlight shines in
the children lie down in the streets
but these handguns don't kill
we all wear collars
the dogs are our masters
I'm gonna get some help
I know I'm sick
We all cut our knuckles
on the same glass
with which we cut our coke
and we all release the
primal screams of withdrawal
we all pray that our
addictions are not
dead ends
and the son of sam stops killing
but still Richie lies
bleeding on the pavement
-----
I don't believe you.
You're so serene.
I am
balled up in stress,
tangled up in blue,
and all messed up in you;
and I sling beans like breaths,
musing over my troubles.
I see my yellow man
and I see his Colombian woman.
I smile.
Then I see you-
I lose my heartbeat.
I forget my self.
My train of thought falls off the tracks.
And I pause.
You are my deep breath.
A silent sigh erupts from the caverns of my lungs
as I hold you
and my muscles relax
and my mind takes a nap.
All that is left is silence
and the sparkle of the electricity
in the air around your eyes.
-----
Now there is only
skin against skin.
The dolphins of my fingertips
swim in the ocean of your hair.
your hand grips my arm.
I kiss your lips.
You kiss my chest;
Velvet on what has for so long
felt only sandpaper.
You curl into my arms
and you envelop my heart
and my thoughts
and the visions of future dreams race upon my eyes-
dreams of holding you
dreams of dreaming next to you
dreams of waking up to you.
I wish every night could be like this-
that every night,
I could say
goodnight
without saying
goodbye.
I whisper in your ear how glad I am
that I was tipsy from the energy that night
and you were tipsy from the activities that night
because I don't think I could have said what I said
and I don't think you would have done what you did
and instead I would be alone
instead of dreaming next to you.
You are beautiful. Come with me
Into the realm of dreams
into the realm of the future
into the realm of the
velvet kiss
and the
satin touch.
I hold you tight
as you kiss my arm
and I kiss your head
and I slip away.
-----
"What's the answer to Question Number One?"
he asks her,
straining to see her eyes
in the cloud dampened moonlight.
"I don't know," she sighs,
placing her hand in the tangled mat of hair
that covers his breast.
He holds her close,
assuring her that
some questions don't need answers.
He simply whispers,
"I will stay for as long as you wish,
and I will leave as soon as you ask.
Some questions don't need answers."
Will the end of a cherry pi
make the circle more perfect?
If you knew the name
of the lady in Stairway to Heaven,
would that get you closer to it?
He knows that knowing such things
isn't going to make the night last longer.
All that matters is that for now,
he is in the arms of his angel.
She paints him from the
inferno of stress
and bathes him in her serenity.
She wards off his narcolepsy with another
kiss on his chest.
He tastes her and she pulls him closer.
"You are my deep breath,"
he whispers to her
as she whispers that he is
her favourite pillow.
-----
I am gnawing my fingernails again
as perpetual ticking pushes me.
I have changed much since that day on the train
I saw you all around me on my path
I smelled your perfume
and now I wear my own
jaded dissolution like a crash helmet
because I keep dreaming in colour.
So now I sit motionless
in my seat at the diner
with my water that is masquerading
as an African poet.
I am held in my suspended animation
because for the first time in my life,
I don't need to move.
I don't need to run.
I don't need to ramble.
My wanderlust is now like a
slumbering greyhound,
but my eyes are open.
My skin invites the feeling of
the wind in my hair
as it slaps against my eyes
as I hold my head
out of the speeding automobile
I give myself away to this moment
the smell of burning loves in the air.
The streetlamps like searchlights and
shooting stars.
The slight rain on my cheeks
like angelic kisses.
The wind in my hair...
I have thrown myself at the ground,
but I got distracted
by the wind in my hair
so instead,
I fly.
-----
My bed feels empty without you.
The lights seem less bright.
The snow made me shiver
and all I could think was how much I wanted to share it with you.
I wanted to catch a snowflake
on my tongue
and give it to you in a kiss,
but I can't even catch my breath.
So instead, I hold onto your face in my mind
and I clutch my pillow
because I cannot hold you.
-----
The landfill of tissues was the only tangible reminder of the rainstorm.
The quilt that told the tale of the gale-force winds and the pelting teardrops was taffy-stuck and tongue-tied and the pillows took refuge near structural walls.
The boy asked if the girl wanted him to leave, after disaster-relief had removed the evidence of what had come before him.
She replied, her eyes still swollen from the tears,
"I am just going to listen to Sleater-Kinney, read, and finish this bottle of red wine.
I'll probably be going to bed pretty early, too."
-----
So he ran from her into the starless sky, the clouds bright from the moonlight
He lies and says,
"I am ready.
I am ready.
I am Ready.
I am fine,"
Of course, his voice is tuneless and tone-deaf from the tears.
He runs from her into Dian's arms as she hides her face from his gaze.
He runs, but the darkness catches him.
The deer watch his retreat from the pain as they greet his arrival at the water.
Naked but for his masque, he swims.
He screams to his companion,
"Sometimes, that which is sacred,
Suddenly becomes forgotten.
Sometimes that which is forsaken,
Becomes treasured.
Regardless, the only way to wash the salt-water tears of a human
is in the fresh-water tears of Mother Earth."
His brother smiles.
Antonio laughs and tells Otis the things that need to be said,
but never want to be heard.
They are fish together now-
Pisces, Gemini,
Omar.
The sky flashes and they return to the muddy shore.
Otis starts running again
from the rain and its accompanying
gunshot lightening bolts.
He wants to shout along with the thunder,
to let out all of his frustration and fear,
but he knows that screaming can't make anything better,
so he stays quiet.
Soon, Sarah serenades him,
reminding him of the comfort he once found in the solace of Cassidy's serenity,
but memories are all that remain of those nights.
He sits,
behind his masque,
with his painted water
and thinks about Cass and her expensive bottle of red wine
and her low tolerance and high stress,
her heavy tears and her light hair,
her scratchy records and her smooth skin.
Her smooth skin.
Her skin like gossamer that only in his memories does he touch.
He is jolted back to the reality that is the jukebox and says,
"Tony,
though you watch the blade drop,
you can't stop the blood.
Though you know why it bleeds,
you can't stop the pain.
Though you know why it hurts,
You can't make it heal any quicker."
Antonio simply embraces Otis as they fall off of the cliff that is poetry.
They were given to fly,
both distracted at the time that should have been impact;
Tony distracted by his own lover,
Otis distracted by their glow,
and their shadows meander gracefully across the hills.
-----
"If nothing's Ventured/
Nothing's gained/
So I must seize the day"
-VNV Nation "Standing"
And so I scream
"Carpe Diem"
Seize the day
Wrestle the reigns from Apollo's grasp
and ride with the sun and shout
"Today will be a Great day!"
Grip the goals of grandeur and glory,
Take that gamble,
you can't win if you don't wager.
So, bet your life
And I scream
"Carpe Noctem"
Seize the night
Hit the streets in your best dress
or your best pair of ripped jeans.
Shout it out in the streets,
Duke it out in the pit,
Sweat it out in the sheets,
but announce it to the grasshoppers,
"Tonight, I am alive!"
Because tonight is all there is.
And I scream
"Carpe Amore"
Seize the love.
Hold them until you feel nothing but that
One True Thing
Love them until you are not whole without them
Love them until you see their eyes in your own reflection
Love them until you are leaving room for them on a bed in a motel room a thousand miles from home
But, Love them because you want them
Not because you need them.
And I scream
"Carpe Minute"
Seize the instant
Because now is the only time that truly exists.
The past is dead.
Let the dead bury the dead.
The most valuable thing you can give someone is Time.
Once that instant is gone, it is so forever.
Time is the only thing in this world that can never be returned to you,
So
Seize the Day
Seize the Night
Seize the Love
Seize the Instant
When that spiritual bank account runs dry,
there is no over-draft protection.
There are no balance-checks or deposits,
There are only withdrawals.
But enough with metaphors
Get up and Live
Smell the rose
Pick the rose
Hold the rose
Give the rose
Just Be the rose.
-----
Two banners of smoke rise and gather in a single cloud, lit by the ethereal halogens.
People standing together after coffee talk about humidity making wine go bad.
Women sit at the bar smoking stale cigarettes
and a lover waits for his love.
The beautiful man walks by with napkins and a towel, cleaning after his guests, trodding up the stairs, but with profound grace.
The artist enters from stage left with a box of frames-
captured floral instants that would otherwise be gone forever.
And the coffee brews on,
ignoring the breaths and beats of the intermingling strangers
who pass like cars on an interstate highway in the Midwest.
-----
Can I get a "Hell-yeah!"?
I met a girl today;
a beautiful woman placed on Earth by Aphrodite herself.
Her skin is hand-carved of the finest ivory.
Her hair is of tiger's eye and moonstone.
Her eyes are like wishing wells,
and I wished her well as she walked on by
with my phone number in the pocket by her right thigh
and my heart in the pocket by her own.
Can I get a "Hell-Yeah!"?
She called me today,
just as I was heading out the door to go to work
still tying my shoes and
trying not to coo,
striving to soothe the savage throbbing in my chest.
I said I had to go and
she said she understood,
but that I would have to make it up to her
over dinner.
Can I get a "Hell-yeah!"?
I saw her tonight
and we danced in the light of a fountain
and ran from the light of a policeman
into the light of Baltimore St.
on the way back to my car
where we waited with the potholes
and the pot-heads for the
flat-bed to come and pick us up
or pick my locked car.
I ran up the street for compensation
but before I did, she Kissed me!
Can I get a "Hell-yeah!"?
I woke up this morning to find
that shut were the blinds
and the memory that binds
my mind to her
might wind me up in love
the way she wound me up
with velvet ropes of kisses
and handcuffs of fingernails and love poems.
But I was worried to see that I might be
alone and drowning in a sea
of blessed infatuation
because the bed was empty
except for me
and on the floor where her shoes should be
was nothing more than carpet.
Wanting only coffee or an explanation,
I went downstairs to cook some bacon
and think about making some phone-calls.
When entering the kitchen,
what did I find within,
but this angel of ivory and moonstone,
holding a smile between her cheeks
and a coffee-mug between her fingers.
Hell-Yeah.
-----
Starlight, star bright
first star I see tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
have this girl I met tonight.
She has eyes of deep brown
hair of tiger's eye
skin of ivory
and a heart of gold
She joined me on a safari
of iced coffee and poetry
and places to be
and people to see.
I feel so blessed just to be near her
to hold her hand and to bask in the glory that is her smile.
So, Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray that she my heart will keep,
but if this be dream and I should wake,
I know like glass, my heart will break.
-----
Seeing you standing in the doorway;
past the chrome threshold
and the tapestry that hangs like a shower curtain;
all of my stress dissolved.
I skipped and smiled,
spun pirouettes and giggled
like a child on the playground.
A deep breath that smelled of
stargazer lilies and coffee beans
filled my consciousness.
I took you home
where we stood and talked of
hair-care products and self-mutilation;
all the while, I held back my urge
to ask why you held onto me that night
to ask why you hold my hand
to ask why you give me little kisses on my shoulder when we embrace.
And I left you there
as you stood by your bed in the pants
that hold you the way a mother holds her newborn
and the shirt that is almost as revealing as a National Enquirer story,
but still sexier than a spring sale at Vicki's.
I left you there but carried you with me in my heart.
As I responded to a phone call,
you walked down the hall
wearing only terry-cloth and makeup
toward the showers,
kissing me lightly on my cheek as you passed.
I watched you as you walked past,
and noticed the way the pomade in your hair would make Pablo confused
and the way your pale legs moved with awkward grace upon the carpet
and the way your hand touched the door as you walked through it
and into the bathroom.
It is because of these things that I could not resist following after you
to steal another smile,
still hoping you would ask me to stay with you tonight,
the way I want you to stay with me forever.
But I swallow that question
just like every time I wonder what our
Reality-Quotient is-
whether we are "reality material"
or if you are just my Jane.
Every night,
my pen paints pictures on paper
and dry-erase boards,
telling our story like an Indian sage
to any passers-by who are
curious about the meaning
of my disoriented scribblings.
Dreaming aloud in metaphors,
I am screaming while I sleep.
Screaming though my throat is raw
and my voice is hoarse;
but screaming because
I know not the words to say to you
how I feel in your gaze
and how I am lost in your touch
and how I long for your kiss
and how I can still smell your skin.
-----
And if I kissed you,
What then?
Would that make you stop loving him?
Would that make you want to discontinue the frustration he brings?
Would that stop the pain?
If I kissed you,
Would you then have me?
Would your flowers never fade?
Would you be unafraid to love me?
-----
She says,
"don't ask me, I'm sleeping"
So I drive to the movie store,
taking Neil home,
seeking insomniac's dreams
and lunar missions by taxi cab.
Then it is to talk of the pass-times of fish
and the finer points of masturbation.
We pass a crime scene still littered
with red lights and yellow tape
while heading toward peach upholstery
and a yellow man.
Posing as Noah,
we swim for fourteen minutes
and four miles until
the rains subside
and Frankie can dream again.
Onward until
Cancer-death and a glory-speech
bring this all to a close.
Under three layers does she slumber,
with Tom'n'Jerry in her tube;
Ben'n'Jerry in her tummy;
and all of this in my thoughts.
All because I asked,
"Where do you want to go tonight?"
-----
The tears beat down her walls
and bead down her cheeks.
It seems she is crying all the time now.
I kidnap her,
and we harass Target employees,
and I steal flowers from Watson’s,
trying to steal another smile from her.
I take her home,
where we play video games,
becoming the cartoons that we watch together.
We have cuddle-time and talk about fantasies
and how they are less surreal than reality.
She curls into a ball,
and I wrap my arms around her,
trying to protect her from
the torture of depression.
I bring her home,
where we talk more.
I tell her I am going to get some help;
that I am tired of my anxiety-attacks
I am tired of my apathy
I am tired of my senseless crying
She, too, is tired
of fighting off the tears
that enter without knocking.
She tells me that she is leaving soon-
going home to family,
forced meds,
and maybe hospital beds.
We say goodnight and goodbye.
She turns on the t.v. and I turn off the light.
Closing the door,
I blow a kiss,
and exhale deeply.
-----
For what seems like an eternity,
I have held her in my eyes,
and in silence.
But as the sun rises this morning,
we embrace in conversation
and playful flirtations,
still unsure of intentions.
Tumbling among rolling plains of flannel sheets
and pillows,
we wrestle for clues that may reveal motives.
Settling back against the wall
of insecurities,
boldness overtakes me
and lips greet skin,
leaving behind a sultry stream of water
that permeates and exits further south.
We discuss how one could be so infatuated
with a simple den of flesh,
a soft field of peach-fuzz
protecting a long dry well.
I reply with another kiss
and a grip against ribs,
pulling hips against my chest
while I try to fill this well
with rain from teeth and tongue.
The earth shifts
and the field is replaced
by a range of vertebrae.
My hands mix with oil
and I reach to touch the fertile soil
that is the shoulders,
the backs of ribs,
the waist,
wasting nothing,
not even breaths.
With every exhale,
an adulation:
"You are beautiful"
(breath)
"You are intriguing"
(breath)
"I want you"
(pause)
The world turns again,
and I see a universe in deep eyes
and waves of curls breaking
over smooth shorelines of shoulders.
I hold this planet closer,
placing the high-lands of backbones
within the valley between my breasts.
My hands push back the seas,
exposing once again the barren shore.
I try to bring rain to that desert I've created,
but only bring monsoons in the South.
My thighs enwrap the equator
as my hands climb the terraced slopes
of ribs caging a fast-beating heart.
The clouds of a pillow fall away,
fleeing rising body-heat
as hands brush lightly against
peaks of mountains,
tender and mature.
Lips caress caves
along the Northern shore,
bringing only more rain in the South.
I shift my body,
pulling this world around once more,
where lips meet dense forests
of lust and sensuality,
finally finding fruition
in the seductive oasis of a kiss;
lips to lips.
And lips roam,
reaching gentle curves of
jaw lines and cheekbones.
My lips journey to the elevated tips
of the soft Appalachian mounds.
The fields undulate over
deep lungs breathing in my scent
as I inhale the earthy smell of pheromones.
I lose myself in the taste
of the fruits of this field.
My grip slips slightly
and my world comes softly down,
where I am lauded by finger-lakes
that force my long-tense muscles to relax,
being given rest;
reveling in the overwhelming beauty
of kisses along my arms-
kisses of appreciation and adoration.
This stellar body slides smoothly-
holding me now.
This planet that for an eternity
I have held above me,
without understanding,
but now truly grasping the sincerity
of mountain ranges,
terraced slopes,
subtle fields,
and rains in the South.
-----
The painter told me I have beautiful hands.
I could only respond with cheeks like
so many rose buds
these hands have handed to
so many lovers over
so many cups of coffee and
so many thresholds over
so many "I love you"s over
so many lifetimes.
These hands have cupped a
drowning body while trying to
resuscitate that dying light
with cartoon-cuddle-time
and stargazer lilies.
These hands created
entire universes over
Six day's time
and ripped the Lego city apart
on the seventh.
These hands constantly paint
words in ink on receipts and diner napkins
only to type them onto the
hard-driven memories of
mothers, children, brothers, sisters
in rooms that emanate love and energy
like the nucleus of an atom.
these hands have shaken hands with
capitalist devils in bleeding
cesspools of finance and aspiration.
these hands have held back hair
to keep these precious locks
from being plastered with
the vomitous regurgitation
of alcohol, pain-killers, heroin,
and love.
These hands have gripped these ears
in futile attempts to quell
the myriad voices yelling at me
from inside the fortress of my skull.
These hands have held the wheel of an
automobile rocketing to a pharmacy at
Two A.M. for an emergency fill-up of Zanac
to stop the manic attack
of the fifth letter;
shaved head and unshaved legs,
scared, scarred, and helpless
in the passenger seat of my truck
as we climb the highest mountains
of stress and pain, frustration and fear.
These hands have carried silver-plated flatware
over dinners with elders who taught me
about my history
and their history.
These hands have cupped breasts in
motel bathrooms and dew-covered fields,
vacant theatres and automobiles,
searching for heaven in an orgasm,
but only finding the false god of
sex-without-love and another trip
to the laundromat to clean my soul
of loveless-sex,
only to return as Lady MacBeth,
throwing myself at the courtyard floor
with my heart as my jury and a verdict of
"Not Guilty" because
though I throw myself toward the ground-
that doesn't mean that I am falling.
These hands have scrubbed floors and tile walls
in search of
green-golden respect,
only learning to hate my self in the process
of servitude to a tyrant king
with a liar's smile
and a false prophet
promising me a better life.
These hands have traveled the vast
waistlines of unwritten love poems
whispered in twilight sleep with
skin against skin.
These hands have roamed over fret boards
seeking peace on
an ax and an amp
with candle-lit scores
of gut-wrenching lyrics
sooner forgotten than spoken.
These hands have tended the hanging gardens
while climbing Jacob’s ladder
out of the hell of addiction
into a sober heaven with
angelic poetesses singing as I walk through
the pearly gates of self-esteem and self-respect.
These hands have clung to the trapeze of sanity
above the netless pit of manic-depression
with Jiminy-Cricket at my side
and Pinocchio as my guide.
These hands have done all of this and more
and for that I say
Yes.
These hands
are beautiful.
-----
Dreaming,
though still awake,
I set the coffee down for the woman.
She asks for cream,
but I forget it
even before saying
I will get it.
I am pondering
Austin and
Coffee Bars with a Bio-Major
from the suburbs of Houston.
I am imagining what it would be like to spend
the New Year making plum jam
and changing the oil in a Mazda.
I pick up the phone on my break from Reality
to call her for the fourth time
in as many days.
The machine picks up.
I hang up.
I am hung up
on her eyes;
crucified for lying about the zoo.
Each strand of her hair
is an arrow from
Helen's Fortress,
piercing my one weakness.
I beg Krsna to enlighten me
because I don’t know if
this is love or Maya.
Am I a lover
or am I a liar?
I wash my arms to my elbows
before taking in her memory.
And it is now that I understand
that over the course of millennia
none have come to see that
the flaw in selflessly giving of one’s self
in the name of love
is impossible.
For in seeking only to please the other,
there is a prayer to actually
See
Them
Smile.
-----
She was a tall woman,
with deep, dark eyes
and isn't it strange
how the night moves
when your entire life
is with you in a truck
crossing the Mississippi?
It sounds like an old country ballad:
Me, my dog,
My brother and my woman,
all in my truck...
running.
There is always tomorrow.
I say that
Tomorrow, I will stop loving her.
Tomorrow, I will visit the tomb of Saint Jack.
Tomorrow, I will get some help.
But when I wake,
it is only another today,
with only another yesterday.
I am still a compass with
North and South mood swings
but no rose.
I am still in my bed
in a northern suburb of Baltimore,
not Lowell.
I am still living the growing pains of love.
She never gives up,
and she never gives in.
She just changes her mind.
She's always a woman to me.
I just wish that she were
my
woman, or rather that I belonged
to her,
as I think I once did.
This gypsy remains in my heart the way
a palm reading remains in the minds
of Catholic parents-
Strong,
Powerful,
Frightening,
Forever
She slides through my memories like the last sip of a great cup of coffee.
I offered up my best defense,
but Love is the end of the innocence.
I thought that I could rationalize my way out,
by making a Jane of my Juliet-
but Maya is always realized in the end.
Gary once told me:
Maya is created because
we refuse to accept the truth.
She doesn't make me flowers anymore,
but memories bloom in my mind
of swimming pools at work,
rainstorms at play,
showers at motels,
and tears at homes.
The phone rings again
the machine picks up again
I stutter again
I hang up again.
And I still ponder poetry in Austin,
like Providence in her arms.
All of this while I sit in a smoking section
the size of a pack of cigarettes
in a diner not old enough for circumcision.
I am cut off in my thoughts by the death of the music.
I sip the cup of life once more.
I am resisting the urge to call her-
but more importantly,
I am resisting the urge to check
the flight prices this time of year.
-----
We're again in 61,
Jukebox whispering U2
to a disinterested crowd.
We're chanting poetry,
praying for the end of
our poems about broken hearts
and broken coffee-cups
over broken bread.
We try to keep awake
to live another night
but we're running out of breath
trying to swim beneath
the ice that covers the streets.
But it is warm in the booth
where we sit as
you count my tips from today.
Taking thirty-five cents
and a stiff breath,
you leave me
for the pay phone
to call your dark-haired
once-was.
"You had to be a big-shot, 'din-cha'?"
But truth was behind your eyes
when you spoke
of your own growing pains.
A purple bearer of black ink
bruises your hand.
You are pushing too hard-
but that always was your way.
You grab the bill,
complaining about Frank paychecks
as you head for the counter.
You return with
four Jacks and a Ten.
You call my bluff,
but I rake in the
jukebox chips to spin into tips
and we prepare for another
walk up the corridor
and back home.
This time though,
like good Cowboys,
we have my Truck,
as we also have each other.
Tonight you bleed from
wounds I also feel,
and we fight the same battles.
We ride into the same
streetlight sunset tonight
and forever.
-----
It is a question of time.
It is a question of the heart.
It is a question of
whether you have the time
to share your heart with me.
It is a question of
whether your heart
wants to spend time with mine.
-----
She is thin
but full of amazing thoughts.
Thoughts that she is often afraid
to share in the company of others.
She sleeps with
the t.v. on or
the lights on or
she doesn't sleep at all
until the dawn
unless she has someone there
to keep her warm.
She is sleeping,
and her pillow is
my one arm,
while her blanket is
my other;
armour,
trying to keep her
from the things that would harm her.
She finds strength in swarms
of lyrics by strong women
in songs like,
"Write me back, Fucker"
and
"By the time you're Twenty-Five".
She says they make her feel alive.
She finds strength in the
power of poetry
and the promise of a kiss,
but I feel powerless
when I walk in the room.
I feel powerless
in my futile attempts
to be that light for her
even when I am not there
in her darkest hours
to show her I care;
that I am here to share
the pain with her.
There is
"Nothing I can do
That I have not done
No words I can say
No truth left that I can see
So must I let this end
So everything falls apart"
screams Victory not Vengeance
from my car stereo,
followed by Sweet Raymond
confirming what I already know:
"She falls apart
by herself"
And I am driving alone
as the lyrics of a million songs
swim in my hair
the way my fingertips once
swam in hers.
And I
Wish
there was
Some
Thing
I
could do.
But the walk down the dark tunnel
is one we all must make alone.
and these words are all but
present memories
of past events.
She walked down that tunnel,
away from this place,
toward the light of a night lamp
in a bedroom
in upstate New York.
She walked down her tunnel
away from this place
to a room
in Upstate New York.
Where she sleeps alone at night.
with the t.v. off.
-----
I've chewed through my lip
because I've run out of
fingernails and coffee
in anticipation of the
second coming
of your grace
to my kingdom
and questioning if you will give him
ten warnings before
your exodus
Will he let you go
if you give him
swarms of flies and frogs
the way you once gave me roses?
Will his wine run red
like my bleeding heart?
-----
You are a harder habit to quit than Heroin.
I should be in a Methadone clinic
for my addiction to you.
If there were meetings
I could go to,
I would pick up a
"Just for Today"
key tag every night
because I relapse on memories
twenty-four times a day
and more.
You are my Heroine
and my antagonist.
You are the plot and the script.
You are the writer and director.
I am but a pawn in the play,
I am Robert Downey, Jr.
I simply can't keep clean.
I need you the way
Elvis needed
peanut butter and banana sandwiches
the way
a car needs oil
but also the way
Kennedy needed a parade in Dallas.
-----
And in retrospect,
I'll say we've done no wrong.
-VNV Nation, "Further", Burning Empires
All transgressions are forgiven
all promises are postponed,
not broken.
In the time that has passed
between presence,
we find that fine lines within
letters, poems, and phones
sew together the gaps
in the fabric of space between bodies.
I stopped numbering the times
actions were simply the defaults
of inability to choose.
And still I am searching for words
to fill the silence in the midnight air,
pacing frantically
with souls on the carpet,
waiting for the phone to ring,
snorting lines of
Eliot, Ott, Ginsburg, Smith
to stave off the wrath of sleep,
wondering how many more times
I can hear my friends say in jest,
"You know that shit's killing you...
They've got meetings for that..."
before I start taking them seriously,
badgering witnesses of my insomnia
to reveal why I can't hold a job,
sitting at diners until dawn
because I have lost the will to sleep,
losing myself to the wonders of the modern era,
but at least I know the price of plane tickets now.
And I have finally reached the understanding
that the cost is more than monetary-----
01-01-2001-----3rd Edition-----1st
Printing
Printed at Printergy.Com and the Goucher College
Thormann International Center
-----
A Perfect 30 will soon be available on audio compact
As read by the author.
-----
A Perfect 30, will soon be available for preview and purchase at
-----
Questions or Comments can be sent to
-----
To contact figmentofimagination Productions, please
email
figmentofimagination@hotmail.com
-----
All of the pieces contained within are the work of
David Donald Schein II and are
Copyright 2000, David Donald Schein II, All Rights
Reserved
A Perfect 30 as a whole is
Copyright 2000, figmentofimagination Productions,
All Rights Reserved
The “fP” logo is a
Trademark of figmentofimagination
Productions
-----
The material contained within is protected by
domestic and international copyright laws and may not be reproduced in any form
without the written consent of the author or an authorized representative of
the publisher, figmentofimagination Productions.
-----
Other Selections by David Donald Schein II include
And
Both available from figmentofimagination Productions
figmentofimagination
Productions®
fP™
Forward, by the Author
To the Reader
A Lovely Treason is the culmination of nearly four years of
writing. The story of Otis picks up
where A Perfect 30 left off, but does not take us as far as I initially
thought it would. I expected I would
continue to tell his tale, then leave off somewhere convenient. Instead, I found myself pulling sharply away
from him. “Patricia”, as you will see
later in this book, scorned my use of pseudonyms, and I think I took that to
heart. After the Patricia Set, I stopped using false names for my characters, with
the exception of a few pieces here and there.
I stopped “changing the names to protect the innocent”. In life, we are all innocent, or we are all
guilty, depending on how you look at the glass.
I have contemplated, lately, dividing this volume into
smaller books, to reduce the price, or even dull some of the weight. There is a continuing story being told
through these pages. A storyteller must
decide when to stop one story and when to begin the next. I wonder if I should insert a pair of covers
between the Patricia Set and the rest of the tale. Should I pause during the lull of the Christine Incident? I have decided to allow the full girth of
this tale to be told. I am even
tiptoeing into another part of the story with the introduction of Rebecca. Unfortunately, I find there are parts
missing. I can do nothing to report
them right now. They are beyond the
reach of my pen, and may remain so for some time. Someday, I hope t7o be strong enough to sing the things I cannot,
now, whisper.
As a writer, I am trying to push myself in new
directions. In this volume, I am
including several writing assignments, such as a short story (“When Can I go
Swimming?”), a non-fiction vignette (“Of Traffic Lights and Other Matters of
National Security”), and a large section of American Haiku/ Senryu. I believe I have grown as a person and as a
writer over the last four years, and I hope that shows through my writing. Like The Otis Series, Other Issues,
and A Perfect 30, A Lovely Treason is laid-out chronologically,
by order of writing. Some pieces aren’t
fully completed, but when is a poem ever truly finished?
The title of this volume, “A Lovely Treason”, comes
from a line in Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli. Jerry was an early influence of mine. Friends with my father, Jerry and his wife, Eileen, were two of
the first “real writers” I knew. When I
was younger, my father, my sister, Anna, and I visited them at their home in
southern Pennsylvania. I got to pet
their chinchillas. When we left, Jerry
gave Anna and I, each, copies of books of his.
Anna received There’s a Girl in my Hammerlock, and I received Maniac
Magee. Both of these books are on
my shelves in my room. Both of these
books influenced my writing style. Both
of these books influenced my outlook on life
A few months ago, I was perusing the local shopping
mall for a new skirt when I came across Stargirl on a table outside
Delia’s. Attracted by the light blue
color, though I didn’t know what was the book, I approached it, took it into my
hands, admired the pea-colored stick figure and caution-tape yellow star embossed
on the cover and then paused when I read the two, simple, words above what was
apparently the title of the text.
“Jerry Spinelli,” they said. I
was floored. Without replacing the
book, I went inside and put out my nine dollars, receiving a transparent, blue-tinted
bag and a receipt. I began read her
that night, finishing the next evening.
I can easily say Stargirl is one of the best novels I have ever
had the pleasure of reading. I am
astonished Jerry does not claim the co-title of “poet,” like his wife, or
“storyteller,” or anything else, for he is all of these and more. Thank you, Jerry, for being such an amazing
writer and for sharing that with us all.
Returning to the task of this letter, reader, I ask
you to be patient. Not just with me,
but please be patient with your communities and yourselves. We are all human. In our divinity, we are imperfect. In our divinity, we are impure.
Please know I appreciate you taking the time to read these words,
thoughts, blessings, curses of mine.
You are the reason I have had the courage to perform the alchemy of
converting blood and tears to ink on paper.
Be well.
-gran
Acknowledgements
Without the support of my peers in the poetry community, none of this would have been possible. Without the love and care of my family and friends, I don’t think I would have had the courage and strength to survive this.
I want to thank the subjects of my foolish meanderings, especially Meaghan, Christine, Sarah, and Jayne. There are no words to describe my appreciation for you and the lessons I gleaned from our experiences. Thank you for your love. Thank you for your time. Thank you for your words. Thank you for your pain. I do love you. I hope that never changes. I wish you all nothing but strength and serenity. Be well.
One month, to the day, after Meaghan and I said goodbye, my grandfather, Leo Schein, surrendered to the undiscovered country, on 5 July 2001. Granddad, I thank you for your strength. I hope I have made you proud. You are missed. You are loved. Sleep well.
Mom, Dad, Ken, Anna, Gina, thank you. I don’t know how anyone could reasonably ask for a more supportive family than you have been to me. Though I have been nothing, if not human, to you, you have all been nothing, if not saints, to me. Thank you for your love and support.
To the late Rob Templeton, sleep well, my friend. Thank you for your tireless ability to brush aside my self-deprecating bullshit. Thank you for reminding me that, by very nature of the fact I am here, I have earned my right to be here. My daughter will know your name.
Missy… damn, kid, you did it… finally! I don’t know a better man for you. Woman, take care of your man, and tell him he better return the favor. God knows some of the lessons we learned on rainy nights in Houston have resurfaced again and again and you are always on my mind. Tell that man of yours to take a job here in Baltimore so I can see you more often. I want your kids to call me granma.
To the audience at SLAMicide and DC Slam, thank you. Please continue to support what we do, and please continue to give us this magic to support. You are all beautiful.
Finally, thank you, Brooke, for your encouragement. You rock. The mermaids stand with you.
I know there are more people to thank. My frailty imparts forgetfulness. You know who you are. If you think I am not talking about you, you are wrong. I extend thanks and praise to everyone reading these words, everyone hearing these words, everyone mentioned in these words, and everyone who is no longer with us to share these coffee-table prayers. Fallen heroes live on in the blood of our pens and the ink of our veins.
Dedication
A Lovely Treason is dedicated
to Chris August.
For more than a year, now, you have been a friend, a crutch, a shoulder, a rock, and a testament to humanity, to friendship, to love, to brotherhood, and to being a man. Though we call with different names, I know God hears us both. I believe you are the answer to so many of my prayers, questions, and meditations. You are truly a reason to believe in providence. So many times, you have put up with my bullshit. So many times, you have refused to put up with my bullshit. You have helped me resist mediocrity. You were an acquaintance when you arrived at SLAMicide and started slamming, and I was amazed by your eclectic passion. When we became friends, I realized you are more than a spastic art-fag, that your eccentricity is the only way for all that love and cynicism to seep out. Otherwise, you would shatter into dust. Your flesh and personality is one huge pressure-relief valve. When I was crawling out of the Christine Calamity, you were there with a helping hand. When I was flirting with the Sarah Situation, you were a not-so-easily ignored shoulder-pope, warning of the likelihood of disaster. When that prophesy proved true, you were the one to whom I could raise my voice without worrying you would misunderstand. Thank you for allowing me to scream out my frustrations. Thank you for not letting me yell for too long. Thank you for telling me when it had become too long. Thank you for not accepting my mediocrity. Thank you for not letting me sit down before I was done.
You are an amazing poet, performer, person, friend,
and so much else. I am glad to have you
in my life.
I
am a poet in the Baltimore Area. I work as a loan officer for a mortgage
company. I have self-published three collections of my poetry as the president
of an independent production company. I also participate in/ host Poetry Slams.
My favourite poem is "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock". I enjoy a
wide range of art forms, but have found my niche in performance poetry. In
accordance with the modern-bohemian description I have acquired, I can be found
most nights sitting at diners, making and talking to friends. This is not to
say that I can't have fun. I love snowball fights, skinny-dipping, playing
football on weekends with friends, fountain-hopping, and working on my cars. I
am not religious, but I am reasonably spiritual, and hold similar beliefs to
those of the Hare Krsnas. I consider myself open-minded and welcome to new
things. I love learning. I also love teaching. I do not believe in violence as
a disciplinary measure, nor do I believe that we are slaves to our biology. I
do not agree with the NRA, but I do feel that Charlton Heston is one of the
greatest men of our day. I do not believe in socially-conditioned gender roles,
and can often be found wearing skirts/ sarongs/ wraps. I hate foot-wear, but
feel that if you must wear it, do it right. I agree that spandex is a
privilege- not a right. I feel that the abs region will tell you everything
about the physical activities, but the eyes will tell you everything about the
internal activities. I am against discrimination. I am against the
death-penalty as a system, but accept that it is in the system currently, and
should thus be utilized to the extent for which it was designed. I am not
pro-abortion, but I feel that more respect needs to be shown to women who
choose/ require the procedure, and they should be protected by constitutional
amendment. I am against extremists. I like cats and dogs and have two of each.
I am envious of women for their ability to create life and carry two heartbeats
or more within them. I want to experience post-partum depression. Obligation is
the bane of my existance. If I do something, it is because I chose to do so-
not because you told me to. After I return and complete school, I plan to teach
High School English and Theatre, preferably in the central Baltimore County
area. Physically, I am appx. 5'8'', slim but strong for my size, brown wavy/
curly just-past-shoulder-length hair, grey-blue eyes, and flexible compared to
most of my friends. I am not a virgin, but I am clean of any and all STD's. Due
to a pregnancy-scare, I believe strongly in birth-control and am a strong
supported of chemical birth-control; if there were a pill I could take, I
would- I think it's more important to go upstream and restrict the ones who can
fertilize many, as opposed to the many who can carry (usually) only one. I have
no piercing or tattoos, but have plans to get two tattoos. I consider my life
an open book and that their are no taboos in conversation. Nicotine and
caffeine are my two vices. I smoke cigarettes and drink lots of coffee, but
that's about it. I do not use illegal drugs. I do not drink alcohol. I do take
medications responsibly. I am not against the moderate use of drugs and alcohol
by my friends or peers in general, but I do believe in the responsible use of
them if one does choose to partake.
Ideal
Person - I am looking for a woman in her late teens/ early twenties that would
like to go on a date. No obligation, no expectations, just the two of us.
However; that woman must also be open to the possibility of a long term
relationship. My taste in women is open, by my preference is that woman should
be confident, intelligent, and witty. She must enjoy art in whatever manner
strikes her and have a wide range of knowledge, and be able to carry on a
conversation. She must be able to sit at diners for hours, and be able to cope
with my ADD. She must also be able to harness that short attention span. She
must have a good idea of who she is and where she is going. She must have
passions. She also needs to be active. Willing to get dirty working outside or
in the garage. She must be able to physically "hold her own"; she
must be able to carry one end of a couch. She must be able to play football- not
necessarily well, but willing to participate. She can't be too strict about
schedules and must be willing for spontaneous escapades and random road trips.
If she doesn't like chocolate, that's okay- it means more for me. I like a
woman who smokes, love a woman who knows the beauty of a perfect cup of coffee.
I don't mind a woman who drinks moderately, or one that uses drugs of a
"friendly nature"- so long as it is not a regular occurrence or an
interference between her and anything else- especially her responsibilities.
Physically, my preference is 5'2'' to 5'8'', slender to average build-
generally petite, but strong for her size, brown hair, brown eyes, smooth pale
to tan skin, moderate sized breasts- they must fit the frame, piercing and
tattoos are intriguing and welcome. Slim abs. Must be reasonably flexible and
fit. I like a firm rear that is in proportion to the rest of the body. I like
curves. She needs to enjoy cuddling. She must be able to share a pillow and a
blanket. She must acknowledge the difference between 'sleeping with someone'
and 'having sex' with someone.
- - - - -
As an actor, I have often wanted to combine two of the things I love- Sex, and the Stage. My fantasy involves finally accomplishing this.
I run a small independent production company in Baltimore. I had just started dating a woman named Reilly. Having regaled her with my stories about my writing leading to the company, I wanted to show her my pride and joy which was our head office and dinner theatre.
We enter and I show her all around; the office, the dressing rooms, the prop rooms, the tech-booth. Finally descending upon the stage, I begin to describe the play that we are putting on. The set is of the interior of a suburban home, not unlike "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?" We had set up walls representing a well-kept house. There is a coffee table, a throw rug, and a giant, tan, very cushy Couch.
At this point, Reilly decided that she didn't want to talk anymore. She grabbed me by my belt loop and pulled me to her lips. Within seconds, we were redecorating the set with our clothes; reupholstering the chairs with my pants, her bra becoming a lampshade. I attend to her breasts, admiring the soft skin, the firm tissue, the ripple of areolas, and the rising of the nipple as I paint her with my tongue. Her breaths become deeper as I move south, discovering her like Columbus, exploring her like Magellan. I find a spot on the side of her abs that makes her entire body shudder. She begins to moan as I make my way back up, giving attention to her neck and her ears, making her breathing become erratic; pulling in air between pauses of ecstasy.
She pulls away suddenly, pushing me on my side. Smiling an "I want you" smile, she throws me onto my back. Turning the tables, she makes me shake as she explores me, finding my buttons, and exploiting my vulnerability to the power of fingernails on my skin and lips on my nipples. She kisses her way down to the number one member in my fan-club, licking every inch of my rod, gently showing some attention to my gift-bag. I start to twist and moan as she takes all of me, sucking hard, teasing the tip with her tongue, moving like an acid dream. She is an absolute master, and in what seems like an instant of time, but an eternity of pleasure, I release with the power of a fire hydrant hit by a truck.
Pausing only seconds to catch my breath, I pull her to me, kissing her deeply. I can taste myself within her lips, and this excites me to no end.
Breaking the kiss, I head south again, stopping at the Gibraltar that is her breasts. I move between them- licking one while caressing the other. Her entire body is now twitching between light biting and soft suction on her erect nipples. Bidding farewell to her soft peaks, I meander toward her stomach, her hips, her legs, her power. Gently experimenting with my tongue, I cause her already ripe crown to rise more, the heat becoming intense. I continue licking her, pinching lightly with my lips against hers, pushing my tongue inside of her, moving faster and faster, holding her hips strongly as they begin bucking wildly. She grabs my hair with both hands, clamping her thighs around my head, breathing faster and deeper, in rhythm to my ministrations. Her breathing starts to flutter, as she starts to shudder. Like an old Mustang driving by, the roar of her orgasm starts soft- almost imperceptible against her wild movements, though building quickly. Suddenly her breaths stop, she becomes rigid. This freeze lasts only for a second before she explodes- heat burning my cheeks, her fluids streaming down my neck as I try to lap them up, a scream of pure pleasure erupting from her throat, her body vibrating with enough power to light Las Vegas for a month.
Releasing her thighs' grip on me, she grabs my shoulders and pulls me back to her. As I move up, she guides me in, sliding me between her. We move as one, both rocking in time to our solid breaths. Both completely covered in sweat and each other, we are slick and move well together, accelerating the thrusts, both moaning heavily now. She has her legs locked around my back and pulls me against her before letting me pull away, almost to the point of exit, then pulling me back in again. Faster and faster we move.
With both arms and both legs, she holds me against her and we become one in her beautiful screams and her vibrations. As she is ravaged by orgasm, I explode again. Our juices mix and run down both our legs, our heartbeats fluctuate in unison, our movements now halted as we revel in this other-worldly energy. I can feel our energy mixing, the electricity between us electrifying every inch of our bodies.
Still grasping each other, our breaths beginning to calm, our heartbeats returning to normal, our bodies slumping in release and exhaustion. We hold each other in this passionate embrace, kissing gently, feeling the cold air of the theatre against our evaporating sweat and excitement.
We take our time getting up and getting dressed, getting distracted several times in the process. As we finally walk out the door, heading back to my car and then my apartment, I start to wonder how I am going to explain to my Stage Manager why we need to buy a new couch.
- - - - -
Points pondering picking
Coffee pouring
Like a last breath
Before a kiss
I sip.
But I am only wasting time.
Onward to all great things
All things unknown
I realize the obsession
That once so possessed me is present no more
And in its place is simply
Existence
No regard for
Here or there
Or even where
My road will take me
But comfort is found
In coffee grounds
At a concrete bar
In a bookstore
- - - - -
We sit in pews as if in church
We wait for the interrogation to begin
And I hear their whispering behind me and to my right
But are they my neighbors?
Are they strangers?
Do they know me?
Do they know themselves?
More ‘strangers’ enter at the rear of the courtroom
And I am so nervous,
I am afraid I’ll vomit or pass my morning coffee where I now sit
The altar boys read in the front row
Uniforms tight across broad shoulders
And I fear my car will be towed if this takes too much longer.
I wonder what will happen.
I could describe this monastery of law,
But it would do no justice to the blind shadows and the divine imperfections.
Small things;
Mismatched chairs, missing flag, cables strewn wildly across counters.
Another altar boy enters,
Sits right in front of me,
I see that he has something on his back; under his shirt.
And his ears stick out.
And church is starting late.
This judiciary papal servant is hesitant.
My head is spinning.
I should have slept.
My eyes are burning.
Maybe they are red and I will be thrown out.
Add yet one more boy- the four musketeers.
Complete with Walter and Irving.
And the questions remain unanswered.
Only a response to the second attack
Still no knowledge of the first possession
I just want to go home,
Shower
And sleep.
This is leading to nothingness.
And if he has admitted to the second theft, but not the first,
Then who has Phillip?
Who has the road gear?
Who violated me?
The first could have been anyone,
But how did he get in the second time?
I was careful.
I locked my doors, right?
The line grows longer as “The System” tries to turn the stopwatch to secure a penalty box.
And I wonder how much these barristers are getting paid to be here.
More accusations fly behind me.
Does anyone know what’s going on here?
Where do we begin?
A woman has started sorting through the endless stack of papers.
I realize that I burned my tongue this morning while sipping at the coffee shop.
And I wonder if confessions really purify the soul
Or if they are only an excuse to sin on a clean slate,
Having cleared your plate of gristle.
Everyone seems confused.
My head is spinning
And I am tempted to take a nap.
We had a good conversation,
From NYPD to the BQE to the LIE
- - - - -
Snuffing out my cigarette, I realized I’ve been stood up.
When crushing out dying embers, three lost souls spilled from the ashtray.
It’s hard to think of new reasons I’m alone when the pitying eyes peer down at me repeatedly.
My hair has lost its hold.
My skin has lost its luster.
And I have lost my appetite, waiting for you to arrive.
Ex-lovers enter and walk by whispering to their new love about how I’ve “let myself go”.
Never one to give in that easily, I smile and wave,
Feigning congeniality,
Restraining tears.
This is so humiliating.
I am glad I brought my AmEx.
I pay for my coffee,
Tip the waitress well,
Leave you behind with my balled-up napkin
And my empty coffee mug.
- - - - -
I’m crushing hard
The way you talk
The steps you walk
And the way you hold me when we hug,
It’s crushing me.
I’m crushing hard.
Through your eyes,
I see originality,
A way of rewording clichés so they seem brand new.
Don’t dye your hair,
Crush that Clairol box!
I’m crushing hard for you.
Voice is smooth,
But with a little scratch like a vinyl record.
You spoke of nebulae while I made a cappuccino in my kitchen.
I am foaming milk for me.
I am crushing hard for you.
Read to me again;
I want to know who you are when you’re alone.
I want to know what you see in your sleep.
I want to be your lunchtime daydream.
I want to be able to give you flowers and maybe get some from you, too.
I want to be the one you write silly, undelivered letters to.
I want to see your eyes light up when I walk in the room.
When someone puts their arms around your waist,
I want you to know that those arms are mine.
I want to walk dogs together.
I want to have snowball fights with you,
And make snow angels,
And make snowmen in lude positions.
I want you to have a crush on me.
- - - - -
And I
wonder: do I dare?"
and I ask
myself
did I
talk too much about myself?
did I
show her that I noticed the luster of her skin?
Was I a
gentleman?
I think
if I was not these things
If I did
not do these things,
that she
would have left.
And still
I wonder
"do
I dare?"
I think I
should have asked her for her number
but I
didn't dare yet
I felt a
stone in my throat,
and
needing to free it,
I had to
walk away
I watched
her on the couch
sleeping
so peacefully,
and I
wanted to curls up with her,
but
instead
I placed
a blanket over her
I noticed
the way she moves when she talks
the way
her eyes mouth the phrases
as the
tongue paints them into the air.
I was
there on the bed
she was
there on the bed
we were
there
on my
bed,
but a
world apart
and
wanting to make that journey,
but
fearing that even eighty days
might not
be enough
fearing
the possibility of rejection,
I turned
away.
returning
to her,
I could
only see the curve of her back
I could
see the profile of her breasts,
two
inches of skin separating her shirt from her pants,
and those
two inches were beckoning me.
Her leg
draped casually over her other leg,
and how I
miss being able to reach for that
but do I
dare?
how I
miss being able to join into that
but do I
dare?
how I
miss being able to fall into deep eyes
but do I
dare?
In the
room the women come and go
talking
of Michelangelo
and we
read Eliot in the living room
discussed
his word choice
and she
curled on the couch saying nothing
and I
wanted so to join her
but I
didn't dare
so I left
a blanket
and a
smile
and I
went upstairs.
- - - - -
“Why do you like me?”
She asked as she sat on his thighs with her arms around his waist.
He blushed and leaned in to kiss her, to which she withdrew and asked again,
Without moving her lips
He stuttered an answer, leading to the truth:
“You have something behind your eyes that calls to me”.
Satisfied of her question,
They roamed across carpeted floors in their rolling embrace,
Winding up on cotton sheets,
Conversing,
Sharing stories and lips
With hands on hips and tongues on fingertips-
Then a halt.
She gently pushed him away, holding herself back.
They talked until her smooth skin soothed him to sleep
He smiled at the way she breathed
And the way her feet made the sheets quake.
When she, too, rose, he saw a sun rise in her eyes
And he practically dies just thinking about it.
She curls into him, and they talk a little more
Before rising and descending to make sure they aren’t
Being rude.
- - - - -
He stood there painting words in our eyes
And my heart capsized at his story.
He was there on a concrete stage with the world as his audience,
And we stood until our feet slept and our eyes flared with amazement,
Watching him slide through non-sequiters like Gemini.
He told us of the solid love of just one of a few good men.
A love so strong…
A love so powerful…
An explosive love that possessed him to shed wind through her heart before doing the same to his own head.
He told us of the way things used to be:
So free,
But that was before the Sirens beckoned him
Against the rocks
And beat him until his
Sea – ing
Ran red.
As a hippie compelled with the love perpetuated by the Leary that is not Dennis, and the pain described by the William that is not Clinton,
He would not raise a fist to give himself shelter from the bombing raid that was their motto:
“Serve and Protect”.
And he told us of his fifteen-year walkabout that taught him a few things:
A) Brothers will deny you three times if Their Father was not the one who was buried.
I) If it has a ground-level entrance, they will lock it or knock it down.
D) The dumpster behind Safeway gets emptied every Tuesday night at 3 AM.
S) The hardest thing in life is not guilt, not forgiveness, neither prayer nor penance.
The hardest thing in life is living with the One Thing, that when you have It, No one will give It to you; and you can Share It with anyone, but you can never
Give It Away.
- - - - -
It’s that same feeling…
Like…
Vodka.
Except this time I am drunk and I haven’t yet had a sip. There’s the burning in my chest and I want a drink so bad-
But I resist
And hold back
While I hold her back
In the palms of my hands
(which are covered in oil)
(but her skin is so smooth that I don’t even need it)
She tenses as I touch
As I chase away the tension
With the rhythmic kneading of her dough
Like…
Marbles-
I am spinning her in my hands
And I want to reach inside her
I want to BE one of the marbles in this pouch
But I touch another hard muscle
That is growing harder from the fear
While I am growing harder from the energy
And it is getting harder to think
Because
Now she is sitting up-
Now she is talking-
Now she is touching my hair-
Now I am falling forward-
Now I am falling for her-
Now I am-
Now she is-
Now WE Are-
And there’s that fire again
Searing my lungs my heart my skin my lips
She is touching my hips
And my hand grips
Supple flesh as the sweat drips
From my side
And I am sweating even more on the inside
Because this bag o’ marbles
Has spilled onto her side
And over me-
She is passionately
Embracing my tongue with her own
And I am so afraid-
Am I a good kisser?
Does she like the way my lips taste?
Do I have bad breath?
Does she want my hands again
On her back
Pulling her into me
As she pulls me against her
And we are
runningrunningrunning
Toward a destination not far from here
And yet on the other side of the clock
And the world
And she is walking away
But spins
Steps
Whispers…
“Thanks for the coffee.”
- - - - -
Speechless and stumbling
He stutters forward
Toward her
Shapely form
Sitting on the floor
Of his living room.
He drops his packages
Drops to his knees
Drops his resistance
To her power.
Cupping her head in his hands
He drinks from the
Holy Grail that is her lips.
- - - - -
It is just as my first time on the mic.
I am so nervous and my heart is sounding a cacophonous battle cry.
I am stepping up to the microphone
I can hear my breath, heavy on the sound system, echoing from the walls to the coffee cups
The air is thick and smoke-lined but I am breathing fine and I can
SMELL
The poetry from across the room.
I bring my lips to the microphone and the speakers squeal in feedback and I hear heavy breathing as the poetry strips me of my armor and I lay bare- shattered in ecstasy and I can’t move-
I am so Nervous.
And I want to be poetry- I want to be ONE with her
But I am afraid, so I throw myself into a silver-screen fantasy
Running from the reality of the stage
and the inspiration steps back-
huddled in disappointment-
so I disrobe my words-
that only the truth be evident
and no more hiding from my self.
I see that this mistress,
Poetry,
Is a LIE,
An ACT,
A Façade.
This Art is Life and
This Microphone is Truth and I want to become ONE with the Truth- I want to embrace this Life and my senses peak- I am living in clip. I wrap this Art into me and I am thrown around the stage, but I am the only audience and I see that
Poetry is Art and
Art is Life and
I Understand now they are ONE and THE SAME and I want so bad to do Art justice with the perfect poem- to paint a Tchaikovsky ballet on this stage with my words and the sounds from the mic get louder and I embrace Life and I dance with the Microphone stand and my lips are spreading a filmstrip on the mic and I want so bad to Be that Perfect 30 I want so bad to be ONE with this Life but I am so afraid so the only thing I can do is Tease Life with my fingertips and the point of my pen and I am so afraid
That Life will deny my inspiration
That Art will shun my devotion
That Poetry will discard my love as meaningless ranting
And I will be left
Naked and Shivering
But I tread forth like Cortez in Mexico
And I am so afraid,
But I gather the strength to throw life to the mat and pin poetry to the wall
Diving in with reckless abandon
I am naked but for my sweat sheen as I make three minutes last an eternity
Because time and space are suspended while we flow through assonance and alliteration
Onomatopoeia and syllabics and I am so afraid of finding rejection from Life and being denied three times by Art or destroying Poetry and all that she is
So I focus-
On paying homage to Calliope
I drop to my knees to both feed and share nectar and ambrosia
And the microphone drips with honey and sweat as I continue my dance of praise-
Gratitude to the gGods for placing this Poetry, this Art, this Life in my hands and in my heart and in my soul
And in my pleas,
I beg her not to stop-
To give me more
To never stop blessing me with my muse
To never stop flooding me with inspiration
To never stop feeding me lines like a drug-addict
Because these are my sin-dens
These are my squatter’s rights
This room
This stage
This microphone
Silence
Pause
Shudder
When I catch my breath and the judges have quieted themselves
I return to the stage
And it is
Constant
Unwavering
Never stopping
And yet new and always different
But somehow familiar
And STILL I am so nervous
I remember stealing shots of Stoli from my Dad’s liquor cabinet
And even that feels like a dream
A film about ghosts
And I move southbound
On the roller-coaster of Poetry
As Art continues to lick my ears and pull at my heart
I feel like Oedipus when I sing
Because I am making love to Poetry and Life, but I am of this Art, and I revel in the touch of her words. I slay the daemons of fear and the vodka-fire rages in my chest as I bury myself for the fifth time into this Life and I am wrestling with the microphone- trying to make the eternal sound, and I don’t feel OM, but I feel that this is right- this Life and I are ONE- we are Righteousness Forever-
Sannathana Dharma
We are Righteousness Forever
So I am on my knees in reverence to this Art form that is Life and we are swirling in some astral place I cannot feel the stage anymore I have no flesh I have become ONE with Poetry and for a moment
it is pure art
pure energy
the only sound is my breath on the speakers
the only touch is my lips on the microphone
the only smell is my sweat on the stage
the only energy is my love in this art.
- - - - -
I miss the seductive teardrop of your navel.
It’s salty taste like to blood of your ancestors
And the ocean at dawn.
I hunger for your touch on my shoulder
Sitting peacefully
listening
- - - - -
Conversations with sleep
Are interrupted frequently by
Insomnia
Thoughts of
Your eyes
Your hair
Your touch
Your skin
Your power
Over me
On the inside of my eyelids
I watch you converse
See you scribble disoriented poetry
In your journal
Hear you snore
ever so softly in your sleep
as our bodies occupy the same space
our hair still wet
from the artificial summer rain
of my tile lagoon
- - - - -
Close your eyes
Listen to me
close your eyes
open your heart
listen to me
to be with you I have suffered
to be named Montague
because we danced
Close your eyes.
Open your heart.
Listen soft.
These words I have chanted a thousand times
In a hundred languages
None that have translated
I have held onto visions of your hair for hours of twilight sleep
Where thoughts of
Bruised knees and
Coffee bars
Play across my ceiling
I wake up after bare seconds of sleep
Searching the sheets for you
And longing to feel the warm afterglow of your body
Begging to hear the soft padding of your feet in the hallway
And with glances across long rooms
And soft touches
- - - - -
She says “drive you crazy bitch”
And laughs at my reaction
So I shift into first
And pop the clutch-
Sending smoke screens to the past
She says
“drive you crazy bitch
I don’t care where
Anywhere
Nowhere
Somewhere
Who cares?
Just Drive”
So it’s pedal to the floor
Radio cranked
Windows down
Wind in hair
And the open road
Radio stations fade
So we have discs
And Ani says
“You just gotta drive”
And the mistakes on the past generation
Fade like the radio stations
The bruises on my arm from discipline
Have healed
The welts on my backside from belts
Have disappeared
The animosity I once felt for those lessons
The time-outs
The grounding
The chores
Has changed into gratitude
For teaching me how to live
She says
“Drive you crazy bitch
Anywhere
Nowhere
Somewhere
Who Cares?
Just Drive”
“You just gotta drive”
and I see within her so much of that resentment
but I know she will be a good mother
I see strength beyond words held back by a need for confidence
I see in her femininity that bridges the gap of our gender obligations
I see in her the power of creation that I will never know
I see in her love waiting to be unearthed in the archeological dig of our lives
I see in her the voracious intellectual appetite of youth coupled with wisdom beyond years
She says
“Drive you crazy bitch!
Nowhere
Somewhere
Anywhere
Who cares?
Just drive!”
Ani’s on the radio,
Telling me to drive
And the mistakes will fade the way 103.1 fades in Baltimore
I apologize when my truck breaks down and she simply replies
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you and your apologies.
If this is the product of your choices,
Your so-called mistakes,
Then so is my presence here
And I’ll be damned if that’s a mistake!”
Today there is only asphalt and the open windows
The sunroof welcomes blinding rays of glory from the sky as the clouds part to grant our way to tomorrow
She writes incessantly in the passenger seat,
Scratching out the potholes
And we’re heading to New York,
South to unlock the doors
West to the sunset
East to the sunrise
Anywhere but here
Not running from,
But running to something.
We’ll know when we get there.
She says,
“You just gotta drive”
- - - - -
I can’t say I won’t leave her
Because she is alone.
I can’t say I won’t hurt her
Because she has bruises from someone else on her heart
I can’t say I won’t lie
Because she has never heard truth
She leans into my touch and pulls me to her kiss before she walks away to the car.
I watch her, noticing the curve of her hips, outlined by her wind-blown shirt
Her hair flickers gently in the breeze, like willow groves in cool spring sunsets
We talk about deities and politics over coffee and cigarettes in diners all over this town
“That’s ‘cause I’m a…
Sister, I’m a…”
In poetry, I often wish to whisper, “I love you,” but I fear that will lead to the pain of the past
The fire rages in my chest, thinking of ways to show her that I am here, open to her.
To show her I will never leave until she tells me to go
To show her I will never be untrue- in words or deeds
To show her I am scared to death of these feelings crashing down upon me like the Red Sea to Egyptians, but that I am extending my hand in the hope she will hold it.
I want to Show her I will give her the stars if she asks for them, because words are meaningless these days.
I can’t Say I won’t leave because she has been alone before.
I can’t Say I won’t lie because she has never heard truth.
I can’t Say I won’t hurt her because the bruises on her soul from knuckles not of my hands are still healing
I can’t Say I am scared because I need strength, but I don’t know how to ask for help
I can’t Say any of this.
I am no warden, and my arms are not steel bars,
But she steals my heart every time she enters my cell.
The thought that I was ever without her is absurd, the way our world according to Euclid is a red rubber ball, but the whole world said it was a saltine.
It feels Right when she is in my bed.
Our skin touches and in the place of skin,
There is pure
energypoetryelectricitylove
I awake to her, soft and delicate, curled sweetly in her dream
And this feels Right.
I can’t fathom the thought of anyone else in her place, anyone ever having been there,
Anyone but her
In my fantasies, I can see that we will be together happily for eternity
In my fantasies, I can watch our children play and grow and go to school, while I teach next door
In my fantasies, I can picture anniversaries spent on balconies along Lake Shore Drive, Central Park West, and Montrose Boulevard
In my fantasies, I can see us managing our coffee bar, while the artisans and freaks paint each other green under our lights
In my fantasies, she is the milk to my cereal
The butter to my bagel
The sunset to my evening
Bob Dylan around a campfire with friends
The Marshmallow on my s’mores
but I can’t say any of this
and I know not the way to show her these things
so if I am sometimes quiet,
you will know why
my tongue bears my teeth marks.
- - - - -
I saw your face lit by pale moonlight
While we sat on the shoulder of the highway
We joked about ice cream and weight gain
While we waited in the back of my truck
Fantasies about ways to greet the driver danced with the smoke that filled our lungs and my car and for a few moments, I could not see anything beyond the windows.
We were alone
Separate from the rest of the universe
I could see more nights like this-
Nights in a car visiting all the places we’ve never been or to which we wish to return
Nestled on the shoulder of I-10 somewhere between Texas and tomorrow, we’ll feel the sun rise, blanketing us in a new day.
We’ll deep-dish while spooning.
We’ll find a place where we won’t need a car,
But we’ll have one anyway as a Plan “B”.
- - - - -
And whatever became of foreplay?
I stroke your legs under the table,
One to either side of my knees
And gripping the supple flesh of calves tells the story of sacrificing time and distance for reverence and worship within the temples of our flesh.
We wander through the evening upon magic carpets of conversation at fire-side gatherings, poetry readings, and coffee-houses – the temples of mind and spirit.
I have faith that there is salvation within your eyes.
I believe that I am gGod
And you are gGod
And we are gGod
And we are Titans when we love.
We are comfortable under a pure white sheet with fluorescent lighting the corner of my room, vibrating to the music of Cat Stevens
“ooh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world”
And the other song really is about a mouse-
If you believe it to be.
I know that this ink is the blood that courses through your veins,
And that when I taste you,
I can taste the blood of a million poets before you
Within you.
- - - - -
What it all means, I know not.
The day hidden by rain clouds, I wonder the lessons to be learned by living my life and loving my labors.
I see that, even in a rainstorm, fires can rage, sending tendrils of flame into the air.
Prayer or penance?
Does the rain threaten to quench the lovers’ thirst, or does the fire rebel against the darkness?
Exorcisms on unnamed daemons in the chambers of insomnia
Washing away fears with Captain Unisom and another wet pillow
I am afraid of my shadow,
So I use a 300mg blue shield everyday
To stay well
And turn the other way
Our shadows have become one in the cloudy noon,
Mingling with those of the automobiles and the diners
And in that unity, I become afraid.
She says, “The rain means nothing tonight. Let the fire burn. I can’t promise it will be burning in the morning, but for now…”
And trails off as she nestles into my arm.
She calls me her daemon, her left ventricle, her right lung, her softest parts.
My heart stops, my breath freezes.
I pull her closer, thinking that if I am inside her,
If she is inside me,
The rain could stop.
But, ‘Certain things, like cold, do not wash away,’
And my breath is still frozen as I try to take my place in her chest, begging for an end to the rain.
On days like this, I forget to wear my One-by-Three and my Two-One-None armor, and the rain soaks me, also.
I try to be her shelter, to pull her into me, to instigate the blaze ever further, but,
‘The world is an animal’ which I must tiptoe around while she walks with palms upturned, stretched out, waiting for it to ‘lap up with a street-growl-hiss… to take a sniff’.
Journals provide fitting quotes to anecdotes and poetic notes we share at diners over coffee cups and ashtrays. No bill, but four dollars down and the short trip to my house.
And I want to be fodder for the flames, to live like Daniel forever in this room, and Cat can scat with Bob and Ani and REM can overtake us, swallow us in to dream forever in this white-walled fortress that knows no darkness
that knows no shadows
that knows no rain.
It has been too long since that ‘archeological dig’. I am still counting the marbles, but I have left the excavation- afraid of what I might find. I can afford that no more. I will return to the temple, take one of those marbles, spin it in my hand, ‘place it in [my] mouth, ricochet it tooth to tooth’.
The rain comes and it goes- and the fire wavers uncertainly, still being fueled by bloodstreams in the mist, as I ‘take up arms against a sea of troubles’ hoping ‘by opposing [to] end them’ and ‘we will be free once more. We will be Free once more. We will be… free’
To live forever in this room, in these sheets, burn the tools and place their heads on platters, for this excavation will take place exploring bodies ‘with blunt fingertips’ or sharp nails ‘maybe nothing is sharp enough’, but we will explore minds with irises and pupils. I want to dive into the wishing wells of her eyes, so I pull her closer.
Words fail me, leading me to steal the words of other poets to pull together my incoherent thoughts. So I pray that she still drinks ‘from [my] breath on her lips when we kiss.’
- - - - -
And the pain comes screaming through her pen as she writes words that no one will read.
And who are you to say these things? I’m no child; hell, I’m smarter than you. These whales fly over Rodney because my tongue is in a mason jar.
We had a date to watch the sunset,
But because she was Gretel, not Hansel, I am forced to be a ‘love-struck Romeo’ without a balcony.
Roses wilt on car seats in the hot pre-summer sun and my guitar strings fade a little toward flat from the heat.
I should have been at work but the overview was too slow, and my heart too fast, so I find my old balcony, only finding the Nurse.
We talk.
We laugh.
We eat.
I find fuel for new flames, and throw in my onion smell and her eggs, and a bit of salsa- just for an added touch.
From where I stand now, her window is to the East and I keep our date though she rests for now and the sun is hiding behind the West.
Padding down the hallway in my naked socks, having pulled everything over my face, I found a mirror and seeing that I was a raccoon, I transformed into an angel with just a sweep of my hands.
And they say I can’t send messages to the stars because I can’t tip the judgment that far.
I sense my own stench, having not bathed in so long, and I start to smell…
Onions.
Quit asking me so many goddamned questions! I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, but I have the ones you want to hear, of the ones I need to hear, why isn’t he here, why is she near, why am I so full of fear?
This shit can’t fool me! You fucks are children!
If I want to pour my heart out into my journal, what’s that to you?
And don’t you dare go into my room, don’t you dare go into my diary,
Pandora, don’t open that box
So there are no more questions, I’ll pretend to take in all of this bullshit they serve, and I’ll purge my thoughts on my own time.
And, damn it, I have a date,
Don’t you see?
He’s waiting for me
He saved me a seat,
He couldn’t possibly
Be that great,
Could he?
‘He’s singing the streets a serenade’ ‘cause I’m late.
I wonder if she can see me down here.
Did she hear my laments for our love?
Can I hold her tomorrow?
This is scary, don’t you understand?
Love is scary, man!
I’m so far out of the loop, because I’m still a Montague, though her nurse helps me sneak in.
Who knows what thoughts she sees in her head when she sleeps in her bed? I cannot be led into that chamber of dreams.
It seems to me that her seams are splitting, so I wean myself from our social group.
I sleep for both of us, taking a pillow and a puppy as a poor but adequate substitute for her body.
I finish my song and notice that the sun has fallen.
“There he goes,
There he goes again
Racing through my brain
And I just can’t contain
This feeling that remains”
Because I stood him up, he’s getting on with his life, and that’s just one more man to walk away from me.
He leaves roses, like this is a mortuary or a cemetery.
And this is why I greet him in costume; meet him in disguised affectations-
So he won’t have to spend picnics alone in the sunset while I watch from my window.
But I’m here, aren’t I?
When I say, “I love you,” I mean that I will help you when you fall.
It means that you can say anything, and I will only love you more.
For
That is real.
That is love.
Don’t you think I’m scared, too?
Don’t you think it scares me to think that I am willing to put my life in the hands of someone who doesn’t even want her own?
If you can’t trust that I won’t run from you, than what do you mean when you say you love me?
And no, I’m not mad.
I’m just sad
To think that you mean so much to me but so little to yourself, but so much to me.
You are incredible and beautiful when you sleep and when you wake, so how could you take that with you?
Yeah, it’s selfish, but I want to hold you, to have you.
I want you to come on to my house.
I want you in that chair in the sunset and I want to hand this flower to you, instead of placing a wilted bud on a sign that it’s time for me to go-
For now.
Your nurse is calling you to dinner.
Sleep well.
And remember, I don’t run when I’m afraid, otherwise, Tybalt would still walk among us.
I leave these flowers and these lines as a sign
that I’ll be back tomorrow.
- - - - -
Mon petite chou,
Needless, but said anyway is that this was definitely an unexpected barrier to our relationship. Nonetheless, I think it is a necessary step. Regardless of how we may feel about each other, we as individuals must be healthy in order for any relationship between us to be healthy.
So, ENJOY! Experience! I know I’ll sound like a cross between Stewart Smalley and Richard Simmons, but this world has so much to offer if only we can see. So many people love you, among whom I am one, and we want nothing more that to see you healthy. I want nothing more than to see you smile. And, yes, of course my insecurity wants me to think that I could not have had an impact great enough to make you smile that much, but I believe you when we kiss. I understand in your touch.
You have had a profound effect on my life, simply in the few weeks we’ve known each other, and for that, I am and will forever be grateful.
At this point, having already received so much from you; compassion, affection, self-esteem, love; I can ask nothing more of you than to use this time to get well.
Yes, it’s on foreign soil, with strange neighbors, but the environment you were released into is not healthy for you, or conducive to your mental well-being.
And there are no fingers to point. Pick yer nose. Relationships are two sided. Part of getting well at this point is to recognize where you contributed to the unhealthy homeland environment. I have done the same with our relationship, for what its worth at this point. But, rather than focus on past mistakes and indiscretion, we all (you, your mom, me) need to focus on growth and stability- that you will return to an environment that can support you.
You are so incredibly talented and intelligent, funny, beautiful, soft- you have so much to give and share, but perhaps you gave too much, or didn’t see how much the world is offering you. At this point, as I have already said, Be Selfish! Right now, it’s all about you. Want it or not, we’re giving you all we can. I am throwing tools at your feet, but it’s up to you to pick them up and use them. Family is the bulldozer of all big toys, and you may not see it, but all the anger and frustration your mother deals with and deals out is because of how much she loves you. Otherwise, she would not pressure you to do well; she would not have kept your art stuff from kindergarten…
I don’t know… I am kind of trailing off at this point, but the point I am trying to make is that you can make it. There is so much for you to look forward to, and I hope that this time finds you well.
Do what you need to do.
I love you.
- - - - -
It’s a cool summer night
And I make wilted dandelions explode
With wishes for music
We’re swimming naked in this world,
Hidden in the darkness
Through the clear water,
I can see my toes
We wander,
Hand-in-hand,
Through the slimy mud until the water begins to pool in my navel
We turn, lock eyes, both so high we’re afraid to look down
Count of three and drop to the side
Rise like typhoons from the water
Screaming in joy
Screaming for air
We swim to a tree on the other side of the shaded cove,
Into the moonlight,
Where we talk,
Each breath sending ripples into the star sheen of the lake
The conversation tenses and relaxes,
Words like mood-swings about our pasts and our destinations
I sit on a fallen bough,
Looking down into a pair of eyes that ask to kiss me…
But I know I shouldn’t allow that.
Obligations to people far away hold me to my answer
And the eyes’ mouth begs for a story
I begin to tell those ears about trial and error in past relationships,
Then I listen for a while
Our histories have become faerie-tales for midsummer nights
As our bodies move near and far around throbbing heartbeats
We return to our clothes,
Where those hands dry my goose-pimpled flesh with a t-shirt
Again, there is heavy air, and we take our time getting dressed.
Sitting in the car, we turn on the heat to warm our skin
And our conversation continues to wander across the vast expanses of our lives
My heart is pounding as I reach for a pair of feet,
Massaging the tension from the toes,
And drawing moans from lungs
We dance with the various junk in the car,
Settling back on the deck of the station-wagon,
My head on a shoulder,
An arm around my back
I can hear a heartbeat surging below my pillow
And I feel a pair of lips on my forehead
Choosing to forget my obligatory response to this question,
I change my answer,
Pulling against a jaw line that opens to my kiss,
Allowing me into a mouth
As four hands scan limbs and clothes for answers to more questions that go unanswered by words,
Letting actions imply and confirm intent
Sweat drips down the inside of the windows
As body heat rises and clothes drop
Not a single inch of skin isn’t kissed and caressed fluids mix along the folds of skin and upholstery
We take turns being Atlas; each lifting the world above our heads plunging down into each other we are floating in the pre-dawn air of this automobile and rug burn becomes a forgotten reality
Flesh moulds together
Sweat sears eyes
Nails plow skin
Teeth pinch ridges across the terrains of our bodies
We drink of each other to replace lost fluids
We tremble in excitement when thighs hide eyes
We roll like pool balls
I throw ribs down
Leaning above a bare chest
Tasting pale purple and glistening red
Hours jog by the windows,
And we hear their footsteps on the pavement
I duck down every time I hear the beasts roll by,
Laughing at the absurdity,
But I forget soon enough-
Distracted by the pulsing of hips and lips and fingertips
I want this to go on forever,
But I know this will end all too soon
The sunlight casts rainbows across our bodies,
Reluctantly returning our clothes to our salty landscapes,
We pull away into the sunlight,
Chilly as the sweat still evaporates from our eyes
I hear that I taste exquisite,
And reply that
Those lips were the first to know
- - - - -
Sitting at the bar of the Nuyorican,
Thinking about a poet who should own that mic,
I long for her.
I miss poetry whispered in our sex,
While moonlight sang to us through the window.
I miss the soft of her love
Her hair
Her eyes
Her skin
Dressed loosely in t-shirt and ripped jeans
She would curl on my couch while I cooked a pair of cappuccinos in the kitchen
And in my memorial thoughts,
My chest burns
With desire for her touch
In her silence are unlit candles and Jackson Pollock journal entries of ink and blood
Anarchy and Adultery burn alphabets into her footsteps,
Though the DJ assures her that only the act was illegitimate
I cry because she can no longer weep
And the pain has seared blisters into her fingertips
Making her unable to use the tools we so gingerly place at her feet
As offerings
She thinks- incorrectly-
That she has done wrong,
So she sends herself to bed without her supper
She doesn’t think she has earned her breakfast, either,
So she refuses to keep it down,
Choosing to hold in her pain,
Instead.
Fear and dissolution build walls faster than lovers can build shelters
And she gathers an army of blue lullabies to sing her a reggae hymn.
To the syncopated beat of the rum
And the steel drums
She changes into light robes,
Being considerate to those who might have to
Dis- Cover
Her.
Scanning her room for what she hopes to be the last time,
She reminisces on concerts and record stores,
Diners and coffee bars,
Poets and playwrights,
Celibacy and sex,
Grease and grass…
Hearing the upbeat
Of her downplay,
She pads down the hall
To tell her mother goodnight.
Waking to the blinding sunlight
Of the emergency room
She adds this attempt to the list of failures
That already plagues her self-esteem
- - - - -
“If this is flying,
I shall never really take to it.”
-Whinny the Pooh
They say that,
In love,
We are birds
Soaring through melodious days
And clouds
And skies;
That red stars paint the air in dreams;
That there are no secrets between lovers;
That no pain is too much to share;
That no hurt is too much to bear
what happens when we stop flapping our wings?
- - - - -
I whisper the words to
“Goodnight Elizabeth”
under my breath,
knowing that she is out of ear-shot,
no matter how loud I might scream.
I pray that she is happy.
I hope that she is okay.
My world may never know.
- - - - -
For Leo Schein
2 August 1928 – 5 July 2001
As the wax filled the mold of the moon,
He told us that it was time.
Turn on the radio.
Leave on the lights.
Lock the door.
It’s been that way since before man took the small steps to build the form,
Why should things be different now?
Though he knew his hands would not turn the key the next time.
Thinking now, I know that all the other times had been practice.
Reconnaissance in the Undiscovered Country,
Origami Cartography for the real
Ship-out Date
Candles were lit and Rabbis called;
They knew it was to be the longest night.
He knew whose voice was on the line.
It told him not to worry,
That it was time.
No more pain.
No more fear.
In his hands, he held love; Wife and Child.
He nodded,
Signaling for the windows to be opened,
And the door to be closed.
He said
This time,
Turn off the lights.
Turn off the radio.
There’s no need to lock the door,
Just hold in the memories by closing it lightly.
-----
Overlooking the water’s reflection of a full moon,
We lay him to rest
We-
His wife, with whom he shared half a century of love
His six surviving siblings, some of who knew him his entire 72-year life
His seven children, who knew him as Father, Provider, Caretaker, Commanding Officer, and Friend
His 16 grandchildren; we knew him as many things, also.
I knew him as a Navy man who devoted his life to his family and his country. Working on the ships, he knew astronauts and discipline.
He was a storyteller, and I remember the stories… A sick father and a slab of meat… a trip to the swimming pool and the sister of his intended date, who went in her stead… reading material and red cheeks at the PX…
His freedom came immediately after his country’s day of independence.
There will be no more battles for him to fight- there is more than one way to beat Leukemia. He did it without tubes or tools. Sometimes, we must surrender to win.
-----
Under a moon waning like our sorrow, I will leave the smell of azaleas behind.
I shall be naked, with only the tattoos of memory covering my skin.
They say that when we are gone, we have yet to be forgotten, and that is truth.
He left us with a legacy that will stretch across this road until long after my own wheels have stopped turning, and I will not forget.
I will remember those eyes and that accent.
I will miss being chided about going back to school, and cutting my hair.
We will leave this city like an exploding star; all to our own galaxies.
And like the dust of stars, we are all of the same energy.
The blood that fills these veins is the same blood that flowed within this great man.
The love that fills my heart began with the love that filled his.
Love that we have all shared, share now, and shall continue to share until long after this moon has begun again.
- - - - -
Two lines of starshine
Form on the blacktop of I-64
Heading into Richmond
Fluctuating between 80mph and dead
The only convenient thing being
The rest-stop-sized shoulder
So I can pit when we stop
- - - - -
Depression sets in quick,
But the writer’s block lingers.
I am not afraid to be this man before you.
I am not afraid to lie in my bed to this woman because I cannot sleep.
I am not afraid to lie to your eyes and claim to be fine.
I am not afraid to lie on my floor until the parquet absorbs my flesh and I won’t worry about work or my car or how she’s doing today.
I am not afraid to be naked, whether literally or figuratively because
this is my body
this is my blood
one blood
one body
This is mine.
love me
leave me
fight me
fuck me
fear me
I am not afraid of
your thoughts
your deeds
your words
your looks
but I am afraid of my room;
the hollow of my bed
the blank stare of depression,
looming beside my nightstand
I am afraid of the chaos of anxiety in the bar-district of my chest.
I am afraid of this ink revealing the truths behind my metaphors.
My fear leads me staring down the barrel of
Number nine
And with her,
Two months have brought me from
Two thirds of this
And yet I feel like
Half a man.
I am afraid of realizing the futility of my tears and my fears.
- - - - -
and the chair is empty beside me.
I am whole,
But my world is incomplete without you.
When she was in my bed, I knew it was wrong.
This is not My Bed.
This is Your Bed,
This is Our Bed,
And she does not belong here.
You belong here,
On this bed that has traveled years and miles with me.
This bed found its home beneath your skin.
I belong within your kiss.
The world needs you.
I found the end of the sidewalk when you went away.
Sixty days without your voice,
Sixty nights without your touch
My morning is empty when I wake
Next to the absence of your body
We dropped phrases that were never picked up,
And I wonder what could have been if you had heard.
Like chocolates in a box, you chose the dark when I offered you a cordial.
You never truly understood when I said,
“I love you,”
In a thousand ways
In a hundred languages,
When I begged you to stay.
The world needs you.
I am whole, but my world is lacking.
The sidewalk should never end.
This is the part where I should hum a hymn of loss,
But you are not dead.
A tornado carried your body from this place,
But you dropped your memory here.
Your scent lingers in my closet and my car.
I can still feel your hair,
I still see your eyes when I close mine,
And your touch still rests on my skin.
I am whole.
It is my world
That is broken.
- - - - -
Subsequent turns at a diner jukebox
Deliver us hours
Of cancer-death and distraction
We sit and contemplate the greater meaning of
Saturday cartoons
It is the loss of our youth that we mourn
- - - - -
Mr. Murphy,
Please allow me to start by thanking you and your family from the bottom of my heart for opening your home and your lives to Meaghan. I appreciate your care and concern, and I trust that all is well.
I am sure this letter comes as a surprise, but this method was necessary- due to Ms. Murphy’s animosity toward me. Know there is neither malice nor hostility on my part toward Ms. Chris; frustration, yes- but only good intentions. I do not criticize her feelings, because I understand from where they stem, and I hope that one day she and I will be able to sit on a balcony in laughter again.
Due to the “Ken Harris Incident”, a detective with the Cockeysville Precinct of the Baltimore County Police Department has contacted me. Detective Reddy has informed me that Ms. Murphy would consider any contact from me to her an act of aggression, and that she would take what she considers appropriate counter-actions. Because I cannot go through her, I have chosen to contact you directly.
The most legitimate reason for my communiqué is the retrieval of a serviceman’s journal that was in Meaghan’s possession shortly before her situation back in May. It is a small, green journal with the diary of a soldier during what my memory tells me was World War II. The journal belongs to my housemate, Denise, who would like it back. There is no extreme rush to have it back on her shelf, but at the very least, she would like to know the status of the book.
Unrelated to the journal, I am curious as to the status of this situation. When Meaghan left, she said the plan was for her to return after four to six weeks; however, according to an extremely inflammatory letter from her mother to my mother, there are no plans whatsoever for Meaghan to return to Maryland. Please understand that I am not trying to manipulate the situation. I understand the brevity and the sensitivity of the factors involved, and that this letter alone might be inappropriate, and if I am imposing, I apologize. The end result of all of this talk is that I have no idea what is going on. I had a quite a lot of unexpected err… shall we say “developments” during that week back in May, and in my stupefied, confused state, I fear I may have missed some information. What I would like to know- at the very least- is if and when should I expect to see Meaghan again?
I still care very much for Meaghan and I miss her a great deal. I am still prepared to do anything in my power to support her. I am not simply referring to the factors involved in the attempts back in May. Rather, I am now looking at simple day-to-day support and mutual growth of and between two individuals. I accept that a relationship may not exactly be the best thing for her right now, which I can understand; having several times been in those shoes she so delicately wears, so I will respect any decisions made. She and I would of course need to talk and get to know each other again before the possibility of a relationship is even discussed. I have been going through a great deal of introspection over the past three months; analyzing so much of what happened between us. I never saw her sad. By that, I mean to say that I saw her sad, but “I had a bad day” kind of sad, not depression. I need to see that the young woman I love is still somewhere in there, or know that woman never existed except in my perception.
In addition to simple life, I want to help her spread her talent and career to whatever degree she may wish. At the same time, I feel I have much to learn from her writings and philosophy.
Meaghan is an extraordinary young woman whose talent surpasses even her own understanding. I know that she feels that fire within her, because I have seen the flames through her eyes and her pen. She simply needs a small boost, and a little courage, things she was not receiving enough of prior to the incident in May. But, as Og Mandino says, “The past is dead. Let the dead bury the dead.” Plainly, my desire is to see her again, but I am making no demands. As we agreed, we are playing by your rules. I do not want to do anything that might endanger Meaghan.
My wording in reference to Meaghan is awkward because I do not know how her recovery is progressing. My fear is that she is still the beautiful, stubborn little woman, and is not taking to it. My hope is that she has embraced the program, and whatever support is available, and is the accelerated little fireball I saw on so many nights. My assumption is that she is progressing at a comfortable rate, adjusting to a long-term mode of thinking; is not harming herself internally or externally, and that she is eating a much more controlled, and healthy, diet. Meaghan is a very special young woman, and I know that whatever happens, she will go far in her life.
I know that recovery takes a long time, so I am trying my best to not impose. My personal experiences, I feel, are helping me with patience and serenity in this entire situation. I, myself, spent years getting healthy after I got clean. I know that I will never be rid of my addiction, and that it- as well as all of life- is a constant work-in-progress. By the grace of the powers that be, I now have over five years clean from drugs and six years clean from alcohol. Over those six years, I have seen many people come and go from ‘the rooms’. My comrades-in-arms have had to witness as addiction, depression, and other diseases have pulled our brothers and sisters into the past. I just pray that Meaghan is not one of those sisters.
Obviously, as is acknowledged by the fact that your eyes are on these words, I lucked out with the address. Please accept my apologies for the intrusion, but I could no longer sit on my hands, and I saw no alternative short of visual confirmation. To save gas money on hunches and possibly a very bad decision, I chose the good-old USPS.
As you said, we’re straightforward men, and in closing, I will cut out all of the extraneous crud.
I miss Meaghan. I want very much to know how she is doing. Yes, I want to see her, but I know that is a decision that is not mine to make. I am upset that I have been cut off, but at the same time I understand, and I do not resent you or anyone else involved- not even Ms. Murphy. I am sad that I am not able to spend her birthday with her. In April, I began planning a big celebration for her, which may still happen, just in a diminished form, and without the guest of honor.
If you are concerned about Meaghan’s privacy, the “Official Story”
is that she and Ms. Murphy got into a huge fight the week before Memorial Day, which led to the decision for Meaghan to live elsewhere. She went to her “Uncle Joe’s” for a week or so, while waiting for you and Mrs. Murphy to arrive into town. While she was there, I had moderate contact with her. A day or so after your arrival, Ms. Murphy decided the whole ordeal was my fault, and thus I was banished. It is still in question as to whether your arrival and this sudden change of mind and spirit on Ms. Murphy’s part was a coincidence. You and I spoke the Saturday after Memorial Day and the subsequent Sunday. Meaghan was able to convince Ms. Murphy to allow her to come over to say goodbye, which she did on the evening of Tuesday, 5 June. Meaghan said at that time that she was going to spend some time with you and Mrs. Murphy out in Kansas, to allow time-off from Ms. Murphy. She estimated that she would be gone for four to six weeks, at which point she would return. Meaghan and I mutually agreed not to put our lives on hold, and that we would examine the situation upon her return. While walking her to the car, you and I formally introduced ourselves, at which point, you jokingly said (while pointing to your eye), “Look in my eyes… I just wanted you to see the face of the son-of-a-bitch you were talking to last weekend…” You followed that with a jovial handshake, and then I watched as Meaghan walked with you to a large, tan, land-yacht. And I watched as she rode away.
As you can see, the “Official Story” is as close to the truth as it could be without compromising Meaghan’s privacy. Everyone knows how hostile their home was. She will tell them the truth on her own time, when it is appropriate for her to do so. There are only a small handful of people who know the truth about that week, or rather the whole situation. Among them are- I believe, Ken Harris (who was informed by a leak from other sources and with whom, by the way, I have had absolutely no contact since Memorial Day); Shira, Meaghan’s best friend; Kristy, who was in the General Psychiatry ward literally next door to the Center for Eating Disorders, where Meaghan was. I have also spoken to friends of mine in NA and AA who have dealt with or are dealing with the same issues that Meaghan presented. None of them have ever had any contact with Meaghan nor are they regular companions of mine. So again, privacy has not been compromised. I would not talk to anyone about a topic so sensitive to myself if I did not trust that they would respect the anonymity that was given to them.
If you feel it would not be inappropriate, please let Meaghan know that I wish her a happy birthday (I will light a cupcaked candle on Sep. 6th) and let her know that I miss her.
Again, thank you forever for supporting Meaghan when she most needed support. Thank you for being there for her when I could not be. Please let Mrs. Murphy know that my unwavering appreciation applies to both of you.
I humbly await your response.
- - - - -
You have expressed that you hate that I
have named you "Patricia" for the Otis Series, but I have yet to
figure out how to do it any other way without calling the pieces things like
"Meaghan 1, Meaghan 2...” I am considering just using the sub-titles for
them, but I then think of how to rectify this set with the rest of the
series. I realize that may sound like
playing to the whims of the audience, but ours is a song that I want to
sing. I want them to hear. If you have any ideas, I would love to hear
them. (No.... that's not a cheap ploy
to hear your voice...)
By the way: the name Patricia is
because of Patricia Smith and Patricia Johnson. Smith, as you know, was the winner of the first four NPS Indie
Competitions. Johnson, if you remember,
was the winner in (I believe) '96 or '94.
They are both AMAZING poets (in case you forgot) and Patricia Smith is
an amazing woman. She is strong,
beautiful, smart, caring... she reminds me of you. Her father, by the way, is also- rather WAS named Otis. He is dead now. Regardless, that is why I chose the name Patricia for that
character in this play.
Speaking of which, I miss your
poetry. Hell, I miss you! But, I also miss your poetry. You are such an amazing writer, and I would
love to see what else you have written.
We didn't do enough of that.
Reading to each other, that is.
I want to read your fiction piece when it is complete. I am anxious to see what you are so excited
about. I could see that you were
incredibly proud of it, and I would like to experience this, too.
As far as why this is so early, I
wanted to get it to you now while I have the cash on hand. I am going to be getting a new place soon,
and that may take almost all of my next check, so I figured I might as well do
it now. So, y'know, have a great
Halloween and whatnot. Get your mom
something pretty. Whatever...
Oh, yeah!! I have a gig on Wednesday!!
1614 Eastern Ave, about a block West of Broadway, down in Fells
Pt.! It starts at 9 pm, so I'll
probably be there anytime after 8. It's
gonna be rock bands, emceed by the talented Rob Templeton, formerly of Saint
Louis, and yours truly, Dave Schein!!
Rob was on the SL Slam team a while back, and even hosted it for a
while. HE IS FUCKING AMAZING!!! We're going to be releasing Pixie's book,
"American Oddity", that night as well! It is going to be Sooooo kickass!! In case you can't make it, I have included her book on the CD in
.doc format. I hope that doesn't cause
any problems with your computer. If it
does, I am sure that Pillow will be more than happy to let you use his to check
it out. Also, the Library might afford
some assistance in printing it out.
There is, of course, always Kinko’s.
If all else fails, you can get a copy from me (please!) or from
Pixie. You know my number.
If this CD has a lot of dead tracks,
they are a result of the documents.
Just skip through them on a CD Player.
As far as I go...
My therapy has finally started up
again. I am to see Richard every week,
usually toward the end of the week. It
felt good to discuss my Grandfather with him.
We also talked about my Father and the relationship that I have with
him. Dad is doing well, but I know that
he hurts. I hope those are wounds I
never have to know.
Speaking of which, how is your
mom? How is your relationship
lately? Is she still writing notes to
explain her anger to you? I sometimes
wish she would write one to me. I would
like to know what it is that still fuels her burning rage toward me. I wonder if she and I will ever share an
omelet again, or if she will keep me in the same regard that she holds for your
father and Stephen- if I may be so bold as to compare myself to the two of
them. I know that would be assuming I
hold such a large place in her consciousness and her hatred, but I feel that I
am a pariah. I don't know how to handle
the thought of someone with that much of a negative desire toward me. I often have dope-fiend fantasies of just
walking up to the door one day and talking to her. Of hiring a mediator so she and I can negotiate her hatred and my
confusion. I accept that I fucked up
that night at Ken's. I accept that I
fucked up that afternoon at your house when I told her. I accept that, yes, I did make many mistakes
in our relationship; that WE made many mistakes during the course of our
relationship, but I don't even know what it was that I did to make her change
her mind about me in such a violent manner.
I just don't know.
Anyway, I also talked to Richard a
little about you, us, your mother, the whole situation. I appreciate the fact that he doesn't seem
to be taking a side in the matter. I
keep toying with the idea that he should meet you and/ or your mother. I dunno... stupid brain-dead thoughts of a
post-teen American. Maybe that is what
I should title my next book. I saw Dr.
Vimalananda a little while after Richard, and he asked about my
sleeping... I do have a great deal of
difficulty falling asleep, so he suggested Trazodone, a mild Anti-Depressant
Sedative. It fucked me up to think
about it, even as simply an option, but I decided that I should at least try
it. I have been to enough meetings and
I am secure enough in my recovery to take medication responsibly, so I might as
well attempt to have a proper sleep schedule.
What that means, though, is that I need to start going to bed at a
reasonable hour. I haven't had any work
at the office, so I tend to sleep a lot more than maybe I should. I also am drinking regular coffee again, so
my Wellbutrin freaks out because of that.
Fortunately, the Neurontin keeps me from having attacks. I almost had an anxiety attack
yesterday. I could feel the surge of
fear and aggression building in my chest- so strong that I wanted to knock a
hole in something simply so I could then hide in it. It was not a pleasant sensation, if you know what I mean! The Traz works great, as long as I have a
full eight-hour time slot to sleep for.
It is actually pretty cool the way it works. It doesn't knock me out, it just makes me really tired, but in
that "I’ve been awake WAAAAAAYYYYY too long," kind of way; my eyes
dry out, my skin feels heavy, I get a faint headache that I just want to sleep
off... I fucking HATE the whole
"Better Living Through Chemistry" thing, but I recognize that my body
simply CAN'T do this on its own. It's a
frightening thought, but I know that- at least for now- I need this.
I just thought of something else: you know a lot about what I saw during the
relationship, the 'incident' in May, and this summer, but I know very little
about your side of the whole thing. Was
I good to you? Was I good FOR you? Why did you cry that night when we worked on
the car? I theorize that it was the
fact that I said I was proud of you, that you had done a great job. Did you receive enough praise when you were
younger? Do you know how proud of you I
was? Do you know how proud of you I
AM? Could you feel my love? Do you know that I have been in love with
you since I read that poem? Even though
I theorized all sorts of things about it, that I now think were incorrect, I
could see that I wanted you. I WANT
you. I want to be with you. Do you really love me? Not that I doubt your words, just that my
insecurity and fear needs to hear it.
If so, when did you start to love me?
Are you in love with me? Has
this really gotten to that level?
Should you wear the name of Capulet?
Does the crest of Montague adorn my home? What are your ambitions?
Where do you want to go? Will I
be invited? If and where do you want to
go to College? Do you know that I will
always love you? I will not presume to
assume where our paths will take us, but I like to think that our paths will
coincide again. I am not trying to
influence your decisions or your thoughts, but do you want that, too? If and where do you see us again? Will there ever be an "us"
again? If so, do I need to wait another
311 days? Do you know how badly I want
to give you your dreams on silver platters and velvet sheets of stars? What do you want most in the world? What color are your dreams? Is Vanilla your favorite flavor of ice
cream? Do you still smile when you
remember that night in the back of my truck after it broke down? What do you want as your profession? Could you see yourself with a high-school
English teacher? Do you want to help
run a coffee house/ bookstore? Do you
think I should offer drive-through service at that coffee bar? I think it would be great to sell someone
coffee, a colache, and a book- all at the same time- without the customer even
getting out of the car! Hell, I would
have the equipment and the main office for fP/GKr there at the coffee bar, so
it would be beautiful! Hire local
artists and students, donate the left-over to a shelter- shit have a small
shelter in the basement, have excursions to get jobs, clothes, and community
betterment projects... as you can see, I have so much going on in my head, I
will NEED a good woman to help me bring all of this to fruition. Not for selfish reasons, but rather I want
to share all of this with someone. I
want to share this with you! If this is
what you want, of course. If not,
that's okay, too. I want to see you
smile. I want to love you for years to
come. I want to lose my marbles with
you (see Talaam Acey "Marbles").
How old were you when you learned to tie your shoes? What is your favorite cartoon? What is your favorite movie? Where do you feel safest? Where do you feel most vulnerable? What color is the moon when you close your
eyes? When are you going to get your
license to drive? When do you plan to
move out of that apartment? When that
day comes, if the air is right, will that move put us in the same living
room? Do you know that these are just
questions? Do you know that I am not
asking for a commitment? Do you know
that I am only asking these questions because I can think of them now, but never
when I am in your presence? Do you know
that that bothers me tremendously? I
can never think of words when I am with you.
I stumble for some semblance of coherence when we talk. Do you know that my flesh burns with desire
for you? Why did you always cover
yourself when we walked around in my home in our carnal suits; without our
disguises of the skin? When we were
naked of clothing, were you also naked of your emotional disguises? Did you continue to hide even then, or was
that really you? Why did you cry that
night that we first made love? Did you
consider it love? Was I gentle? Did I ever hurt you? Did I ever lie to you? Did I hide from you? What could I have done better? Do you know what your touch does to me? Did you like the way I touched you? Do you know that I reveled in your
taste? Do you know that though I have
rearranged and redecorated, even gotten new sheets, that bed still belongs to
you- and that feeling is sometimes hard to ignore when I choose to compromise
myself simply to have company in my bed?
Do you know that I learned my lesson regarding that feeling of
territorial betrayal? Do you want to
recover the copies of my books that your mother shipped to me? Do you still write to me? Did you write for that good little Kansas
boy, Dusty? What about him do you
like? Did you say the word
"love" to him? Did he say it
to you? Was he good to you? Is there meaning behind the hand prints on
the behind of that pair of jeans? Was
he claiming possession of you and that behind? Did he teach you new tricks?
Did I treat you well? Did you
make him scream? Did he make you moan? Did I?
Do you still have Ganesha? Does
he still have his pouch/-resting mat?
Does he sit in or on that grey piece of leather? Is he hidden or is he in a prominent
position? Do you understand the
messages behind the songs I chose to put on "Meaghan's Myx IV"? Do you like those songs and those bands? Would you like another CD? Do you like my stories that I pawn off as
poems? When will you explain your
position on my "poetry"? Do
you want my lips on your arms? Do you
want my breath on your neck? Do you
want my heartbeat on your hand? Do you
realize how grateful I am to have had you in my life? Do you realize how grateful for you I am? Do you smile when you think of the times we
spent together? Do you smile to think
of future encounters? What do you see
when you think of those future encounters?
Are there any times that we shared, thoughts of which bring tears or
anger? Do you like cheesecake? Cherries?
You spent the rest of your first life in this body with me. Do you want to do the same this second time
around- when the time frame isn't premeditated? Do you still believe in the non-existence of a Higher Power? What about gGod and Politics? Do you want to be that "good
woman" I spoke of? Do you know
that you are a good woman? Do you know
up until the week of your rebirth, the only complaint I really had about the
relationship was your mother and her restrictions? Do you know that I became accustomed to that- to the point of
appreciating the midnight curfew- that way I was able to go to bed on time, and
have a reasonable sleep schedule. I
have since broken that, by the way. Do
you know I still have your key? Would
you care to join me for Thanksgiving Dinner?
Christmas Dinner? Kwanzaa? Chanukah?
New Year? My birthday? Tuesday?
Friday? Did you like my
cooking? Did we ever have
pancakes? We never did finish watching
"Quills". That was a great
shirt you were wearing that night. You
are so unbelievably beautiful. Do you
know- do you realize just how beautiful you are? Do you know that you don't need makeup, but I accept that you may
choose to wear it. Do you believe me
when I say that I am in love with you?
That I love you? That you are a
wonderful and amazing woman? That you
are beautiful? That I love the way you
sleep? That I loved waking up to
you? That I want to have that
again? That it is not a
"possession thing"? Did you
question Ryan's motives when the two of you were dating? The fact that a man whom I obviously hurt
(indirectly) then is dating the woman I love?
Do you know that I do not hate him?
That I give him the benefit of the doubt- accepting that I fell in love
with you, some little kid in Kansas fell for you, so why shouldn't this
cat? I do wonder if he did it to hurt
me. If so, did he realize that that was
pulling you into an unrelated situation and that if he hurt you, I would do
everything in my power to rectify that?
That half of Towson would assist me in that? Do you realize that when we started dating, most of northern
Baltimore was against our relationship, but when they met you and saw the two
of us together, they saw differently?
Do you know how many people love you?
Do you see why I was so confused when I visited you in the hospital,
your "Uncle Joe's"? Do you
see why it destroyed me when your mother turned? Do you see from where my powerlessness and despair stemmed that
day? Do you know that I do not hate
your mother? That I am frustrated and
confused, but pure of motive in regards to her? That I hope nothing but the best for both of you? That I would like to think that I factor
into that? Why I say I never saw you
sad? Why I was exasperated at the fact
that you were fucking with the staff?
How long had you been active in your addiction? What brought on your initial drugs of
choice- the self-mutilation, the pills, the booze, the bulimia? How long had you been preparing your
exit? Why didn't you say anything? Even that afternoon at the bagel shoppe when
you said, "I'm just having a REALLY bad day," why didn't you give me
some kind of clue? I remember feeling
odd about the fact that you didn't kiss me when we said goodbye. Do you still have the pin I gave you right
before you went out to use the phone?
Did you mean to leave your bag in my car? Did you mean every word when you told me that you love me? What chance is there that we will be able to
share a pillow again? And not in the
figurative sense, as in the fact that we currently have a mutual friend whom
you dubbed "Pillow", and I continue to call him such.
I don't know... these are but a few of
the ponderances that tend to keep me awake.
I miss you.
I love you.
Until next time, goodbye.
Je t'aime
beaucoup.
-Dave
- - - - -
I think we should write protests against bush trying to spread bad poetry (dickenson). We should protest for local changes; improvements to schools (stop teaching bad poetry; i.e. dickenson), universal health care, state-sponsored events and organizations to better the community of America. That is on what we need to focus.
By protesting the war directly, you assholes are bringing down the morale of the entire country. Shut up and DO something. Plant a tree. Teach your neighbor's kid how to speak french. Volunteer at a homeless shelter.
It doesn't do anything to bitch and moan about a fight that will most likely happen regardless of the circumstances under which the fuse is ignited.
BUT- if we start bettering ourselves, focusing on being productive members of society, focusing on our goals, whether that goal is teaching, building, or demolishing- whatever it is, it helps our nation.
Bush has taken us off course with his crusade. No. This is not a crusade. This is not religious, this is cultural. This is political. He is trying to do what Ronald Reagan and his father did in Russia and the Balkan states. Yes, look at them now, fighting amongst themselves over long dry rivers of discontent, but they are free to fight. Milosevic did many "bad" things. I, personally, feel he "should" be in jail, for what he did was "wrong". Is that to say, if we hadn't helped free them in the 80's, those people would never have died, and Kosovo, Sarajevo, and that their families would be intact?
I doubt it.
These things need to happen.
Nationalism helps us focus on our neighbors and our homes, trying defend that for which our fathers died. These fights are nationalistic pissing contests with forgotten direction and misguided intentions, but without them, we as humans become disenfranchised from our neighbors and stop caring about the consequences, stop caring about schools, health care, welfare, and we simply become apathetic simians roaming the earth in home-made clothes.
yeah apathy... oh... who cares?... whatever...
We need to re-focus our attention on domestic abuse of power. We need to have a gathering of poets for more, new books in schools. "Poets for Universal Health Care". "Poets against State-run schools". "Poets for a state-run School System". "Poets for Poetry".
We need to distract THEM.
We need to make them look at us as responsible people. Not as protest crust punks screaming from the same alleyways in which they sleep because they "won't contribute to a capitalist society...". If we demand these things, they will listen. They will give us some cash to shut us up (read: ::fake cough:: 'reparations' ::fake cough::). Then they will continue choosing the threads with which to weave a carpet-bombing.
I once saw a sticker, "It will be a beautiful day when Schools get all the money they need for books and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber."
Let's aim for that.
Bush has sent us- as a nation- off course with this war. Though I disagree with his methods, he has used the timing of everything as a rationalization and justification for his vendetta. From the tragedy grew the festering gangrene across our nation of anger and hatred, a thirst for the blood of the murderers who robbed us of our families, our security, our sanctity. He acted in the way he and his advisors determined was the best for us as a nation; as a family.
From the battle in Afghanistan, he has rid the world of the Taliban's foothold, forcing the remaining members to flee and hide as rats on a ship. The women of Afghanistan are free. The PEOPLE of Afghanistan are free.
And that is good.
In his continued zealous rage against the people who would so heinously massacre his country, the Greatest Country in the World, the country he swore to protect, he has gone too far, some say. The most powerful man in the world has been shot four times. He got back up. How do you think he feels? Do you honestly think he is a heartless android on a mission to kill all the prisoners, force women to dark alleys with coathangers, and finally demolish the countries who have plagued us and the rest of the world for decades?
He is still a man, regardless of the methods used to buy his throne. Imagine the terrors he must have been feeling for the last 511 nights. Think about the dreams he must have.
So, on February 12, let's go to DC. Let's protest her child abuse (dickenson). Let's ask her to teach our students poetry other than that which our parent's parent's parents were taught back in "The Old Country". Teach them Burroughs, Rexroth, Berg, Smith (Mark), Smith (Patricia), Spinelli. Introduce them to writers they can touch. Teach them poets, dead or alive, who did something. Let's ask her about that mark on your arm that won't go away; she must know the answer, because she seems to be doing well without healthcare. Oh, LB can afford HMO... Lets ask her when the potholes on my street are going to be fixed. Let's ask her where I can get fuel for my Hydrogen-powered car. Let's ask her for a couple of bucks so I can feed my cats.
I don't know about you guys, but I could give a shit about lower taxes- if that money is being given back. My roommates, my friends, my neighbors all spend so much money every year on health-related expenses, more than that damn tax rebate/ refund crap GW pulled. He is trying to pacify us so we won't realize how badly we need better roads, more teachers, more schools, more free clinics, better lighting in parking lots. I know most of these things are not controlled at the state level, but at the State level.
Healing starts closest to the wound. Lick our wounds and ask for some aid. Let's lift our country, not commit to sabotage.
Make things better, not worse. Bring hope, not a perverse mirroring of our leaders mistakes; they are fighting battles that can have no victor, as well are you. You are Tiananmen Square, trampled underfoot. The machines make more noise than voices.
Leave the machines to the storm troopers and drones in the front lines, valiantly serving causes in which they may or may not believe, but they know they are right, whatever the choice may be. They know they fight on the side of honor. True, they may be wrong, but why yell at them?
Let's whisper in the ears of our neighbors, our community leaders, our congressmen, our cabinet, our president. Do not waste your time fighting a fruitless battle, for even if you do temporarily pause the war, my city is still in ruins.
Where were you when we held the Baltimore International Rhythm and Drum Society Festival? Did I see you in Minneapolis at the last National Poetry Slam? Will I see you in front of a classroom someday, teaching my daughter things out of brand new books?
No? Yes? We shall see.
The end result is this: whether we scream in anger to stop a fight, or scream as a rally to clean our streets, the outcome is beyond our control.
I will say this, though: "fuck this war".
-----Anna < > wrote:
Ø Hello friends:I don't normally do mass emails but this is one instance where numbers really matter. February 12 is a National Day of Poetry Against the War. First lady Laura Bush cancelled/postponed a poetry symposium set for the 12th, because she realized that 3,000 + poems would be presented to her against the impending war in Iraq. Her defense was saying she didn't want to "politicize" her event. We are keeping the date and making it a national day of protest. Is there any art form more political than poetry??? Please read the article below from the NY Times. I just went to the poets against the war web site, http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/default.htm which only went online 3 days ago and has already gotten 17,000 hits. This is remarkable! Let's keep the momentum going - even if the Bushes want to hide the public's outcry against this war, we will find another way to make our voices heard! Sending you peace and love –Kelly With Antiwar Poetry Set, Mrs. Bush Postpones Event By ELISABETH BUMILLER
- - - - -
she said it was hollywood
the canadians consoled them when they heard her accent
northern
almost baltimore
with a midwestern hint
their eyes widened with fear and disbelief
and then the smoke
surprise
not a cigarette
a symbol
once two brothers
one shot
two shot
smoking like a twisted butt
pushed in the ashtray between
battery park
and midtown
flattened
afraid of flying
they lie down in their bedrock
with the hearts of thousands
the cries of multitudes and
snap
wake up, america
who you gonna blame?
who you gonna scream at
to yell obscenities for your
lost children
lost sleep
lost tears
lost years?
who you gonna call first to see if they made it?
who you gonna reach for tonight?
who's gonna come home tonight to your empty bed?
how many homes will be emptied for estate sales?
how many mothers will cry tomorrow?
how many brothers will walk into stale apartments when they finally hear?
how many goldfish are still upside down above eviction notices for the unpaid rent of a now-vacant room in the bowery?
these are questions without answers
some willscream "forty-two" at the top of their lungs
until the mice hear them
but it's absurd
Albert Camus does modern-day politics
he'll say it was the sunlight reflecting off the glass and steel
just a cigar with wings that needed a light
wanted to ignite the southern sky
well, icarus, you won't win
like sisyphus, you push your boulder
once
twice
three times
pausing on the fourth to take a nap somewhere in pennsylvania you flew too low this time
and they line the streets screaming
"we will overcome"
and chanting
"never forget"
but this is not about that
this poem is about life
this poem is about love
she tells me of her drive home from Montreal
while we sit
sipping coffee in a diner
smoke-filled section
sugar spilled on the table
as we always have
- - - - -
I don’t say this because I
wasn’t your pity.
fuck pity
and i’m not saying this
because I feel I need your ears
i am saying this because it’s
not easy, tonight
the blonde girl asked me what
happened
and i could only say it
wasn’t the time or place for a story.
my pills won’t let me cry
it’s just not that easy
it isn’t easy tonight to
think about her
she didn’t say goodbye
and it’s not as if i didn’t
already have trust issues
but how easy is it, tonight,
to believe what some new girl says?
i am grateful about the fact
I have learned to walk away,
so i guess i should say thank
you
after all, how can anything
be disappointing, now?
i don’t understand how she’s
changed.
though she rose Tuesday
morning,
when she went to sleep the
night before,
some part of her really did
die
maybe she realized she has a
job to do and she wanted to get back to work
maybe she, for just one
instant, believed in the force that brought her to me
the same force that sent her
away
the same force that woke her
the next morning
the same force that brought
this ink to this page to your eyes
maybe she feared there would
be an angry mob if she didn’t wake after the second night
maybe she realized her job
was done; it was time to move on
she saved my life, and maybe
i returned the favor
i would like to think so
i would like to think she is
well
i would like to think she
knows i am, too
i would like to think she
knows i am and will always be grateful to her
i would like to think she is,
at least somewhere, grateful to me
i would like to think these
things
because if i can see her as a
sad girl
hiding herself from me
because she was afraid and
she just couldn’t take it anymore
couldn’t fake it anymore
didn’t want to make it
anymore
then I could understand why
she didn’t say goodbye
then, it might be okay
then, I wouldn’t feel guilty
then, I wouldn’t blame her to
save myself from damnation
maybe i am seeking redemption
maybe repentance
maybe absolution
maybe understanding
because it’s not easy,
tonight,
to accept she’s gone.
- - - - -
cigarette ember heat
draws past my teeth
floating away into the misty evening
black sky
twilight street
incessant questions in my mind
but never in my mouth
planted firmly in my resentment
fear and insecurity
burn tears across
the flesh-cape of my soul
all this,
when once, you called me "Eliot"
And we wonder,
who waits for us at the other end of the line?
whether the line of ants,
the telephone,
or the line at the grocer
there are nights
I lose sleep over things I have done
there are nights this process of
doubt, remorse, malice, complacency,
and, yes, even forgiveness
is too exhausting
and I find my pillow before i find serenity
always,
on these nights,
i wake up tired and sore
because I am hurting
and I am scornful
and I am afraid
and I am angry
and I am in love with you
and I know I did everything i could
and I know your mother would rather die
than realize she is wrong about me
these lips once breathed love upon your name
these hands grasp at the fears that torture and tear
the thoughts that keep my eyes open
even three days since sleep
i drew questions
trying to get to know you,
but, instead, i pushed you further from my sight
you deny me twice in person
walking away toward some piece of a
peace of mind
mingling with liars
lying to lovers
and others who lie for them
you demand i address you by your name
but i don't know who you are
so if this ink is my liar-smile
then your name shall stand
because your smiles were lies all along
did you lie when you said you love me?
did you lie when you made love with me?
with what do i fabricate these memorials to your words?
is this your exorcism,
having named me your demon?
"your left ventricle
your right lung
your softest parts?"
fingertips grow calloused when run ragged
tired
worn with age
plunging below the surface
but nothing is sharp enough
nothing is strong enough
to dig these maladjusted malignancies
from beneath my thumbs
to allow me to release this tightrope from which I fell
but now hold so close in the hope you might ask me to dance once more
though i accepted the position of
dust puddle
in the shadow of your closet,
you walked away
allowing me to be inhaled by the vacuum of
a silent telephone
and a barren doorstep
i commit sins in
our bed
in
our room
with
your photograph
still in
my top-drawer
next to
your poetry
and mine
our poetry
and our memories still rumbling around in my head
so I run from the skeletal remains of this house
hoping to find solace
in the echoing chambers
of bare walls
forming empty rooms
which will be Mine
stale air
and smoke-stains
will run
as I try to move on
as I pretend to roll along
with all of this rolling behind me
like tin cans on pavement
if you want me to stop,
speak up.
tell me I am no longer the reason for which you live
and I will burn pyres for the death of those dreams
you know i am strong enough
because if you lie to me
as you have so many times before
i promise
i will believe
but words of hope
followed by blank pages
breed chaos
with which I can do nothing
but scream angry words at myself
in failed attempts
to learn
how not to love you
- - - - -
We have played all these characters behind steering wheels and dash-board homes. Pieces of Naruda making a puzzle that only a shift of the head or hand or heart or hurt can do what the kings men could not. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons that never knew sugar.
And so now begins the healing; the re-education of atrophied emotions and words to form the lips of this graceful tongue. I will whitewash your pearls painted on my bedroom walls and prepare for another oyster.
This is the shock of being right.
This is the surprise of guessing the real killer long before the blood has been shed
But there was no blood here
Only coffee and chocolate
I talked tonight about gGod and politics, like you and I did when you told me you had lied.
The insense of my actions leaves me wondering if I could have changed this. My ceiling is black from smoke and the charred embers of incense rods and cones can’t help me see any clearer.
I know I no longer will jump at the phone to see if it is you. I have always loved you, but it is my turn to be selfish.
We found each other
Groping in the dark for something to light the way
You say I made you think twice about giving up
The question pounded around in your head
Until you fell off the wall
Your disappointment at your failure made you flair in distress
And still I say your strength is impressive.
Everything was a choice to which you gave your everything.
Even your weakness was a decision.
Now I have something tangible to which I can hold on.
You cut the tightrope,
Letting me down for the last time,
So now I can choose how to land.
- - - - -
who bred this pensive demon?
the creature that questions your love for me
the one that questions your capacity for love at all
the one that brings this lack of peace
begging to know what i believed
and what was truth
we danced
twenty two days after my lips
first drank from the grail of your mouth
and now you say i was the aggressor?
now you deny
to my face
any responsibility
for the greatest thing you will ever know
you took in your hands
the most gentle thing
that you will ever touch
and you lied to it
broke my spine with
your smiles
your ink
your touch
in my arms
you knew for the first time
what is love
in your countless centuries of existence
the person hiding from me now
is not the woman i once knew
is not the woman i still long for
in the howl of the night
this woman disguising herself as strong and bold
is even more a coward than her mother
and even more a liar than her other
this is not the sweet child who once talked of exorcisms
i am still your softest parts
for you have imparted them to me
you are petrified marrow
sucking the tar from your fingers because you fear to inhale
i am still your left ventricle
for i am what is left when you are dry
i am still your right lung
for the only words you ever breathed within
without me
were wrongful airs
apparent to all but me
so arrogant are you
you would take a god to the wall
shattering the symbol of strength
you gave me
when you loved me
and i gave you
when you needed him
everything that has happened since you came part of my life
has been for you
yet now, you take advantage of some frightened boy
who knows not even how to spell the incantations
we chanted in hurried nights of secret love
always, in the morning
i would return you to the pond
where we would part
you went to her in amphibious clothing
and lied about your sickness
and she believed you
just as i did
because we loved you
because i still do
i still want to cup your head in my palm
i still want to feel your breasts against my chest
i still want to drink your sacred tears
i still want to feel the heat of your thighs
intertwined with mine
because i want any time i could possibly command
to be locked in your heart
though, i know it can never be
i question whether you still confess
your little red secret
to the gods in whom you place no faith
does this boy who is your man
know the way you looked at me?
it is fitting i would meet the destruction of my god’s face
at the same place you and i knew as sanctuary
now a home forbidden to you
it is just as fitting
you would now carry about a puppet you met in jack’s vagina
because i am everyone who was not there
and could not hear you write me off one last time
i am the man who would risk
falling to concrete just to answer your call
simply to hear you say
love was the money in the payphone from which you rang
a thousand miles away
even if only for a moment’s worth of time
in this puny existence
so you could remember that which makes it all worthwhile
i know you will never be happy
you will never know solace
you will never be whole
you have violate the one thing more universal than mathematics
the one thing more valuable than gold, oil, or spice
the one trust that can bring peace to homes
the one thing i always believed in you
the one thing i never doubted about you
the one thing i never questioned in your touch
the one thing that made it worth waiting and the pains of seeing you die
the one thing that remains after these softest parts have been disembodied
the one thing that is still part of the air i breathe when i call your name in the damp coldness of the night
knowing you are dead
but still you walk
the one thing that can make us all whole-
love
- - - - -
Liquid coal burns bitter
Down my throat
Into my belly
Struggling to keep my eyes open
In the sour darkness of silence
You appear with diamonds in the souls of your eyes
And stargazers sewn together as your skin
How, with fire-hair and electric skin,
Did you surprise Artemis
And, so doing,
Steal the sickle of the moon?
With the grace of ten-thousand butterflies
Floated you down to my door
Clearing the overgrowth of solitude from my walls
So confident,
You robbed sunlight of herself
And, to show off,
You wear her on your face with your smile
Daring her to try to escape
I won’t ask why you came here,
But I am asking you to stay
You called out to me
Will you call my name
The way I want to howl yours
Running feral through my bloodstream
Swimming through the forest
I want to feel your naked flesh against my back
Your hand on my chest
Your breath upon my neck
With whose hand do we draw the line
Between fear and desire
Who decides to say
“I Dare”
Instead of turning about
To descend the stair
Is there a way to reveal these thoughts
Without hiding behind these beautiful warriors of ink?
I want to know what you smell like at dawn
Before the taking of tea and cakes and ices
I want to feed your dreams
About cows and a drowsy father
Somehow draw out the warmth of your skin into my room
And never be cold again.
- - - - -
i didn't leave construction equipment at your door this time because i am not sure what we are building
it is all so beautiful
you are beautiful
i am beautiful
the moon is beautiful as
one third of a candle drips its way across the water toward our naked bodies
struggling to walk across rocks and algae-covered timbres
your small breasts curve upward
with your raised arms as you
pull your hair from your eyes to watch the clouds drift peacefully above us
you shudder as a shiver sends glitter from your glistening hip
like a disco dance floor and i want to touch you,
but you are ripples on a pond
and to touch the surface only makes the waves run away
it is all so beautiful
we sit on a folded blue cloth with baby tigers covering us to keep us warm
were it not for the movement,
the lake would seem frozen
a mirror of the sky
the moon a thousand strikes of light across the surface
and we shiver together
teeth colliding
resonating like makeshift drums in subway tunnel stops
and street corners
you are curled fetal
and your back is a wet stone staircase
you lean into my touch
unafraid, welcoming.
lightly, afraid, i kiss your neck
you are frozen in time
as i make a photograph of this moment
your hair is short like the roaring 20s
and is still wet
and i run my fingers through that rainforest
feeling your energy
pulse beneath my fingertips
before i can ask to touch your lips
you say it's time to leave
it is so beautiful
forests flying by at 50
bugs reflecting off headlamps
now 60 as we ride onto the blacktop rollercoaster
now streetlights at 75
feeling like batman
but i want to take time
make this last
to simply be
hear you
now
but i won't waste your time
won't you wrap your waist around me?
take my head in your palms and pull me into you
i don't know how to say these things
instead i turn
stealing flowers from the highway
hoping to make you blush
i couldn't see you,
but i know i heard you laugh
and i know you heard my invitation
you are so beautiful
standing there in my t-shirt
pale legs disappearing under the grey cowl
your slowly-drying hair
curls flirtatiously as you sprawl across my bed
place your head on my chest
i want to love you
we flitter in and out of consciousness
i realize you will still be here
when the sun and i wake up
so i turn off the light and crawl back into bed
next to your sleeping beauty
the morning is so beautiful
and the air is cool as we run down charles st.
singing because i have no radio
and you say this is you at your worst
when you have just woken up
i laugh, saying to myself
i have seen you dressed up
and i have seen you naked
and i call you beautiful
i have see you awake
and i have seen you asleep
and i name you beautiful
i have seen you full of energy
and i have seen you groggy and disoriented
and still i see you as beautiful
you are so beautiful
as you prance across the street to your home
and i drive away
- - - - -
you can lead a pen to paper
but you can’t make it bleed
i am not a poet
i am a writer
with Arabic numerals
and a European alphabet,
i corrode paper wherever i can find her
tattooing these bleached flecks of bark
until my fingers ache
and my well runs dry
hunger borne on my sleeve like a black armband
we cannot live our lives on diner napkins and stale notebooks
but we can try
i can point to an isolated piece of land on a map
and name her “Noman”
i fear the day my shrink shows up
at a slam when my words take flight
because i am not a poet
i am a storyteller
chanting incantations into the damp light
of coffee-bar basements
telling the stories of nights spent in the arms of a random lover
each week a new fantasy
some even dare to mingle with reality
when i choose honesty upon the page
but it is all occluded with metaphors and imagery
deception trying to lead you to thoughts i cannot bear
because i am a liar
not a poet
omission
half-truth
misdirection
angels envy my powers of illusion
as i make my life look good on paper
i can draw sympathy or pity
malice or contentment
remorse and contention
all with a flick of my pen
a spattering of ink
across the faces of both lover and fighter
because i am both
yet neither,
i am a poet.
- - - - -
for
Chris G.
In times of doubt, a belt will usually work just as well
Darkness breeds the fear of things unknown,
Pushing thoughts of ambition to the wallpaper
We threaten ourselves with success,
Knowing failure and the concern it brings are unwanted disturbances
Always something sturdy
We don’t want the sky to fall
Etiquette teaches us when we should say things like
Hello and goodbye
And how to do such things
In times like this,
We don’t want to offend people and sour their opinions of us
Be sure to stand squarely
We wouldn’t want to lose our balance
It would be quite embarrassing to be found unconscious on the floor
At this point,
Thinking clearly is irrelevant
The decision has been made
But I have questions:
Why didn’t you say goodbye?
Why did you shave your head?
Why here?
Why now?
These are questions I have asked too many thousands of times
Questions I thought I wouldn’t have to ask you
But here I am
Chanting inquisitions into the starlight
Alone
Wondering where you could be
Where have you gone?
And I will go on asking these things
Until I see the inscriptions of memories passed into the darkness of youth
How long was your hair before that night?
Did you sprinkle hair-crumbs to find your way home?
Or did you throw it into the air like smoke
As a distraction while you ran?
Why did you run?
From what did you run?
I will ask questions
For there are no answers to these ponderances because you aren’t there to give me that peace.
Instead you kicked the chair to the side
Or, maybe simply stepped with both feet from your podium
I can only wonder the sick music your floor must have made as the chair skittered to the safety of the corner
The soft moan of the rafters suddenly beset by your meager weight
What did they say when they cut you down from your dross?
What did they say when they lowered you into your bed?
Were their questions as insistent as mine?
Why didn’t you answer before these questions needed to be asked?
I would like to end this letter with a question mark
Because I still have no answers
I now ask myself if I could have changed anything had I known you were walking in the shadows
Of your fear and self-doubt
Because you need to know I have been there
I have stared at tile walls with prayers to gGods I stopped believing in my head
Begging to plunge my bones into the grout-encrusted cracks to pull those bullshit thoughts past my eyes
I have run knives across my teeth
Contemplating the removal of my tongue
So I could never plead for forgiveness I didn’t earn
I have tamed horses with my veins
And lightening with my nose
Running from my reflection
I have often wondered
If a belt would work as well as rope
Because I never learned to tie knots
I have smoked the darkness into my lungs
Until everything was the inside of my sheets
Because I was afraid to turn on the lights of my room
I was afraid to ask for help
I was afraid to say anything
Because I was afraid to miss the comfort of sadness
But I learned I have a job to do
And I can’t help those children
Trying to teach English from a casket
But I know that fear
I know that darkness
I know there was another choice you could have made
But you made
That
Choice and we can only sit
And hold each other’s hands
In our confused heads
As we bless you goodbye
- - - - -
I am not the catalyst to this reaction. Maybe it is the coffee, maybe the poetry, maybe the fog slinking in from the sea. We are motionless in the myst, and I want for to hold your hand,
but my hands are numb and can't move.
The air chills our breath and I can see your words wafting toward me. There is a pounding in my chest from fire drums and I can't look at the embers in your eyes without wanting to run with you,
but my legs are numb and can't move.
I want to speak your name; to caress every syllable with a carnivore's grace; to taste every movement of the teeth and tongue; to lick your ears with whatever feeble sounds I can create with this thin body I am trying to ask you to touch,
but my lips are numb and can't move.
these
unthinkable things I will blame on you.
Choosing to allow her to sway your will and not grab that which you
want, allowing the water to weather your hide and penetrate to shape your
thoughts and wants. why didn't you
fight for me when you had the chance?
Why didn't you tell her?
These
unspeakable things I will blame on her.
She allowed her own insanity to destroy what you wanted and you
needed. She knows I was good to and for
you. She knows I loved and still love
you.
These
Unspeakable things I will blame on myself.
In my misguided attempts to save things that were not and are not mine
to save, I destroyed those same things, throwing you from my touch and my
sight. Out of rebellion against the fear
and pain I felt, I betrayed your trust, ever further plowing into you and
tearing apart what you thought you knew.
love
comes and goes; fading like characters carved into a wall that has been left in
the elements for far too long. the
message becomes convoluted and volatile.
from love stems hatred; from hatred comes remorse; from remorse comes
the memory of love lingering in the soft-lit corners of the heart, though the
heart has long since ceased searching for meaning in the words of a false
gGod-of-love, following now the prophet of a new religion, showing the failures
of former gGods and the shortcomings of blind faith in small women who smile
too much and always have a good answer to every question. the followers of new religions try to rationalize
their progress as hatred for the false prophets and lying smiles of the former
faith.
there is a great deal of fear involved with past relationships and the aftermath thereof. This fear, for some, stems from the desire for closure conflicting with the knowledge that closure may not occur in the desired manner; thus closure must be postponed until such time as the desired outcome is at least remotely possible.
219 Fairies dance in my mind whispering questions in the darkness chanting Michelangelo as they walk in and out of rooms padding across the canvas of the insides of eyelids. These sprites are not crazy, no. They are more in touch with the true meaning of things left unsaid than the lips that hold in those thoughts. These petite alabaster butterflies can see into the hearts of men and pull down the shades of illusion. This orchestra of painted creatures plays a tapestry on my bedroom wall, illuminating the words on pages no one dares read for fear of being too weak to release the images from their eyes. 219 Fairies flitter far and near like waves on Cape Cod and sunsets in the desert.
These sprites are not crazy, no. They are more in touch with the true meaning of things left unsaid than the lips that hold in those thoughts.
There are things I'd like to say to you, but I know not the words. Words are meaningless these days, but nonetheless, I wish I spoke that language of the stars and moon; the one where I can say "I love you" and you will hear and understand.
If I lied and said,
"I love you,"
would you believe me?
If I cried and said,
"I miss you,"
would you let me back in?
If I tried to believe
I don't know you,
Could I walk away?
- - - - -
and, yet, somehow i had no idea what you meant when you said
"come in, you
sexy-mother-fuckin'-
love-muffin"
enter
spin
turn the lock
fold the 4x6 notepaper so it fits in my pocket
and walk into your empty living room
half expecting to see you sprawled
naked on your bedroom floor
you greet me with a smile
you are unpredictable in your ways
as we sit and look through
your eyes at the past
before going to your kitchen to play
with dough and electric fire
I ask if i am supposed to stay
and you say
the choice is mine
when i awoke and dressed for work
there was no kiss goodbye
and i was afraid i had misunderstood
the messages in your touch
when you randomly grab
my anticipation
with your fingers
- - -
- -
you're
trying to hold on to the past
but
you have both hands cuffed behind your back.
what
is imprisoning your heart?
Is it
the two princes here before you,
each
wanting to be your king?
But
who am I,
when
his name still marks your days?
And
who am I,
when
his two faces still watch you while you sleep?
And
what happens when I share your pillow?
Does
he turn the other cheek,
or is
he frozen in your past,
being
pulled behind you with your shackles?
But
who am I?
I am
just some product of the '80's and '90's
in
White Suburban America.
A
hippie, sure, but thanks to you, I took a shower today.
A
Christian, no, but I do believe in gGod.
I also
believe in reincarnation
and
soulmates
and
monogamy
and
marriage
and
good steaks
and
taxes
and
cable tx
and
feminsm
and
you
I
believe in the way we kiss
I
believe in the things you say to me when I am afraid
I
believe in your breasts when we are naked
I
believe in the potions we make when we become one body
So
what could I possibly ask of you when you seem to give me everything you are?
I want
you to be the mother of my dreams,
to
weave them with the strands of your hair
to
roll photographs of happy families
and
laughing children
and
the two of us
and
stick them my ears while I sleep so
I can
see them on my eyes when I wake,
superimposed
above the monotony of everyday
I want
to feel your skin around me
I want
to feel your skin inside my chest
breathing
with me
I want
you to sing my dreams to me
like
an indian sage
telling
the story of the
lotus-footed
child
these
are my dreams
and
dreams are the prayers of the soul
direct
from the well-spring
free
from the fears of consciousness.
I
dream these things for us.
I
dream for you to be happy
a dark
room in your basement will produce
the
tangible artifacts of your memories
as you
follow in the footsteps of
Annie
Leibowitz or Herb Ritz
or
even just your lens.
I
dream for myself a life pouring my blood
to
teen-aged elders from whom I will remember
what
it is to be this young,
a
post-modern, post-teen outcome of
Transformers,
He-Man, and the Powerpuff Girls.
And I
know this passion is a challenge,
but we
will not be 1986
we
will not get this high
only
to explode because of an overlooked
and
frozen piece of our propeller
I know
because it has happened before
I know
I am wrong sometimes
I know
I am not this time
just
as I know our king
placed
his crown upon his own brow,
handed
by his brother,
but
those are the facts and I can't change the truth
and I
can't make you dream about me.
I
can't be the orgasm of your soul
if
that parking space is reserved
for
the former head-of-state,
but I
can be the better man,
and,
though I prefer to wear a skirt,
I can
still wear the pants
if
that's what you need.
I have
washed my face and my hair for you.
Can
you not paint your walls and wash your hands for me?
- - - - -
for Rob Templeton
i am
that i am
that i am
i am that large gay man in the wheelchair weeping tears the size of fists as the pressure pushes against the inside of my head and my heart hangs heavy against the underside of my chest
i am mark twain
miles rides the el while waters croons a blue note while we are gathered here to get through this thing called "life"
while YOU are gathered her to get through this thing called "life". i said
oh, momma
we been dancing too long
i said
a-oh, momma
we been dancing
for way too long
momma, won't you lay my head down?
I think it's time to go
poppa's calling from saint louis
he says it's time to come home
we bathe on the shores of the american ganges, humming holy hymns to fallen heroes who will one day be the mythical characters i will one day tell my children so they will sleep well knowing there once was a bull named Templeton who sang the blues in a baltimore basement
how his powerful legs could once lift him onto a stage
how i saw him walk once
or twice
or a thousand times
but in his last days he chose to remain seated while we took for granted the medicinal jazz our feet make while we keep dancing.
like Zeus, he watched us, and sang about us, knowing that if he stood, the pillars would indeed collapse
the pressure's cooking like a kettle on the fire
i said i need you, momma
i said the pressure's cooking like a kettle on the fire
i said a-oh, momma, we been-
we been-
i can't
i can't find the word
i know it was here
i know it is...
i know it is...
i said i need you, momma
poppa's calling from saint louis
he said it's time to come home
we been
dancing
too long
- - - - -
Fanatics never run out
of money
followers
or breath
They can nationalise countless numbers to be their voice
each willing to die for 'The Cause'
so that's who i want as my block leader
that fanatic
not the local pimp
which is why i say we need more people like
bin Laden
running our communities.
We need to harness that inspiration,
that perspiration
motivation
dedication
But we need to put it toward healing,
not hurting
We need money and power and influence
and a whole army of followers
not ready to die for the cause
but to live for it-
We can't fight if we're dead
It seems
sometimes
the only things for which our children are willing to live or die
are sex
drugs
and everything that comes with
the sex and the drugs
except, of course, the consequences
They're pulling the heavy artilliary out of the classrooms
to go squat in alleys
huffing glue or riding horses
all the way down Plano parkway.
Instead of their grey software,
they're packing chrome hardware
thinking they're "hard"
if they wear a piece
and place pornos in their backpacks
where they should be packing the heat
of a history textbook
or their english homework
but they're not going home to work
they're working each other on the streets
thinking life must be a game
since it's so damned cool to be "a player"
MTV, BET, and now even CNN are telling me so
and if it's on TV,
it must be the truth, right?
But who am I to talk?
After all, while pretending to try to achieve an education,
I pissed away my time at parties
watching my peers piss away their parent's Wall Street winnings
at a Thirty-Thousand Dollar per year
private university
After all, how can I hope to change the world
if I won't first change myself?
That is why i say we need leaders;
we need someone to pull us down from our horses
and up from our houses
to howl a battle cry into the night for our sons and our daughters
to remind our children and our selves our most powerful weapons are beneath our skin
to bring us together, not as Three-Hundred-Million
terrified voices, but as One
solid and unrelenting
calling out so loud
we all forget our names and races
but remember what our place is
whether it's teaching high school English
travelling the world to experience something other than
the Discovery Travel Channel
or just being a celler-dweller here in Baltimore
trying to feed my cats and crawl my way out of debt
But, I ask you to understand something:
when I was a senior in High school,
i realised I need to be one of those fanatics
i need to be in front of the class, not just in the top Ten percent
I have since come to the understanding
that while I am currently still a cricket singing in the subway somewhere
one day, I will conduct entire orchestras of small bodies
with huge potential
that is my dream
that is what I will live for
I am that fanatic
this is my dream
this is what I will live for
I am that fanatic
This is what I will fight for
and I need to know:
Who's with me?
- - - - -
Companion to “Dirges of What you Never Were” by Chris
August
cold hands
weak in the snow
sweat freezing on my brow
as i walk through the rain
pretending not to notice
the cracks in the pavement
stepping over broken glass
a streetlamp flickers
and cuts off
and i think of your eyes
as you blink
and close
and turn
but never step away
simply standing silent
in my doorway
and i don’t know what to do
i want to clutch your shoulders
and throw you to the ground
i want to pull your hands
into my head and my chest
so you will see the tumors
festering inside
because you don’t talk
you don’t touch me
you don’t looke at me anymore
your stare is occupied
but your thoughts never vacate
to travel to my hands
so I can eat your words
that they may bring rest
and you can finally step away from this
from the pain i’ve caused you
and from your own frozen presence
we need to take this thing we share
and place it on the steel slab
so we may free our hands of this
- - - - -
pink and grey,
my hands are scarred from this
simple actions
the turning of screw
flipping of switches
folding of sheets
i have no cables to pull for you
no dice to throw
question my authority on these things
you will see i don’t know, either
tell me the answers to my dilemmas
and i will scoff at you
but help me find the ransom
to the things keeping me awake
because sometimes i find myself
plunging my fingers into flesh
with neither reason
nor direction
and when they find my own skin
my fingers become
pointless objects
and redundancies
occasionally making music
or journeying across the pale landscapes
of neighbors bodies
but not much more
sometimes,
i wish my hands were trumpets
sometimes flashlights
sometimes love, itself
they are pink from cold
and grey from working so hard
to grasp at thin whisps
of promises and assumptions
so quick to lunge for opportunity
in inexpensive endeavours
of transportation
comfort
pleasure pain
perversion
passive smiles and pleasantries
blown away with cigarette smoke
because i want more
because i am looking forward
to those latter stages of life
when there is no more
“i will”
only
“i have” and “i am” and “i do”
and i do
love all those pretty things
who have come and gone
and i know i am but a flicker in their memories
passed into the back of their attic
to collect dust and mites
but that is good
that is who they choose to be
i am not the same.
- - - - -
It's cold in my bed as I struggle for sleep
I am alone
and my knees sit uncomfortably atop each other
as I roll onto my side,
thinking incorrectly that this will help me find sleep sooner.
I lie here with my eyes closed but my heart open.
I am letting the thoughts roll through my mind
the way truckers roll through Virginia at 3am.
My bed is cold and every time I shift my weight,
I am greeted by the frosty wasteland.
The sheets are torn,
but from age,
not lovers.
The pillows offer little comfort,
but I clutch one,
I place another at my back,
and still another under my head.
I place one hand on my chest and the other on my crotch.
Removing the hand from my shivering breast,
I reach out to my nightstand and place my hand on the silver fire,
armed with bullets of nicotine.
I use the flame to find the light switch.
I confirm- as I do every night- that the shadows are of the lamp and the computer,
not a voyeuristic lover.
I debate getting a cup of coffee,
but I have work in five hours,
so I decide against it.
It's cold in my bed as I struggle for sleep.
I do not want to be alone.
I want to feel firm womanhood upon my back,
fingers through my hair,
and a hand that has fingernails on my chest.
I want to wake to a pair of brown eyes framed by dark hair,
and a bed that is still warm from the burning love of the night before.
But tonight it is cold
while I wait for dreams.
- - - - -
i want to ask you to swim with me
i want to carry you with me
being carried by you
being carried in the wind
i want to touch you with the heat of a thousand summer suns
with the cold of northern lakes
i want to sing you a joyful girl
a campfire
a patchwork quilt
i want to listen to you tell me stories of unicorns
city streets
constellations
- - - - -
For Gina, my little Cricket
it's really not that big a deal
8th grad graduation
still not quite tall enough to reach the cookie jar atop the fridge
still frowned upon by most everyone over the age of 14
you can't go to "R"-rated movies
you can't drive yourself to the skating rink
life won't even let you cross the street
without holding someone's hand
so, it's not that big a deal
a commencement ceremony
pomp and circumstance
hour long speeches and walks across mile-long stages
for what?
a scroll of paper that gives you permission
to get shoved into lockers next fall?
the name even states this is only a beginning
so why all the fuss?
pump out your chest
pull back your shoulders
hold high your chin
and dig in
ready for what's next
the aptly-named processional
reminds us that now you are responsible
for what you do
what you say
what you think
what you are
you'll stand up
walk across that stage
and step down
just like you have done these last three years
and you are about to do it again,
raise yourself to the stage of High School
land of pimples and the varsity quarterback
cheerleaders
SAT, AP, GT, IB
competition for scholarships
prom
dating
all resulting in but another
commencement ceremony
it's not changing the world
it's only choosing your path
you'll do another four years
followed by a job or college or exploration
you will find yourself
and in doing so
you will change
but, in changing yourself
others will follow your light
this is a beginning
as a beginning
it is an acknowledgement of
time and her power
it's funny, though
no matter what befalls us
when we wake up
it is always today
tomorrow never comes
yesterday is like a viewmaster
and every night when you lay down your head
you are pulling the orange lever
waking, there's a different yesterday and a new today
so, today is the best day of your life
and so it will always be
we can't keep saying
i'll do it tomorrow
leave that behind along with
the awkwardness of 6th
the middle ground of 7th
and this transitional 8th
today is the only day you have
and yes,
this is the part where i get
teary-eyed and preachy
telling you thinks you already know
i love you
i'm proud of you
it is wonderful to see you
so strong
so beautiful
so talented
with lenses,
all lights can be sharp
and so with focus,
you cill carve like a laser
through all who would try to grind you down
your first and most important job
is self-preservation
put your fingerto your neck
if it pulses with the liquid fire of life
you are doing a perfect job
everything else is icing
everything else is a bonus
everything else is a gift-
that's why they call it the "present"
anything you want of need is within your grasp
visualise it being in your hand
when you open your eyes
it will be ther
you know what you need to do
so go out and d oit
just do what you need to do
to do what you need to do
today
you are being released into adolescence
the land of puberty and perceived imperfection
but also the stairway to more todays
there is no elevator to adulthood
so keep taking those steps
huge bag of books on your back
huge list of assignments on your mind
all leading to another graduation
on another today
so,
i guess this is a big deal
this is paramount
today is the most important day of your life
today is the best day of your life
may you always remember that
and that i am proud of you
and that i love you
and every today
is the best day of your life.
- - - - -
streetlamp light shimmers
through the camera's eye
as i walk across brick
in an impressionist painting
focus is lost watching numbers
float by on the face of my wrist
as footsteps and engines collide
in a symphonic revolution of night
we wonder if california is exciting or painful
but minneapolis is daring us as we sit motionless
with the potomic air in our lungs
light another cigarette
watch the people shimmer
pay your check
walk away
- - - - -
For
Anna
"All Things Being Equal"
-Nothing Ever Is
"you've never experienced this rollercoaster we call 'The Pilot'".
guiding us up and down
the loop-de-loop
the turns
some call it a disorder
others call it simply life
still more say it is refusal
to accept life
who's to say what is the real answer?
some say ambition bites the nails of success
but at what point do we stop dreaming
and start doing?
i beg these questions
because i fear my own complacency
i see you wandering
and i say you've never experienced it
because it seems
at times
you ARE the pilot.
you are at the helm
riding seaward
waves like irish hills
never hit the breaks in the middle of a turn.
i had built my life around you when we were young
you were the constant
and now you move so fast
only pure energy can propel you at such speed
but i hear your doppler phonecalls
and coffeebar emails
proclaiming the joys of freedom
this is how you found your ground
your constant
-in motion
everything is relative
and maybe to you
I am the reckess one
grasping at a piece of land
you force acceptance when I say
i want to be the landlord
and you say you are again heading east
to capture man's dream of
commanding the winds with
bedsheets and a yard-stick
i can only utter
i love you
and watch you walk away
you keep stressing time
time
time
you're not going to see me for at least a few years
but that means nothing to me
even time is relative
how fast does time travel in your universe?
i don't understand you
maybe i have become so trapped in my small world
becoming smaller
focusing on my eyes and ears
not concerned with yesterday
and the so-called mistakes
so common with every age
but associated with the
foolish days of youth
maybe it is because of these things
i don't realise what you mean when you say years
i have grown so used to your transience
it no longer seems strange to hear you
say goodbye
but now i want to drive
now i want to get out of her again
i want to make phone calls and set dates and meetings
shows and events
but maybe i am afraid
maybe i have become so used to having a bed i really call mine
and a home i call my own
i don't understand the state of flux
in which you live
and i don't know if you can see i have finally achieved part of my american dream
even if it is simply slowing down and already having money in my pocket when i get paid
and i love this solid footing
but everything is relative
and maybe you need to feel
swaying planks
and spray mist of air
for you to feel safe
and it's this law of relative relativity
that bothers me
i want to synchronize swatches
and see where the dials land
when you do, too.
- - - - -
i can feel it behind the door of my small, smiling, blue faced shield
lurking like a murder in the shadows of my closet
hiding under my bed
sleeping in my shoes
waiting for me to venture out
one foot over the mattress
down to the floor
two feet
remember: toes go in first
waiting in the dark of my boots?
stinger bared?
i tend to avoid these thoughts in th same way
we tell ourselves there is
nothing sneaking about in the unlit portions
the monsters are really shadows
cast by the night lamp on the wall
- - - - -
For
Anna
Ilyaimy. Be Well.
this is when it hits me
in these moments of silence
thinking of you
staring at glossy 3x5 photographs of a smiling and playing blonde girl who doesn't realise
how great she has become
or how much greater she will become
and these thoughts are powerful enough
to break through my blue army
and allow me to quencg the thirst of memory
with oceans upon which you will glide
returning home,
Persephone
going back to your earth-mother
of the days when there is no shore
to which to swim
only a cloud-filled sky
where my dreams reside
waiting for me to pluck them down
your dreams await you like fish
prepared for your left hook
right into the gut
of things better left unsaid
you wake up and make your bed
so you can't sleep in it
so you can never quit it
with your will in action
and i don't know how to show
i love you
when i can't see you
and even your foreign letters
can't put you in this room with me
- - - - -
for
stephanie
we have come to shed ourselves of our sin
to shed our skin
to cleanse our hands and our palettes
we have no conception of time because time doesn't matter
she wrote me letters and poetry
and i kept them
i wrote her letters and poetry
and she still speaks of them
with fondness to her friends who never knew me
though she speaks ill of me to herself
so she won't feel bad
we come to put down these memories
like lame horses
rabid dogs
comatose relatives
we come to pull the plug
she loved me more than i can describe
and i loved her with everything i was
i knew nothing but her skin
i tasted nothing but her smell
in my morning evening night coffee
we still speak well of each other
we still speak of those times with reverence
and longing
though we know it would have ended soon anyway
or, at least we say that to ourselves
when we are alone
in the twilight just before sleep
so we can shut our eyes
we come to tell you of our conquests
our tales of reverie and joy
we come to invite you into our pasts
to sit like children in their
granma's kitchen, waiting for a pie
or a story
or a game of solitaire
I would watch her sitting at her kitchen table
playing Klondike for hours
no variance
shuffle, deal, three up...
her husband handed my father a gun and said,
'keep my little girl safe with this'
and my father agreed
we come to expect applause
we come to ask why our fathers
aren't always here
he come to ask where were our mothers
when we needed them
we come to ask why we must learn to walk
when crawling was fine before
i awoke to the screams
thinking nightmare
then assuming good sex
then knowing the howl of terror and pain
they stood at the top of my stairs and told me
there had been a threat and there were now police
in my house
in my home
and she kept screaming
we were told to open the windows, which we did
she was hitting the officers when they brought her downstairs.
he came down later, very sedate
pepper-spray will do that to you
she was released that night, and came back
to my house
to my home
he was still in a cell, 'making friends,' as she put it
and he would most likely be there for a while
i told her she couldn't stay
she said she knew
i told her she needed to pay
she said she couldn't
my house is sad now
she tries to protect us
and is sorry something hurt us
inside her walls
and she was powerless to stop it
i told her it wasn't her fault
and thanked her for being here
we have come to cry
we have come to laugh
we have come to bitch
we have come to break things
we have come to break knees
we have come to get laid
we have come to find love
we have come to drink coffee
pay our check
tip well
thank the waitress
and leave
when all is said and done
that is all
and that is good.
- - - - -
i do not like the silence
there is fear in those quiet
moments
and so i write my foolish
meanderings
and i tell my foolish stories
how we are named
lose our touch
forget to say ‘i love you’
and are all destined to be
alone
i am the only one who can
save me
i am the key to my salvation
thus, i am god
thus, you are god
she is god
we are god
we pray to false idols in the
hope
that prayer will open some
door inside us
he, with the elephant face,
is but a mirror of our own
perfection
he, with bleeding wrists,
a model of honor and
restraint
there are times i crucify
myself
because i have no wish to
move on
is this perfection?
these moments are short,
ineffectual children
passed into the dust of the
past
we speak of them as if they
are still alive
tell their story as a war
hero
a tall man
a mother obsessed with
cleanliness
but when we are done
have we affected anything?
when you talk to me
i feel as if you know i am
listening
i believe you when you
breathe
you reached for me
put your arms around me
held me in
and i was afraid
i reached for you
put my arms around you
held you in
and i was afraid
most people consider these
things
harmless encounters
but there is healing in touch
i was never taught how to
show interests
i run on instinctual
reactions and impulse decisions,
robbing fruit
or molding notes into
coasters
pushing digits in plastic
because i don’t know what
else to do
i know i don’t need to
impress myself upon you
but i fear you will forget
about me
that is why i don’t wait for
your call
in my perverse optimism
i have determined you will
never call
you don’t know my jellical
name
will never cry out for me
through the walls
in this way
should you happen to stumble
across numbers
with my name above them
i will be surprised
i will be wrong
i live for the times i am
wrong
only then can i be humble in
the faces of gods
only then can i grow
i cannot learn if everybody
loves me
i will never change
but when i am shunned
when i am turned away
then i can begin to evolve
into something more beautiful
they say they know what is
poetry
that poetry must allude to
questions
and imply answers
but, i have bluntly described
my dilemmas
and forthright asked
questions
i don’t even wish answered
but this is a poem
i have already determined i
am god
and in my divinity
i declare it to be as such
and it is good
but i have already determined
you are god
and in your divinity
you will decide if this is
poetry
or just the meaningless
ranting
of a lesser deity
this is not a love poem
this is not a manifesto
this is but a letter
never meant to be sent
this is a definition
not a disclaimer
a decision made
without debating the
consequences
i would like to think i wrote
this for you
but i admit
i might be wrong.
- - - - -
I've been dreaming lately
I saw her as she came in through the bathroom window
modern artist-come-punk
hair hanging in her eyes
some held back by a bandana tied around her head
blonde, black, red, purple
she is young
but can buy her own cigarettes
she has a Marlboro hanging from her lips
as she looks over at me
insisting
i push her down
onto my bed
feral with desire
we tear each other's clothes
digging through cotton and leather fields
to find the supple and ripe
fruits of our longing
I run my hands along her smooth flesh
remembering all the times i experienced this
through accidental brushings
we shake each other
as we shake, ourselves
i lift her by her thighs
bringing her to my lips
tasting her wine
making her whimper
i will have trouble sitting back for days
while the scratches on my back heal
we rotate and turn
as if weightless
she takes me into her mouth
while i continue to drink of her-
and then
it happens
i awake to my crowded room
and my empty bed
i reach to the far side of the sheets
and they are static
cold
unruffled
neatly in place
just as they were
when i went to sleep
there is another dream
in this,
she is perfect
ink cannot do justice to a painting
and she is a degas ballerina
to describe her would be an insult
i don't know who she is or was
i only know I love her
i embrace her
kiss her forehead
hold her into me
feel her breath on my chin
and we lie together
holding hands
and stroking the hair from each other's face
i, about ownership and deities
and she about cows and a drowsy father
we are on a fall-colored couch
possibly a futon
fully clothed
her sandy-brown hair runs
in smooth lines along her back
my curly mass
gets tangled in our fingers
and we stay there
for what seems like days
passing with seconds
too soon
I open my eyes
and she is there
smiling
beautiful
vibrant
she greets me
prompts me to get up
to get dressed
to go with her
it's time for the dreaming and sleep to end
- - - - -
Sit a While
Smoke a Cigarette with Me
I want to Kiss your Mouth, Babe
I can't describe to you
how strange it is for me
to look at you
and know your name
the way you have known mine
for years
your skin is smooth
my lips glide across your belly
and i wish i could drink you in
inhale the scent of your hair
your skin your breasts
your cigarette exhale breath
i breathe
you place your head on my shoulder
falling into me
and this time
there is no barking from the chaperones
only the sound of our breathing
and the serinades of cats
clawing the carpet
and nuzzling my legs through the blanket
through my answer of a single question
you say you have me down
and i think
you might be right
as the car drips oil in the pan
cooling
you tell me not to leave
you pull my hand to you
and lean to kiss me
ignoring better judgment
i go with you
irresponsible as it may be
i am not overly concerned
with what will happen tonight
i want to wake up to you
so haunting
these nights i sleep alone
i stripped my bed of her clothes
to mix with mine
so i could imagine my naked body
sliding along your soft skin
on nights we shared
passion
kisses
bodies
I'd like to say 'hearts' too
at least
i believed you when you kissed me
and i fall into that faith
further every moment
anticipating the next kiss
the next night
the next morning
i awaken to your beautiful eyes
smiling down at me
let's quit our jobs
old or new as they may be
and drive
through Northampton Furnace
around the res
swimming down city streets
sitting in the sun
together
as she performs a disappearing act
and we are the only audience
she becomes you
tired
your eyes bleary
we are almost home
don't worry
lay your head on my arm
we ride together
toward another day
how can we laugh about solomon?
divide and conquer
there are strange thruths at
2:30 in the morning
without enough light to see the colour of your eyes
six dollars and change gets me a handfull of keys
one for me
three for you
i used mine to get to work
you used yours to sneak into my room
concerned about the neighbors next door
whom you can hear through the walls
you tell me about this in the same breath
as the indian woman
asking 1350 for the house
next to the one for sale
you warn me there is
50 50
your children will be ill
i say i understand
i say it's a risk i am willing to take
so long as you are, too
and you'll go with me
you nod and smile while the light
reflects in a star from the rhinestones on your sunglasses
you smile as you walk away
memories of horrifying doctor's visits
and twisting wrists
and i smile as i drive away
building a better me
recounting the terrifying
but exciting
conversation from the night before
and you smile as you sit down
tired and giddy
stomach sore from too much mayonaise and bread
and not enough vegetables
and you hold my hand
and you smile
and you understand
and you forgive
and you accept
and you remember
and you make me laugh
and you make me think
and you make me smile
and you continue to smile
and you wait
and you laugh
and you pout
and you smile
and you love
and i pain to ask if you love me
and you know i am trembling
because i am afraid these feelings
may be true
you see them in colour
but i see black or white
and emergence from the darkness
will breed the vibrant hues painting your dreams
but my dreams are greyscale
fluctuating bright and dim
as the teacup spins
erratically within the circle
pushing
throwing me against you
me into you
you onto me
and this
is what i always wanted
in this dark room
lit simply by the lights of
these outdated modern marvels
top-load the film
maybe even push play
i want you to stay
tonight
tomorrow
pull on a tee-shirt
push off your pants
put your arm over my side
and your head on my chest
i hold you in
trying to answer your questions
trying to find the questions to your answers
but i have none
but one
and you answer it every time you look at me
and if only io could show you how much you mean to me
i might learn how you smile
some say
if you rub your skin
blood will come
pushing your fingers away
but there are others who know this same action
will promote the growth of new skin
toughening
strengthening
building over the scars and fears
which is why every time i see you
i only want you more.
- - - - -
i can smell you on me
under my skin
in my mouth
i sweat your sweet sour scent
if i close my eyes
i can see you in the moonlight
your soft curves lit ever so gently
- - - - -
for Melissa and Brent
Strickland on their wedding
if i could hold beauty and pride in my hands
you would be my offering
memories of joyrides in a blue truck
and growing pains in winter rains
colliding within our eyes
as i watch you gracefully
take these final steps
toward womanhood
years ago
we made plans for what would happen
should this day never arrive
how we would take these
candlelight promises
and make a life
as i watch you
holding your father's hand in a way you have always dreamed
and a way he secretly hoped might never happen
the sun radiates from your chest with your joy
he takes your hand
and as you speak the last words you will ever say alone
the promises of love and adoration
cascade down your cheeks
washing us all clean of our fears
and the stark realization of life's progression
only yesterday
we were children hiding in closets
above stage lights
stealing furniture
and sneaking our of class
to drink iced tea
and scream down a highway
running from adulthood
and now
we watch you boldly step forward
into that realm of which
we always joked
and wrote notes in class
i know one day
i will join you
and we will cruise in that pink cadillac
taunting the teens who have all the courage
and ego we had at their age
and i know you will continue to know me better
than i know myself
- - - - -
when i die
i want people to celebrate
throw a party in honor of life
and respect the fact they still have it
there is to be dancing and laughing
and a band playing loud, peppy tunes
it's called a wake
i want a graveside service
conducted by one of my friends
that way my guests won't have to drive two places
traffic doesn't have to get all messed up
and someone who knows me will ding my praises
and wish me farewell
i will, of course, compile all of this in my will and testament
along with the whole
who-gets-what
and with whatever is left: yardsale
open first to family and friends
then to general public
with the proceeds to benefit some charity
diabetes, heart disease, or MDA
give what's left to the salvation army or village thrift
back ot the funeral for a second:
the fineral and interment
should be on a heavily overcast day
i don't want it to rain,
because that would be too melodramatic
but the sun and i never got along too well
and with everyone wearing black,
i don't want it to be excessively hot
at the end, someone should yell
"let's get pissed!" in their best irish accent
a few people can say it, if they want,
even if they don't have a good irish accent
i want another party after the burial
open to everyone
even those who never knew me
if i have a wife and children
i want someone there or on-call
to help them with general tasks
like laundry and cleaning and cooking
until she and they are ready to do these things, themselves, again.
be patient with them,
as i am sure they will not be favoring politeness over grieving
five them love and support, not criticism
if i do have a wife and children,
i want to save them a seat near me
so when they, too, leave this world,
they can be laid to rest with me as a family.
- - - - -
i am
because of you
you brought together these tattered limbs once discarded into the sewers and graveyards. you used threads of love and needles of ambition to piece me together
you took my head in your hands and painstakingly assembled the parts of my mind. you labored endlessly to clean the dirt and hair from my face and you tore open my eyes so i could see the way you struggled for love for me
from these scattered pieces you gave me life breathing into me when we kissed taking me in when we touched. pushing me more, you kick started my own ambitions, rising like blood through my skin
soon you became afraid of me; of what i meant. you ran from my touch and my sight hiding from me while i tried to find who you are what you do from where you come everything
you made me this!
are you not proud of your creation? with you i reached critical mass and without you i continue to grow, but for what?
you? once, i thought so, even told you i would do these things- to humor you at the very least, but if you aren't here to see me grow, i will not grow for you
them? they never mattered. since my creation they have simply been and audience to my rebirth and a tool to help me grow. they are neither motivation nor sustenance, and they will never be the reason for which i exist
me? these things are, indeed, for me. i can befriend flowers, make them float on ponds, teach birds to fly, and clear rivers of their dams. because you gave me life, i have been able to teach myself these things. i am the creature from which you run because i represent your strengths and you flaws
you run from yourself and i will still be here
growing
without you
but i want to rip off this clothing and shave my head. all of this reminds me of you, a time i thought you loved me, a time i could look into your eyes as those of an artist, with passion and honesty
i never conceived of you casting me out of your lab into the shadows of angry city streets but here i am hiding from the eyes of others because they will leave me, too
i wanted to help you. you made me this. i just wanted to return the favor.
- - - - -
love me one last time
enter my arms
hold me in
exhale in moans as we touch
press your lips to my flesh
and i promise i will drink you
love me one more time
skin against skin
become one with me
pull me into you
and i will do the same
i didn't treat you as a princess
like you wanted
i worshipped you
and in the shadows
i still do
everything you give me
is a blessing
- - - - -
I want
an instant cure; a pill to take to white wash these graffiti-covered walls in
the blink of a life.
I want
to take these pens; plunge them through my chest and hands and feet to relieve
this pressure.
I want
to be able to think about you without being afraid; to understand what you are
not trying to say.
The
most painful thing for a man is not feeling unhelpful and powerless,
but
feeling unwanted.
So, I
sit here, arms outstretched, thinking about you, waiting for your voice to call
out and request my futile presence as I know you won't.
Are
you waiting for me to balance this rock before you take my empty hand?
I am
huddled in the shadows, arms like flightless wings; in one hand, a stone. The other, simply empty; waiting.
And
how long will we play these spy games; divulging secrets through cryptographic
languages and magicians' tricks and informants, and I know I have been here
before.
This
place is still warm as I return to the shadows. Like before, I stay with my emptiness and my boulder; sometimes
waiting, other times crying out my own frustrations as I watch it fall from my
hand and my perch again.
So here
I am again, standing on the shore in my jesus christ pose with my offerings,
arms tiring, hands and heart getting heavy, waiting for you to take my hand so
I can be your rock.
- - - - -
i have dedicated my life to making things more clear, to perfecting my images painted onto your eardrums. i do this so the pain i feel every day, from the swelling in my knees to the swelling of my heart, won't have to be felt by someone else.
you dedicate your life to control. you rein in your emotions and your inward feelings of doubt, remorse, and pity
i have a short attention, so to focus, i must obsess.
you give up too quickly. to quote "there's no way i can finish it on time, so i am not even going to bother with it." when i ask how was your day, i receive a generic "fine" or "alright" which i know means your day was another filled with pain and anger, which you'd rather not think about right now
and, like a term paper, you gave up on me too quickly. determined i could never be finished, you chose not to bother. you chose to frustrate yourself with my inadequacies; we don't talk but you shut me down when i try to start. we never go out but you always had things to do in
and now, you try to rest well underneath a sulfur moon- you told me you still wet your bed, sometimes, with tears. and you cast shadow puppets of doubt, remorse, anxiety, and dismissal on what was once my side of your bed- for weeks, i slept with baskets of clothes on what was once your side of my bed so i wouldn't realize how empty is the ocean without water. for weeks, your clothes remained undisturbed in your drawer, only shifting when i would add another treasure to your tribute.
recovery is difficult, but to do so, we must work through the cycle of pain strength joy and dissolution. just as a broken bone will not heal without use, so i will not heal until i have learned to walk on these feet torn by your eggshells and numb from your waters
though i once would lay myself at your feet, i am not a dog, and maybe this is the "bang" he said would never happen, because i will not go out without a whimper.
- - - - -
I try not to think about her too often; obsession isn't healthy. But, who am I to talk about 'healthy'? I smoke cigarettes, don't get the proper amount of sleep, eat horrible food- hell, sometimes, I won't eat for days, only to then binge for three days straight. These things aren't related, I know, but many things in this life aren't necessary.
Love, for example; Love is completely unnecessary. We can meet people, procreate, raise a family- well, have children, at least, and provide for them, and see them off to have their own children someday. We can do all of this without Love.
Love, however, is often not a choice.
I didn't choose to love her. Hell, I tried not to love her; she was too young, I was too broke, and her mother was too crazy. But, she was too beautiful, and too smart, and too talented to resist.
I fell in Love with her before we even shared our first kiss. It was not the first time I had been in Love, nor would it be the last, thankfully. I remember exactly how it happened: coming home, throwing my jacket on a hanger in the closet, getting ready for bed, then remembering the note she'd torn from her journal and handed me before scampering the last flight of stairs to her mother's apartment after the poetry slam that night.
It was that poem. It read me, and pulled my pages from my heart as if I were made only of feathers.
The next time I saw her was the night I first brought my lips to hers to breathe new life.
We went together for three months, during which, among other things, I got evicted and moved into a tiny bedroom in a tiny house in a different part of town.
I worried about her, but knew she was alright- she was always alright. She was so cool. Cynical to her core, and she smoked cigarettes and drank coffee, and could down a tequila-and-coke without even flinching. I didn't condone her drinking, but still, that's intense!
I didn't even realise how much she drank, and this was after she'd slowed down, because of me. And the booze wasn't the only secret she kept locked away in her firebox, but I wouldn't know that until the end.
Her mother was there when I got home. She was very flustered, and said she needed to talk. What followed reminds me now of the time I fell off the jungle-gym; flat on my back, gasping for air and coherence, "at least we know she's safe," she said.
That's a difficult statement to which to respond; clear as broken glass, and just as cutting.
Over the next few hours, she told me all the things I should have seen already: the booze, the pills, the cuts, the starving, the purging, the bottle of unisom with a bacardi chaser.
She'd had no intention of waking up, but there she was, alive and walking, with a season-finale cliff hangover.
She spent a week in a local center for eating disorders, after which she went out west to stay with family for a time; she needed a rest.
When I saw her again, she was different- still the same beautiful artist, but she was real this time. The girl with whom I had fallen in Love had been a lie, and that lie was still lying on the carpet of a third floor apartment above the mulch in which I had written Pablo Neruda lines and carved out, "Je T'aime". The same place she tore a page from her journal before scurrying up the last flight of stairs.
"Nothing is free,
and yet,
I have draped myself here at any cost for an audience with something off the wet, naked, street-
your voice has crept into me.
And I dance
when I am a deer in your headlights."
- - - - -
i wanted to greet you with a kiss
to pull the patchwork stars from your jeans
and paint them in your eyes
i settled to simply hold you
and in that instant eternity
i suddenly wasn't hungry anymore
if it wouldn't have meant burning the chicken
i would have liked to stay there
holding you
until we became marble for a museum
- - - - -
for
Anna and Geoff Morpurgo on their Wedding
If i didn’t know it was midnight,
i would swear dawn was around the corner.
the animals are talking wildly about
something-or-other
and it is bright enough to read without a lamp
some of us read fortune cookies
others tea leaves
still more keep faith in prayer beads
and magic spells
i hold no such illusions in my moonlight eyes
i read history books
i read the story of your birth
written across our mothers
face, hands, and belly
i read the story of your childhood
adorned with photographs
and crushed aluminum cans
on a patio in a southern suburb
clay masks carved out of your
pre-adolescent life
when we couldn’t go next door
to the park and playground
down the street
to the dairy queen
or through the neighbor’s yard
to the pool by the lake
without permission
your teenage years,
when you first discovered boys
and i first discovered
you were cool
going to dad’s office
next to the summer camp
where we taught the other kids
Maryland
is not ‘in’ another state
riding around playing
“Name that tune”
“…and artist and album”
“…and for bonus points, year”
and imitating the
squealing of tires
and the changing of gears
as we exited to the feeder street
try as i might,
i never did get any older than you
so i stay behind
reading the romance novel of your travels
all over the world
all because of a few simple choices
you made
when you were still learning to drive
back then
you ignored road signs
opting, instead, to follow landmarks
now you read compasses and maps
declaring I AM HERE
pointing to a well-defined point
miniscule in the mire
of a formless mass
simply titled “Time”
and this is where i stop reading your history
as you have yet to write it
if i didn’t know it was midnight
i would swear dawn was around the corner
the animals are chattering frantically
about something-or-other
and the night is bright enough
to write this with neither
lamp nor candle and i write
my pen is stammering
about something-or-other
and the moon is making faces at me
as i try to pay tribute
to someone who has everything
you are the product of the sea
the maker of the winds
and i have traveled here
to watch you defy the laws of physics
to witness as you,
a woman
whole, strong, and independent
join with him,
a man
whole, strong, and independent
to become one
whole, strong, and independent.
- - - - -
i can feel these curves falling
and rising like the sun toward a mid-winter's day
I look out
down the street and across this suburban landscape
and everything is flat
stretched out
warped
in your direction
as if you are a star
as if you are the center of my universe
as if you are the essence of my very being
as if you are GRAVITY, itself...
but you can't be
you are more than that.
you are the math.
me? I am simply words.
trying to make sense of you,
trying to understand you,
i am tearing myself to pieces
each an offering to you
peeling layers of skin
praying for your blessing
i am tearing myself to pieces
for you.
trying to find the infinite
trying to find the infinitely small
trying to show my world to you
I am tearing my self to poems
trying to be sonnet
trying to be predictable
so you can meet me at the end of my final, rhyming couplet
but I guess I do not rhyme with you
I am fragments
trying to be haiku
trying to be senryu
trying to fit all these things I need to say
withing three simple bars
i am fragments
you are the math
and i know there is a hole
in my heart
in the shape of your smile
but I know
I am still whole
without you
i am tearing my self to pieces for you
offering them to you
offering them to these teeming multitudes
giving away parts of me
without diminishing in value
because, Subtraction,
you are not here.
I am trying to swallow every drop of life
i can bring to these lips
but still, i fear I am withering away
as i give away parts of me
and you are not here to
sew me back together
to make me the sum-total
of the man i wish to be
you are the math
I am simply words
I am simply that scared,
17-year old boy
sitting in calculus
struggling to understand you
struggling to make some sort of sense of you
but you
are indivisible.
you will never be
less than you are
right now
to me
you will never fracture
as I have done
as I am doing
for you
You are the math
and I am trying to remember
and I know I can't multiply without you
because I am not even a fraction of the man I want to be
because I know I am not even a fraction of the man you want me to be
but still
i am tearing myself to pieces,
trying to break down this praise chorus
into the phonemes and morphemes
I can rearrange
so I can one day speak your name
so I can one day scream your name
I am tearing myself to pieces for you
you are the math
I am simply words
I just wish I could have been the numbers
so you
could make sense
of me.
- - - - -
she
said she needed space
so i
watched her walk away
the
tiger-lily sun reflecting
off
the icy pond of her rear windshield
and i
wandered back to my cave
with
the space between breaths
and
footsteps
growing
longer
i
think about these visits
and
agree with her:
maybe
we should space them out
a bit
more
but what
are we
if not
animals
feral
and obsolescent
all
sharing the same space
and
what could i give her
to
satisfy her delusions?
i
tried to give her
all
the stars in space
but
she wasn't satisfied
because
i never yelled at her
and
there wasn't enough space in her heart
for
her fear and my love
as if
i wasn't afraid, too
as if
i didn't stay awake at night
terrified
that i might be wrong
and if
only i could fit through the space between
the
door and the floor
i
could disengage my heart
from
this like a red balloon
floating
into the space of the sky
but i
promised her i would take care of her
and
she broke that same promise
letting
the lies slip like her cigarette smoke
from
the space between her lips
with
her tan camel perched
between
her finger tips
now scattered
ashes
crushed
into the space between footsteps and concrete
with
this relationship falling
like
scattered bones on a record cover
she
said she wanted space
then
kept me close like a record needle
of a
turntable collecting dust
so
close, but never filling the space of her groove
never
scratching my way around her circumference
journeying
ever closer to her center
making
her scream
a
clarinet rhapsody like her first orgasm
rising
ever so high,
to the
doorstep of space
but
no.
instead
i hear brubeck
tripping
through the space of her sunroof
as she
pulls out of the parking lot
- - - - -
electric teardrop
envelops and protects you
crying in a smile
desires remain unspoken
and, therefore, unheard
i have always been afraid to reveal
without the magic of a greeting
though i already know your name;
could sing it through the halls
and walls of this room
i hesitate to tell you how this happened;
my detour along my way coming here
my scaling of the neighbor’s fence
the delicate press of my toes against the wet blades
reaching out, fingers extended like whiskers
concealing in my palm the small shears
touching fragile silk with my rough-hewn skin
a selfish man completing a selfish act
then darting away, a hawk from the surface
of a lake still rippling in mourning
and yet, now i shiver,
afraid to bring the act to its conclusion
afraid you will not be holding my hand
when the curtain is drawn
afraid your slender piano keys
will not accept the crimson buds
i imagine how one of these orphans would look
draped between your fingers,
the dark flesh of the arrow dangling
as if a soldier, cut down in battle
i picture you placing it upon your pale smile
pressing it lightly against your pout,
your full lips revealing nothing
as you inhale the scent of my invitation
and when it lands,
will your eyes be closed or open?
your hair is a brilliant waterfall
hiding those picture-frame caves
barring entrance from the unknowing
make me your pupil
take my hands into your own
teach me to hold you
are you irish crystal?
fragile, forged from the heat and labor,
spun and twisted, filled and emptied?
would i balance you between my knuckles,
swirling only what i pour into you?
are you a diamond orb?
hard, invisible, priceless
allowing me to read what is beyond you
keeping me ignorant of the beauty you are keeping inside
rest, you, there upon your perch
the fingernails of the goblin king
now you are snake, now you are peach
now you are anything i want
except mine
are you an iceberg?
withholding much more than id
but stabbing at the ferrous facades of fellow travelers
journeying before me
tell me, did they paint a wounded rabbit
across your snowy, shaking wrist
when they, on burnt knees, kissed your rings?
i apologize i have not had the courage
to ask to pay tribute to
your alabaster cheek,
your alpine breast,
your vanilla waist
your paper thighs
if i had been born with steel between my teeth
i would use these thorns and my ruby ink
to draw this as calligraphy
across your spine,
carry you over the arctic peaks of this
cowardice and confusion
to glide softly down on the other side of fear
like feathers of a comforter
i saw you smile once
i would like to think i can bring that sunrise to your lips again
possibly to see it in the moonlight of a night swimming
perhaps in the shelter of starshine outside your door
maybe carved into the face of my pillow
etched upon the cloth of my skin
inaction will make fools of us all
what will you do with the chance
this song was written for your ears
to steal away from you this time
to steal away with you next time
every poet is a thief
i have risked being shackled
simply to deliver this message
i have risked being shot down,
a pigeon protecting the prey
or simply in the way,
having presented you with these words
i pray you would throw me to the ground
pierce me with your glance,
tell me i have crossed this graveyard in vain
i would retreat in pride,
having heard your trumpeters' declarations
having felt the caress of your gloved hand
having learned the lesson of your eyes
how many times now
have i called your name, and still,
you have not heard once
- - - - -
wintry landscape
silent drip, azure water
secret and wooden
we were a secret
your mother was the enemy
and i loved you like a spy
through winter nights at the fire
i serenaded you and our friends
then passed along the shell to
another who bore my same name
you were sitting lotus
wearing a black shirt and a tan jacket
blue jeans and a shiver
i sat behind you
my thighs forming a mug
and like coffee, you flowed into every crevice
my legs around you
you reached down
took my trembling fingers
into your steady palms
and declared
"you are cold. put them in here to keep warm"
as you silently brought me inside
your jacket
my arms around your chest
wrapping you like a fur pelt
the tips of my pens
cupping your breasts
and I did not freeze
as i held you that night
and i held you there
like your life depended upon me.
once, when your employment
was crumbling around you,
we waltzed through the door
with their paper and plastic
i sang to you one night,
trying to imitate
the timeless recordings
at the Cote D'Azure
and it meant everything
in those spaces between being one
and having to take you home
and i sang to you
like my voice would always wake you
when i came home to an empty house
you stayed with me
we carried my world across a city
you had begun before i had even arrived
your tiny frame carrying your weight
in furniture and boxes
without the help of the yellow man
who was afraid, for me, of you
you came with me that night
we loved bruised knees
into a box spring
you were a panther
creeping across my floor
as if stalking my flesh
tearing into me when i drank from you
pulling me in when i poured into you
we washed away the stains of our sins
praying the water would purify us
dripping from the wall into torturous mornings
and i loved you like you would die that night
and i loved you like you were my heartbeat
and i loved you
like i could make you stay
but the winter landscape snow
melted into sullen rivulets of mountain tears
the trees crying for you
because i could not
that day your mother
appeared at my door
she could only say
"at least we know she's safe"
and she said that so convinced
as if announcing it
could somehow recall death
and cancel it out
as if she were god's messenger
only appearing too late, and yet
i would receive no ceremony
there was no wooden box
for me to lay you down
no brown study over which we could mourn
we could only visit you
in those halls of sickness
watching through the thick glass
as your body paraded around
in someone else's smile
i stood by that wall waiting
for you to let down your hair
waiting for a day i would never see
walking into your room
under close scrutiny
i made you laugh
i made your mother smile
i made those younger imitations of you
believe there was a chance they would get better
and i prayed you would get better
and i begged your mother not to exile me
and i prayed you wouldn't turn away
and i begged for understanding
and I prayed
like i could bring you back
- - - - -
Pity a poet
would stain, bleach, water this art
down to Love or Death
tell me:
are you love or death?
helping others lie about their age and beauty
are you, yourself
without that façade
of matte and gloss
are you unstained
unfinished
rough
will you scratch at me
and rip my skin with splinters?
will you rock with me
let the paper caress the
knots from your grain
guided by my pink and grey palms
will we steam you into
a pocket shaped for my torso
to set before a screen
will we be moving faster
than the pictures?
and what if you are painted?
is it camouflage?
perhaps impressionist flecks
intricately describing your
hidden cheek
is it a warrior's mask
imitating demons
to exorcise your enemies
and would you wear it when we meet?
are you paper doll
or tended marble?
i imagine the tender
below your ribs
how you would jump
if i kissed you there
wrapping my arms
around your equator
sculpting your spine
an arch tightening
becoming bronze
or are you simply smoke
fog licking at the window panes
before drifting somewhere else
whose eye would you burn next
if you will not let me breathe you in?
Taste your innocence
Inhale your earthy incense
Smell your inner scents
- - - - -
let them believe i am smiling
let them believe i am not in pain
let them believe i will stand here forever
if you ask me to-
your greatness gives me life
your brush creates my hair
your masterful hand caresses every lock
applies the slightest touch
give me some of my blackness
some brown some bronze
my powder skin my cinnamon lips
and the teasing texture of shadows
i will stand here forever
if you ask me to
lie about my age
tell them i am 42
tell them i am infancy
tell them i am old enough
costume me in your paint
pretend i am not a little girl
you saw on the street
in the market by your home
i will stand here forever
if you ask me to
i want your fingers to massage
the ribbons around my ankles
tie the bows around my waist
pin your rose to my image
tell me: am i twirling or am i falling
and the other woman; who is she
and if i stretch out my arms
could i ever pray to touch you?
i will stand here forever
i will hold this position
i will go on loving you
if you ask me to
- - - - -
This afternoon, I went to see The Passion of the Christ, with some friends of mine- well… one is a friend, another is an acquaintance, the third is a friend of the first friend, and the fourth is a girl I would like to get to know. After the movie, we were going to go down to a patisserie in Fell’s Point. Becky and I hopped in to Luceille, my silver 1986 Volvo 240 DL. Our friends hopped into their little black Honda, which we were to follow, since neither Becky nor I knew the way.
To get to I-83 South, to go into the city, we took Northern Parkway, one of the main thoroughfares through the north end of the city. Crossing an intersection after the girls, we ran a red light, and we joked about getting a ticket and being fugitives from the law. I half-joked about how much fun that would be, going on about receiving threatening phone calls while visiting our relatives and about MPs waiting at the airport. Of course, when you get that kind of phone call, the only appropriate response is that you’ll go willingly, but that you’d be a liability and ‘they’ can’t afford that, so the voice on the other end of the line asks for a fax number…
“True story,” I told her. She giggles. I don’t think she understood. All of that really happened. I went on to tell her what I meant.
When I was a senior in high school, I was seduced by the United States Armed Forces Recruiting Station, Navy Division. They convinced me to enlist in the Delayed Entry Program, and I would ship out after graduation to go work on an aircraft carrier or submarine, maintaining the engines. I was going into the Nuke Field.
Because I was seventeen when I enlisted, I had to have my mother’s signature allowing me to enter into a contract; my father had refused to sign. I don’t remember why. On 31 August, 1998, I signed my contract and swore my oath of service to the United States Navy.
I was so proud of myself. I felt I was going to perform a great service to my country. I would make my neighbors and my granddad proud. My then-girlfriend, Alexandra, was offended by the whole thing, saying I was serving my country by betraying my self. Mr. Bowerman, my English teacher for the first few weeks of school that year, lost his temper and swore at me; even in the short period of our acquaintance, he knew I was a pacifist and that I had no business on that I.D. card.
Over the course of the three or so following months, I went to the Recruiting Station once every two weeks for the DEP meetings, where we met current Navy personnel and ran drill in the back lot. I had questions about my position there, but all the resistance I had felt from my peers had faded. Alexandra had moved to Vermont in early September to attend Middlebury, and Mr. Bowerman had suddenly disappeared later that same month. I attended the meetings with enthusiasm, for which I was praised by CPO Pineda, my Recruiting Officer.
During this time, I was making back-up plans, in case things didn’t work out between Uncle Sam and me. I continued to perform well in school, earning high marks in my classes, and fulfilling my duties as Student Director of my school’s drama department, Technical Director of the theatre/ auditorium, and president of our Junior Achievement corporation, Iota Enterprises. I was very busy. All of this looked wonderful on my resumes, of which I sent two, along with applications for admission, to Hampshire College in Amhearst, MA, and Goucher College, in Towson, MD. Both schools later accepted my applications, but Goucher offered me a $10,000 scholarship and I would be able to live at my mom’s house, so I would not have to pay for room and board.
In January of 1999, around my 18th birthday, I was a member of my school’s team competing in the Academic Decathlon, a yearly interscholastic competition of tests covering ten subjects. It was a two-day event, with meals both days. Over dinner on the first night, I impressed my friend, Ryan Gibson, with my tales from the Navy, and how proud was I about the whole situation. I told her about being scouted because of my ASVAB scores, being stalked by the ROs trying to get me to talk to them, finally being bribed by the offer of dinner at Denny’s, going from there to the station to talk, etc…
Halfway through a sentence about the subs and the carriers and the bases and the schools and the job offers-
It hit me: “I want to teach. I need to teach. I need to teach high school. I need to teach high school English. Screw this Navy thing… I’m going to teach.”
Of course, Ryan had no idea how to handle this. But, I did.
I got my truck out of the shop a few days later, which gave me a few days to be sure I hadn’t just had a piece of Dickens’s mashed potatoes, and on the 17th of January I went to the office at Antoine and Pinemont, just off Houston’s Northwest Freeway, I-290. I informed CPO Pineda of my decision, delivered my reasons, and reminded him of his assurance I could walk away if I gave him notice at least 60 days prior to my ship-out date. I wasn’t to ship out until 7 July, so I was giving him almost 6 months warning. He asked if there was anything he could say to make me say. My response was a simple, apologetic, “No.”
He stood, and walked me to the door. We saluted. Then we shook hands. He would take care of everything.
I believed him. I assumed everything was fine until, of course, I received a call in March from CPO Gustavo, Pineda’s replacement at Pinemont. He was very angry with me and wanted to know why I wasn’t attending his DEP meetings. I reminded him I had withdrawn, to which he barked, “This is the United States Navy! You do not just walk into someone’s office and say ‘I’m Out’! You swore an oath! You signed a contract! You’re mine.” He went on to inform me that if I missed the next DEP meeting, he would have me arrested as Away without Leave, or AWOL.
Scared out of my mind, and terribly confused, I conceded. I also tracked down Pineda. His recommendation, however, was not the brightest. After a half-baked apology, he suggested I attend the meetings like a good little soldier, maintaining that I would be moving to Maryland after graduation, not mentioning that I was going so I could attend Goucher. Before I left, I was to receive transfer orders to the Baltimore office. When I arrived in Maryland, “just don’t check in. You’ll get lost in paperwork- you’ll be fine…” he said.
The embarrassing part about this is I went ahead with that, thinking everything would work out as he said it would.
After graduation, I moved in with the family of a friend of mine, a few miles north of my dad’s house in Houston. I would be moving to my mother’s at the end of the summer. After graduation, I simply stopped attending the DEP meetings, having completed the front-end of the transfer paperwork.
In late July of that summer, I went to Connecticut to attend a wedding in my mother’s family. While I was there, my mom came out into the yard, with a very confused look on her face. “I thought you said you had this whole Navy thing taken care of …”
Shit.
“Well… there’s a very angry Officer Gustavo on the phone, and he’d like to talk to you.”
He was not happy with me. “Angry” was an understatement. He sounded like I had just run over his dog.
Apparently, he’d been called by the Baltimore station when I hadn’t checked in. This was now two weeks after I should have shipped out. He had tracked down the fact I had purchased a round-trip ticket, and that I would be returning on such-and-such flight and told me he’d be there to meet me when I got off the plane. If I didn’t arrive on that flight, he’d come to me. He was going to take me from the airport to the hotel, and I’d ship out to basic in the morning. It was that, or he’d have me court marshaled.
I was done with this. I told him something to the effect of, “If that’s how it goes down, fine. I won’t argue. I will go with you. I really don’t want to go to jail. BUT- here’s the deal: my heart isn’t in this anymore. It was when I signed and swore, but it simply is not there now. I need to stay a civilian and I need to be a teacher. If, however, you don’t agree with me, think about this: Because my heart’s not in it, I can do the best I can, but I will still be a liability. Do you want that? You can’t afford that. I don’t want that. I swore to bust my ass, and I will if you want it that way, but the whole time, I will be wishing I were somewhere else. We can’t afford to have that around those engines.” After a painful silence, he said, soft for the first time, “Do you have a fax machine available?”
In the mail a few weeks later, I received my letter of Unspecified Discharge, signed and sealed by the United States Navy. I still have it, in fact, as a reminder not to pray for ignorance.
Looking back, it was fun being a fugitive, but I much prefer a red-light violation to a court marshal. I think Becky would agree.
- - - - -
of everyone in this room
i am the most patriotic
i love this country in which i live
as if i were willing to stand watch
with a seven-spired crown
and a torch to light the way
how dare you disrespect me in my home?
the ground on which i walk
the cities in which i sleep
your own father weeps
when you spit on the soil of his grave
hold your tongue
and what of our elected “dictator”,
as you call him?
child
you assume he holds the power
but you fail to realize
we are the power
we light these halls
we plow these fields
we bleed for our unborn children
how dare you laugh in the faces of our mothers?
you blame me for sins committed centuries
before my family bled for this land
when your parents held those reins
you curse the faces on our money
but you then insist on paying in cash
because you are too weak to leave the nest of this country
how dare you call me naïve?
you cower to your own
self-determined futility
refusing to “waste your vote”
but you lie in the streets
failing to stop the rolling of the war machine
the “American dream”?
maybe,
but don’t lie to me that you hold the key
we are the lightening of this path of ignorance
don’t waste my time
the putrid stench of your bickering
i am the stronger of the two of us
i have accepted i will not witness utopia
but i am doing my part to help my children have a better life
i am doing my part to help your children have a better life
i am building a better me
i am building a better we
you flail frantically
with one paddle
drowning in your own saliva
spitting epithets against my family
why are you in my way?
i am not against you
you are killing yourself
how dare you try to take my daughter down with you?
- - - - -
From inside her workshop, you can’t hear the rain, and the thunder, no matter how loud or violent, is never more than a passing truck. On bright summer days, it is still darker in that room than the ink on a restraining order. She prefers new things when she can afford them, so the light switches never make a sound, either. Every morning, she descends from her loft and, in turn, commands the work lamps to attention. She wired them herself, and they create and remove the walls that section off her small fortress.
There is her waiting room, where her clients and prospectives can examine some of her past triumphs. Next are her kitchen, dining room, and office. Her boilers, generators, and compressors stand at attention just beyond the public areas, like corrections officers outside a courtroom. Continue, and you find her solace: her machine shop, where she can mold, manipulate, wash, or weld just about anything.
She keeps all her toys neatly arranged and all her scraps ready to be recalled at a moment’s notice to stand in for an elusive straight-edge or an errant measurement. She takes great pride in her creations. Some are on display in front of office buildings, others hospitals. Her favorites are the ones on the desks of her friends. Every year, when the women in her group assemble for ‘secret santa’, having purchased something for at most fifteen dollars, she presents her not-so-secret gifts, each weighing at most fifteen ounces. Some are colorful, others plain, but all are meaningful.
Of course, one year, they were all identical: small trinkets that looked like the photograph of an assassinated apple, made of tiny links of chain. They were sundry assortments, some bits from a fence, some from a chain fall, and crowned with three tiny rings from a pair of handcuffs. The crown was barbed wire.
She laughs, sometimes, at the irony of those gifts; for it was one of those office-building lawn-ornaments that brought him into her life the first time. It was that open area next to her lathe that brought his car into her home. It was that torch that brought her past another of her creations on one of those nights with lots of trucks rolling by- the night he came back.
To say you can’t hear the rain is a misleading statement. You can hear it, but it isn’t rain; it is a tin symphony. Not the melodramatic, mood-melding music in a movie, but a personal record collection playing down from the eyes of those who didn’t survive. She always forgives the memories that come with the equinox; she is grateful to have her radio back. Whatever her mood, the spring showers sing for her and wash away her pain or bathe her in laughter. Her eyes sometimes sing along, and she loves the sound of her notes when they fall upon the hot metal in her hands, though that sick cry always rushes her back.
Some of the women from her group sat with her screaming daughter in the waiting room that night. Whenever any man would walk through, they would circle like dinosaur mothers around the terrified girl. Some of these men didn’t notice as they ran past, on their way to the clean room with their pagers still wailing frantically. Others didn’t bother, and found someplace else to sit to wait for news of their son or daughter or wife. Still others simply didn’t care, and went about their duties, “…here’s some more water… where do you want these?... watch your step.”
The following winter, she saw to it those five women each received their own steel “thank you”. One more went to Ahalya, the brave, petrified little one. The last stays on her own nightstand. Every few months, she receives a phone call from one of these angels, “I was in such a rush and it caught and tore my sweater… it must have slipped, but it sure got me good on the way down… Mom, I love you. When can I see you again, so I can go swimming? I miss you, Mom.”
She doesn’t go out often, except to the scrap yard, so nothing of hers ever catches on the metal thorns. She can’t relate much anymore to the playful whining about the small cuts on the hands and wrists of her friends; scar tissue doesn’t easily bleed. But, to her baby, she simply replies that she can come home anytime she wants, even if it’s only to go swimming.
When the doctor emerged and saw the five women standing watch over the little girl, he knew exactly for whom they waited. Haly pouted softly up to the bed and pulled herself into the sanctuary of her mother’s arms, falling right back to sleep, not noticing that this time, someone else’s fingers were the dolphins in her hair.
Brighid remembers how she sang dirges for days, and again after the bandages were removed a few weeks later. Every time she would come home from the therapy sessions, she would sing herself to sleep. One night, when there were more trucks than usual, Haly came into her room and pulled herself under the covers the way she climbed into that hospital bed so many months before, saying, “Mommy, don’t cry. It’s okay, Mommy; I’m here.”
The welder smiled through the tears and embraced her little rescuer, feeling her purpose in comforting her comforter. Usually, the child would snuggle in when this would happen, but this time, she took the hand of her creator, and stared at it. She focused on the lines and ridges of the stretched and scorched flesh.
Brighid could feel herself pulling away, but the innocent wonder in her daughter’s voice gave her pause, “Mommy! Your hands look like they’re made of water!! It’s like I’m swimming!”
- - - - -
we were where you admired my veins
and i wanted to kiss you
i was afraid,
so, instead, i went on
nervously talking about
toilets, gutters, and cats
your slender ivory
felt warm in my palms
as i watched you dance
and we talked
you looked so soft,
lying there on my bed
and i wondered what
your eyes would say to me
in the pale whiskers
of morning sunlight sneaking in
through my small windows
- - - - -
Inspired by “In the Time of the Butterflies” by Julia
Alverez
From 1930 until 1961, General Rafael Leonidas Trujillo (Weiss) dominated the Dominican Republic, ruling with a gauntlet and a pistol grip. Over the course of the three decades of his regime, he executed, assassinated, and martyred over 30,000 of the island’s residents, many of whom were his own citizens. Among the ranks of these multitudes laid to waste by the megalomaniac were Las Mariposas, “the butterflies.” These women revolutionaries showed it was possible to be a mother, lover, daughter, and wife even while pushing the limits of an oppressive dictator. The Mirabal sisters, Minerva, Maria Theresa, Patria, and Dede, each had a unique perspective on the revolution, and a unique perspective on their home lives, as well. Many have wondered what they would say in regards to the concept of the balance between revolution and romance. What we have in the pages that follow are interpretations of responses to that dichotomy. Minerva, the determined fighter, found love within the revolution. Mate, the timid follower, found the revolution through her lover’s footsteps. Patria, the boundless mother, took up the cause to save her country for her children. Dede, the fourth and final of our voices, could only pray for her sisters as she struggled to keep together everything at home to support them. They were four very different women with one public goal and a separate goal in private. Though they were diverse in their methods, they fought the same battles, both inside and outside their homes.
Viva Las Mariposas!
-----
They say that to give your life
so another may live
is the only noble way to die
to fall in battle is honorable
I didn’t fight for honor
I fought for my people
I died for my country
I was romancing the revolution
they knew I would be born
with steel between my teeth
they named me for poetry, science, and war
and I lived up to this name
I fought my entire life
from dinner table arguments about skirts in the courtroom
to hiding guns in coconut groves
I fought
and somehow, within those blood-stained years
I met the man who would kiss me with his fire
he taught me to walk through the shadows
and straight to the mouth of the lion
I promised God I would die with and for him
and we promised each other we would die with and for liberty
in the eyes of each other
we were wedded to our people
love does not die when the heart stops beating
and the revolution does not stop
when concrete and iron
enclose the soul
but, as the rough hands of the goat
constricted the life our people
so my love grew stronger
for my lover, my freedom
and, so the hands of assassins
“condemn me
it does not matter
history will absolve me” (Castro).
- - - - -
They say that to give your life
so another may live
is the only noble way to die.
to fall in battle is honorable
I didn’t fight for honor
I fought for my lover
I died for my country
I was romanced by the revolution
Papa once said
I would “make lots of men’s mouths water” (Alvarez 8)
and I guess that became true
but only one would return the favor.
Hiding boxes that night,
I knew I wanted to be a part
of whatever he was
and I wanted him
I had always followed my heart
and my heart suddenly followed him
so, where was I to go?
“love is the deeper struggle” (Alvarez 147).
love cannot be imprisoned
love is bigger than La Victoria or La 40
and love is a reason to fight
a reason to hold on
these children
with their good hair
and bloody hands
know not what they do
forgiveness is harder to find, sometimes
than sunlight
or smiles or freedom
but they are puppets
we fight for them, too
we lie to make them look better
then leave paper bread-crumbs
so others can find their way to us
“and down I went
sucked back into the body…
and I walked out to the wagon
on my own two feet” (Alvarez 256)
- - - - -
They say that to give your life
so another may live
is the only noble way to die.
to fall in battle is honorable
I didn’t fight for honor
I fought for my children
I died for my country
I was raising the revolution
as the oldest of the daughters
I was the first to leave the home
Minerva came with me,
but she came as a butterfly
I was still crawling on my belly
learning praise and prayers
for La Virgencita
and her son
when he came to me
I was Magdalena
upon my knees
as I bathed his ankles
he helped me to my feet
and held me strong
with his farmer’s hands
and his lover’s touch
when I bore his children
they were cocooned within my belly
when they emerged
I emerged as a butterfly
from them
I drew the strength to seek out
a return to my first lover
the one I thought had forsaken me
I saw him again
the night I thought
I might meet him
but he was busy
he was embracing the hearts
of my countrymen
fighting in his name
fighting in my name
the chief plunged pins
through my wings
when he ripped away my sisters,
my baby, and my husband
for months, I fought for their return
for months, I returned unsatisfied
I could have lived under house arrest
forever
I liked the country drives
I liked having my sisters home
I liked flying again
and on the third day, he rose… (Alvarez 200; Nicene Creed, par. 2)
- - - - -
They say that to give your life
so another may live
is the only noble way to die.
to fall in battle is honorable
I didn’t fight for honor
I fought for my sisters
they died for me
I was restrained by the revolution
I stayed home
to keep company with papa
the butterflies flew away
to the chrysalis of the city
Minerva played dice
with the devil himself
Mate followed suite
until she grew wings of her own
I knew none of this
and naively followed
to the stories
and the propaganda
then they told me our old friend
was an outlaw
in with the homosexuals
and the criminals (Alvarez 77)
I knew would one day see my sisters
on pegboard with note cards
I never guessed
I would write the captions
and everyday
I die for them
because they flew away
all at once
I relive that
with every sunset
saying to mama, every night
“there’s no need for the bag” (Alvarez 307)
hope is the cruelest of the emotions
hope does not mean “maybe”
I means only
“wait”
- - - - -
I can still tell you
from memory
the things they gave us,
pulled from the jeep
with that photograph,
I relive the attempts
to dishonor
Las Mariposas
for our people they fought
for our country they died
‘when you die for your country
you do not die in vain’ (Alvarez 311)
and so it was,
through their deaths
I learned to be a martyr
and they learned to be free
- - - - -
you clung to my teeth
your legs around my face
you gripped my neck
like an anaconda
burying yourself in my throat
impregnating my chest
you burn like an ulcer
beneath my ribs
until you are ready
you left like a god
my eyesight fades
i shudder
violently
you make me quake
my heart hammering
like a head against a wall
i fear your arrival
knowing you will kill me
when you come
i am ready to die
take me now
i’m not ready to die
take me now
i don’t want to die
burst from my chest
while you pierce the darkness
with your cry
- - - - -
we were silver-plated flatware
watching fish on my television screen
when they were done,
instead of watching an aquarium,
we talked of scar tissue
and the way it doesn't evaporate quickly
the implications of that statement
convinced my fingertips
to swim through the ocean of your hair
my rough palms were whales
my fingertips, dolphins
i told you how i could smell you
when we were in that dark place
but i didn't know if i should have told you then
so i waited
it's your skin
your hair
your perfume
your sweat
your womanhood
your power
that make you so beautiful
your beauty permeates the air
and i know you are near
when i am not looking
i wonder if you think these things about me
in those moments before you fall asleep
the oceans move the earth
swells rising with every turn of my wrists
when i reached to kiss your neck
you turned to kiss my lips
inviting me in
holding me against you
i pulled toward you
but we are oil and water
my fingers stumbled
clumsily across your chest
like this were my first time
and your scent rises
like blood boiling among sharks
and i wanted to taste your skin
but now is not the time to swim
and like summer sunset storms
we stopped
hovering among the tides of my sateen sheets
and i held you
and i held on to you
and i laid my head next to yours
and i slept well for the first time in weeks.
you woke me softly
told me you had to leave
kissed me lightly
and quietly
you left me there
when i woke
i had to remind myself you had been there
i had to remind myself
it wasn't a dream
i didn't remember hearing the door shut
i don't remember hearing the door shut
even in the darkness
i could somehow see the pale
outline of your breasts
as you licked the lust from
my lips.
we pulled at each other as if
hoisting a sail
and we were pushed along by
our own breath.
my eyelids cannot press back
your beauty.
i could still see your
shudders, smooth skin, seductive.
i would, with pleasure, snap
my back in half
if only i could do so as a
farmer, tilling your fields.
sowing sighs, reaping rewards
of your nature
sift, shift, turn.
you pushed back my hands,
exposing my eyes to the sky,
your fingers, strong as
bamboo, between my own;
this magnetism balancing you
above me.
enwrap me
cover me
become my atmosphere
let me breathe you in
and blow you away
i kissed your head.
your eyes flinched as if you
were dreaming.
when i rolled away from you,
your breath called a sharp
resistance,
commanding me to return.
i wish i could say that i
will never refuse again,
but you are nightingale and i
am lark
and we meet as do the sun and
moon.
i know you did not hear the
door shut when i left,
longing for twilight to
return
- - - - -
Slam Version, Spring 2004
The painter told me I have beautiful hands.
I could only respond with cheeks like
so many rose buds
these hands have handed to
so many lovers over
so many cups of coffee and
so many thresholds over
so many "I love you"s over
so many lifetimes.
These hands are beautiful?
These hands have cupped a
drowning body while trying to
resuscitate that dying light
with cartoon-cuddle-time
and stargazer lilies.
These hands have shaken hands with
capitalist devils in bleeding
cesspools of finance and aspiration.
These hands constantly paint
words on receipts and diner napkins
only to type them onto the
hard-driven memories of
mothers, children, brothers, sisters
in rooms that emanate love and energy
like the nucleus of an atom.
Blood-soaked and soiled, these hands are beautiful?
These hands have held back this hair
to keep these precious locks
from being plastered with
the vomitous regurgitation
of alcohol, pain-killers, heroin,
and love.
These hands have gripped these ears
in futile attempts to quell
the myriad voices yelling at me
from inside the fortress of my skull.
These hands have scrubbed floors and tile walls
in search of
green-golden respect,
only learning to hate my self in the process
of servitude to a tyrant king
with a liar's smile
and a false prophet
promising me a better life.
Bruised and torn, these hands are beautiful?
These hands have traveled the vast
waistlines of unwritten love poems
whispered in twilight sleep with
skin against skin.
These hands have roamed over fret boards
seeking peace on
an ax and an amp
with candle-lit scores
of gut-wrenching lyrics
sooner forgotten than spoken.
These hands have cupped breasts in
motel bathrooms and dew-covered fields,
vacant theatres and automobiles,
searching for heaven in an orgasm,
but only finding the false god of
sex-without-love and another trip
to the laundromat to clean my soul
of loveless-sex,
only to return as Lady Macbeth,
throwing myself at the courtyard floor
with my heart as my jury and a verdict of
"Not Guilty" because
though I throw myself toward the ground-
that doesn't mean that I am falling.
And that makes these hands beautiful?
These hands have gripped the wheel of an
automobile rocketing to a pharmacy at
Two A.M. for an emergency fill-up of Xanax
to stop the manic attacks
of the fifth letter;
shaved head and unshaved legs,
scared, scarred, and shaking
in the passenger seat of my truck
as we climbed the highest mountains
of stress and pain, frustration and fear.
These hands created
entire universes over
Six day's time
and ripped the Lego city apart
on the seventh.
These hands have carried silver-plated flatware
over dinners with elders who taught me
about my history
their history
OUR history.
These hands have tended the hanging gardens
while climbing Jacob’s ladder
out of the hell of addiction
into a sober heaven with
angelic poetesses singing
triumphant chorales
as I walk through
the pearly gates of self-esteem and self-respect.
These hands have clung to the trapeze of sanity
above the netless pit of manic-depression
with Jiminy-Cricket at my side
and Pinocchio as my guide.
These hands have done all of this and more
and for that I can now stand
Proudly here before you and say,
Hell yeah,
These hands are beautiful.
- - - - -
Slam Version, Fall 2003
It is just as my first time on the stage.
I am so nervous
I can hear my breath, heavy on the sound system, echoing from the walls to the coffee cups
I bring my lips to the microphone and the speakers squeal in feedback as the poetry strips me of my armor and I lay bare-
shattered in ecstasy
I can’t move-
I am so Nervous.
And I want to be poetry-
I want to be ONE with her
But I am afraid, so I throw myself into a silver-screen fantasy
Running from the reality of the stage
I disrobe my words-
that only the truth be heard
and no more hiding from myself.
I see that this mistress,
Poetry,
Is a LIE,
An ACT,
A Façade.
This Art is Life and
This Microphone is Truth and I want to become ONE with the Truth- I want to embrace this Life and my senses peak- I am living in clip.
and I want so bad to do Art justice with the perfect poem- to paint a Tchaikovsky ballet on this stage with my words and the sounds from the mic get louder and I embrace Life and I dance with the Microphone stand and I am so afraid
That Life will deny my inspiration
That Art will shun my devotion
That Poetry will discard my love as meaningless ranting
And I will be left
Naked and Shivering
But I gather the strength to throw life to the mat and pin poetry to the wall
Diving in with reckless abandon
I make three minutes last an eternity
Because time and space are suspended while we flow through assonance and alliteration
Onomatopoeia and syllabics and I am so afraid of finding rejection from Life and being denied three times by Art or destroying Poetry and all that she is
So I focus-
On paying homage to Calliope
I drop to my knees to both feed and share nectar and ambrosia
And the microphone drips with honey and sweat as I continue my dance of praise-
Gratitude to the gGods for placing this Poetry, this Art, this Life in my hands and in my heart and in my soul
And in my pleas,
I beg her not to stop-
To give me more
To never stop blessing me with my muse
To never stop flooding me with inspiration
To never stop feeding me lines like a drug-addict
Because these are my sin-dens
These are my squatter’s rights
This room
stage
microphone
Silence
When I catch my breath and the judges have quieted themselves
I return to the stage
And it is
Constant
Unwavering
Never stopping
And yet new and always different
But somehow familiar
And STILL I am so nervous
I feel like Oedipus when I sing
Because I am making love to Poetry and Life, but I am of this Art, and I revel in the touch of her words. I slay the daemons of fear and the vodka-fire rages in my chest as I bury myself for the fifth time into this Life and I am wrestling with the microphone- trying to make the eternal sound, and I don’t feel OM, but I feel that this is right- this Life and I are ONE- we are Righteousness Forever-
Sannathana Dharma
We are Righteousness Forever
So I am on my knees in reverence to this Art form that is Life and we are swirling in some astral place I cannot feel the stage anymore I have no flesh I have become ONE with her and for a moment
we are pure
- - -
- -
1
why,
thank you, thank you.
coming from you, that's huge
i appreciate it
2
Springstein, Dire Straits
These all remind me of her
Driving in her car
3
When we love someone
We bury them when they die
Headstone/ Monument
4
dead bodies smell bad
most retired people, too.
old po'ms smell of love.
5
the hyperlinks took
maybe your browser just sucks
just like your mom, bitch
6
These photos are great
I think these go on the site
beautiful people
7
a hungry man is
an angry man; you see I
am starving for you
8
We're Starving and Crude
We Hunger for Your Presence;
Fasting for Your Taste
9
little blue pill crutch
it's keeping me from crying
keeping me working
10
he was kidding, hon
threw that in to confuse you
her and Hait-er, too.
11
Jerry McGuire;
Maybe I should buy this, and...
Empire Records. (em-pie-er)
12
Everything I do
is first and foremost for you
then it becomes mine
13
you are golden sun
therefore, my universe is...
heliocentric
14
when you write for me
i can see the potential
to be great, myself
15
and potential is,
afterall, the cruelest word;
WE are twin pillars
16
she does not realise
that which she has thrown away
but she will, someday (*reel-ize)
17
i often wonder
if she wants me to fight this
to see my passion
/to see if i'm real
/to stand up to her
/instead of giving
/resist dismissal
...yeah... not set on the last line, but, hey...
18
if she had one thorn
poison arrow it would be
cupid as a girl
19
you are beautiful
the object of my desire
you are all i want
20
i miss you, my love
the same way i miss my skin;
naked without you
21
i would sleep soundly
if only you were with me
nestled at my side
22
giuliette misses
the comfort of your presence
scratching 'tween her ears
23
i chose these colours
while i had you on my mind
you're paint on my walls
24
you are my best friend
i know i would fall in love
if only i were
25
you, naked, satin
running circles around me
"you cannot make me!"
26
you make me tell him
the time we were making love
when you popp'd your cork
27
god damn, i miss you
but i need to ask myself:
love or obsession?
28
i'm trying to write
something never said before
and you've never heard
29
there isn't enough
LSD in the world to
see my love for you
30
and "the boss", springsteen
comes on the radio- thoughts:
riding in your car
31
i know i know not
but, o'er coffee, might i have
opportunity?
32
a pair of lovers
i see two of you, as one;
beautiful image
33
yet another drop
"Dark Storm Cloud", "Sweet Vanilla"
I tire of painting
34
never have i been
happy to not see you un-
til now. I love you.
35
funny irony
his life is dedicated
learning non-ado
36
Together we are,
braided and strong, steel cable,
holding to Brooklyn
37
It is not raining,
But, there is not a picnic...
I must be at work.
38
I am here to grow.
Being proven incorrect
Enables me to.
39
i realise now (*Re-ah-lize)
i am not the only one
of us who needs growth
40
so
there, i did it
"i saw your mom" just for fun
i want biz-ness cards
dad's basement submerged
time to get my butt down to
Alexandria
long, brown hair; blue eyes
fun, intellegent, sexy,
loving; a good man
43
i love you, my dear
but time has built a sense of
animosity
44
I am trying to
Move along, having reach-ed
re-alisation
45
You cannot be what
I need for you to be, and
what I thought you were
46
So, I, of course am
Attempting to get over
this wall: resentment
47
Philosophy is
Wonderful, if you can put
Theory to Practice
48
I don't believe in
this thing call-ed regret, but
seek absolution
49
I want to be friends
but, if that's how you will treat
your friends, your lover...
50
Why would I choose to
Allow a repeat offense?
You haven't tri'd change
51
I wish we could just
Go back to what I thought we
had, but wasn't there
52
So, when I saw a
woman I have met before
Smart and Attractive
53
i asked her if she
might want to get to know each
other o'er coffee
54
she said she would, and
we could make plans on Monday
but she never show'd
55
I thought that I had
Call'd the right number, but it
was disconnected
56
When I got back home
i saw i had di-all-ed wrong;
hers is 443
57
I call'd the correct
area code and number
and left a message
58
I have yet to hear
anything from her, but I
guess I should have known
59
I am sure it's good
Ev-erything happens as
ev-erything should
60
Rhyming Senryu:
You know you are tired when...
And you should wake up
61
Fan belts were Squealing
Purchased new ones at Salvo
Then, one of them broke
62
I popp-ed the hood
Alternator belt hanging
Time to get to work
63
After Half-an-Hour
Discovered all three belts were
Siz'd Incorrectly
64
Reassembled Car
Puttered to Salvo, Praying
Purchased three new Belts
65
This, after spending
Another hour in the lot,
Struggling to pull belts
66
Finally, TIN SNIPS!!
Making quick work of Rubber
Hell hath no fury
67
Student, Mechanic
Angry Man in the car-park
These and More am I
68
That took way too long
A/C Compressor wouldn't
Rotate to loose belt
69
Attached the new cords
Tighten'd accessories
I Missed my first Class
70
Show'd up late to Alt's
Philosophy 101
Hands black with oil
71
Missed Psychology
AGAIN, having been absent
Monday; woke at noon
72
I have an exam
Friday, for which I just miss'd
The review lesson
73
It's no matter, though
I got this shit locked down, man
it is "all up ons"!
74
I want to follow
with my tongue, to your center
the curves of your hips
75
most people are smart
some, however, can just be
uneducated
76
stickers, soap bubbles
shiny things shimm'ring, sliding
down my stainless sink
77
I have known you, Jim
For over a decade, friend
Now I mourn your loss.
78
Our skin is Canvas
we paint our lives upon flesh
in Life's gallery
79
i wanted to call
but nothing but 'miss you', which
i've said too often
80
progress being made
ripping out hardwood with sweat
fuck you, isabel
81
you call'd me tonight
i sighed when i heard your voice
i still miss your breath
82
we both achiev'd goals
but, on what field did we play
full contact avoidance?
83
my mind and I change
each other so often we
can't trust each other
I'm not my body.
"Cogito, ergo sum", hmmm?
But, am I my mind?
83
She said you're a ghost.
You're killing yourself again;
Still caught in headlights.
84 & 85
5 She told me you are,
T again, a ghost. I wanted to find you.
T Costumes are rare, unless it's Halloween.
9 Your secret rushing from you again?
86
INBRED FAMILY
father, brother: one in same
oedipus complex
87
UNFORTUNATELY
opinions and solutions
often disagree
88
improper boundaries
have been known to lead us to
CROSS-POLLINATION
89
Boots and bolo tie
I want to lasso you and
MOUNT YOU LIKE A HORSE
90
you and i, as one
in my bed, our love will we
CIRCUMNAVIGATE
91
approach your altar
as i bring you to my lips
COMMUNION WAFER
92
hands press'd in prayer
i beg for your pale blessing
COMMUNION WAFER
93
ONE FINGER SNAPPING
sound eerily similar
tree in the forest
94
ONE FINGER SNAPPING
next time, it's your fucking knees
where's my money, bitch?
95
Man, woman, as one
Plato's perfect bond of love
HERMAPHRODITIC
96
NAMETAG ON MY HEART
your love calls and i answer
i am so your bitch
97
NAMETAG ON MY HEART
your love calls and i answer
you are my best friend
98
glistening, starlight eyes
are exploding with passion
LIKE SUPERNOVAS
99
EMPEROR PENGUIN
he presents you with your crown
black bruises, pale skin
100
when i was a child
i would ask my mother to
CUT THE CRUSTS FROM BREAD
101
YOUR BUSY FINGERS
counting out your syllables
late night, diner, words
102
ZODIAC SPINNING
the stars you cast in my eyes
your touch is stellar
103
WITH NO STRINGS ATTACHED
i invite you to my bed
my marionette
104
POMEGRANATE JUICE
a substitute for his seeds
still cause for winter
105
a night within you
your heart and lips cold as ice
ZAMBONI BLOWJOB
106
capitalized words
represent the assignment
lower-case are mine
107
dropp'd you at airport
drove to norfolk, Virginia
miss you already
108
insulting phone call
my aunt cathy is a bitch
my father agrees
109
left norfolk at ten
rocketing in my volvo
up the interstate
110
queen-size bed empty
except for my pale body
turbulent blue sheets
111
i still think of you
when i look at my new clothes
lion, witch, wardrobe
112
you made me a book
fill'd it with your favorites
now they are mine, too
113
i don't know why, but
i never know what to give
you have everything
114
beard and guilt complex
and wonderful gift-giver
"quad" is in the book
115
Hando II guitar
red lining in hard black case
thank you, delrica
116
i'm here on the ground
waiting for you to come down
when you get back home
117
you cough beside me
crumbled tissue of woman
may my touch bring health
118
ex-girl and Best Friend
A party on New Year's Eve
Auld Acquaintances
119
sonya renee, damn!
fourteen people in small house
sounds like a hundred!
120
happy holidays
you are all my family
I love you. Be well.
121
don't insult my craft
or my intelligence, bitch
I was thanking you
122
def poetry jam
recording session at dream's
late night editing
and little snippets
5 and 7 syllables
to use in haiku
(chris)
123
friends, lovers, brothers
weaving tangled passion web
INBRED FAMILY
124
though the sex is great
you and i don't work, doofy...
UNFORTUNATELY
125
CROSS-POLLINATION
lies buzz and soil what is true
stream of consciousness
126
MOUNT YOU LIKE A HORSE
i grasp your reins as you buck
ride into sunrise
127
CIRCUMNAVIGATE
you tip-toe around the truth
not the shortest path
128
COMMUNION WAFER
your pale form you offer me
this is my body
129
beatnik/ zen poem
sound of one hand clapping and
ONE FINGER SNAPPING
130
you are what you eat
i taste you like i praise you*
therefore, i am you
*taalam acey
131
HERMAPHRODITE
they say you are what you eat
therefore, i am you
132
blank page on my chest
fill it with your lovers-touch
NAMETAG ON MY HEART
133
LIKE SUPERNOVAS
you and i reach orgasm
simultaneously
134
stand upon my rock
if i should please you, my love
please accept my feast
135
EMPEROR PENGUIN
stand upon my rock, my love
please accept my feast
136
CUT THE CRUSTS FROM BREAD
remove what is not needed
discard your stale lies
137
late night diner booth
i reach across, hope to calm
YOUR BUSY FINGERS
138
pale green stars of your
hanging mobile in your room
ZODIAC SPINNING
139
i'll knit you a scarf
to keep you warm in winter
WITH NO STRINGS ATTACHED
140
seasons of your life
her blood, for you, is just like
POMEGRANATE JUICE
141
ZAMBONI BLOWJOB
smooth the ice of our life's fights
with your melting kiss
142 - HSA1-01
anna catherine schein
older sister/ role model
never sitting still
143
Back from St. Thomas
Abrupt entrance at the Slam
to the crowd's applause
144
The water walks barefoot in the wet streets.
From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick.
-P.N.
- - - - -
late night, lamp light, youth
words dug in apartment mulch
some just say "seven".
“Invitations for the Ashes” Haiku
I.
electric teardrop
envelops and protects you
crying in a smile
II.
make me your pupil
take my hands into your own
teach me to hold you
III.
how many times now
have i called your name, and still,
you have not heard once
“Dredging Patricia” Haiku
wintry landscape
silent drip, azure water
secret and wooden
“Questioning the Painter” Haiku
I.
Pity a poet
would stain, bleach, water this art
down to Love or Death
II.
Taste your innocence
Inhale your earthy incense
Smell your inner scents
the
perfect haiku
would be your name repeated;
sung seventeen times
Harold and maude haiku
I took
the pills ov-
er an hour ago. I'll
be gone by midnight
sarah
haiku #??
"it's
all i can do,
sometimes, not to ask you to...
stay," she said to me.
sarah
haiku #??
what
do i want?
i want
what i thought i had
when i
thought i had you.
-Rebecca
haiku series 1-
kissing
your pale lips
with
each and every goodbye
a
stronger greeting
when
you shut your eyes
i
reached out and touched your hair
afraid
to kiss you
this
is what i learn
hesitation
makes us fools
my
apologies
just
don’t let me talk
take
my cheeks into your palms
press
soft lips to mine
with
you, there is risk
tripping,
falling, pain, again
possibility
i
know: no excuse
though
it kills me to do so,
i am
waiting for you
i know
i should ask
because
i don’t want just sex
i want
small windows
Rebecca
Birthday haiku
i.
anniversary
day of birth celebrated
congratulations
ii.
springtime sunset kiss
cool mist blown on gentle breeze
your eyes outshine stars
All material copyright 2001-2004 David Donald Schein II, except where noted. All rights reserved.
Any unauthorized duplication of this publication, in part or whole, is a violation of applicable laws.
Published by figmentofimagination Productions
Cooked in granma’s Kitchen
Baltimore, MD, USA
Printed at Printergy, Inc.
Baltimore, MD, USA.
To contact fP, gK, or Printergy:
Works Cited in “Romance or Revolution”
Alvarez, Julia. In the Time of the Butterflies. New York: Penguin, 1995.
Bible-Study-Online.Org. “Nicene Creed”. Apostle’s and Nicene Creeds, Original Faith. Ed. Norman McIlwain. 2003. 25 March 2004 < http://www.bible-study-online.org/index_000007.htm>
Castro, Fidel. Speech, 1953. Trans. Pedro Alvarez Tabio & Andrew Paul Booth. La
Habana, Cuba: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales, 1975.
Weiss, Emily. “Flown Away, but Not Forgotten”. Unbound (12/12/2003). 25 March 2004. <http://www.tcnj.edu/~unbound/features/butterflies.html>
fP
Archie nodded, smiling. “A
lovely treason, hm?”
I could not speak. He led me
out into the dazzling light.
-jerry spinelli, stargirl