Michigan Macabre

New Poem

2011-11-30T21:24:00.000-08:00

Question 11/30/11

In the midst of this chaos in a world set afire by violent hatred we have come to mean nothing but a black abyss endless despair and comedic terrorists with painted faces lurking in the sky in the ground in the water in the air trapped in the lungs of a baby a scream screaming to get out a scream shrill and sad too bad no one hears the pained cries in the lullabies we sing we sing songs infernal our internal dialogue made public knowledge for gossiping girls are singing songs infernal our internal turmoil turned inside-out and there must be a hide-out for the hippies and heathens where do you dwell in the midst of this chaos in a world set afire by blind bias and ignorance and will we ever find peace and will it ever mean a damn thing?

Wow...

2011-01-29T14:26:00.000-08:00

I just realised that I have had this blog for over three years. Epic! Happy belated birthday, blog.

You Give Love a Bad Name, and That Name is Hate

2011-01-29T14:06:00.001-08:00

You Give Love a Bad Name, and That Name is Hate

I surrendered,
Was rendered a fumbling, bumbling fool,
Tool with a heart pinned on my sleeve.
Could it be?
Have I been mislead?
What made my heart contradict my head?
If there is a solution, will it bring absolution? And will I ever find
The piece of me I left behind?
I should just chalk it up to fate, but baby, you give love a bad name,
And that name is Hate.

More.

2011-01-04T12:26:00.001-08:00

Destruction of the Best Kind

I found you crawling, a bug under my skin.
I could cut you out with a knife; it would be less painful
Than letting you linger.
Barricades up, walls reinforced, and still you broke through.
You’re as bad as bad news gets,
Yet you’re all I want to hear.

How could I be such a fool, such a tool for a handsome face?
No, it’s something more, something beyond verbalization.
For once, I cannot articulate.
You’ve got me waving the white flag, surrendering my fleet
Of battle-ravaged ships full of cannonball holes.
For once, I have lost the fight.

Please, cease your fire, ‘cause the damage has been done.
I’m as wrecked as wrecked can get,
Yet I happily limp into your harbour.
Shit-faced, loose-laced, every trace of sanity out the window,
This is what you’ve done to me,
And I could not love you more.

First poem of 2011...

2011-01-02T14:19:00.001-08:00

Le criminel

Unspoken words and a churning stomach –
How can this be called “love” when it
Digs past skin, through marrow, and
Creates a cavernous hole in my chest?
I will this feeling away; it comes back tenfold.
It tears my sanity asunder and renders me powerless,
A feeble child lost in the snowy woods on a cruel winter’s night.

I deem you The Criminal, for you have stolen
What little I had left to survive on.
You took it and ran like a thief in the night.
Every glance pierces my heart like a thousand sharpened daggers.
That unfamiliar gaze knocks me off my feet;
What could it mean?

I’ll pull out my hair.
I’ll dig past skin, through marrow, and
Carve a cavernous hole in my chest
Just so you can see me thriving in this misery.

You’ve been caught red-handed, Criminal,
With my heart cradled in your palms,
Droplets oozing crimson into puddles covering
A once-pristine veil.

You’ve been caught, Criminal,
With my heart beating for you,
Reverberating faster in your presence,
Doing things I never asked it to do.

You’ve become the drug I never thought I’d crave,
And now I’m stark-raving mad, a heartless fiend
Crawling broken and bloodied through the barren snow.
You hold my heart; you hold the power.

My fate is in your thieving hands.

Spineless

2010-12-18T16:34:00.001-08:00

Spineless

I’ve come to loath the words
That are trapped inside my
Throat.
They burn the tip of my tongue.
I’ll spit them up in blood,
Screaming
“GET OUT!”

Why does my courage fail me?
Why do I lie in trenches instead of standing up to fight
To the
Death?

There is no demon pressing down on my throat,
No grip tightly-wound around my neck,
But a noose of my own making
Dangles in front
Of my
Feeble eyes.

Invertebrate by my own design,
Crippled only by this mind,
Put me in a freezer box
So I cannot feel the pain
Of ripping out
My own
Spine.

Two short stories.

2010-12-04T16:27:00.000-08:00

I Witness

You see, I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was occurring before my very eyes. Blood splattered across the starch-white walls. Shattered glass crunched beneath my scruffy black tennis shoes. Drawers pulled out of their rightful places, papers scattered about the cream-colored carpet. The phone, taken off its hook, was lying in a pool of blood, the dial tone blasting against the stillness of the scene.

I had been watching a re-run of Law & Order when, at 7:03 A.M. by my clock, I heard her piercing scream coming from the apartment overhead. I muted the TV and listened. I then heard what sounded like items being thrown across her apartment. The ceiling above my head rattled with their footsteps – one (hers, most likely) followed by a heavier set. I think he must have been wearing heavy-soled boots. You know, like combat boots.

I don’t know why I didn’t go right away to try to help her. I was afraid, I guess. It seemed unreal. When her screams stopped and the dragging noises across the floorboards above began, I knew what had happened. Once I knew he was gone – I saw him leave down the fire escape, even though that thing should be condemned – I went up that flight of stairs and pushed her apartment door open. It was ajar anyway. I called out to her: “Miss? Miss? Are you okay?” But I knew the answer. Still, I called and called.

I bypassed the pool of blood in the living room and stepped quietly down the hallway to the bedrooms. Pictures had been knocked off the wall. Their glass covers were in pieces on the floor. I stooped over and picked up one of the pictures. I turned it over in my hands and saw their bright, smiling faces. The two of them. I think they took it on a cruise; you can see that they were on a ship. He looked so happy. She did, too, though there was something in her eyes that I can’t quite explain. It just didn’t sit right with me.

I made my way into the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. More blood. The wall near the entrance to the master bathroom was diagonally sprayed with crimson. One look into the bathroom, and my fears were confirmed. She was dead. Not just dead – slaughtered, turned belly-down, face-first over the side of the antique white tub. The translucent shower curtain half-draped her slashed corpse. That’s when I passed out.

I swear, officer, that’s all I know. That’s exactly how it happened. I can’t tell you anything more.

What do you mean, that man in the photograph is me? I’ve never seen him before
in my life.

Dissociative-what disorder? No, I don’t know what that is. I think you have the wrong man. I would never kill anybody! I’m just a witness, sir.

-------------------------------------------

The man gently tapped the toe of his black tennis shoes – one-two, one-two – on the linoleum floor of the interrogation room.

“You see, I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was occurring before my very eyes,” he said. “Blood splattered across the starch-white walls. Shattered glass crunched beneath my scruffy black tennis shoes. Drawers pulled out of their rightful places, papers scattered about the cream-colored carpet. The phone, taken off its hook, was lying in a pool of blood, the dial tone blasting against the stillness of the scene.”

Detective Ambrose clicked his ball-point pen in-and-out. He had no patience for the man’s fables. All the evidence was stacked against him. As the man rambled on, Ambrose reminisced, bringing to mind the crime scene he had been called into investigate only three hours before. It had been a bloody stinkin’ mess, and Ambrose had done his best to refrain from vomiting when he saw the woman’s mangled body lying half-draped over the bathtub. The one stand-out image was the woman’s missing ring finger. Someone had cut it off, probably with the same kitchen knife that was now missing from the dead woman’s kitchen collection.

The man wrapped up his story. “I swear, officer, that’s all I know. That’s exactly how it happened. I can’t tell you anything more.”

Totally generic, Ambrose thought to himself. Yet this guy truly believes himself the innocent downstairs neighbor who just happened upon the scene.

It was time to bring out the big guns.

“Mr. Riggby, are you aware that the man in that photograph is you?” Ambrose questioned him, arms folded in stoic fashion. No bullshit would be tolerated. Not today. Not this case.

The man replied, “What do you mean, that man in the photograph is me? I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Ambrose was relentless. “Mr. Riggby, do you know what Dissociative Identity Disorder is?”

The man shook his head fervently and said, “Dissociative-what disorder? No, I don’t know what that is. I think you have the wrong man. I would never kill anybody! I’m just a witness, sir.”

The sly grin on the man’s face spoke to the contrary. This was not James Riley – the humble, hard-working James Riley everyone knew down at Firehouse 44. Jimmy would’ve acknowledged Luke Ambrose as his friend; they went to grade school together. Now, everything was out in the open. James Oliver Riley was now Rupert Riggby, twisted serial killer extraordinaire.

Ambrose finally had his man. If only it had not come to this; Ambrose had lost his two best friends in the course of five hours. Kelly Riley was dead, and Jimmy would never be Jimmy again.

Seeing

Angelo inched forward through the darkness. The hallway seemed never-ending and patterned itself in kaleidoscopic fashion. This could have been a funhouse at a carnival, but it wasn’t.

Doors on either side of the hallway were closed and, as Angelo found out when he turned each of their brass knobs, locked. If only he could find a door that would open, he might be able to escape.

Escape what? Angelo was uncertain, but something had prompted him to start up from a sound sleep in a comfortable hotel bed. When he had looked to his left to shake his band-mate awake, he had found Josh to be gone. Angelo had searched in the bathroom adjoining his hotel suite to that of two other band-mates, only to find both rooms completely empty. The room across the hall from the suite, which had been occupied by the final two band-mates, was deserted as well.

Growing increasingly frantic, Angelo had taken to the third-floor hallway of the massive Edwardian-era hotel in search of his comrades. When the wall lamps illuminating the stark-white halls of the hotel went out, fear settled in and slowed down Angelo’s movements.

Angelo wanted to scream out for Josh, Chris, TJ – any of them. All of them. Yet Angelo’s voice caught in his throat. Something buried deep within his gut told him that yelling would be bad idea.

Reaching what appeared to be the end of the long, narrow corridor, Angelo stopped dead in his tracks. Someone was breathing down the back of his neck.

Angelo gathered his courage and took two small steps forward. He reached out his right hand, extended his pointer finger, and pushed the down button. The elevator made a horrible clanging noise above his head and slowly descended to the third floor.

I’ve got to get out of here, Angelo thought to himself. Get out of this hotel, call the cops, let them deal with this, try to find the others, and oh god, what if they can never be found? Or what if this is just a horrible prank? But… Maybe…

The elevator door creaked open, and Angelo stepped inside. The fluorescent light above his head buzzed like a hyperactive housefly and flickered on-and-off. The door shut. For the first time, Angelo truly felt alone.

The elevator stopped with a sudden jolt midway between the first and second floors. Angelo anxiously pressed the button to open the door, but nothing happened.

“Damn it! Come on!” he exclaimed. Frustrated as all hell, Angelo slammed a closed fist against the wall of the elevator only to hear a sickening crunch as his third and fourth metacarpals fractured on impact. The pain did not sink in. There was no time to consider it.

Suddenly, the light overhead died out. Angelo held his breath. He didn’t want to move, but, somehow, Angelo knew he had to get out of the elevator. Facing his fears, Angelo knocked the lid on the elevator’s ceiling open and climbed his way up. He pulled himself onto the top of the elevator and looked about. There was a rusted metal ladder extending upward, but, peering over the edge, Angelo saw that it was broken off at the bottom. There was no way he could climb down; he would have to go up.

As he ascended the ladder, sharp pains began to shoot through Angelo’s injured hand.

Just ignore it, Angelo instructed himself. Just think about getting out.

At the top, where the ladder ceased, was solid steel door. Angelo stepped off the ladder onto the landing and pushed his way through the door without thinking twice. He failed to notice the sign to the right of the door, as it was shrouded in darkness.

Chris checked his watch for the third time in two minutes. No Angelo. The others were impatient. They had packed up the van and were ready to get back onto the road. Ricky was restlessly pacing while smoking a Marlboro; TJ checked his make-up in the van’s mirror then called to Chris, who was standing in front of the hotel’s massive white-and-gold-trimmed double doors.

“Yo, C!” TJ shouted. “We’re half-an-hour behind. What’s the deal? Where the fuck’s Angelo?”

Chris folded and unfolded his long arms and sighed. It wasn’t like Angelo to go somewhere without telling anybody. Where could he possibly have gone? Impatient and a bit unnerved, Chris briskly walked back into the hotel lobby and approached the front desk.

“Are you sure no one has seen him?” Chris questioned the young man behind the desk for the third time. “His name is Angelo Parente. Please, isn’t there something you can do?”

The young man shook his head and responded with a typical I’m-sorry-but-we’re-not-responsible-for-lost-items-or-people line. Cursing and on the verge of tears, Chris stormed back out to the awaiting van and instructed TJ to call the police.

It’s like the building swallowed him alive, Josh thought while taking his seat behind TJ in the van. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Angelo… Where are you?

Angelo witnessed this scene. He felt like a detective behind a two-way mirror. He tried to touch them. He screamed their names in their ears. All was in vain, for they could not know, they could not see. There was nothing he could do. Angelo, defeated and drained, turned his back on his five friends and gazed up at the hotel’s façade. The windows formed an arch, grinning as if to say, "Welcome home, Angelo. Welcome home."

More sappy shit. Deal with it.

2010-12-04T16:25:00.000-08:00

Love/Not Love

How can this be called Love
When it rips apart my insides,
When it forces thoughts unwanted,
When pain overrides comfort,
And all I have to go on
Is a miniscule shred of hope?

How can this be called Love
When it clouds better judgment,
When it takes precious time,
When sleep is lost to musings,
And all I have to go on
Is the prospect of seeing him again?

How can this be called Not Love
When it seems so natural,
When nothing seems impossible,
When his smile is all I need,
And all I have to go on
Is the sound of his voice calling to me?

Catch Hold

Love, let me breathe – quit suffocating me.
Nay, stay – just a minute, if you please.
Love, don’t leave.
Is this just a passing fancy, or could it be
Something more, something worth
Fighting for?
But do you know, do you know how you
Drive me to the edge of the cliff then
Suddenly pull me back by the collar?
But do you know, do you know how I
See you walking across the pavilion and want
To run just to be by your side?
Love, do you feel – do you ache on the inside
When you think of me?
Are you, too, searching for something to
Ground your feet to this feeble earth,
To keep you from flying into the
Bright cerulean sky?
Do you, too, bicker to yourself about how
You need to get a grip, grip onto reality?
I wish I could grip onto you, and you
Could catch a hold of me.

If You Think I’m Crazy, I’m Just Crazy For You

You’re my heart-attack waiting to happen.
Every time I see you, that stupid organ beats faster,
Ready to leap out of my chest and trail you down the hall.
When you’re not near, those are the times
I feel so incomplete.
You’ve got me confined in the Iron Maiden and are about to
Shut the
Door.
Ah, but for a word, any word, before you go.
A glance my way, and my soul is in rapture.
I want to be more than just one of the guys –
I want to be the girl – your girl,
And we’ll possess each other.
I hate to say it,
I know it’s cliché,
But I love you
More than words these simple words can say.

I have no place left to fall, so I’m free-falling,
Hoping you’ll be there at the bottom to catch me.
But if you’re not, then the jumping-off was my fault.
I don’t care. I don’t care one bit.
I just want to be able to say,
“It was worth it.”
I want to speak.
I want to try.
I want to be the one – your one,
And we’ll fuse together in harmony.
All I care about is what you think of me.
No one else matters.

Driven mad, I cannot go on in solitude.
Feel my soul. Listen. My heart, it beats in time,
The metronome of my soul with your name
Written all over it.
Feel this heart beat.
Don’t shut –
The Door.

Inner Demons

2010-11-09T18:38:00.000-08:00

Inner Demons

Seething Anger, seductive and sinister,
Beckons with a fiery hand outstretched –
How can I resist?
I want to fight. I want to bleed for a purpose,
But Reserve says, “No.”
Reserve recoils and returns to her shadowed corner
While Pessimist says, “She’d never win anyway.”
Pessimist can be a real dick, but he sees more than Optimist,
Who haphazardly stumbles through the realm thinking
Of all that is yet to come.
I wish I could be rid of them, every last one.

Brashness gets himself into trouble, even when he means well,
Then calls upon Rationalization to bail him out.
Rationalization is a pain in the ass, too, since she is too hesitant.
She and Reserve are best friends,
But they are no friends of mine.
The deadliest of all, so unsuspecting, is Self-Loathing,
A ghostly shell of a child long abandoned, tearless, breathless,
Gazing at the noose in its bony little hand.
Self-Loathing holds the trump card
And patiently waits for me to fold.

Thank You

2010-11-09T18:34:00.000-08:00

Thank You

“All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber.” – Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

It’s my first day at Aquinas. I’m sitting in my first class – Intro to Literary Studies. I don’t know anybody, so I randomly select a seat. There is a guy off to my left with short chestnut-colored hair, an ebony-skinned beauty to his left, and a doe-eyed girl to his right; she is positioned across from me in our seating arrangement. A girl with long, curly black hair sits in front of me. I learn their names as the professor calls them off. Onyinye. Robbie. Jennifer. Karla. Class passes without much conversation. I’m naturally introverted and do not speak unless spoken to in a classroom setting.

Class lets out, and I head directly for Japanese 101. I’ve been yearning for several years to formally study Japanese, and I cannot describe the exhilaration I felt while rushing toward the third-floor classroom. When I get there, I see that Jennifer, the doe-eyed girl from my previous class, is sitting in the second row on the left-hand side of the room. She invites me to sit down next to her; I accept and take a seat.

***

I’m thirteen and at the roller rink off of Plainfield Avenue. It has yet to close down and morph into a Goodwill outlet. The walls are puke-yellow, and the wooden skating floor is worn down. The lights are dimmed to a dull grayish tone.

“Time for a slow skate,” the DJ announces. “Last song for the night! Time to grab a partner. Remember, this is couples only.”

I’ve been eyeing him all night. Tall, muscular (but not too much so), blond hair, baby blues. The All-American Dream. My friends are encouraging me to approach him and ask him to skate. I’m hesitant, being so accustomed to rejection by the opposite sex. However, I make my way over to him. Just as the song commences, I ask him, “Will you skate with me?”

Awkward pause. He glances at his buddies flanking him on both sides. Raucous laughter erupts from his mouth. The others follow suit.

“Yeah, right,” he chortles. “Why would I want to skate with a loser like you?”

Another shot to my dwindling ego. I want to make some witty retort about how I was just joking, how could I really want to skate with a douche bag like him, but I quietly retreat to the benches where I sit with the rest of the singles.

***

Fourth grade is hell. I’m stuck in a classroom full of girls who hate me. I know it; they’ve verbally expressed their loathing of me. I don’t get why they dislike me other than that I don’t look like them. My clothes are from the thrift store. I’m a little pudgy. I have braces and wear glasses. Sporadic freckles decorate my face, and my hair is too fluffy, even for the mid-90’s. Still, I wonder, why me?

We’re supposed to be working in groups. We’re constructing our own models of boats using small pieces of plywood and glue. We have to work together to craft these ships by dividing up duties. The girls in my group have neglected to assign me a role in the process. They talk over me when I make suggestions. They choose ignore a person who has something to offer – knowledge of ship construction.

Once we finish, the teacher asks us who contributed what to the building process.

“I drew the plans,” one girl says.

“I oversaw construction,” says a second.

A third adds, “I put the wood together.”

The teacher looks at me, “And what did you do, Jennifer?”

I remain silent.

“Jenny didn’t do anything,” the first girl says. “She didn’t want to help.”

I receive no credit for the assignment.

***

He calls me a “freak” and pushes me into the trunk of a pine tree.

It is the dead of winter, and I am walking home with my friend Charity. Her family is even poorer than mine and lives in a run-down motel room. We walk quickly to catch up with our friend Justin. Unfortunately, he is walking home with Aaron, our neighbor for whom I have a few choice words – I keep those to myself.

I ask Justin if we can accompany him and Aaron. Justin says yes. Aaron says no. I get the courage to question him and ask, “Why not?”

He gives me no explanation. Instead, Aaron hurls me spine-first into the base of a pine tree standing in someone’s front yard. He has me by the collar and is telling me what he thinks of me. I don’t say anything. When he brings me forward and forces me back again, I hit my head on the bark. It scratches and pulls a few hairs from my head. I’m not woozy, though; this is the clearest my mind has been in a long time. I know what I have to do. I knee him in the groin and push him back. He loses his sense of equilibrium and falls into the snow. I grab Charity’s hand and run away.

Charity isn’t really my friend. Once she gets home, she tells her parents to call the school and let them know I “beat up” Aaron.

The four of us get called into the principal’s office the following day during recess.

The principal gets the stories from Justin, Charity, Aaron, and, finally, myself. She looks quizzically at me when I tell her I acted in self-defense. I’m not stupid, lady, I think. I know you think I am lying.

Our so-called punishment (well, my so-called punishment) is to apologize for our actions. Justin has nothing to apologize for, but he says he is sorry for not stepping in to stop what happened. Charity gives a feeble “sorry” for tattling but seems to be saying so to please the principal. Aaron says he isn’t sorry because I attacked him. He did nothing wrong, of course.

I don’t apologize. In fact, I don’t speak. I will not lie like Charity. I will not project my anger onto someone else like Aaron. I will simply remain silent and accept the fact that I’m a freak in his eyes.

***

It’s Friday night, and the post-hardcore scene is thriving at the MXTP in downtown Grand Rapids. I’m head-banging along with one of my favorite bands, Motionless in White. During the set, the lead singer, Chris, pauses to address the audience.

Chris is by no means “normal,” if there is such a thing. He is approximately 6’4” and has half of his head shaved to expose his tattoos – one being Oogie Boogie from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas.

“I have a few things to say to you guys,” Chris speaks into the mic. “First of all, never let anyone tell you you’re wrong for believing in what you want to believe.” (The crowd roars.) “Secondly, never, EVER, under any circumstances, let someone make you feel that you’re worthless. No friend or family member should ever make you think you’re shit. You’re not!” (The crowd goes crazy.) “You’re all Creatures, and so am I!” (The crowd explodes like Mt. Saint Helens.)

I meet up with Chris after the set is over. We talk. I tell him “Thank you for coming to Grand Rapids.” What I really want to say is “Thank you for reminding me that it’s okay to be who I am. No one will ever make me feel unwanted ever again.”

***

There are many things I want to go back in time to say and do. The most important of all is “Thank you.”

Absolution

2010-11-09T18:24:00.000-08:00

Absolution

In the background, Andy Six tells me to never give in. Never back down. I think I finally have the courage to go through with it, to face them once again. I keep Andy's words in mind as I make a left onto the dimly-lit street and slowly approach the white-paneled split-level ranch house. I pull into the driveway and turn off the Impala’s engine. I sit in darkness for a moment, losing my courage ounce-by-ounce as I gaze into the brightly-illuminated living room window.

***

It was my sixteenth birthday. Evan was on his way to pick me up for what I would later find out was a surprise party he had planned for several weeks. Little did I know that, when Evan called the house to tell me he was on his way, my father had picked up and listened in from the phone in the kitchen.

My father hated Evan simply for the fact that Evan was my boyfriend, and according to the Bible, men weren’t supposed to date each other.

“It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!” my father would yell whenever the subject of my homosexuality arose. “If God had wanted men to be together, he wouldn’t have created the universal problem known as women.”

When Evan arrived, I tried to casually exit the front door since I knew that sneaking out of my bedroom window was useless. My father had nailed it shut.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going, queer?” my father questions me as I slither along the wall toward the door.

“I’m going out with a friend to celebrate my birthday,” I mumble.

He stands up from his La-Z-Boy and stumbles toward me holding a bottle of Jack in his left hand and a lit cigarette in his right.

“Like hell ye are, ya stupid faggot.” Spit accidentally flies from his lips and lands on my cheek. “Ain’t no son of mine goin’ out and fuckin’ some guy… Or guys… Yer momma even made ya a nice meal for yer birf-f-birfday. Ungrateful fuckin’ prick.”

The stench of his alcohol-soaked breath wafts up my nostrils, and the burning cigarette emits smoke that causes me to cough.

“Don’t ya cough, ya pansy-boy!” he yells and smacks me full-force across the face. One of his overgrown nails catches on the skin beneath my right eye and tears at it, causing an angled crimson line to form. “Now, yer little butt-buddy out there can go… go… fuckin’… go home. Ya ain’t goin’ anywhere, ye abnation… abd… a-bomb-able…”

I realize that this is my chance. I push past him as his intoxicated mind searches for meaning. He, however, manages to grab me by the back of my shirt collar. He reels me around and sneers.

“Big mistake, boy,” he says through gritted teeth before hurling me into the living room.

I don’t recall what happened after that. I woke up the next morning in my bed with a broken nose and busted jaw, not to mention the bruises all over my torso and arms.

***

My father worked as a Baptist pastor and counselor for his church. The entire congregation loved and flocked to him as though he was Jesus reincarnated, minus the whole end-of-days thing. This is why no police report was filed. My father was in with all the guys at the department anyway. Most of them attended his sermons on a weekly basis. I was the kid with funky hair and black clothes. I was the kid everyone knew to be gay. Nobody would believe that my father ever raised so much as his voice to me.

Now, he’s dead. Half of me hopes he is rotting in the fieriest pit of Hell. That part of me wishes him eternal damnation for the hell he put me through. All the lies, the broken promises, the beatings, the shredding of my ego, the abusive drunken tirades – I want him to burn for those things.

Yet, somewhere in my fractured soul, I know that I would not be the same without what he did to me. I wouldn’t have gotten the hell out from under his reign as dictator and found my true self. I wouldn’t be able to reach out to others who have endured as I have endured. I would not have learned that chipped teeth and black eyes are to be suffered in vain.

***

My mother opens the door, rings around her eyes. I now realize that I made the right decision. Absolution comes at last.

Written for class...

2010-09-26T16:51:00.000-07:00

Flight

Eternity.
Flee Death.
Folly follows Mischief –
Lost Boys.
Escape
Responsibility.
Fly, freedom
Or
Accept Aging.

To Make Them See the Errors of Their Ways

Water, swell and rise your tides up from the sea.
Three times three, let them see, let them see.
(For the tears grieving loved ones shed.)
Earth, awaken your soil from beneath the debris.
Three times three, let them see, let them see.
(For the innocent who now lie dead.)
Wind, lift your voice and sway the old pine tree.
Three times three, let them see, let them see.
(For those lost in blood, in vain.)
Fire, let your flames burn away ancient decree.
Three times three, let them see, let them see.
(For those in blind hatred slain.)

Underwater Luxury Spa and Resort

The “rhythmic tidal lyres” are all the music they know.
The fish, iridescent eyes illuminating dark passageways
Of crumbling walls, floors, and ceilings.
Swish-swash, swish-swash, back and forth they swim,
Wondering who used to live here.
Naught they know of the tragedy that brought this floating
Palace asunder.
Naught they know of the racing, scurrying, crying, screaming, struggling
People who once were alive.

Through the darkness, a solitary sea-worm slithers,
Over a wooden bed frame, under the crushed dome’s steel,
Through a barrage of caved-in creations and
Relics of a time lost to fate or chance.
Gliding through the black abyss, he makes his way
Up the grand staircase toward Honor and Glory crowning Time.
He does not pause to notice the decaying craftsmanship.
Instead, he charges on, speeding through the water,
On his way to the gym.

He finds a promontory on which to rest, slowly slipping himself onto
The old oak surface, letting himself uncoil as if to sigh,
“Ah, now this is luxury!”
Now, it is time for him to rest. His translucent body relaxed,
His internal rhythm slows as if to sigh,
“Ah, this is how they felt.”
But he is alive in this Underwater Luxury Spa and Resort.

Vlad

Creation. A tricky word, is it not?
Circumstance.
Create me as you will.
Call me a monster or a victim;
How can I possibly fall
Anywhere in between?
Surely, their whips must have
Created the monster that you
Fear.
Surely, I distrusted my father
Who traded me to the Turks.
Surely, I envied my brothers
Whom my father adored.
Surely, the knowledge granted me
Gave me powerful weapons.
Surely, my father’s murder and
My brother’s blind burial
Must have enraged me.
Surely, my uncle’s assassination
Only made me more violent.
Surely, my love for Wallachia
Caused me to take drastic measures.
Surely, Corvinus’ treacherous
Imprisonment of my body triggered
Deeper hatred within my wicked soul.
Surely, my first wife’s death tore at
That wicked soul of mine.
Surely, I nailed their turbans for
The disrespect they showed me in my house.
Surely, I slaughtered the villainous boyars
Out of revenge for my father and brother.

You know me as a devil.
You know me as a man.

Do you know how it feels to be imprisoned as a child,
Whipped and beaten for being the son of another man’s enemy?
Do you know how it feels to be forced into religion?
Do you know how it feels to be thrust into a lifestyle you never asked for?
Do you truly know betrayal?
Do you truly know spiteful anger?

It is true, I impaled the boyars.
It is true, I promoted the status of free peasantry,
Loyal as they were.
It is true, I thrice reigned in Wallachia.
Twice wed and several sons produced.

Now, on this battlefield near Bucharest,
I make another stand against the Ottomans.
If I shall live, I shall remain hated and revered.
If I shall die, I shall remain hated and revered.

Create me as you will.
Contrive my character,
Corvinus’ disciples in defamation
And de-humanization.
Contrive my character,
A tortured boy grown into a tortured man –
A product of his time.
Create me as you will,
Give me many names,
But I leave you with only one –
Vlad.

A little French never hurt anyone... right?

2010-09-20T20:24:00.000-07:00

The Cure for Our Ills

Face the faceless stranger.
Look harder. Look longer.
Look until your eyes bleed.
Love the loveless lover.
Love harder. Love longer.
Love until your heart bleeds.
Feel the unfeeling loner.
Dig wider. Dig deeper.
Dig until you find the source.

Happiness is relevant.
Acceptance is difficult.
Laughter, I’ve heard them say,
Is a Band-Aid for the soul.
If that’s true,
Why are we not laughing?

L’étranger

Bleed
into me
a little more,
étranger.
Synthesize
your life
into mine.
Our four eyes
become two.
Deux yeux sont meilleurs que quatre.
Two hearts
melted down
into a palpitating mass.
Fear not,
étranger.
the darkness
threatening to consume
us, for I am
with you
until the end of nights.
Une personne est meilleure que deux.
Synthétisez avec moi,
étranger.

Webs

2010-09-07T18:05:00.001-07:00

Down the road to the spring in town,
They go, day after day, week upon week.
Left the weaving for a later time,
Time to gather in a congregate of
Earthenware pots and self-spun robes
Draping, downward, down to the feet
Their gowns are not illustriously
Mass-produced. Their feet bare or sandaled
Tread upon the dusty earth, down, down
To the spring in the middle of town.
The webs they weave at home traded in for
Webs spun over the watering hole.
Silken string stretching here and there,
Stories of men in fields and girls in homes,
Tradition for going down to the spring
In the middle of town.
Spin clothes.
Spin webs.
Spin lives and deaths.
The artists no one ever talks about.
Nameless, faceless, dateless, relentless.
I think of them and the webs they
Created.

Sappy Shit and Archaic Language

2010-07-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

Pause/Fast-Forward/Rewind

In every moment, you can find
Something to cherish or leave behind.
A father's smile, a best friend's tears,
A leaf's movement, there for the years.
The sun's set or rise before your eyes.
It should come as no grand surprise
That, in any moment you can find
A cause to pause, fast-forward, or rewind.

Pause to relish the instant, take to heart
A lifetime wrapped in a split-second of art.
Fast-forward to escape or delight in emotion,
A singular thought, feeling, or a simple notion.
Rewind to re-experience the most moving times,
The ones that bring on rain or strange little rhymes.
Whatever the case, just look hard, and you will find
A cause to pause, fast-forward, or rewind.

Warrior Before You

Nail and teeth, I will not flee.
Brimstone and fire increase the desire.
My armor I don, and I go anon
To victory or death, and with my last breath
I will dedicate it all to thee.

Black and blue, I bleed for you.
Bruised and battered, naught else matters.
The fight I have fought, the passion wrought
Within my soul, making me whole,
Formed the warrior you see before you.

Black and blue, I bleed for you.
Mangled and broken, my heart is open.
The fighting is done; the war has been won.
The enemy slain was only in my brain.
It was the weaker me, not the warrior before you.

2010 in poetry... thusfar.

2010-04-23T18:22:00.000-07:00

Enslavement

slave to the wage
slave to the man
slave to the power
slave to the plan
slave to the gun
slave to the noose
slave to morality
slave to the juice
slave to the water
slave to the sea
slavery continues
in uniformity

Flame-Broiled (On Kiki Smith’s Woman on Pyre)

Arms
Flung wide
Asking why

Flames
No answer
Is heard

Rise
The pyre
Engulfs

Cries
Silenced
Forever.

Since I'm in the right mindframe...

2009-10-18T20:38:00.001-07:00

I'm actually posting. No, not any poems or stories. Just posting for posting's sake. I will have more literary things to post in the future. I just haven't had time to sit down and really write. Blame Aquinas. Stupid college.

2008-09-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

Last Light

What is past the last light?
Should I rejoice? Should I fear or fight?
What is past the last light?

Who will stride beside me?
Will I walk alone in the dark, unable to see?
Who will stride beside me?

Will I go gentle into that good night?
Will I rage against the dying of the light?
The last light...

?

Ode to the Holy Trinity of Gay Poets

Whitman Rimbaud Ginsberg
Sitting in a tree
W-R-I-T-I-N-G
Spinning webs threads flung out
Weaving lives with pens in
The air
Whitman America's Transcendental voice
Rimbaud shot by a drunken lover
Ginsberg chanting the Hare Krishna mantra
All different all the same all
Abracadabrantesque

葉月 (hazuki)

2008-08-19T17:01:00.000-07:00

Green will soon evolve into shades of red, brown, and yellow;
Another season of life will have passed.
Larger and more orange-tinted in the sky, the moon, it shall grow,
An indicator of time moving fast.

There is no conveyor line for life, but growth and deterioration,
Whether it is extensive or brief.
For those nearing harvest, before decay and after youthful elation,
We experience the month of the leaf.

Seppuku

2008-07-12T17:38:00.001-07:00

Seppuku

Maybe there is some dignity
Left for me.
Tantou to my belly, trying to be brave –
That's what they think I am, at least.
For my daimyo, for a purpose, (not) for
My wife and child, this is bushido.
The Way of the Samurai.
No other shall have the glory of taking me,
So I must die.
But I don't want to die.
I don't want to die this way.
Slice it open; cut it away, this is my life
Spilled onto my lap. I am... no more.

"Crash Into Me" (Short Story #2)

2008-07-06T21:57:00.000-07:00

"Crash Into Me"

Ninth grade; my second year at Creative Technologies Academy meant having already lost one friend to long-distance crumbling-apart. Things could've been better. They could've been worse.

I wasn't one of the Don't-Give-a-Shit gang, nor was I Miss Goodie Two-Shoes. With average grades and looks (and a tendency to go on the defensive when threatened by moronic boys in my grade and lower), I was just getting by.

Boys didn't look at me as That Girl. That Girl with long legs, silky hair, flawless skin, and sparkling eyes. That Girl was my closest friend at school, Amber. Midway through the year, she succumbed to long-distance disaster, too.

A new boy came to school one day and showed up in my choir class. He was tall, well-built with dirty blonde, uncombed hair and came equipped with a guitar.

He was a senior. All I could do was admire him from feet away.

The person who caught onto my schoolgirl crush first was my friend, Brandy. She asked why I didn't just go up and say something to him.

"Say something?!?!"

"Yeah, approach him and be like, 'Hey, wassup? I like your guitar.'"

"No. No way. I can't."

"Why not?"

"He'll think I'm just a stupid kid."

His voice drifted in from the other side of the room, interrupting our conversation. He and Rey started jamming; both played guitars. He sang something lovely with which I was familiar.

You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight tie me up again
Who's got their claws
In you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again

Brandy and I stopped. The whole class shushed. The world paused to listen.

Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock
And sweet you roll
Lost for you I'm so lost for you
You come crash into me
And I come into you

He sounded better than Dave Matthews himself. Inside my mind, I sang along.

Fast-forward to February. Amber was gone by this time. A few more friends knew of this crush I had on the most popular guy in school. Valentine's Day was just around the corner, and I made up my mind to let him know how I feel.

With the encouragement of my friends, I sent him a red carnation containing a message with lyrics from a Mariah Carey song. (Why I didn't use Dave Matthews Band lyrics, I have no idea. It would’ve been more appropriate.)

He never confronted me about the carnation and its sappy lines. A friend of mine passed along the word she saw it in his locker a few weeks after he would've received it.

Did he know it was me? Well, he must have… I signed my first name. Did he know who I was, though? Did he care? Would he just keep me as a forgotten secret in his locker until the end of the year when he had to clean it out? Did I end up going out in the garbage?

I suppose I'll never know. I didn't bother to ask. Forever I was silent to him, and he to me, but I'll never forget his voice calling to my ears, pleading them listen for only a moment...

Oh I watch you there
Through the window
And I stare at you
You wear nothing but you
Wear it so well
Tied up and twisted
The way Id like to be
For you, for me, come crash
Into me

"Creative Writing"

2008-07-04T22:39:00.000-07:00

"Creative Writing"

The youngest of the group, Ava, tender fourteen, listened to the older women spin webs of their lives.

"I'm a divorced mother of three. I'm employed full-time at Such-and-Such, and I've been writing since I was eight."

"I enjoy riding horses, writing, and spending time with my family. My mother recently passed away, and I'm having a hard time dealing with it. I feel that writing helps me express the pain."

"My name is Dorothy. I'm a breast cancer survivor. I've been in remission for almost two years, and I'm still going strong."

So many I's. Where do I begin?

The girl next to her was sixteen – the closest in age – and quiet, too.

The two most naïve. Most green behind the ears. Most inexperienced, uncertain, unwilling to speak to anyone but each other.

After one class, Ava and Melody went in search of a restroom. Neither attended the massive high school where the Creative Writing course was held. The corridors, full of different-colored lockers depending on the hallway, stretched on for what seemed like miles and only ended in twists and turns. The girls became lost.

Not that they minded. It was fun. It was thrilling.

They eventually reached the bathroom, and, afterward, explored empty classrooms. The two young girls knew they weren’t allowed into the motionless, dark rooms.

Not that they cared. It was fun. It was thrilling.

They laughed. The older women weren’t there to experience the rush and hear the voices of two girls echoing throughout otherwise-lifeless space. It was beautiful. It was a moment in time neither could save, and one certainly didn’t forget.

That's where I began.

Barren

2008-06-23T20:38:00.000-07:00

Barren

This place is hollow;
There's nothing here –
Nothing to cherish,
Nothing to fear.

Oceans have dried;
The last salty drop
Was wasted on
Decaying crop.

Wind stole their voices;
Footprints faded away –
No memory imprints here –
It all faded to grey.

More.

2008-06-16T15:42:00.001-07:00

Enter the Wolf

Everyone else had gone inside.
I, not quite done having fun,
Took another turn. Oh, to glide
Down white slopes into soft banks!
I grabbed my plastic sled and slid,
Rushed, picked up speed –
At the bottom, he waited for me.

White hair, charcoal eyes, too big
To be what I initially thought.
A dog? No, the shape was different.
His gaze was bent and fixed on me.
Breath caught in my chest; words
Failed to exit my mouth;
All I could do was stare.
He took a few steps forward, then
I suddenly became aware
Of what he was:
A wolf.

After minutes passed like hours, I
Got up, back bravely to him, and ran
Up the hill. Never mind the wind’s chill
Blowing against my face.
Inside was warm and away from him.

Wolves aren't known to reside
In that area.

But I know, even after all these years,
He was real.

Those Were the Days

Take me back to the winding trail,
Catching crayfish in the river beside
The pathway leading to the quiet land.

Those were the golden days.

Take me back to the entire second floor;
My get-away when it was too cold outside
To run for cover from the storm inside.

Those were the solemn days.

Take me back to the days we spent
Laughing in the backyard – yours or mine –
The sun shone; nothing could rival your smile.

Those were the beautiful days.

Take me back to getting soaked in the rain
On the walk home from the penitentiary
Otherwise known as elementary school.

Those were the greyest days.

Take me back to finding comfort
Among innocent faces who, though few,
Loved me entirely for me.

Those were the best days.
Yeah, those were the days.

Fuel the Fire

Bring out the beast in me.
I dare you.
The match has been lit;
You have the gasoline,
So use it.
I dare you.
I'll show you impassioned,
Endless rage.
Inside this cage,
I've kept a monster
Quiet.
It's been brimming beneath
The surface for
Far too long.
You've decided, so now is
The time.
Fuel the fire.
I dare you.
I fucking dare you.

Welcome to America

Welcome to America,
But you're really not welcome here.
Let me introduce you to
Terror Internal. General Fear.

Welcome to America,
Land where nothing is free;
No medical insurance
For you or for me.

Welcome to America,
Where blood is oil
And it's no big deal to
Build strip malls on sacred soil.

Welcome to America,
Lorded over by puppeteers.
Soon enough, we'll all be
Making our own Trail of Tears.

Welcome to America,
Where "majority" reigns supreme.
Soon enough, you'll see squashed
Your American Dream.

Welcome to America,
Where we're all alone.
Your country must have problems, too,
If you want to call America "home."

Two new poems.

2008-05-19T17:54:00.001-07:00

No, never --

As a child, I did not believe
In wishing upon stars,
The Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus –
How little they meant to me.

As a teen, I did not seek
To be like my peers,
Consumed by social anxieties and fears –
Maybe I was The Freak.

No, never –
Did I want to be like another.
No, never –
Did I want to be a mother.

As an adult, I’m still aloof.
I hear a beat and follow,
Even if I’m alone and hollow –
I’ll always look like a goof.

As an old woman, I’ll be the same,
Just a little bit wiser,
Hopefully rich, ever the miser –
That’s how I play the game.

No, never –
Will I be late to rise.
No, never –
Will I compromise.

Hey, Pretty Boy

Hey, Pretty Boy.
Mascara’s running down your cheeks.
Clothes disheveled,
Hair that hasn’t been brushed in weeks –
You’re slipping.
Plates full of food
Turned away when slipped under the door –
You’re cutting your
Stupid little heart out on the bathroom floor.
You’re sliding.

Hey, Pretty Boy.
You’re stumbling as you sing along,
Blubbering on
Through the lines of a heartbreak song –
You’re losing.
Night after night,
Lying awake, you look for a star
To wish upon,
They’re tiny specks, so far, so far…
You’re fading,
Pretty Boy.

cloudeye

2008-04-25T16:56:00.001-07:00

cloudeye

Peeking out from the sky,
An eye shrouded in fluffy grey-white
With the sun as its pupil
Singled me out at my dinner table.
I gazed back long enough to see
A glimmer of malice in that cloudeye.

Last Day in the Grey Garden

2008-04-23T15:51:00.000-07:00

Last Day in the Grey Garden

The last petal falls
Red – pink – grey into the dirt.
A once-magnificent star
Takes his final bow,
And gone – gone – is light.

No more little girls
Pick flowers to give to their mothers.
No more little boys
Roll in mud
After spring showers.
Gone – gone – is the light.

Did it dry, crack, and crumble?
Did it simply say, "I've had enough!"
A once-magnificent star
Takes his final bow,
And gone – gone – is the light.

This garden used to be
Thriving; the sparrow perched
Happy on an old oak's limb
Sang a melody bright.
There – there – was the light.

Lotuses and lilacs, roses,
Lilies, chrysanthemums in bloom
Each spring, they emerged
From rejuvenated earth.
There – there – was the light.

The sparrow departed,
And the flowers have wilted.
This is the last day
In the grey garden.
It all – it all – is nothing...

Hiro and Leander (I.i.)

2008-02-28T18:10:00.000-08:00

Hiro and Leander

Dramatis Personae

Hiroki Nagasawa, a Japanese exchange student
Leander Addis, a student in Hiroki’s class
Eron, catalyst for Hiro and Leander
Eron's posse

Act One

Scene One: Eron, wielding a pimp cane and sun glasses, enters stage left.

Eron. Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Two voices can be heard off-stage, drawing closer. Eron hides behind a trash bin. Two teenagers enter. One is an Asian female; the other, a handsome, tan male.

Hiro. I already asked you to leave me alone. What more do you want?

Lean. Only a few more words sprung forth from your perfect lips.

Hiro. Love-sick fool.

Lean. No sooner met but I looked, no sooner looked but I loved...

Hiro. Is Shakespeare all you know?

Lean. Nay, lady –

Hiro. Modern English, please?

Lean. Okay, fine. I love you. I don’t know your name, and I don’t care that I know nothing about you!

Hiro. Too many double-negatives in a sentence. Maybe you should stick with Middle English. Hell, I’m Japanese and know English grammar rules better than you do.

Lean. Just hear me out! Please! Let me take you out to dinner. Let me prove myself!

Hiro. You prove yourself to be mad with love. I have no use for idiots like you.

Lean. Oh, pierce my heart again with fiery words!

Hiro. That’s it. I’m out of here. If you follow me, I’ll shove this stiletto –

Eron. (Aside) What scene is this that picks Eros’ brain? A love unrequited, and then some!
So young and in love! What role is there for me?

Lean. If you leave –

Hiro. Go break your own heart, emo kid.

Exits.

Leander collapses onto the ground.

Lean. Would I could invoke, that I were a magician,
I would have my truest love.
Neither heav'n nor hell could part me from
Those almond eyes and ruby lips!
If I were Cupid, equipped with arrow and bow,
I would make her see, make her know
My love… is real,
Not just a school-boy fancy.
Here, defeat, lies, for Cupid
Is but... a lie.

Eron. The boy is worn; he cannot do it himself. This time tomorrow night, I shall spy on fair maiden in her chambers. Concealing myself, I'll work my magic, play the magician yon master cannot. True love shall be reciprocated. What fun this shall be!

Exits.

More.

2008-02-14T08:18:00.000-08:00

The Cross-Dressing Painter (Revised #1)
“We are what we can be, not what we ought to be.” - Romaine Brooks

Two charcoal eyes
Peek out from beneath
A black top hat –
Red-orange lips

Solid face, pale and cold
Set against grey,
Blue, and black –
Hidden are the woman’s hips

Beneath the trousers,
The long overcoat, too
Men’s gloves cover
Porcelain hands – curved tips

This is Romaine for the moment.

Leaky Sink

Frills and tea parties are quite dandy
If you prefer the pristine pink.
However, I have found it quite handy
To know how to fix a leaky sink.

Dolls and ribbons are all quite fancy.
Lipstick and eye shadow enhance
The flawed features of an average Nancy
Before a high school dance.

As for me? I’ll take this old birch tree,
From which I look out upon the land,
Then fall; on the ground, I scrape my knee
And get dirt upon my dainty hand.

I’ll take this old hide-out in the wood,
Far from your so-called civility.
Would I were a boy! Then I could,
With reckless abandon, be me!

Throw out your constructs. I don’t need ‘em.
“I exist as I am, that is enough.”
Throw out your insistences. I won’t heed ‘em.
I refuse your glitter, ruffles, and fluff.

Braids and necklaces are quite dandy
If you prefer the pristine pink.
However, I have found it quite handy
To know how to fix a leaky sink.

Garage Sale

They ask her –
Tall, lean, and blonde as she is –
“Are you a model?”

She half-laughs, unsure
Of herself, unsure
Of how to tell them…

“No.”

“You should be!”
A card – in her hand – useless, trivial thing
It is to her.
How does she tell them she prefers writing verse?

Looking over at me – average height, weight,
Whose people are tiny, dark-haired Finns –
She pleads for an answer as to

WHY

They see different at her,
With stars dancing in their eyes,
With pretty promises
Dancing on their lips.

“You’ll be famous with those looks.”

“We’re not interested,” I tell them –
She is quite relieved.

We leave – to go on to the next garage sale.

Not -esque poems!

2008-02-11T15:54:00.000-08:00

Clock Tower 1/11/08

Standing in the rain,
Dwarfed by 850 cubic metres of stone;
Seemingly insignificant
In the greater scheme of things.
Yet mortal men’s hands placed those slabs,
Mortal men’s hands crafted the bells,
And mortal men’s hands drew the blueprints.
Funny how we all fit
Into the greater scheme of things.

Dice Abstract 1/14/08

One faces out.
Five’s on top.
Three’s on the side,
His twin angled beneath him.
Two peeks shyly out beneath One
While Three’s Twin, attached to Two,
Is far more bold.
All other faces turn away
For whatever reason.
Nothing strategic.
Simply a random occurrence.

Deceit Through Words 1/14/08

Roses for words? How misleading!
I pricked my finger on a thorn.
The cut is persistent in its bleeding.
Who wouldn’t have been suckered
When your mouth opened up --
And those words it uttered!
Words… Something always underlies
Outward meanings. Why
Didn’t I see the malice in your eyes?
I could have avoided the agony
If I had looked a few inches higher
And seen you lying to me.

4Real (4Richey) 1/14/08 --- second version

4The words you wrote --
Thank you.
4The dreams you dreamed --
That never came true,
4The eternal Lost Boy (or Girl)
In each of us --
I understand.
4Wherever you are,
A piece of you remains here.
4The cigarette burns
And the pain-filled stares --
I feel you.
4Real --
Richey,
Thank you.

Band-Aids 1/30/08

A pain in the tip of my pinky finger;
Weighted, the worse is the pain in my soul.
It is not so easily alleviated with ice-packs;
Band-Aids don’t come in Soul Size.

Half of Me 2/7/08

Half of me
Wants to run away,
Forget this pain,
Live without a care.
Half of me
Knows it’s wrong
To say so long
To what’s left here.

Half of me
Is dying to be free
From the drudgery
And certain death.
Half of me
Is dying… just dying,
But keeps on lying
With every breath.

Half of me
Cares little for thought
Or what the other half fought
For so long to attain.
Half of me
Is tired of that fight,
Wants it to be all right,
And peace… maintain.

Half of me
Knows it’s a stupid notion
To care for conditioned emotion --
It’s the chains that bind.
Half of me
Wants what little is left over,
Hopes for a lucky clover --
How can I leave hope behind?

More -esque poetry!

2008-02-11T15:38:00.000-08:00

The Cross-Dressing Painter
“We are what we can be, not what we ought to be.” - Romaine Brooks

Two charcoal eyes
Peek out from beneath
A black top hat --
Red-orange lips

Solid face, pale and cold
Set against grey,
Blue, and black --
Hidden are the woman’s hips

This is Romaine for the moment.

Stopping by a Box on a Drunken Evening

Whose box is this I’d like to know.
His house is fragile like new snow.
He will not see me lurking here;
His poor blank gaze does not follow.

Other people must think him queer,
Sipping from his paper bag beer.
Between his lips flows cool that lake,
Washing away the constant fear.

He remarks with a quiet shake,
“The streets are tough, make no mistake.”
He begins drunkenly to weep
For yesterdays he did forsake.

“There is no use in counting sheep.
No good company do they keep.
It’s dangerous to fall asleep.
It’s dangerous to fall asleep.”

I heard a Rain drop -- when I breathed

I heard a Rain drop -- when I breathed
The first Air inhaled
Before opened Eyes could See --
To witness the Summer Gale --

Warmth and Light -- the Dark outside --
Shut out from the Room --
Words from foreign Lips
Silent -- all in the Room --

Not Knowing -- Not Seeing --
Only Hearing the Rain
Striking hard against --
The Room’s sole Window Pane.

Something Passed -- Hours or Days --
And in normal fashion
I unfasten my Eyelids --
And beheld Rain outside the Room.

"Unfinished Song of Myself"

2008-01-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

[1]

I stand before you
Humbly requesting a moment, a small grain in the sands of time,
If you would so kindly spare it.

I see the sameness in each of your eyes, my sisters, my brothers, teachers,
In each of your eyes, the lively inquisition that leaps
Out of my own in the mirror.

We are all learn’d and foolish , children and adults, a kindred in our own right
That has endured unfathomable ages… and grains of sand.

[2]

In awe I stand of Man’s great towers:
Ancient stone slabs positioned to capture celestial magic, the stones
Themselves containing magic of the ages.
Clock towers, bridges, ships, glass buildings that punch holes in the sky

Like the mountains, majestic, magical in their own right.

In awe I stand of Nature’s beauty:
Crystal lakes pristine, fish breeding, swimming, feeding beneath the surface,
Forests lush with ravenous greenery, unstoppable overgrowth, an abundance of life,
And soil…

Nothing can stir the senses and the sense of goodness
Like a blade of green grass peeking out from beneath a soft white blanket.
From this we were born, and upon it we leave erasable footprints, and to it
We shall return.

[3]

One light
Shines upon us all;
Source of all life and visibility, it is there
Even when we think it is invisible.
It governs our very existence, how little we think upon it -
We are its children, and, as some say, one day its victims.

Beneath it we weave webb’d lives establishing ourselves wherever we go;
Tokyo Tower, Amsterdam, I am
And so are you.

The faces that pass before me on the street,
I know them all, for I have seen them all within myself.
I hear in their voices a slightly similar tone as my own, though each scent is a little different.

[4]

I am the couple in Omiya Kouen watching the sakura in spring
Blossoming internal as well, blushing cheeks, seated on a bench beneath
Pink clouds, life and life and life again, never-ending.

I am the solitary writer, practitioner, developer, cultivator, at least when I so desire,
Watching, learning, understanding from a distance, but never too far.

I am the newborn opening its eyes for the first time
Flooded by the bright light of a new world, a first experience, this is life.
Every moment is a first experience; we are all newly-born.

Every facet of life fascinates… In awe I stand of Life.

[5]

I am a student of the world…
I am an observer and will be till the final exhalation
Seizes me, and all ceases, fading to black…

I saw them crowd into the tunnels with cardboard blankets,
Cardboard houses, and cardboard lives, resting their weary eyes,
Never knowing that I, too, had weary eyes, though, curious, they remained open.
I heard them beg for change when I had none to give, not a single pence in my pocket,
And, though I knew not their circumstances - the how’s, why’s, when’s -
I loved them because they were my brothers.
Harrods will never permit them entrance, and for that I love them more.

[6]

I delight in the sight of the corporeal and seek to paint it in the brain
With hints of the ethereal, for the two go hand-in-hand,
And I am the creator of my own envisaged land, luscious, perfect, though
Somehow it reflects reality.

I am the doting servant of Thoreau and Friedrich,
Yet I write and paint my own. These oils, this canvas, this pen and paper, these thoughts and feelings -
So deeply enriched, entrenched they are within the fertile soil of my Soul!