
Verse From The First Confraternity:
The Late Foundational Period
Ghosts in the hallway, echoes of fear,
clouds of confusion to drink,
heaven lies millions of sorrows from here,
in hurt disillusion, I sink,
an image blurred with a tint of hate,
a million long shadows of dark;
haunting deceptions infuriate,
arrows insulting their mark.
Abandoned, blind, love-scarred,
frozen through and through,
a manifested graveyard
for a love I never knew;
reluctant to be taunted,
pray, My Savior, set me free,
nevermore be haunted by
the wretched sketch of me,
nevermore allow concern
—distorted views of things;
ended all a vengeful burn,
or ended touched by wings.
Under sky, in perfect garden,
swaying on a breeze,
is spied a prized chrysanthemum;
is spied by... I, a weed.
Emotion in her pollen smile,
glisten on her leaves,
a sheathe that speeds the breathing
of the ever-wilting me.
Spilling lilts of every hilt,
and tilting toward a pond;
to effloresce and underdress,
with near transparent fronds.
Words rendered altogether meaningless,
we breathe to each other the stale air of
our dying friendship.
As we both, wear, tear down
the hazy road to disillusionment,
I take one final look deep into her swollen eyes.
We can’t explain why it happens
to rain on a day like today,
when tears and earth mix in an audible sigh;
come rain, come mayhem,
thoughts of you drip like venom
from a rattler’s fangs,
and I sink down eye level with
the surface of the swamp.
We are two creatures,
wonderful in our own respects,
but impossible together.
Exit house.
Exit chair.
Exit mirror.
Exit hair.
Exit friends.
Exit wife.
Exhaust charge cards.
Exhaust life.
Smoke no pipe.
Drive no car.
Harbor no malice.
Bow to no czar.
Sort no mail.
Sort no clothes.
Recognize
no eye, no nose.
Spat on master, hanging on a tree,
pinned by sin allotted once to me,
riddled with belittlement and sleaze;
stabbing thrusts on upward trickle down,
in streams of clean and purity, he drowns,
sounds of jeering merriment surround;
witness senseless prophecies fulfilled,
gripped with sickness, man of sorrows killed,
evidence of hate, innate free will;
catch the rabid master gasp for air,
pass as though the bastard isn’t there,
mask intent with malice and despair,
and never dare repair the tear of wear
with blood clots.
Tasteless crackers—
symbolic?
Could be.
Of who?
Me.
Wine.
Another bottle,
maybe more.
Does the potency cure?
Sure.
Prayer—
for strength,
for love.
I’ll need it when push comes
to shove.
There’s a sin my heart is now committing,
a fabric of black and gray I’m knitting,
a destructive note I’m always hitting;
it drags me down ‘til death is fitting.
I’m trapped inside the walls I built,
my pinball game is stuck on tilt,
I’m trying to walk on just one stilt;
I’m crushed beneath the weight of guilt.
I sense you,
and freeze,
because I know.
I feel you,
and tremble,
because I know.
I hear you,
and cover my ears,
because I know.
You see me,
and run,
because I know.
I become you,
and cry like you,
because I know.
Tear me to pieces,
rip me to shreds,
pounce like a rabid wolf,
leave me for dead.
Break these disjointed limbs
and disappointed heart;
it won’t break my spirit.
Tear me apart.
Alas, I cannot but think of thee,
and all we may profess to be.
Get, then, out from my head.
I paint or sculpt thy lovely face
on pillar, granite, still, or vase.
Get, then, out from my head.
Ye, in mine slumber, flavor dreams,
eternal on the mind it seems.
Get then, yet, into my heart.
go
like a storm trooper into the world
unshackled and zombie-like
armored, honored
into the world
know
intentional, with great faith and unalone
inhabited by his great Spirit
powerful, nonchalant
and unalone
lo
beholder of wonders miraculous
showered blessings heap
reaped harvest
of miraculous
revival of awakened spirit
by action committed newbies
inspires a fresh sense of awe
and a short call to act
(Until “Cut” is yelled, years into production.)
Fresh from kiln’s scalded mouth,
a simple round base spat up
to lend its grip to life’s decor.
Impartial and beautiful, it sat up,
filled with soil rich with patches of Golgotha.
Nothing now but silence
can defiant yet afford,
saddest minor chords diminish
vast duration scored;
aftermath of afterthought
may gladly coincide
with the suicidal temptings
of forlorn, rejected bride,
mulled and juxtaposed, upheaval,
disappointment in her breast,
in a bedroom with no bridegroom,
torn and tattered wedding dress.
Yea, the virgin’s pent excitement spent,
and etched across her wrist;
what a cruel and harsh awakening,
so easily dismissed!
On the mantle, framed with layered dust,
a thousand years have settled
on the photograph’s torn edges
and the bouquet’s wilted petals.
And the virgin’s wasted image,
on its inward-eaten youth,
impresses children’s whispered rumors
of the fall of Old Miss Ruth;
yea, this haggard and unfortunate,
forgotten, sickly witch is what
became of poor Miss Ruth DeLeuth,
so easily dismissed!
Where’s your God at, Bible-Boy,
in this corruption?
Where’s your Savior at the swollen
cheek of this grieving mother?
In the reality I call home,
children get beat to death
and live-in girlfriends won’t rat
on their rapist men-friends;
remind me again how rosy life is?
How cozy life is? (Sometimes I forget.)
Wake one afternoon to the vomit
and poverty of a reeking shit-hole, then
proclaim your All-fucking-mighty’s deeds!
Pray to your wishful thinking for
some blessed fucking miracle.
And pray me into a million dollar
inheritance—you pricks
are despicable!
Stand on lit street corners and babble
some useless foreign tongue,
with your trimmed, clean head
covered with the ashes of your “brother”.
Witness loud in proud words about
the same God as that reverend down the
street, then secretly attack each other.
And embellish phony testimonies
and S.O.B. stories,
exaggerate the partial truths you twist;
say you were once scum like us,
‘til you made high society.
But don’t stay past dark,
or a cracker like you’ll
get a real quick trip to Hell;
maybe we skip on over to your block,
see how long it takes to break past your locks,
cuddle up to your wife and kid;
then you know a whole new truth
'bout that wickedness you preach,
that side of sin you ain’t never fucking seen!
It’s been a long time;
too long for me.
Heaven knows I’m the last
one you expected to see.
But I just had to see you,
to know you’re okay.
And now you probably
want me to go away.
It was bad enough
when I hurt you before,
so what am I doing
back at your door?
I suppose I should leave;
I should never have come.
I guess I was just
being foolish and dumb.
It was a bad idea;
it won’t happen again
—why should you
care how I’ve been?
Sorry to bother you;
forget I was here.
Don’t give it another thought.
Forget me, my dear....
[Door shuts tightly.]
I would dance for you if you taught me to.
I would do anything.
I would lie with you if you asked me to.
Anything.
You look so grim, it breaks my heart;
though not without reason, you play such a part.
But life is too fresh when its wonders unfold,
to be girded, guilt-laden, with passions untold.
When perception refuses the volume of half,
just tip over the tipsy glass, brace for a laugh;
and in social excursions, we’ll grin, you and I,
at the happy faced gestures of clowns in the sky.
(And get that horrible expression off your face!)
Now as I recollect,
and solemnly reflect on what has passed,
I expect I’ll be saddened to remember correctly
how few times we spoke directly;
even as early as when first we met,
I can’t forget the regrets I had
for never taking time to sit, to talk,
never suggesting we go for a walk;
even when the rarest of moments were shared,
I dare say I never betrayed what I felt.
So now that our lives will no longer align,
you’ve gone on your way, and I’ve gone on mine,
I wonder with sadness what might have been;
now that I’ll never see you again.
Time has insisted that now you shall be
only the essence of faint memories.
But I’ll flirt with your ghost, the hostess
of my fantastic sorrow, and may borrow
fragments from a different source,
a course with differing tomorrows.
But reality will set in at a crucial moment,
and I’ll be back in my dark room,
enveloped in the unhealthy gloom,
where all I can do is pray, hope to
God you’re okay, even though I’m not,
because I’ve got too many mistakes
to come to terms with; it burns to know
I threw away my only chance,
threw it all in the face of romance.
I wonder if I’ll ever be truly over you.
I wrote a word—absurd—on love,
or what I thought affection was;
with eloquence ideas fell
upon the feat of life itself.
At once I shunned my own intention;
such is better never mentioned.
Often heard is still her voice,
in grieving over fateful choice;
frequently, on bended knee,
I coin concern in surge of pleas.
And these diseases drew attention;
such is better never mentioned.
Yea, I have in past been led
to not reflect on what was said,
when you in all your disarray
could not have grasped it anyway.
In this I measure some prevention;
such is better never mentioned.
On a night like this, we were together,
while we both were very young,
the words I had to say froze
to the tip of my forked tongue;
with one last kiss and last embrace,
that parting moment stung,
and I shed a final tear for all
the songs we left unsung.
On a night like this, my heart was heavy,
and my nature chained me down,
it dropped me at the dregs of pitfalls,
left me there to drown;
I took a final look at you
(that midnight evening gown!),
turned my back and turned my head,
and left that gloomy town.
On a night like this, perhaps, we’ll
reunite when years no more remain,
you’ll have loved and lost a thousand times,
and I’ll have done the same;
I’ll kiss anew the youth in you,
and utter fresh your name,
then oldest, sweetest friends we are,
we’ll nod and drift away.
When years turn to tears
and give way to remorse,
and the birthed have seen death,
and all life’s run its course,
when the servants and kings
befriend worms underground,
and their catacombs cave
and their walls tumble down,
when our skin and our muscle,
too heavy for bone,
tear away from their tissue
and drop like a stone,
when our hearts halt their
beating, and arteries still,
and no lawyer or heir
may inherit our wills,
when the centuries cease,
and the decades desist,
and those opposite Adam
at length end the list,
and the cynics and scoffers
join nursery marms’ hands,
when eternity’s hourglass
empties of sands;
then at last will the sculpting
of heaven complete,
and in grace will we throw
ourselves down at his feet,
and with merriment, laughter,
contentment and peace,
and a wellspring’s abundance
of banquets and feasts,
will creation then fall
to God’s chosen elect,
and rewards, yea, and
treasure beyond our suspect,
will yet fall in allotment
to royalty, slaves,
and the vermin of earthen
and worldly gain,
and the street corner bum
who has died in his sleep,
and the toilsome sower,
and planter who reaps;
and the streets sheathed in
golden, the glimmering lane,
where the ends of our labors
are finally explained,
is the sight, where our souls
will then settle in time,
of my heavenly mansion,
and yours next to mine.
Verse From The Second Confraternity:
The Early Sociopathic Era
Oh, FOr heAveníS sAKe...
heRe Iíve bEEn cArRYinG on,
wHilE youíVE BEeN siTtiNg theRe,
thAt BoRed LOok on yEr FaCe.
And I hAvENít noTiceD
--wEll, uNTiL NoW--
IíM aS UttErLy eNteRtAiNing as a coW....
(Hmmm... now that I think about it, cows are actually very entertaining.
Especially so would be a cow named Bob. Wearing pants. Ha ha ha haa!)
[Now back to our irregularly scheduled poem.]
Iíll tAtToo a mUscLe on mY CaLf
fOr tHe soLE PuRpoSE of mAkinG you LaUGh;
iíLL buY tOyS iíll NeVer nEED,
liTtlE GolDeN BooKs iíLL neVEr reAd;
wHen ItíS QuITe inNaPPropRiAte,
Iíll StRike a PoSe,
oR StiCk a PiCkLe UP mY nOsE; *
iíll QuIP the FliP thAt niPs My hEAd
(aNd WoNdEr whAt thE HEcK I sAiD!);
Iíll PAint tHe BluE BoY ShADes Of bRoWn,
aND dReSs mYsELf a CIrcUs cLoWn;
Iíll PaSs and AsK yOu hoW YoUíVe beEn,
thEn dROp fRom A cEiLinG tiLE,
asK yOu AGaIn;
iíll sKeTCh cArTOonS thAT MaKE no sEnSe;
yoUíLL wonDEr wHY i aCt So dEnSe;
iíll CaRry hIGh mY loOnEy StaFf,
JuST AnY oLd tHinG To mAkE YoU lAuGh.
* not that it is ever really appropriate to stick a pickle up one’s
nose.
How can you tell me I am
blameless in his sight,
when even now I spit on a Bible
in front of his face?
I have mulled over the words
a thousand times in my mind,
but examine my actions;
you will find not a trace.
Come rain or come morrow,
come quickly what may,
come apocalypse,
come freedom,
come you,
I pray.
I give you without reservation my bold heart;
you drop it back frail and wasted.
I open the palm of my soul to clasp
the thin fingers of your own;
my arms and digits are knocked away by
the swinging fancy of your frantic limbs.
I unfurl the details of
wrenching accounts for your whims,
and am rewarded with a sucker punch to the gut.
Still,
you petition for more than what is already yours,
as I wonder what further damage I might incur.
What sort of answer do you expect,
when you vaguely turn my
imagination to such violence?
What brand of generic cure-all
do you hope will soothe the ills
of your churning stomach?
You hint at unthinkable,
unmentionable,
unforgivable things,
and spare me details far less grim
than my own inferred intimations.
Speak of such—you coward! You cur!
Speak, and befriend the
repercussions of intention.
Here comes the part when I cry,
on blistered knees and face,
when forgiveness is over-ridden by depravity,
and morality is replaced,
dethroned by calamity,
vanity in place;
I weave threads of newly dyed fibers
into the sheet of sins erased.
And plead for death to end the wheel’s spinning,
that the tapestry may hang.
I know no happy songs;
if I heard one, I could not sing along.
What, then, would I sing if not through tears,
with troubles stilled and a skyline clear?
I would not know a tune to hum,
no songbook I could gather from.
Then, for the sake of music, may
I be tormented all my days!
For happiness without a song
is worse by far than all gone wrong,
for pain at least may yet be soothed,
while happiness remains unmoved.
Ah, what a way to go,
already in Seventh Heaven;
such a pretty day,
a fine day to die!
Amanda in the car,
riding off;
how perfect!
What a good day to die!
Andrea walks over
countless graves,
through grass, very cheerful.
What a nice day to die!
Tara looks around,
through wind tunnels;
how nice—the breeze!
What a right day to die!
Kelly stands at the corner,
under a blue sky,
seen through green leaves.
What a grand day to die!
Laura with her friends,
all with pretty eyes,
and pretty smiles.
What a crisp day to die!
Angie carries herself as if
she owns a small town,
quite contented.
What a ripe day to die!
Amy waves
and giggles;
such sweetness!
What a prime way to die!
And Vanessa pulls back her
hair, laughs gorgeously,
while clouds drift into anonymity.
Such a fine way to die!
Shannon wears red,
and a yellow ribbon;
explosion of color.
Such a good way to die!
Kristy bends and kneels
purely, innocently,
terrifically.
Such a nice way to die!
Mary silently concedes
that she is happy,
as we all have reason to be.
Such a right way to die!
Georgianna lowers,
sits considerately near;
how kind!
Such a grand way to die!
Tracy prances, sure-footed
and awkward as a child;
angels laugh.
Such a crisp way to die!
Brandi tucks her shirt
to the top of her jeans,
folds the ends of the legs.
Such a ripe way to die!
What a wonderful life, full of
wonder, bliss and merriment
—without regrets;
such a prime way to die!
I’m back again,
sitting behind this thick curtain;
did you see how far I got?
That was my best one yet,
but I’ve returned
to the house of regrets.
So sorry to keep you waiting,
but I’m back again, and ready to start over.
Sometimes I frighten myself,
sometimes I’m not a bit surprised—
I’d nearly forgotten this place,
when I caught sight again
of its ugly face.
Many pardons for the delay,
but I’m back again, and ready to start over.
I’d the golden opportunity to change,
I’d everything in the world to gain,
but so high were hopes overshot;
I was to be released,
until the resurgence of the beast.
A thousand apologies for my rudeness,
but I’m back again, ready to start over.
Gouge you these bluish-ruddy sockets,
with all bluntness and all malice.
Free cruelly from the pivots of wrist
these housings for pudgy fingers.
Separate with serrated edges
this slit tongue from its eroding base.
Unattach these vile, unreliable ears;
sever or wholly split the sensory curse.
String out these organs, muscles and tendons
across a live wire of high voltage,
and hang the remaining frame, a monument.
IN THE NAME OF CHRIST JESUS,
WHO DIED AND ROSE,
IN THE NAME OF GOD’S
ONE AND ONLY SON,
AT WHOSE AUTHORITY YOU CONVULSE,
IN THE NAME OF BOTH LORD AND SAVIOR,
BY THE BLOOD IN WHICH I BATHE;
I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE ME!
Immoral world of mirror and diamond idols,
personage indulged of filth and rot;
I stow, like a novel-bound boy, away,
climb from the shore to some height
on Olympus.
Glaring from the Cyclops eye
on the face of each reprehensible
link in the barricade,
the ravenous lynx narrows in, intent
to sink its teeth into the fresh, cold
neck of naiveté.
From a lofty overlook of cloud,
the gods converse,
discuss with a detached interest
the plight of mortals,
zero in for example on impending dangers,
and mildly brush away the new dust of terrors.
Elsewhere, a tender, frightened sort
kneels in submission
before the alter and clergy of a monastery,
and with profound compassion,
is smitten into embers and salt.
Yea, Solomon! How true
the disinfecting sting of your words!
The abolition of earthly justice
mocks the simple penitent;
no place our eyes may yet drop
shall offer refuge.
Get away, you and your unwanted patronage!
Upon you now is the sudden twist
of the utensil I’d secretly lodged
into the first five layers of your heart.
In precision timing, you become
the recipient of a century’s worth of
deeply neurotic tendencies.
Blame falls in rage across the gape
of the vulnerability you’ve displayed,
as objects hurl and fly and whirl centimeters
past the unprotected mass of your head.
Half the voices say one thing, and half another,
as I struggle to maintain a safe distance from
the tempting display of vanities you’ve become.
Run or duck or hide, or take random shots
at the moving target of my ego;
you are the focal point of the concentration
of all anxiety and persecution and grandeur,
and you may not be so fortunate as to see twenty.
The sun is relentless.
Waves of heat rise above the sand.
An oasis mocks my
weakening grasp of reality;
what a cruel joke to play
on so torturous a day.
Vultures dive through seas of blue;
in distress, I call to you,
“Come, provide me shade.”
Through worlds of time my life slips;
come winter, altogether hidden,
I shall be surprised if you find a trace.
But for now, the sun is relentless
and I must endure.
In the time it takes to light a cigarette,
I rage, blow a gasket—a fuse—
irreversibly age, forget the initial spark,
flutter like a mad, wounded meadowlark.
Sailor vocabulary, Navy mentality,
whip and spin and cut
like a circular saw in a lumber mill;
the hands that create are the same that kill.
Vitals throb and convulse,
inflame and agitate an irregular pulse
with hate and unpleasant wishes;
you, caught in a crossfire of beams, novels,
and collectors edition dishes.
Violent thrashes trash and scatter
the shattering glass and mirrors,
and the announcer refers back to the screen
for the not-so-silent replay of the last batter.
In these very pages,
the details of my conception
were documented and
stored away in some great,
hard-to-obtain scrapbook.
In these very pages,
the memories of those first
days of rivalry and insecurities
and affirmations were scratched.
And what later became
commonly referred to as
“the good old days” saw light for
a first, and essentially a last time.
In these pages photos were pressed
of holidays and vacations,
birthdays and high school dances;
then eventually weddings,
then the cycle all over again.
These were the pages that caught the tears
the night we found that Jonathan had died.
In these very pages,
the span of all life was laid out,
with vivid descriptions of
how the author provided
for the chapters to end
with any sense of finality.
But perhaps they became
so cluttered over time,
so worn with study
and yellow with age,
that we forgot the content
of the original text
beneath our own notes.
Sip the minds of your followers,
intertwine identities;
yes, now you are a part of us all,
the happiest of tragedies.
Draw us closer to your web,
interweave our lives,
sing a touching sequence
of a fairy’s lullabies.
Penetrate the layers
built against attacks;
celebrate your entrances,
which once were merely cracks.
Hide your understanding
under fellowship with fools;
search for double-meanings,
then utilize as tools.
Accommodate your victims,
follow through tradition;
wrinkle latex carcasses
to spread a new religion.
Sink a little farther down,
deep into the sea;
drown yourself in the process
of illuminating me.
Winter adds such delightful seasoning;
another overcast this evening.
While temperatures drop another degree,
cottontails dance from tree to tree.
White sheets contrast the cold, nil sheaths
that envelope the Christmas wreaths.
Yet few ever notice this masterpiece,
and fewer love it as much as I.
No one around here laughs anymore;
how terribly depressing!
I see three faces where I should see but one;
who do we think we’re impressing?
Am I so strange?
Doesn’t anyone else want a perfect world?
Isn’t anyone else so strongly convicted?
Doesn’t anyone else strive for the ideal?
If so, we should get together some time
and have tea.
The clock—
it strikes 3 A.M..
I’m in that crazy state again.
I toss and turn to pull you close,
swallow hard a lethal dose.
I’m half awake and half dead;
I only half heard what you said.
How are we close if you’re so far away?
(Things are so clear during the day.)
Oh God,
I’m so confused!
These pillows—they aren’t you.
You seem so near,
you get so far;
I’m locked behind
these unseen bars.
Where are you?
Lost is a child with eternal ideas,
lost are the dreams that come true,
sometimes I ask around,
hoping to find him,
the odd little boy of my youth.
Before age destroyed faith,
imagination ran wild, and I hoped
and I wished and I gleamed,
but time locked its fingers
and choked what was hope,
now my heart is no longer that free.
Year after year, I gave up more and more,
fearing the child would soon die,
and I noticed the corpses—rotting decay—
of my friends who had changed with the tide.
I wrestled inside with the feelings I hid,
of hatred and love and dismay;
the emotions conflicted
and clashed so intensely,
a stoic emerged from the fray.
And now I am tired,
and the child is quite sick,
as am I at my weary old age;
I lean ill in my rocker
and stare at the bricks,
a senile wretch—
ragged, deranged.
From whence I came,
I long to return;
I count the final days.
Awaiting me, a grave for two—
my final resting place!
Girl, it hurt to find out you’ve got someone,
someone to look into your hypnotic eyes,
someone to tell you all those lies,
someone for you to love.
Oh girl, why him? Why not me?
Why can’t I be the someone
to touch your model’s face?
The someone you embrace?
Because I love you, girl—I really do.
And I’d love for you to love me too.
Thoughts circle like vultures
in blades cast across my ceiling.
Visions and prophecies drip from
my
walls
to
trim.
Sheets of air send my self-image reeling.
Splatters on the inside of my habitat turn grim.
Lyrics in the background
cause excuses to rise and fall—
a jolly roller coaster ride.
My sharpened sword stretches a mile tall,
as ominous as my pride.
Creon climbs through barriers to sentence me;
from another dimension he ascends.
Idiots swarm in from alternate
worlds to condemn me;
beginning where my world ends,
and I’ve nowhere to turn.
Come now, sister, stay sweet—
withhold your basket full of treats.
You, my dear, dear as can be,
must hide yourself from beasts like me.
You mean so very much to me—
too very, very much; I can’t protect
your purity while longing for its touch.
Sweet entreaty, can’t you see,
you’re like a sister to me?
I love you, virgin, sweet to be,
and too esteem your worth in heat.
So go now, honey—sugared saint
(epitome of all I ain’t), and mother
some other brother’s child,
with your wild, pungent smile.
These city nights kill me,
city days chill me.
It’s that time of year again,
when frost forms on window panes.
I need some extra warmth to
get through the season,
something left in the
community clothes bin;
just some old rag,
just some garbage bag.
With skin dry and chapped,
and coat old and torn, scarved
to keep my heartbeat wrapped—
most I’ve had since I was born.
These city nights wound me,
city days swoon me.
It’s the time I fear again,
when frost bites cracked, uncovered fingers.
God, if you’re there, my life is in your hands;
won’t you give me some reason to live?
Just one good reason,
just one warm season.
Uncaring winds freeze my hard soul,
chill me to black core; the blood inside
crushed veins runs cold—
I need a little more.
Walking down desolate road,
edging on to infinity,
step up to a crossroads;
which direction will it be?
Spinning through the cosmos,
hanging on for dear life,
here choices are made quick;
with haste and sacrifice.
Echoes gently lap
against the inner shell of brain;
anonymous voices whisper out
words so profane,
“Which way to the resort?”
I’ve been around for you,
been there to cheer you up,
tried to keep you happy,
make you laugh;
but I don’t know anymore.
My kindred spirit’s gone.
Maybe it is just a phase,
but I’d rather be alone.
Please understand,
it isn’t anything you’ve done;
I just need time to think.
(Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.)
What depressing irony;
all the people I’ve been there for,
and no one is here now for me.
I need a shoulder to cry on,
a friend to rely on,
someone to see me
through this low.
I’m only human...
which makes for
fragile bones;
bones that break,
feet that ache,
head that throbs,
hands that shake.
I can be confused
(which is why I fell for you);
I have feelings and a heart.
I can love you.
I can understand.
I can be sensitive, or hurt.
I can be rash and savage,
decent and attentive,
responsible or unreasonable;
all in the time it takes
to lose a friendship entirely,
and fall off the face of earth.
Keep your smelly ol’ skin
out of the draft, cretin;
no one gives a damn about
your heroic delusions.
We’re all too preoccupied with
the grand farce of life,
to pay heed to your
petty conquests.
It must have been awful,
but we don’t care.
It must have been terrible,
but we weren’t there.
I’ll bet you’re unhappy—
you must have regrets;
those kinds of things
no one ever forgets.
Do you cry while
you while away?
I’ll bet you do.
I’ll bet if I were you,
I’d be tormented too.
But it doesn’t concern me,
I really don’t mind;
you show me no courtesy,
treat me unkind.
So leave us alone,
you dirty ol’ bastard;
we don’t have time for
your hallucinations.
(Oh, and the lawyer will be over tomorrow
to help you write up your will, Dad.)
I only want the best for you,
for you to have what you deserve;
so push me off this window ledge.
They’re becoming a problem;
what shall we do?
Those bunnies are deadly
(but so darn cute!).
Aren’t you concerned?
They’re into your petunias!
What shall we do?
What shall we do?
They’re everywhere!
What shall we do?
(The brave man says,)
“You get inside, son;
I’ll take care of this!”
Yeah, man,
mow ‘em down!
[Mower.]
Under a warm Virginia sky,
beneath the rusty Red Rose sign,
behind the pumps of gasoline,
on dusty roads that few have seen,
beside the woods where spirits rest,
in rotten rooms that rats infest,
above the flight with the broken stair;
some say the child still is there.
I saw the stone with my own two eyes;
engraved, “Here Our Child Lies.”
I shuddered when I saw the tomb
of child, dead in mother’s womb.
An abandoned shack in a field of weeds,
a broken dam in a sea of reeds,
a bird that drifts through heavy skies,
a willow waving slight good byes,
a door and screen of rusty frame,
a forest full of wild game,
a small and twisting hidden stream,
a tattered flag that winds redeem,
a fallow field of sweat and tears,
a bridge that holds a child’s fears,
a tree that ends a broken fence,
a tangled bush bristling past tense,
a moving van that sighs a bit;
reluctantly, he walks to it...
never to return.
Words cannot define the feeling—
love, or trust, appeal, or reeling.
Friends does not serve justice fair;
mad and crazy likewise err.
Truth is not head over heels,
nor any thought such speech reveals.
Beautiful would not suffice,
nor priceless, breath-taking or nice.
Mere words, indeed, with limits set,
may not encompass you, my pet;
mere words, in fact, despite your gleaning,
never touch a smile’s meaning.
Like the newest advancement
in fine robotic engineering,
polished sheer and meticulously smooth,
emerges the femininity of crafted
and exacting labor, designed with me in mind.
Surges of power throughout scientific perfection
aim their concentrated efforts
at the rough gel that is me.
I am plasticine mass, awaiting the pulverization
of tiny arms and a thousand pistons.
She is the astonishing beauty of machinery
made for no other reason than the melting down and
molding of my toxic mixture of ingredients
only scientists can pronounce.
She opens her metal jaws and lunges at my gut;
I spill onto the conveyer belt
and stain her unspoiled gears.
Then I am packaged and sold,
as another clump bleeds through her seals.
The future is laid out,
in unexpected twists
from the dagger of fate;
and I have given up hope
—yes, threaded the
needle of a noose
with my neck of rope.
Is it humorous to you
up there, God of hoax?
Do you think these are
astonishingly funny jokes?
Ah then, you may
indeed be right
to burden with
such tragic plight!
Frightened on the other end
sits cowering this loss at your words,
unable to answer but that I’m scared;
terrified at how easy it would be
to dig trenches in the surface of forearms,
frightened at how little coaxing it would take.
You sit in shattered glass and pools of blood
on the far side of town,
past families having dinner,
and tennis players,
and college-aged girls walking great big dogs,
and security guards reading comic books,
taking advantage of broken vending machines,
poets sitting romantically under trees,
or lying stoned and near dead in their garages.
You mention such and I have no answers,
no possible hope to offer
to convincingly resolve anything
of the muddle of depravity and depression,
or bat away any of the fears so quick to surface.
Instead I think of how romantic it would be
to end it all in one slash with the same razor
you now hold in your hand.
Gruesome, yes, but romantic.
Dawn.
The dawn of a new day;
in dew cover and sprinkler spray.
I awake in a thorn bush,
to mourning’s needle pricks,
and stricken by sticks and
brush from the thicket.
Age-old sun reaches earth;
I turn dark and cancerous under its curse.
Eve.
Evening lifts covers over her nipples;
slips between sheets against slight ripples.
I sink deep beneath cotton
clouds of down fluff,
drink sweet dreams off the
rim of her nightshirt cuff.
Burnt out stars fall across her face,
I trace them down the lace of her pillowcase.
My dear, dear Lucifer, you clever devil!
It is perfectly terrible how you work!
You have examined me;
you know me, old friend,
better perhaps than I know myself.
How wonderfully deceitful you are,
sinister spirit of evil,
wicked angel of death!
My love, could I ever leave such treachery?
Is not your torment my delight?
Is it not you who gives root
to my morbid fantasies?
Gladly I drink from your cup of destruction;
in happy delirium I sip of your life’s blood.
I please myself with today’s stew of immorality,
giving no thought to consequence.
Oh God, will you yet deliver me?
God, will you call me forth
from the furnace?
Oh, tell me it isn’t too late,
tell me this isn’t my fate,
tell me there is
something I can do
to justify my actions,
to atone my sins.
Oh God, look at
this quarry of tears,
listen to this
series of screams;
where is the forgive-
ness you promised?
Oh God, no!
No, God! Oh,
this can’t be the end!
Tell me this isn’t the end!
No one knows why they want what they want,
no one knows why they’re never happy with what they’ve got.
Everyone simply compromises,
never fully realizing none of it matters;
in eighty years we’ll all be dead,
burned by all the fires we fed.
I want to age.
I want to lean back in my rocker,
teeth in a cup to the side.
I want to sip the lemonade my dear will make,
play cards, look at the shapes in the skies, then
look at the memories in my best friend’s eyes.
She can make me smoke my pipe outside.
We’ll have nothing to do but pass the time.
Then peacefully, we’ll die,
I and my someone
to grow old with.
Daddy’s a good man,
tries hard, does the best he can,
would sell his blood to get me through school;
and I... I am intentionally cruel.
I spit in his face,
stick him through the heart,
then systematically tear his ego apart.
He would give me the world at his own expense,
and I would charge him rent for living here.
A continental drift pushes us further and further;
while skin tans, bats attack sleeping cattle.
As waves lap your beach residence, incisors
lap uncertain blood from me—from me.
And nobody’s around to wake them.
And nobody’s around to shake them,
and I’m tossed around by life’s altering course.
The world gets larger and monstrous daily;
idiot voices get louder and more annoying.
Tragic miles separate us from memories;
they drag us off—drag me off.
And no one cares enough to stop them.
And no one cares enough to drop them,
and I’m tossed around by life’s altering course.
Sometimes we get drunk off life’s potency,
sometimes it’s all we have to sober us up,
sometimes we forget who assigns us our portion,
who fills our cup.
We’re fed to sharks,
the world is dark,
time exits forever this
nebulous existence.
Then someone cracks a grin
and the overcast dissolves.
Circumstance another...
Atlas with his pain is not
supporting all the weight,
his effort not in vain.
The sun absorbs his energies,
night allows no rest;
chalk one up for discontentment
and kicks to the chest.
You know something?
It’s a pepper life,
so wear plaid slacks
and dance on picnic tables with me.
‘Cause life gets boring for the ordinary,
so kick off your shoes and sing out of tune.
I’m such an upper,
I’m such a downer;
I can’t think about that right now.
Do you see?
It takes every effort to appear happy.
That’s what keeps toy stores in business.
That’s why we grow peppers in our gardens, eh?
I hate myself.
I have no worth.
I am the most despicable
human on earth.
“Oh, no...” you say,
while I’m killing you
with my thoughts.
I want to lie back on the floor of a boat,
just the two of us
on a calm night,
stare at the stars
and
BE.
No words;
I don’t need you too close to my heartbeat.
I just want you there by my side
to
be.
Verse From The Third Confraternity:
The Prime Sociopathic Era
Frost in the summer of falling rains
—a plague,
the pitter patter of insignificant little lives,
one by one snuffing it.
And now I admit what I fought so hard,
finally submit to what feelings I guard.
I, in your absence, did reflect
on adoration and respect.
Fresh lips form words a first to say;
I love you more each passing day.
But now are fears alive and true;
please don’t say you love me too.
Tell me you will break my heart,
tell me you can learn the art,
think up every lame excuse
to promise unrestrained abuse.
I don’t want this,
this I so tried to prevent;
neither can I handle this,
so tell me every ounce is spent.
And now I wish you hadn’t pulled me close;
you dance so jubilant, I stand so morose.
What you wanted all along,
is all I’ve long been running from.
You encourage words I hate to say;
I love you deeper every day.
Now every apprehension weighs
like stacks of bricks that crush and cave,
and every insecurity
slams fully where the peace should be.
And you and I should not see through
the plans intent would have us do.
I don’t want this,
this I so hoped to avoid;
neither can I handle this,
so tell me I will be destroyed.
Broken at the thought of who I am,
broken at the slaughter of the Lamb,
spoken that it all was prearranged,
token prayers and acts already staged,
hint at intimations predetermined,
servants, kings, and worms—born vermin,
blister at the thought of callused knees,
sister to kaleidoscope of pleas,
tapestry of threaded weaves of gold,
tragedies and fairy tales so bold,
sit in dictatorial poise,
throw jesters at the feet of broken toys,
and leave us in the stupor, undisclosed,
of the simple testimonials you chose.
You should have given us the choice,
you could have driven in a voice;
instead you planned it well advanced,
and we were not given the chance.
My only thoughts are questions,
my feelings naught but doubt
at how you turn us all against you,
then predestine the account,
and then expect our gratitude
for saving just those chosen few;
you could have saved us all,
I guess you simply didn’t want to.
It leaves me skeptical and confused.
I write comic relief; jovial
society and good cheer abound.
I write boredom, forcibly; you lose
your mind with insignificance.
I write criticism, angrily; you rashly
lash out at some poor family member.
I write peaceful treatise, treaties; you
reflect with a slow pulse, in some Jacuzzi.
I write guilt, explicated; you contemplate
methods of suicide and murder.
I write a psalm; balm the God-given
cracks in your lips with talk
of forgiveness.
Slipping;
nothing I can do.
Falling through the stratosphere,
out of control, with no hold.
It is beyond me, eludes me;
all I have are questions
and a battered ego.
My pillow, a stumbling block,
a bitter ax raised above my neck,
getting heavier, heavier,
about to fall;
and I’m chained down,
helpless, gagged, waiting,
nothing I can do,
a bystander with no say, running,
chasing after some elusive cause
I’ve never seen, chasing me,
riding me in circles,
slipping, screaming,
no hope.
I see you in the distance,
seducing your flock;
I meet you in an alleyway
and bloody you with rocks.
No one else sees through you,
they think you’re a god;
but gods’ lungs don’t puncture
when bludgeoned with
lightning rods. Ha-haa!
Your speak is exceptional,
you think you’re so together;
but I’ve a poker with your name,
and your head will be severed.
Hey there buddy, you old fuddy duddy,
you look so nutty with those strings attached,
my hero, my jeer—oh, equivalent to zero,
my personal Nero to play in the streets with,
bag, braggart, washed up hag,
go ahead, stagger through your pitiful life,
scab, you vagabond, harvest of flab,
permit me to stab you when your back is turned,
loathsome creep, white trash, cretin,
I’ll never weep for your pointless existence,
hated scratch, with your nicotine patch,
may they snatch life from your grubby frame,
little spit, scared witless, full blown idiot,
I’d love to split your melon of a head!
What mistake did God make of you?
You seem such a waste.
You make me sick to my stomach,
intoxicating distaste.
You’re the dagger in my eye,
the thorn in my side;
how can you live with yourself,
you and your pride? Ho-hooo!
You worship yourself,
think you’re the center of attention;
I scoff at the jargon carved in
curses on your coffin.
Hey sleaze, hey deep freeze, get on your knees,
you terminal disease anxious to infect,
lowly worm, vermin, contagious germ,
you can squirm uncomfortably, but never hide,
pond scum, doldrums, drown in the hum-drum,
lazy bum of a stumbling wretch,
dirty rat, dissatisfied, obnoxious brat,
I tip my hat to your conspirators,
prude, unusual, brain screwed,
you change my mood to a violent rage,
rabid dog, impossible, bloody hog,
I hope they flog you in the streets,
spineless snake, impostor, fake,
I want to break your skinny little neck!
Bright colored flower stands
out from caring patch.
Blossomed leaves brush
pollen on fingers.
Scented sweetly with
the healing power of charm,
fragrant breath in slight wind.
Bit like a rose.
Harpsichord backdrop penetrates cloud.
She drifts through purity to smile down on me.
Adorned in white, wondrous fancy flight,
golden glint, shimmering halo.
Bit like an angel.
Blue flowing streams where we walk together.
She, the love of my pink cradle doll.
Entranced by the hum of rocking chair hymns,
to picnic on weirs by water’s edge.
Bit like a dream.
Enthusiasm brushes strokes over canvas.
Gift shapes packaged frailty.
Brilliant manipulation of eyes and space,
work of immediacy and timelessness.
Bit like a portrait.
Bit like a lovesick,
feverish romantic.
Out of turn,
loud and stern
screams in my ears;
just shut up!
Hum gently, swing down,
no sound, steal away,
lazy day. Lightly. Easy now.
Close your eyes. Breathe.
Imagine a scene, still serene:
river and sun, storybook colored.
Hocus-pocus; litter free streets.
Ice cream summers, star gazing eves,
red brick and grass green,
bicycle years, best of friends,
time, space, cloud.
Eyes open, but still closed.
You know I fail, I stumble and fall,
I trip over my own feet, and bite the dust.
I’m still buying, I take what I want,
I go by my own will, and flow my pain.
You know I ail, I rumble and maul,
I slip over my own sleet, and fight the gust.
I’m still lying, I fake what I flaunt,
I know by my own fill, and throw my strain.
You know I wail, I grumble and bawl,
I flip over my own beat, and right the lust.
I’m still spying, I shake what I taunt,
I stow by my own mill, and glow inane.
You know I rail, I bumble and stall,
I rip over my own meat, and blight the trust.
I’m still crying, I rake what I daunt,
I row by my own till, and grow humane.
You know I trail, I fumble and call,
I tip over my own seat, and cite the just.
I’m still trying, I wake what I haunt,
I slow by my own kill, and go insane.
Would the real idiot please step forward?
“Ahhh, yes... that would be me.”
Burn.
Burn, baby, burn.
Everything you stand for—burn!
Wave good-bye and fan the flames;
I’ve finally had enough of your games.
Your ash is mine,
so burn, baby, burn!
Please don’t look at me;
I’m not quite what I’m striving to be.
Christ... I shudder at the thought,
the image of everything I’m not.
Far above all the kingdoms
in a golden world,
far above any blanket of cloud,
on a mountain peak of white snow,
the mansion of my King
looks out over his creation.
From high atop the building,
on a balcony so grand,
my master breathes deep,
and takes in the view.
For hours he watches his people
as they go about their business.
In the evening, a faint cry arises,
and His Majesty is troubled.
He descends, following the voice
from his castle, down into the city.
He roams the streets,
led by this familiar voice,
led by this pitiful cry, for hours.
His clothes wrinkle and tear,
assaulted by dogs and barbed wire,
his back and forehead in time bearing
the marks of rusted boards and thorn bushes.
He scours intently through the vilest suburb,
through the subways and alleys,
the train tracks and junk yards,
the cry all the while nearing,
approaching, yet weakening.
Then the crate, and inside—the man of the cry.
This loathsome politician, this tax-collecting,
foul-mouthed, ill-mannered wretch,
fetal and helpless inside a crate.
We would laugh... but no.
Nails dig into the flesh of the King’s hands,
drip like tears from the prying tools of forgiveness;
the wretch for the first time appreciates air.
And the King dies of infection just days later.
Pass the cruel chill,
make me shiver slightly,
hollow words bound ever so tightly.
A far off dark lies inside my soul;
this time I stole a complimentary flavor of death,
it’s freezing breath pulls me to the ground,
surrounding me with unfamiliar sounds,
words that cannot communicate—they only
radiate through the thin air that enfolds,
echo through, leave me hollowed out, empty,
wanting to scream, but having no voice,
wanting to move, but given no choice.
As on nights as long forgotten as a child’s
terrors, some relentless force sinks down,
stares tauntingly at my misfortune.
My frozen eyes take in the fear ahead,
drift across an endless marble floor
to one large door, where stands no wall,
but a giant dance hall with only mental
boundaries holding me to the cold plane.
I lie still, with muscles that neither
respond nor relax, but rather
tense up with each newfound apparition.
My situation remains consistently unstable,
unable to act, incapable of thought,
only existing futilely as the sphere of
overwhelming evil expands,
stretches farther its hands.
The bleak void consumes my being,
drains my life’s blood;
emotions flood until I drown.
This time, this time tomorrow,
will be just another yesterday.
This moment, another moment from now,
will be yet another sad memory.
And the gypsy wind,
with camel hair and hiking boots,
draws us to wander
a while in the desert.
And my ticket to the big time,
the make of my mind,
was that same flicker
that pushed me over the brink.
I’ll never settle here.
Shut the doors tight,
keep them out;
none of their business anyhow.
No one needs to know
how you’re affected by the night.
Seal the windows,
hold them off;
you’ve a right to your privacy.
No one has to see
what’s hidden in the closed case.
Lower blinds,
block views;
all that is up to you.
What’s done in secrecy
is not meant for public affairs.
You can’t avoid your solemn failures;
they creep up and bind you to mortality
forever, forever.
Draw the curtains,
shut yourself in;
don’t bring others into your sin.
How could they ever know
your uncertain morals?
Double-check the deadbolt,
make sure it’s safe;
you suffer unbearable weights.
You see no trouble,
save the impending sting.
Kill the lights,
tuck away in some corner;
drink deep of carnal well.
Weakness bleeds like
an anemic prick’s bit lip.
You can’t avoid your solemn failures;
they creep up and bind you to mortality
forever, forever.
With blinds tied up,
past bars glides horsefly;
to be so free,
so unafraid,
to dodge the spiders of the twilight sky.
Shadow covered prevalence,
stripped of any confidence,
at the mercy of the winds,
and the moon,
and the sun;
the spiders crawl,
or hang in wait at face’s height,
spinners and multiples of legs
dangling, ready to speed
across nervous limbs and mats of hair,
into the private crags of the human body,
soon quadriplegic in fields.
Seeing you now in a different light,
hair so black and face so white,
my spark of eyes would soon ignite
the burst of flames to burn tonight.
The grin creeps in, and stretches miles
across the face to catch your wiles;
wonder, met with grace and style,
urges my captive smile.
Even if we’d less in common
—which we don’t,
even if you’d lower standards
—which you won’t,
even if your beauty failed
—which it couldn’t,
even were my heart impaled
—which it shouldn’t,
even were you talentless
—which you’re not,
even marred by imperfection
—deception wrought,
you still would outshine the brightest star
just for being who you are.
If I were looking for the perfect girl,
a treasure chest of gem and pearl,
I know what a prize she would certainly be;
she’d have to trust God unconditionally,
she’d have to be pure as an angel above,
her heart would be full of compassion and love,
she’d be sweet, adorable, kind, sincere,
enthusiastic, honest, special, and dear;
the core of her being would be easy to trace
by the innocent look on her beautiful face;
there’d be no limit to what she could do;
she’d have to someone exactly like you.
This tongue wants to lash
until you can no longer stand,
mark your skin with the anger I carry.
This hand begs to strike, with force and intent,
the weak and fragile design of God’s whisper.
This journal chronicles thoughts foul enough
to lock me away, throw me into a hole
with no food or water, until I collapse.
Sometimes I wonder where such hate began,
or if it will subside before I give in
to such leanings.
So many times
I’ve noticed from across the way
someone leaving an apartment
with your features:
your marble eyes,
your blonde streaks tucked behind your ear,
your plump lips of subtle pink,
even the curve of your neck,
or the thin bridge of your delicate nose;
I wanted to run up from behind,
cut them loose from their housing,
keep them in boxes in my closet,
safe until I might put them back
where they belong.
When you’d like to go out at night,
when everyone you know is just a parasite,
and when you stare across the water all alone,
wishing there was someone there
who’d want you for their own,
go down your list of who are possibilities,
and keep in mind that at the end
there’s always me.
In the evenings,
when I watch the darkening sky,
and shape the clouds that silently drift by,
my eyes sometimes find the moonlit tree line,
and I imagine your house on the other side.
I nearly decide to pick up the phone;
sometimes I’d rather hear a voice
than be alone.
I slouch down in my chair,
silently lost in despair.
I sink down to the floor,
wonder what I’m here for.
I’m just a poet, a lonely
soul screaming for attention.
I’m just a singer, crying
out to release the tension.
I’m just a writer, creating
worlds where I can hide.
I’m just an artist, keeping
my feelings inside.
Take away the hope,
leave me weakened and exposed,
take away the friendship
and the healing it imposed,
take away your kindness,
you leave me hurt and bare,
take away the pride
and there’s nothing there.
Verse From The Fourth Confraternity:
The Late Sociopathic Era
Trapped in a tin can, screaming for air,
biting the fins of the hated nineteen,
tightly woven together by
a string of circumstances,
encompassed by the raw
stench of breath—I hate it here!
Won’t you tear off the lid
and drop us back in the fish bowl
where we belong?
Upper level, 312-K-6,
man in button-up plaid,
silent, rowdy, brooding mix,
uninterested young lad,
hallway, just a crowd outside,
names melted to a single mass,
colored dots on rugged canvas,
earth, pearl, and brass,
epitome of redneck screams obscenity,
ephemeral noise unremembered,
child in oversized shirt feels sick,
stomps to Queen cause tremors,
“Would you like to fish in the last?”
a simple question misunderstood,
a little this and a little that...
an evening at the Underwood.
Look around at jesters’ faces,
grinning ear to ear,
listen to their cracking voices,
and tell me what you hear;
so many servants, and too many kings,
and not enough worms under earthly regimes,
and autobiographies new every day,
and grandpas and babies just slipping away,
and pride and delusion, confusion, dismay,
and pools of emotion in waves through the drain,
and smiles and frowns,
and shrieking and screams,
and blessings and promises,
heartbreak and dreams;
I look at the ground through streams,
while you’re incurably glad...
some people need to be happy,
some people need to be sad.
One day I’ll have a big house too,
a stone mansion grander than any you’ve seen;
a heavy iron gate with my initials engraved
will greet you, or slam on your prissy face.
I’ll have a long blacktop drive
rimmed with evergreens.
I’ll have a parlor, a dining room,
eight or so guest rooms,
a ballroom, a game room, a bar,
and a room with no purpose at all,
to sit empty year round.
I’ll have a library with real books,
classics by Emerson, Cummings, Frost, and Poe.
And I’ll keep a gallery in the west wing,
to be opened only during the spring;
and a garden in the courtyard, with flowers
too elegant to touch.
And the wait staff will rarely see me,
as I shall frequent the shops of China
in search of rare antiques, and statues,
and fixtures for the grand fountain.
And on my death, the entire estate
will go to some small boy in town
whose parents cannot afford him
a small bowl of ice cream.
Amy, plainly you can see
we just weren’t meant to be
talking underneath a tree,
or walking by the lonely sea.
Clearly hear me say goodbye,
utter muttered lullabies;
we live under different skies,
hopeless dreams of you and I.
Miss me, kiss me in your sleep,
go on back to counting sheep;
the hill we face is much too steep,
I sit at the foot and weep.
You should be locked up, or even worse.
I’d love to chain you down,
and never quench your thirst.
You should be shot to hell in a firing line,
filled full of a thousand holes,
and they should crack your spine.
You should be beaten raw, ripped into shreds;
they ought to hold you under water
until you’re dead.
You should be weighed down,
choked by a millstone, stoned by an angry mob;
you should be overthrown.
You should be burned at the stake,
consumed with fire; your remains
should be fed to a pack of wolves.
You should expire.
Heathen, pagan, zealot, freak,
dealer, healer, hooker, sneak,
black heart, no heart, deeper shade,
liar, actor, masquerade,
dirt, filth, corrupt leader,
pervert, lowlife, bottom-feeder,
shiftless, spineless, lazy, cheat,
defect, reject, bum, deadbeat,
misfit, dipstick, sucker, prick,
big head, pig-head, blockhead, slick,
witch, wizard, fiend, cut-throat,
outlaw, downfall, black sheep, goat,
empty, spiteful, cold, unfeeling,
downright uptight, unappealing,
lover, loser, blasphemer,
heretic, pornographer, all...
I throw my sharp accusations at your neck,
slit and gash the recipient of Jesus’ love,
condemn myself to become everything I hate.
They* say there’s an exception to every rule;
without exception, life is cruel.
You say not to worry about tomorrow;
but look at you, you never felt the sorrow.
Everywhere I look, it’s all I see...
there’s someone for everyone but me.
* Don’t ask me who “they”
are. I don’t know.
I am in the library watching people
pretend to study. From where I sit,
I can see out the window—it is
a warm Florida day. Silhouettes pass through
the illuminated pane before me like two-
dimensional cardboard cutouts being carted off to a
storage shed by a lonely, unappreciated janitor.
Outside in the courtyard, the grass silently and slowly withers
into yet a dimmer shade of brown.
Given the chance, I am certain I could
revive the grass, for I know that all it needs
is to be the blanket underneath a picnic basket;
I know how the grass longs to feel
my bare feet upon its back.
And I would happily oblige the trees,
lie down in their otherwise wasted shade,
but alas, I am trapped here and rendered helpless
by the unseen hands that dictate my every step;
and alas, I can do nothing.
I
Not more than ten feet away sits a girl
with perfect eyes, a girl who shows up here
at this same time every day, and that happens
to be the very same time I show up;
she sits at one table and reads,
I sit at another and write poetry.
As I search the room looking for inspiration,
our glances meet and we both look quickly away.
I look at her more often than she does at me,
because I have nothing else to do,
and because I’m always hoping
I’ll fall into some heated romance.
But she has a boyfriend already—
I heard her say it yesterday
to a guy in cheap, black leather;
they’ve been dating for almost three years.
Not more than two minutes ago
the girl looked at me and smiled.
I know, though, that she was really
laughing at the smiling boy who just passed,
because I was laughing at him too.
She smiled again as another boy
snuck around rows of books to peer out
mockingly at the old woman trying to find him.
The girl’s concentration was happily broken.
She began emptying the contents of her purse;
the makeup made it to her unlacking face
and a handful of old candy wrappers
got thrown out. Then suddenly
she stood and left the room, leaving me
alone once more to finish my sentence.
II
Not more than a week passed since I wrote that.
I still show up here at this same time,
sit at this same table, and write in this same book.
And the girl also still shows
shortly after I settle myself, and takes her place
among the familiar objects of my observations,
and occupies herself with her work.
I still watch as she hides a sandwich and fruit
under the table, because no food is allowed
in the library.
She hasn’t looked up for quite some time,
as though our eyes never met.
We are like two strangers who
pass each other every morning on the subway,
too lost in anticipation of a day’s activities
to notice.
If I wanted to hold you,
to only be near,
if I wanted to hear you,
your voice in my ear,
if I wanted to see you,
would you want me to stay?
If I asked you to meet with me,
would you, someday?
If I wanted to whisper it,
what would you do?
If I wanted to know you,
would you want it too?
If I wanted to touch you,
what would you say?
If I asked you to be with me,
would you, someday?
You marvelous girl,
you beautiful thing,
you sweet and adorable
fit for a king,
you princess of fancy,
you vision of light,
you angel of heaven,
you wonderful sight,
you innocent treasure,
you young, tender heart,
you priceless masterpiece,
you work of art;
who on this earth can make
dreams yet come true?
Only the best of them;
yes dear, you.
In dreams and in arms,
I succumb to your charms;
in love and in hope,
I enjoy the full scope.
If wishes came true,
I would surely have you;
if wishes were free,
you would surely want me.
I stare at you mockingly, with critical eyes,
reiterating my disdain; you’re all I despise.
With hatred and loathing, and violent intent,
I plan the destruction of the worm I resent.
Hee hee! Freak, phony sideshow illusion,
suffering from the grandeur of delusions.
Disgusting pig, self-important bigwig,
I’ll dig your grave and kick you in,
demented fool, grim faced with drool,
how cruel of God to make you so,
tub of lard, marred, and face scarred,
you should be barred from the human race,
repulsive bore, all I abhor,
how I deplore what you represent,
distasteful slob, hideous blob,
weep and sob at the hand of fate,
revolting slug, slosh through your beer mug,
you drugged up thug on your last leg,
perve, swine, your horrendous whine,
your crooked spine would so easily break.
How can you stand it, the wreck you’ve become?
No class outcast, get back to your slum,
uncivilized misfit, you tragic mistake,
you case for abortion, you miserable flake.
Heh heh! You’re so pathetic.
I wish you’d never been born at all,
you sad excuse for humanity;
you make my skin crawl.
Distorted blimp, cowering wimp,
may they skimp when it comes to grace,
repellent slime, sickening grime,
it’s high time I beat you down,
unwanted tramp, blood-sucking vamp,
I could stamp you out like a dwindling flame,
twisted cur, you racial slur,
you immature and nauseating wench,
bloated cow, mud-covered sow,
I don’t know how you can think you’re loved,
self-centered goat, I’ll cut your throat,
smear your coat with animal blood,
infectious rash, you heap of trash,
I’d like to slash your stuck out chest!
Case in point, very well taken;
your abuses left me hollow and shaken.
I’m learning your lessons too well
to see any point anymore.
I’m learning how to bury my feelings.
I’m learning how to harden my heart.
You’re teaching me that no one ever stays
long enough to love.
You’re teaching me how not to care.
I’m seeing in you your willingness to leave me.
I’m seeing how I have nothing to offer.
I’m learning that I’m no one,
and I’m giving up.
When my miserable years
on this earth finally end,
when I’m through with the
anguish and torment they send,
when these trials at last
drive me into the grave,
when my eyelids are glued
and I’m finally saved;
I have no final words
for you, nothing to leave,
I have no glimpse of insight,
no thoughts I perceived.
I have only one wish,
that to represent hurt,
I want you there to
personally kick in the dirt;
when the hypocrites gather
to pay disrespect,
I want you to remind them
of who they reject.
Through slits in my eyes
I see the mud beneath my feet.
I kick the plastic mask across a one-way street.
I clutch with unfeeling hands
the only truth I know;
my fluids ooze out wounded flesh
and slowly soak into the earth below.
10:30.
About the time you like to walk.
The moon tonight is bright,
it’s romantic light dances off
the plastic leaves of a dream.
The dark serene hugs me with its lonely arms,
encompasses me with charm;
everything is so calm.
I breathe deep the delicate cool of a slight wind,
and wish that you were here with me,
wish that you were nearer me.
Warming light from a Sunday sky,
enchanted glimmer of a spirit nigh,
daydream whispers, secret words,
thoughts unspoken, words unheard;
when sweetness in my vision stands,
outstretches welcome, opened hands,
I shy and close my eyes in bliss;
what rapt appraisal, sweetness this!
Grating on my nerves—
shut up... just shut up!
You keep bashing, slashing
unworthy acquaintances,
you knock everyone higher than you;
you’re so transparent and insecure,
unsure of who you are,
that you put down others.
But what gives you the right?
What can ignorance allow you to see?
Just look at yourself, you wretch.
Just look at yourself and cry.
If I met you on a street corner,
if I followed you down a dark alley,
if I saw you in the road,
caught you alone,
I’d write your fame in the obituaries.
I see myself strangling you.
I see you hanging from the fire escape.
I see me with a blunt object,
and you with a terrified look.
I imagine your funeral day.
I imagine dancing on your grave.
I imagine indulging my hate,
and being put away.
Unattainable star, just beyond my reach,
may I pretend for one moment you’re mine?
Picture our hearts and our lives intertwined?
May I imagine how sweet it would be, if as
much as I cared for you, you cared for me?
Please, may I dream that I still have a chance?
Fall to the spell of your wonderful trance?
Unattainable star, say yes.
Home again—
sad as I knew;
how I always feel
when not with you.
Thinking back on
what has passed;
I knew it was
too good to last.
Shut my eyes—
all week, it seems;
you know you’re al-
ways in my dreams.
Time with you
is too abrupt;
I’ll sleep ‘til Sunday
wakes me up.
The way you lean against your
reinforced pedestal so you won’t topple over,
the way you dress like a salad bar,
barely squeezing into an altered tablecloth,
the way your undefined chins dribble over
into indistinguishable shapes,
the way you pause for breath during
every asthmatic whine,
the way you ramble on in your
babbling, monotonous yawn,
the way your butterfly rimmed,
bottle-thick glasses vanish into your
beehive perm...
I hate the thought of you.
I hate the mention of your name.
Today the world cracked open
and I fell in.
Today something new began.
Today we were this much closer
to wherever we were going.
Today someone laughed.
Today someone beat the walls.
Today I lashed out at the uncompromising
drain relentlessly berating us with its
funnel for happiness.
And this is only Tuesday.
Watch me; I’ll be lonely.
I won’t talk unless spoken to.
I’ll stay away from the “in” groups.
I’ll walk in circles, pretending to go somewhere.
I’ll stand at the window and stare.
I’ll close my eyes so you think I’m asleep.
I’ll stay just out of reach.
I’ll look like I’ve a lot to do.
I’ll avoid ever speaking to you.
I’ll write to someone I used to know.
I’ll hide myself where no one goes.
I’ll be lonely; watch me.
I know all the tricks.
(No, I’m too sad even to write.)
creativity
purpose
meaning
aspiration
desire
will
...it’s all gone.
all gone
See cars.
See cars go by under cloud white sky.
See shining cars bright in sunlight.
See wind on trees—on browning leaves,
but not feel.
See but not walk on fresh grass or hot pavement.
Not run or sing or jump.
Not touch.
Not taste.
Not hear.
I want to go to a store,
Home Depot or K-Mart,
somewhere I don’t really like,
or have any reason to go,
just to be there,
just because I can.
Ryan isn’t getting up anymore.
Ryan is staying in bed.
Life is too hard,
too complex.
Ryan can’t stand anymore;
the sun hurts his eyes,
the air makes him choke.
Ryan is tired.
Ryan is sad.
He can’t remember happiness.
He can’t remember
how he’s supposed to act.
Verse From The Fifth Confraternity:
The Intimate Period
Eyes fail.
I could not see wheat fields.
The sun was too bright,
there were only rings.
I could no longer count blessings unseen.
I had to hear for the first time.
Stop.
Focus.
Reconsider my perception.
Do without.
Overcompensate.
Be thankful.
Adjust.
Adapt.
Find new ways of taking in beauty.
Find another outlet of expression.
See what I haven’t yet seen.
Learn that
eyes never fail.
Lunch was a talk with Desirée, or a stare,
walking was with intention, anywhere,
sitting was a curb, a parking lot, a hall,
standing was together on a wall.
Lunch is a letter to no one, or sleep,
walking is keeping out of reach,
sitting is the library, now the hall,
standing is alone, with no one at all.
You.
Most beautiful girl I know,
framed in kiss marks on my wall,
last I see at night,
first I see with light;
memorized every shape—
every pose, every smile.
Sacred.
A page mark in God’s holy word,
all things worthy of praise,
all things lovely and pure,
all things of good report;
you who I cherish and adore.
Love...
my absolute gem,
you’re the reason I wake,
you’re the source of my strength;
the more I learn,
the more I want to know;
you adorable prize,
you are perfection in my eyes.
When I walk at night,
and imagine you at my side,
when I kiss your picture for the hundredth time,
whenever I need someone to hold,
when I think of you, more precious than gold,
I long for the day, and I don’t want to wait,
I wonder if living alone is my fate.
When will I rightfully look in your face?
When will you willingly take my embrace?
When may I finally announce to the earth
that you are my love, and in you is my worth.
Suntime shine—
morning... noon tide,
care to wake to the
smell of pancakes,
French toast or
cheese omelets.
Coffee on the
bright flowers rim the
brick patio.
Time portal wavers under canoe rows,
hammock hangs slow, and heat...
nowhere,
nothing,
all is everything.
Life around five
is pure chocolate,
ice cream cake,
cookies,
brownies,
fudge,
hot cocoa with
marshmallow sludge;
boiling water on
the hot stove,
while outside silently
fills with snow.
I don’t want to do anything.
I want to do nothing.
I want to sit here,
stare,
and not have anyone come up and say,
“You look bored...”
when I’m not bored.
How I so much love to hear your voice,
how rapt when you said “yes”,
how I so adore angelic face,
how eagerly impressed,
how I treasure so such company,
how outshone any star,
how so I love to know you’re mine,
how grateful that you are.
Who am I to deserve
scraps of your time?
How is my concern connected
to the reality of your actuality?
Who am I that any sacrifice
should carry over on my behalf?
How can I compete with this feast
of perverse images at your lips?
There enters now into the picture
a measure of sadness this heart
could never have imagined.
When I wrote this, there were tears outside;
when I thought of us, there was rain in my eyes.
No one could say how deeply the wounds run;
everything I feel is on the inside.
I’d dig with callused fingers into the cavity
where my heart supposedly resides
to show you it still beats,
walk over scalding coals and broken
glass to show that I still feel pain.
How I long in this desperation
to give you the world on a stick,
sizzling over spit to sweating perfection.
But the sacrifice of fattened sow,
looking so much like my own face,
skewered on your rougher points,
becomes upon recognition more
unbearable than you will ever know,
as you tuck your cloth napkin
neatly into your shirt collar
and prepare to clamp your jaws,
dripping me down your
freshly kissed chin.
You never believed a word I said,
never saw the colors I bled;
but ask anyone who even remotely knew,
and they’ll say I always considered you.
Ask the girl whose opinion I sought
to make sure my poetry could melt your heart.
Ask the girl who came across the picture
in my Bible I’d marked Philippians with.
Ask all the nights’ companions I turned down
why they sulked away empty handed.
Ask the guys who thought I was gay because
I wouldn’t “check out the tits on that one!”
Ask the family and close friends who saw me
kiss your picture at the day’s end.
Ask yourself, or ask me; you were the only
light these blind eyes adjusted to.
One line down my cheek,
one drop holding all the unlived dreams,
one burning stream of sadness
and its over.
With one tear smeared on my face,
our past and all my ties to you are erased.
With one phone call and one prepared speech,
you push me forever out of your reach.
Telephone unplugged,
blinds down,
silhouettes melt
in the dark heat of sound,
face burning
with a glazed expression,
sulking slowly back
into familiar depression,
kick me—I won’t turn over,
stick me—I won’t respond,
cover my head,
my eyes won’t blink,
pronounce me dead,
in dirt I sink.
Trumpets,
purple, scarlet, red,
canopy, silk sheets,
king-sized bed,
throne room, arsenal,
guards outside,
high horse,
praises,
ego, pride,
“If I may speak...”
No, you may not;
ha ha ha,
peon little big shot!
Oh no! Oh no...
I looked in the mirror; what a joke!
God’s grand sense of humor stacked me here,
a stagger of blocks and haggard sphere;
must’ve run out of polished parts,
threw together gears and an artificial heart.
Hi, I’m a loon, a big ol’ buffoon,
fragmented pieces of a hot air balloon.
I’m a waste of a person, a scapegoat, a lie;
I’m no one to talk to, I’m marshmallow pie.
My eyes, my nose, my self-image froze;
the mold, old and broken, is not what I chose.
My features all so theatrical;
look at me, I’m asymmetrical!
Tunnel—
I tunnel down
into the warm dirt
and search for you.
I feel the hard wood casket
and laugh because you think
you can keep me out.
I’ll wait...
forever if that’s what it takes;
I’ll wait until the wood turns
to a moist meeting ground.
I’ll dig myself a comfortable little hole,
and wait here until the end of time.
If only I knew what to say, I would say it;
if only the game were familiar, I’d play it.
Shall I not continue,
in wonder and fascination,
to praise such immortal beauty?
Shall no longer your divine image
be the focus of my adoring eyes?
Shall I never again promise
eternal sincerity and devotion?
Shall every honest intent
be evermore denied?
Judging from the thoughts in my head,
spinning around in a whirl-
wind of mixed emotion,
I know how easily I could be lured away
by some fairy tale of a split second tangent.
Never quite sure,
if you came down the stairs,
sat with me,
laid down beside me,
touched me,
what I would do;
knowing you so well,
knowing what you’re capable of
only makes it worse,
knowing you want me like I want you,
knowing you’re close enough to feel,
knowing I could get away with anything
only makes it worse.
If I could stare into your face right now,
if I could hold you,
would I have the strength to pull away,
or would I disregard my principles,
and hope God covered his eyes?
What poetic renderings come when
inspiration slips through floorboards?
What remains of the artist when
romance becomes an exact science?
Today I sat in the lodge of a motel room
and introduced myself to someone,
but was too involved in the process of steps
to remember, or for that matter hear,
what her or her friends’ names were.
Earlier, I’d twice hugged Christina
after the three of us made a cemetery
from week old snow, and Angel
stood there wearing too much makeup,
looking slightly jealous.
I wanted to say something,
grab her as I would have a year ago,
but this winter we are both older,
and not the only two on earth.
And learning a thing like that
takes a lot out of a person.
In the marble convex of your eyes,
I can see only my reflection;
I wonder if indeed there is any of you left,
the windows to your soul so often shattered,
so that now I see only the empty frame.
You read back words I can’t remember writing,
and cry over things I would never do.
You have so many worlds, and in so many
of them—tossed around, your aching heart,
stretched out, stomped on, torn apart, you are.
Wednesday, my Angel falls
from her immortal place among the stars,
as the granite islands spinning from orbit
lose their place, smash into each other
in mass confusion, at dizzying pace.
You cannot save the smaller ones, dear,
but must latch on for life to the sure surface
of God, who alone can restore the picture
lost amid the inner clutter of rooms
behind slammed doors.
I would never introduce myself,
would I remain unknown,
I would never speak,
would I remain unheard;
not to bother you,
not to be misunderstood...
I’m sorry, you have a pretty smile.
I would never stare,
were it to make you uncomfortable,
I would never patronize or humor you,
would it cause you to despise me;
not to bother you,
not to frighten you away...
I’m sorry, you have a pretty smile.
You smell so sweet, you
smell a rose, a dozen more;
such sweet perfume, a-
roma I would suffer for.
You smile so wide, you
smile enchanting as a laugh;
so picture perfect, grace-
ful image photographed.
You walk so shy, you
walk adorable, abashed,
so beautiful; how quite
adorably you clash.
You speak so sweet, you
whisper colors undefined;
you gently breathe the
simple wonders of your mind.
How could I picture a world such as yours?
How could I imagine what light it endures?
How could I know, from the look on your face,
what a wondrous dream,
such a marvelous place?
Were I a stallion, perhaps
you would give me your time,
a thoroughbred, staring
would not be a crime;
I’d run when you kicked me,
I’d halt on command,
I’d whine for the sugar
cubes melting in hand.
Or were I a camera, you’d smile unafraid;
you’d look at me, maybe, were I in the trade.
I’d love to be daily, familiar, routine;
I’d change my vocation to race in your scene.
Darkened world of expectation,
shall I once more fly? Shall skeletal wings
unfold from beneath my ribs, that I may
once again summon her fearful majesty?
Will the monitor of my dead eyes
again array me with such splendor,
that I may resume our bargaining,
sweeten the crowd with offerings of silver?
Will I soon return to such unlawful defiance
on threads of faded brown and gray?
Will the unholy banquet of spirits be
once more delightfully honored by
cunning and deceptive words of flattery?
Shall the chants and murmurs ever be recounted?
The pen I write with is two years old,
from a church I no longer go to,
the Sunday I met Christi for the first time.
I’m often asked about the pictures on my wall.
“Just some people I used to know,”
I answer, without looking.
Soft young maiden sweet,
beautiful young virgin, petite,
frail, fair, delicate miss,
gentle, graceful, wondrous gift,
perfection embodied,
immortality reached;
conceptions are shattered,
and standards are breached.
I forgive color. I forgive race.
I can’t forgive the look on your face.
If you’re going to kill, kill the killer.
If you’re going to be violent, be fair.
If you’re going to rape, rape the rapist;
focus your psychotic stare.
I’d violate the criminals,
I’d murder only who deserves;
for wicked men, obscene,
I’d bring back the guillotine,
with the motto,
“To Protect And To Serve.”
Snuggled in a soft blue knit,
bewildered look in a fire lit,
drawn together, rather swept aside
—in humble innocence abide;
revelation of the infinitely sweet,
sacred patch of earth under feet,
is dreamed of in nightly serene,
the adorable queen of unseen peace.
My love, how misplaced you are,
how almost lost you seem,
out of your element, worn by the rain,
tainted by pollution and erosion stained.
She pulls back orange strands
over the green that suits her.
Pallid skin, tight,
smoothes over its perfect frame,
augmented with silver ornaments.
Ah, but she is beheld more complex!
The sophistication of fantasy colors
with thrice brightened tints;
white flows her decorative gown,
adorned in gold with
amulets and medallions.
You sit almost close,
almost close enough to touch.
You speak nearly sweet,
nearly sweet enough to believe.
The words you said,
I could have sworn they were sincere;
the glimmer in your captivating eyes,
I was sure held my reflection.
And I had so often thought it,
so entertained the idea,
that I was nearly convinced.
It would be so nice to touch you,
and not have you shudder,
so wonderful to cover you
in warm comfort;
I would weave adoration into
the spider web knit,
and worship you for all time.
I could never entertain the thought
without it driving me insane,
I could never render service
with understated clichés,
I could never near communicate
by babbling so absurd,
and nowhere near do justice
with my most descriptive word,
and never be the less consumed
by prose you so imply,
I never could explain someone
so perfect in my eyes.
Were it in my power to sway your emotions,
I would surely be holding you.
Were I sincere to my purest intentions,
I would be utterly consumed.
No sooner would said wishes be granted
than my devotion pledged.
No less would turmoil
be on my heart alleged.
This pain, this treacherous anonymity,
to search your eyes and be unmoved.
To sense bewildered admiration,
and be not confused.
Truly, I would suffer
a thousand fates more hideous,
swallow blades more polished and sharp,
than to have lived unaware of such beauty,
being never so deeply touched.
You ask if I remember you?
I recall someone...
a bit younger,
a bit softer,
maybe more innocent,
more open...
And you?
You seem vaguely familiar,
but it’s so hard to remember;
everything was so simple,
so clear.
Now even the memories have gotten
too complicated to be worthwhile.
The saddest part is how I still sit so far away,
back in my corner,
still alone;
admiring you,
how you’ve grown.
You ask if I remember you.
Only because that ancient photograph
is so worn by my fingertips,
only because of how often
I repeated your name to myself.
You ask if I remember you?
No... I’m not sure I do.
“Dear...”
is as much as I got out
before the phone rang.
Verse From The Sixth Confraternity:
The Dissolution
Sweetly she relaxes,
leans into my warmth
and breathes.
Slowly my head drops,
lips on her forehead,
we sleep.
Upon sight of her I closed my eyes,
too unreal to be wonderful,
too wonderful to be real;
in jeans and flannel she stood,
the epitome of every boy’s dreams.
I smiled in recognition,
and fear of what my gestures might betray.
What years may make of this moment,
who can say?
...and the discovery of cold.
“Have a good day.”
I don’t even realize my command.
“Have a good day,” and kick another
toward the polite exit sign.
You walk in with an outfit from 1973,
and I take an instant disliking to you
because I’m taken mid-sentence
from any imagination
to wait.
I haven’t cried enough until
your father’s been drowned,
until I cover you in peaceful serene;
I haven’t cried enough until you learn to swim,
until my tears dilute your streams.
How permanent and cutting a loss,
this sickening realization that my weeping
pales to light your unforgivable
separation from this life.
Would my suffering call you back,
I might welcome this floodgate.
But as it is, no restoration, no peace,
and certainly no understanding
ever breach this finality.
Cluttered fields on home movie reels
reveal feelings long buried
pertaining to people long gone
—run off and married.
Rain taps against the unopened pane of window
beneath curtains where images of now dead
six year olds' faces blur, uncertain.
A carriage out on the street percussions by,
its politely undisturbing non-urgency
emerges only slightly against the backdrop
of architecture no longer mulled over,
even as its edges form the very streets
we remember years later
when we remember such things.
To stop and watch a while away,
you’d see yourself up close,
slip into a reflex mirror, broken
bits of glass and masquerade.
I lost that plastic ring you gave,
that silly ring,
that stupid thing.
I’ve been elected the Insensitive King.
Who spoke first, I’m not exactly sure.
Who answered, I know even less.
But the conflict? Saul at his
conversion could have seen that.
Such weight fails anymore to even be ironic,
how I read into your thoughts my own words,
how your ivory is my sweetest
emotion on salt moistened skin.
I watch you walk away, us both
wishing you would turn back.
Sorrow is this ridiculous confidence
that ties us together. Yet, elsewhere
has been entrusted to me a king’s inheritance,
where my commitment lies in tact;
with all virtue and Christian ethic
I acknowledge my vows. And with the
same steadfast responsibility I discern more
and deeper need in you than you realize.
I know you expect the face to that
familiar voice to behave in a certain way.
Balance, however, is a learned trait.
I would be a fool to haphazardly
disregard caution at your expense.
Are you able to understand, I wonder,
what veil I am for a fundamental,
foundational dissatisfaction?
You believe our lips together should restore
your virgin passions. You maintain
that a tight enough hold may never break.
But what a fabulous distraction!
Appealing, undeniably, but
nonetheless a symptom this early on.
I am not exactly paternal, am I?
No intensity of affection is a sufficient
substitute for your history of lack.
You hear in me what is inborn for
the spiritual woman to connect with.
I hold in you all that is dear, but it is not enough
to unearth a world of pent up feelings
too wonderful to ever see the
polluted air of daytime mar it.
Frail, discarded garment of a child,
I see the two of who you feel,
ready to be a woman,
a grown, ageless recipient and lover,
ready to quiver under hand,
to react to fingers and open kiss.
I think of your breasts,
of your arms, and palms,
and belly, and of your knees;
under a protective and jealous watch,
you near for a hug, and I nearly
take advantage of the woman
you feel yourself ready to be.
Society’s immunity had
rendered him inept,
humor finds occasion now
to comic why he wept; the
picturesque and unimpressed
invest and patronize
fraternities and nouveau
riche, in turn and in reply.
Unannounced and mispro-
nounced, unwelcome sign of rot,
lowlife form of world-worn,
disgusting, vile have-not,
dissociation, condemnation,
explanation warrant,
servant quarter, porter clad
ingrate, distasteful, foreign,
plotting, bought, obtrusive
lot of number adding property,
deficit of etiquette, disposal
prospect, properly,
imposition, disposition,
recognition starved,
corner hidden, insult ridden,
chipped, and scarred, and carved,
freakish flaw of nature law,
misplaced, cracked case of leather,
smothered grub, bi-layered mud,
uncovered corpse in weather,
degradation violated ration of disaster,
spackled, smacked, black
imitation, rack of flaking plaster,
long forgotten spot of mutton,
sputtering subhuman,
oozing goo of brutal, glucose-
caked victim of ruin;
society’s disclaimer maimed
this miserable wretch, this soul,
he looked around and shot his
brains out, hoping to console.
Statuesque stone marble chiseled,
overgrowth of moss and vine,
half a sentimental scribble,
half an hour and seven lines;
Venus in her oyster casing,
naked in the mouth of paint,
pressed against the lips of longing,
warm across a fallen saint;
mild and soft, metallic silver,
flower bed in pavement cracks,
draperies from granite pillars,
pulp of youth encased in wax;
she, the sculpted mass perfection,
she, the brazen idol sheen,
goddess heroine erection,
monumental legacy.
My, how my very real sorrow
comes to life by the cold, pale
comparison of looming laser lights.
And my, how your polished,
post-production gives a shine
to industrial distractions—
mass mediassembly lines.
My, how Microsoft and Claris-
Works may soon replace
that religious, ancient
ceremony pitting face to face.
And my, how the grass is always
greener through a screen,
where nothing may be felt,
but nearly any of it seen.
Oh my, dear me, Miami is
a click and blip away, and
transactions once with currency
now scan for instant pay.
And my God, how very
possible to all but disappear
amid the processors and memory
chips, and pages insincere.
My, that useless information
taking room from campfire songs
is the shape of our mistakes,
and every purity we wronged.
And my final submission is
these tubes and wires cut
into my skin, to keep me living
in this engineered rut.
My, my muscles quit responding,
yet these now electric eyes
follow cords from arms to sockets,
to machines of every kind.
Huddled, my security blanket,
rat-tailed sharp enough to slice.
Corner treed raccoon, wolverine;
concede to cage, gnaw, escape,
bleed a trail from garbage cans to forest,
soothed by eternally cool February springs.
Silently brooding, this character you created,
silently brewing, this alter ego redefining you;
blood steams from espresso machines,
thick with crème,
fat burnt over the wand's finger,
clatter and scraping of dishes on the floor,
into plastic tubs,
tipping uneven with lemon water;
the waitress picks up
another gentleman’s scribbled number,
folds the bill into her pouch,
glances back to the corner,
sparks momentarily
through ambiance and copper coils of hair,
then turns a thin frame in tight jeans
with a slight spin on the heel.
Tucked between a parasite
and dogs who’ve long since lost their bite,
there wither winter wonderlands,
that melt and slip away like sand.
Through verbal bouts of desperate lows,
that swallow several thousand snows,
and gargoyle shrieks, and conscience bows
to vivid streaks in livid howls,
and searing rays divest and steep
in nearing days impressed to weep,
and mourn the loss of losses gained,
and given to effects of strain,
emitting heights of depth itself,
and caving in the death of self.
I am destitute and lovely.
I am absolutely nothing.
I’m waiting for you to
saunter back into full view.
The suns implore you, they
urge you, diverge a course or two.
I’m hating fortune for tuning
out the verses I learned to love.
I’m craving more, soon, I’m
saving for the last my turtledove.
I’m growing blind inside,
divining who I love from who I hate;
not every tantalizing fixture
can survive so long a wait.
Think of me, you adorable absent.
Evening makes a fine cover for
what lies behind lies.
Tonight, yes, I would admit how terribly
hateful I am of your nonchalance.
I anger you in hope of some
impending breakthrough.
Still, honestly, you refine me like wheat
in the millstones of understatement.
How unimpressed you remain,
you very cruel ever-present.
And indeed, how material.
Gravity has so much more
pull today than usual;
I’m experiencing something
of an unnerving weight.
And this lack of restraint
I acquaint myself with
turns out to be something
I rather enjoy.
I could be so dark....
Run, sweet thing, while you can,
‘cause if I look at you again
I’ll probably take a hammer to your head.
Run, adorable thing, before I catch you,
‘cause if I sense a slight attraction
I’ll probably eat you,
then beat you and mistreat you.
I know I’m a prick, sometimes
I loathe myself for it,
but at the moment
I don’t particularly care.
So come over to my place for a quick rue;
I’ll stuff you in an airtight bag in the attic
with earth.
I’ve been suffering lately from the
effects of the absence of your breath.
These thoughts you usher in greatly
impress a stench as cold as death.
Through an awkward several
moments of devoted admiration,
consecration edges onward and on,
blue skyward ever opens
to remote configurations,
hesitation hedges unfurled beyonds,
until unprecedented pestilence
descends on what is happenstance;
recant, and stand a deviant...
obedient expedience.
I am the unenviable recipient in the heart
of the sharp point of your icicle breath;
the friction of my fiction causes you to melt,
and every drop simmers in my depth.
Now I am pent up in confinement
to bottle the excess, resigned to self-designed
kinds of armament, lacking that caress.
I am everything less than nothing,
and from that knowledge have I been running.
And to dust, soon, I will return;
I know this, yet with still so much to learn.
I wonder at what age you begin to forget
all of those very important truths
your adolescence knew
(the ones you swore you would never forget).
I wonder when knowing a thing
stops equaling relevance.
I wonder at what point in a life a person
has to stop caring in order to love.
And I wonder when you lose your sense of
style to irony and humor, and how I could
have passed that age without noticing.
And I wonder if there is an age
I have yet to reach when thoughts like these
will no longer occupy my time.
Houses with no attic, no eves,
should be torn down, and the wreckage
used for bonfires on family farms.
Dust covers the second page, left after the first
and the cover torn out over the years,
a yellowish reserved for only handwritten notes
by fingers now down to the bone in coffins,
who knows where; names now only
a passing wave in the spring cleaning days of
some sentimental great-granddaughter.
Stopping at the roadside on a rural dirt road,
parking under a great maple tree
(you don’t see many of in the city),
an old woman sits in a wicker chair
with lemonade and finger sandwiches,
sits at the end of a row of old books by poets
whose names we only vaguely recognize,
written in a language more of antiquity
than transcendence,
yet still on this soon dead woman’s table,
still with inscriptions by fingers
now down to the bone in coffins.
Those things I said,
they were impassioned
moments, or dull ones;
they represented you and me
and everything in between
(which is truly everything).
But they were mere pictures
of places I’d only heard about;
I didn’t mean half of them.
But the silence, you know,
would have said so much
more than I wanted to say.
I finally found out
who all those poems were about;
it’s me.
Watching myself die, I’ve decided,
is not the sort of thing I won’t try;
designing my own slow decline, my
demise, is really an unfair stereotype.
“Look,” you say, “at the way you’ve fallen
prey to a blatant array of outright lies.”
“Hey,” I half play with your shame and dis-
may, “a pack a day and a latté and I’m fine.”
On the far wall of our stellar cellar apartment,
through what is by now a thick mix of incense and cigarette smoke,
I choke a bit, and notice the bone thin silhouette I project onto the
pipes and spaces between the strings of Christmas lights,
and I ignite another candlewick, and yet one
final cancer stick, and sit in the midst of the sickness I read with,
and picture myself in with who I drink and break bread with,
and I think of you, and of what you would think if you thought of it;
I imagine you’d be disillusioned by a lot of it.
I suspect that after a second to reflect,
you’d regret that I settled for less than expected;
and I would reassure you, saying,
“It really isn’t as bad as all that.”
(Then pat myself on the back
for your heart attack.)
What if I’m the antichrist?
God, what then?
You, to me, are an incomplete stranger.
I, to you, honestly, am stranger
in any degree than your sure friends.
I stop along the sidewalk
to talk to a harsh demeanor,
softer and cleaner on the inside
than the leather casing suggests,
and less than a few yards away,
you harden and scar, frightfully disengage,
and turn about to face the other way,
and step quickly and with full intention,
and scurry away in a flurry of introspection.
And with extraordinary effort,
the leper I converse with
forces with grace a faint trace of a vague smile,
which in time becomes more familiar
and welcome to me than a thousand
of your footsteps.
I know not why I weep as though
comedy were ceremoniously presented,
as though I had lost, perhaps, relative and friend.
I grasp not the solemnity with which I labor,
with which my eyes fall open to what is familiar,
to what I would years ago have cast off,
to what now, perhaps, is glazed with
dust and age that were possibilities.
I am worn on the edges you once fell against,
soft where used to be armor.
I lack the rigidity once immediately perceived.
I am finally sensitive to
the temperature of your palm,
the slight hesitance in your voice,
the apprehension.
I know that time is a very serious,
very heavy thing.
I know this.
Still, I know
not why I weep.
I have said already all there is to say,
and had I not, well, it’s been claimed at any rate,
but I sit in the blue hue of a room with no view,
and I want to betray that I miss you,
and I miss you,
and I miss you,
and still, and once again,
I miss you.
And that in itself is reason enough to pen,
so I stain the page with my blood of blue ink.
Have I become so old, so fast?
Don’t just stand there laughing;
answer me.
I’m having difficulty breathing,
unsuccessful sleeping;
and more difficult than all else
is trying not to think of you.
I am downcast, I cast down my eyes,
I try to bargain with God, but he’s a harsh one.
“If she calls, I’ll have my answer very clear.”
The phone rings, and I was right
thinking I would be wrong.
Entirely elsewhere,
where I am;
not here, not now,
not with you, and unhappy.
Erase me, dear sir,
from your memory,
along with everything I ever could have done.
I go blind staring into a blue light.
Brother Job, fellow abomination,
I know what it is. I know what it is
to scrape at flaking, bloated skin.
You cringe, knowing that no amount of poetry,
no practiced words, no disclaimer
is sufficient to soothe the unpleasant ooze
of loathing and self-disgust.
I recite,
“I have something terribly urgent to say;
I wish you all to remain ten feet away.”
so you won’t see what mirrors mock,
and you won’t have the opportunity
to overlook my flaws.
I am a poignant work, a line you wish to adopt;
you hug the idea, befriend a page which
responds only thankfully to being turned.
But I—I am morbid.
I shrink away from your kindness
and your extended hand.
I am impossible to a degree
you can’t even begin to comprehend.
I am alienated, not because there are those
who would shun me, but because there are those
who would certainly not; it is them that I fear.
Is it not easier to be immediately dismissed,
to be rejected, and to reply,
“Then all else be damned!”?
Is it not easier—less rewarding perhaps,
but easier nonetheless—to refuse charity
than it is to be daily torn open for those
who would love me in spite of
the horrible beast that I am?
I am morbid.
And tonight I will not let you love me.
Morning, then, come quickly;
I am not who you think.
I shiver the way I did on those
all-night fishing trips when I was six,
with Granddad’s friend—
Mr. Wright, I think his name was.
Oh, he’s long gone now; most of them are.
I pretend I’m in a canoe,
or a pontoon boat, very cold.
And it isn’t the fish so much
as it is the smell of the ocean,
and being out in the mist and open air
while most children are asleep,
dreaming they are out in the mist and open air.
I shiver through my mother’s sweatshirt,
tighten its hood over my face,
look out into a backdrop of watercolor scenery,
and pastel rocks, and an oil tree line,
and I rock, or the boat rocks,
gently up and serenely down,
and stars, and an overcast, and a fade of a sky,
and our light reflecting on the nearest tree,
forget everything but this peace in this moment
—this moment.
This peace in this moment
I remember as there is no ocean before me,
many years later, in a parking lot,
sitting on my brother’s car.
I’ve forgotten how the grass feels,
what little is left, walking barefoot
on moist or wet.
I’ve forgotten how moody the sky can be,
how it sometimes decides to fall over
the buildings we made.
Our buildings—
countless Towers of Babel,
in the form of corporations,
elaborate, clean churches, or museums,
and everyone wanting their own,
and some licking their lips over several,
and a few with courtyards to claim
ownership of some nature,
to try and get back the feeling of the grass
we dug up and paved over.
I wanted to be an actor.
Oh well, eh?
The phones are silent.
Relaxed people in solemn thought
pad their footsteps, knowing that tomorrow
there is no work—a worship service, perhaps,
early and unimportant—no rush, no usual,
no mandatory fifteen. We have all eaten,
we have already had our coffee,
and sit still and un-alive, leaning back into a wall,
afraid to make any sudden movement,
afraid to be seen,
because I know of the herd instinct,
and of how our society is manic depressive,
and unpredictably pulsing,
and I know of how the wrong word or
single harsh sound can ruin a poem’s mood
the way an abstract shriek can
ruin a summer afternoon.
I capture the moment through plastic foliage,
and wait to be disrupted by someone
who has no appreciation for the occasional lull.
Every good Catholic remembers you
for exactly three hours,
while the sky is black
and the veil is torn,
and we agree that,
“This was certainly a man of God.”
Then we go back to being Christians.
The man on the tractor
took off his hat
and stopped his mowing
when the procession drove by.
Poetry says no more than,
“I agree,”
as we nod and shake our heads.
(And place words where they don’t belong.)
Matching outfits may as well say,
“I’m with stupid.”
And it’s sickly romantic.
Grandmother, dear saint, I miss you,
and the too strong perfume,
and the vents in your living room,
and those days consisting of only iced tea
and books to read, a beehive in a tree
and a back trail to a grocery,
and rocks and litter and driftwood
and seaweed and a low tide,
and theories about our moon and gravity.
Grandmother, dear, godly woman,
I struggle to obtain the same grace
by which you lived. I slow my step
and rest my voice (breathe audibly),
I smile with the corners of my eyes
at too many humorous truths to share,
save for an expression, heard only years later.
And Granddad, kindly old man,
how many letters did you write in a lifetime?
And how many were lost,
and how many more saved?
Speak with aged;
not rigid, nor stern demeanor find,
but youth—yes youth,
acquired of many lifetimes.
And in speech, pause;
pause and hearken unfamiliar age,
which in time does replenish,
does always remain.
Hear not with impatience,
but with respectful association,
for all indeed contribute
to one single conversation,
begun centuries, yes, even millenniums ago,
between one and another, and yet a third,
with both authority and device
to involve all who have passed,
and all who have yet to arrive.
And we who are now in the eleventh hour
do well to thoughtfully consider
our contribution.
Speak then with aged,
as they have with aged spoken;
ingest wisdom of years.
Be not endeared too soon to resolution,
but to the hope that
communication itself may endure,
regardless of topic or tangent or interest.
For truly, the content of those simple
initial words was certain, but is now unsure.
Artist is a polite term for terminally useless.
Polite is an artist’s term for insincere.
Insincere, I fear, is a corporation's
mandate to be considerate,
because corporations hand out
manuals on “How To Be Polite”.
So an artist working for a corporation is
sincerely insincere. And poor.
Just as the door shuts,
a tremor flashes uncontrollably over
the features of an insensitive face,
timing itself just right, so as
not to make the wearer vulnerable.
This is what you wanted,
but you’ll not have
the satisfaction of seeing it.
I caught just then a flash of your hair
—as I remember it, anyhow,
very long, very full,
and charcoal black with curls.
I’m afraid my heart still speeds
faster than you were ever able to appreciate.
I’m afraid the thought of you
carries as much poison in this hour
as when you unsheathed your fangs
and sunk into the pulp of my stomach.
Yours is a mark I cover with layers,
but the occasional lash of a certain wind can
sometimes whip through the threads of my coat;
and tonight I remember that
I am your eternal subject.
I can finally say I’m glad
it all happened this way;
I’d honestly rather go on missing you
than have you here.
It’s better that I hate you for leaving
than it is hating you for knowing
you should have left.
This uncertainty I finally welcome,
with the understanding that it allows for
a thousand possible endings.
Hello, I’ll be your judge this evening;
God is a busy man,
and can’t handle all your hearts by himself.
So I—I am his appointed helper,
and if I see something I don’t like...
well, you’ll be the first to know.
Well, to you, anyhow,
because I’m the only one you’ve met
who still goes by his name;
what I say will be his words,
what I do will be his rule.
So for heaven’s sake, fit into
the mold of my opinions,
because I am judge to you,
and I am God to you.
And you know how hung
God is on image.
I’m afraid I’m not able to save you,
simply due to how intensely I want to.
I’m afraid I’m ashamed and quite sorry to say,
I am not your savior. I am not your hero.
I am not your everything, and you are not mine.
You sit, like the child you truly are,
in the safety, trust, and company
of a mid-afternoon shopping cart,
or you lean in as we corner one more
amazing sky, or you choose the most
random time to hug me; for all of two blinks
life is a Norman Rockwell painting.
This morning, for once, I was not displeased
to open into a greeting of sun and company.
Even the worry in your voice made me happy,
simply because it was in your voice. I can now
say with full certainty, the greatest thing I know
is to awaken to a face I love.
I
Another stream of words begins—
swims in from the coffee house;
every college poem begins at a coffee house.
And I, like every self-proclaimed poet,
latté in hand, am in a coffee house,
having lots of coffee
—coffee, coffee, coffee,
and too many shots of espresso,
and having it all flavored
with raspberry syrup,
and writing, because I hear that’s
what you’re expected to do.
(Unless you’re actually in college,
in which case you have to be
overly influenced by Keats.)
II
I am in a coffee house. Again.
[Refer back to Part I.]
Verse From The Seventh Confraternity:
The Broken Era
She: (New England.)
He: (Sun drenched.)
She: (Vacation.)
He: (Gut-wrenched.)
He: (Pathetic.)
She: (At peace.)
She: (The beauty.)
He: (The beast.)
I am in hammock over pit.
I am in spider web.
You circle in;
my hand is getting wet.
I hang in rain forest
over piranha infested waters;
you are tarantula,
size of my head.
Wait ‘til I decide how to die.
Wait until I choose,
suffocate or be sawed through.
I hang, dangle between trees,
in web under acrid acid arachnid
above—vicious breed.
Don’t cut the last thread.
Don’t keep the fish fed.
Don’t turn the sand red.
I am not yet dead—
not just yet.
Now age is increasingly apparent.
A six year old asks where my Power Rangers are,
and I explain that my last collections were
the first run of Transformers,
and GI Joe before they all went on steroids.
I show him a figurine of Yoda, the Jedi Master,
and his face becomes a question mark.
“Let’s play a game,” he jumbles,
as I sit at my desk like a grandfather,
and lack the energy to oblige.
In two hours our time is up;
he trades me in for
a stick and a swing set.
I tangent. I fracture. I break. I elaborate,
and negate and maintain, uphold and refrain.
I flip, bow out, zone, confound, amuse myself.
I ponder and pound, compel, dispel,
dismiss, compound and expel, and am never
any closer to closing in, exposing truth.
I confuse, brood, tease and muse, and feud.
I mood, swing, soothe, sting, and feed,
and seethe, and breed, and mean things.
I blister. I splinter. I swelter and swell,
and I am sick and not well, and I sell,
and spell, am felled, and endorse hell.
I am black, lax, attacked, and easily distracted,
impacted, exacted, extracted, vaccinated,
shudder, stutter, mutter, clutter, flutter,
whirl bouts, utter under shutters, blunder
asunder, thunder, lunge for sun structure.
“Think less of me; the death of me is weakness,”
speaks a peaking freak, and leaks a neat
unpleasantry, a peasantry of ignominy.
Finally, his meat ceases beating incessantly;
from theater seats, greets completion of destiny.
“Yes, think less of me, witness the death of me,”
I cry. And the death somehow never ends.
Name them anything
—it makes no difference.
From over red felt and carpet
glances familiarity and no more.
Television dialogues make for inoffensive,
unobtrusive chat plans for the following show.
(Drugs change hands, unnoticed.)
Toward the single digit hours
more furniture arrives
to take its place beneath the people.
At the bar, a long haired Jackie
Chan type orders another double.
Then after surface, three-year-old,
longing recollections
(coinciding with a few Dunhills),
we resolve to acts never carried out.
I revert to my old, habitual self
and miss a horrid old friend.
“Dark Side...” hovers over light smoke
from the dirty centerpiece of table.
A dyke hangs off my young sister
and it is excused.
We run down a list of pop hits
and well advertised drinks.
The dyke says I look like
“the rat bastard a--hole” that
ripped her heart out,
and asks if I’m writing a poem.
“No, I’m not.” The book closes.
I
Silent, still poise now for over an hour and a half,
the cerebral recluse offers no contribution
but simple life; that living no more,
but no less significant than King Solomon,
whose prose we have since meant to recapture,
and since found ourselves all to be failures.
We cannot rewrite philosophy, have it original.
We cannot conceive of a theology, have it new.
So knowing this, that pointless embodiment,
admired and intriguing, holds his silent poise
along the rail, against a wall, and fully participates
in the suggestion of abstract concepts
that we all at heart and deeply are.
II
Crumpled into corner with paper, face
resembling a third of the photographs inside,
a man—any nameless, important man
—scans provocative, tragic headlines for
more of what happened the day before
(and, in fact, every day before that).
He sits listening unknowingly to the jazz
of simple, sometimes easy, often restless men.
III
On fifteen for coffee
or the taste of gas-station nicotine,
he pens sections on the
write-able segments of both arms,
telling of how unhappy his days have become,
yet basking in the notion of worthwhile material.
He would surrender it for consistency,
but as he cannot, the helplessness of the situation
brings a sort of pleasure—a twisted,
incomprehensible and inexplicable bout of grins,
sadistic and caring, as repulsive and horrible
as they are appealing.
His minutes have all but vanished;
he watches himself up from the table
and through the isles.
The blend mixes poorly this morning
with the leftover taste of toothpaste,
or filters from the night before.
I lean against a full dessert case
and continue to waste away.
(Inevitably as I write, a line will form
from the street out my bay window.)
A speeding, shawl-caped
religious woman calls me “Quentin”,
whose work I personally loathe.
Traditional Celtic sounds are cut into
by impulsive, hypnotic driven pop.
THUNDERCLAP!
The day is changed to an intense classic.
The valkyries could conceivably
storm with murderous intent.
Dreary is the cover we cower from
under falsely lit rooftop canopies.
It could be late eve, if not yet the A.M.,
everyone out, helpless to control
God’s laughter, his subtle smirk that he is awake.
We contain ourselves in manmade cells
and consider weather a great inconvenience
to our disinterested focus of routine.
Exactly sixteen mile markers away,
a life is finding halt. The cessation leads
to processions, and impressions on youth
to throw the course she so readily
and mortally submits to.
THUNDERTAP. WATERFALL.
Steady streams drown music
and consume our human triumphs of
“Redwood: Population 21,000”.
Barely laid superstores cave into a fade.
Nervous people duck into coffee cups
(a few huddling with the building).
Thunderpat. Relative silence
for a moment. It has passed.
We adjust our ties or belts
(or attitudes, as may apply).
Midday lunch break takes.
I get a bad latté and realize
it’s not the day for coffee.
A flight is scheduled to arrive
an hour before off-time. Shift
change; someone waits, reading.
Today I give notice. Next month at this time
I’ll be somewhere in the northern continent
where there are no banks or clanking cranks,
or similar noises. Next month I’ll write
and not go past my scheduled hour.
But the clouds dissipate and hush and sulk off
to laugh elsewhere. They are not defeated,
but they retreat out of a sadistic kindness.
Ode to the cheapskates,
periodontal diseased, heavyset,
impoverished, blabbermouths,
drawn in flocks by the bold faced print
in newspaper ads, saying,
“HALF OFF ENTIRE SELECTION!"
Rickety old sketches, double-chinned
and matching change purses,
dangling from the loose skin,
elbows too short and stubby
to pick up anything not smothered
in gravy and stuffing, at the smorgasbord
where the cooks take their cigarette breaks
whenever you waddle up to their line.
Coupon-clipping, exact-change gathering prudes,
steeped too long in imitation perfume and suede,
haggling over prices as if it were a flea market
or auction, houses cluttered with
everything but family or friends;
I tip my hat to you, you with the knack
to make hands tremble with hatred,
to make even managers willing to lose their jobs
for the sheer pleasure of unleashing on you
the full realization that everywhere you go,
someone wants to tear out your throat.
At exactly four o’clock, a start,
a startling jolt and sudden rush of terror;
flashlight grab and shadows cast
over menacing fur and foreboding marble eyes.
Pour a drink and think far too thick
of sickly, burdensome, halfhearted toil.
Add one bug light and mist drifts over
fresh dew—more, it seems, like perspiration
than anything new.
Shadow-boxing until black and bruised,
beside a bunk similar somehow to camp,
years ago, when after false testimonies,
ever another nightmare
would contort into distortions,
and I paced the wolf spider peppered wood,
clutching at the terrible pangs in my ear.
And here, years later, still another similar unease
affects by infection insomnia plagued me.
I feel vividly the unnatural crook of my spine,
and am made ferociously aware of my
beauty rest slipping by.
Come morning, I will have
forgotten the sensation,
but the misery? Ah, that remains!
And fear? Yes, yes, the same!
I discussed my problems with the leaves,
rustling as they do,
which alone seemed to understand.
I set down any words
to have written,
then to sleep.
To hear your own cells interact,
to watch your own heart swish blood,
to esteem the machinery of humankind
is to wish interaction to cease,
and the hum to be silenced.
A wicked, vicious, horribly cruel dream.
Very, very other world peace,
interrupted by phone ring.
Line whispers, “We cut back hours...
you don’t have to work at all today.”
And as I, school-boyish at snow day, bend to
turn off Mr. “Wake-Up-and-Be-Awful” Alarm,
my eyes open, and I have not moved,
and the phone has not wrung,
and the alarm will laugh and yell in
three minutes.
So here we arrive on coil spring and linen,
having become too tired and too responsible
to pen reminiscence to old partners.
“I miss you, Angel.”
But with no effort.
BULK IN BLOCK LETTERS
is somewhat indicative of how I no longer feel,
is somehow appropriate for the moment—
cold, formatted, lifeless and
strictly essential,
stripped down, bare,
merely tolerable, and
unintense.
Black and bold faced typeset
characters effectively communicate
uninspiring words to mechanical cubicles,
encircled by blips, rings,
electronic chimes,
and the hour-old final cup of coffee
lingering near the copy machine.
I would fax you these words in memo form
to prove how practical I’ve become,
but you haven’t logged on in days,
and last I heard the whole system crashed.
So I pass my mandatory hour lunch
sharpening No. 2 pencils to drown out
the damned inoffensive soft rock classics.
(I mean, come on, is Rod
Stewart really today’s music?)
People say this is the real world—
which, though terribly cliché, is a little bit true,
though I prefer the term “corporate”.
[“Corporate” being used interchangeably
in office poetry with “unromantic”.]
I passed up writing about you, you
who sit with headphones, unimpressed
with how age has betrayed me.
Ten years ago I could have blinked
and you’d have melted.
But this is ten years later,
and I only shave once a week,
and I no longer have the energy to write
poems for every pretty girl I see.
Suddenly winter
spread thick blankets across
William Penn's skyline,
extended its bed down the coast even to Florida,
the absolute surrender of the continent to cold.
Suddenly we envision a vast, expansive touch
by a pure white, woolen clad street,
and remember death and remember time,
and comment nervously about
relatives arriving late,
and give little notice to our own bad skin,
and how wintered we've become.
In the morning, in the newspaper,
by the fire with a box of tissues,
and at night, in the dark
by the crackle with a flask of wine,
we are reminded of nature
and what that means,
that it is unstoppable,
and that our locks can
freeze us in or freeze us out,
and we can die French-kissing
a keyhole, with bad skin.
So pour a cup and light one up,
what difference when sudden winter beds?
(In Loving Memory of Jonathan Murphy)
I had a way of loving you,
a way of being cousin, and you
still our little Piglet,
a way that would have
murdered me had I seen you more.
I loved you with an enthusiasm
the other kids never quite got—
the first to greet and always
the last teddy bear hug goodbye.
The younger ones say that you are asleep,
or in Heaven, and they do not cry
because they are too young to know
how far away that is,
how very, very far away that is.
You now in a constellation of places,
the tragic shooting star of albums
and home movies we still cannot watch,
everything you touched still in your arms—
your clinging, open arms—remaining at rest,
inspiring a sacred reverence to stay undisturbed,
just how you left it, just where you left us.
How very, very far away that is.
Finally one of us broke down
and silenced a room with your laughter,
and every line in every verse became past tense,
as we offered you as best we could
to that final balloon ride that took you
beyond the needles and masks,
to where we now often feel
how very, very far away that is.
Pharaoh gave the edict,
fully intending to drive you
from my slave arms,
bulging with a mummified,
thus a drained pallor,
with hope to take with him to eternity
a quick life’s acquisitions.
But the morn’ immediately risen next
cut off the great one’s bloated noggin,
by utilization of the paramount
of a disjointed mob, the work
of surmounting years of unfair toil,
and by afternoon we met—you and I—
in the west corridor, where treasures
shone like a showering of God’s grace,
and we made love like rabbits
on the painted lid of Pharaoh’s casing,
while the blood poured out his heels.
I’ve settled into the most dismal place on earth.
My socially inept roommate calls it “home”,
at which I lie in a stupor on two chairs
pressed together, tuning out every show
I didn’t want to watch, and simply gesture,
“Whatever,” as he takes my last beer
(which I will find tomorrow morning by
my empty pack of cigarettes, two inches
left warm in the bottle).
He picks up his guitar and turns Talking Heads
songs into bad Neil Young remakes,
then lumbers, hunched over, to the next room
to e-mail his typical girlfriend from another state.
The place is decorated with photographs
on matted poster board of girls in town
there’s no chance in hell he’ll ever meet,
and his bunched up socks and open
bags of Doritos going stale....
Someday he'll read this and get incensed.
Well then don't drink my beer.
Building sides stand spine straight,
looking down over their noses
at petitioned parking lot space—
envisioned, litter collecting concrete pillars,
where men with mock collars and high heeled,
top heavy women fill their pockets and
shopping bags with the advertised specials
neatly displayed upon entrance.
Coin shaded clouds weave around
jet engine exhaust trails,
but we are too busy to care
as we wrap ourselves up
in scarves and accessories, or call in sick
as we were out late the night before.
An attaché thrusts itself out revolving doors
and down a stairwell, carrying some
flat pressed businessman—a banker perhaps,
good with numbers—some poor, finely groomed
wretch who hasn’t seen the sky
since flying a kite that summer back in ‘78,
who’s never watched his fingers
turn blue from cold.
He looks at me and pities me; I look at him
and my eyes sink with compassion,
saddened that he has never seen
the jewelry lining clouds,
that he is bound to looking out
from the eyes of building sides,
down over his nose to where the security guard
puffs his cigarette and asks me to move on.
There is off Main Street a very small coffee shop
where I used to work when owned by
an Italian couple.
I have been sitting here with my empty cup
for an hour, or ten years (who can say which?),
against the silhouette of ninety-one
freestanding chairs,
all of which I counted on a whim,
and the textured native art sinks into
the brick walls closing in
and a simple piano piece
waltzing off the side corner.
There have been no customers since my first cup
shot its taste into crème, now dry on the glass.
There is one unworn man back and forth
off screen who calls me by name
every half hour or so, out of kindness
or boredom or obligation
or genuine professionalism.
I have many fond recollections of this
absurd little tuck away,
nights of sweat or anger
or good natured sarcasm,
stuffed into the door frame in the alleyway
when I could no longer contain the thoughts
of Jonathan’s last word to me,
when a small procession of flagged cars
passed headlights on through the town,
and my black rimmed hat clutched over my heart.
This is where that singer and I made our way
back to in Autumn, picking out pumpkin for seeds,
where smoke swirled around after hours
and the best jazz musicians in town
bellowed out laughter after shows.
This is no longer that kind of place,
but this is where all of that happened.
I may be the only one who remembers,
because it seems it meant more to me at the time
because of how real everything felt.
My only certainty now is that
those things no longer happen.
Perhaps they never did, but up in the old
Victorian attic of my mind they are the only things
I can look back on with any fondness.
Now an old couple has come in
and sits down to a meal,
and I am irritated because
they don’t belong here.
So my afternoon is over.
It is time for me to leave.
I set down my pen
midway into a sentence,
midway into a paragraph,
midway into a letter
in response to a college girl
who used to be in love with me,
and who I used to love more
than the heart in my chest.
My heart is weak now,
nothing more than emotionless muscle,
struggling against gravity and age
to not cease mid-beat,
and cause some far off college girl
to grieve over unfinished letters
she only then reads.
Something about the printed word
allows squirrels to pad down leaves,
allows a fresh mist of rain to pad down
a small community, cover it with
infinite combinations of green and brown.
It allows the sky to hover in deep,
bluish grays along the steady horizon
of capillaries of tiny tree branches,
as a cool calm settles over without wind.
The buildings themselves are empty,
only an extension of God’s good, dark earth.
Drops fall to my pant leg and a rushing
line of birds tweep and chirp at steady intervals,
while a chorus of leaves helicopter downward.
It is mid-afternoon on a day when the sun is only
a suggestion over an open theater of
life and nature. The city itself is only
three miles west by a single road,
and far off I hear the cars with no voices,
waiting with snarling engines at stop lights
to speed over to their next stop.
I’ll breathe one of my infrequent smiles,
sit quietly on my second story perch with
a cup of soup in hand, and listen
to the approaching thunderstorm.
I look down momentarily at
the silence of the printed word, then
close the journal to resume breathing.
You know you’ve grown old
when you no longer uncover
at one in the morning,
down two oversized cups of coffee,
and write until your eyes
seal themselves with tears.
A moment ago I looked out
the window with no panes,
over the yard and across the street
to where I yesterday found out
a young girl lives,
and I imagined her there in that
framed absence of light,
stripped down to a paper-thin
undershirt with no bra,
and only a small patch of silk
covering the slight hair
just south of her belly.
I thought of the subtle
outcrops of her breasts,
untouched, sighing with longing
not a hundred yards away.
I pressed down against my bed
as I imagined her human fingers,
and how her head must
throw back at the touch of
pink lips opening across her neck.
Then I breathed too heavy
and the candle gave up its light,
and I was left alone in the cold darkness,
imagining her imagining me.
The P.O.W.s marched from around noon
in a procession down Broadway,
amid green metallic monsters,
and green canteens and heavy rifles,
carrying flags and grandchildren,
all the too-young-to-understand-the-impact
store workers pressed face and hands to the glass
at where are usually only cars and the sky
and the ground, and the air itself seen
as colorless as a silent film,
or a slow motion, silver screen epic.
I glance outward toward the Masonic looking,
coin faced men for about thirty seconds
before deciding I would rather not cry right now.
(Yesterday I cried during a carpet commercial.)
There is a moment
when someone tells you they were raped,
and the silence captures the full
meaning of the act,
as you realize you have found the limits
of where human compassion can reach.
You cannot go in any further, then looking out
say, “Well at least he didn’t get in here.”
You cannot use your arm
as any kind of safety net.
Your lips can not reach beyond the
used carcass to touch where the pain
has lodged itself.
You can only nod silently,
and smoke your cigarette,
maybe tear a little if you’re that sort of person.
And then you say good-bye as she
picks up her bags and turns to the door.
Then maybe you wash the dishes.
It turns out the customer is not always right.
In fact, the customer something goes wrong for
usually turns out to be the most vile breed of
subhuman, reprehensible and inept.
Usually something goes wrong because they’re
too incredibly stupid to ask for the right thing.
“Why couldn’t you have told me
this would go wrong before?”
“Because it’s a fun game for me to see your
bloated, bad skin and ugly face again
two weeks later, so you can complain
and slither off to a manager in outrage,
and I can laugh when you’re gone.”
It isn’t as though I’m here ten hours a day,
six days a week, doing these exact things
for different people. You must be right,
you on your way back from Krispy Kreme,
where you complained about
the glazing on the crullers...
after five years of this, I must not know
what I’m doing.
I used to be sad because
there was an impending happiness
just outside my reach,
because I saw something attainable,
and was simply too impatient to wait.
Now sadness itself
is all I hope to attain,
because I reached that point long ago
that should have been the end-all
to this unwavering hand over my eyes,
and I found out
that one thing
is only
one more thing.
I never quite ran out of things to say,
I simply lost the will to say them,
seeing no reason for any of it.
Uproot you then, with full consideration,
the tiny vessels branching over my optics,
spread across the backs every jolt, every sigh,
every tear duct and sign of vitality.
Plant in the undiscriminating dirt
the sallow complexion of my face’s
tight, drum-like covering,
and peel something like shackles down from
just above the grimacing suggestion of a skull.
Give me new eyes, and I will no longer
clamp them shut, screaming obscenities
at all who pass by, that the pain of
sensitive retinas is too much to stand,
and that I’ll dash the onlookers to
shambles of ruin if one more sunburst
beams out its searing finger from behind a cloud.
Give me eyes which understand closure and
darkness and subtlety and radiance, all at once.
And I will simply close them
and breathe easily.
The one thing I got
from that year we spent together,
all those nights I’ve forgotten,
is that now
I sometimes get the potato chips
with vinegar.
© 2001 by Ryan Christian Hedegard