Like a child caught stealing--

Like a child caught stealing
the cat sat in the Mother's arms
having been "within two seconds
of getting through a hole in the fence."

Admiring this move, I think:
the window had been open
just enough to duck out
and make a run for what

I'm not sure. I imagine
it was for the simple joy of it
being a rainy day full of sounds
and mud under wet grass.

For Lawrence Joseph

What thoughts I have for you today, Larry Joseph
Who would have thought that your August Abstract would remain so long and so thick
The haze always hanging from the trees (when there are trees)
And it seems as if you were right, sitting at Battery Park, noting in your notebook, thinking of the Unyielding Present
How you contextualize the pain of the fall afternoon
Larry Joseph, alone, ashen, and above all, sad
But, Larry, you must be more sad today
Today we have no monument to our fear
Instead, it is in Battery Park and the Upper West Side and in Midtown
And in the desert, the forest, and the sea
I can hear it as you read and your voice pauses
You have thoughts of anger and of concern
It shows in your body (you look nothing like your bookjacket photo)
You've aged, probably too quickly, and your wife worries
Are you sick? We're all sick today, Larry
But your words help because they have to
Why else commit such deep thought to paper if not to move body and soul
Larry, the horror will be surpassed in size and in scale
You know this, don't you? (you must, this is your job)
And then what shall we all do? I just don't think we can take it all again
Larry, would Tom Hanks make a good president
He would win, I think, but how would he handle nuclear war
(I suspect not very well)
Larry, the world is burning over a comic strip
But you already know this, it is why you are so sad

Fake red

fake red hair girl
in my math class
who i sit behind
doesn't know i'm there
staring at her worn chucks
wondering where
she walked in them
or what those drawings
on them mean
or that i know the hips bulging
over her jeans
probably embarass her
but not me and
she wears her nail polish for days
longer than she should
until only a blue
speck remains
i will buy you every bottle
of red dye that awful red
just so you don't change it
i don't even know
your name but
i know you like red

For A.C.

With no effort the human body floats.

Couple this with two arms,

Cutting through the water.

Albert is an excellent swimmer.

He has buoyancy,

His arms act like an engine

Shredding through the dark sea,

His legs as rudders.

Albert uses this

To his fullest advantage.

And he loves the sea,

And he knows he is an excellent swimmer,

And he believes he should swim.

With each stroke, he knows

His body can’t fail him.

That if he keeps swimming,

He can emerge victorious upon shore

Having braved what is often

A harsh current.

Short Meditation

The clean-ness
of a neat
pony-tail
tied with
black string.

The round-ness
of a bright
white pearl
poked through
your earlobe.

The Carpet Store

She was a carpet salesman and I rushed into her store. I was late but without knowing why I was late. I was late or I was rushing. I was rushing because I was late. There were lots of samples, square ones, all cut to the same size of about 18" x 18". All the samples hung onto moveable displays standing 8 or 9 feet tall and 3 or 4 feet wide, wider at its base where it stood atop black dolly wheels. Each brown display, covered in fake woodgrain which you could see peeled at the edges if you stood close enough and observed for longer than a few seconds also measured about a foot depth-wise, but this measurement really didn't matter as each large station was positioned near a wall with it being necessary, therefore, to only hang samples on one side. It would have been more efficient to use both sides so that the displays could be positioned all throughout the large showroom set off from the small adjacent frontroom with the small glass display below the beige cash register. With each set of samples hugging the wall, the space left in between was too great. The small, fuzzy samples were no match for the emptiness created over the expanse of the hard, brown floor. And in my rush I am pulled to a section which holds tan, orange, and brown carpeting. As I look again I notice I am with other shoppers and that all the samples are tan, orange, and brown. Indeed, the way the light curves through the windows and blends with the light inside, the size, shape, and color of the flooring, the displays, the samples, and the general mood I feel in this place, the general mood this place exudes... everything within the store, indeed, everything without it, is entirely tan, orange, and brown. I speak with a clerk, wanting to get my words out but the words never come. Then she is selling to me. She asks me what I want and when I want it. I am in a carpet store, her carpet store, but I have no words for her, no answers. I want to tell her that I feel nervous, that I am here but that I need to go. That if she understood, she would really just say it was okay to leave. No worries. But I make myself too anxious and it seems I know nothing of carpeting. I don't understand these samples. I don't understand how to shop or the reasons for shopping. I terribly want this to end when she asks again what it is I need and all I really am doing is deciding between tan, orange, and brown, thinking all along that I don't even need a carpet, that I haven't even a place for it.

For a friend

A new friend
on another side of town
opens up a new world—
roads to explore,
hills to crest,
signs to miss—
Ah! To be lost!—
I marvel as I drive,
knowing if it were not for you
I would hardly know
that this small stretch
of bumpy gravel,
worn from wear
(as we are each worn),
were here to trample—
Perhaps these roads
are to symbolize
our friendship
(old and new)—
Perhaps these friendly streets
have always been here
(just as you have, too).

i think horror--

i think horror
is describing
some thing so
some one else
can see clearly
as in another time
the same way
one could
see now
slanted and clear
like printed film

All at once (excerpt)

--but you knew
it was like this
or could be
as the bathroom door opens--
steam pours out
and light bounces off metal
you count lines of wood grain
and lashes of your lover
your reflection dulled
in the far away mirror

here,
all good
and all evil—
all things—
all at once.

Untitled Allegory (Part V)

HIS IDEAL (MORE)

His attention was snapped back as the doctor returned to the silent room (how long had he been gone?) and his morbid train of thought was interrupted. Almost immediately, upon the doctor’s re-entry, his hopes piqued, or, at least, he desperately tried to make himself believe that they did. Seconds earlier, his mind flickered back and forth between a lowering casket and white wreaths of flowers. While his fingernails diminished into a mash of white and broken skin and his mind wandered to images of a milky syringe, its hammer being slowly pulled back then thrust forward, his thoughts flicked and flashed to cards of condolence and phone-calls to forgotten family. He saw in his mind emptied drawers and a large, soft, but now empty bed. But with the turn of a silver handle, a bright glowing glint of metal against a full white pallet, this slate was imagined to be wiped clear. His hopes now hinged on a man in a white coat.

“Well, doctor?” He anticipated an answer as soon as the words leapt from his mouth. He wanted the answer immediately. His body even began to reach for it, which was made clear by a slight tremor and tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, upper-lip, and neck. He wanted, needed the assurance of the doctor’s decision, regardless of the direction. Either way, the decision was being made for him, and that he could live with. He could hardly imagine the burdensome task falling squarely on his shoulders. How could he make such a decision? No, the doctor would do all that. And he would nod and comply, if not hug the man and kiss his feet—no matter what he decided.

“We’ll go ahead with it,” the doctor replied. “Now.”

With these short, abrupt words, he looked at the doctor and breathed a large sigh of relief, pleased that a decision had been made, yet the finality of the moment, like all things in life, had failed to live up to the expectations his mind had created. Still, he imagined his fear and worry melting away. But all he could do was imagine this type of relief, as suddenly and unexpectedly, something within him again screamed that she was dying, that she was already dead, and that the doctor’s proposed solution might be no solution at all. He had tried to put these thoughts away, but he soon after thought that maybe if the doctor had concluded in the opposite direction, that she should NOT receive the shot, that that might not be enough either. When he looked at the center of the room, he saw a woman he feared might be beyond the reach of help. He couldn’t help but want to feel safe, though, as with the return of authority and the few words it offered, he now had a plan to follow. This man is a doctor, he thought, and my wife needs the help that he can provide. This type of security was what he needed and wanted. It reassured him and made him feel as if he were on the right path. The pleasures of security—his wife needed help and he and the doctor could give it to her, if she would only accept it. This is what he actually told himself.

And now, as he looked at her more deeply, he began to imagine the white solution entering her veins, forced past her skin and into her blood. He then imagined her veins squeezing and tightening, pulling down on the medicine and feeling it out. Would they pass it on or would they reject it? He was able to see inside her body, into her blood, thick and black, thicker and much more dark than he would have ever guessed, and saw the veins encountering the solution. He saw the veins, their rubber walls pushing it away, resisting, and denying help. The veins, her cells, indeed, everything within her, would counter this move they made for her. His vision shifted through her blue arteries traveling into her chest, into her neck and brain. What was he seeing? This wasn’t a healthy person. This was a nation invaded, its sovereignty being fought for but inching ever closer, instead, towards its very demise. He saw rebel forces pushing back the medicine that he saw as a saving grace. Her body didn’t see this same grace, but, instead, saw an outright attack which amounted to a death blow. His mind’s eye pulled out from her insides, then, withdrawing itself from the strange territory and back into the room where he saw her face centered amongst a sea of white. He saw in this face that, somehow, she would fight the solution, no matter what, fight the help that they fought to give her. Why is she fighting me? I’m trying to help her, aren’t I? Her face tightened as his shifted from pleading towards anger.

I can push apart the minutes--

I can push apart the minutes
for each firm and planted memory
away into a neat and comfortable moment

of which I can be intimately happy
or immediately distraught, filled to the brim
and adrift in a mindful peak of recognition

while I can comply and sigh in the depths,
too, engrossed up and inside myself
with disconnect and lost, shifting

forward and out of the universe's space
away from all the thought and life
locked in the imprint of right here and right now.

Untitled Allegory (Part IV)

HER IDEAL (MORE)

As the white coat slowly turned away from her, she began to focus upon the restraints holding her to the chair. She had never understood their necessity, as if she could move, she certainly would have by now. Re-focusing deeply upon her inability to move, to even clench her fist or move her toes, her paranoia spread over her, pulling her even closer to the chair, its arms and its legs, than the restraints ever could with their thick, scratched brown leather and dulled grey metal.

Aside from blinking, which she began to notice had reached a nearly unconscious level of movement (she found that when her eyes began to dry, her two lids would drop and then—by some equal miracle—instantly re-open) there were no real signs that she was even alive. Her heartbeat was a sign, too, of course, though one had to certainly take into account the faint-ness of it at this point. She began to think:

“If I can’t move, I am dead. If I can’t move, and therefore don’t move, these people will think that I am dead. I think I am blinking, fairly certain I have to be, I must be. But is that enough? If I don’t move, I am dead. And then they will kill me.” The realization came to her too easily. She knew she was right, and her surroundings confirmed it.

The only restraints on her arms that she could completely observe were those located well within her field of vision, just below the horizon of her eyes. That the overall field was restricted let her know there must also be restraints somewhere on her head and neck, as well. She, of course, couldn’t see these, though. Her restricted view and dull memory of the events leading up to this moment allowed her to confirm that there were at least two sets of restraints on her legs, but likely, she noted, probably four. Lastly, though she couldn’t see it now, her head held up too high, she knew she was being restrained at her midsection, somewhere in the vicinity of her waist. All of these straps of hide and steel counted together created one buzzing feeling of numb-ness in her body. Much like her sense of impending doom pulled her down, the very real forces working on her by way of physical restraint created one entire feeling of pain and enclosure. Quite simply, her body’s sensors didn’t differentiate between a spot that was strapped tightly to a chair and a spot on her body tucked neatly under a loose cotton layer. Everywhere felt the same. Every spot on her body was numb and filled with the heat of pain.

With the doctor now walking out of the room (to do what, she could, of course, not be sure), her attention shifted away from her restrained self onto the four faces standing before her, almost in judgment, she thought. To understand her fear, simply imagine yourself in an unknown room in which you are quite explicitly being held captive, surrounded by unknown, and quite often threatening, faces. These people may also be in charge of whether you are allowed to live or you are killed and die.

Her fear ripened each time her attention shifted from one face to another. Their bodies appeared to her as shapeless, humming vehicles on which their heads often repositioned themselves, with attention ever-affixed upon her. At times, the four faces seemed to float, moving freely and without the assistance of the blurred forms of their bodies. Floating, trading spaces, staring down upon her, now the four faces seemed to share one body, or rather, one large almost holographic base. Her mind now saw the heads, attached to the shape-shifting mass, behind some sort of desk or what appeared like a large podium. The rich black wood of this imagined podium (can’t be imagined, though, it is all too real) stood in sharp contrast to the blank white of the room. With the arrival of this vision, she suddenly felt as if she were on trial and in her mind quickly tried to grasp what her crime might be.

The jurors before her, she imagined, held her in this room to try, and ultimately convict, her of some kind of crime. But she was guilty of nothing, or, at least, this is what her mind told her. She was not truly conscious of any of her prior actions, of any events or moments leading up to finding herself seated in the room, yet her subconscious asserted her innocence over and over again. As the vision before her shifted, as the heads and bodies floated in front of her, and as her growing fear continued to build, she began to sense that they were building a case against her. She now saw the bodies gather behind the podium and discuss something together. Now they looked at her. Now they looked away. They talked, then were silent. Then again, and so on. What could they be saying? What could they know that she didn’t? Believing that she had done nothing, that she was ultimately a prisoner with one fate awaiting her, the little life that remained inside of her body began to slip. The vision before her faded as the mass of bodies formed together in a sinister huddle, as if they were in on some sort of plot that she knew nothing about and would be kept from her at all costs. The faces and their podium shifted further and further away from her as she began to observe the room’s events from the perspective of an outsider. As the scene drifted more and more out of focus, the turn of a sleek and silver door knob pulled her attention back and placed her consciousness back behind her own eyes.

With the turn of the handle, the door opened and the man dressed in white, with a face she would now compare to something like an executioner, all hidden angles and tucked away shadows, entered back into the room. It was now obvious that while the four before her decided her case, the grim-reaper in white waited behind the door to carry out the sentence. But now, their decision made, he was back. As he made his way towards her, she noted how he seemed not to walk, but float instead.

“Here he comes,” was all she thought.

Untitled Allegory (Part III)

A STEP BACK

The doctor gripped the needle in his right hand, the vehicle through which he believed he could bring life back into this young (and attractive, he began to notice) woman. He began to construct and quickly run through a checklist in his mind. Yes, she was catatonic. She had been for weeks now. Unresponsive, yes, of course she was. A noted weakened appearance. Loss of color. Severe muscle atrophy. Yes, yes, yes. But even as this checklist confirmed his beliefs, the doctor began to think to himself that with such a rapid onset, was he really doing the right thing? Hadn’t this woman been relatively stable only weeks ago? Am I being rash? He shook the thought away as quickly as it arrived, though, knowing, and taking solace in the fact, that a man in his position mustn’t second-guess himself. This must be what she needs, he confirmed to himself. But holding the needle, playing with his grip on the syringe by changing the positioning of his thumb and index finger, the doctor inched closer towards the woman and, for the first time that he could recall, stared directly into her eyes.

His set of eyes carefully shifted from her right eye to her left, and then back to her right. In the brief but intimate scan, an image, sharp as day, was recorded into the folds of his mind. Green, he first thought. A rich and deeply dark green. But wait, brown, too. Equally dark, equally rich. Each color represented fully. Each displaying a boldness quite unique and independent of the other. Yet together, the colors formed one new color, which at once seemed warm and familiar, but also bright and unknown. The beauty of each color was shared, not tarnished, to create something new. He had never seen anything like it.

The color drew the doctor into her eyes, allowed him to linger within them long enough to catch a glimpse of something quite different now—not only did he look into her eyes, but she seemed to be looking back into his. At first startled by this revelation, he attempted to dismiss the thought completely. He cleared his throat, a quiet noise that filled the tense room, perhaps trying to physically rid himself of the uncomfortable idea that had already invaded his thoughts. His attention was quickly seized again, though, as her eyes seemed to grab his and pull them back towards hers, as if to say, Yes, I know you can see me. His mind stuttered into action. He squinted, a physical sign of his inner-disbelief, and then stared into her black pupils for several more seconds. Looking into the blackness, he attempted to affirm his initial beliefs. Yes, the shot will do the trick. Yet even as he turned towards her husband, ready to deliver his opinion, his professional diagnosis, he thought to himself, Does she look frightened?

Untitled Allergory (Part II)

HIS IDEAL (A GLIMPSE)

“Is she going to die?” he asked the doctor in the room. He sighed as the words finally made it out of his mouth. Though accompanied by others, all close friends or family, he was clearly the one who would do all the talking. He would be the one to make the tough decisions, to ask all the difficult questions.

The weeks and months leading up to this moment were unclear to him. How did they end up here? What had gone wrong? Even when she first fell ill, they took solace in one another. They had concluded that everything would be okay, that it would all work out just fine because they had each other, because they were together. Those hopeful moments in which they would tearfully embrace, their minds on both the future and the happy memories of their past, were now long gone, in a seemingly past life. They had sought help early on, and for a while they thought they were actually getting it.

He stared into her eyes. He knew she could see. Despite her catatonic, motionless state, her eyes were open and her eyelids, as far as he could tell, were the only thing on her body capable of movement. That her brain still functioned, her mind capable, he couldn’t be sure. He was
plagued by the distance between them, even as he sat inches from her face. But he knew she could see him.

She was positioned in a chair near the center of the room. The sight of the restraints, placed on her simply to keep her body upright, pained him even more than he thought they would. He had prepared himself for the horrific sight, yet upon seeing it, he had never wanted to reach out and help her more. Carefully observing the look on her frozen face, a mixture, he thought, of both sadness and fear, he battled to hold back tears, knowing that he was completely incapable of action. It was out of his hands is what he told himself.

“Doctor,” he said. The word unconsciously slipped from his mouth as he continued to stare into her eyes. “Doctor,” he said again, focusing on the intricate detail of each sometimes brown, sometimes green iris and then each small jet-black pupil. In their years together, he had learned to read all of her thoughts and feelings, just as she could his, just by looking at her face. Now, though, as he focused deeper and deeper into the contours of her soft, white face and the deepness of her eyes, he found himself completely unable to place her thoughts. It was as if she didn’t know him at all, as if he didn’t know her. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, she was slipping away from him, maybe even running, somehow trying to die.

For a third time, he spoke the word “Doctor,” and now he actually thought he could hear the word reverberate off the floor, ceiling, and four walls. Holding his breath and turning towards the man in the white jacket, time seemed to slow. Finally acknowledging to himself that she, for the first time, appeared completely helpless, he asked again, “Is she going to die?” this time concluding, “Because I’m scared she might like to.”

Untitled Allegory (Part I)

HER IDEAL (A GLIMPSE)

“They’re trying to kill me,” she thought.

She was completely surrounded by white. The walls, lights, and faces of those staring back at her all seemed to blend together in and out of what seemed at times an electric white and at others the dullest opaque. Collectively, the room hummed a quiet low tone (it was all she could hear) that pulsed in her ears seemingly working in tandem with the color in the room.

The white room triggered memories from her past, but from where and when she did not know. Quick snapshots popped into her head and disappeared with the same speed. She saw happy times of children being born and sad times of keeping vigil for loved ones. Happy and sad, the thoughts came and then were gone. But what were these moments? And who were these people invading her thoughts? It all seemed too far away. She could not place how and why these images had reached her, nor where she was or why she was there.

In the past, from where the thoughts flashed, the places all shared a kind of cleanliness and authority, never provoking any real sense of fear or impending doom—not for her anyway. Was she in one of these places that her past had dangled in front of her mind’s eye? The places looked similar, those from her past compared with the here and now, yet sitting there motionless, the brightness of the room and the harsh, rigid faces of those surrounding her created an undeniable feeling of enclosure.

A cringing paranoia set in, a sensation far removed from the calm, comforting memories which had already escaped her. She thought briefly, trying to shake feelings of pain and torture. She quickly began to trust her instincts, though, and concluded once again that, indeed, “They’re trying to kill me,” adding this time, “and I don’t want to die.”

You don't choose your words carefully enough

"You don't choose your words carefully enough."

"Think it!"--

"My eyeball thought it..."--

my eyeball thought it
and when the splinters turned
to wood the closed books
shelved, to me unblanketed
and asleep, waking in a dream
my eyeball thought it and
the page ate some ink
shaking itself wet wanting
to spray the walls black white
with teeth and gum and spit
and the pages turned leaving
my notebook on my face
to face with horror eaten up
toes to tails, my eyeball dripped
inky black smears.

"Think it," I said,
and my eyeball thought it
having seen splat onto the page
what better way to see,
my eyeball thought it
was like flipping the sockets around
or turning them inside themselves
in one perceived shot
of visioned, seen, sawed
nightmared agression flipped
dripped, dropped, seen
from the eyeball,
who saw it,
who thought it.

"Oh, I don't know.
It's a process. I just
thought the thing and
wrote it down."

For K

numb hands
growing more
numb still,
smiling under her
and her smile
growing
and his smile
growing still—
“you are
not crushing me,”

he said,
shut eyes
to cold and dark—
old cold,
old dark— unlike:
laughing, being
quiet
and calm,
talking,
and sleeping
and dreaming—

with new
warm,
new soft— unlike:
drifting
to sad
or confused
strange ‘scapes
each knows—

and awoken
by the shared feeling
to rise,
stretch
their bodies,
amidst a sea
of pillow,
blanket,
sheets and sheets—

the feeling
of warm water,
"of being held,"
she said,
and imagining more—

For Diane

1. I don’t like
female poets,
except Dickinson,
but she was a man
and agoraphobic.
Don’t take it personal,
I just can’t
take you seriously,
at least
not as seriously
as you take yourself.

2. Diane Di Prima,
I’m sorry.
I do like you,
I swear,
please, come,
read me
your poems.
I take it back.

potential epigraphs (for a new story)

I have never used, or even thought to use, an epigraph before. Reading these lines in Melville's Billy Budd changed my mind, though. They each fit what could end up being an interesting story quite well:


"Down among the groundlings, among the beggars and rakers of the garbage, profound passion is enacted."

"Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the one first blendingly enter into the other? So with sanity and insanity."

-Herman Melville, Billy Budd, Sailor

Shore of Summer

Not afraid to sit next to –
no, not that – afraid to get wet,
or of losing a shoe in this green muddy mess –
buzzing, cold, smiling on this (summer) night.

Sharp-turns in fog pavement
through 1920s flapper hide-out get-aways,
now a cramped residential bliss
set on a once-upon-a-time lake-a-dreams.

Off ramps, on ramps – both, many times –
a drive past police, a visit from authority, unwelcomed presences, –
to “here” but really “there” – here or there, no matter,
jazz keeps the rhythm, keeps us level and sane, keeps the pace.

Experience shared –
by way of transportation and communication –
knowledge by way of experience not books: this is decidedly better –
racy topics of sleep and sex (but not in that order) (and no, not out of line).

The water is high, no beach, bookshop closed –
what do we make of this change? – we can welcome
or we can turn and run, or better yet we can kick and scream – and cry and sob
because it is ours and we miss it – and we want something.

Is there a tension? No –
or at least, there shouldn’t be, or at least –
I don’t want there to be,
and so there isn’t.

Conversation of lovers and best-friends –
friends and best-lovers, homes and temporary residencies –
their difference is the key – sentimentality, or lack there of –
home is where the memory is, others fall into place as they should, or never do.

Where do we go at 3:37AM? –
home because it’s time? – not yet,
as there are some things that keep time better than a wrist-watch,
like an “almanac of artistic directions” – I’m sorry to make you feel uneasy…

I don’t want to go (despite what you think) (despite what we do) –
clutching a branch, tasting the heavy wet summer air, from this tree –
to eternity? to safe retreats? damnation? how about there? –
do you see it? there, between the two lights? yes, there.

birthday poem

I wrote a poem
for you
on the way home
from her house
last night
you sat
it seems
in my passenger seat
and I composed
each word
you said
a testament to
who you are
and when you closed
my door
after a kiss
on my cheek
you left
and I right-ly
composed each word
un-said too
knowing that
a thought
goes a long way--
especially on a birthday

Quietly, In Brooklyn

Tired from drink, his eyes closed as they wandered from bar room to bar room. Sleepwalking, huddled with the rest, he carried on unaware of where he was going or how he’d make it there. His mind stayed with him but his body seemed to follow its own path, so that he remained within himself but was conscious of very little other than the space in his head. He blinked—and they were in a new bar. And with it, all memory of the previous spot, earlier conversation and earlier action, was gone. New places needed to be conquered tonight, he knew, and more drinks needed to be ordered.

When his eyes opened he gathered in the dark, black room before the lids closed again. He settled in feeling warm and comfortable. He made his way to the bar alone, the first to lock the tender’s glance, and ordered a drink. He shut his eyes and took the drink quickly, eager to feel more of the drug effect, thinking, but not quite hoping, that it would liven him up a bit. Gathered now with the others, he ordered four more drinks, keeping one and sharing the rest. Everyone laughed and enjoyed the drink.

His party slid around the room, spilling their drinks and talking too loud. He sunk into his chair, ordering another quick drink then one other. Drinking each successively, he felt his head swimming and eased slowly from an upright position to one in which he slowly hunched forward, finally to one in which only his left arm held him up on the bar, grasping his own hair for balance. A flash from earlier in the night popped into his head. They were sitting cross-legged in an apartment, enjoying several different highs. He smiled and thought that it might be best to make the transition from strong drink to steady, decent beer.

The beer he could sip alone. He watched his friends and even spoke with them when they found the bar, laughing with them about anything they chose. But mostly, he sipped his beer and thought about its taste. The first beer was bitter: rich in hops, an amber glow, and sharp flavors. He enjoyed it and knew it to be a worthy drink, but it didn’t fit him tonight. He finished the ale quicker than he wanted, laughed to himself about his decision then ordered two new drinks. This beer would fit, he decided, and the rich, black flavor confirmed it. The beer was subtle, drinkable, but strong. Few could handle it right now, but he grabbed the extra he had ordered and handed it to a friend who joined him to the right.

As others passed back and forth from the bar proper to the rest of the room, they were kind enough to often pat him on the back. They were checking on him, attempting to pull him away from the dark spot and back into the rest of the world. They laughed about his perceived mood and appearance, thinking that either he was not enjoying himself or that he had already drank beyond an enjoyable night. Neither was true, so he responded to the pats with smiles and laughs and, “No, no, I’m fine.” He opened his eyes and followed the pack as they left the bar, not forgetting to leave a tip, back out into the grey streets of Brooklyn.

Dreams, metaphors

dreams, metaphors--
me, walking
down the thin
hallway, moveable,
with silver, metal doors,
slim and tiny, shiny
knobs, all closed
to the ceiling, stretched--
all closed, and names
to each, heard but
not seen and with light
the floor becomes
orange, not brown--
wanting to avoid
but there to be
seen not heard
by what I see
and hear--
felt, moveable becomes
wood, black
and shiny, tall,
covered with red, yellow,
blue, colors are primary,
large, and written as words,
names, and designed
for expression--
before, I wait, primarily
listen, inside four yellow
walls away from glass
where they wear
expression and I
have no chance
to hear or be seen
though I have named
where I walk--
now, to move
I walk under ceiling, reading
walls, seeing designs
colored primary and
expression is heard
when convergance to one
large room,
four-pillared,
balconied,
blacked, and
staged for expression,
designed--
apart, by steps,
two or three,
browned,
from silver, tiny knobs
with names
unseen but remembered--
black, not brown,
dusty, not dirty,
remembered, not heard,
imagined, not acted,
dreaming, not awakened--
several as individuals
around me in balcony,
on stage, in crowd,
my back to the hall,
I turn--
yellowed and oranged, or
blacked and tall, wide--
silver doors with tiny knobs
to the ceiling,
blacked stages, dusty, not old,
and several others,
named, but not known--
but I am awake,
wondering, dreaming metaphors,
awaking, walking,
metaphoring dreams,
explaining to hear,
seeing again,
and seeing again,
writing and explaining,
and seeing again,
explaining, dreaming metaphors.

Light

As the small patch of sunlight reflected off his arm, he thought of leaving and going, of turning it on and off. But these things were not enough. To leave was only an exit; to stay, only an exception. To dive, to swim, was to say: "I am light. I care not of my orient or position. I exist as small patches or I flicker to the left of right of arms only to shutter in and out of views and shapes." To understand that he saw the door shut on the light would be to say that he only understood that the door shut or that the light was when the door shut. But he knew it was more. Not entirely sure, but entirely thinking that he may or may not be sure. Small patches flickering in and then out. He saw it perfecting itself, becoming more and more square, more and more imperfect. Like a rhombus becoming a diamond, each angle turned into its adversary, each angle its own very light and savior, knowing still that death was the one and the only that lurked around the corner. The edges smoothed but sharpened, yet; the sides lengthened but evened, still. "O, how?" and "O, why?" it wondered as it grew and shrank, became perfect and imperfect. Would it burn? Would it leave and glow and remember that each and every turn and shade and shadow was one and ever new? (6/27)

Conversation

I feel like dying.

That was all it said on the page. Really, it was a slip of paper. He expected a book-- reams of pages in uneven, sloppy, and possessed prose. But, aside from thinking for a few moments, it took her about three seconds to properly express to him how she felt… in just four words.

She couldn’t say it aloud. She was better at expressing herself on paper, she said. He pushed her on this, but finally agreed. Write it down, he said.

“I feel like dying.”

He read the words on the piece of scrap to her and she nodded so that it seemed like she herself hadn’t even written it. She merely acknowledged that, concerning how she felt, it was very much true. By avoiding the verbal recognition, she pretended these words weren’t hers. But they were.

“How do you mean?”

She sat silent as his brain cocked and laid out multiple readings of her statement. It was a habit of his to unpack words like this. It caused him to over-think and to second-guess almost anything he ever read or heard. In this case, though, the habit came in handy as he had to start somewhere.

She was still silent. “Do you feel as if you are dying?” was his first question.

No response. He waited then moved on. He felt like a private investigator or a judge. Judge felt like the wrong term to him, but this is what he felt like. His second question, “Do you feel like what you imagine it feels like to be dying?” was, too, met with silence.

He felt strange. He had no idea what she meant. He felt any of these might be true, but that he was straying from her intent, questioning her psyche, and causing her to become upset.

Finally, “Would you like to die right now?”

It took a few moments just looking at her before he even expected to begin waiting for an answer. Then, matter-of-factly:

“All of them, maybe.” This with a shoulder shrug and a tear logged glance up and out the windshield. It was the first time she ever let it out, it seemed. Like she had never even come close before this one moment.

He held the slip of paper above his lap and began to softly cry. Not loud enough to hear, not wet enough to see.

“I’d like for you to be happy.”

And as she stared out the windshield, breathing slowly and swallowing when she could, he added:

“And I’d like to be part of the reason why you are.”

He may have caught her off guard now as she may have caught him similarly, moments ago. She still had no words. He felt he had his, but lost them as he opened the car door and stepped out of the passenger’s seat. They avoided him, still, as he opened the door of the car parked next to hers and stepped into the driver’s seat.

He placed the key in the ignition and turned it over, all the time testing out the tint on his window. He couldn’t see her so he pressed the button down until she understood to do the same.

She was putting on her jacket, finding comfort in her seat, and settling in to the realization that he thought she was crazy. He didn’t, for one moment, ever think she was.

She looked at him, and he felt the chance to speak one last time.

“I love you,” he said. But, he rushed the words and mushed them into one “uluhvewe.”

She smiled, moved her purse, and he drove away.