"I worked three day on that rope, dammit!"

The Oracle of Gordium

In the light of a common sun
There is notime for.
Time. There is no time for
Space. There is freedom
That springs from cages,
Chains, and shackles.
The floor we pace in shrinking
Circles is forever our floor;
Is never the same river.

"I do not recall the night
In which I broke my maidenhead"
[said sad Friia]
Her leaning head upon an arm
And the circumambulating mutt
Tethered to her ankle charm
asdjfalsdfwent and hung himself.

Idoidonot
Untie.
Will you wish
For me new star
To rule the tangled world.

October 2007


The Farm[ing]

She speaks to me,
In a way to me,
When the leaves have grown cold
When her vine has crawled up to my ears
And made of I a sign less wood than mold.
I am not old,
Old enough. To see a flow'ring
Garden gone to seed. To be an
Orchard throwing pollen to the breeze
The verbs hung swollen from her apple trees.

Mister mister wont you please
wet the fruit before they freeze
dfasldfjasldand spoil forever
oh but you are made of plastic
and can not look up.

She speaks to me,
Threadbare to me,
Worn so to keep out the cold
In these [my] mother's quilts I've wrapped myself
and found that i
and you were naked
plucking icicles that clung
to our lips and fingertips

October 2007

Well, look'ee here.

I know that I am now speaking to the void of cyberspace, but I'd like to apologise for not updating sooner. The thing is that I haven't had anything to update with. I laid poetry aside because I was actually content for a while. But, wouldn't you know, I get back to school and life gets all screwy again. Surprise. Well, enjoy.

in Chronological order, from most recent to oldest:

Pillow Talk

Through the stitched lampshade
I can see the end of my longings.
Cursed are my bones in a
Silent sort of way, laid end to
End; an edifice of pain
Frustration and futility.

A heavy tipping silo of grain
Spilling life into the sandy
Dirt. An empty testament to the
Ubiquity of dust, known to the few
Silent men who sold all their belongings
To chase an empty spoon, a full spade.

Across the faded pillow cover
With whispered words, my jaded lover
Will say to me--
Who cannot leave the lap of some
Melancholy mistress--"Come
Again to me."

The sparrows nest in broken twigs
And pulled out feathers, with no sprigs
Of green to break
The sense of brittle life. A single
Painted hair, my lover, shingles
The house we make.

September 2007

September 12

13 hours left
Until one and twenty. One out of twenty-one.

The bright lights have burnt out
To flickering distant bulbs
There is little to do now but wait
For the anniversary of my mother's pain
And my father's name.
I never thought I'd live this long.

Where there is life, there is death
Like the decaying corpse of a barn
With the bones sticking through
The brittle tin skin
And the baby chicks cluttered
Under a dropped eave.

Listen for it, and you may hear
The sounds of dropping stars
And hoof-thunder across the sky.
But that is an old roof, full of holes.

I used to imagine writing the longest
Word I could think of
In the smallest space I could find
With a feather. I didn't even have
Any ink.

But there is so much space now,
And I can't think of a damned thing.

I've walked along the skein for
So long now, rolled it carefully
Into a stained and obtuse ball.
But if I dropped it now, would it
Burn? The tale of many days
And nights there, knots
Here and anon where I paused
For a moment, bits of colour perhaps
When I could, but the lights have
All burnt out to flickering bulbs,
And who needs a mess of soiled
String?

Guess when

Requests

You and I walked to where the world was a scrap of newsprint
And you asked me for something sweet
As we stood and watched the earth die.

I gave you a stone.
You laughed at my wistfulness.

You and I lay amid the tufts of carpet in a room
And you asked for something useful
As the sun cut your face in two.

I gave you my hand.
You laughed at my courage

And placed it on your warm cheek.

We went among the vine-ruined crumbling stones
And you asked for something proper
As the worms dug through bone.

I gave you a touch.
You gasped at my irreverence.

Then you asked me for something true,
Where the past lay before us like a dead thing
Twisting into the sand--

I take a stone into my hands and press;
Water drips through my knuckles.
I push you before me into the parched land
And orchids spring up at every step.
We catch and knit the clouds into a thatch
To hang between the mountain-tops.

The winds blow arid over crossed staves
And the hut is home to only lizards.
Twin mounds of sand-frosted rocks
Grasp at the blowing tumbleweeds.

But I give you something true.

August/September 2007

The Final Days of Ben David

he bears in his pinions as the plain he o'erflies
Naked corpses: now he will sink.
-Voluspá

The stars are out tonight
With eon-dead lingering light.
The road turns on beneath my shoes
And the drift is mine to lose.
The moon's a half-closed rheumy eye
Which I wander by
In and out of its sight
On this, my last night.

I left a dismantled Leyden jar
Upon a table, still charged--
A note for that smiling bone
As the past is never gone;
Hanged with the stars and swinging.
The scattered charge's electric singing
Robbed the celestial cage its fright
On this, my last night.

The grandeur of the broken spires,
Suffering's earthbound choir of lyres;
The stabled winds of gravity
Rocking the universal nativity,
Thrust the hanged god out his tree
Into a quicklime coffin to set the bones free.
My narrow fears take startled fright
Into this, my last night.

Blood worms and feasts for crows
Pungent shells the old wind blows
Dead leaves rattling across my feet
Towards the scythe and corpse-fed whear
The pal harvest thick
The throat laid bare at a razor's nick
The age-old earth writhes with blight
On this, my last night.

The leavings of the elder yew
Along the slow-felt turning of the screw--
Aging suspension which kept us warm--
Screwed us into our nascent form.
We blanch in the empty potency
That frames the shifting galaxy
And screams all we've been left is right
For this, my last night.

And for me, the blind seer
And for me, the deaf, willing ear
The old guy jabbering at a lamp-post
Flailing a net at the glowing ghost
That sits atop,
I can neither kneel nor sit nor stop,
The last to leave cannot douse the light
On this, my last night.

But the stars are out to-night
With eon-dead lingering light
Robbed of their ageless shadowed fright
Hung forever amid the night--
A chessboard black or a chessboard white--
Watch the distant shores ignite
Chewed my the moon-lashed ocean's spite
On this, my last.

June 2007

Tut mir Leid, für die lange Verzögerung.

Here are the poems I have kept buried in my notebook. I hope you like them.

Music Box

A camphor rag
[Dance the dreaming dance
For the ever-coming dawn]
Laid across the forehead
Smell the sick--
The dead,
The living--
Cut off the swollen calloused foot
And the head will survive;
A bobbing cork adrift
Upon a placid sea.

"Leave your red padded shoes behind the door
Can't have muddy tracks across our floor.
We're all barefooted dancers here!"
Chained to the wall
Spinning like pulled tops

But I, we
A coyote from the steel-trap
Tooth marks on the dripping bone
Limping towards a still
Silent paradise.

O death,
How long thy fangs have grown
O grave,
Restless patience has become you
Beyond the buzzing fence
Pacing like jackals knowing,
While glutting itself within
The greater beast, on entrails.

-April 2007


Bananas, figs, and hothouse grapes

Grey worms, beside the red brick wall
Swept in heaps upon a sodden pyre,
No more to drown in earth
Only air, and death by water
Perhaps be ground into a sole
And wiped again onto the green, damp
Grass.
Flame does not catch--
Wet ash piled on rot-grey flesh--
Earth cannot consume--
A kinsman's hand against the pine--
But I still do not have the spine
To bear the weight of your support
As I watch the jhator of worms.

-April 2007


...now for something completely different!

Mother Earth [hehe]

A tree sprouted from fertile soil
May faster grow and wilder;
Sooner it will reach its limbs
Up and out to catch the sun--
Each varied ring surges upward
Further from the womb of earth
That kept it till it germ.

But for all its height and breadth and strength
A tree must draw its life up from the ground
And cannot leaf of anything
The earth has not supplied it.

A copse of pines upon a sandy hill
Will grow in anything. It shows.
Soft, white wood, fit perhaps for starting fires
But un-withstanding any wind
And simple drift of snow will snap them.

But an oak alone amidst a lovely clearing
With flowered ground to prop it up--
Dark and gnarled, but sound and solid through--
Can better suit the craftsman's hand
Or keep a quaking body warm and cheered
Throughout the dark and bitter night
Or stand amid the laughing waves of grass,
With leaves that whisper tempered joy,
That makes you itch to rise and walk among
Violets in the fragrant loam.

-for my mother, 13 May 2007



To a cross-eyed wife

I love your lips upon my cheek
Just left of my words
And the trailing smiles tat tango
Wild about your nose
Where others waltz in practised steps
To a dozy three-four plod.

Oh, do not wear those windows
That put up walls between us
And lay my poor words naked
Upon a single pallid sheet
Oh, do not wear those windows
And cut your blanketing heart
Where I have only one mouth to kiss,
You have two.

-April 2007

...don't ask. I don't know.

Don't know what to name it

I live in the little bones
That grow from the tips of my fingers
And catch and tear away the veil
To reveal the blank wall beneath
I drag a stool across the floor
And sit as though at a window
No less One than the Other
Or more.

The light-bulb filament fizzes
And with a glass sound goes out,
But my view is not diminished.
Was there even ever any power
Jumping through the walls?

With my little finger-bones
I slowly chip away the legs
So that the slightest shift of weight
Would send me to the floor
But I sit still on that precipice
Watching the wall within my eyes
Or distant waiting in the dark
Hoping for a cataclysm
Utterly afraid to move.

10 April 2007

Tonspielen, mit Entschuldigungen zu Lao Tzu und dem Untergrundenmann.

Dust and Essence

But there went up a mist from the earth,
and watered the whole face of the ground.
-Genesis 2:6

From mud we come,
[Formed earthen jars]
To Water we go,
[We drink and disintegrate]

Wind forced across the lips
Our songs of Water,
Sing to the apocalypse
Of dust.
Some from out of emptiness
A round hollow moan,
Some from holding until full,
Shrill, sharp sibilance.

Mine is a song of suction
The throaty gulp grows into
An empty air-sucking shriek,
As I am distended and drained,
Dilate and constrict.

We shake our fists of dirt
Clods that shatter against stone walls
Or dig into the soil
Beneath us to become it
. . . .

Formed earthen jars
[mud, from mud
Holding is— crack and shatter]

We drink and dis-integrate
[water, to Water
Movement is—thinning the blood]

Cloddy arms, shrieking mouths,
“This is where the trumpet sounds...”
Wet earth, dirty Water
“That one’s dead, let’s try the other”

She's back, if only briefly.

Bird at Night

I

The strangled cry of the night bird
And the footsteps of leaves in the air

A dot of sound in a voided sky
Where lights obscure smaller, greater lights
And over-saturate the eyes.

The solitary cry of the night bird
Like a canopy thrown over the dark
I know this bird but not the sound
I know this sound but not the bird
As each pins each upon the sky

There is a sea into which we
Throw out doubts to sound them out
To judge the splash
And measure the ripple
And despair that there is neither

II

I look down upon the sky
And see myself
A point reflected
I long to burst into flame

The air is cold and the shore is far,
I wonder what a falling stone feels,
To pass from sky to reflected sky
And look up upon the water
And see again the voided sky
Unblemished

I scream, I squawk a two-tone prayer
Fold and burn my feathered hands
But the wind is deaf and I am stranded.
I cannot see the shore.

O I wish, I wish
I wish I were a fish

III

I look out of empty pages
In the vast room laid with books
And ask, like the crab,
"Do I dare disturb the Universe"
The answer echoes:
"No.
Skipping stones is a game
For boys."

With the cry of the night bird
I am chased by the footsteps
To the sea,
And strangled, curse the calm sky.

"Als das kind kind war..."

In-flammable

It is dark,
I am dark,
But darkness is not any thing,
It is simply the negation of light.
O this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine
But I've neither the match nor the inclination,
Only the reservoir of oil.

I am a darkened lantern, or
Better, an unused one.
Fresh from the factory but left on a shelf
For some dark and primeval night
So that I can cast away the not-thing
And give direction to action.
The wick has hardened,
And the glass grown dusty,
All I do is emphasise the black
By showing what it is not.
What I am not.

Stick a searching finger into me
And you find it viscous and thick.
I leave only a residue
That is not easily wiped off.
Oil is only removed by oil,
But squeezed of a different thing.

A struck match does not inspire
A flashlight does not enhance
They only show what did not exist
Until ignited.
Don't let Satan blow it out.

If I only negate, then I am negated.
Who is to say which is preeminent?
Without light there is no dark, and
Without dark there is no light.

There are enough lit lanterns.
I am happy to sit on my shelf and not see
Not things.

27 February 07


...and for something a bit less dreary, and quite a bit better, I was surprised today to receive this from someone.


Violets In My Lawn

I have violets in my lawn

I didn't plant them there
I planted them years ago where they no longer grow
I used to scold them "stay where you belong"

But now I like them growing in my lawn
Like little surprises, little presents, little loves
I want to stoop and kiss them sweetly

-Paula Willis, March 07

Fiction; or lying in style.

I'm sure anyone reading this little collection of writing is sick of my poems by now, so I have something a little less consciously artsy--another short story. Don't worry, there is just one version this time. I'm not sure if I like it, but here 'tis. Enjoy.

Comfort

Two years ago on the sixth of January, Uncle Joe died. We all knew that his passing had been at hand for some time. Cancer and chemo ate away at him for months, leaving little—a bald, haggard skeleton.

His funeral took place a week later, on a chilly Thursday. It was to be in his frequented church; small, homely, and Baptist, it had been in the family as long as he. Our family, dressed in dark colours, drove there directly only stopping once for food—I had a turkey sandwich—and once for the restroom.

We pulled into the third row of the small parking lot. The first two and a half had been filled with family, friends, and families of friends.

Inside the church the lights were slightly dimmed and the windows that lined the sanctuary were shuttered. This lent an appropriate sombreness to the service. My parents and sister filed into the row behind my grieving aunt while I stepped into the bathroom. I unbuttoned my collar, which had been stifling me the entire eight hour drive, and adjusted my black tie to hide my bare neck. I ran my fingers through my bangs several times and returned to the cushioned spot beside my sister.

At the base of the pulpit, on a table draped with velvet, lay the casket. It was black wood with brass handles, wreathed in magnolia and plastic roses. Its starkness amid the blooms sobered me somewhat and I looked away. My sister sat beside me lightly swinging her legs, staring at the back of the pew where they keep the Hymnals and the Bibles for the forgetful.

The service began promptly at four with a solemn hymn. We all stood up. Several latecomers entered sheepishly and sat in a couple of the folding metal chairs set up in the rear. The organ echoed the last “Amen” and the mourners took their seats.

Three of my aunts four siblings, one of them my father, stood in front of the casket and said their few words in turn. Several times tears came to my bereaved aunts eyes, and the remaining sister seated beside her lent her shoulder and comforting embrace for support.

Low shafts of light not kept out by the shutters spread a sunlit patch at the feet of the speakers. Though bright, the beams carried the reminder of the cold day without with them. The blue carpet, worn by many a black or brown shod foot, took little from the bright square. It merely highlighted its discoloured spots and loose tufts.

Half an hour passed. The minister walked slowly to the pulpit and put to words the communal sense of loss in a prayer. My sister stilled her legs, either out of respect, boredom, or both. I looked at my hands. They were chapped and dry, as they always were during winter. I’ve been told I have old man hands, the skin looking like thin paper and accentuated knuckles. A little lotion should fix that. The scent of magnolia carried slowly in the still air, but was brought out by the silence and sonorous prayer. It reminded me of nights outside after a rain watching the rippling moon in the pools gathered among the leaves. My father stood quietly in front of the casket in the line of his siblings with his hands folded in front of him. He never closed his eyes during prayer either.

We stood out in the cold cemetery. The winds lifted the tail of my long, grey jacket and tugged at the ends of my mother’s scarf. Under a blue tarpaulin tent the casket was set upon a frame of polished metal and straps of green cloth. It was to be lowered into the grave afterwards. I stood next to my father and hid my old hands in my pockets out of the wind. My mother had an arm around my sister. They were holding close together, perhaps for warmth. A tall man in a tan coat, the minister’s son, standing in front of the casket began to speak. As he talked, I thought of the last time I had spoken to my uncle. We had exchanged perhaps thirty words over the phone. My uncle and I always had a fondness for one another, but I did not know him. I knew he was dying as we spoke and did not know what to say. What does one say to a dying stranger?

The wind and the cold had sunk to my bones and I wanted warmth. The minister’s son began to speak in closing tones. My mother continued to look on with my sister shivering at her side. He began to pray a prayer of remembrance in similar phrases and inflections as his father’s.

I looked at my feet and saw there the frozen grass, still green, but rigid. It had not snowed much that winter.

The crowd began to mill and talk, some walking directly to their cars, others to the church. My father approached, and was approached by, several friends. They all spoke with sad smiles and words of sympathy. My father responded in kind. My mother joined the group of women who were standing about my aunt. They spoke many of the same things. They offered meals and beds and company to which my aunt would smile, her lean cheeks crinkling like thin paper.

My sister walked over to me and hugged me round the waist. “For warmth” I thought. But I saw her eyes were wet with more than the wind.

“Mom’s crying,” she said.

I put my arm around her and she stopped shivering.

After fifteen minutes most of the mourners had left, and the cluster of women moved towards the church. My mother stopped at the door and bid them farewell. She hugged my aunt and waved a gloved hand at the others. She made her way to where my sister and I were standing. She walked slowly, took the stray ends of her scarf and stuffed them into her coat, readjusting it.

We stood together, my mother, my sister, and I, and watched my father talking to two men. They spoke slowly, in spaced phrases. He had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the piercing wind. My mother wiped her eyes with her glove and sighed. He soon joined bade them farewell with a comment about the weather and joined us as we walked as a group to the car. The parking lot was mostly empty now.

An hour later we sat in one of my aunt’s warm house. I held my hands over a gas heater and tried to rub out the cold that had crept into them. My sister had found a cousin near her age and they sat at the small kitchen table drinking soda and talking quietly. They were aware of the sombre adults in the next room. All the siblings had converged there and the women were strewn about the living room in overstuffed chairs, drinking sweet tea, talking and remembering. The two men, my father and his brother, had gone out onto the closed porch. I watched my sister and cousin talking for several minutes. They did not mention my uncle. Every so often my sister would become quiet and lower her eyes to her lap. My cousin asked:

“Whatsa matter?”

“Nothin’,” she said.

My cousin shrugged and continued talking about the new calf they had just gotten on their farm. He had my uncle’s blonde hair, thin build, and pale blue eyes. The calf was white and black, and he had got to feed it milk from a bottle once. It had tried to bite him.

“Nu-uh,” my sister said.

“Uh-huh,” my cousin replied.

“Cows don’t have teeth when their that young,” my sister stated.

“Yes they do.”

“No they don’t”

“Yes they do.”

“No they don’t”

“Yes they do! What do you know about it, you live in a city.”

“I read a book about them”

“Well, I have one, and it tried to bite me!”

I walked to the porch. I found my father and his brother sitting in two bare old wicker chairs facing the window, two cups of coffee on the table between them. The steam rose from the warm liquid and curled away into the air. They were silent. I stood at the corner and looked out a window. On the sill there was a fly, buzzing and butting into the glass. I smelled the pleasant bitterness of the coffee, and could hear the muted voices from within. I looked over to the two chairs. My father sat staring out the window at the bare oak tree in the yard. His face was young, but the hair at his temples was beginning to whiten.

“How old was Joe?” he asked.

“Fifty-three” my uncle replied.

“Fifty-three…” my father repeated.

I watched the little buzzing insect. It kept trying to fly through the window into the frigid evening. The sun was sinking now, and the night would much colder. I took of my tie and threw it onto the sill, covering it.

The next day we drove the eight hours back home and stopped once for food and once for the restroom. I did not eat anything. My father drove most of the way, and when he did, he pushed against the cars in front of him. My mother would ask him to slow down, which he did. I watched my sister sleeping on the seat beside me, her head against the window and features jostling with the bumps in the road. I was in my regular clothes now and comfortable, but not tired. I looked at my old hands and moved my fingers around, watching the skin crease and stretch. The trees moved by in a green blur and the drivers in the cars we passed did not look back at me. My mother soon fell asleep and I could only see her dark hair leaning against the headrest. I turned to watch my father driving. He passed several cars until the road before him was clear. I caught his eye in the rear view mirror and smiled at him. He smiled back, but looked over to his sleeping wife and returned his eyes to the road.

I was sixteen.

January, February 2007

I am become death

...or at least I seem to dwell on it a lot.



A Burial

Do not weep for her passing,
For we do not weep.
Do not grieve for my love,
For we are unable.
But hear
[They said: "She was so impulsive"]
And notice.
["And never lent a hand"]
She has gone,
["Talked of the strangest things,"]
Not to come again.
["But she was nice."]

Of our time, we are products.
Of our minds, we are shelves, or
Of our bodies, catalogues.
Commonwealths draped in shrouds and mantles and skin
To be removed and re-placed,
And judged on our outputs.

She is gone.
Oh, —. Oh, —. Oh, —!
She is gone!
And I am left without expression.

Apologies for my apologies.

Well, there I was being too morbid and ironic for my own good again. You'd think I'd learn from my own dislike of unnecessary irony. Of the two versions of the Water of Life posted, I think I am going to stick with the original, happier one. I didn't want to do this at first, because of the aforementioned needless morbidness and irony, but thankfully Zack more or less called me on it, and upon thinking I have to agree. I wrote the beginning, which the two versions share, with a happy ending in mind, so all the little hints that I gave consciously or unconsciously point that direction. Because of this, to do as I did, tacking on a "tragic" ending, is an underhanded trick, not a useful device. I apologise. So, contrary to what I said in the post of the original version, that is the one I choose to keep as "The Water of Life". All the latent sentimentality that goes with it too. Even the title works better that way.

If I seem to be flipping back and forth a lot, it's because I am. I am an aspiring writer, not a politician, damn it! Now to further justify myself in a writerly fashion--that is to quote another writer, in this case Ralph Waldo Emerson who said: "Consistency is the hob-goblin of small minds." So, nyaaaah!

Ripe for Harlequinn.

I have been asked to post the other version of The Water of Life. If you are here for the first time, please do me a favour and read the previous posting first.
Upon reading this a second time I feel like I should change my name to Anne Waters or Bill Dyson, or something more appropriate to the section in Barnes & Noble lined in red and pink book covers. Well, get out your bon-bons and Crystal Light. Here we go.

The Water of Light

I

“In a special Channel 9 bulletin 120 rioters were killed today in a clash with riot police that quickly escalated into bloodshed—”

Jack sat at his small kitchen table with a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. It was set for two. The bottle was untouched and the glass still had the white price tag stuck to the bottom.

“—Tension is still high this afternoon between Union workers and Transit officials as the bus strike reaches its fifteenth day—”

Jack sat reclined in his chair, one arm resting on the table turning his lighter over and over again on an unused ashtray. A cigarette sat between the first and second finger of his other hand, unlit.

“—Police and K-9 units are still searching, but they hold out little hope in finding the body of little Jessica Lansing. She was 11 years old when this picture was taken—”

The morning light shone through the glass doors looking out onto the street. It lit up the motes of dust as they drifted in front of Jack’s eyes. He followed them as they entered from, and aimlessly drifted back into, the dark.

“—New studies show that the fishier fish, rich in omega-3 fatty acids, the good fats, are beneficial to reducing the risk of cancer. 2-3 servings a day yield the most benefits, but if that is too much for your budget you can buy supplements—”

Someone knocked twice. Jack left his lighter spinning and went to his apartment door. He undid the chain, the bolt, and opened the door without bothering to look out and returned to his seat. The visitor stepped quietly in. He hung his long black coast on a nearby hook and refastened the chain. His boots he left on. He entered the kitchen and sat across from Jack, who was lighting his cigarette, and turned the chair around, resting his arms on the back. Jack took several drags and kept his eyes on the television set on the counter. The visitor sat peering at Jack.

“So…” the visitor said.

“So.” Jack replied.

“So, why did you call me here?” the visitor asked.

“Because I’m tired of it.” Jack said.

“You always say that, but you never really are.”

“But I am. Today, I really am.”

“Whatever you say, Jack.”

The visitor reached for the bottle of whisky, but Jack stopped him.

“Let me pour the first,” he said.

“Ah, so you aren’t so tired as you thought.”

“I am, just not yet.”

Jack broke the seal and filled the tumbler. He set the bottle down within reach of the visitor, who gave him a wry look.

“You only set out one glass, boyo.”

Jack stared at the visitor a moment. He got up and went to the cabinet. He sought around and came out with a small glass. It almost resembled a phial. He set it in front of the visitor and took his seat again.

“Ah, that’s more like you. Always the dramatic one, no?”

He picked up the ornate little glass and held it to the light.

Jack picked up his tumbler and sipped it. He kept his eyes on the television. The visitor took the bottle and filled the phial slowly. When it was full, he set it front of Jack, who did not look at it.

“—Today, in sports, superstar quarterback John Thompson still refuses to comment on the allegations of drug abuse. He was quoted as saying ‘I jus’ wanna play some football.’ And play he did, leading his team to a confident win with six touchdown passes—”

“So…” the visitor said again.

“So.” said Jack.

II

Across town, a woman in her mid-twenties stood in the train station staring at the schedule. She was slight, brunette, and determined to make sense of it. She fished in the right pocket of her light coat, for it was September, and took out a scrap of paper. On it was scratched:

314 8^th Street

Apt. 313B

She had a sun-baked quality; tanned skin, bleached hair, and lines beside her eyes that belied her youth. A train pulled hissing into the station and coasted to a stop. She glanced at the schedule, her watch, and the schedule again. She nodded and picked up her bag which she had set down at arm’s length and ran to board the stopped train. She found an empty seat by the window and sat, placing her bag upon her lap. The car was relatively empty. A sullen business man in a grey suit with a briefcase leaned in a corner, and a young man with a bike, a backpack, and a helmet sat near the door.

She unzipped her bag and took out several opened envelopes, but did not remove their contents. He had written her for years but she had rarely responded, even though she had promised him she would. These she took out had only been in the last month. She had contemplated writing him of her coming, but had not known what to say. The accumulation of emotions and words had become too much for the narrow spout of written language. No, she could only tell him in person, in the secret language of looks and touch they had shared. She only hoped he was still there.

She rested her head against the dark window. A light flickered by every so often and trailed off into the darkness. Her eyes explored the reflection in the glass—the empty stained seats, the scratched hand-holds, the faded and discoloured adverts strung along the ceiling, the tired face staring back at her. Would he forgive her for so many unanswered letters?

A voice announced, “This stop, 8^th Street Station.” Her eyes snapped open, but the sudden rush of the light from the windows caused her to squint. She had been sleeping. She hurriedly stuffed the envelopes back into her bag and ran for the door. It closed on her arm, but she forced it back open and stepped out onto the platform. As the train pulled away she readjusted the strap on her shoulder and made her way up the cement steps which led onto the street. The apartment buildings loomed on either side of her, dark even in the light of the morning. She walked back and forth searching for numbers. The one nearest her bore “83” and they went up by twos away to her left. She shivered.

She did not notice the faces that she passed, nor the signs or looks she received upon going by. She was a bright spot of life and colour in an otherwise drab cityscape, like robin perched in a snow-covered poplar. The clip-clop of her high-heeled boots echoed from behind and back at her from the stone walls and staircases that jutted out along the street. She did not see the man rounding the next corner until they collided. He was a handsome man, and well-dressed. He picked up her dropped bag and handed it slowly back to her with a smile.

“Sorry miss. Didn’t see you there. In quite a hurry are we?”

“’S fine.” She took it back and continued on her way up the street. She was aware of the well-dressed man’s eyes following her as she walked. She hoped he was still there.

She at last reached 313, out of breath. She had been nearly at a run for most of the way. She leant against a small tree and looked up across the busy street. There was 314. She could see the un-shaded glass doors leading out onto a balcony on the third floor.

III

Jack had finished his tumbler and was on his third cigarette. The visitor sat calmly, watching him. Jack lifted his empty glass and chuckled.

“Whisky, from the Gaelic uisge breatha, ‘water of life’.”

The visitor looked over to where Jack’s desk was set in the corner. It was sparsely furnished—a lamp, a sheaf of notebook paper, a package of envelopes, and a few pencils.

“Has she written back lately?”

“Nah, she’s probably got more important things to worry about than returning my letters.”

Jack took a long drag.

“Right. So she has nothing to do with this?”

“Of course not.”

“Whatever you say, Jack.”

She knocked the dust off her boots and stepped inside building 314. She ascended two flights of stairs and hesitated at the entrance to the third floor. She peeked in and looked up and down the silent hallway. Would her let her in?

Jack extinguished his cigarette. He glanced at the phial the visitor had poured for him, and lit another.

“Why do you do that? The irony?” the visitor asked.

“Maybe. Or perhaps I just enjoy it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jack sat smoking silently for a few minutes watching the dust and the smoke. His eye wandered to the phial again and stayed there.

“About ready, then?” the visitor asked.

“Perhaps. What’s the rush?” Jack shot.

“Oh, no rush. One learns patience in my position.”

“I suppose ‘one’ would. But I think you enjoy these hesitant ones to see to them personally, while all these others,” he motioned towards the television, “go en masse and unaccompanied.”

“I think you enjoy it, Jack. Toying with the one truly changeable thing at your disposal.”

Jack was silent. He picked up the phial filled with dark liquid. The visitor looked at Jack, on his lips a wry smile. The dust floated slowly in front of Jack’s eyes, as he watched several burn themselves out in the light. There was no sound now. The television, while still on, seemed to have been silenced, the man on the screen speaking and gesticulating but unable to penetrate the thick atmosphere, and the street outside grew still. Jack looked up at the visitor, who stared back at him. The air became motionless.

IV

Three knocks at the door broke the stare and Jacked looked up bewildered. The visitors face was expressionless as three more knocks sounded, more firmly. Jack set down the phial and went to the door.

He undid the chain and bolt, and opened the door.

“Deanna…”

Shock, an expression long foreign to Jack’s sombre features, filled his eyes.

“Jack…” Deanna smiled at him.

A thousand words were silently said, and a thousand more unsaid.

“Do you…do you mind if I come in?” she asked.

Jack, still speechless, stepped aside to let her pass. She stepped by him, and her scent, her presence, filled his senses. She lightly took his hand and led him in.

They came, he and she, to the kitchen. On the table sat the bottle, the empty tumbler, his lighter, the ashtray, and the phial. It was set for two.

“Ja-ack, what have I told you about drinking alone?”

She walked over to the table.

“Expecting somebody?” she asked.

“Honestly, no.”

She smiled mysteriously and picked up his lighter.

“And smoking too? My goodness, I got here just in time.” She crushed out the cigarette burning in the ashtray and waved away the smoke.

She picked up the phial.

“Might as well join you.”

Jack caught her hand.

“No, not that glass. Let me get you a fresh one.”

He took the phial and emptied its contents into the sink, and washed it away. He buried it deep in one of the cabinets.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

“Yes, I did,” he said.

He produced a clean glass and poured a little whisky into it and into his own. He handed her the bright new glass swirling with amber liquid.

“Cheers!” she said.

“Cheers.”

He sipped his and stood at the counter watching as she drained hers completely.

“What?” she asked, noticing his watching eyes, “can’t a girl enjoy a drink?”

He put his tumbler down and took her softly by the shoulders. He looked steadily into her eyes and asked:

“Do you mean to—”

She returned the look unblinking.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, “will you—?”

“Yes,” He answered, and smiled.

He pulled her close in an embrace that knew he would not relinquish willingly again. She did not wish him to. The television began to squawk again and the street without resumed its noisy bustle, but they did not hear it yet. As the visitor slipped out the door with a nod and vanished, they sat across the table from one another and filled the air with the words unsaid, but revelling in the speaking.

“So…” Jack said.

“So.” said Deanna.

Borderline sentimentality or black artistic pleasure?

This story evolved out of wishful thinking conjured up by my romantic side, no doubt due to the proximity of Valentine's Day. There are two versions. The first is a touched up version of that thinking, and is, to me, emotionally pleasing. Though that probably stems from my deep-seeded emotional issues.
This is the second. It is that conjured wish filtered through my aesthetic sensibilities and notions of reality, and is, in my humble opinion, more artistically satisfying. It is also more in keeping with the general theme of this "blog". Read and feel free to hate it, love it, or be indifferent to it. Hopefully not the last, for then I will have failed in my duty as an aspiring artist, but that is a real possibility because I know the more I read it, the less I like it. Oh well. If you wish to see the first, more uplifting version, just let me know and I will post it. Apologies for any glaring typos or badly put sentences. I will be working on that. Enjoy. Despise. Ignore.

The Water of Life [Rough Draft]

I

“In a special Channel 9 bulletin 120 rioters were killed today in a clash with riot police that quickly escalated into bloodshed—”

Jack sat at his small kitchen table with a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. It was set for two. The bottle was untouched and the glass still had the white price tag stuck to the bottom.

“—Tension is still high this afternoon between Union workers and Transit officials as the bus strike reaches its fifteenth day—”

Jack sat reclined in his chair, one arm resting on the table turning his lighter over and over again on an unused ashtray. A cigarette sat between the first and second finger of his other hand, unlit.

“—Police and K-9 units are still searching, but they hold out little hope in finding the body of little Jessica Lansing. She was 11 years old when this picture was taken—”

The morning light shone through the glass doors looking out onto the street. It lit up the motes of dust as they drifted in front of Jack’s eyes. He followed them as they entered from, and aimlessly drifted back into, the dark.

“—New studies show that the fishier fish, rich in omega-3 fatty acids, the good fats, are beneficial to reducing the risk of cancer. 2-3 servings a day yield the most benefits, but if that is too much for your budget you can buy supplements—”

Someone knocked twice. Jack left his lighter spinning and went to his apartment door. He undid the chain, the bolt, and opened the door without bothering to look out and returned to his seat. The visitor stepped quietly in. He hung his long black coast on a nearby hook and refastened the chain. His boots he left on. He entered the kitchen and sat across from Jack, who was lighting his cigarette, and turned the chair around, resting his arms on the back. Jack took several drags and kept his eyes on the television set on the counter. The visitor sat peering at Jack.

“So…” the visitor said.

“So.” Jack replied.

“So, why did you call me here?” the visitor asked.

“Because I’m tired of it.” Jack said.

“You always say that, but you never really are.”

“But I am. Today, I really am.”

“Whatever you say, Jack.”

The visitor reached for the bottle of whisky, but Jack stopped him.

“Let me pour the first,” he said.

“Ah, so you aren’t so tired as you thought.”

“I am, just not yet.”

Jack broke the seal and filled the tumbler. He set the bottle down within reach of the visitor, who gave him a wry look.

“You only set out one glass, boyo.”

Jack stared at the visitor a moment. He got up and went to the cabinet. He sought around and came out with a small glass. It almost resembled a phial. He set it in front of the visitor and took his seat again.

“Ah, that’s more like you. Always the dramatic one, no?”

He picked up the ornate little glass and held it to the light.

Jack picked up his tumbler and sipped it. He kept his eyes on the television. The visitor took the bottle and filled the phial slowly. When it was full, he set it front of Jack, who did not look at it.

“—Today, in sports, superstar quarterback John Thompson still refuses to comment on the allegations of drug abuse. He was quoted as saying ‘I jus’ wanna play some football.’ And play he did, leading his team to a confident win with six touchdown passes—”

“So…” the visitor said again.

“So.” said Jack.

II

Across town, a woman in her mid-twenties stood in the train station staring at the schedule. She was slight, brunette, and determined to make sense of it. She fished in the right pocket of her light coat, for it was September, and took out a scrap of paper. On it was scratched:

314 8^th Street

Apt. 313B

She had a sun-baked quality; tanned skin, bleached hair, and lines beside her eyes that belied her youth. A train pulled hissing into the station and coasted to a stop. She glanced at the schedule, her watch, and the schedule again. She nodded and picked up her bag which she had set down at arm’s length and ran to board the stopped train. She found an empty seat by the window and sat, placing her bag upon her lap. The car was relatively empty. A sullen business man in a grey suit with a briefcase leaned in a corner, and a young man with a bike, a backpack, and a helmet sat near the door.

She unzipped her bag and took out several opened envelopes, but did not remove their contents. He had written her for years but she had rarely responded, even though she had promised him she would. These she took out had been the last few recieved. She had contemplated writing him of her coming, but had not known what to say. The accumulation of emotions and words had become too much for the narrow spout of written language. No, she could only tell him in person, in the secret language of looks and touch they had shared. She only hoped he was still there.

She rested her head against the dark window. A light flickered by every so often and trailed off into the darkness. Her eyes explored the reflection in the glass—the empty stained seats, the scratched hand-holds, the faded and discoloured advertissements strung along the ceiling, the tired face staring back at her.

A voice announced, “This stop, 8^th Street Station.” Her eyes snapped open, but the sudden rush of the light from the windows caused her to squint. She had been sleeping. She hurriedly stuffed the envelopes back into her bag and ran for the door. It closed on her arm, but she forced it back open and stepped out onto the platform. As the train pulled away she readjusted the strap on her shoulder and made her way up the cement steps which led onto the street. The apartment buildings loomed on either side of her, dark even in the light of the morning. She walked back and forth searching for numbers. The one nearest her bore “83” and they went up by twos away to her left. She shivered.

She did not notice the faces that she passed, nor the signs or looks she received upon going by. She was a bright spot of life and colour in an otherwise drab cityscape, like robin perched in a snow-covered poplar. The clip-clop of her high-heeled boots echoed from behind and back at her from the stone walls and staircases that jutted out along the street. She did not see the man rounding the next corner until they collided. He was a handsome man, and well-dressed. He picked up her dropped bag and handed it slowly back to her with a smile.

“Sorry miss. Didn’t see you there. In quite a hurry are we?”

“’S fine.” She took it back and continued on her way up the street. She was aware of the well-dressed man’s eyes following her as she walked. She hoped he was still there.

She at last reached 313, out of breath. She had been nearly at a run for most of the way. She leant against a small tree and looked up across the busy street. There was 314. She could see the un-shaded glass doors leading out onto a balcony on the third floor.

III

Jack had finished his tumbler and was on his third cigarette. The visitor sat calmly, watching him. Jack lifted his empty glass and chuckled.

“Whisky, from the Gaelic uisge breatha, ‘water of life’.”

The visitor looked over to where Jack’s desk was set in the corner. It was sparsely furnished—a lamp, a sheaf of notebook paper, a package of envelopes, and a few pencils.

“Has she written back lately?”

“Nah, she’s probably got more important things to worry about than returning my letters.”

Jack took a long drag.

“Right. So she has nothing to do with this?”

“Of course not.”

“Whatever you say, Jack.”

Jack extinguished his cigarette. He glanced at the phial the visitor had poured for him, and lit another.

“Why do you do that? The irony?” the visitor asked.

“Maybe. Or perhaps I just enjoy it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jack sat smoking silently for a few minutes watching the dust and the smoke. His eye wandered to the phial again and stayed there.

“About ready, then?” the visitor asked.

“Perhaps. What’s the rush?” Jack shot.

“Oh, no rush. One learns patience in my position.”

“I suppose ‘one’ would. But I think you enjoy these hesitant ones to see to them personally, while all these others,” he motioned towards the television, “go en masse and unaccompanied.”

“I think you enjoy it, Jack. Toying with the one truly changeable thing at your disposal.”

Jack was silent. He picked up the phial filled with dark liquid. The visitor looked at Jack, on his lips a wry smile. The dust floated slowly in front of Jack’s eyes, as he watched several burn themselves out in the light. There was no sound now. The television, while still on, seemed to have been silenced, the man on the screen speaking and gesticulating but unable to penetrate the thick atmosphere, and the street outside grew still. Jack looked up at the visitor, who stared back at him. The air became motionless.

IV

She knocked the dust off her boots and stepped inside building 314. She ascended two flights of stairs and hesitated at the entrance to the third floor. She looked up and down the silent hallway and made her way to the door marked 313B. She stood before it suddenly beset by nagging doubts. Would he let her in? Would he forgive her for so many unanswered letters? Would he even still be there? She lifted her hand to knock and held it. Would he? She put her fist to her mouth then quietly knocked three times. She waited. No reply. She knocked three times more, a bit more firmly. Again, she waited. Would he?

Suddenly she heard the sound of the bolt being undone and the chain loosening. The door opened and there stood a young man, bearded and shirtless, clad only in his boxer shorts.

“Deanna? Deanna Jamison?”

“Jack Lewis…” she said.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to see you and answer some unanswered letters.”

“Oh,” he said sheepishly, “umm…wow, what a surprise.”

“Who is it?” a voice called from within. A female voice.

“An old friend,” Jack called back.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have company?” Deanna asked, eying his state of undress.

“Err…yeah. Sorry,” he said quickly, “Look, it’s great to see you but it’s a bit of a bad time, but I’d love to catch up. How about we go out for coffee or something later?”

“Oh, OK. Yeah, I’d like that.” Deanna said.

“Great. How about we meet here at about 3ish? I know a really cool place.”

“Sure,” she said, “Sorry to catch you at a bad time.”

“No problem,” he said, “It’s great to see you again though.”

He smiled.

“Yeah,” Deanna said, “You too.”

Jack waved and closed the door. Deanna stood for a moment, eyes fixed before her feet. She walked slowly down the hall and stiffly down the two flights of stairs, her boots echoing sharply off the plaster. She paused for a moment at the door and looked back up the stairs, clenching her teeth. She closed her eyes, pushed, and disappeared into the street.

Jack Lewis walked into his bedroom and leaned his shoulder against the doorway, looking at the woman lying in his bed naked, supine and suddenly plain.

“An old friend?” she asked sleepily.

“A ghost from my past, more like.” he said.

Jack Niemand sat in his kitchen chair with his head lolled back, face toward the ceiling. The dust floated honeyed and slow above him, but his glazed eyes did not see it. The phial lay empty in his hand. He had drained it at one draught. The visitor still sat, looking intently at him across the table and bottle and glass. After several quiet moments, the visitor rose and walked towards the door. He stopped, turned, and touched his forehead in salute.

“Pleasant dreams, my friend.”

He donned his long black coat and unchained the door. He took one last look inside the apartment and vanished.

Jack Niemand sat at the table set for two, entombed in his smoke-filled room, framed with specks of golden light, secret, silent, and smiling.

February 2007

Prof. Strunk and a step in the right direction.

Follow the Bouncing Ball

Rubber, is quite a thing
Resistant and resilient,
A ball will fight its equilibrium
But the inexorable laws of motion
Baffle its attempts.

Each rebound is a bit lower
Than the last, 'til all
Its Energy is spent in noise
And retaining its shape.

The peaks become less things to be attained
And more an alternative to the floor,
Until there is so little difference
That it falls into a suppressed struggle to
Hold.

Gravity pulls all things: dust, flesh, bone
Gravity pulls all things: heat, thought, light—
All, but the dark
And the cold
And we learn to wrap ourselves in what is not there.

December 2006


Zeitgeist

Another black casket dives earthward,
For God hides in Jasmine keeps.
Languid musky nights over piquant quarts—
Rum, Scotch—
Toasting un-vested vitals, weighing xeroxed years.

January 2007


The Mortician

Awful business, counting dead eyes from
Grey heads.
I just keep lists.
My nights overlong—
Perfectly quiet
Rent seams, tumorous umbrae,
Varicose well-breds, xanthous youth
Zipped-up.

27 January 2007


A Scene Usually Medical in Nature


The waiting room was brightly lit and irregularly walled. Spaces deemed unnecessary by the architect were occupied by protrusions of plaster and wasted wood. Three older ladies sat in three adjacent chairs, mumbling amongst themselves, tokens of the quality of health care provided. I entered quickly and sat across from them, unnoticed.

After several minutes of thumbing through glossy magazines a nurse came to the door which led away into the back.

"Mrs. Anderson?"

No response.

"Mrs. Anderson," a bit louder.

"Yes?"

The old lady in the centre of the three looked up blankly.

"The Doctor will see you now."

She lifted herself bodily from the chair and took twelve arduous, hesitating steps toward the nurse.

"Good to see you again, Mrs. Anderson." The nurse smiled at her.

"Good to see you too, dear," she replied.

"Hello ladies," the nurse said and waved to the other two.

"Hello, Angeline," they returned the gesture.

Mrs. Anderson slowly crossed the threshold and the two returned to murmuring about their children. I waited until the door was shut and quickly left.

03 February 2007