david schein ii
A Lovely Treason
by David D Schein II
Slam Poet seeks Artistic and Fun-Loving Woman
Elderly Man Behind the Diner in a
College Town
If the Apothecary Was Closed for the Holiday
II. Leaves in Fall, Floating in Wind
Independence Day Weekend, I-64
Music Soothes the Savage Beast, but the Minstrels have Gone Astray
Response to “Poets Against the War”
Language of the Stars and Moon
You Wanted to Know why I am Here,
Bothering You Every Week
On Traffic Lights and Other Matters
of National Security
Forward, by the
Author
To the Reader
A Lovely Treason is the culmination of nearly four years of
writing. The story of Otis picks up
where A Perfect 30 left off, but does not take us as far as I initially
thought it would. I expected I would
continue to tell his tale, then leave off somewhere convenient. Instead, I found myself pulling sharply away
from him. “Patricia”, as you will see
later in this book, scorned my use of pseudonyms, and I think I took that to
heart. After the Patricia Set, I stopped using false names for my characters, with
the exception of a few pieces here and there.
I stopped “changing the names to protect the innocent”. In life, we are all innocent, or we are all
guilty, depending on how you look at the glass.
I have contemplated, lately, dividing this volume into
smaller books, to reduce the price, or even dull some of the weight. There is a continuing story being told
through these pages. A storyteller must
decide when to stop one story and when to begin the next. I wonder if I should insert a pair of covers
between the Patricia Set and the rest of the tale. Should I pause during the lull of the Christine Incident? I have decided to allow the full girth of
this tale to be told. I am even
tiptoeing into another part of the story with the introduction of Rebecca. Unfortunately, I find there are parts
missing. I can do nothing to report
them right now. They are beyond the
reach of my pen, and may remain so for some time. Someday, I hope t7o be strong enough to sing the things I cannot,
now, whisper.
As a writer, I am trying to push myself in new
directions. In this volume, I am
including several writing assignments, such as a short story (“When Can I go
Swimming?”), a non-fiction vignette (“Of Traffic Lights and Other Matters of
National Security”), and a large section of American Haiku/ Senryu. I believe I have grown as a person and as a
writer over the last four years, and I hope that shows through my writing. Like The Otis Series, Other Issues,
and A Perfect 30, A Lovely Treason is laid-out chronologically,
by order of writing. Some pieces aren’t
fully completed, but when is a poem ever truly finished?
The title of this volume, “A Lovely Treason”, comes
from a line in Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli. Jerry was an early influence of mine. Friends with my father, Jerry and his wife, Eileen, were two of
the first “real writers” I knew. When I
was younger, my father, my sister, Anna, and I visited them at their home in
southern Pennsylvania. I got to pet
their chinchillas. When we left, Jerry
gave Anna and I, each, copies of books of his.
Anna received There’s a Girl in my Hammerlock, and I received Maniac
Magee. Both of these books are on
my shelves in my room. Both of these
books influenced my writing style. Both
of these books influenced my outlook on life
A few months ago, I was perusing the local shopping
mall for a new skirt when I came across Stargirl on a table outside
Delia’s. Attracted by the light blue
color, though I didn’t know what was the book, I approached it, took it into my
hands, admired the pea-colored stick figure and caution-tape yellow star
embossed on the cover and then paused when I read the two, simple, words above
what was apparently the title of the text.
“Jerry Spinelli,” they said. I
was floored. Without replacing the
book, I went inside and put out my nine dollars, receiving a transparent,
blue-tinted bag and a receipt. I began
read her that night, finishing the next evening. I can easily say Stargirl is one of the best novels I have
ever had the pleasure of reading. I am
astonished Jerry does not claim the co-title of “poet,” like his wife, or
“storyteller,” or anything else, for he is all of these and more. Thank you, Jerry, for being such an amazing
writer and for sharing that with us all.
Returning to the task of this letter, reader, I ask
you to be patient. Not just with me,
but please be patient with your communities and yourselves. We are all human. In our divinity, we are imperfect. In our divinity, we are impure.
Please know I appreciate you taking the time to read these words,
thoughts, blessings, curses of mine.
You are the reason I have had the courage to perform the alchemy of
converting blood and tears to ink on paper.
Be well.
-gran
Acknowledgements
Without the support of my peers in the poetry community, none of this would have been possible. Without the love and care of my family and friends, I don’t think I would have had the courage and strength to survive this.
I want to thank the subjects of my foolish meanderings, especially Meaghan, Christine, Sarah, and Jayne. There are no words to describe my appreciation for you and the lessons I gleaned from our experiences. Thank you for your love. Thank you for your time. Thank you for your words. Thank you for your pain. I do love you. I hope that never changes. I wish you all nothing but strength and serenity. Be well.
One month, to the day, after Meaghan and I said goodbye, my grandfather, Leo Schein, surrendered to the undiscovered country, on 5 July 2001. Granddad, I thank you for your strength. I hope I have made you proud. You are missed. You are loved. Sleep well.
Mom, Dad, Ken, Anna, Gina, thank you. I don’t know how anyone could reasonably ask for a more supportive family than you have been to me. Though I have been nothing, if not human, to you, you have all been nothing, if not saints, to me. Thank you for your love and support.
To the late Rob Templeton, sleep well, my friend. Thank you for your tireless ability to brush aside my self-deprecating bullshit. Thank you for reminding me that, by very nature of the fact I am here, I have earned my right to be here. My daughter will know your name.
Missy… damn, kid, you did it… finally! I don’t know a better man for you. Woman, take care of your man, and tell him he better return the favor. God knows some of the lessons we learned on rainy nights in Houston have resurfaced again and again and you are always on my mind. Tell that man of yours to take a job here in Baltimore so I can see you more often. I want your kids to call me granma.
To the audience at SLAMicide and DC Slam, thank you. Please continue to support what we do, and please continue to give us this magic to support. You are all beautiful.
Finally, thank you, Brooke, for your encouragement. You rock. The mermaids stand with you.
I know there are more people to thank. My frailty imparts forgetfulness. You know who you are. If you think I am not talking about you, you are wrong. I extend thanks and praise to everyone reading these words, everyone hearing these words, everyone mentioned in these words, and everyone who is no longer with us to share these coffee-table prayers. Fallen heroes live on in the blood of our pens and the ink of our veins.
Dedication
A Lovely Treason is dedicated
to Chris August.
For more than a year, now, you have been a friend, a crutch, a shoulder, a rock, and a testament to humanity, to friendship, to love, to brotherhood, and to being a man. Though we call with different names, I know God hears us both. I believe you are the answer to so many of my prayers, questions, and meditations. You are truly a reason to believe in providence. So many times, you have put up with my bullshit. So many times, you have refused to put up with my bullshit. You have helped me resist mediocrity. You were an acquaintance when you arrived at SLAMicide and started slamming, and I was amazed by your eclectic passion. When we became friends, I realized you are more than a spastic art-fag, that your eccentricity is the only way for all that love and cynicism to seep out. Otherwise, you would shatter into dust. Your flesh and personality is one huge pressure-relief valve. When I was crawling out of the Christine Calamity, you were there with a helping hand. When I was flirting with the Sarah Situation, you were a not-so-easily ignored shoulder-pope, warning of the likelihood of disaster. When that prophesy proved true, you were the one to whom I could raise my voice without worrying you would misunderstand. Thank you for allowing me to scream out my frustrations. Thank you for not letting me yell for too long. Thank you for telling me when it had become too long. Thank you for not accepting my mediocrity. Thank you for not letting me sit down before I was done.
You are an amazing poet, performer, person, friend,
and so much else. I am glad to have you
in my life.
a
lovely treason
I
am a poet in the Baltimore Area. I work as a loan officer for a mortgage company.
I have self-published three collections of my poetry as the president of an
independent production company. I also participate in/ host Poetry Slams. My
favourite poem is "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock". I enjoy a
wide range of art forms, but have found my niche in performance poetry. In
accordance with the modern-bohemian description I have acquired, I can be found
most nights sitting at diners, making and talking to friends. This is not to
say that I can't have fun. I love snowball fights, skinny-dipping, playing
football on weekends with friends, fountain-hopping, and working on my cars. I
am not religious, but I am reasonably spiritual, and hold similar beliefs to
those of the Hare Krsnas. I consider myself open-minded and welcome to new
things. I love learning. I also love teaching. I do not believe in violence as
a disciplinary measure, nor do I believe that we are slaves to our biology. I
do not agree with the NRA, but I do feel that Charlton Heston is one of the
greatest men of our day. I do not believe in socially-conditioned gender roles,
and can often be found wearing skirts/ sarongs/ wraps. I hate foot-wear, but
feel that if you must wear it, do it right. I agree that spandex is a
privilege- not a right. I feel that the abs region will tell you everything
about the physical activities, but the eyes will tell you everything about the
internal activities. I am against discrimination. I am against the
death-penalty as a system, but accept that it is in the system currently, and
should thus be utilized to the extent for which it was designed. I am not
pro-abortion, but I feel that more respect needs to be shown to women who
choose/ require the procedure, and they should be protected by constitutional
amendment. I am against extremists. I like cats and dogs and have two of each.
I am envious of women for their ability to create life and carry two heartbeats
or more within them. I want to experience post-partum depression. Obligation is
the bane of my existance. If I do something, it is because I chose to do so-
not because you told me to. After I return and complete school, I plan to teach
High School English and Theatre, preferably in the central Baltimore County
area. Physically, I am appx. 5'8'', slim but strong for my size, brown wavy/
curly just-past-shoulder-length hair, grey-blue eyes, and flexible compared to
most of my friends. I am not a virgin, but I am clean of any and all STD's. Due
to a pregnancy-scare, I believe strongly in birth-control and am a strong
supported of chemical birth-control; if there were a pill I could take, I
would- I think it's more important to go upstream and restrict the ones who can
fertilize many, as opposed to the many who can carry (usually) only one. I have
no piercing or tattoos, but have plans to get two tattoos. I consider my life
an open book and that their are no taboos in conversation. Nicotine and
caffeine are my two vices. I smoke cigarettes and drink lots of coffee, but
that's about it. I do not use illegal drugs. I do not drink alcohol. I do take
medications responsibly. I am not against the moderate use of drugs and alcohol
by my friends or peers in general, but I do believe in the responsible use of
them if one does choose to partake.
Ideal
Person - I am looking for a woman in her late teens/ early twenties that would
like to go on a date. No obligation, no expectations, just the two of us.
However; that woman must also be open to the possibility of a long term
relationship. My taste in women is open, by my preference is that woman should
be confident, intelligent, and witty. She must enjoy art in whatever manner
strikes her and have a wide range of knowledge, and be able to carry on a
conversation. She must be able to sit at diners for hours, and be able to cope
with my ADD. She must also be able to harness that short attention span. She
must have a good idea of who she is and where she is going. She must have
passions. She also needs to be active. Willing to get dirty working outside or
in the garage. She must be able to physically "hold her own"; she
must be able to carry one end of a couch. She must be able to play football-
not necessarily well, but willing to participate. She can't be too strict about
schedules and must be willing for spontaneous escapades and random road trips.
If she doesn't like chocolate, that's okay- it means more for me. I like a
woman who smokes, love a woman who knows the beauty of a perfect cup of coffee.
I don't mind a woman who drinks moderately, or one that uses drugs of a
"friendly nature"- so long as it is not a regular occurrence or an
interference between her and anything else- especially her responsibilities.
Physically, my preference is 5'2'' to 5'8'', slender to average build-
generally petite, but strong for her size, brown hair, brown eyes, smooth pale
to tan skin, moderate sized breasts- they must fit the frame, piercing and
tattoos are intriguing and welcome. Slim abs. Must be reasonably flexible and
fit. I like a firm rear that is in proportion to the rest of the body. I like
curves. She needs to enjoy cuddling. She must be able to share a pillow and a
blanket. She must acknowledge the difference between 'sleeping with someone'
and 'having sex' with someone.
- - - - -
As an actor, I have often wanted to combine two of the things I love- Sex, and the Stage. My fantasy involves finally accomplishing this.
I run a small independent production company in Baltimore. I had just started dating a woman named Reilly. Having regaled her with my stories about my writing leading to the company, I wanted to show her my pride and joy which was our head office and dinner theatre.
We enter and I show her all around; the office, the dressing rooms, the prop rooms, the tech-booth. Finally descending upon the stage, I begin to describe the play that we are putting on. The set is of the interior of a suburban home, not unlike "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?" We had set up walls representing a well-kept house. There is a coffee table, a throw rug, and a giant, tan, very cushy Couch.
At this point, Reilly decided that she didn't want to talk anymore. She grabbed me by my belt loop and pulled me to her lips. Within seconds, we were redecorating the set with our clothes; reupholstering the chairs with my pants, her bra becoming a lampshade. I attend to her breasts, admiring the soft skin, the firm tissue, the ripple of areolas, and the rising of the nipple as I paint her with my tongue. Her breaths become deeper as I move south, discovering her like Columbus, exploring her like Magellan. I find a spot on the side of her abs that makes her entire body shudder. She begins to moan as I make my way back up, giving attention to her neck and her ears, making her breathing become erratic; pulling in air between pauses of ecstasy.
She pulls away suddenly, pushing me on my side. Smiling an "I want you" smile, she throws me onto my back. Turning the tables, she makes me shake as she explores me, finding my buttons, and exploiting my vulnerability to the power of fingernails on my skin and lips on my nipples. She kisses her way down to the number one member in my fan-club, licking every inch of my rod, gently showing some attention to my gift-bag. I start to twist and moan as she takes all of me, sucking hard, teasing the tip with her tongue, moving like an acid dream. She is an absolute master, and in what seems like an instant of time, but an eternity of pleasure, I release with the power of a fire hydrant hit by a truck.
Pausing only seconds to catch my breath, I pull her to me, kissing her deeply. I can taste myself within her lips, and this excites me to no end.
Breaking the kiss, I head south again, stopping at the Gibraltar that is her breasts. I move between them- licking one while caressing the other. Her entire body is now twitching between light biting and soft suction on her erect nipples. Bidding farewell to her soft peaks, I meander toward her stomach, her hips, her legs, her power. Gently experimenting with my tongue, I cause her already ripe crown to rise more, the heat becoming intense. I continue licking her, pinching lightly with my lips against hers, pushing my tongue inside of her, moving faster and faster, holding her hips strongly as they begin bucking wildly. She grabs my hair with both hands, clamping her thighs around my head, breathing faster and deeper, in rhythm to my ministrations. Her breathing starts to flutter, as she starts to shudder. Like an old Mustang driving by, the roar of her orgasm starts soft- almost imperceptible against her wild movements, though building quickly. Suddenly her breaths stop, she becomes rigid. This freeze lasts only for a second before she explodes- heat burning my cheeks, her fluids streaming down my neck as I try to lap them up, a scream of pure pleasure erupting from her throat, her body vibrating with enough power to light Las Vegas for a month.
Releasing her thighs' grip on me, she grabs my shoulders and pulls me back to her. As I move up, she guides me in, sliding me between her. We move as one, both rocking in time to our solid breaths. Both completely covered in sweat and each other, we are slick and move well together, accelerating the thrusts, both moaning heavily now. She has her legs locked around my back and pulls me against her before letting me pull away, almost to the point of exit, then pulling me back in again. Faster and faster we move.
With both arms and both legs, she holds me against her and we become one in her beautiful screams and her vibrations. As she is ravaged by orgasm, I explode again. Our juices mix and run down both our legs, our heartbeats fluctuate in unison, our movements now halted as we revel in this other-worldly energy. I can feel our energy mixing, the electricity between us electrifying every inch of our bodies.
Still grasping each other, our breaths beginning to calm, our heartbeats returning to normal, our bodies slumping in release and exhaustion. We hold each other in this passionate embrace, kissing gently, feeling the cold air of the theatre against our evaporating sweat and excitement.
We take our time getting up and getting dressed, getting distracted several times in the process. As we finally walk out the door, heading back to my car and then my apartment, I start to wonder how I am going to explain to my Stage Manager why we need to buy a new couch.
- - - - -
Points pondering picking
Coffee pouring
Like a last breath
Before a kiss
I sip.
But I am only wasting time.
Onward to all great things
All things unknown
I realize the obsession
That once so possessed me is present no more
And in its place is simply
Existence
No regard for
Here or there
Or even where
My road will take me
But comfort is found
In coffee grounds
At a concrete bar
In a bookstore
- - - - -
We sit in pews as if in church
We wait for the interrogation to begin
And I hear their whispering behind me and to my right
But are they my neighbors?
Are they strangers?
Do they know me?
Do they know themselves?
More ‘strangers’ enter at the rear of the courtroom
And I am so nervous,
I am afraid I’ll vomit or pass my morning coffee where I now sit
The altar boys read in the front row
Uniforms tight across broad shoulders
And I fear my car will be towed if this takes too much longer.
I wonder what will happen.
I could describe this monastery of law,
But it would do no justice to the blind shadows and the divine imperfections.
Small things;
Mismatched chairs, missing flag, cables strewn wildly across counters.
Another altar boy enters,
Sits right in front of me,
I see that he has something on his back; under his shirt.
And his ears stick out.
And church is starting late.
This judiciary papal servant is hesitant.
My head is spinning.
I should have slept.
My eyes are burning.
Maybe they are red and I will be thrown out.
Add yet one more boy- the four musketeers.
Complete with Walter and Irving.
And the questions remain unanswered.
Only a response to the second attack
Still no knowledge of the first possession
I just want to go home,
Shower
And sleep.
This is leading to nothingness.
And if he has admitted to the second theft, but not the first,
Then who has Phillip?
Who has the road gear?
Who violated me?
The first could have been anyone,
But how did he get in the second time?
I was careful.
I locked my doors, right?
The line grows longer as “The System” tries to turn the stopwatch to secure a penalty box.
And I wonder how much these barristers are getting paid to be here.
More accusations fly behind me.
Does anyone know what’s going on here?
Where do we begin?
A woman has started sorting through the endless stack of papers.
I realize that I burned my tongue this morning while sipping at the coffee shop.
And I wonder if confessions really purify the soul
Or if they are only an excuse to sin on a clean slate,
Having cleared your plate of gristle.
Everyone seems confused.
My head is spinning
And I am tempted to take a nap.
We had a good conversation,
From NYPD to the BQE to the LIE
- - - - -
Snuffing out my cigarette, I realized I’ve been stood up.
When crushing out dying embers, three lost souls spilled from the ashtray.
It’s hard to think of new reasons I’m alone when the pitying eyes peer down at me repeatedly.
My hair has lost its hold.
My skin has lost its luster.
And I have lost my appetite, waiting for you to arrive.
Ex-lovers enter and walk by whispering to their new love about how I’ve “let myself go”.
Never one to give in that easily, I smile and wave,
Feigning congeniality,
Restraining tears.
This is so humiliating.
I am glad I brought my AmEx.
I pay for my coffee,
Tip the waitress well,
Leave you behind with my balled-up napkin
And my empty coffee mug.
- - - - -
I’m crushing hard
The way you talk
The steps you walk
And the way you hold me when we hug,
It’s crushing me.
I’m crushing hard.
Through your eyes,
I see originality,
A way of rewording clichés so they seem brand new.
Don’t dye your hair,
Crush that Clairol box!
I’m crushing hard for you.
Voice is smooth,
But with a little scratch like a vinyl record.
You spoke of nebulae while I made a cappuccino in my kitchen.
I am foaming milk for me.
I am crushing hard for you.
Read to me again;
I want to know who you are when you’re alone.
I want to know what you see in your sleep.
I want to be your lunchtime daydream.
I want to be able to give you flowers and maybe get some from you, too.
I want to be the one you write silly, undelivered letters to.
I want to see your eyes light up when I walk in the room.
When someone puts their arms around your waist,
I want you to know that those arms are mine.
I want to walk dogs together.
I want to have snowball fights with you,
And make snow angels,
And make snowmen in lude positions.
I want you to have a crush on me.
- - - - -
And I
wonder: do I dare?"
and I ask
myself
did I
talk too much about myself?
did I
show her that I noticed the luster of her skin?
Was I a
gentleman?
I think
if I was not these things
If I did
not do these things,
that she
would have left.
And still
I wonder
"do
I dare?"
I think I
should have asked her for her number
but I
didn't dare yet
I felt a
stone in my throat,
and
needing to free it,
I had to
walk away
I watched
her on the couch
sleeping
so peacefully,
and I
wanted to curls up with her,
but
instead
I placed
a blanket over her
I noticed
the way she moves when she talks
the way
her eyes mouth the phrases
as the
tongue paints them into the air.
I was
there on the bed
she was
there on the bed
we were
there
on my
bed,
but a
world apart
and
wanting to make that journey,
but
fearing that even eighty days
might not
be enough
fearing
the possibility of rejection,
I turned
away.
returning
to her,
I could
only see the curve of her back
I could
see the profile of her breasts,
two
inches of skin separating her shirt from her pants,
and those
two inches were beckoning me.
Her leg
draped casually over her other leg,
and how I
miss being able to reach for that
but do I
dare?
how I
miss being able to join into that
but do I
dare?
how I
miss being able to fall into deep eyes
but do I
dare?
In the
room the women come and go
talking
of Michelangelo
and we
read Eliot in the living room
discussed
his word choice
and she
curled on the couch saying nothing
and I
wanted so to join her
but I
didn't dare
so I left
a blanket
and a
smile
and I
went upstairs.
- - - - -
“Why do you like me?”
She asked as she sat on his thighs with her arms around his waist.
He blushed and leaned in to kiss her, to which she withdrew and asked again,
Without moving her lips
He stuttered an answer, leading to the truth:
“You have something behind your eyes that calls to me”.
Satisfied of her question,
They roamed across carpeted floors in their rolling embrace,
Winding up on cotton sheets,
Conversing,
Sharing stories and lips
With hands on hips and tongues on fingertips-
Then a halt.
She gently pushed him away, holding herself back.
They talked until her smooth skin soothed him to sleep
He smiled at the way she breathed
And the way her feet made the sheets quake.
When she, too, rose, he saw a sun rise in her eyes
And he practically dies just thinking about it.
She curls into him, and they talk a little more
Before rising and descending to make sure they aren’t
Being rude.
- - - - -
He stood there painting words in our eyes
And my heart capsized at his story.
He was there on a concrete stage with the world as his audience,
And we stood until our feet slept and our eyes flared with amazement,
Watching him slide through non-sequiters like Gemini.
He told us of the solid love of just one of a few good men.
A love so strong…
A love so powerful…
An explosive love that possessed him to shed wind through her heart before doing the same to his own head.
He told us of the way things used to be:
So free,
But that was before the Sirens beckoned him
Against the rocks
And beat him until his
Sea – ing
Ran red.
As a hippie compelled with the love perpetuated by the Leary that is not Dennis, and the pain described by the William that is not Clinton,
He would not raise a fist to give himself shelter from the bombing raid that was their motto:
“Serve and Protect”.
And he told us of his fifteen-year walkabout that taught him a few things:
A) Brothers will deny you three times if Their Father was not the one who was buried.
I) If it has a ground-level entrance, they will lock it or knock it down.
D) The dumpster behind Safeway gets emptied every Tuesday night at 3 AM.
S) The hardest thing in life is not guilt, not forgiveness, neither prayer nor penance.
The hardest thing in life is living with the One Thing, that when you have It, No one will give It to you; and you can Share It with anyone, but you can never
Give It Away.
- - - - -
It’s that same feeling…
Like…
Vodka.
Except this time I am drunk and I haven’t yet had a sip. There’s the burning in my chest and I want a drink so bad-
But I resist
And hold back
While I hold her back
In the palms of my hands
(which are covered in oil)
(but her skin is so smooth that I don’t even need it)
She tenses as I touch
As I chase away the tension
With the rhythmic kneading of her dough
Like…
Marbles-
I am spinning her in my hands
And I want to reach inside her
I want to BE one of the marbles in this pouch
But I touch another hard muscle
That is growing harder from the fear
While I am growing harder from the energy
And it is getting harder to think
Because
Now she is sitting up-
Now she is talking-
Now she is touching my hair-
Now I am falling forward-
Now I am falling for her-
Now I am-
Now she is-
Now WE Are-
And there’s that fire again
Searing my lungs my heart my skin my lips
She is touching my hips
And my hand grips
Supple flesh as the sweat drips
From my side
And I am sweating even more on the inside
Because this bag o’ marbles
Has spilled onto her side
And over me-
She is passionately
Embracing my tongue with her own
And I am so afraid-
Am I a good kisser?
Does she like the way my lips taste?
Do I have bad breath?
Does she want my hands again
On her back
Pulling her into me
As she pulls me against her
And we are
runningrunningrunning
Toward a destination not far from here
And yet on the other side of the clock
And the world
And she is walking away
But spins
Steps
Whispers…
“Thanks for the coffee.”
- - - - -
Speechless and stumbling
He stutters forward
Toward her
Shapely form
Sitting on the floor
Of his living room.
He drops his packages
Drops to his knees
Drops his resistance
To her power.
Cupping her head in his hands
He drinks from the
Holy Grail that is her lips.
- - - - -
It is just as my first time on the mic.
I am so nervous and my heart is sounding a cacophonous battle cry.
I am stepping up to the microphone
I can hear my breath, heavy on the sound system, echoing from the walls to the coffee cups
The air is thick and smoke-lined but I am breathing fine and I can
SMELL
The poetry from across the room.
I bring my lips to the microphone and the speakers squeal in feedback and I hear heavy breathing as the poetry strips me of my armor and I lay bare- shattered in ecstasy and I can’t move-
I am so Nervous.
And I want to be poetry- I want to be ONE with her
But I am afraid, so I throw myself into a silver-screen fantasy
Running from the reality of the stage
and the inspiration steps back-
huddled in disappointment-
so I disrobe my words-
that only the truth be evident
and no more hiding from my self.
I see that this mistress,
Poetry,
Is a LIE,
An ACT,
A Façade.
This Art is Life and
This Microphone is Truth and I want to become ONE with the Truth- I want to embrace this Life and my senses peak- I am living in clip. I wrap this Art into me and I am thrown around the stage, but I am the only audience and I see that
Poetry is Art and
Art is Life and
I Understand now they are ONE and THE SAME and I want so bad to do Art justice with the perfect poem- to paint a Tchaikovsky ballet on this stage with my words and the sounds from the mic get louder and I embrace Life and I dance with the Microphone stand and my lips are spreading a filmstrip on the mic and I want so bad to Be that Perfect 30 I want so bad to be ONE with this Life but I am so afraid so the only thing I can do is Tease Life with my fingertips and the point of my pen and I am so afraid
That Life will deny my inspiration
That Art will shun my devotion
That Poetry will discard my love as meaningless ranting
And I will be left
Naked and Shivering
But I tread forth like Cortez in Mexico
And I am so afraid,
But I gather the strength to throw life to the mat and pin poetry to the wall
Diving in with reckless abandon
I am naked but for my sweat sheen as I make three minutes last an eternity
Because time and space are suspended while we flow through assonance and alliteration
Onomatopoeia and syllabics and I am so afraid of finding rejection from Life and being denied three times by Art or destroying Poetry and all that she is
So I focus-
On paying homage to Calliope
I drop to my knees to both feed and share nectar and ambrosia
And the microphone drips with honey and sweat as I continue my dance of praise-
Gratitude to the gGods for placing this Poetry, this Art, this Life in my hands and in my heart and in my soul
And in my pleas,
I beg her not to stop-
To give me more
To never stop blessing me with my muse
To never stop flooding me with inspiration
To never stop feeding me lines like a drug-addict
Because these are my sin-dens
These are my squatter’s rights
This room
This stage
This microphone
Silence
Pause
Shudder
When I catch my breath and the judges have quieted themselves
I return to the stage
And it is
Constant
Unwavering
Never stopping
And yet new and always different
But somehow familiar
And STILL I am so nervous
I remember stealing shots of Stoli from my Dad’s liquor cabinet
And even that feels like a dream
A film about ghosts
And I move southbound
On the roller-coaster of Poetry
As Art continues to lick my ears and pull at my heart
I feel like Oedipus when I sing
Because I am making love to Poetry and Life, but I am of this Art, and I revel in the touch of her words. I slay the daemons of fear and the vodka-fire rages in my chest as I bury myself for the fifth time into this Life and I am wrestling with the microphone- trying to make the eternal sound, and I don’t feel OM, but I feel that this is right- this Life and I are ONE- we are Righteousness Forever-
Sannathana Dharma
We are Righteousness Forever
So I am on my knees in reverence to this Art form that is Life and we are swirling in some astral place I cannot feel the stage anymore I have no flesh I have become ONE with Poetry and for a moment
it is pure art
pure energy
the only sound is my breath on the speakers
the only touch is my lips on the microphone
the only smell is my sweat on the stage
the only energy is my love in this art.
- - - - -
I miss the seductive teardrop of your navel.
It’s salty taste like to blood of your ancestors
And the ocean at dawn.
I hunger for your touch on my shoulder
Sitting peacefully
listening
- - - - -
Conversations with sleep
Are interrupted frequently by
Insomnia
Thoughts of
Your eyes
Your hair
Your touch
Your skin
Your power
Over me
On the inside of my eyelids
I watch you converse
See you scribble disoriented poetry
In your journal
Hear you snore
ever so softly in your sleep
as our bodies occupy the same space
our hair still wet
from the artificial summer rain
of my tile lagoon
- - - - -
Close your eyes
Listen to me
close your eyes
open your heart
listen to me
to be with you I have suffered
to be named Montague
because we danced
Close your eyes.
Open your heart.
Listen soft.
These words I have chanted a thousand times
In a hundred languages
None that have translated
I have held onto visions of your hair for hours of twilight sleep
Where thoughts of
Bruised knees and
Coffee bars
Play across my ceiling
I wake up after bare seconds of sleep
Searching the sheets for you
And longing to feel the warm afterglow of your body
Begging to hear the soft padding of your feet in the hallway
And with glances across long rooms
And soft touches
- - - - -
She says “drive you crazy bitch”
And laughs at my reaction
So I shift into first
And pop the clutch-
Sending smoke screens to the past
She says
“drive you crazy bitch
I don’t care where
Anywhere
Nowhere
Somewhere
Who cares?
Just Drive”
So it’s pedal to the floor
Radio cranked
Windows down
Wind in hair
And the open road
Radio stations fade
So we have discs
And Ani says
“You just gotta drive”
And the mistakes on the past generation
Fade like the radio stations
The bruises on my arm from discipline
Have healed
The welts on my backside from belts
Have disappeared
The animosity I once felt for those lessons
The time-outs
The grounding
The chores
Has changed into gratitude
For teaching me how to live
She says
“Drive you crazy bitch
Anywhere
Nowhere
Somewhere
Who Cares?
Just Drive”
“You just gotta drive”
and I see within her so much of that resentment
but I know she will be a good mother
I see strength beyond words held back by a need for confidence
I see in her femininity that bridges the gap of our gender obligations
I see in her the power of creation that I will never know
I see in her love waiting to be unearthed in the archeological dig of our lives
I see in her the voracious intellectual appetite of youth coupled with wisdom beyond years
She says
“Drive you crazy bitch!
Nowhere
Somewhere
Anywhere
Who cares?
Just drive!”
Ani’s on the radio,
Telling me to drive
And the mistakes will fade the way 103.1 fades in Baltimore
I apologize when my truck breaks down and she simply replies
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you and your apologies.
If this is the product of your choices,
Your so-called mistakes,
Then so is my presence here
And I’ll be damned if that’s a mistake!”
Today there is only asphalt and the open windows
The sunroof welcomes blinding rays of glory from the sky as the clouds part to grant our way to tomorrow
She writes incessantly in the passenger seat,
Scratching out the potholes
And we’re heading to New York,
South to unlock the doors
West to the sunset
East to the sunrise
Anywhere but here
Not running from,
But running to something.
We’ll know when we get there.
She says,
“You just gotta drive”
- - - - -
I can’t say I won’t leave her
Because she is alone.
I can’t say I won’t hurt her
Because she has bruises from someone else on her heart
I can’t say I won’t lie
Because she has never heard truth
She leans into my touch and pulls me to her kiss before she walks away to the car.
I watch her, noticing the curve of her hips, outlined by her wind-blown shirt
Her hair flickers gently in the breeze, like willow groves in cool spring sunsets
We talk about deities and politics over coffee and cigarettes in diners all over this town
“That’s ‘cause I’m a…
Sister, I’m a…”
In poetry, I often wish to whisper, “I love you,” but I fear that will lead to the pain of the past
The fire rages in my chest, thinking of ways to show her that I am here, open to her.
To show her I will never leave until she tells me to go
To show her I will never be untrue- in words or deeds
To show her I am scared to death of these feelings crashing down upon me like the Red Sea to Egyptians, but that I am extending my hand in the hope she will hold it.
I want to Show her I will give her the stars if she asks for them, because words are meaningless these days.
I can’t Say I won’t leave because she has been alone before.
I can’t Say I won’t lie because she has never heard truth.
I can’t Say I won’t hurt her because the bruises on her soul from knuckles not of my hands are still healing
I can’t Say I am scared because I need strength, but I don’t know how to ask for help
I can’t Say any of this.
I am no warden, and my arms are not steel bars,
But she steals my heart every time she enters my cell.
The thought that I was ever without her is absurd, the way our world according to Euclid is a red rubber ball, but the whole world said it was a saltine.
It feels Right when she is in my bed.
Our skin touches and in the place of skin,
There is pure
energypoetryelectricitylove
I awake to her, soft and delicate, curled sweetly in her dream
And this feels Right.
I can’t fathom the thought of anyone else in her place, anyone ever having been there,
Anyone but her
In my fantasies, I can see that we will be together happily for eternity
In my fantasies, I can watch our children play and grow and go to school, while I teach next door
In my fantasies, I can picture anniversaries spent on balconies along Lake Shore Drive, Central Park West, and Montrose Boulevard
In my fantasies, I can see us managing our coffee bar, while the artisans and freaks paint each other green under our lights
In my fantasies, she is the milk to my cereal
The butter to my bagel
The sunset to my evening
Bob Dylan around a campfire with friends
The Marshmallow on my s’mores
but I can’t say any of this
and I know not the way to show her these things
so if I am sometimes quiet,
you will know why
my tongue bears my teeth marks.
- - - - -
I saw your face lit by pale moonlight
While we sat on the shoulder of the highway
We joked about ice cream and weight gain
While we waited in the back of my truck
Fantasies about ways to greet the driver danced with the smoke that filled our lungs and my car and for a few moments, I could not see anything beyond the windows.
We were alone
Separate from the rest of the universe
I could see more nights like this-
Nights in a car visiting all the places we’ve never been or to which we wish to return
Nestled on the shoulder of I-10 somewhere between Texas and tomorrow, we’ll feel the sun rise, blanketing us in a new day.
We’ll deep-dish while spooning.
We’ll find a place where we won’t need a car,
But we’ll have one anyway as a Plan “B”.
- - - - -
And whatever became of foreplay?
I stroke your legs under the table,
One to either side of my knees
And gripping the supple flesh of calves tells the story of sacrificing time and distance for reverence and worship within the temples of our flesh.
We wander through the evening upon magic carpets of conversation at fire-side gatherings, poetry readings, and coffee-houses – the temples of mind and spirit.
I have faith that there is salvation within your eyes.
I believe that I am gGod
And you are gGod
And we are gGod
And we are Titans when we love.
We are comfortable under a pure white sheet with fluorescent lighting the corner of my room, vibrating to the music of Cat Stevens
“ooh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world”
And the other song really is about a mouse-
If you believe it to be.
I know that this ink is the blood that courses through your veins,
And that when I taste you,
I can taste the blood of a million poets before you
Within you.
- - - - -
What it all means, I know not.
The day hidden by rain clouds, I wonder the lessons to be learned by living my life and loving my labors.
I see that, even in a rainstorm, fires can rage, sending tendrils of flame into the air.
Prayer or penance?
Does the rain threaten to quench the lovers’ thirst, or does the fire rebel against the darkness?
Exorcisms on unnamed daemons in the chambers of insomnia
Washing away fears with Captain Unisom and another wet pillow
I am afraid of my shadow,
So I use a 300mg blue shield everyday
To stay well
And turn the other way
Our shadows have become one in the cloudy noon,
Mingling with those of the automobiles and the diners
And in that unity, I become afraid.
She says, “The rain means nothing tonight. Let the fire burn. I can’t promise it will be burning in the morning, but for now…”
And trails off as she nestles into my arm.
She calls me her daemon, her left ventricle, her right lung, her softest parts.
My heart stops, my breath freezes.
I pull her closer, thinking that if I am inside her,
If she is inside me,
The rain could stop.
But, ‘Certain things, like cold, do not wash away,’
And my breath is still frozen as I try to take my place in her chest, begging for an end to the rain.
On days like this, I forget to wear my One-by-Three and my Two-One-None armor, and the rain soaks me, also.
I try to be her shelter, to pull her into me, to instigate the blaze ever further, but,
‘The world is an animal’ which I must tiptoe around while she walks with palms upturned, stretched out, waiting for it to ‘lap up with a street-growl-hiss… to take a sniff’.
Journals provide fitting quotes to anecdotes and poetic notes we share at diners over coffee cups and ashtrays. No bill, but four dollars down and the short trip to my house.
And I want to be fodder for the flames, to live like Daniel forever in this room, and Cat can scat with Bob and Ani and REM can overtake us, swallow us in to dream forever in this white-walled fortress that knows no darkness
that knows no shadows
that knows no rain.
It has been too long since that ‘archeological dig’. I am still counting the marbles, but I have left the excavation- afraid of what I might find. I can afford that no more. I will return to the temple, take one of those marbles, spin it in my hand, ‘place it in [my] mouth, ricochet it tooth to tooth’.
The rain comes and it goes- and the fire wavers uncertainly, still being fueled by bloodstreams in the mist, as I ‘take up arms against a sea of troubles’ hoping ‘by opposing [to] end them’ and ‘we will be free once more. We will be Free once more. We will be… free’
To live forever in this room, in these sheets, burn the tools and place their heads on platters, for this excavation will take place exploring bodies ‘with blunt fingertips’ or sharp nails ‘maybe nothing is sharp enough’, but we will explore minds with irises and pupils. I want to dive into the wishing wells of her eyes, so I pull her closer.
Words fail me, leading me to steal the words of other poets to pull together my incoherent thoughts. So I pray that she still drinks ‘from [my] breath on her lips when we kiss.’
- - - - -
And the pain comes screaming through her pen as she writes words that no one will read.
And who are you to say these things? I’m no child; hell, I’m smarter than you. These whales fly over Rodney because my tongue is in a mason jar.
We had a date to watch the sunset,
But because she was Gretel, not Hansel, I am forced to be a ‘love-struck Romeo’ without a balcony.
Roses wilt on car seats in the hot pre-summer sun and my guitar strings fade a little toward flat from the heat.
I should have been at work but the overview was too slow, and my heart too fast, so I find my old balcony, only finding the Nurse.
We talk.
We laugh.
We eat.
I find fuel for new flames, and throw in my onion smell and her eggs, and a bit of salsa- just for an added touch.
From where I stand now, her window is to the East and I keep our date though she rests for now and the sun is hiding behind the West.
Padding down the hallway in my naked socks, having pulled everything over my face, I found a mirror and seeing that I was a raccoon, I transformed into an angel with just a sweep of my hands.
And they say I can’t send messages to the stars because I can’t tip the judgment that far.
I sense my own stench, having not bathed in so long, and I start to smell…
Onions.
Quit asking me so many goddamned questions! I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, but I have the ones you want to hear, of the ones I need to hear, why isn’t he here, why is she near, why am I so full of fear?
This shit can’t fool me! You fucks are children!
If I want to pour my heart out into my journal, what’s that to you?
And don’t you dare go into my room, don’t you dare go into my diary,
Pandora, don’t open that box
So there are no more questions, I’ll pretend to take in all of this bullshit they serve, and I’ll purge my thoughts on my own time.
And, damn it, I have a date,
Don’t you see?
He’s waiting for me
He saved me a seat,
He couldn’t possibly
Be that great,
Could he?
‘He’s singing the streets a serenade’ ‘cause I’m late.
I wonder if she can see me down here.
Did she hear my laments for our love?
Can I hold her tomorrow?
This is scary, don’t you understand?
Love is scary, man!
I’m so far out of the loop, because I’m still a Montague, though her nurse helps me sneak in.
Who knows what thoughts she sees in her head when she sleeps in her bed? I cannot be led into that chamber of dreams.
It seems to me that her seams are splitting, so I wean myself from our social group.
I sleep for both of us, taking a pillow and a puppy as a poor but adequate substitute for her body.
I finish my song and notice that the sun has fallen.
“There he goes,
There he goes again
Racing through my brain
And I just can’t contain
This feeling that remains”
Because I stood him up, he’s getting on with his life, and that’s just one more man to walk away from me.
He leaves roses, like this is a mortuary or a cemetery.
And this is why I greet him in costume; meet him in disguised affectations-
So he won’t have to spend picnics alone in the sunset while I watch from my window.
But I’m here, aren’t I?
When I say, “I love you,” I mean that I will help you when you fall.
It means that you can say anything, and I will only love you more.
For
That is real.
That is love.
Don’t you think I’m scared, too?
Don’t you think it scares me to think that I am willing to put my life in the hands of someone who doesn’t even want her own?
If you can’t trust that I won’t run from you, than what do you mean when you say you love me?
And no, I’m not mad.
I’m just sad
To think that you mean so much to me but so little to yourself, but so much to me.
You are incredible and beautiful when you sleep and when you wake, so how could you take that with you?
Yeah, it’s selfish, but I want to hold you, to have you.
I want you to come on to my house.
I want you in that chair in the sunset and I want to hand this flower to you, instead of placing a wilted bud on a sign that it’s time for me to go-
For now.
Your nurse is calling you to dinner.
Sleep well.
And remember, I don’t run when I’m afraid, otherwise, Tybalt would still walk among us.
I leave these flowers and these lines as a sign
that I’ll be back tomorrow.
- - - - -
Mon petite chou,
Needless, but said anyway is that this was definitely an unexpected barrier to our relationship. Nonetheless, I think it is a necessary step. Regardless of how we may feel about each other, we as individuals must be healthy in order for any relationship between us to be healthy.
So, ENJOY! Experience! I know I’ll sound like a cross between Stewart Smalley and Richard Simmons, but this world has so much to offer if only we can see. So many people love you, among whom I am one, and we want nothing more that to see you healthy. I want nothing more than to see you smile. And, yes, of course my insecurity wants me to think that I could not have had an impact great enough to make you smile that much, but I believe you when we kiss. I understand in your touch.
You have had a profound effect on my life, simply in the few weeks we’ve known each other, and for that, I am and will forever be grateful.
At this point, having already received so much from you; compassion, affection, self-esteem, love; I can ask nothing more of you than to use this time to get well.
Yes, it’s on foreign soil, with strange neighbors, but the environment you were released into is not healthy for you, or conducive to your mental well-being.
And there are no fingers to point. Pick yer nose. Relationships are two sided. Part of getting well at this point is to recognize where you contributed to the unhealthy homeland environment. I have done the same with our relationship, for what its worth at this point. But, rather than focus on past mistakes and indiscretion, we all (you, your mom, me) need to focus on growth and stability- that you will return to an environment that can support you.
You are so incredibly talented and intelligent, funny, beautiful, soft- you have so much to give and share, but perhaps you gave too much, or didn’t see how much the world is offering you. At this point, as I have already said, Be Selfish! Right now, it’s all about you. Want it or not, we’re giving you all we can. I am throwing tools at your feet, but it’s up to you to pick them up and use them. Family is the bulldozer of all big toys, and you may not see it, but all the anger and frustration your mother deals with and deals out is because of how much she loves you. Otherwise, she would not pressure you to do well; she would not have kept your art stuff from kindergarten…
I don’t know… I am kind of trailing off at this point, but the point I am trying to make is that you can make it. There is so much for you to look forward to, and I hope that this time finds you well.
Do what you need to do.
I love you.
- - - - -
It’s a cool summer night
And I make wilted dandelions explode
With wishes for music
We’re swimming naked in this world,
Hidden in the darkness
Through the clear water,
I can see my toes
We wander,
Hand-in-hand,
Through the slimy mud until the water begins to pool in my navel
We turn, lock eyes, both so high we’re afraid to look down
Count of three and drop to the side
Rise like typhoons from the water
Screaming in joy
Screaming for air
We swim to a tree on the other side of the shaded cove,
Into the moonlight,
Where we talk,
Each breath sending ripples into the star sheen of the lake
The conversation tenses and relaxes,
Words like mood-swings about our pasts and our destinations
I sit on a fallen bough,
Looking down into a pair of eyes that ask to kiss me…
But I know I shouldn’t allow that.
Obligations to people far away hold me to my answer
And the eyes’ mouth begs for a story
I begin to tell those ears about trial and error in past relationships,
Then I listen for a while
Our histories have become faerie-tales for midsummer nights
As our bodies move near and far around throbbing heartbeats
We return to our clothes,
Where those hands dry my goose-pimpled flesh with a t-shirt
Again, there is heavy air, and we take our time getting dressed.
Sitting in the car, we turn on the heat to warm our skin
And our conversation continues to wander across the vast expanses of our lives
My heart is pounding as I reach for a pair of feet,
Massaging the tension from the toes,
And drawing moans from lungs
We dance with the various junk in the car,
Settling back on the deck of the station-wagon,
My head on a shoulder,
An arm around my back
I can hear a heartbeat surging below my pillow
And I feel a pair of lips on my forehead
Choosing to forget my obligatory response to this question,
I change my answer,
Pulling against a jaw line that opens to my kiss,
Allowing me into a mouth
As four hands scan limbs and clothes for answers to more questions that go unanswered by words,
Letting actions imply and confirm intent
Sweat drips down the inside of the windows
As body heat rises and clothes drop
Not a single inch of skin isn’t kissed and caressed fluids mix along the folds of skin and upholstery
We take turns being Atlas; each lifting the world above our heads plunging down into each other we are floating in the pre-dawn air of this automobile and rug burn becomes a forgotten reality
Flesh moulds together
Sweat sears eyes
Nails plow skin
Teeth pinch ridges across the terrains of our bodies
We drink of each other to replace lost fluids
We tremble in excitement when thighs hide eyes
We roll like pool balls
I throw ribs down
Leaning above a bare chest
Tasting pale purple and glistening red
Hours jog by the windows,
And we hear their footsteps on the pavement
I duck down every time I hear the beasts roll by,
Laughing at the absurdity,
But I forget soon enough-
Distracted by the pulsing of hips and lips and fingertips
I want this to go on forever,
But I know this will end all too soon
The sunlight casts rainbows across our bodies,
Reluctantly returning our clothes to our salty landscapes,
We pull away into the sunlight,
Chilly as the sweat still evaporates from our eyes
I hear that I taste exquisite,
And reply that
Those lips were the first to know
- - - - -
Sitting at the bar of the Nuyorican,
Thinking about a poet who should own that mic,
I long for her.
I miss poetry whispered in our sex,
While moonlight sang to us through the window.
I miss the soft of her love
Her hair
Her eyes
Her skin
Dressed loosely in t-shirt and ripped jeans
She would curl on my couch while I cooked a pair of cappuccinos in the kitchen
And in my memorial thoughts,
My chest burns
With desire for her touch
In her silence are unlit candles and Jackson Pollock journal entries of ink and blood
Anarchy and Adultery burn alphabets into her footsteps,
Though the DJ assures her that only the act was illegitimate
I cry because she can no longer weep
And the pain has seared blisters into her fingertips
Making her unable to use the tools we so gingerly place at her feet
As offerings