To Anyone

I hear it again,
the throbbing ache of a hand
thrust into the air,
out of the landfill,
solitary.
I have seen it more than once
in the little time I have grown:
Small bones a-mask
in the pallid, stretchy skin of a ghost.
They tell me the same things -
if I recall well -
"One small, white pellet
before she retires;
(And a fourth of this kind
just to be sure.)
Make sure she takes it."

The first of many times,
I hung myself by a thread
and floated on broken sentences
heard over the telephone.

By the second time, I learned.
I measure what I carry
in careful nods that ride on a beat,
one, two, three, one, two, three -

I am glad you are here.

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You know you should have said something.

The coming day pulls flesh over eyes
like sheep skin.
The strobes mock us,
"What of the night
disapppoints you?"
But my mouth disappoints me too.
It falls prey to its own ministrations,
Child to its own lies.
I have heard a dozen or so
voices tonight; they tell me
the same condolences.
If our mouths had lives of their own,
would their offsprings be as cowardly?

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Definitions, or something akin to them

I do not open these boxes anymore;
My heart has nothing left to see.

Feel the enclosure of my hand
That is colder than the phrase

"You and me," the pronoun "us"
A far call to the gods.

In this earth, we are forced into words.
The entirety of ourselves - existent, breathing,

Tangible - packaged into letters
That spell nonsense. Most of the time.

"You" pron., resident of the memory;
"Me" pron., a somber amnesiac.

"Us" pron., a regret, or might-have-been;
Something one keeps in boxes.

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Phone Calls at 9 PM

These are the people who write about death:
the red-eyed waif with a cut on her cheek,
the old lady reading today's paper,
the man laughing amid the crowd.

How can a phone call change anything?
The tendrils of your head are in waves now.
I know you'd hate it if we put "Angel"
on your tombstone in bold, tactless letters,

Like how I hated it when you borrowed my dolls.
Will you sit beside me tonight
and hear me asking for forgiveness?
I can almost feel the flapping of your wings.

There is a black slab of penitence
on my chest; my mother pinned it on
with trembling hands. I held them
the way I held yours in the last slumber

I shared with you.

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On the topic of departure while on departure

I used to think, "This is where I leave you -"

after the last shop closes,
behind the Russian hum of traffic,
by the tactfulness of non-speech.
The departure is easier
when contact is a grazing of the skin
or a glance (or two.)

Everything happens around silence.
The echo of your feet softens
as the distance between you and me grows
and the slump of your shoulder
is no longer as timid.

Everything happens around silence.
Your hands know less of shaking
and you are neither the wonder of words
nor of the world, anymore.

Everything happens around silence.
My feet know less of following
and yours can only walk faster.

Everything happens around silence -
everything but the departure.

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Dance Lessons

The spring of her feet
defies mortal laws.
There is nothing
more beautiful than her flight.

What does she do
with no wings, no magic?
Around her waist,
a halo of hard tulle.

She says they hurt -
the curl of her toes,
the bend of her feet,
the arch of her back.

So I told her once:
I would like to know
your pain. Hold me fast
against the pull of the earth.

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Haiku, Book Five

Resolutions -

One

Retire before twelve.

The clock is warier now,

 as is the teacher.

Two

Worry not about

what you know has remedy;

Remedy your face.

Three

Exit four corners.

"Well, are you still a pussy?"

Two K-fifteen asks.

Four

Open mouth for words,

open eyes for clarity,

open mind for growth.

Five

Open self to all.

There is still room in the Church

for another saint.

#

Hello, everyone! I have reached the point where I am rid of almost all compulsion to write about (the events in) my life (id est, blogging), which, although might actually be exciting this year, has become a bit too homogenized. I have to say, though, that I have some creative projects lined up until June so I am pretty stoked (none of which merit my academic profile but college is not making me smarter anyway.)

With this, I am going to stop "blogging" and am shifting to a literary and informative purpose. This means that all content in Snap, Crackle, Pop! from here on until an indefinite date, probably my death, will be fictional prose and features on artists, music, and other pretentious things people who pop Mollies talk about. Is it safe to say that this is "maturing" - getting bored with yourself?

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A Ride Home

Aboard the car. Our feet shuffle in hesitation: first, mine, a little shy at the possibility of something happening, then yours, not interested in any way, as you have always been about everything. It is a norm I have accepted almost fully. The destination is home, the city so familiar, wet in the rain but dry in memory and, ah, how I love the drone of engines against wheels against concrete.

We pretend to be strangers. At some point in actuality, we are strangers despite day-to-day conversations that I wish lasted longer than

"Hey!"
"Hi."
"I'll see you there. Don't forget, okay?"
"All right, I'll try."

We do not talk. We do not spare each other a flicker of recognition. I with my prose, you with your sheet music; both printed on paper but each a separate form of experience. I would like to close the distance between us, the distance which, macroscopically, does not exist -- not here within what little space is left between our arms as you reach into your bag for a handkerchief, a pen, a cell phone . . . Je ne sais quoi.

Perhaps the problem has always been the inability of the universe to produce good endings or at least good beginnings. Our default defense mechanism is dysfunctional as well. We live in pretense that we write the novel with our own expositions and climaxes and denouements, all the while recognizing the impossibility of it.

And yet further into the ride we find ourselves communicating below, in (once again) a shuffling of feet. There is the rustling of denim, the soft squeak of the shoe. A silent apprehension or a gush of embarrassment. Your leg against mine, mine against yours. Inside this car, the air is thick with an unusual sense of comfort, and we resign to the notion of it already being "home."

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Haiku, Book Three

Laundry

The smell of liquor

aged five, six, seven hours -

stains hard to remove.

Infatuation

The tip of the tongue

enjoys the ringing diction;

Remember the name.

Possible Situations

If only I could 

rest my leg near another's

longer than I had -

Why Write Haiku

The idle mind is

a dying mind; these are nights

when I lie rotting.

Preoccupation

But the brain consumes

all that the brain can and will.

See you later, blog.

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Haiku, Book Two

End of something

We "have had," years past

Never "will have", not again:

end of a story.

Dreams

Underneath eyelids,

mind turns into gossamer:

colors everywhere.

Apprehension

Like a marathon:

legs begin to fade into

a street of people.

Big Words

You, Gossipmonger,

Fabricate in Grecism -

Audience of skeptics.

Stranger

It is funny how

you know too much about a

person you don't know.

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Haiku, Book One

Crickets

They are bells that ring

Tonight, a lone orchestra -

She stops to listen.

Compromises

You, me. No one knows

what our hands are for, or do

they clap for others?

On: Death

Blank sheet of paper,

No more ink, diary ends

in unfinished sen--

 Birthdays

Sorry, I forgot;

It is not my best habit.

I'll bring you cake soon.

Love

Some French, German names

(of course, postmodernism - )

we don't understand.

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Best Friend

I remember the night you first told me you were dying. How absurd, I thought, I did not like the way it came clicking out of your tongue. We were in a ripe age. Youth – everyone wanted to be immortal. And you looked immortal, a face veiled by an ancient godliness, perhaps because you had just shaved that morning.

You did not look “dying.” Ah, you had those long, thin fingers: I remember well how they cradled the fork that carried the spindle of pasta to your eager mouth, the seldom drip of the viscous bloody sauce, pieces of meat and pepper, the grinding of your teeth. Above us, warm yellow light dissolved the restaurant in a pretense of safety, plastering our vulnerability within a copied memory of “home.”

Back then, your eyes were bereft of the screen you had a habit of wearing elsewhere. Your neck, a pillar to the prize that is your head, was craned consciously at a curious angle. I could almost see the air filling up your throat before every enunciation.

I strained to listen to your monologue on little sharp things and their affinity to your skin. It was something I knew well. I, too, had that, an evening before I put you in my line of vision. Needles in plastic ware . . . Not clean, no, just the way I preferred them. They embossed themselves on the material mortality of my arm like a nail driven into a plank of plywood. My skin felt more tangible than it ever had. I did it fast, scratching at the itches of my inadequacy, after the maternal figure slammed the bedroom door in a feverish whip of disappointment –

one fluid line after another.

This was our armistice, you and me versus the pretentiousness of the world (and there was the occasional stifling of a chuckle that hid our own pretentiousness inside the quiet of the restaurant.) It was written on the air that flowed from our lungs to our mouths, a graceful ascent that was almost serendipitous. That summer, the war melted into the thin ceramic plate you ate pasta on, pieces of meat and pepper, meat and pepper . . .

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Breakfast

Mornings are when
we wake up realizing the world is not better,

and we live more in our sleep
underneath blankets soft against

our shells. We are not better,
but sober, we are, and "better."

In mornings we find slivers of hope
in the sunrise that pierces our lids

like nails. Prickly but . . . not so.
Ah, we do not like hope.

It is any carbonated liquid -
effervescent, brief, with nimble air,

bubbles rising to the top
only to disappear soonest.

In moments like these, I wish you
were different; but then,

what would be the point?
A couple of sugar cubes

swimming in two cups
of freshly brewed coffee.

A plate of bratwurst,
tomatoes on the side,

pretzels, goettas, Kaiserchmarren.
Mornings are the bane of the day

but breakfasts are a favorite
and best when eaten slowly.

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My "Now"

Wishes, wishes -
We are always wishing
As if the skin we
Came out of the womb
With is never enough.
The mother looks at us
With inebriated eyes.
Not sober, no. Not
Until we turn thirteen.
It is then we are vomitted
Out of the caring mouth.

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Extinguishing

The noise is a termite
in the log house of security:
Each second, a new chip of wood
disappears in a graceless descent.

They talk too much,
these voices know no tact.
You would want to silence them.
(At times, sanity is a sin,

more so because you want
to live free of it.)
"Get out of this room,"
they say; they want it to themselves.

Termites are selfish creatures -
I know them well.
They multiply by the hundreds
to multiply by the hundreds

Until all the house is are termites.
A house of a house of termites
und ihre Königin ist ein Monster.
They live for her, live because of her.

You have to unearth them soon
or put them out in a blaze.
Yes, fire is better. They have to feel
the most as they will be gone.

#

Not my best, but this works for now.

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Better Nights

In a stupor, kinder conversations
take flight from our minds, our lips
are shells of the same blackness
as the space above us.

Do we even know where we go,
Do our feet hear the same voices
that tell us we are doomed --
All we want is to escape.

There is something about us,
something about the heaviness
in our footsteps, the softness
of the rain against our skulls,

The coldness of the air,
The unwarranted warmth at contact
from another human being;
The words only we can understand.

We wait for our time
in patience; the seldom tap of the foot
against our silence is cacophony.
I do not know love, but --

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Sprouting

They shot a bird
With a pellet gun -
I heard a maddened pop!

And raced to a grave
Of grass and poppies:
Something hellish; it rots

To the soil beneath it
In thin, flowing threads
That I try to catch

And tie to my hand.
Lacing, slowly lacing
Until I weigh a strength.

I feel my skin harden,
And my feet growing roots,
And my hands spinning thread.

Now the bird
Can still be saved,
But how long can I wait?

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Health

For everyone who is sick with summer allergies.

It is when I see you that I remember I am human.
Limits, limits - I realize I cannot suffice

for what you need; and it kills me
that I am only a quarter of your safety.

We surround you, ghouls around a child's bed
or baby's breath around poppies on a spring day.

My lungs have only you: I slit my chest
in half and find a familiar longing.

If I screamed, I would scream harder
the second time. I cannot reach you

with the loudest of voices and I,
I can only watch you wither.

#

I have reached sixteen days of writing hundred-word short stories (a feat!) and I am temporarily on a hiatus because my imagination has encountered its limit. Though I admit to writing in frustration at certain times, I had a lot of fun. I have review classes so I will go back to the project next week. Until then, cheers!

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Insufficiency

You, Apollo, swift on your course,
Wheels hot as your soul;
and Selene, held to the earth
by Atlas' hand -

Firmest in grip.
She would like to go to you,
and in your misery, embrace you -
but your fires are too high.

(If she danced on toes
she would burn.
Flight is an alien,
an alien, an alien.)

You are the healer, Paean,
but death chases you
faster than the flames
on your chariot.

If she could, she would
kill those little stars you consume -
if it would save you.
She would, she would.

(Hers would be
a pedestal at Delphi,
an oracle, a temple
in the valley of Phocis.)

Let her save you from your fires;
Let them write about you -
You and your demons,
You and Selene.

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God in Hiding

Father, do you remember
when I still saw you?
You were afraid I
would fall off that cliff

and You held out Your hand
like a mother to her newborn.
You feared
I would not see you again.

But I fell
and it was a hard fall.
I, too, am scared.
We are all scared.

That day they
covered Your face in purple sheets.
I thought I would
never see You again.

I lived after the fall
and You knew,
but You never searched for me.
And now, I -

I look underneath
the blankets of soil
for You.
I look everywhere for You.

Even in the sun:
like a moth to a lamp
I quiver towards the "light";
They told me it was You.

The shepherd by the corner
tells me You are here,
but I hear wolves;
and they are coming for me.

In time, Father. In time.

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Happy Easter Sunday, everyone!

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