Poetry

I wrote no pretty words today,
It's not I have none to say,
It's just that I'm so full of love,
That that is poetry enough.

Note to Housesitter

Written for a prompt in which I had to write a note to someone who would be watching a characters house. Had to be first person. Didn't have to involve frogs, smoking, and anal sex, but that was a self inflicted restriction that I decided to revisit. See Frog Fall.

Feed the frogs. Do not forget. Twice a day, two pinches.

Please don’t smoke in my office. My wife smokes in every other corner of the house, so feel free to light up in any other place. Just not in my office. My wife, she’s a horrific smoker. Two packs a day, through her mouth, out her nose. In one hole and out the other in obnoxious drags. She’s coughing every day, that raspy nicotine hacking all over the place. Doesn’t even cover her mouth because she’d have to put down her cigarette.

Febreze everything, aside from my office. There’s a few spray bottles under the sink – use them all. Please, spray everything. She hates the smell of Febreze so my only chance to get rid of the smoke stench is when she leaves. And open the windows, but not the one by the terrarium. She panics, thinks the frogs will hop out the entire three feet to the sill.

I’m sorry. I feel as though this might be inappropriate, but I have to; you’re a female. Do you think its normal for a fully grown woman to be raising frogs? I mean, I used to work in the city, so I didn’t know what she used to do all day. Now, I work out of my home office (which reminds me, water the plants in the office, they are not plastic), so I see what she does. She’s with them all day. I come out of my office for lunch (there’s fish sticks and such in the fridge if you get hungry) and I find her there, hovered over the terrarium, smoking of course, cooing, stroking, whispering in their ears. You might ask yourself if frogs even have ears. They do, behind their eyes. I don’t even know if my wife knows this.

It would be one thing if she was educated about these frogs. But she’s not. She’s never taken even the slightest interest in any science, let alone biology. There’s even a few books about reptiles and amphibians in our study, but she hasn’t touched them. I have leafed through them in a search for answer to questions like ‘why does my wife give her love to amphibian?’ This answer is not in Amazing Reptile and Amphibian Records or Carter’s Biology Handbook. There are mostly fun facts.

I can tell you frogs have the strangest breeding habits. In South America, the Surinam toad mates in water. Fellars are eight inches long, so it must be bizarre to see them in the act. The female releases eggs right then and the male fertilizes them and presses them into her back. They lay like that for a few hours while a cyst grows around the cluster of eggs. The male hops off, goes on his way, and for a few months the female carries them around in this crusty pouch on her back until it splits, releasing the baby frogs. Absolutely strange.

The locked door is a nursery. Please just stay away from it.

As far as the bedrooms go, you can sleep in any guest bedroom. Might I recommend the blue one; the down comforter always puts me right to sleep, regardless of how stressed I am. There are more sheets in the closet in the master bedroom. Feel free to use whatever you like. You’ll no doubt find the bottle of lubricant by the bedstand, next to her ashtray. Don’t judge me. She’s into it. I never really tried it before her, but she really wanted to. It’s amazing she ever got pregnant, because I swear we have anal more than the garden variety sex. (Don’t worry about the garden. Haven’t really got around to growing anything yet. Our old house had a little plot next to the screen door. I used to grow wildflowers. But this neighborhood code is strict about landscaping; only shrubs in the front.)

Another fun fact. I can tell you that frogs can live without food or air for a whole year. If they have air, they can survive for over two years. Sometimes, when they are young, they crawl through a small crevice in a rock to get at some insects inside. They gorge themselves, only to grow so large they can no longer leave through the crack. So they wait to die. One year, two years.

I suppose that’s not a horrible way to go. Two whole years to achieve inner peace, balance, readiness for the afterlife. Our last housesitter, little Spanish maid, devout Catholic, told my wife there was no room in heaven for her frogs. And she also told my wife smoking is a sin, a betrayal by poisoning God’s earthly temples with ash. We had to get a new house sitter.

Please don’t forget to feed the little squirts. Their food is next to the terrarium. Twice a day, two pinches.

Anal sex really isn’t that different. Takes a bit more preparation, little more pre-planning. I’m sorry, I hate to bring it up again, but I did once and I don’t want you to think we are strange. Forgive me, we are new to this whole middle-upper-class thing. We moved into this place right after I got my promotion a year ago. Maybe because I work here now it doesn’t feel like home yet. Aside from the stench of smoke everywhere. This house is just so big. She wanted a big house for the little guy on the way, but the little guy didn’t make it, so we’ve got this big empty space that still manages to suffocate me. I’m glad we are getting away from a bit. I was beginning to feel like one of those frogs inside a rock.

Darwin’s frog, lives in South America. Female lays thirty eggs, and the male guards them for two weeks. Get this: he hops around with them in his mouth for two whole weeks. Thirty little droplets grow, feed on their yolks, ooze out of their eggs, and jump out of their father’s vocal pouch already half an inch big. Incredible. The responsibility. I think my wife wasn’t ready for it. All she worried about was getting a new house so our kid wouldn’t be cramped. She smoked up until the day we lost him. She went on an IV for a few days. On the way home, she made me stop to get some cigarettes. There was a pet store down the road. She bought her frogs.

These things are sad. I was sad. But they happen to everyone. They don’t mean we throw everything away and give our love to amphibians, you know? Aside from the frogs and the anal sex, we really aren’t interesting people. Don’t bother looking for anything else strange. There’s a safe in my office that just contains paperwork and a few invaluables. Nothing interesting in the medicine cabinet, just run of the mill Aspirin, Tylenol, Nyquill. Speaking of which, you know the phrase, frog in the throat? Originated in the middle ages. They used to think that the best way to cure a sore throat was to actually place a frog in ones mouth. The slime from the frog’s skin would coat the throat, apparently counteracting the victim’s phlegm.

Might I share a joke with you? Again, most likely inappropriate, but now that I work here I don’t have much contact with coworkers. I have to tell someone this. I’ve found a rather amusing solution to my “situation” – my wife’s smoking, her frogs, the anal sex. I was thinking about sticking a few of her frogs up her ass to satisfy whatever that sexual… need is. Maybe it could crawl up through her and sit in her throat for a while to cure that cough. In one hole and out the other.

Breakup

Untitled, unfinished as of now. The idea of a painless severing of ties with a loved one is a fascinating idea. And like most fascinating ideas, it is most likely impossible. That doesn't stop us from trying.

Thomas’s friends told him to do it the same as when taking off a band-aid; quick and painless. Thomas considered this possibility because he didn’t like pain, especially of the heartbreak variety. However, he couldn’t quite handle the metaphor of a discarded band-aid to represent the last two years of his life, the love that he so carefully and intensely painted with bright strokes of commitment and affection. Furthermore, he resented the idea that his original self needed a bandage in the first place. What is it about relationships that make people think they are a means of completion?

“You complete me.”

“You fill me up.”

Bullshit. Is it not possible that Thomas went into the relationship as a complete person? Is it not possible that Thomas was not empty when he was looking for a girl to love?

Thomas would not rip her off quickly and painlessly. He would not discard her and forget about her as soon as the scar faded. Thomas wanted to hold on to this feeling of loss that follows the end of a relationship because he felt there was something to learn from it. Thomas believes that the strongest people in the world are those that can still learn when they are at their weakest.

She, the girl who has left him at his weakest, lives down the hall in his dorm. She still leaves her door unlocked. He still crawls into her bed every night and she rolls over to spoon him. A lot of people might think it weird that Thomas still spoons with the girl he broke up with, but those same people think relationships are analogous to band aids. Thomas knows this whole breakup business will be hard work that won’t happen in a single fight, no matter how hard they yell or hit or cry. Thomas knows these things take time and he’s never pretended otherwise. She asks him to stop coming in but she still leaves her door unlocked.

Thomas knows this must stop and has always known this. Every morning he leaves her warm sheets a bit earlier. Eventually he starts crawling in later in the night. After a month or two, he’s not even falling asleep with her. And although that moment he spends in her presence is probably still the best moment in his day, he begins to think of her less. In no time at all, he just lies down, hugs her, and tucks her in. One night he just opens her door, looks for a moment, and goes back to his own bed. The next he just pushes it open a crack. By now, she no longer expects him to come in at all. A week later he just taps on her door, ever so gently. She doesn’t hear him but her sleeping body shifts underneath the sheets and rolls to spoon a boy that is no longer there.

Brushtips, Fingertips

I wrote the greatest poem ever. "Roses are red, love is fucked." No one else seemed to agree, so I wrote another. This one stretches the metaphor well beyond breaking point, but when I am loving and losing, I don't really find that bothering me.


I.

After the blood loss, I injected
my chest with thick oil paint.
Alizarian Crimson for oxygenated
and Cobalt Blue for venous.
I thought someone might
want to paint a picture with
my earthly remains so I took
a shot of Cadmium Yellow
with a turpentine chaser
so the mortician could paint
with this world's whole
spectrum at his brushtips.

II.

Before you (and us)
I think maybe I
was an artist and now,
after you (and us)
I'm artwork out of
context framed without
you, nailed to a museum
wall, with a plaque to
tell the casual standerby
who I am, in life, art, love
(and us).


III.

"Me" ca. 2005-2007
blood on canvas,
oil on flesh, lips,
toes, thighs, knees,
penis, fingertips,
elbows, heart.

Rosalie

Rosalie took that breath people take before interrupting silence. She exhaled and took that breath again. She turned sitting to her left on the park bench. “I’m sorry. But you look very familiar.”

The man paused before speaking. “It’s very possible you’ve seen me before,” he said as he folded up his tabloid.

Rosalie had already thought this man to be handsome in a mysterious, foreboding way. It would certainly make sense if such a catch was some big celebrity whose image saturated all the pop culture she hadn’t bothered to notice. Surely, a celebrity. “And where might I have seen you before?”

“Oh, here and there. Out on your daily routine,” replied the man. He tucked the magazine under his arm and slid his hands into the pockets of his black Levi’s.

Rosalie blushed. The sunglasses, the Dodgers cap – big shot sports star.

Should she push the topic of celebrity? Or would he be more comfortable with talking about the weather? Maybe sports? Rosalie’s brother used to live out west and he still talked baseball – she could talk about the Dodgers. Perfect. “Can’t believe we have to watch Barry Bonds for another year,” she said, repeating one of her brother’s more common baseball musings.

The man turned his head to face Rosalie. “Hmm?” he growled.

“You know. The Dodgers. Battle of the Bay.” She pointed to the L.A. emblazoned on his ball cap.

“Oh. I don’t have much time for football,” he replied.

Of course. Silly Rosalie. No time for sports, tabloid magazine, from L.A. – must be Hollywood. Surely, this man was hiding the face of a movie star behind his scruff and shades. Probably growing out that beard for an upcoming role or maybe to hide his identity. Without that clever disguise he’d be swarmed by flocks of screaming girls. Hell, with his suave demeanor, he’d have women swarming him.

Aside from turning his head and folding his paper, he had not yet moved. Rosalie seemingly tried to make up for it by shifting posture with every breath, straightening her hem, readjusting her purse, putting her hands between her knees, under her armpits, beneath her butt. This man and his mysteries had her tickled.

“What brings you to this park?”

“The same thing that brings me here every day.”

Rosalie unpacked her celery and peanut butter but did not eat it. “And what might that be?”

“These sights. You know, the birds, the bees.” The man turned to look straight ahead again.

Rosalie found this cute. “Every day, you come to watch the wildlife?” She thought this man was quite remarkable.

“Well, there are other things I suppose. The people getting into taxis, waiting at the bus stops. And of course all the pretty ladies,” he paused, “like yourself.”

Rosalie blushed. Maybe not a sports star or movie icon, but this man was a romantic and sweetheart. She giggled and looked away to hide her reddening cheeks. He turned to look at her again.

“Don’t hide your pretty face,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to see it up close.”

Rosalie didn’t quite understand and wanted to change the conversation so she wouldn’t get embarrassed again. “You come here often?”

“Every weekday,” he responded. Rosalie thought perhaps he was rich and didn’t have to work.

“That’s nice.”

“Much nicer than the last place. There was no park there; I had to sit in my van.”

Rosalie wasn’t sure what he was talking about. She now knew he wasn’t rich. She nervously began spreading the peanut butter on her celery. “And where was the ‘last place’?” she asked.

“You know it well.” The man scratched his scraggly beard and stared at her peanut butter and celery.

“I’m not sure I do. I haven’t been in the area long, only two months. I used to live in Kansas but had to move out here when I changed jobs.” said Rosalie. The man remained staring at her celery. There was an awkward pause in the conversation so she held up her lunch to offer him a share.

Distracted, he replied, “No thank you. Peanut butter sticks to my mouth.” He finally looked away from her tin lunch box. “I think you’re pretty and I’ve been watching you.”

Rosalie was mildly creeped out, but couldn’t help but blush. He wasn’t a rich celebrity, but he was paying attention to her in this strange new landscape of concrete and metal. “Really? How long have you been fancying me?” She substituted fancying for watching since it sounded mildly less weird.

“A few months now.”

Eggshells

Ethan winced at the tink tap thwack. The first strike stresses the egg. The second sends a thousand webbed fractures streaking through the shell. The third splinters the shell which ruptures the membranes, spilling out its yolk and white. Tink tap thwack.

After cracking the third egg, Josh glanced up. “You never did say how many you wanted.” Josh waited for a response, holding the next egg inches above the rim of the yellow bowl.

Ethan’s gaze lingered on the egg hovering above the metal rim. His eyes slowly wandered to meet Josh’s impatient stare.

“Ethan, how many eggs? One, two?”

Ethan blinked, and upon opening his eyes he once again found them focused on the egg. He began, “That bowl used to belong to my mother. She used to make me an egg sandwich every morning. Even when I told her I wasn’t hungry. Even when I had to leave early for football practice or study groups, she was always there. White and black striped apron and yellow bowl.”

Josh craned his head forward and sideways in that strange manner that asked whathafuckyoutalkinbout? “Ethan, I slept over a million times. I’ve had your mom’s egg sandwich in the morning.” Despite the circumstances of this morning, he couldn’t avoid a small grin.

Ethan continued, “that was her bowl. She gave it to you guys as a housewarming gift. She asked me if she thought it would be ok to give you guys something used. I said I didn’t care.” Ethan raised his hand a bit at the skin on his knuckle. “She bought a new one a few months ago. KitchenAid.” He looked back at Josh. “How the hell can I remember that? I barely remember where I sat for commencement. I have no clue what my locker combination was. I can’t even remember the name of our assistant coach.”

“Could you try and remember how many eggs you wanted?”

Ethan put his hands on his elbows and shook his head. “You remember the first time we did it on the roof of the middle school? That was the day you were telling us about that eighth grade chick from Health class you felt up, what was her name? Lauren. She dropped out from university already.”

Josh ignored Ethan and opened the cabinet in search of salt and pepper.

“You know, when I first saw this place yesterday, it immediately reminded me of your uncle’s flat on the west side. I smoked my first blunt there and I left the bag sitting out and his Labrador ate it. Fucking stoned big ass black dog.”

The salt and pepper were already on the counter, so Josh shut the cabinet and mixed them into the eggs in the yellow bowl. There was an absence of conversation for a moment as Josh poured the eggs into the frying pan.

Then, “Hey Josh. You remember the time the three of us got suspended for the shaving cream prank in the third floor? Kid down the hall at college was telling me he read about it in the paper right when it happ--?”

“What the hell Ethan? How much longer you gonna do this? How could I not forget that? My dad whipped me for three weeks for getting suspended. He still thinks that’s the reason I didn’t get any scholarships. You sat by Jillian Hast at commencement. Clipner was our assistant coach and her name was Lori not Lauren and if you really want me to fucking concentrate, I could probably remember your locker combination. Why do these things matter? We could do this all day. You could do this your whole damned life. It’s the past. Forget about it.”

Ethan quit biting the skin on his knuckles. “How? What about him?”

“Yea sure. Forget it. No, don’t forget him, just stop trying to remember the details. He’s dead.” This part is a bit louder. “He fell off a fucking roof. We were there, I closed my eyes, I opened them, he’s gone. What else can we do? Life goes on.” The eggs are burned and Josh turns around to face the stove. He’s still talking as he scrapes the wasted omelet into the trash but Ethan can only hear a few of his words over the scraping and the clock ticking above the stained cabinets.
“...can’t… roof… jerkin… immature… high school… never… memories…cum…”

Once the frying pan is clean, Josh’s rant slowly came to a halt. He took the eggs out of the refrigerator again but there are only two left. Tink tap thwack. Tink tap thwack. He started slowly whisking again, adding too much salt and pepper for just two eggs.

Josh stops to look at Ethan. “There’s not enough for you now.”

“I touched him.”

There was a silence and a gradual look of revulsion appeared on Josh’s face. “That’s disgusting, man. I can barely look at him, all twisted and smeared. We need to call someone.”

“Jesus, I didn’t touch his body. If I was gonna touch him now I would have at least pulled him out of the trash in the alley. Someone else can touch him when he’s dead.”

“What?” He poured the eggs into the frying pan and started slowly rotating them, the yellow and milky stuff of embryos and fluid swirling like primitive galaxies from which life emerged.

“I touched him. When we were up there.”

“Oh. I thought you touched his, well, body.”

“I did touch his body.”

“Not his dead one though. That’s sick. For all the time I put in these eggs they better be fucking good.” Josh’s back is still turned.

“Why does it matter? You think its wrong to touch people when they are dead and not when they are alive? If I can’t touch him when he’s dead what allows me to touch him while he is alive. It should be the other way around.”

“But you didn’t touch him while he was dead, right? You didn’t even wash your hands.”

“Josh. I touched him while we were up there. I was finishing and it was something about the stars or the night or the breeze and I was busting and I just touched his side. I just touched it and he was so startled he rolled. I touched him and he rolled and then he was gone.”

In the moment of silence that followed, the clock stopped ticking and the eggs stopped sizzling. The tension in the room built and cracked. Tink tap thwack. Josh spun around but before he could spew the things he needed to say he lost his footing, falling, eggs and ankles and pan and elbows flailing in the air. The pan cracked him on the head and before his blood could reach the wound he’s up again.

“You fuck. Oh my god. You killed him. You fucking killed him. I’m here, making you eggs in the bowl your mom gave him in an apartment whose lease has his name on it and you killed him. You fuck, faggot, shit. No. You killed him. It was all your idea.” The blood bubbles out of the gash on his head.

“You started it all those years ago. No, it doesn’t matter who started it. I just wanted to do it again last night.”

“No. You killed him. Shut this. Stop it.”

“I wanted to be with the stars, the traffic, him, you, myself. You’ve never left. You don’t know what its like to leave here, to not have you two around.”

“Yea, you got out. And you came back and killed him. You got your fucking scholarship. You left this place and couldn’t let us keep it. You killed him.”
Ethan cries and Josh bleeds and both yell.

“Was I supposed to throw away my scholarship? Because you two didn’t get one? You know, I really thought you’d be over that by now. I really thought that when I came home for the first time you’d be ok with it now. He got over it just fine.”

“Is that why you touched him?”

“You think I meant for this?”

Josh spat out the blood that ran into his mouth. “Yes. You killed him. You left us here. You came back here from your fucking college and came to stay with us in this shitty apartment, our shitty apartment. You expect us to just be the same – you want us to never change for you so you can always come back to this. You want to stride in here and climb to the rooftop and masturbate together like we used to when we were in middle school.”

The bloody face leering at him disgusted Ethan. He stumbled backwards, his face reflecting nausea, and slumped in a corner, not bothering to wipe away tears.

“Don’t cry for him, you faggot. You touched him, you killed him. Oh my god, he’s dead.” Josh staggered to the door way, ripping through the screen and slamming the glass door.

Ethan is alone in the kitchen of his friends’ apartment. There’s a yellow mixing bowl on the counter. There’s some eggs splattered with blood on the discolored tiled floor. He wants to cry for his dead friend in front of Josh. Friends cry unashamedly in front of friends. Friends share their darkest moments and secrets with friends. Friends aren’t too embarrassed to share that they never feel more free than when they are masturbating alongside each other on rooftops. Friends, true friends, real friends, can share the breeze over their half naked bodies, the distant traffic in their ears, their collective semen that shoots into the slowly spinning milky galaxies of their climaxing universe.

On the other side of the wall, out in the alley, Josh is hunched over a dead body. He stops crying and bleeding long enough to pull his friend’s white briefs and blue jeans up over broken legs and hips.

Emulsion

Assignment, write about a room in which there are no people present. Combined a few old ideas to get here. Clarity is a concern. There were gallows at Tyburn that could hang 24 people at once.


The Amish believe that a snapshot steals their soul. That would make this room a gallows. That would make these photos corpses dripping in blood red alkaline, souls slowly developing.

There are two things in these photographs; space and matter. The distance between two bodies and the hearts that feel it. The emptiness in mouths and the tongue that seals it. The gaps between fingers and the flesh that fills it.

For him, these pictures -- these souls -- are all that are left of her. It is possible that some of the dust floating in this darkroom is her dead skin. It is possible that some of the liquid glistening from the photographs were once her tears. It is possible the air, the stuff of breathing, once kissed her lips, filled up her lungs, and fueled her blood cells. But now, the most important piece she has left here is her soul. Slivered into millions of electrons and pressed into silver emulsion, becoming photographs, mirrors with a memory, drawings of light and darkness and matter and space.

On the counter, next to chemicals and film, there is a cardboard box. In it sits a few cds, maybe some notes, and a boy’s corduroy jacket. There are still movie stubs in its pocket, along with a shredded Kleenex and mints from a fancy restaurant.

Hanging on the line is a photograph of her wearing this jacket, his jacket. She’s looking straight out and he’s framing her with his arms and a kiss. Hanging on the line is a memory, a corpse, a sliver of soul stolen and hung up to dry.

Somewhere, someday these shots will be exposed to this world of brilliance and speed that invades his darkest of rooms. Maybe he’ll love again with all his body and all his heart, but never with all his soul.

Gurgitated Urge Dirge

Being three unrelated poems about the confusion of love, lust, loss and, most importantly, the confusion that follows when these three sensations begin rubbing up against each other in the dark. To recap, a gurgitation of the urges that sound as a dirge as they emerge in the night.

MORSEL
If thinking don't happen in
darkeness and drunkness,
then thinging will and I
will taste the lickour of the
obtoxious touching of tongues
and tongues of waistes
and I will inhale infidelities
in the perfumgated smirking
smells of h'odor'vres, spices
of appeliezers, scents of dips
and spreads I relish
as fingered foods, as
doubthfuls, underneath
the canape of missecurities
and sauteed stank.


TROJAN
I bought a box of your teeth
on sale underneath those nails
the ones you fought me with
the ones I hammered into
wood to build that horse
the ones I hammered into
you and hammered into
and I hammered you and
hammered and hammered
until the wood was limp.


DIRGE
She’s obnoxic, toxic
with politics, dicks, trick or
treat me to a sick cyclical
wick that turns and burns
and never quite learns.
She’s analyzed, sized up,
dissected, inspected,
regurgitated and returned.