(rough cut)

Equinox

I can't write anymore.
I keep having ideas, moods; one might even call them inspirations.
The way that winter has such an impending feel to it,
the inevitability of cold ears and chapped lips.

Between.

Before the grayness penetrates everything...
The leaves haven't turned yet, but it's coming,
green to red, orange, brown, dead;
Paul to John, mandolin to piano.
Bells, timpanis.
Some underground current,
surging, rushing, pounding.
It is coming.

2007, in about 20 minutes

how not to write a headline

courtesy the Bangkok Post... http://www.bangkokpost.com/News/03Aug2007_news04.php

I will not worry when
they hatch in my sleep.

I know only my own
distasteful experience.

east old frisian

said one to another,
the music of others inhibits the poetry of our spleen.

replied the second,

it is time to move someplace with mountains. we are furry,

and blinded by the oncoming traffic

i have been coming down for as long as i can remember

we are furry, and the streets come to pieces in our claws

i have been coming down each time they didn't call

we are furry, or we are fuzzy, but that is for philosophers

i was going to be a philosopher but then i accidentally graduated

you can use my password if it will help

can i use your vicodin

you can use my password if you want to

let's drive really fast and then turn the wheel

turn how

probably like this

Two Sonnets

       A Late Morning Sonnet

The ghosts in here have haunted me for days.
I hear those screams of anguish or delight.
I don't know tales beyond the murky haze
Of what could happen on one summer night.
To think of dreams, of nightmares, violent sex—
To speculate would be a loathsome thing—
A vision — painted hair and hickeyed necks;
A couple — man and woman — just a fling?
Just clumsy hands that feel their way around—
Tequila lingering on a pair of breaths?
Or is it real—true ecstasy is found—
Entrusting one another with their deaths?
   The ghosts in here are haunting me today
   But still I wake and wait to join the fray.


Sunrise Sonnet
for Veronica

I fell down your stairs on that fateful night;
Sounds of music still playing to my ears,
the sticky-sweet smells laughing at my flight—
There was nothing to protect me from tears.
As I quickly darted from your tower,
Concrete rose to greet me with sickly grace.
I stumbled down the streets at that hour
Unable to shake the sight of your face.
It is a vision of which I’ll not tire,
But inconsistancy still tortures me.
Whether to live with balance of fire
Or of such troubles be completely free.
  But what if the encounters dreamed were true?
  And what might happen if I were with you?

Pretention

This is a prententious poem of sorts, which may be why I was able to get it published in my college lit mag. However, if you get it, I think it's actually pretty clever. I'll post a brief explanation in the comments section so it can be read unannotated.

***

Cigarette Before Bed

Put on your coat and hat because it’s late. Check your mail once more and turn off your computer. Walk down the hall, turn left, and you should be outside. Reach into your pocket and get your cigarettes. Sit down. Sift through your pockets for your lighter – not your jackknife.

And light.

And there was light.

Inhale.
That breath of life
already taken;

Exhale.
And the smoke floats about you before dissipating.

Tap, inhale, exhale; wash, rinse, repeat.
Such is the way with all evening rituals.

Time moves slowly at this hour.

Someone laughs indoors—
Wonder if you’ve met her at a party.

Think about:
Crossword clues you didn’t get
(they say nicotene helps the memory)
Friends lost
How you guess that means you’re off for lunch
(there’s too much wind for smoke rings tonight)

Sex

(try to blow smoke rings anyway)

Don’t think about::
Friends lost

Get a song from Rent stuck in your head, and force it out with something from an early Simon and Garfunkel album. “Leaves That Are Green” works well. Look at the fading light of your cigarette.

Then think:
It was good
And it was good
And it was very good.

1999

busy

let your hair hang in your eyes - it is time
to apply your eyeliner, it is time to untie
that sash. do me a solid: do you remember
when you were a fish, floating among the pale
women in pale dresses, floating too well? how
do you breathe in that blanket? i stood on
a lot of fire escapes then, and never jumped once,
i saw the sun go down behind the statue of liberty
and thought "what is upsetting mary beth tonight?
i wonder if i smile like this then will she smile as well?"
it is difficult to say - which is why it is frightening,
and worthwhile. it is why it would be better to be
hunted by a ninja than a zombie. it is better not
to float too much, to almost drown. if you get
on the bus, stand in the village for four hours,
and then get back on the bus and go home, i know
you will see a lot of girls, but i don't know where
they will be going to, and neither will you. you can
ask them, but they will raise their eyebrows, stretch
their necks, and talk about ash. their catholic upbringings,
and ash, and they will not be going anywhere,
because it takes too much time, and their make-up
is ephemeral, in the sense of a basket of candy corn,
or the illusion of continuity.

Time Travel

My dreams for the past few months have been very heavy. Skies on fire, buildings burning, black smoke enveloping the city, alien space crafts looming and crashing (the aliens themselves are never seen if they exist at all), rays of fire. Last Sunday I had the lightest dream I'd had in some time: I accidentally saved over a very important file at work. I woke up screaming.

But last night I had a different kind of dream. I had traveled back in time to 1979. I was in Corning, NY. At night, and near a kind of shopping plaza. Not quite like they're set up in suburban northeast. I found my dad. I said "Hey! Chris Black! I know you!" and we chatted a bit. He played guitar for me.

No Title

I'm an introspective guy (not exclusively so) but I haven't been able to identify why I haven't been satisfied with a majority of the music I've produced over the past two years.

I'm in the middle of watching this video that got dugg. Ricky Gervais "interviewing" Larry David. Ricky says something and it opens my eyes. If I transcribed here the grammatical person would be a little bit confusing so suffice to say that I've been compromising my art for the benefit of others and it is time to end that.

"In art you're allowed to be a complete fascist."

Random short story

At dawn it came: "I HAVE BALLS," in a voice that occupied the tonal space between full-on screaming and a lecture from a disappointed parent. This was Buford's wake-up call, and we knew exactly what it meant. His actual possession and ownership of testicles was undisputed, but the question of who was on deck to service the two fleshy orbs permeated the thirty-five square feet where we sat upright in our plywood bunks.

It was Tuesday, and Tuesday is for Tanner (his name is actually Jake, but Buford loves alliteration with his conquests). I read a suicide note in his eyes as the chain wrapped around his neck and beckoned him into the main house. "Dear assholes," it read, "Here's hoping you do better than me. Montgomery, I love you." (Montgomery's name was Brian, but he got stuck with Monday. Poor Montgomery.) We savored that almost-satisfying numbness, the one we all knew all too well six days a week, when we rolled past the flaming wreckage on the highway, safe and secure within our own four-wheeled death wagons. "Better him than me," we'd say, and turn up the radio, singing along to some song we only sort of knew.

All but drowning out the stifled groans and sporadic cursing from inside the house (Buford keeps his windows open) were the rusty gates that seemed to take up residence in our stomachs. It's disappointing how the body tends to betray the mind. We felt for Tanner, we really did, but it's not as though wishing for breakfast was going to make his lot any better. So we sat, and waited, wishing for that flurry of "motherfuckers" and "taste it, boys" that signaled the end of the morning shift.

My name is Harold, you can call me Frederick. Simon, Wesley, Thaddeus, and Samuel are the ones you don't know yet. Wesley replaced Winthrop last time Thaddeus was on deck, and Samuel's actual name is Samuel, which works out pretty nicely--unless you're Samuel.

Well over one thousand Mississippis in, no sign of Tanner. The occasional muttering of "fucking unbelievable" was the only thing audible over the wind and a distant train whistle. "Fucking unbelievable," door slam. We all jumped with our eyes, and landed in each others' gaze. Door? Slam? Tanner.

There were tires, and there was gravel being kicked up. We got to taste that cloud of hustle when it wafted over our chicken coop. And there was stillness.

And there was nightfall.

And there was Buford. With guest. And a bucket containing breakfast, long since gone lukewarm.

"This is Terrence. Make sure he gets comfortable." We knew the drill: he gets a honeymoon period where he can gag and cry and bleed and fight back, and nothing will come of it. Breakfast tasted the same at room temperature. Salty, as usual.

By the fourth spoonful, it hit me: I dread Thursday and Saturday.

But I love being Frederick.

Gravedigger

Of all the days, this one still remains.
Over the cracked and deserted plains,
With a trowel in one hand and a hatchet the other,
A man searches for suitable earth that will cover.
Yet in this hot dust bowl, firm earth can’t be found—
The wind replaces what he takes from the ground.
He cannot delay or stop to worry—
He feels the time and he must hurry.

The man never asked what would be his career—
Dreaming of oceans and thirsting for beer,
(Or running from memories of a mistimed leer).

As the sun rises higher, his cheeks become red.
“Damn you!” he mutters, “Can’t you stay dead?”
And yet even his own voice hitches as he speaks—
He is ashamed of the uncertainty he leaks.
He returns to his task, as determined as ever,
To complete this venture, and concede to it never.
He grinds his teeth as his trowel hits more rocks,
And he feels as if God looking down at him mocks
His fiery face and his shoulders that heave,
His mind that attempts to compel him to leave.
He knows he cannot—it is his damnation
To sit here forever upon this foundation;
To turn up the earth as he tries to forget;
To look at the past and to feel no regret.

Death falls over the plain like a cloud.
The screeching of buzzards increasingly loud,
Even if he escapes, he’ll still be alone.
He has nothing left to do but atone.
And perhaps in this he can find some small hope—
Sometimes the solution requires no rope.
And indeed it’s possible to release his mind
If he can learn to leave what’s gone—and tranquility find.

1996, revised 2007

one time two times

he is the man whose foot grows to ridiculous proportion
when he is defeated by every other man. he is the man
who bathes in ash. he is training his neurons in a new way.
his mother drove over the saddest girl he knew in an
American-made sedan, and now he must file for unemployment.

long ago he was defeated by each of the Magyars. his heart
was pierced by every sword on the fields of Munster. one
could see him float across the Danube on his oversized foot.
but things are much faster today, and so he is training
his neurons in a new way. back and forth, his eyes follow

the cigarette, lit and threatening to drop its ash, as it moves,
back and forth. he is remembering the positive and negative
feelings he gets when his foot grows to a ridiculous proportion,
the positive and negative emotions he associates with being
defeated by every man. his breath slows noticeably in the dark office.

Sick Day: A Haiku

what was that you said?
my ears are clogged with mucus.
yes, the snot is mine.

Coiling and Recoiling

She approached me looking at the ground. Instead of shoes she wore nail polish and grass between her toes. She cleared her throat. I wasn't interested in her anymore. I turned to leave. The spring sun shone down on the campus. Birds were about. Plants were that unreal green you think you only see on television. I walked to the parking lot, got in my car and drove off.

Ten minutes later I found myself in a taco joint, incapable of wanting any food. Standing in front of the counter, the Hispanic woman asked me what I wanted to order. Staring at the glowing menu-board, I hardly even saw the words. Just jumbles of letters. I realized that I love her. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me. And the taco lady repeated herself, "What will you have, sir?" I stared blankly at her, realizing where I was and that it wasn't where I wanted to be. I replied, "I'll have a number three, with a coke." She punched in the order on her number pad. Where was my wallet? Crap! Did I leave it in the car? I patted my pockets. No, it was in my jacket. I took out my wallet. I'd have just enough money to pay. Why was I here? I paid the taco lady, took my order and sat down by the window. The gaudy orange plastic tables and chairs mounted to the floors reflected the people bustling about, distorting their image. I thought about perspective. Was time a constant, or does our brain make sense of a random, or patternized inundation of information? “It doesn't matter,” I thought. I had to stop distracting myself with irrelevant things. I didn't feel like eating, it had lost its pleasure. Soda tasted like water and a juicy taco tasted like paper. A woman walked in holding a baby. The baby spat up on her shoulder. She tsked the child, cleaned up the mess and kissed the child on the forehead. The woman and the baby smiled at each other.

I finished my meal and walked back to the car. The day was dragging on. I could have sworn that the clouds hadn't moved for twenty minutes. Maybe it was just me. It was just me. As I unlocked the door I heard a voice call out my name, "Dan! Dan Black!" It sounded somewhat familiar, but as I surveyed the vast parking lot searching for the voice, I couldn't find its persistent origin. "Hey! Dan! Dan! Daaaa-niel! Hi! Hey, Dan!" I stood looking around for a few minutes, finding no one. I shrugged and got in the car. It was chilly, as I had parked in the shade. I thought how funny it was that my car should be cold on such a warm and pleasant day. As I put the key in the ignition I was startled to find a companion in the car. In the passenger seat staring up at me with a huge grin on his face was a small boy, probably about six or seven years old. He had blonde frazzled hair, was wearing a suit and vest, and was holding a mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cone. "Well hello there, who are you?" I asked. He just smiled at me. I started to feel uncomfortable, but slightly amused. "Did you lose your parents? And how did you get in here?" Still no answer, and that big grin of his just got bigger. "Okay little man," I said, "I can't be having little boys whose names I don't even know hanging around in my car, so even though you seem... like a nice kid, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. If you want, I'll help you find your parents with you." He burst into tears and pointed down in front of the car seat. He had dropped his ice cream cone. I frowned. "Come on, we'll go get you a new one." I got out of the car, went over to his side and let him out. "Now follow me and let me know if you see your parents." As we walked to the parlor at the other end of the lot he reached out and grabbed my hand. I looked at him as if to say "do you really need to hold my hand?" The look in his eyes said "I'm lost, protect me." I wasn't thrilled to have this new parasite, even if it was a cute one. Walking in to the parlor I saw my ex girlfriend at the counter. "Hey Diane, this kid's been following me around. He won't say anything, but he dropped his ice cream when I was trying to talk to him. He got pretty upset, so I thought I'd get him a new one. Did he come in here with his parents recently?" She was smiling at the little boy who was eyeing the cakes in the freezers with wonder. "No, I've never seen him before. At least I don't think I have. I'm pretty tired. Only another hour before I go home, yay!" She held her hands up to her face and shrugged as she said "yay." it was something she always did. "Hrm," I said, "well I guess he'll have a mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cone. Make it a double. And I'll have a vanilla Coke." As she scooped the ice cream from the canister I put a question to her, "Do you think I should go to the police? I don't know what else to do. He won't say anything." She finished the cone and shrugged, "I guess so. Idunno, I can't think of anything else. He's cute though." She handed me the cone and the vanilla Coke. "That'll be three dollars and sixty-eight cents." I realized that I didn't have any enough money. "Diane I just realized that I don't have enough to pay you. All I have is a dollar and..." I quickly tried to count to change in my wallet, though it was difficult with all the receipts crammed in, "oh about, hrm... I only have about two dollars and fifty cents. I guess would it be a huge problem if I asked you to put the Coke back?" She said, "don't worry about it, just give me what you've got." I fished the bill and coins out and handed it over. She smiled back at me and put the change in the register. "Hey kid!" I said to the boy, "here's your ice cream." His eyes lit up and he galloped over, stomping his feet rambunctiously. He took the cone from me, and tasted it just to make sure it was the correct flavor before galloping around again.

"So why do you call him 'kid'?" asked Diane.

"'Cuz I don't know his name," I replied. "I told you, he won't say anything to me. Maybe you should try asking him."

So she did. "Hey mister!" she called at him. He looked up abruptly and smiled with genuine childhood happiness. "What's your name?" He just kept smiling. Then he started laughing. It might even be called cackling. He held his hands to his mouth, the ice cream smearing on his face.

"Well, I guess he's not mute" I said. Diane laughed. "I'd better get him out of here. I guess I'm going to the police station," I said as I looked towards Diane. "It was nice to see you again, Diane."

"You too, see ya later," she said. "Bye mister," she said to the little boy and waved. He waved back, smiled, readjusted his pants, and took my hand as we left.

As I was getting back in the car I heard that same voice call out to me. "Dan Blaaaaaaaa-ack! Hello-oh!? I'm over by the maple tree, silly!" I turned to look at the maple tree, which was nearly directly behind me. It was Cindy Schodt. "Oh hey Cindy! Come over here!"

"I caaaa-an't, silly-head."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, I'm coming. Hold on!"

"Hey little guy," I said to the boy, "come on, let's go meet a friend of mine, then we'll go to the police station to see who you are, and what to do with you." I started walking toward Cindy, and the boy ran up behind me and grabbed my hand. "It's not even thirty feet," I said to him. Again, his response was simply to look up at me and communicate with his big watery eyes. "Okay, okay," I caved in for him. It felt kind of nice though, to have a child rely on me in a moment of seeming helplessness. But it also felt wrong. I needed to get this kid to the police, and the sooner the better.

I didn't really feel like talking to Cindy. I knew her from high school, and we had always been nice to each other, but there was no friendship. I was kind of annoyed that she felt the need to say hi and talk about nothing in particular until we both realized that we had better things to do.

"Hey Cindy."

"Hey Dan Black! What's up!?" The boy hid behind me. "Is that your little brother!? He's soooo cuuuute. Aw!" She was so cheerful it was sickening. The boy quickly lost his shyness as his curiosity took hold on a patch of dandelions growing a few feet away. First he poked at them, watching them flop back and forth.

I smiled politely, "no, some kid I picked up in a parking lot." The boy began to pluck the petals.

"Haha! That's funny! What's his name?" The boy realized that his fingers were being stained yellow as he smooshed the petals. He rolled his sleeve up and began drawing on his arm with the stains.

"Hey Cindy, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really have to go."

"Oh. Okay then." She pouted melodramatically.

"Oh, one thing though, before I go."

"Yes?"

"Was that you calling me before at the county plaza?" The boy smelled his arm.

"No, it wasn't. Gee, you must be popular" she said sarcastically.

I smirked. "Yeah, I guess so. Well, I gotta go." I gave her a hug.

"Give me a call sometime, why don'tya?" said Cindy as she walked to her car. Why didn't I call her? She was very pretty, and though she did a pretty good job of hiding it, very intelligent.

She drove off as I struggled to get the child to leave with me. He was too intimately engrossed in his studies. He stuck his tongue out and touched it to the stained part of his arm. He frowned and began picking more flowers. I became entranced watching him explore something I had come to take for granted. His innocence made me both sad and joyous. I leaned against the tree and sighed. The boy has spun the stems on a few flowers, but he soon realized that his supply of untainted dandelions was quickly diminishing. He began devoting his explorative energies systematically until each flower was destroyed, unsuitable for further experimentation.

"Hey kid, come on, let's go." I felt guilty saying it. In truth I wanted to join him in picking flowers. "Where does it go?" I thought. "Why did I stop loving life? and when?" I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I had had innocent fun. I was addicted to it as a kid. "The only thing that comes near to it nowadays is creation. Art. Music. Words. Conversation. Maybe I’m just in-between the part of my life where I try to figure things out and the part where I think I've got it all figured out. Creation is arrogant. To assume ownership out of an arrangement of particles. It seems silly to me. Money. Ownership. Schedules. National borders. War. Jesus Christ, I've turned into a hippie."

I alarmedly snapped out of my introspection when I realized that I hadn't heard any playful bustling noises for a few minutes. The boy was gone. Panic set in. It was dusk. How long had I been standing there lost in my thoughts? I looked around the lot. No luck. He had definitely run off. It was common sense to go to the police station. I didn't want to go to the police without him. "Perhaps he is a missing child and his parents are looking for him. I'd better follow common sense in this case. It's getting late and who knows what could happen to him?"

I was very upset that I'd let something so careless happen. I got in the car and drove towards the station. The amber sun was setting and cirrus wafted about, catching the orange light. "How beautiful" I thought. I stopped the car and pulled to the side of the empty highway. I tried to tell myself that it wasn't an authority issue, that my hesitance to report the child had to do with some... thing, though I couldn't figure out a good excuse. Underneath I feared something. A primal gut instinct reached out from my belly and told me to start the car up and drive home. So I did.

I arrived at my apartment as dusk approached. I walked to the white, weather stained door. In my left hand I reached my hand into my pocket, fetching my key. In my right hand I held the doorknob. It was an old brass knob that had lost its luster and had become murky over the years. I imagined that it might be about twenty years old. My age. I unlocked the door and turned the knob. It jammed on something before it had clicked open the door. I forced its rotation harder and it gave way. As I opened the door my room appeared to me. First the shadeless window which was facing bramble and weeds outside. Next I saw my couch. It was black leather, and a few of the springs had long given way. It was here that I slept. In its days of glory my friends would come over and marvel at how comfortable they were as they reclined. Some could not resist falling asleep. As I opened the door fully, the remaining contents of my single room apartment appeared: a mini-fridge, a scavenged Pentium II laptop, a white and paint stained sink and mirror, a gas stove and a door to the bathroom. I yawned and entered. I realized that I hadn't looked up at the ceiling since I moved in a month or so ago. I laid down on the floor and studied the intricacies. Long black winding scrapes, nail holes, and paint chips. I imagined someone, perhaps a middle-aged man, moving his Christmas tree in alone, unaware of the patterns his oversized tree was drawing on the ceiling. Or perhaps he had a wife. And maybe even a child. They weren't well off, but they appreciated everything they had. "Maybe it was his kid that approached me today," I thought. "That's certainly ridiculous though." I arose, walked to the sink and washed my face and hands. I got a bottle of cheap white wine out from the fridge. I stared at the chilly frosted glass bottle in my hand. My gaze turned to my hands. They seemed small in comparison to the large bottle. For a moment I felt sad. I put the wine back in the fridge, and sat down on the couch.

I awoke and looked at my watch. The time on my watch was 3:47 AM. I looked at the computer, there were no instant messages for me. I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

When I awoke again, patches of light were scattered about the room, shining through the terrible plants. One of these patches fell upon my left eye. This was probably what had roused me. I washed up and ate a banana. I stood in my room not knowing what to do, having no obligations and no money. I decided that a walk in the woods was what I wanted, though a job hunt was what I needed. In my wallet were some pennies and a dime. I fetched out a coin. It was fresh and shimmering. Abraham Lincoln brimmed with reflective sheen. I put the coin back and searched for another. Only two others were available, a dark, worn, and practically unrecognizable penny, and a dime that looked not old, but not young. I put the dime in my wallet and pocketed the wallet. I held the two pennies up in the light. The bright and promising one was nearly three years old, but the abused one was only two. I thought to myself, "If I am going to flip these coins to determine my fate, I'll want the one with the most life experience. How do I know which to choose?" I couldn't. Then I remembered the dime. I got it out from my wallet. It was over twenty years of age, though it hardly looked more than a few. I smiled, balled my right hand into a fist, tucked my thumb under my index, and placed the coin upon my thumb. I closed my eyes. "Heads I go for a walk, tails I go look for a job." I popped my thumb out from under my index and excitedly anticipated the moment when I would hear it hit the ground. A few metal tings and my fate for the day would be decided. A second passed. Two seconds. Far too long for a coin to drop. "I must have flipped it into the couch," I thought. I opened my eyes and found the boy standing in front of me, holding the dime in his palm. "Heads!" he said. Startled, I stepped back. The boy giggled and put the coin down. Not understanding the look that I was giving him, the look of shock, of near horror, he repeated himself, "Heads! Haha!" My heart must have skipped a beat. He stuck his tongue out at me, ran out the open door and into the woods.

The incredibility of the situation left me motionless, staring out the door which was gently rolling closed from the warm outdoor breeze. To see the boy so suddenly was startling enough, but to hear him speak. I walked out the door, my bare feet patting the moist concrete. The sun was bright, and, for a moment as my eyes readjusted, everything was an unreal white. And when the world came slowly drifting back to me, the boy was no where to be found. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but upon inhaling realized that I didn't know his name. I chuckled to myself, and resignedly went back inside.

I sat on my couch, not thinking, not doing. I simply let time pass me by. When I turned around to gaze out the window, the sky was dark and cloudy, and wind was rustling the bramble. I ate another banana from the fridge, put my only jacket on, and set out.

When I got to the car, I stopped. I had nowhere to go. A cat scurried about beneath the car. I bent down to get a look at it. It turned its head at me, its emerald eyes piercing the darkness and it forepaw extended motionless, ready to step but waiting for some signal that any danger had passed. And we stood staring at each other, frozen in anticipation. A raven called out in the darkness. I looked up at the sky. The cat slyly slinked out from under the car. I sat beside it, still gazing. I turned to look at the cat. Milk white fur, and perfection in grace. I reached out to touch it, but it coolly avoided my hand and walked a few paces forward, toward the woods. It turned and looked into my eyes. I got up from my seat, and we walked into the forest.

The sparsely grassy floor was ripe and dank. As I lifted my foot from each step I took, my shoe-print slowly contracted, filling with water. Trees were budding, and the air smelled thick. The cat pressed on, unworried and in control. I didn't wonder where I was being led. It wasn't that I knew where were going, but that I enjoyed not knowing. It was when life's flow was confusing that I was able to accept it. It was when things started to make sense that I couldn't understand it wholly.

The cat and I climbed up a large rocky hill. When we reached its jagged summit, I stopped. The cat yawned, then walked a circle around my right leg, pressing its body into mine. The hill was familiar to me. I had been here with Jocelyn a few times. Sometimes we made love, but usually we lay in the soft moss bed caressing each other, watching the stars. About fifty feet off there was a stream, and in the quiet night I could make the whisper of its water. I closed my eyes and listened. I breathed deeply. I was at peace. Then footsteps, crunching twigs and rustling leaves. I looked to the cat, and it seemed lazily disinterested in whatever, or whomever it was that approached. The steps came from behind me, and they were now climbing the hill. I could hear breathing, light but weary. I felt sad and a tear ran down my cheek. The cat purred. I could feel someone standing behind me. I hoped. I wanted it to be Jocelyn. More tears. "Hello?" said a soft feminine voice behind me. When I turned to look, I saw that I was mistaken. It was the boy again. He smiled and said, "Hello mister. I'm hungry"

I wiped my tears away. "Who are you?" I asked. He shrugged. "Do you have a name?" He looked blankly at me, then searched his memory. "I don't think so," he said.

"Well where did you get those clothes?"

He looked himself over. "Idunno. Always had them."

"Well they look new and pretty clean. How long is always?"

"Idunno. Seems like forever. Since I can remember anything. Um, it was cold then, in the beginning. It's not so cold now. Things changed."

"Where did you come from? And why wouldn't you talk to me before? And how did you get into my room?"

He giggled. "I'm from China. Yesterday I didn't know how to talk, that's why. I opened the door, that's how."

"But you don't look Chinese, and how could you not know how to talk and then learn so fast? And my door was locked. Your story doesn't add up."

He shrugged.

"I think you're getting a little too creative. How old are you?"

"Old?" he asked.

"Yes, how many years have you been alive?"

"Someone else was talking about that too. A funny man with a blue and white hat. He had a big moustache. He was funny. He was in a room with a big window so I could see him. He was sleeping in the middle of the day! Haha!" His laugh rang of genuine hilarity. "I've been alive for sooooo long." The cat yawned again, and the boy followed suit. "I'm tired. And hungry."

"Come on," I said, "let's get you something to eat."

"Okay! Do you have any, um. I forget what it's called. It's kinda like mooshy but not. It's like, erm, hard juice. You eat it. It's cold."

I laughed, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The cat began prowling about, stalking for insects. The boy kicked a stone with his foot and looked sternly into my eyes. I had no intention of breaking eye contact, and nor did he, it seemed. "Let me come clean and make a proposal," said the boy, "I'm not what I seem to be. Anything I seem to be, I am not. That's as clean as I can come, really. I'll stay with you. And I'll pay you half your rent, and stay out of your way, but sometimes I would like to keep things in your refrigerator. And I will mostly keep to myself, as long as you stop asking questions. I've already answered too many." I stared at him blankly. My stomach churned. "I'll give you some time," he said, "to think about it. Goodbye." And with that he walked behind a dark leafy tree and into the thick foliage.

The cat and the boy being gone, I laid down on the moss, confused and shocked to the point of momentary disinterest. Why had I been brought here? I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was early morning. A brown horse was standing by the hill, shiny and alluring. I lifted my head, and the horse greeted me by doing the same. I climbed down the hill and came to my new companion's side. It didn't turn to face me. A temptation to mount it grew within me, though I knew not how to. It bent down, resting its weight on its forelegs. I mounted, and it lifted off the ground, sooner than I expected. Its smell was fierce, but not unpleasant. Was it a mare or a pony? I hadn't checked. I wanted it to take off at full speed, cruising through the forest, leaping over thicket and bramble. Running for running's sake. But it did not. I laid my head in its mane. It was oily and musky. I reached my arm to its neck and stroked it, first gently then more firmly. Then I awoke.

I climbed down the hill, disoriented. How much had been a dream? and how much a reality? As my eyes adjusted I realized it was nighttime. I yearned for day, for light. Perhaps I was still dreaming. I looked up to the murky sky floating atop the moist air. Dark gray clouds were visible by the light of nearby towns, and specks of stars shone through, sparkling and wet. The moon was full, though blurry behind the veil of clouds. If it was real, then I didn't like the situation with the boy. The apartment was only about fifty yards off, but I had some fear in returning. I felt my pocket, my wallet and keys were there. I walked to the apartment, knowing the way intuitively, having walked it so many times. I looked at my apartment door. I knew what was inside for me: nothing of significance. Though I might enjoy the wine. "Escapism," I thought. I fetched the wine and sat out in the grass a good twenty yards out in the opposite direction of the woods, by the road. I drank from the bottle, drinking too fast of the sweet but acrid stuff. When the bottle was finished, some half hour or so later, I dropped my head behind me until it hit the ground, stunning and expected at once. I looked at the sky, but my gaze was upon myself. Cars rolled by, reminding me of coiling and recoiling waves upon a coast, crashing their gentle mightiness down upon the sand. The sand sucking up what water it could, the waves sadly returning to their mother. Did they know their fate? Perhaps some did, and some did not. "It is like these waves that we fall in and out of love. Or are meant to. But I think my ocean was just a pond, and it hasn't rained in years." I heard a car slow down in front of my lawn and pull into my driveway. I knew who it was. I got up and turned towards her. She approached me looking at the ground. In stead of shoes she wore nail polish and grass between her toes. She cleared her throat. I wasn't interesting in her crap anymore. I turned to leave.

12.27.2002

i was emo before emo existed

blue

pulled out of my seat, i’m forced to dance—
just play the game and fuck romance.
forget her eyes, tell her lies;
watch how her hair glows and flies
in the blacklight skies.
she spins my spirit on a wheel—
i hardly remember how to feel,
but fooling myself always helps.

all love is psychosomatic—
my heart skips to break the static.
drinking till the light is biting,
i’m automatically reciting,
simultaneous cigarettes igniting.
getting closer now, a pause;
forget the flaws!
inhale, crush, exhale, and enter.

“sure, light a candle, whatever”
(just let me forget her forever)
but i remember how it begins—
dark music playing, the room spins;
behind my eyes, i feel the acrid pins.
rushing out, skipping a stair,
tripping into the night air

i wanted to dance and dream in blue.
i wanted to find something new
but i still return to your familiar door
and wonder what for?
i just need someone to kiss—
for what passes for bliss is bliss.

1998-1999

Old Poem

Once a verdant bud,
now a plum bloom

rests snug in your hair
mocking your lips