Love her, you asshole. Love her.

You say you've not spent enough time,

that time's been too short,

that, relative to your...existence,

you've known her only for seconds of hours,

and, so, you believe

that to tell her you love her

would be too much, too soon.

But, these seconds--right now--

you seem not to realize,

these seconds are mature,

experienced, learn'ed, and tested...

these seconds have seen some shit, man--

shit that those youthful, timid, uncertain 

fledgling seconds, to which you compare all time,

could never have known.

These seconds are honed--made sharp

on the practice of your ego's brand-new, awkward gait.

And, the subsequent scars of scraped knees and scraped palms,

and (if you remember that one time)

your ego's bruised chin, beg the question:

How much more time do you need?

It's time to dance, motherfucker--

finding another person who likes 

"things that don't suck," and

who'll love you for your body

and your mind,

and who will have the decency

never to tell you which, at the moment,

she loves more,

is a rare, rare thing.

So.

Love her, you asshole. Love her.

The summer leaves me slowly, and, with grace,

I march on down the way, a careful man,

toward chancy autumn at a dapper pace,

calculating ev'ry which way I can

keep good on all the promises I've made

(over all the years) to--my self--atone

for the costumes worn and the people played

in my attempts to not feel so alone.

And, pangs of guilt, like breezes through the oaks,

play dithers on my cold, sad bones--I shed,

like sleeping trees, my leafs (my self-reproach):

"This heart will find its bliss before it's dead."

I stop, and have a gaze into the dew,

and look upon the man that I'll warm to.

I love you, dear boy, I do

Now, you've read the poem, dear boy, that I wrote 

in the interest of clearing the vault

of all the treasured memories of you

that I've collected.  I made room enough

by being rid of those thoughts that only

trigger rapacious thirsts for your concept

(which ebb at high-tide and o'rflow my rim)

that kidnaps my love and ransoms it for

the quick release of intemperate pulp

on those nights I'm alone and far from you.

What is left, though, is sadness. To think that 

you are alone in spite of the smiles 

you give, and for all of your avowals

that you're "Okay." And, I long to grab your 

hand if only to pull you clear of the 

rubble of that unfortunate place that

you call home. I love you, dear boy, I do...

Guiltroversion

It’s been more than five years

since I took that man’s life from him.

I mean, he did walk into the shooting gallery,

he did know the risks of his behavior,

and I was (mostly) innocent until that week.

I mean, I was (and am) guilty of other things,

my own history is as a...

pockmarked body, covered by adhesive strips,

the color of not-flesh flesh, and remorse shows

at the edges where the dirt of my conscience

collects and refuses to be cleansed away.

And, taking his life—that requires another

bandage, a pretty big one this time (and

I thought I was innocent until that week).

I sat there, among my peers:

others, just like me,

covered in bandages

and long sleeves and slacks

and scarfs and neckties

—and everyone’s attentions were given to him.

(This was, perhaps, the first time

in his entire life that he was

given so much of anything

by folks he didn’t know.)

And, he said nothing;

others spoke for him

and about him,

and we, too,

when it was our turn,

did the same.

And we gave him so much

of our time and energy,

we risked getting caught

smoking in the bathroom,

we had lunch together,

and we worked hard together

to decide his fate.

I hear he got 80 years for his crimes.

There’s no bandage can hide that.

"One of us..."

I find it sort of funny

that this journey began with some loose ideas

about acceptance—finding inspiration

in the words of The Dude

and Dr. Frank-N-Furter—

and recognizing that successful communities,

full of good people,

could be built around failure.

(There is something about that

that speaks directly to my heart.)

At this, I began analyzing my life,

trying to understand

just what about me makes me feel good

(and wanting to join those communities, too)

watching those movies; trying to find

what it is that makes me part of the cult.

“New shit has come to light”:
“Don’t dream it—be it.”
“Gooble, gobble.” 

Understanding things

It's all coming together

This is a very rough draft of a brief overview of what the fuck this has all been about.

I find it sort of funny that this journey began with some loose ideas about acceptance—finding inspiration in the words of The Dude and Dr. Frank-N-Furter—and recognizing that successful communities, full of good people, could be built around failure. (There is something about that that speaks directly to my heart.) At this, I began analyzing my life, trying to understand just what about me makes me feel good (and wanting to join those communities) watching those movies; trying to find what it is that makes me part of the cult. To figure me out, I turned to existential fiction where thoughtful men struggle to find social success in ways that aren’t unfamiliar to me, but all the while knowing, somehow, that these men and I are different—a bit.
I saw in the underground man an isolation and social awkwardness that reminded me of my own struggles to make connections to a community. This began in my childhood and would continue on, through adolescence, into adulthood. We both had a desire for respect, which would turn into a desire for recognition (once the successes we believed were coming, in fact, didn't), and then, simply, we learned to desire forgiveness for how we carried on all that time.
In the invisible man, I saw a similar awkwardness, but also a desire for success that would come to mold a young man according to what he believed were the world’s expectations of him. He would reveal to me that I was measuring my own success by way of a paradigm (governed by conventional masculine behavior) by which I have always (and will always) fail to achieve the success I desire(d) (because the measuring post is a false one). He also showed me that I was using women to elevate my masculine status, to help me be one of the boys.
In Raskalnikov and Zits, and others, I began to see something new that I desired. Raskalnikov, after having learned that he is just like everyone else, that he is not special in the way that we, the most thoughtful and introspective, perceive we are, begins a search for community. (It might have even started before that, with Marmeladov). He kills two women in the interest of funding his intellectual success (and convinces himself that he’s done a service to the community for it), but is quickly overcome with what seems to be an emotional response that he cannot cope with, and he feels the guilt, and his loneliness, and his vulnerability, and he, for as much as he will fight it, realizes that he cannot carry his burden alone—and, so, seeks to join into a community. Zits, though somewhat younger in age and experience, seems to take a similar emotional journey, though his begins with the imminence of a murder (one that he is about to commit) when the story quickly becomes a supernatural journey through space and time. As Zits jumps from consciousness to consciousness, he gets to experience the lives of a variety of people as they each face making critical decisions in their respective lives. This, if we think back to the underground man, helps Zits make a connection with others (something the UM could not do) and it helps him recognize that he is a part of a community, that his actions can affect that community, and that they're actions, likewise, have an affect on him.
That he (Zits) believed, walking into a bank with a loaded gun, he needed to prove to the world that he deserved some form of justice—that things hadn’t been quite fair for him, and that the best way, in his perception, to get the community’s attention is to prove himself by a show of power (see masculine convention in the invisible man and Raskalnikov), which our American government does all over the world, is good evidence that, at the base of it all, there was a yearning for belonging that just could not be reconciled in a rational—and masculine—way. This is especially relevant today with regards to the acts of mass violence perpetrated by youth who, on the face of it, seem to have everything they need to achieve conventional success, but somehow perceive themselves as failing and, so, desiring that recognition of affect-ability, lash out against the world. (This is another paper topic, but something that should be mentioned and thought about deeply--eliminating firearms does not eliminate the desire to do harm, especially for those suffering this skewed perception)
I don’t suspect that I would ever have turned violent, but another way to achieve this illusion of power, and to grab attention, is by committing suicide. I have thought of killing myself—I believe that everyone has. I have never genuinely considered it, though, meaning, I've never put the gun in my mouth or stepped to the edge. Instead, I run away, moving to a new city and practice at living a life there until I can’t seem to tolerate it anymore. I'll then move back to the area where my friends and family reside, thinking that, perhaps, things may have changed, but, invariably discovering that I am still unhappy and still without the community that I desire (which, it seems, all of these existential men are after).
And, so, I ask myself what my ideal community looks like, and I realize that my ideal community looks just like the one I have now, but it's one in which I am happy. And, so, I begin to wonder how that is achievable, and I realize that i am the one variable that needs changing, and that that change has a great deal to do with loving myself.
For most of my life, I have been struggling to understand my sexuality. I am romantically and physically attracted to both men and women, but have had disproportionately more relationships with women because I have been afraid of being labeled a homosexual, which, if it were to turn out that I am not (or, rather, if I were to find happiness in a relationship with a woman), having had been openly intimate with men will certainly have repercussions (unwarranted as they are), within my community, on my ability to find some sort of social success while attempting to construct a meaningful life. That I have had more unhappy relationships with women, though, begs me to consider that my motivations there have more to do with being seen and recognized as a successful heterosexual man than it is because I’m in love. It’s only ever been, as much as it pains me to think that I’ve used several women in this way, about bolstering my heterosexual prowess.
And, so, I’m gay. I am gay. And that is taking more getting used to than I thought it should. It hasn’t got as much to do with accepting it as it does in just thinking of myself as a gay man--as it does in terms of thinking of my life as full of new potential, because I am free from the prison I locked myself away in all those years. And what does that mean? It means that I can learn to abide by my situation--and be happy there--however difficult or imperfect it may seem for some, because it is my fucking rug they’re pissing on. It means that, rather than dream it, I can choose to be it.
If only the time warp were real, I could go back to visit that younger me who has this whole journey ahead of him, to explain to him all of these things. If only.

To: a Boy

You see,
I have not been entirely honest
with you, or, really, with anyone.
Not in a long time.

The consequence of my being…
disingenuous
is that I have lost myself—
in the worst sense.

I know, practically, little
about who I really am.
And save for in my dreams,
from which I

cannot escape,
my life
seems
to be a sham.

In those dreams, though,
you often come to me.
And when I say often,
I mean always.

I dream of you—
every night. You
have become my discrete
desire for months,

now. I desire to be
near you, to be part of you-
r world. I desire to touch
you. I desire to be

the instigator of your brilliant smile
and to suffer, terminally,
whatever condition
gives the sparkle to your eyes.

I am jealous
of your charm
and enthusiasm.
I long to tap into you-

r confidence and carouse
in this world
so full of misgivings.
I want to love you

in the purest,
most cherished
sense of the word,
and be,

decorously riotously,
a prize that you will,
forever,
treasure.

The hermit comes out (briefly)

I was twelve years old when I had decided that there was something wrong with me, or, at the very least, that something seemed not quite right. My terror, though, of being not quite right pushed me far over into the realm of understanding that there was something really rather wrong. I couldn’t reconcile it or explain it—(to borrow from Twain) I knew the words, but I didn’t know the tune—and, after some now forgotten length of time, I had decided that I was going to share this information with my mother, who, I believed, could help me understand just what was wrong. For my confession, I had selected an evening when I knew my father would be working out in the garage. This, I had told myself, was so that I would have my mother’s undivided attention, but, secretly, I knew it was so that my father wouldn’t overhear.

I don’t much remember how I told her that I was gay—only that I did, and only that she had started to cry. At this, my being the perhaps overly sensitive type, I, too, began to cry, though my tears were a blend: some were for my disappointment with myself (for making my mother cry; what kind of a boy does that?), and some for the tune that I couldn’t sing; for the words that I had used, but didn’t quite understand; for the knowledge that, while, to this point, I had only inferred some deviance about me, I now knew for certain (because emotions do not lie to the young and inexperienced) that something was very, very wrong.

I was terrified. I begged my mother not to tell my father—whatever she did, I did not want her to betray me in this. Why? Well, he is my father, he’s a man with expectations for his first-born son, he tells fag jokes and has a dislike for wimps and pussies. I didn’t want him to hate me.

Being emotionally exhausted and afraid and saddened and depressed—and a whole host of things a twelve-year-old should never be—I had gone to bed somewhat early, leaving my mother to her tears in the living room, and I lay in bed hoping that she’d pull it together before my father came inside. I had to trust that she would.

I heard my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs a short while later, and, fearful of the imminent shit-storm I was conjuring up in my mind, I listened as he walked past my bedroom door. He had gone to bed. I began to panic a bit, but I trusted, still, that my mother could pull it together—after all, her son’s life was on the line. After a short while of absolute silence, I began to relax. It was late, I heard no shouting, no sobbing, nothing.

“It will all just pass,” I told myself. “Tomorrow, I will act as if nothing happened, and we can move beyond this.” Or, I told myself something to that effect.

This is when I heard a very faint knock at my door. I froze, closing my eyes, hoping that whoever was there would think me asleep and leave me be. The door opened, and a bit of light shown in and onto my tear-streaked face. My father came in and, without a word (at first), squatted down next to my bed. He knew I was awake, and I knew he knew I was awake, so there was no use pretending to be sleeping.

“Why do you think you’re gay?” he quietly asked me.

“I don’t know,” I responded feebly.

“Well, you told your mother that you like a boy. Who is he?” he inquired.

I was still terrified at this moment, and the first thing that popped into my head was a scene from A Christmas Story, the scene where Ralphie is being punished for swearing, and his mother asks him where he’d heard that word used before. Like Ralphie, I blurted the first name that came to mind…and it so happened not to be my crush, just as Ralphie chose not to name his father as the speaker of the not-fudge "fudge."

“Well,” my father said, “there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a nice kid. Is he gay, too?”

“I don’t know,” I answered too quickly and with the agitation of the teenager that was budding inside me, but only because I was now terrified that my suspiciously nice father was going to call over to this boy's house and out the kid, whom, of course, I was pretty sure was straight (he’s married to a woman now, so it’s probably a safe assumption).

We talked for some time, my father and I, and I was very surprised to find that he didn’t hate me—but that he loved me, and that he would love me no matter what. I wasn’t sure how to take things from here, and he had no advice to offer, but he said that he would always be there for me should I ever need anything. And, I have always been grateful for that.

My mother, on the other hand, turned out to be not so thrilled by my confession. She wouldn’t say it directly to me, but I discovered her true feelings were evident in her not-so-subtle actions. She had picked me up from school, not long after the night I (sort of) came out, and she stopped the car at a convenience store. I waited while she went in; I couldn’t imagine what we were stopping there for. She returned a few minutes later with a thin paper bag, roughly the size of a magazine, and she handed it to me. I cannot recall whether or not I had any inkling as to what was inside the package (it, of course, makes sense to me now), but I can say that I was surprised when I pulled out a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. These gifts would show up unsolicited and regularly. Every Christmas, even, I would receive a poster of a woman wearing barely any clothing, and a wall calendar of the super model that I would arbitrarily select (when prompted) as my favorite that year. I realized then that I was starting to learn her tune.

I had tried briefly to come out to some friends at school, and that quickly escalated into laughter and derision. I panicked, claimed it was a joke, and left it at that. It was never brought up again, and I was glad of it. I couldn’t ask myself why I was glad of it, then. I only knew that I didn’t want the attention—that I struggled enough to not stick out as a socially awkward, emotionally frail nerd whose mother dressed him as though she wanted him to get his ass kicked—and so I did my best to swallow more of my emotions, and to suppress my adolescent's hormone-induced passions to a very quiet and introverted space. Being used to the isolation, it became difficult to function as myself inside of the community. From day one, it seems, I have always attempted to join the group based on the group's expectations for me. This has been problematic and has, I believe, almost irreparably skewed how I perceive myself in the world.

I believe that it is not uncommon for boys like me, those who isolate themselves and only join into community when the conditions suit their perceived success (thus enabling them to become what they believe the community desires they be), to find themselves subject to a broken paradigm complex.And, what's more, the suppression of our true natures prevents our ever realizing anything resembling social or personal success--and while we play at things we'll never be able to make good use of (in this case, being "masculine") we waste time and energy on an identity that will also never afford a genuine opportunity for success. How does one, a child or an adult, cope with that? How does one pursue the construction of a meaningful life?

I can tell you how one shouldn't...

The Choke

He asks me again how everything's been,
and I want to be honest--to tell the truth.
It finds its way to the tip of my tongue,
but at precisely this moment (always)
some part of me, some fear
that resides in the dark, deep, and quiet
comes screaming up to just below my surface,
and I hesitate just a second too long...

"Everything's fine," I say.
And, he buys it,
happy to know that his little boy,
mostly a man now,
"seems fine."

And, I carry on, quietly arrayed,
the picture of calm and contentment,
but, really, I am perfectly disappointed in myself
because the same old cravings--
to be heard and to be seen--
go unsatisfied, and I think,
"It's just better this way..."

Lately Dreaming

“Everything I sought in life I abandoned for the sake of the search. I’m like one who absentmindedly looks for he doesn’t know what, having forgotten it in his dreaming as the search got under way.”

- Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

I woke in tears from a dream recently. It was uncharacteristic of the dreams that I typically have, and it didn’t take long to realize that it had something to do with my goals in this, my search for meaning.

I found myself engaged in a scavenger hunt of sorts, with clues left all over an area that I suppose was meant to be significant to me, but I didn’t recognize it. Perhaps it was more important that I realize that I was in competition with another guy on this search (this understanding, I can remember, took my attention away from the details of the landscape). The game (or whatever) was designed for me, I quickly became convinced, because each of the clues were literary: they (the proctors) used several novels that I’m very familiar with, some random lines of text or poetry, and some obscure history facts. The competition, I somehow understood somehow innately, was not a literary man.

This whole game had been orchestrated by some (we might call them) friends; these guys are from my past, though I will see them from time to time at gatherings put together by mutual friends, and they are the few people in my life who are just older than I am (meaning they represent that transitional period between me and adulthood). I am the eldest of my siblings. I have one older cousin, but he’s always lived far away. These guys established, even if I didn’t follow in their example, how success should be pursued within our community, and what that success should ultimately look like (for they become, by virtue of their station, the tastemakers).

On this hunt for clues, I had been ahead of my competitor for some time, but he eventually caught up (with help from the taskmasters, who, I suspected, wanted to see him win if only to see me lose). I had been in the middle of unraveling some over-complicated clue, tangled as it was in a mess of ribbon that was meant to lead its untangler to the next discovery, when I realized his trick. You see, he hadn’t been reading the clues—he wasn’t even remotely familiar with the novels or their themes—he had done a simple internet search for the answer to the whole game. It was even more distressing when he explained to me that our quizmasters, the tastemakers of our community, had done the same thing: that this whole exercise was the equivalent of a dating site survey. That thought, realizing that I was competing solely for their approval, which was no more than an arbitrary adoption of some cursory standards found among the first results of a query that was meant to appear somehow more significant because they enjoyed the authority of age, destroyed me.

Once I discovered their plot to deceive me, I grew angry and violent, and I lashed out at my competitor. You see, he believed me to be an idiot for not having had the thought to “google it" myself. He explained to me that taking that kind of initiative is what made a man successful these days. At that moment, I was terrified that he was right. The potential implications of such a thing being true shattered my perceptions of all the things I had been struggling to accomplish these last four years. I felt this caving in-sensation, falling into myself and melting away because, if he was right, this whole search to find meaning in my life was going to have no tangible value in my community, because, there, no one else cares, really, who they are; they care only that they are and that they are like everyone else.

I lashed out and pummeled him into the dirt. I brushed the dirt over him, barely covering his features, all the while hoping I hadn’t killed him. As I ran away toward a nearby building, my arms full of the clues I’d picked up, I had fully expected someone to grab me by my shoulder and spin me around to face the wrong I had just done, but no one noticed. No one noticed, either, that I still clung to the idea that I could solve the problem of the game in spite of my knowledge that this was all designed to be a big joke—I just knew there was something there for me to discover, and I couldn’t let it go. I had just eliminated my only competitor, the fan-favorite. I was the only one still playing, still searching, still obsessed, still believing that something in these clues was going to lead me to some understanding about myself that was going to set me free of all of my demons. I hid away in the dark, and with a flashlight I had pilfered from a car parked near the shallow grave of my competition, I laid the clues out on the floor around me in the order I discovered them, and the light began to fade as the battery began to die.

Who ain't confused?

I dislike the word confused
when it's prescribed by
those certain ones
(oriented as they are)
as a state of being--
or as a condition
of existence. "To confuse,"
I think, is an appropriate
regard for those
certain ones
who would congest
another's ability to
get a knack for themselves
by levying upon him, her, them
the burden of self-doubt--
For, the person who is
"confused," I submit,
is but experiencing
the prospects of life.

I Sometimes Want To (a bit)

I sometimes want to

sashay a bit and

swing my hips out wide.

And, even though it's
a natural thing, I
still will try to hide
that I sometimes want

to paint my nails a

purple bawdy plum,

and color my lips
to match the pumps that

sometimes make me come

to think that I am
(a bit) carefree or
ratherish  risqué;
but silly old me,
I'm still afraid that
you will call me "gay,"
and "fag" and "queer," and
you'll hate me for fear of
something you can't admit:
  a man in women's clothes

  striking a sexy pose
  is something you want (a bit).

I've seen much ugly today, but beauty shines through

I would rather my tears
were spent on beauty,
and my temper
tempered to bear
all things--
bad or good--
than I to dwell
on all of the ugly
that feeds the walls of flame
I seem to need
to build around me,
(around my softness and fatigue).

The (a-long-time-ago) Mother

and, even though she didn't realize it,

she asked us all to put our lives on hold

--our hopes and our dreams…discov'ring ourselves--

and, I suspect she'd hoped we'd all be there

(just where she'd left us)

when she reconciled whatever demons

tormented her in the quiet spaces.

I suspect she went to bed each night with

hopes of waking up happy and transformed,

but time carried on disappointingly--

she waits to be saved (long suffering fate)

from the specters of the ghost towns she'd built

for herself, and, incident’ly, for us,--

and we couldn't wait for her happiness

to arrive (though we did our best to try).

 Our soft-toed half-steps grew more bold with age

 And, cruelly, toward our destinies we stomped,

 some of us a bit harder than others--

 and the days grew shorter, and the nights, too--

 as we each settled down with a vengeance

 wondering if she, that woman who was

 once our mother, would ever find her way

 (back into our lives).

Sanguine

Her words were,

at first, indecipherable,

as the low pressure of the pleasant day

gave her voice a clear path up to my window.

Initially, I was convinced

it was happiness felicity joy

that swept over her. I smiled

and went to the window.

I was able to make out a few words then:

"I feel so taken advantage of..."

she shouted--red-faced and in tears--

and I learned that I'm an optimist.

there's melacholy in his smile
as he stops just outside the door,
his hand, still, on the ornate pull--
polished where the world reaches out;
dull, diminished, forgotten, soil'd
in the spots we tend to avoid
because it's inconvenient or
because it is not as attractive--
as appealing or alluring
as the wear that makes us normal.
--we adore each other's polish,
ignoring the filth that makes us

unique.

there's melancholy in his smile.

Untitled and unfinished

For i have hidden
so long
behind the comfort of you,
safe from the judgement
of the others
(even when only i, alone,
am watching--
concerned with appearances
and decorum--),

but i never considered your perhaps feelings for me;
i cared only that you felt,
and that i believed in it,
(and that they all had a chance to see--
so that all seemed well enough--
that the tragedy of my indecision,
and the vulnerability of my cowardice,
was no reason for concern).

Hiding behind you,
I was strong.

This is a poem,

but it isn’t very good.

It doesn’t even rhyme that often,

and I fucked up the meter…

...a lot.

The Imagined Son

You carry my picture

the way a bad catholic

carries a crucifix:

as proof

that, once, you believed

and, now, to remind you

to keep up the charade.

Our bond became,

a long time ago, more

imagined, less

remembered, and now,

it seems, only I know

the honest truth. Because I am

that boy, no longer, whose

smile shone brightly only

for you and, regrettably, whose

happiness was contingent only

upon your happiness

as I imagine it is still

for the imagined me

who, because he must,

endures the misery

of your imagined life

as he dreams of being—

me.

Natural Things

Our picnic near the grove is set,

but you have not arrived here yet.

The ants will carry it all away,

and I will dine on my regret.

It’s been another lonely day,

for, as I had to make my way

to our park (where song birds sing),

you weren’t there to hear me say,

“I am glad for all these natural things,

and for the pleasure your company brings,

and—oh, to think that someday hence

we will exchange our weddings rings.”

...And still, I sit, alone, incensed

for you will never recompense

in wasting all the natural things

that you said, “made the difference.”

Thus, here and now, I will—you tell, 

it is my soul you did dispel.

So take this ring—it means nothing,

(or leave it for the ants, as well).

Day Jobs of the Poets

It wasn't until quite recently that I realized so very few writers make (made) their living as writers--that they, instead, toil(ed) daily amid the muck and filth of the world--and that they use(d) their writing to express themes and ideas that they encounter(ed) out in the world where everyone else resides.

I guess I had this impression that writers were somehow separated from the world, and I guess I thought that the good writer found his or her story entirely in the imagination (I read a lot of fantasy), but I've begun to recognize that good writing, the kind of writing that affords a reader the opportunity to say, "hey, that happened to me," or, "I thought I was the only one who saw things that way," is born, not strictly from the imagination, but from our experiences; the characters we put into our works are representations of those whom we encounter every day; the places where these works are set, even if it's too subtle for the reader to notice, are places that we have all been.

I am trying to say, perhaps, that we each have our lives--readers and writers, alike--and those lives, the choices we make that ultimately produce our perceptions of the world around us, become the very essences of our creativity in both the creation and consumption of art.

Whether we choose to feel tortured or favored, we shouldn't forget to recognize that there is a poem, or a story, or a play, or a picture in there somewhere.

A man nobody knows or misses

…and she laughs her

(what now passes for a)

school-girl laugh,

“—it would shatter,

Oh

My

God…”

“That’d be blunt force trauma to the head,”

another among the group adds,

as they sit around

the skeletonized remains

of a man nobody knows

or misses,

passing his skull all over the place.

Upon closer examination

of the rearticulated specimen,

an inexact, yet detailed history

is constructed;

his bones show severe trauma

as well as crude—

quite crude—

medical intervention.

“The limp of a twice-shattered leg,

dental hygiene commensurate with the lowest levels of poverty,

fused cervical vertebrae allowing no rotation of the head,

and an irregular opening (antemortem) on the right temporal plate of the skull showing signs of bone growth…”

the professor recites, well-practiced, almost worn out.

“His remains were discovered fully skeletonized in Memphis in1985.”
“He had been dead approximately one year.”

“We have estimated him to have been in about his late-fifties at time-of-death.”

“He was born in the early- to mid-twenties.”

“This man has seen war…”

A too-brief silence falls over the group.

“But that’s so sad,” she whines—

“Do you think it was Vietnam?” the other one chimes in,

begging to be made into a spectacle,

as they sit around

the skeletonized remains

of a man nobody knows

or misses,

passing his skull all over the place.

The beginnings of a happening

It loved to happen...

Marcus Aurelius and several others are quoted as having said that, and I propose not many truer words have been spoken (I'm hesitant to make any statement with a firm resolve as you'll come to, perhaps, learn, dear reader).

But, it does love to happen, and so, inspired by my friend over at isitbluish, I have decided to create a blog to feature some of my poems and short works of fiction. I'm not trying to impress anyone (unless, of course, you are impressed, in which case--that is my intention--I'm a big, fat (but not hairy) liar).

As I'm working from my iPad, which is a delightful contraption for watching Netflix in bed or for browsing tumblr, I will end this, my debut post, here as I have yet to get the hang of the touchscreen keyboard (and I suspect that, perhaps, I never will).

I'm not sure what poem will show up first. The world will just have to wait, hushed, with bated breath.

Ta.

- H