Infidel

It is despair how effortlessly one can become an infidel. I say this with acceptance and certainty that judgments will be cast but chasing a wanton-jackass’ golden line: “To thine own self be true,” and this being the most accessible haven, I’ll speak.

There’s an inherent dirtiness in lies and cheats, there’s no argument there, but there’s a different, more baffling flavor of filth that can writhe in the mouth. Don’t fret, nothing has been done. Yet, it’s no triumph I’ve been swapping taboo-ridden exchanges with a grown man. Freud called it transference—when the student so idols the mind and brilliance of his or her professor, it renovates as attraction in place of attaining said knowledge. I call it being a perverse cretin. This is no experimental, sexual adventure or lusty indulgence, it is worse than that—it’s foul play amid a sanctioned bond, a marriage of two adults and the very fantasy of acting makes my skin crawl, as they say. If it were only fantasy, however, I wouldn’t be writing this now. There is no sense in the oppression of fantasy but when the intent comes to life, when that silent, we both know this invitation to catch up over coffee isn’t simply that, fantastical skips out the door. And do you know how I know?

One: I’ve had those gatherings in the strictly platonic sense and these undertones didn’t exist and

Two: I caught the trepidation in your face—no, your entire body— the second you asked. It was as if your very conscience had slapped you in condemnation, but I accepted a split second after detecting this with no hesitation.

God, we were saints, not stepping a toe out of line but how filthy was it when we simply smiled and our eyes held a moment too long for the eighth time and I thought what I did. The nuances I need two hands to count are alone shameful. More troubling is why I condoned four of these meetings as if oblivious to it all! Where are my scruples? Do I even posses any having ignored the occasions?

There was a comment made in Thursday night’s class that I must deviate from. In response to Hamlet feigning insanity, one said something to the extent of: we are who people think we are, we are the mask we front to world, we are the lies we tell. I disagree. A query could be made of the kind of person I am and this situation and no one would believe it. I’m certain. But oh the thoughts that plague us in the night, in the quiet privacy of our minds. The lies, the lies, the lies. We are who no one sees. This is why I must cut all ties before I tarnish who I believe I am and loose all faith.

1

Eying Diego’s miniature blue hands and my indigo-dyed ones I thought, compromise—our hands are not twisting chemicals from these liquid-heavy shirts, they are wringing out compromise. If you are ever to befriend family, that is what it dwindles down to. That and, well, it also helps to read the notation about wearing gloves on tie-dying kits before you send your sister’s kid home with hands like Vishnu's or Smurf fingers, rather.

a poem.

Auntie

Eyes narrowed with focus,
I search her round and weary face
in the rearview mirror and wait.
Nothing.

I scan for potholes and wreckage
disturbing the blacktop stretch.
Empty.
I glance at my steering,
purple-nailed-polished hands—
maybe they’ll tremor too.

I pull up to the lemon drop house
the white, white porch overjoyed
with pumpkins pretending to be turkeys.
Soft, out-of-bottle brown curls
emerge from the backseat
I get out to help.

I’m met with worldly eyes
behind mauve cat-eye glasses,
even the rhinestones wink.
Gracias, Preciosa
her honeyed voice says.

Inside, the house rings
with chatter and the distinct voices
of Uncle Gene and mom.
They all flutter to Auntie
and I step back to watch.

Uncle Gene, still brawny at fifty-four
leads her in, gait shortened to match hers
and there it is.
Back quivered gruesomely.
That’s no hiccup, no myoclonic jerk—
it’s a wretched evil.

Warehouse Show and a Stranger

Warehouse Show

I am the divide between stage
and young adult horde,
at the forefront,
tolerant

Dewy vapors of skin-on-skin
mingle with redolence of the dope,
perfume called humidity oozes
out the warehouse door
into a drafty night

Aluminum piss-water alter,
beer-seeking pests,
like ants to apple core
on a searing day,
a hundred silver cans blanket the floor
a single sot sprawled in a corner
a soppy mess

Wasted night, a waste
in sober eyes until
Dolphin City arrives,
crowd parts for the band

Healthy confusion,
muffling din,
tinkering and testing
of pre-show restarts revelry behind

Behind I leave them, farther and
farther behind,
drugged up air, gone
pressing carousal, gone
everything but
their heart thrumming sound
and what they allot to me:

Dolphin City,

You're every satisfying prick of our star's rays,
My blister-scarred feet
And sheared scalp know

You're the tumbling waves rolling down my frame
Leaving lone my wild ears and eyes
Chaperoned only by your mastery

Render sound harder,
Now play softer,
Share the scent of every song,
Taste of every key,
Touch of every chord,
Play for me, Dolphin City.

--

The band has reformed as Make Moon but they'll always be Dolphin City in my heart and this poem is for them. It only solidifies my idea that with me, appreciation is best expressed through the written word. I did the same when I met Jimmy Janzten, a young man who deeply affected me, spiritually. Although his poem may not be the best in content, it was my thank you and goodbye, and it flowed with endearment and that's what carries the greatest weight. And when the time did come to part a few weeks ago, I recited it to him months after I had given him a written copy. Here it is.

--
Stranger I Meet

We met as strangers on the bus,
You and I,
Then nameless strangers said goodbye.
Moments later I thought,
Wouldn’t it be grand to know someone as he?
Someone so gentle, someone so free?
That night the stars aligned so queer,
February’s full moon blushing sheer
As I headed somewhere normal not
To find you behind a coffeepot.
Soon, evenings trailed the days
As I unearthed this revelation:
I was not killing time, as stupidly said
But catching up with it instead.
This occurred because of you,
Your witty wisdom and embracing nature
Helped weave thoughts to reassure
A native’s mind survives
That’s anything but obscure.
And of your harmonious self,
There are bounties to be said;
Your strings of rhymes and prose and tones
Gift me dreams-by-day I can’t conjured alone.
I told you once: you’re a boundless man,
One devoted to life without a plan.
But that’s just fine for you don’t need
A scared man’s cradle to succeed.
So let me see those smiling Irish eyes
I look forward to on such times
When I’m wilted by the daily lies.
Thus, here escapes from secrecy
You’re everything inspirational to me.
You make silence safe while I ponder,
What would happen if I were to wander
‘Round the world, beyond wild blue yonder?
But for this I’m even more indebted:
You sparked my will to once again
Wake from deadened sleep a virgin pen,
To think and write and love and fight
Against visions I see revolting and trite.
And when the time comes for you to go
From my very core I hope you know
What a crevice in me you carved deep;
You’re a being my memory will forever keep.

Free Mind

"Her favorite in the ballroom..." A free write..go.

I remember Scarlet in her black frock, dancing beneath the booth, eyes glittering with jealousy. I remember the crescent-shaped burn that now feels like craters. It happened in the same night. Don't think, don't think...I'm thinking of a long stretch I've never set foot on. I've seen it in a book before, a childhood anthology of stories that shaped me and my integrity. The passions on life were just setting in and I was still learning cursive from the copy cat. Mr. Dorsey, if you could read this I hope you know you're the reason I felt so proud of my abilities. Also, you're the reason I love Dr. Pepper today, at 19. Did I ever tell you it felt like the east coast in 2nd grade? I didn't even know there was an east coast but I loved the sensation. They were times the cold turned my stomach and I forgotten what it felt like to move my digits. There's was one time I forgot my teachers' Christmas presents but dad brought them during recess and handed them to me, gingerly through the wire fence. One would think, if watching such a scene from afar, a strange man was molesting a young girl. But there was I time I didn't think of that and such events weren't possible in the age of happy. I learned the name of the light I love so much, no, not the golden hued thickness that makes me depressed, but the clear blue that only comes through diffused clouds. It's called northern light or window light and I love this light. It makes me feel anything is possible, everything is within my reach, if I just bask in this almighty, power endowing light. It's my love of clouds again. I'll never lie to you. Wherever you are, I will not lie to you. To everyone else, I've always have and always will, but to you--I promise with all the grace and life He or She has given me, I will not lie. So many parts to one person, who knows them all at once. But are they even truly parts? No one knows the real me, not even me. My friends can't, my family doesn't, can a stranger? There's no investment too frightening to allot a stranger. Why is it I kept a secret so long from those closest but told strangers just last week over chips and a burrito. I'm not sure.
The end.

This is my second free write I've completed on my own, the first is in a notebook. I'll try to alternate so as to not fill this with mainly free writes. I'll never edit them. I love such notion--that the mind never ceases to think and so I will end this post for a second time.

Jackie

Extending My Path

for one more year.

I will stay for one more year.
I will click, shuffle, glide, and ease through the place I love.
I will have a greater grasp of my personhood.
I will not be pressured to speed my life up for anyone.
I'll extend my path for one more year.

So High, So Low

It has been a long time. But as I have recently learned, you let time you lost wash over you, cleanse yourself and merely continue a little more aware. My voice is missing, however. Where to re-begin, where to. Am I coming or going? Seems to be a reoccurring motif.

I wish to be somewhere alive with age-old wonder, inkling with fulfilling love, to be on top of a cliff and wish beyond wild blue yonder only to stare at a tiny self and wish to be there. I found my voice.

I have to admit, my life has been easy.

But I stingily want more.

I want more adversity, anguish, and pain. I want to have suffered more hardships in life, felt a sadness I yet to have shatter me, experience more because I want to grow. Confession time, I am a selfish human being. I am fatuous but please do not think too ill of me for I am grateful to have been lucky enough to land this slot, but struggle to pull from what I have not. For a long time I've had my imagination and passion to refer to and guide me but there's a dark place I am forbidden to near. However, I'm sure when one lives through such things, a new dimension surfaces that is terrifying and beautiful but impossible to gain otherwise. I thirst.

It's strange. To feel an emptiness that yearns to be filled with blue devils.
Cosmos test my sufferance.