Archive for the other category
April 3rd, 2007
St Patrick’s Moon
St Patrick’s moon shone
gently on us as we left
Texas, back to our lives.
The brief stays seem sad
and this was the last visit
with all of us single.
St Patrick’s moon shone
on the new baby — born
to make some forget
the tragedy its birthday
marked — the sadness of
this anniversary of death.
St Patrick’s moon shone
through the just-cracked blinds
on Laurisa’s face — the new
life growing within her body.
More family, more joy,
more love to make us forget.
St Patrick’s moon shone
through the rear window of
JD’s car onto my face as
I smiled. My life seems
to be getting closer to real.
I laughed a little because
life can be so wonderful.
3.17.2003
eight
The peacocks called for help as they always did,
the red dust had dulled the color of their feathers.
I figured that was the reason they called for help.
We arrived at my uncle’s farm that morning – around ten.
The hotel breakfast – a pastry and juice – was enough.
I don’t remember everything – just that
I liked those birds – and somehow
always ended up at the creek – I had chased
one of the peacocks down there, through the long vacant
hog pen – our usual route.
It was a game – and the peacock played along.
Sometimes the chase was interrupted by
Uncle Earl’s large black turkey.
The turkey would warble and hiss.
I would try to scare the turkey away,
while my companion would wait
on a nearby chicken coupe or fence post.
The birds would never follow me down to the
hay barn – I went down there for that reason sometimes.
It was always quiet and still.
I’d always find myself, eventually, on the roof
of Earl’s house – my brothers would be lost
in their world of video games,
my mother might be chatting with her cousin
on the porch – catching up from last summer.
But I would be on the roof – looking out at the immensity -
from the hay barn (just barley visible) to the creek,
running the length of the farm.
I was almost scared of it, and sitting up on the roof,
I’d plan my next rendez-vous
with the peacocks.
6.5.1999
little SUPERHEROES
we considered our capes
and took them seriously.
my brother and i, we were
powerful and strong.
we defended the universe
(or our little piece of it)
from evil forces; frogs
and butterflies and
horned-toads.
we claimed a tall elm
for our hideout. the
arsenal placed there
at our feet was perfect
to fight evil forces.
occasionally we would
capture a horned-toad,
just as we were called in
for dinner. we’d let
the horned-toad go and
we would “fly” inside.
all in a days work for
SUPERHEROES.
1999
Miracle
for Jennie Lloyd’s baby
Enveloped in darkness –
surrounded by perfect blackness
(the comfort of mother
on all sides)
Grow gracefully, child of
Love — inside your peaceful shelter.
Your mother is special — young and
full of energy and wonderful
thoughts and hopes and you.
Kiss her often, precious
child of God.
Feel the smile you bring
to her face when
your mother sees herself
in you and sees
things she wishes she could be.
Be careful of the world.
Hold tightly to the hands
that guide and protect you.
Know when to run home and
when to soar free.
Sometimes parents need
a shoulder to cry on –
welcome that moment
and comfort those who need you,
child of Light.
Be who you know you are.
Don’t let the world hold you back.
You can be whoever you want.
I look forward to knowing you,
child of Jennie.
2.20.2000
Shyness
Spoiled with love and round –
the two-year-old look.
His bright wide eyes look
in wonderment.
The figures to him
are blurred and scary –
he doesn’t smile
10.5.1998
April 3rd, 2007
Sleeping At Lunch
I dreamt I was Frank O’Hara.
I softly kissed Larry Rivers on the forehead
and it was again Rachmaninoff’s birthday.
I took a walk along the familiar path
where I once stopped to type something up,
a poem perhaps or maybe just a note for you.
I detoured down to the apartment where we all lived,
that foul address. God, we were happy when we left!
I remembered a story Joe told and how it made me smile
through the haze of the lumped-together smoke.
I made my way back from lunch to the museum.
Mike had made a cake because they had all forgotten me,
but the cake was no good because Mike is not a baker.
And then I woke up. And I remembered having
been him, but not having been him. Imagine!
7.25.2004
The Poet
As I look into the face of a man
33 years postmortem, enough time for Jesus
Time enough to realize -- to gain beliefs.
He isn't watching over
he is part of me. I can
feel it in the way his eyes were blue and in
the way he was Irish -- not fully, but enough.
O'Hara -- O'Hara -- O'Hara.
I praise him leaning
on a door or a wall. I praise him wired with
energy... too much energy.
He made me an insomniac.
He got away with it. If I make dots on
the paper -- salty wet dots, it's realization,
it's discovery! it's wow! And maybe I should
go to a movie, buy some flowers and a new
typewriter -- to peck away at in my own way.
I long for lunch poetry and Joe LaSueur.
Come Frank, I am waiting.
1.29.2000
April 3rd, 2007
untitled ['buffalo']
inside a herd of tiny buffalo stampede me towards my next moments
occasionally they pause to graze on memories i’m done with and information i just never used
and then they get restless again
snorting and butting heads, kicking the ground and grunting
and in tandem they all start off again
some days i wish i could tame them, corral them into a fence and brand them
but in doing so i might stop being me
3.15.2008
untitled ['evil']
Perhaps we expect too much of the dead
assuming their now saintly statuses –
dooming former loved ones to watch us
The cats are restless
stirring as they do when I need
to be lost in thought
They are minions sent to keep
me from discovering my true self
sent to distract me from revealing
the mysteries in my soul
They will fail
Is all of existence a vessel of evil?
Maybe it is just me, here, now
that needs to know that evil exists
Only this can prove the presence of good
and that life is meaningful
I want to know everything
I’m worried about my dead friends
and somehow upset that others have left me
rather than just dying
At least death cannot be my fault
It is easier than accepting
that I am not always enough
8.17.2006 / 10.10.2007
Sadness
A dark hand clutches
my heart,
the tissue sliding
gently through fingers
as I slowly die.
Weak and cold,
I fall to the floor.
7.25.2004
untitled ['apathy']
Apathy washed over me today.
It ran in streams down my back
and soaked into my pores.
I drank it; became intoxicated by
the dark splendor of emotionlessness.
But I didn’t care.
In the rising tides of apathy,
I smoked a cigarette until
the waves engulfed me
and I drowned.
7.20.2004
Six Thoughts On Being
I
I let myself get sunburned again,
like I do every year.
This is a lesson I may never learn.
II
How strange a new hole seems
when it’s tender and swollen.
And how difficult it is to not
have it filled once it has healed.
III
Turquoise makes me sad
because my grandmother is dead.
IV
It would have been nice to have
been Frank O’Hara — to have written
those things and to be remembered.
But I don’t own a typewriter and
I just realized that I am not sad.
And look! Words.
V
I need more Texas and more sleep
and I miss my mother, who I haven’t seen
in three months. I hate North Carolina.
VI
I want something beautiful
tattooed on my arm
and I want a joint.
I want the sweetness
of something intoxicating
to fill my lungs
and make me feel alive.
Even now I can taste
that distant memory
and crave it.
7.15.2004
untitled ['myself']
I saw a photo of myself –
realized the pain of being me;
the torment of looking the way I do.
And I still enjoy being me.
I sank deeply into self loathing;
directly began self destruction.
I began to want out of myself.
Agony of self-awareness and the
harshness of feeling defeated by
my own body.
And suddenly I was tired.
I am still tired, still angry, still depressed.
5.12.2003
Six Thoughts On Being Added
I
Are you the one I wanted
to have sex with tonight?
Or were you just the one
who I was meeting for
an interview at a place
I didn’t want to work
(and would probably get
fired from for having sex
with you in the stock room)?
II
Fellow blogger: do I know you?
Can we forget to be cordial sometimes?
All of this can be so exhausting.
III
I have finally arrived at
acceptance.
IV
I feel completely loved… understood.
The fragile boy clicks on my name.
He is looking for someone else…
someone like himself.
The little boy doesn’t want to kill
himself anymore.
He wants to be loved
and he reaches out for help.
V
Eventually, we married. But not right now.
Tomorrow is when I met him. Tomorrow is
when he decided to put me on his list.
Tomorrow is when I became his friend.
But today I don’t even know him.
VI
Leave me alone!
7.24.2004
April 3rd, 2007
Someone Elses Lover
He tiptoes up the concrete steps
in stolen tennis shoes.
He sneaks into the orange glow
of my cold apartment.
I can sense it — he is here for sex.
We play video games and tickling
games and pretend to make
small talk while we wrestle,
rubbing deliberately the tender
places of the body that make things
pop and harden. I pull back –
or he does — and I keep thinking
how much he belongs to
somebody else and how much
I dont care. I gently bite at the
veins of his neck as he tries to
continue the video game.
And soon he leaves.
2.20.2002
J.
Dear naked one –
smooth and beautiful:
teach me to fuck and love
and bite my ear to show me
that I am doing well.
Your lips are soft and strong
and I need them.
You can do anything to me –
my body is yours.
Caress my tender, virgin parts
and suck rapturously on my
toungue as I slide it into your mouth.
2.19.2002
Another On Sex With J.
It must end
You sweet boy
so young and Polish
I enjoy our games
our endless foreplay
You flatter me with your
nibbles and kisses
and your touch
I enjoy each finger
that runs through my hair
that sensual look
of near pain
that pillowy moan
I anticipate your visits
your creeping up stairs
to conduct this romance
this hidden affair
I miss you even as
I close the door
and I am overjoyed as
you reenter
But oh my sweet
my beauty my child
lets stop here
where our togetherness
will be remembered
so fondly that future
encounters with similar
strangers are measured
against the intensity that
we share here
2.24.2002
Preston’s Hold
for Johnny
The fear. Consuming fear and self-denial.
A dream of love – a school-boy fantasy -
crushed by the vise of injustice for self, by
society. I can’t give myself to you if you hide.
Can two people know each other in darkness?
Can a heart survive the cruel coldness
of lonliness? Kiss me (I know it won’t happen)
Dream of me – of us. Kill the fear of damnation.
It is over and you are gone. I always held on
too loosely, never tried hard enough. I needed
your hands, your touch, your morning voice -
soft and honest. I needed plans, and you…
Kiss me again, this time tenderly, and tell me
it is all okay – love me from wherever you are.
More importantly, be my friend – remind me
of who I wanted and who I wanted to be.
Need is dangerous – I still feel you.
6.5.1999
At First Sight
Blond hair whisps by,
smelling sweetly of overpriced
shampoo. In an instant, he is gone;
the young man whose name
I didn’t get. The beautiful boy
whom I saw for just a second
and fell deeply in love with.
He disappeared, swallowed up
by the rhythmic crowd, too far
away to reach. My heart is broken.
6.9.2002
Austin, Texas
Our bodies gyrate to the thud
after thud after thud of the brand-new-
pop-songs-turned-dance-grooves
by some cookie-cutter drugged up DJ.
Little boys bounce to the rhythm
all around us as we bump together –
he is a tiger (grrr). I want him closer.
A shirt comes off and we rub
one another — I am his.
In another song and a half, he teases –
swooping in and licking my lips gently.
Suddenly, our lips lock in the confusion.
The exchange is long — he tastes
delicious his tongue dances masterfully
in my all too eager mouth. I am alive!
We know. The little boy came here
only to leave a man. I came here to
seduce him. We leave content,
failing in our missions, but with a new
discovery to haunt and excite us.
That night has made me. It is the
only night I’’ve ever known who I am –
who I want — what life means.
3.18.2002
Manhattan Cowboy Fantasy Cycle:
Manhattan Cowboy I
My small child part –
(the part that misses
fruity cereal flavored milk)
it does not understand
those feelings of longing.
It sleeps and plays and
frolics alone.
A smell wakes me from
childhood. I am lonely.
Leather and old cologne and
sweat. I can feel the
strength of the presence.
The memory and anticipation of
desires — I sigh and wait, knowing
what I’ve never known before.
The part of me which will end
this life knows the answer –
will I get my cowboy? Will
I be swept away? I need it.
The wide hat and tough
boots make sensations creep
through my heart and groin
and eyes — feeling I’ve never known.
The current part of me
is looking — weeding through
thousands. I’m looking
for the beautiful city boy
with bad habits I want to hate
and a permanent scent of leather.
Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me
I was once was lost
but now I’m found
Was blind
but now I see.
Lord, deliver my James Dean
Bring him to me — to
take me and overtake me.
I can already feel his body.
12.28.2000
Manhattan Cowboy II
The lanky man stands in the doorway –
a cigarette hanging loosely and deliberately
from his pouty lips.
I call his name from behind,
longing for him to be too close to me.
His cigarette flies out to the sidewalk
and I can feel my stomach clench,
knowing he is turning toward me.
Closing in on me, his right hand grabs my arm –
gently; his left arm pulls me forward,
his whole hand spread out on the small of my back.
Our lips touch — mine moistening his –
as we try in a futile attempt to get even closer.
My hands become alive — finding his back.
I cup his head in my palm, my fingers
deeply sunken into his thick hair.
I pull and the passion becomes more intense –
everything is wet and beautiful.
We release and he kisses me softly on the cheek.
He drags his hand across my chest as he passes
me and reclines on the sofa — seductively.
I find a home on the facing chair, content to watch
the angel sleep. Soon, I too am asleep.
it is well
it is well with my soul.
For hours we sleep, finding ourselves eventually
huddled together on the sofa or floor,
locked in a tangle of arms and legs.
We’ll grow old, cherishing these afternoons.
The Lord has delivered.
10.29.2001
Manhattan Cowboy III
Ten years ago, my cowboy rode home.
I imagined the sunset and the horse
through the skyscrapers
as the minister gave
a falsely sympathetic eulogy.
The years of bliss had not been tarnished
by the ignorance of others.
Our passion was wild and it sustained us
through every good time and every crisis.
We believed in one another
and on days when I was depressed
over my mother’s death or my failing health,
he’d pick up a bouquet
of the most beautiful red daisies
and we’d spend the evening holding each other,
his masculine force set aside
for the more important task of comforting.
And even in later years –
with his medical nightmares
that sent him from hospital to hospital
with no answers, it was always him
who carried me. The delivered one –
sent to me from the Lord.
My guardian cowboy.
Now it’s my turn to cross over –
to see the other side.
To go to the city beyond death,
where the cowboys stay young,
and the passion is intense,
and where there is only love,
and my sweet will be waiting for me to be called home.
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling for you and for me
See on the portals he’s waiting and watching
Watching for you and for me.
As the world fades –
anticipation takes over.
I am desperate to be
reunited with my love.
11.2.2001
April 3rd, 2007
David Eugene, look at me when I am thinking of you!
I declare myself a child of narcissism. I’m a disciple,
a follower of the most newly found.
Love is disguised well in sarcasm, in moments of mocking and making-fun.
I only see the Davids of this world for who they are and rarely for who they want me to see,
longing for who others make me want to be,
afraid [at times] of whom they’ll believe me to want and afraid they’ll think it is always him.
Oh David, do you not recognize the idolatry in my loyalty?
Doesn’t my face give away the desire to be looking into my own face as I look at you?
It does if you’d look up and see my eyes, the tears still kept close, pooling in my eyelids.
I became me such a short time ago; being someone else doesn’t seem so drastic.
I wonder why I cower in my corner, shy away into the safety of home
when safety comes from experiencing the world and those in it.
Denial of this truth makes me feel safe, despite so many shouting it like anthems,
begging me to listen
Love means replacing my foolishness with the needs of friends,
an act that is excruciatingly joyous.
David is more important than I am — more than I am.
[so too are the others, whose hearts I meant to steal while I had the chance]
They exist, whereas I seem like mere fragments of their lives, real on their terms.
Reassurance is nice; I’m not looking for pats on my head
like a Lhasa Apso with its head cocked to one side, no attention ever enough.
My needs are basic — understanding and compassion and selflessness;
a recognition of value.
To require selflessness is selfish.
If I am to be the tucked into the shadows, part of other people’s lives, but only negligibly,
then I should be rewarded with love — romantic love. I should and will.
Heartache is trite, but I dwell on it even as I try to set it free,
unchaining my tongue, allowing bravery to escape.
I release my heartache in the name of becoming that person who I see in David,
who has been rewarded for his beauty and brazen spirit
with love and sex, but more importantly companionship [warmth].
I humbly bow and request my turn, giving thanks
for less obvious, yet still true love and for great aspirations.
For life and someone to share my dinners and wine with,
models set by those I so desperately wish I could be, I can still only long and wait.
But I don’t wait alone and my side is crowded with those too ashamed to admit how they really feel.
3.17.2008
Heather
for a friendship I hope has more life in it
She’s liquid.
I grasp for her, for who we were,
for what I wish I could will her to be;
she slips through fingers too ill equipped
to manage with the wetness of our friendship.
In vain, I clutch too hard;
the last of what we are escapes silently.
3.17.2008
Hop Off, Little Lapin
for Jennie Lloyd
hop hop skip skip hop hop skip!
little flowered
bunny-eared... sugarsugar
hi!
bounce bounce jump jump jump!
cute-in-white
halo-clad... curtsy for the audience.
clap clap yell yell clap clap clap!
carbonated
caffeinated coffeecoffee
more!
wave wave bye bye bye!
don't forget me...
I won't forget you jenniejennie
babe!
6.5.1999
Jerry Pt I
My heart still hurts and I still love you, my friend.
I don’t understand why you ran away. I never will.
Your boyfriend’s hold was too much;
his approval was too important to you.
So, you left.
You left me.
My arms will still be open, my home yours,
if you ever need it — need me.
My life has a space reserved for you,
beautiful friend.
7.1.2005
Meghan
Life rips you apart
You will learn to
find the pieces you
thought were lost
You will learn to put
them together again
Life doesn’t care
Spit in the face
of an apathetic world
tell it to shove off
and be happy
Love in spite of
the bitterness
in spite of
divorce and sickness
in spite of everything
You don’t know yet
You don’t realize
how good life can be
how this tearing
will not last
5.30.2005
Unwizened
for Lori
Quietly, a young woman
starts a fresh pot of coffee
and returns to her book.
It is an escape from a life –
from her life, too full of
parental expectations,
occupational expectations,
her own expectations.
Finding love between the pages
proves a far easier task than
taking risks and finding
men who fall short of
the dreams she has for her life.
With a few gurgles,
the coffee is ready and she
lights up a cigarette.
She is making her own life,
despite the pressures to marry.
“Family” doesn’t seem
defined the way it used to be.
Alone in her apartment,
another chapter of the
often read romance novel,
she puffs, she sips.
Someday, she may realize
something she has always known:
This life belongs to her
and there is no right way to live.
Friends become siblings and
expectations melt away.
She has realized her dreams.
There is no expiration on living
your life the way you want.
There is no prerequisite to happiness.
Soon, she will discover how
futile it is to hate herself.
And then she will find love
waiting for her.
The young woman picks up the book
and starts a new chapter and cries.
5.30.2005
Cold Betrayal
on being stranded in Alaska
January had been full of
animal dinners and parties
when sadness was setting in
and Lori left suddenly after
and exchange of anger-charged words
I was lost during those cold weeks
that followed and couldn’t keep up
Life rushed by and stood still
I know about the carefully discarded
cigarette butts in bottles of soda
and the mornings of coffee and romance
empty mornings and safe
I had days when I didn’t eat
that spring and the cheap dinners
of tasteless noodles seemed
heavenly after
The pain doesn’t last and Justin
stayed with me until I wasn’t unhappy
anymore which was a long time
Then he went home to his life and
left me to forge my new life from
this strange place
Sometimes I want to forget Lori’s face
but I keep getting it stuck in my head
I had a dream with hundreds of hens
flocking around me and
they all screamed Lori’s name
and I realized that I still love her
despite not being able to hold on enough
to keep her near me
I am floating above this frozen place
this city of refugees lumped together
from many corners of other places
I don’t care anymore about knowing about the
coffee and the cigarettes and the novels
it doesn’t matter that people are happy when
I can’t decide what would make me happy
but I wish the hens would stop reminding me
4.2.2007
Maybe It’ll Last
Yes, you are the butch, aren’t you?
Sipping our sodas — bellies full of burritos
Don’t fall on your head, find feet and grab hold of a tiny red car,
yours or mine, it doesn’t matter which. I’m obligated to laugh.
Riding around these cold afternoons, the winter is holding on as best it can,
your head seemed as full as mine of new information,
of disappointments, of distractions, of fear (but I’m not telling).
The newness of new is wearing off quickly, but don’t take one giant step back.
It’s all the same, you’re all the same, I’m all the same,
the characters keep changing, but the plot never does.
I’m starting to attach to people, remind myself of where I meant this to be.
Finding your way with bitter guides is hard.
At least we can jump into a car and run away for an hour.
So, you be the butch, with your harem waiting at home, and I’ll be your sidekick,
the Madonna loving, muscle shirt wearing, swishy fag
who waits for your direction, but still gives orders as if I was your boss.
Don’t report to me or their will be Hell to pay, trust me.
3.21.2008
April 3rd, 2007
I’d like him to wear boots [sometimes], thinking they are sexy
or, This is why people like me shouldn’t be alone
for my heart, which is lonely
If only for a moment, I should receive the happiness I’ve earned.
Winter is long and I seem to be one of the few who wouldn’t have it be any shorter. It gives me hopes of cuddling up with someone, losing myself in another person’s warmth.
Shake me, so I’ll realize you really are there and this has all been a dream. Wrap your arms around me and we’ll go back to sleep.
People seem happy when they are in love and I just go about my business pretending not to notice.
This will seem so distant someday soon. I’ll be astounded at how young I was and how naive. I’ll read this aloud, amusing someone else with how lonely I seemed and how desperate it all was. I’ll give him a hug — a peck on the cheek and tell him how lucky I am to have someone so wonderful in my life. He’ll make a sarcastic quip, as though the sentiment was lost, but he’ll have heard me. And he’ll silently agree.
I’m using “the Secret,” hoping for an attorney from Lubbock. Or maybe just more money. Or maybe some guy with no job, still living at home.
I want to feel taken [for granted].
Should it come up in conversation, make me sound easy without sounding too slutty. I want to assert my availability without attracting the wrong set of people. I think you know who to look out for. Make sure they aren’t wearing lavender… or chaps. No, wait, chaps can be hot.
I have secrets to whisper to you when we are alone.
3.13.2008
twenty-four
Will this winter chill lift from my heart and allow me to find love? In the ice covered and mad city I can’t see anyone worth knowing, worth loving. I need my knight. This curse is too much.
1.5.2001
one
I can feel the morning. The richness of new sun on glass skyscrapers and parks and children on their way to school. My coffee is company enough to enjoy the silence, the peace, broken for moments at a time as one person or another fumbles with keys and papers and children down the stairs. I am so lonely here.
1.21.2001
eighteen
It is time to bury the youth — the naivete; put away insecurity and fear and doubt. It is time to mature — really mature and see the joy of being me. But sleep is more within reach just now — and I can mature when I wake.
9.26.00
five
I am alone. I can’t think today, or work, or have a cup of coffee without
feeling like a fool — a lonely soul lost in the game, the life-waltz. Do my
parents understand — truly understand that to be me is to want, to
love, to long, to hate, to read, to grow, to cry, to laugh. Do they
realize that I haven’t changed since I first sprouted in this earth? I’ve been
tested and questioned. I am ready to turn in — to rest. There is a pile
of papers and twenty messages for me. I must do some work. Will I
ever be able to survive without the shade of my parents? Will I grow
in the full sun? And there in the sun, withering, will my parents be able
to see that I am as human as they are, and that I need them to help
shade the sun at times, but not to hide me from it completely. I long
for the danger I fear.
1.21.00
twelve
I remember holding back tears as G told me how soft I was, killing the small insect — green and perfect. Moments before I observed it, now crushed. I felt like that creature — crushed.
1.29.2000
zero
I am the one who flew you in here –
from other places, places I haven’t been –
it was me. I can’t make you look at me –
my eyes, my lips, my hair, my waist
Don’t look, there is nothing to see
and I don’t want you looking anyway.
I believed what I was told about beauty and love
Nothing is inside.
I tried to produce a reasonable excuse for you to still be here and I get nothing.
I feel terrible that I may want you
and will never know you because of this world.
I can’t sleep with confusion and doubt
fear regret pain mystery hatred.
Can you be near me and soothe me
I ache and can’t stop running now
I have tried to run from you — stop chasing me and leave me alone
it is so cold here by myself.
I can’t live knowing I’m not loved
be quiet mind and put out the raging fires.
Gray may be all I know.
6.12.2000
nine
The newness of morning would not yet have been cleared from my eyes as I would sit with my brothers on the floor in the living room to watch cartoons and eat cereal. We always drank the milk leftover from our overpouring. It was sweet and fruity, raspberry and cherry. I can’t forget the taste — the feeling of summer mornings. I can never feel that again. And my brothers with further complicated lives no longer sit by one another, but fight for the recliner — who can be most comfortable — and who will win…
1.29.2000
seventeen
in memory of Mike Henson
Once again a death made me numb. But this time I finally cried, and I never cry when people die — I just can’t. But Mike… she was strong, mentally, physically. She became consumed with cancer, which trickingly fled the body and suddenly returned without warning… One final blow. There are not others like Mike and I am cold at the thought that I will never know others like her. Some people seem to never get sick or hurt — they spend their lives carrying others, nursing, loving. If we stop riding on the backs of these people, who seem happy to have us there, we might see them cry or cringe in pain from the awful weight of so many in need. These deaths are tragic. When the strong have gone, the rest of us must learn how to walk… must help each other to fill the shoes of the one we lost. When it set in — when the hard fact set in, I cried. I cried knowing that I would never see her loving stride, her tender and honest smile, her patient eyes. I cried. Every inch of me trembled at the terrible revelation of her now permanent absence. And somehow, peace has followed. Rest well, dear friend.
9.26.2000
sixteen
in memory of Daisy Duncan
I like to think that people never die – that they are indestructible. God sees things differently, though. Each time I am convinced of a person’s immortality, they die. And tragic deaths might make my suffering easy (forgetting the pain of the dying ones). However, God caters to the needs of many and takes them silently and without pain. You can’t understand Him, you can’t see his plan, but it is there and it is everywhere and you breathe it and you eat it and and and and. I can’t not move on anymore. must run. If I stop to have a chat I get attached and that’s when you cry (or get so upset you just can’t cry). When you love someone with such a strong love… I am going to let God do it all… I don’t want to understand. I will watch and I will cry until it is my turn to prove mortality (or my soul’s immortality).
6.12.2000
two
If I break a cup or a bowl in the living room of this dusty apartment, it
will just lie there for months. I can’t bring myself to pretend that I am
expecting somebody.
1.21.2000
twenty-one
We are still here on the cusp of all that is to come. At 21, in the 21st century, I still know nothing but pain and separation. People die quickly, and I have surrounded myself with them. G passed one week and one day ago, and Mike in August (Daisy passed sooner). I am on the verge of all that seems real and right, but I am pulled back by childhood friends, the gods and goddesses I needed. I feel more and more as loved ones die that I am growing a little more into a real man. Perhaps my father experienced such a growth this month, and I feel blessed that I have not had to grow on his behalf. The world is a different place and the ideals I cherish (those of the fifties sitcoms and fantasies) are dead. I think we will be better because of it, but I somehow am not consoled by that fact. I fear becoming my parents and I know that it is important – no – imperative that I do. I can’t believe that I can no longer visit western Oklahoma without feeling a great deal of grief. I thought I liked it just for the simple things. I guess it was always G. Sadly, I doubt it was Grandma McGuire — always G. I watched an eclipse with her shortly after her mother died. Christmas Day there was an eclipse. It all comes back to her eventually.
1.26.2000
April 3rd, 2007
Bonita
on viewing my Mimi’s body
She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matched
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck.
As if she’d just come in
from church for a nap –
a lazy Sunday afternoon,
she lay resting — calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down my grandpa’s
too often stoic face.
His wife — the woman he
devoted his entire life to –
his best friend.
“She really is a beautiful lady.”
3.12.2002
untitled [’100 days’]
It’s been one hundred days
and if feels like it all happened
just this morning.
I’m starting to realize she’s gone –
finally missing her and ultimately
knowing I can never see her again.
I hate that morning –
when Mimi died.
Loneliness overtook me and
pain was invited in.
All I needed was a hug
from Bettina, JD, Travis, Becky,
Mom — but they weren’t there.
I’m cold inside and sad.
I miss her.
6.18.2002
April 3rd, 2007
G
in memory of G, a mystery
Strange woman, you left us
wondering who you were and
why you couldn’t go on.
I waited and waited and still
thought I had more time — these
things don’t happen to me –
the strong always survive –
this should be the fairytale.
It’s not. Your secrets were
your secrets — tiny new pearls
in the oyster of your life.
That mussel was enough for
me. You secrets are now eternal.
Brent and I still made noise
(the irritating chatter you always
hated). We didn’t even try not to,
hoping you’d sit up and tell us
to cut it out. We miss you.
I never found a new gold bug
for you and I am sorry. I’m not
sure I really tried. Probably not.
I do not think I was kind to you,
lovely woman. Reverent, yes.
Respectful, yes. Committed, yes.
But kind…? Dear woman, I loved
you deeply. I hate the days
I put off visiting. I hate that I wasn’t
there at the end for you, though
I know you felt me there –
I pray you were somehow comforted
by that.
When I saw you, you were weak — very weak.
You were artificially alive with tubes and knobs
and gauges and buttons — it wasn’t you in
that shell. I could see you fight; try to get back –
get back to what…? I know you didn’t want this.
Pain…medication…doctors…nurses…anger…tears.
I cried for you — hard. Some of the tears were guilt
(I never did enough). Most was pain — separation.
I never wanted you to go and I almost couldn’t take it.
12.21.2000
Gold Bugs Pt I
for G, who is always with us
Beautiful and unpredictable woman,
stop hiding your secrets in jewelry boxes
with your finest turquoise pieces – prized
possessions from a vacation, a former home
(I never really bothered to ask).
Can you see me reach my hand to you,
and still hold on too loosely? Can you
feel me slip away and turn away?
I am only gone a moment – I must
search for another of the rare golden bugs
we have spent many hours discussing,
all the while making no sound.
In France, I found one (and cried when
I heard you valued it). Where next?
Egypt, where they have lovely scarabs?
Or should I simply spray a cicada shell? -
a false, but dazzling interpretation.
It seems important to you (and is to me)
that I find these tokens, these treasures.
They enhance your warm face and make you
smile. Smile more – when you do I feel
warm and I decide to search for more bugs.
2.4.2000
Gold Bugs Pt II
The search has continued
and I have come to realize the
lack of significance in so
many things. That valued token,
the small French bauble that must
have reminded you of me –
it is now with me, as you have
more important matters at hand.
And I have found a perfect home
for it, among my own charms that
make me smile. What now? Shall I continue
the search? When I see you again,
will you be anticipating another;
and will it disappoint you if
I haven’t had the strength to go on?
You weren’t warm and you didn’t smile
on that final mortal day. They
had forgotten to adorn you with the shells
from your backyard’s fence. The discarded
cases of the aging insects.
I imagined them there in your hair
sprayed gold and violet against the
gray beautiful mass of hair, enhancing you
and I smiled, as I do when I see your golden cicada.
3.1.2001
thirteen
Dust and saltlicks and fuzzy caterpillars. I loved the farm. I often complained about the heat or stickerweed or the heat — such incredible heat. I was secretly relieved and secretly upset when G, with her parents moved into town. Where in town was the garden full of overripe squash and where in town were the cows, anxious for discarded watermelon or cantaloupe rind for dessert. They moved to be close to a hospital — to make certain they would have a place near for death. Poor G, it broke her heart, and us kids would sit around making all kinds of noise and she wanted to cry. Cry now, G, cry. Were off making noises in our own places — we’re grown now. We know you need a little peace — we will be quiet now.
1.29.2000
twenty-two
I keep getting the same image of G in my head. Lying in the beautiful soft pink, a thread exposed on her lower lip, an imperfection. Something was odd about her mouth, it wasn’t right… it looked as though she were made of resin or wax. I can see the vacant expression in her sleeping face. In life she was fully expressive, day and night. It haunts me lately that I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t speak to her, couldn’t touch the casket after carrying it to the car. G would not have been proud of me. She would have been irritated with how weak I was and how I could not comfort Dad and Rita. Now I realize the horror. I ache because I cannot call her. I never called her, but she was always there. Now I have lost my opportunity. I pray I am not so cold to others. That face, the false face on my grandma’s shell will never leave me — I know that. And I guess I don’t want it to.
12.26.2000
March 30th, 2007
These are two stories I wrote forever ago. The purpose of both is to introduce several characters I intend to use in various stories. These characters are a family in my head still and I will one day start recounting their lives. I hope you enjoy this, their Genesis.
American Dream [or Yesterday Hurts] (Revised Version)
I still can’t believe I am here. I just can’t stand this. I guess I can’t say I’m lucky, but I can’t say I don’t deserve it either. Rejection that is. It still hurts, and I think the worst part is that I can’t do anything about it. I started with good intentions; I am not a bad woman. I had the chance to have a family like I dreamed of doing, and I loved every moment of it. I married a seemingly wonderful man and had two beautiful boys, Chad and Ivan. I love them so much.
One day though, my husband left me. He ran off with a woman with perfect teeth and big breasts. I hated her then. Maybe I still do. But why shouldn’t I? I was a good wife and was still a damn good mother, but sometimes, you know, that thing inside you, that desperation, just needs something to make life easier, so I drank. I wasn’t a heavy drinker at first, not really. I just had a little in the evening. It made it better, the pain that is. I knew it was getting worse, but I tried not to think about it.
My drinking started getting worse. My children were suffering from my neglect, I realize that now, but I still had to have something. It seemed to be what I needed. I soon turned to abuse. Oh, I would never become physical with them, but sometimes it seems that words hurt worse. They do. I know that now.
Ivan was my baby, and he was only eleven at that time. The divorce and the pain of knowing what his father had done had gotten to him and I guess he was pretty depressed. I didn’t see it then, I do now. I feel so bad for not noticing he was hurting. As his mother I should have been there for him. But I was too busy being comforted by my bottle of whatever it was I was drinking. My other son, Chad was twelve. He ignored the situation. He would go spend time at his friend’s house and wander around the neighborhood.
I didn’t try. I only made things worse. I love Ivan; I really do. But he is different. I knew back when he was five and six that he might be gay. I started calling him “fag” and “fruit” and any other name I could think of. The names made me feel better at first, but would always make me feel worse in the end. He would cry and sit up in his room. I heard him. I didn’t care. I mean, I did care, but I didn’t do anything. I guess I’ve been a lousy mother. I know Ivan didn’t even know why I called him those names, not that there is an excuse. He understands now. He came out to his aunt about a year ago. They have been so supportive of him, and I think he might even have a boyfriend. I guess I am proud. Not that he is gay, but that he is happy. At least he is. He never told me he was gay. Chad told me. I felt terrible when I heard that and wondered if it was my fault. No wonder he hates me.
Anyway, my drinking somehow led to drugs. I didn’t really expect it to, but it did. In the back of my mind I told myself that it couldn’t happen. It seems that Chad knew it would. Ivan didn’t want to be around me enough to figure it out, so I don’t think he knew I went that far. He probably knows, but I hope not. I love those boys and never wanted to hurt them, but I knew when I started that they would be taken away when anyone found out. I regret my drug use now, but it is too late for that, I guess.
I sent my children to stay with their aunt, my ex-husband’s sister. She is a good woman, and treats my kids wonderfully. She is Ivan’s biggest support. I love her so much for treating my baby so well. I think sending them there was the best thing for my kids. A few days later I called to the rehab center. I was so nervous and embarrassed, but I knew I had to do that for my boys. Chad was fifteen then, and Ivan was fourteen. He hadn’t said two words to me in three months. I deserved it, I guess. I was in rehab for six months. I couldn’t believe I had to miss both of my kids’ birthdays. Chad turned sixteen on the first of March. Ivan turned fifteen on St. Patrick’s Day. He has always been proud of his birthday. It makes him feel special to have a holiday birthday.
I had given custody of the kids to their aunt . She would have given them back, but because of my rehab I had to go to court to prove myself. It was ruled that the boys would make the decision to come home with me or not. I think I wouldn’t have gotten them at all if they had been younger. Anyway, Ivan has never been a leader. I really expected him to do whatever Chad did. I knew Chad would come with me. We have always been close. The boys were given another week at their aunts to make a decision. In that time, I rented myself an apartment and applied for some jobs. They were small jobs, but I figured they would have to do.
A week later I showed up to pick up the kids. Chad was ready. His bags were stuffed haphazardly, like he couldn’t have had any less time to pack, though he had a week. No one said a word as Chad gave me a hug and ran out to put his stuff in the car. Eighteen and still a mama’s boy. Ivan was leaning on the wall, like he was hiding. He looked like he was mad, but he was about to cry. He didn’t even look at me. I think he wanted to, but he didn’t. A got one of those lumps in my throat. I wanted to cry. I didn’t though. I just went home with Chad. On our way home, I cried. Chad starting saying that Ivan was a jerk and couldn’t believe he didn’t come. That day Chad called Ivan a “fag” and it killed me. I started crying. Chad said he didn’t mean it, and almost started to cry, I think. Ivan and Chad loved each other. They had to. Without each other they had no one. Well, they had their aunt, but they still needed each other.
Being rejected by one of my children really hurts. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be a good feeling. But Chad was at home, and I still felt as bad as I did before. I guess I was ashamed of myself for everything I had ever done. But I still loved my baby, even if he did hate me.
I started my new job, waiting tables. It wasn’t much, but it helped and the apartment was small enough to make up for the difference. It felt empty without Ivan, Chad told me Ivan had never felt like he belonged in the family. I wish he knew how much I loved him.
About a month passed and I decided to go talk to Ivan. I wanted to let him know how much I loved him. I went to see him at his aunt’s. I called for him and he didn’t come. His cousin told me he had locked himself in the cedar closet. I went to the closet and tried to open it. It was locked. I knew it was a stupid idea to put a lock on a closet door. said that the first time I saw it there. He wouldn’t talk to me. I could hear familiar music. I had bought a tape for his tenth birthday. It was all he had wanted. He had wanted it for so long. He still had it. I started to walk leave when Ivan knocked on the door three short knocks. I knocked back twice. Those knocks were kinda our little thing at our old house. His room was next to the master bedroom. I would knock three times and he would always knock back twice. It was kinda like saying “I love you” I guess. As soon as I had finished, Ivan slipped one of his paintings he had done under the door. The background was black and gray, with a red heart. In the heart two people, one with long hair the other with short hair. I turned it over and on the back was a note: “I love you mom. Ivan” I didn’t thank. I just left. I didn’t know what to think. I had the painting framed. It is hanging in my living room now. Ivan has still never seen it, and he has still not spoken to me. I decided soon after to look for some support. Divorce is hard, but I took mine too far. It destroyed my family and we will never be the same, not that we were ever really happy. I am so happy to have found this group. I hope you can help me relieve some of the hurt. Thank you.
Brian Fuchs 5.23.1998
Character: Jean (Original Version)
Jean walked swiftly into work at nine fifteen and sat at her desk, stopping a moment to catch her breath. “Hi Jean” Sue said from the next desk.
“Oh… hello,” Jean started, “Ivan was over last night and I took him to school and I had to get gas. It’s been a long morning…did I miss anything?”
“No. It’s been a slow here.”
Jean allowed herself time to worry about Christine, as she always did. Christine had married Jean’s brother, Robert, and when he ran off with another woman, Jean became closer to Christine and checked on her frequently. Christine would slip into periods of depression sending her children to stay elsewhere. Ivan almost always ended up at Jean’s. He was close to Brooke, Jean’s daughter. The two would talk about school and their parents acted so much alike. His brothers would end up at a friend’s house or at Jean’s mothers, but never together. Jean constantly worried about them. She does this too often, Jean thought to herself, she is missing her children grow up. With that, Jean decided to go talk to Christine after work as she always did when Christine was like this. She was too stubborn to let Christine waste her life away.
By four that afternoon, Jean’s mind was racing in anger. “I’m going early, Sue.”
Jean pulled up to Christine’s house, being sure to lock the doors as she got out of the car. She walked up on the porch. The glass on the storm door was still missing. Christine had thrown a mantle clock through it when Robert walked out on her. Jean rang the doorbell. Receiving no answer, she fumbled angrily for her key and walked in. She sighed as she walked through the house. The laundry was in heaps in the living room and the dirty dishes overfilled the kitchen sink. “Chris?” she called. “Chris….” She went back in the kitchen. On the table, among various bills and schoolwork from the kids, there was a note:
Jean- I knew you would come. I had to leave for a while. I don’t know how long I will be gone. -C
Jean’s eyes widened as she read the note. She didn’t how to take it. The anger she felt turned into guilt and she stood there with the note in her hand, her mind racing with where Christine could be. She stuffed the note in her purse and left.
When she got home, she wasn’t sure what to do. “Ivan!” she called. “Ivan?”
“What,” Ivan asked calmly, appearing from the den. Jean ran up and hugged him. He was taller than she was, which made it difficult, but she held on tight. Ivan reluctantly put one arm around her. She let him go and just stood there, looking at him. “Dinner will be ready at seven and Jerry will be home then.” Jean turned and walked into the kitchen and phoned her mother. Ivan looked over at Brooke and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Brooke shrugged her shoulders.
They ate in the den. Jean was not chatty as usual. She explained what had happened and they were completely silent. “I’m going to bed,” Ivan finally said, not having finished his meal. Jean got up, found him some blankets and told him to sleep on the floor in Brooke’s room if he wanted. Jean couldn’t sleep that night. She worried about Christine. Ivan cried himself to sleep and Brooke fell asleep soon after Ivan’s crying stopped.
Ivan woke up with a sharp pain in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or guilt or sadness.He had spent much of his time like this lately, but now that his mother had gone, the pain was much greater. Ivan had become a master of confusing himself. He would tell himself one thing, while he would want it not to be true so badly that he would tell himself that. He did that with his mother. He did not want her to be gone so much that he would build up a deep denial and feel she had not run away.
“Honey… better get up and get ready for school.” Jean said solemnly as she passed by Brooke’s door.
“Okay.” He said, with a deep crackle of morning in his voice.
Ivan sat in class, trying carefully to look as if he was listening. As his first-hour teacher explained quadratic equations, Ivan’s mind raced and his stomach ached. It was still early enough that his eyes were sore from last night. He thought mainly of his mother, but he would occasionally have an out-of-the-blue thought about the history test next week, how he felt he wasn’t normal like other teenaged guys with their girlfriends. He knew that he wasn’t going to have a girlfriend; he did not want one. But then, he would think about his mother, sharpening the pain in his stomach.
“Ivan!” the teacher said.
“Oh… what?” Ivan said trying to sound likr he misuderstood the question.
“Can you work problem twenty-seven on the board?”
“No… I need to go to the office… I don’t feel well.”
When Jerry arrived at the school, Ivan was sitting on a bench in front of the building, hugging his knees for comfort. He grabbed his bag slowly and seemed to crawl into Jerry’s truck.
“Hi Ankle…” Ivan said slowly. Jerry was called “Ankle” by the entire family. When she was younger, his brother’s daughter could not say Uncle Jerry, therefore she called him “Ankle Cherry.” The name stuck and Jerry was now so used to it, he didn’t notice.
“Upset?” Jerry asked, trying to sound compassionate.
“I feel sick.”
“Yeah?”
“My stomach hurts… and my eyes… “
“Well, you just need some rest.”
“Yeah, probably…”
Jerry dropped Ivan off, as to get back to work as soon as he could. Ivan went up to the garage door, entered the code and went inside.
Brian Fuchs 3.31.1998
March 30th, 2007
Some birds chirp cheerfully, just outside the small one bedroom house. Morning reaches in the blinds of the bedroom and across Opal’s face, weathered with her eighty years. It pulls on her eyelids and she gladly greets its warmth. She sits up, yawning a moment, and glances over at the clock, 7:30. Opal has a way of waking at the same time each morning. She has never needed an alarm clock.
Opal lives alone in her house, which is set apart from the rest of town by a small group of trees. She never married and has no children, so she rarely has visitors. Today, however, is Tuesday, and July. She hires a boy from town each year to cut the grass and he will be at Opal’s around noon. Every week he comes at the same time. Each week Opal looks forward to these visits.
Still in her housecoat, Opal goes into her kitchen, and fixes herself a cup of coffee. She reaches into a plastic container on the counter and retrieves a croissant. She made the croissant a few days ago, and it is still moist. Opal often reaches in and finds a dry one. This one is not dry though, and it smells sweet, having been warmed by the sun. Opal makes sure the plastic container is always in the sun’s path. That way, each morning her breakfast will be warm. She places the croissant and coffee beside each other on a saucer and carries them onto the porch in front of her house. As she eats her breakfast, she watches some bird bathe in the early morning dew on the high grass. That boy will be here today, and its about time, she thinks to herself. Opal picks up the cup and saucer and carries them back into the kitchen. She sets them in the sink and runs water in the cup. She will get to it later.
The boy will be here around noon, Opal thinks, and decides to get dressed. To her, it is important that a lady present herself well whenever she has company. She finds her favorite yellow dress. The color is barely visible in the dress, but Opal remembers its brilliance. It is still her favorite. She fixes her hair, which she still keeps long, though it is rather thin now. She puts much of it into a bun, leaving two locks to hang down on either side, in front of her ears.
Opal rarely wore make-up throughout her life, but today the boy is coming to cut the grass, and she wants to look nice for him. She puts on her lipstick deliberately making sure her lips received the color within each wrinkle. She tries as she goes to not put the make-up on too heavily, as she had read in her magazines for mothers.
By eleven o’clock, Opal is ready. She sprays a bit of perfume on herself, sniffs it, just to be sure it is enough, and goes into the living room to wait. The living room is barely big enough for her sofa and chair with their coffee tables. She sits in and lets the late morning sun light and warm the room.
The boy will need something to drink, she thinks to herself and goes into the kitchen again. She retrieves her glass pitcher, which she only uses on Tuesday afternoons. She makes a full pitcher of tea and places it in her old refrigerator. I will put ice in it when the boy gets here, she thinks. She goes back into the living room.
Opal glances over at an old clock hanging on the wall, 11:53. She smiles, realizing that the boy will arrive soon. He has been late only twice, she thinks. Once when he came at 2:00, and once when he came by just to say he would not be able to cut the grass that week. She hopes he will not be late. She picks up her photo album. She only has one since she has no family. She has various pictures of friends in it. She even has a picture of the boy who will come today to cut her grass. He is a handsome young man, she thinks as she pauses at his picture. She glances at the clock, 12:20. She decides to take the tea outside, so it will be ready when the boy does arrive. He must be running late, she thinks.
Opal has no telephone, so her contact with the world is through visits from people. The boy coming today was her closest friend. There was also a lady who came from the Methodist church in town. Opal had grown too old to attend services at her congregation, so the Methodist lady took over. Opal is always polite to the lady; she doesn’t have the heart to tell the woman to leave her alone. She looks at the clock as she carries the tea outside, 12:34. She sits out on the porch with the tea and two glasses. She made some sandwiches yesterday, but she decides they will be best if left in the refrigerator.
Opal sits on the porch until 1:30. Well, I better take the tea in; it is warm now, she thinks. She carries the tea back into the kitchen. She decides to eat one of those sandwiches. It is too hot to sit in the sun all day, so I better stay here in the living room, she finally decides. Besides, the boy will be here to cut the grass. If he waits too long it will be too hot.
Opal decides to take a nap while she waits for the boy to come. She is anxious and worried about the boy. At four o’clock, A knocking at Opal’s door startles her. Oh! The boy is here to cut the grass, she thinks. She is excited and gets up as quickly as she can. Her knees try to protest, but she persists. Walking across the living room, she looks outside. No familiar truck with lawnmower sits in front of her house and she wonders where the boy parked. She stands a moment at the door, straightening her dress. Excitedly, she opens the door.
“Oh! Hi Opal… well, you certainly do look beautiful this afternoon… how are you?” the woman on the other side of the screen begins. It is the Methodist woman. “May I come in?”
“Miss… I am sorry, but I am waiting for the boy to come cut the grass” Opal begins. “It is pretty high and he needs to do it as soon as he arrives,” she says as she points to the tall grass.
“Ma’am, I thought that boy came on Tuesdays…”
“That is why I must be ready when he gets here… I don’t want to wait another week.”
“But Opal… it is Saturday.”
“Well, leave me be then,” Opal says shutting the door on the woman. She is upset and sits down in the living room. Well, she thinks, he will be here on Tuesday then. She goes back into the bedroom. She is tired and it is just after four o’clock. She removes her make-up, and prepares herself for bed, as she always does. She lies down in her bed. I think I will sleep in, she thinks, I just don’t feel like getting up. Opal falls asleep, thinking of the boy who will come to cut her grass.
Brian Fuchs 5.5.1998
