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Here you go Jess. This is the CD I wrote on. The only pen I had was a green micro sharpie. It took me some time because I thought I’d thrown it out. I have restocked my car with the appropriate writing tools.

My glasses broke today. That is not completely accurate. I broke my glasses today. There was a hair stuck in them, so I popped the lens out (which I do from time to time) and they snapped. They had gotten pretty old, so it is hardly a tragedy. I’ve ordered more, which are much more girly, but I’m hardly the model of masculinity.

I’ve spent FAR too much time making little books with my new printer. I’m trying to carefully select things I’ve written to send to my parents. Really, I seem to be looking for any excuse to not work on things that need to be worked on.

My coworker Alicia is going to help with some booklists. I’m unclear about it all right now, but it sounds like a plan… well, almost. I know I want to list the best of the certain subjects, not just have long lists of books. They really have to have been great to make the list. It is sounding like a lot of work. We’ll see what happens. I just find that looking up certain subjects (things I want to read) can be hard because there don’t seem to be good resources out there for some subjects.

Okay, that was rather long winded for having said nothing.

Alone, Alaska

The pumpkin is covered in snow;
I’ve found myself taking refuge
on the crowded velvet cushion,
I could stand here, waiting
for the snow to melt,
hiding in a corner alone.
At least I would find the quiet I was looking for.
Solitude makes me feel closer to nature,
but I don’t feel like being closer just now.
The cold has forgotten to lift from here
and my heart has grown fond of snow and ice,
the very elements that have removed
me from my quiet repose.
I look forward to meditation and calm,
to sitting on the lawn,
overgrown with dandelions,
beautiful blooms making me
close my eyes and feel God within me.
For now, I’ll take what I can get,
taking life from the faces of people
around me; weaving that life into lines of words.
Oh solace, elusively greeting me,
ready with this world still hard
from the months of frozenness.
And I feel the power of this place
in ways that change with seasons,
feel the huddling masses,
each individual finding a way to self,
all of us alone in this together,
penguins of the North,
tightly packed for warmth,
but barely knowing our neighbors.

5.20.2008

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untitled [‘collecting’]

I’m still collecting the members of my family
Each one, perfect in their way,
makes the days easier to accept
despite the loneliness, despite the pain
Sometimes, it seems that love flows
endlessly from me, welcoming too many
but bolts of bitterness remind
me of the pointlessness
the seeming pointlessness
and newly placed friends drop silently
to the ground, landing in a pile,
a lump, a twisted bit
that I’ll soon stop thinking about.

5.8.2008

The following poem isn’t my favorite, but it was so formed in my head and in order to not lose it, I wrote it on a discarded blank CD, which was the only blank surface I could find at that moment.

Love Is Simple

It hasn’t been enough to love people
to grasp at them, lightning bugs
I want to jar and admire.
They’ve been too quick, lighting up
and confusing me.
Tactic must change
approach needs to be more subtle
style needs refined
and words need to be heard.
Love is such a simple request
yet it seems among
the most elusive of gifts.
I’m no longer willing to feel
punished by time, by God (or god),
by the will of those who just
don’t want me.
My heart longs to be filled,
my eyes long to gaze into another’s
and this request feels
like it will never be granted.

5.15.2008Continue Reading

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It seems like life is rushing by and not much is happening. I feel that way a lot; I’ve likely communicated that before. It is again true. And I am tired. All of the not doing anything makes me very tired. I always have more energy while I am doing more than I should, going daily to the gym and running all over God’s very white and grey Anchorage to drive friends to and from work. Those days lend life to the duller moments, creating pockets of creativity at home. Those are the days I long for.

I suspect that my readership is perhaps at a total of four people, all not-so-eagerly waiting to see what I will post next, but even so, those who look at this site will notice the dramatic change recently. I don’t think I like it nearly as much as I set out to, but it will work until I find a WordPress theme that is absolutely perfect for me. Honestly, I’ve found a number of perfect themes, but they are broken in some way or they are outdated and no longer customizable with newer versions of WordPress. That is all very unfortunate and has lead me to this ill-fitting theme, which is quite beautiful and dark, but does not exude Brian-ness. The lack of April postings is due to the repeated death of the site over March and April, but that problem has now been corrected. I am able to do more of what I want and the site has been upgraded to decrease the chances of a repeat explosion. For those of you who are unable or unwilling to look at the right side of your screen, I’ve included the picture I have used for this theme.

It is certainly clear that I have been busily writing. I’ve posted only a handful of the poems on here, as many of them are a bit more risque and I have chosen to not alienate those who have been previously offended by the things I post. There may soon appear a small section on this site labeled appropriately to keep innocent eyes away; their decision to investigate will not be my fault and they will only answer to themselves and me to myself for the outrage caused by what seem to me pure thoughts. Oh, the scandal you may be foreseeing!

I’ve come to a decision about my writing. I was simply keeping in practice with no clearly defined goal before. I would like to write a novel. I’ve been plotting it out and am looking forward to seeing what comes of this. It is a great undertaking for everyone who attempts it and I hope I can live up to my own expectations. While I will certainly continue posting poems and other writings here, I do not currently have any intention of offering up snippets of the novel for previewing. I will share in parts privately with a couple of people for specific reasons, but should I ever finish it, I will gladly share it with the world.

I suppose there is little more to say than that. A poem, which may erroneously sound like I have given up vegetarianism. I have not.Continue Reading

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Ham

Mimi made me a ham,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
a surprise so I wouldn’t have to eat turkey.
The aroma greeted us as we entered,
lingering and melding with others,
bread and cranberries and pumpkin.
We were all gathered, talking over each other
about the small dramas that consume us,
catching up after months apart.
Mimi would fuss over the details,
direct whoever was around to place spoons
or get the rolls out of the oven.
I’d stand nervously waiting.
Papa would call us to settle and bow heads,
and he’d give thanks for the bounty and
say words about our health and Jesus.
Amens would follow, and the kids would
converge to be first to go through
a carefully laid out buffet line. I’d wait,
and my mom and I would exchange a look,
her giving me the permission I needed.
I’d get to the end of the line and pile turkey
onto my plate, skipping the ham,
a particular favorite of others.
Mimi eventually would sit down,
time finally for her to enjoy the company.
I wouldn’t say anything, avoiding conflict,
hoping she hadn’t noticed me
at the kids’ table in the adjacent room.
But she would notice, and she would apologize
and she and I would laugh about it.
She would make a mental note about
Brian not liking ham, a note she would lose.
The next time we’d gather,
the next time Mimi spent days cooking,
organizing everyone’s particular tastes,
I’d arrive again to the smell of a ham,
cooked especially for me, and I’d smile.
I still don’t eat ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.

Brian Fuchs, “Ham” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Written 26 April 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska & 11 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.Continue Reading

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Whale

I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beneath your feet.
From not knowing to knowing,
I grow enormous and fill your field of view,
become your entire world for a few moments.
I press on away from you towards newness,
fading slowly away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.

Brian Fuchs, “Whale” from Scissortail Quarterly #4 (Scissortail Press, August 2021)

Written 29 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.Continue Reading

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so, the site exploded. I am really irritated about it right now. I will apparently be working on this for the next few weeks. Bear with this. All of the pages that used to exist are now posts, so I might just delete a lot of pages and start over. The great part is that I am unable to login, so I can only do this on my own computer and it takes about 45 seconds for a page to save, so it will be taking an obnoxiously long time to correct this problem. sigh.

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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

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