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I’d like him to wear boots

(sometimes), thinking they are sexy.

If only for a moment, I should receive happiness. People seem happy when they are in love and I just go about my business pretending not to notice.

Shake me           Let’s go back to sleep in each other’s arms.
.                          Winter is long and too many cold night will keep happiness sounding like a foreign language, unless we never leave this place. Can you even hear me? Even this will one day feel like a distant memory. How lucky other people are, I think, watching your closed eyes dart back and forth. How lucky we are, I guess.

I want to feel taken (for granted).

Sexy, side sore, pierced with arrows;

nothing ever seems to heal,
least of all my
.             heart.

If beauty is on the inside, then rip me open & make love to my carcass. Everything is so random, so predetermined. Discard me, disregard me, ignore me until you need me.

I have secrets to whisper in your ear.

Featured Image Art: AI Images (created using Wonder AI)

Brian Fuchs, “I’d like him to wear boots” from The Theoretical Tiger Society (Scissortail Press, 2021)

Written 13 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska

––––––––––

Original Version

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

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{{I am enjoying this story and this character quite a bit. I’m working very slowly on it. I know exactly what I want from it, but it is taking some time to get it just right. If you have suggestions on improvements I could make, feel free to leave them.}}

Story Preview: “Haunting”

Sometimes glamour can distract a person from certain danger. Sometimes the thrill of a thing outweighs the consequences of that thing.

I was invited to spend the night in a castle while I was traveling through Europe. It was a promotional stunt, fueled by the long-held belief by the local people that this particular castle is in fact haunted. The building is quite small, made from a sand-colored stone and topped with a couple of weatherworn gargoyles — not the finest examples, but a reminder that this place is from a different time. I decided that this would be quite an adventure to recount when I arrived back in the Sates, so I went for it.

I was told to bring with me anything I might need throughout the night, but not more than a half-dozen or so items. The entire point was to make me feel a bit uncomfortable. I had decided by that point to make the most of this opportunity, so gathering the items wasn’t much of a chore. I knew what I wanted almost immediately.

I had a large journal with a black and grey patterned cloth cover, which I carry almost everywhere. I would use this to write if I was inclined to do so. I carry a journal around with me most of the time. Inspiration can catch me at odd moments and it is nice to have something handy to jot down ideas. Along with a few pens, I knew which two items were absolutely going to be with me. I had to consult my bags for the rest. I decided that a flashlight would be an excellent choice — loaded with fresh batteries, of course. I hadn’t packed one, so I’d have to stop at a store to get one. Realizing that the castle would not be furnished, I grabbed a pillow. I nearly took a blanket too, but the nights had been warm during my stay and I suspected that this one would be no different. The last thing I settled on was a jade pendant — an amulet of sorts — that had been left to me by my great grandmother. It is made of black jade and carved in the shape of a cricket. It has always been my good luck charm.

————–

I’m really into this story. There is more coming, but wanted to get a little snippet out there for everyone. There are a lot of confusing tense shifts. I apologize for that. I was rather unsure how to get it just right, but may move it all into past tense. The story is being told by the main character, as stated would happen. I think it is important to not use present tense for that reason. Bear with it… it is very rough.

Featured Image Art: John Kenn Mortensen, “192”

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{{this one really made me think, Jess.}}

hate (‘hAt): 1 a : intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury b : extreme dislike or antipathy.

That doesn’t seem to cover it for me. To hate something or someone takes a lot of energy and isn’t so casual as it is often used. I often use the word hate when I actually mean dislike (sometimes, I even say “I hate” when I really mean “I love but am afraid of what that means”). Hate, like its antithesis love, is a very complicated idea. It is a decision one makes — to actively withhold understanding, compassion, and love from another person or thought.

I’m fairly certain that to “hate” something other than a person or thought is pointless — and in fact, I’m not sure if it is possible. I strongly dislike things (dried cherries, artichokes, hot pink paisley, sandpaper), but I think it is impossible for me to hate them. Hate, unfortunately, is more rational than that. It is a notion based on a set of rules one has formed for themselves. Hate is a common factor in the lives of many people. Although I know I have been hated for being me, I don’t know if I have myself ever truly hated another person. Maybe I have, but it seems like I would remember something so strong.

There are quite a few organizations founded on hatred. These groups promote using this energy to alienate fellow human beings based on factors beyond the control of both parties. This is often cited as a “Christian view,” which makes me ill. To understand someone who lives with hate, it is important to understand that these types of groups exist. It is also important to know what these groups are saying. It is for these reasons — and these reasons only — that I have included a list of links to hate groups. This is the world we live in.

They say it takes all kinds of people, but I would argue that it only takes a lot of different kinds. Some, like these, may contribute so little to humanity as to be unnecessary. I felt so dirty looking these up.

Ku Klux Klan: many individual groups promoting white supremacy, anti-Semitism, racism, anti-Catholicism, homophobia, and nativism.
Americans For Truth: a “Christian” promoting hatred of gays and lesbians.
God Hates Fags: an extremist “Christian” group. This groups has staged protests during funerals, parades, weddings, & other ceremonies. They refer to the organization as “The Westboro Baptist Church.” I have attended events that have been picketed by these people. It makes me sick to think about them.
New Black Panthers: anti-white, anti-Semitic black racist hate group.
Institute for Historical Review: Holocaust denial group.
Traditional Values Coalition: Yet another “Christian” group that chooses to overlook Jesus’ teachings on hate. Keep in mind the lack of teachings on gays, those who this group tries to ostracize.

The Southern Poverty Law Center has been an invaluable resource in researching hate. This is a well-known civil rights law firm, which lists hate groups in America. The only problem I found was that some of the groups listed, while historically affiliated with groups promoting discrimination, no longer have a culture of hate. Sometimes, it is important to forgive past crimes of organizations doing good works today.

To make this less difficult, here is a list of anti-hate sites:

Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD):
hatecrime.org
hatewatch
Deconstructing Hate Sites: article on a Canadian site — worth checking out.
Anti-Defamation League (ADL)
list of anti-hate resources

Beyond these individual sites, most religious groups discourage hate. The Bible certainly does not promote hatred. It is generally a safe assumption that your church will take care of you, regardless of personal differences. If you aren’t finding a loving environment, try one of the many churches across the country who welcome all people to worship. There are so many differences between us all; I won’t try to list the churches here.

I’m glad this one was chosen. It took me quite a few days to finish it and was taxing on my brain, but satisfying now that it is finished. Hatred is such a strong feature of the society we live in today, which is extremely sad.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
— Thomas Jefferson

“Owe nothing to anyone except to love one another; for he who loves his neighbor has fulfilled {the} law.”
— Romans 13:8 (NIV)

Featured Image Art: Lyubov Popova, untitled (1922)

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A lot of people have supported me very strongly in my writing. It would probably be impossible to list everyone and thank them all individually, but I can still try.

Dearest Jennie,

You and I are abandoned ships, floating in this sea independently, not being able to ride the currents together. I am glad to have reconnected with you. You are an incredible joy to talk to, even in this crazy online world. I appreciate your support on my goals. I am famously horrible at following through with these things, but you don’t seem to notice, nudging me slightly to do what I need to do. Thank you.

Someday, we may both find ourselves tied up in the same harbor, finally together. But I’m not certain of that. Perhaps we were only meant to meet and be friends from afar, one chance encounter and then a series of rediscoveries. Regardless of the universe’s plans, I look forward to knowing you throughout this life.

Many hugs, my little lapin,
Brian

Mom,

Okay, I hear you. I need to write. Don’t get me wrong, I really do appreciate the reminders that someone likes my writing. For a long time, I thought you only said these things out of motherly obligation. I am beginning to switch that thought over. It seems that someone who reads as much as you do wouldn’t encourage me to fail. You must really think I have a talent for this. Thank you for that faith. It is very important to me to know that you want me to succeed — and that you think I can.

Don’t stop encouraging me. I sometimes forget what my goals have been. Remind me as often as it seems necessary. You keep me focused on my task.

I love you,
Brian

Oh, Travis,

You are all too often the little voice in my head. I hate that about you and I love that about you. I’m always saying to myself “don’t be sorry, change your actions,” a useful reminder and life lesson. More often than that, I keep remembering that I could have written a book by now, another helpful reminder from you. You nag me to get things done. I really do appreciate that.

Thanks,
Brian

“Meems”

How odd that I would want to thank you for encouraging me to write. You didn’t think there would be enough money in it to justify it as a career. I know you didn’t mean it to be hurtful, but sometimes it was. It felt like you were reserving some of your approval until you could see success in this goal. What I took away from this, however, was a strong desire to prove you wrong. I haven’t yet, but someday I hope to still. To me, it now seems that your wariness of writing as a profession was a type of encouragement. Thank you.

Brian

{I think I will break this part up into a couple more parts. I’d like to thank many others, but will stop for now.}

Featured Image Art: AI Image (created using Wonder AI)

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{{first, let me just say thanks to Jennie. You are awesome. I am so glad you humored me in this weird request. I so wish our paths wouldn’t keep wandering off from one another.}}

Story: Cappuccino

“I don’t usually read those “I saw you” personals. I’ve always thought they were a little creepy. No offense.” Sam nods, indicating that no offense has been taken. “But I decided to scan through them for fun the other day, and there you were… looking for me.”

After a long pause, the two smile slowly at one another.

“I’m glad I found you,” Sam says. The waiters in the closed restaurant mill about, acting like they have more to do than they actually do. They are trying to make Chris & Sam aware that they closed almost an hour ago, which is finally dawning on the two. They have been gazing at one another, trying to recapture the magic of their chance encounter in the café. They aren’t finding exactly the same thing, but neither is particularly disappointed in this date. It has been going quite well in fact.

Chris has said all the right things, complementing when necessary and laughing at the right parts of the jokes. Sam has been attentive and doting, stressing the many excellent qualities that are so obvious. They are completely captivated by each other in this one amazing evening. Everything between these two seems perfect.

The attempts to usher the two lovers from the restaurant are becoming less subtle. There is increased urgency. The gazing soon moves out to the parking lot, where only two cars remain. The cars are next to one another in a strange coincidence. The two had met up inside, having come separately and not knowing what the other was driving. But there they were, side-by-side sedans. This makes both of them smirk a little.

“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Yeah.”

The café where they had met is less than a quarter mile away and they decide to walk. They do this without much conversation, each analyzing the other’s mannerisms and imagining themselves happily married.

In the café, they both order a cappuccino. Sam’s heart races. The cappuccino started this love affair last Tuesday evening. It seems oddly important that the same drink has been ordered.

The two sit in a quiet corner. The café is relatively empty; it is late in the evening and the overnight crowd hasn’t started to show up yet. Both Chris and Sam are relieved that it isn’t as crowded as it can get. They want to talk.

Chris, being a little more talkative, nervously chatters about nothing in particular before deciding to share some background story. Sam learns about sisters and aunts and holidays at “Gram’s.” There is a mutual vision of sharing these things, even though the two have only recently met. Still listening intently to Sam, a smile slowly creeps across Sam’s face.

Sam prefers to not talk about family, as there is not much to tell. Having been alone for the majority of adult life, Sam has been searching for a family. Hopefully, Chris will satisfy this need. Instead of a family story, Sam talks about work. Chris is fascinated by the nuances of life in retail.

{okay, I created these characters and I just can’t get into them right now. I will update this one later. I also haven’t been able to determine the gender of either character. Perhaps it is better that they don’t have a specific one. It is more interesting to me that they could be either.}

Featured Image Art: AI Image (created using Wonder AI)

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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

Brian Fuchs 2 April 2007

I don’t know where I intended to go with this. It feels unfinished somehow. Maybe such emotional things are more difficult to write about than trivial bits of life. I don’t really know. I do know that this wouldn’t even have been written if it hadn’t been for Travis, who kindly reminded me that a writer writes… everday. Thank you, Travis.

It is sometimes hard for me to keep up with anything routine. I am just wired to forget, but I really appreciate anyone who gives me new material, reminds me to write, or inquires about my writing. It is one of the important things in my life and knowing others care is a big part of keeping with it. I have been less successful with it in the past, but I do intend to keep up here. With that said, anyone who reads should feel free to nag me endlessly if it seems I am not keeping up with this.

If Lori reads this (or any of Lori’s peeps), I hope it is understood that I don’t harbor any hard feelings. I was thinking about her today, as it is her birthday and remembered the feeling of her not being around when it was still new for me. I wish Lori the best and hope she has a great birthday today.

Featured Image Art: Artem Misyuk, Illustrations to the collection of poems by Borovets A (6)

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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

Featured Image Art: Mark Rothko, “White Band No. 27”

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Semiprecious

Turquoise makes me sad
because my grandmother is dead.

Notes

Written 15 July 2004 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Semiprecious” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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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

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Bonita

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matches
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
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
She is calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down Papa’s face;
his wife and best friend,
the mother of his children
and the strong woman
to whom he devoted a life,
lies quietly, still the girl he married
only fifty-three years ago.
‘She really is a beautiful lady.’

Notes

Written 12 March 2002 in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Bonita” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

Original Version:

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.”

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Hymn III: Birds & Vapor

Before knowledge, peace existed.
Innocent children don’t long for the touch of others.
I’m reflecting on bird calls,
sorting out in my mind the ones that seem familiar
from the ones that are new.
Except for the mockingbirds —
their song has changed as much as I have.
I can barely tell the difference between
childish pursuits and adult desires.
Except for skin.

I find myself a poor litmus test of what I want,
what I remember wanting.
Whispers in my ear from the past — or is it the future?
I’m forgetting things I thought were important.
I don’t remember the smell of skin pressed against
my face as I sleep.
I’m trying to remember how close I can get to the sun
without tumbling to the ground.
Have I reached that limit?
The men are turning to vapor, mists deposited in a wizard’s pensieve
filled with what I choose to remember as unbridled passion.
I’m searching through windows for faces,
for quiet morning sun spilling in through panes,
spotlighting the drifts of dust as they dance
like a great flock of tiny birds.

It feels like he’s still standing there, if he was ever standing there,
eating cherries on the front porch,
spitting the pits out into the garden.
I am thinking about fruity cereal.
I am thinking about the taste of cherries lingering in his mouth and the taste of mulberries lingering on mine.
I am thinking about birds and music and sex and dust.
I am thinking about the faces, the many overlooked faces.
I am thinking about vaporizing.

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.


Notes

Written 2 November 2001 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Hymn III: Birds & Vapor” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Published in Social Distances (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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Hymn II: Reading Tolstoy Naked

My reality merges with memories, with desires,
is there a reality? Have these lives been mine?
Events appear in my mind, translucent and ethereal.
A lanky man in the doorway, light spilling
around his silhouette, casting him as a sort of deity,
a cigarette hanging from his lips
like he’s come from a previous century.
A burly man, his chest a thicket
of soft hair for fingers to explore,
reading Tolstoy in a dimly-lit living room, still naked.
The lamplight shines on his skin, casting strange shadows.
Is he really there?

I’m searching through faces,
longing for the smell of cigarette
smoke rubbed on my back as I’m
pulled toward a mouth still tasting of tobacco.
Or maybe I’ll find myself coyly asking about Russian literature,
massaging muscular shoulders, satisfyingly corporeal. I’m distracting him and pretending not to be distracted by him.
I’ll kiss him until everything is wet and beautiful.
Imaginary friends rarely press their lips back,
and never with such force.

I’m searching through faces,
watching men sleep for hours.
Eyelids dance as they dream and I wonder
about the wide-eyed boy, belly full of mulberries,
a face on fire from the attention of adults, strangers.
He didn’t know about men and the uncontrollable smiles
of the attention of adults, strangers. I miss him.
The nights are filled with breathing and rustling, peaceful.
The mornings are filled with coffee and cigarettes
or the pungent sweetness of a joint
which I pretend to enjoy because he does.
Weekends are a tangle of arms and legs, old movies,
sweaty and lazy afternoons.

It is well
It is well with my soul

I stay, huddled on beds or floors.
I don’t tell stories about playing in the woods,
or about finding an armadillo skeleton,
or about my preschool teacher.
I’m searching through faces
for the man who wants to know.

Notes

Written 29 October 2001 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Hymn II: Reading Tolstoy Naked” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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Gold Bugs 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
must have reminded you of me.
It is now with me, where it can
now remind me of you
and of our searches.
I’ve placed it among my most
treasured items,
the most precious among them.
You weren’t warm,
and you didn’t smile.
They had forgotten to adorn you
with the shells from your backyard,
the discarded husks of aging insects.
I imagined them there in your hair,
sprayed gold and violet, resting
against the grey beautiful mass.

Notes

Written 1 March 2001 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Gold Bugs II” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

Original Version:

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

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Hymn I: Mulberries

I didn’t know then what I didn’t know,
what I wanted to know.
Desire was reserved for cartoons on Saturday morning
and drinking our bowls of fruity cereal flavored milk.
My bowl would be abandoned next to those of
brothers, and we would go outside for the day,
exploring the spaces already familiar.
We would eat mulberries until we felt sick,
or we would run down to the
wooded area where ours met the adjacent street.
My days were spent being alone in groups,
keeping to myself and drifting off in to the clouds,
thinking about how beautiful everything is.

A smell wakes me from the foggy daydreams
of childhood. The ends are pulling at me,
I’m remembering experiences I haven’t had.
Leather and old cologne… and sweat.
Absence and anticipation compete for the space,
waiting is agony when the body has been
unlocked, when the ignorance melts away.
I’m searching through faces,
looking for cowboy boots (I think)
or the smell of fruity cereal and milk.
I’m waiting to feel hands on my skin,
imagining them rough and gritty, remembering
a feeling I’m still anticipating. I know these things now,
I feel them in my heart and in my groin.

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me
I was once lost
but now I’m found
Was blind
but now I see

I want to conceal the existence of my youth,
but I want to share stories about morning cartoons
on exhausted weekend mornings when he and I
would rather stay in bed than face the lives that existed
before one another, without one another.
These days before him are long, full of longing.
My skin is eager for the feeling of another’s skin. I’m searching through faces,
forcing myself into crowds,
looking for the boots, cologne, memories, dawn.
I am looking for a man with bad habits,
who I can grow to resent, a person who doesn’t want me.
I can still taste the mulberries
and I can already feel his body.

Notes

Written 28 December 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Hymn I: Mulberries” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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An Exposed Thread

An image of G sticks with me:
lying in the beautiful soft pink,
a thread exposed on her lower lip.
An imperfection.
A delicate mistake,
almost beautiful,
revealing the truth concealed by layers
of concealer and foundation.
Something was odd about her mouth,
it wasn’t right…
she was made of resin or wax,
a replica of the woman I love.
Her vacant expression,
the nonsensical sleeping façade,
glasses on like she’d need them for reading
later when the casket was in the ground
and she had become bored of her situation.
G wound’t have been proud of me,
of how weak I felt in her presence,
of how I couldn’t touch her,
couldn’t speak to her,
couldn’t pretend that she was napping,
especially with the thread exposed,
pulled through, pushed into my heart,
anchoring me to this awareness.
I’m haunted by her waxy face,
the rigid opacity of her wrinkles,
the horror of loss.
An image of G sticks with me:
imperfection,
silence.
That shell won’t leave me,
and I guess I don’t want it to.

Written 26 December 2000 in Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “An Exposed Thread” from Muskox vs. Unicorn (Scissortail Press, 2020) 

Original Version:

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

part of the chapbook Studies In Loneliness