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Justin:
Justin called to talk earlier. He didn’t sound good. He then told me that Jennifer had died. I paused for a moment, not realizing who she was for a moment. First, I wrote this:

She Never Got To Tap Dance
Rain dripped silently from the cool June air.
No clouds spotted the sky,
but neither was there a sky at all.
In that misty darkness, Jennifer died.
Deaf and scared, she had known
for a while that her time was up,
but had never imagined it so soon.
She patiently waited for her last breath,
her last thought.

The keeper of the female emotions,
the carrier of love,
she told me several times that she
wanted to tap dance, but never learned how.
She is gone now and the dancing will never begin.
Justin has taken the emotions, the feelings,
the memories and now marches forward
to keep her memory alive.
He does this while comforting her family;
he does this alone. He must.

In the pain of childhood, Jennifer came
to help raise Justin.
She came with the others
to help keep emotions in check,
keep Justin safe.
Now, she has gone forever
and brave Justin is lonely and scared.

6/30/2004

Background on Jennifer:
Jennifer was one of Justin’s primary voices. Justin is schizophrenic and when he was about 12 or 13, he developed 3 distinct personalities in his head. Each controls certain emotions and parts of Justin’s life that Justin is no longer able to express. Jennifer was love, compassion, sexuality, etc. The three (Brandon, Jason, & Jennifer) are Justin’s oldest friends. He is devestated, but also exhausted. When an entity in your own head passes away, it must be traumatic. I really feel bad for Justin and hope that his heart is healed and he becomes a stronger person.

Advice:
I gave some advice last night that may have been bad. I told this girl I work with that it would be okay to get back together with her girlfriend, who had been abusive. I suck! I think it might work, but didn’t realize they were moving in together as part of getting back together. I care way too much about her to watch her get hurt, so this better work out. Otherwise, there will be some major drama involving her girfriend’s ass and my foot!

Molly & Franz:
My beautiful cats. I feel like I have been neglecting my poor babies. I love them so much! They are pretty good about just doing their own thing, but I still feel that I am not around to play with them enough. Play with your pussy today!

Featured Image Art: photo by Elena Kloppenburg (via Unsplash)

originally posted on Xanga

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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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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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Writing:
Whew, pathetic.org is finally up again, and what a relief that I can finally start to write. It was always a good way to get me writing. I should start here soon. I have so much in my head to get out, what with the attacks, the new baby on the way, my great grandma is now 100! Lots…

Friends:
I talked to my friend Jerry tonight. It had been a couple of months. I feel bad that I don’t call, but he is a difficult person to remain friends with because he doesn’t really try. His friends don’t stick by him long… that makes me quite sad for Jerry. He will find real love some day.

Featured Image Art: photo by Patrick Tomasso (via Unsplash)

originally posted on Xanga

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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

 

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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

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Gold Bugs I

Stop hiding secrets in jewelry boxes
with your finest turquoise pieces,
prized possessions from a vacation,
a former home — I never asked.
Can you see me reach my hand to you,
and still hold too loosely?
Can you feel me slip and turn away?
I am only gone a moment;
I must search for another
rare golden bug we have discussed
for so many hours, silently.
I found one in France,
in the heat of a Provincial market.
I cried when I heard you valued that trinket.
Where should I go next?
Egypt, where they have lovely scarabs?
Maybe I should simply spray a cicada shell,
a false and dazzling interpretation.
It seems important to find these tokens;
they enhance your warm face
and make you smile.
Smile more!
When you do, I feel warm
and I long to search for more bugs.

Notes

Written 4 February 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

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

Original Version:

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

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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.

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 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.

Be who you know you are.
Don’t let the world hold you back.
You can be whoever you want.
This world is big and is better
now because of you, child of Jennie.

Notes

Written 20 February 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

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

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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

part of the chapbook Studies In Loneliness

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Shy Child

Spoiled with love and round
His bright wide eyes look in wonderment
The figures to him are blurred and scary
He does not smile

Notes

Written 5 October 1998 in Claremore, Oklahoma.

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

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On the Balcony

Toast
& strawberry jam,
bit of butter,
3 cups of coffee,
and the latest
poetry journal.
The smell of burnt toast
and scorched coffee
smells like morning.
The balcony is nice
this morning,
despite dead plants
left in pots from summer.
Spring is nearly over
and neglect is everywhere,
my time consumed by
words.
The jam is sweet and
the hum of an idling car
distracts from the peace.

Notes

Written September 1998 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “On the Balcony” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)