Dictator Complex

The worst part
About being wrong-
Even one little, tiny mistake-
Lies not in the being wrong itself,
No,
But rather in the questioning
At the hands
Of those who once relied on you
For help,
Those who trusted you,
Or said they did at least.

“Are you sure?”
“Are you positive?”
“I’m gonna go ask her, just in case.”

Maybe it’s the lack of trust,
The loss of purpose, perhaps,
No longer knowing
That others can count on you
When they need you most.

But I am no less than I was before,
Sure she knows some,
But I still know more.

And thanks to you now,
I’ll be wrong no more.
For if you need me, I’ll be absent,
And you ignored,
While I am blissful, botherless,
No time for your questions,
Only my own success.

Blue

You tell me that I'm blue.
A dark, dull, navy blue.
I am blue, so sadly blue,
Lying still without a purpose,
In desultory depression
Highlighted, or rather overcast,
By my darker shade of blue.

You tell me you are worried,
That I shouldn't be this way.
That a boy like me should be
A yellowey adventurer instead,
Or even an irrational, lusty red.
Something, just something else,
Maybe an envious green, like you,
But anything other than blue.

And I reply without much alarm,
That I was simply napping.
And if you'd loosen up the shades,
You'd find that my blue
Is a lighter blue, a calmer blue,
A content and comfortable,
Vibrant blue.

Now get the hell out of my room.

Taint Not the Present

“Can’t you see the soldiers running?”
She asks as we pass the perfect rows of trees,
Balded by the winter,
But still beautiful,
Captivating,
As for miles my eyes are glued
And it hurts to tear them away
When our path leads far from their territory.
Never before had I found it so hard
To leave a place I’d never been,
To part with barren giants whose twisted fingers
Made me nostalgic for a past
Known only through a stranger’s pictures.
“Can’t you see the soldiers running?”
I wonder as I peer out longingly at these morose creatures.
My heart aches to fathom
The possibility that this place
May have once not been beautiful –
Crimson-coated bodies ran, and fell, and
Stopped,
And stained these hallowed grounds
With the sickening colors of
Patriotism and treason.
What beauty is there in that?

No, I can’t see the soldiers running.
I can’t see anything but the present
And my stranger’s pictures.

Ignorance is bliss,

And now the trees are gone.

Abandon race

In every corner of this world, it is a wonder to me that so few people have realized that distinct, pure races do not, will not, cannot, and never have existed.  EVERYONE is multiracial.  Trace your family— those who call yourselves “white” or “black” or “Arab” because that is the only identity you have ever been taught— maybe your mother was born on some spit of land that some group of people once called Prussia and then called Germany, and your father’s father was called “African American”, though his closest kin include slave masters, and their parents were from France and Norway and Spain, and people from a African tribe whose name has since been forgotten, but some of them worked on plantations in places known as the West Indies, and then the Deep South, and your father’s mother was called “Native American,” and her parents were a mix of backgrounds known as “Scots-Irish” and “Nez Perce,” also known as the “Nimíipuu,” (depending on whom you ask).  What does the US government call you?  Black.  What does your standardized test call you?  Black.  What does your college application call you?  Black.  You are a human being, a citizen of the world, and you have been reduced to one syllable, often used derisively.  Maybe sometimes you are called “multiracial” or “biracial,” but that doesn’t mean much either.  My mother was born to a man of Irish and Welsh descent, and to a woman born of Greek and Finnish descent.  My father hardly knows the names of the countries of his great great great grandfathers and mothers, but one of them was probably Ireland, judging from the red hue of his hair and the spots on his pale skin.  What does the US government call me?  White.  What does the hypothetical human being whose ancestry was described above call me?  White.  Look at me with my freckle-less bronzed olive complexion and golden brown hair, and then my full-blood sister, with her fair pale skin, smattering of freckles, and white-blonde hair.  What does the US government call us both?  White.  Sometimes “Caucasian,” after a mountain range neither of us have ever even seen pictures of.  Cut us open.  Cut all of us open— my mother, my father, my ancestors, your ancestors, the ancestors of humanity— we will all bleed.  When we are dead, we will all rot, and in our rotting we will all grow to resemble universal dirt.  Death is the ultimate equalizer, revealing our true natures that were never RACIAL, but molecular.  Organic material.  Mostly carbon.  Rich, poor, tall, small, narrow-eyed, wide-nostrilled, “black,” “white,” “yellow,” “brown,” “biracial,” “Israeli,” “Pole,” Catholic, Buddhist, Protestant, Sikh, we will all become roughly the same sized pile of dirt, nutrients sucked into the womb of the earth, feeding and fertilizing new cycles of life.  Race is more than body and skin, you say?  Race is identity, culture, religion, a way of life, yes.  All ways of life have the same goal— survival and perpetuation.  What is the worth of the rules, the grammar, and the ritual that tyrannize daily activity?  The diet, the cycles of sleeping and waking, the positions of copulation and birthing, the verbal utterances all equal different viewpoints of the same planet, seen through the same eyes that only wear different lenses.  What is man but the product of time and chance?  Think back to your ancestors, this time FAR back.  Who are your greatest grandparents?  The cell, and before that, the organelle!  Your ultimate people, clan and tribe is the free-floating particle of life in the earth’s primordial sea.  And before that, who is to say?  We are not colored, we are not white— we have held onto these badges in our ignorance, in our desperation for some shard of identity and belonging in our lives.  We are the voids!  We are the gentle roar of the universe, forever united, we are oneness!  Let us be proud of our human patchwork of identity, of our arbitrary traditions, of our food and dances, but let us not forget our oneness with all living things, with our human species, and our entire family of living creatures that roam across or root themselves into the earth!  There is and never has been a “race problem,” and “interracial marriage” is impossible.  We are not different brands of products produced on distinct assembly lines!  All life is subject to change as it is based on a constantly mutating alphabet of genetic combinations.  Even specific strains of bacteria genetically engineered for given duties abandon their people— how many “race traitors” and “Oreos” and “interracial” strains of bacteria proliferate as mutations accumulate?  Now for humans, we must add in culture.  How many pure Christians are there? Christianity and all its traditions are merely the present collection of numerous ancient schools of thought.  Convergence, divergence, and resurgence are essential to life.  Let us not sell ourselves short.  Let us allow ourselves to broaden our gaze, and not for the sake of political correctness or economic expedience but for the sake of doing our amazing existence some justice!  We are not different breeds of beast.  We are not a set of commandments.  We are so much more and less than that.  We are not of  the rainbow-- we are NOT refracted and distilled!  We are the naked beams of  sun.  She, in her life-giving radiance is, after all, the reason for the differences in our skin hues— the lighter we are, the less melanin we have, so we can absorb vitamin D more easily.  We are that simple— the rays that have witnessed life for a geological millisecond— the cycle of rising and dying embers— one flicker in the universal portrait.                                

The Last Time

This is the last poem I will write

On the infernal subject of you.

I've lost too many rivers

And the ticking sound of time

Because I fell out of your

Embrace (rather you pushed me out

As I hung on with my fingernails).

I will not forget you,

Erasing you means I shall

Drink the same fatal poison

And drown in the same disease.

Your iron vise around my heart

Choking out logic in the name of love.

Ha, I didn't fight back because

My eyes were closed in bliss

Of a dream you left hanging on my lips.

My lip will not be bitten in silent anguish

When your name is said

When your voice is heard.

My anger will not flare with passion

Turned to fiery hate.

I'm going to look upon your eyes

And listen to the soundtrack of nightly drives.

You will become everyone else

As your words merely become letters

These lyrics only notes,

These memories simply pictures

And that love, an old post it note

With letters blurred, but readable

Through the dried tracks of tears.

Conveyed

I exist in a deafening silence,
Refraining from reaction,
In a softly accepted retraction
From slimy social violence.

I let not my words erupt like
The scolding lava of a roaring
Volcano, spewing harm
Every which way.
I rather sit without noise,
Yet with impeccable poise,
Without my inner
Thoughts on display.

And despite my calm appearance,
My head roars with raging thoughts,
Ideas that should raise an alarm.
Still I sit, as complacent as ever,
And I can't help but feel I am a simple slave,
Like I am stuck on Maggie's farm.

And, truthfully, I am growing tired of sitting idle,
Patience, though virtuous, does not achieve a title,
My signs are more than vital but
They're being unfulfilled,
Frustration and indignation are driving
A reaction I have willed.

Dangerous is a man with an idea.
And he is lethal with raw determination.
When anger is added to mix,
'Massacre' is only your interpretation.

I have an idea. I am motivated.
These silent lips have parted, and
They have dedicated the duty of
Relation to a trusty, loyal pen.

All that's left to do, is act.

I Am

I am the dog scurrying forever behind
The elusive butterfly.

I am the finger that slides along the strings
Of an acoustic guitar.

I am one blade of a twirling fan, always following,
But never nearing the one I chase.

I am the dreamer who always wakes
To disappointment.

I am the splash of paint, full of color,
Vibrant and alive, but longing to
Fill the lines of another.

I am a person who once held significance,
Now lost in the depth of forgotten memory,
Shadowed by Time's ticking hands.

L'Envahisseur

I’ve had enough.
Who do you think you are?
This isn’t 1066, you aren’t a Norman.
Hitler’s too cruel, Napoleon wouldn’t do you justice.
Then who are you?
A Hun? Yes, that must be it.
Hun, honey, darling, dear.
Sounds about right.
My fortress has been breached.
The Wall is tumbling down.
It’s all over! I abdicate!
A successful coup de cœur.
A tumultuous reign of feigned approval
Masking the suffering of the masses.
You think you’re noble, is that it?
A liberator, a savior, a friend?
Get out. You don’t belong here.
I have nothing to offer you.
Leave, take your ideals, your words, your
Truths, and disappear.
Benevolence? More like charity.
I don’t need it.
Do you hear me?
I have had enough.

Nighttime

Put on pajamas
With prints of red llamas

Let your better impulses
Not fade.

As you see, it's a trap, it's a map,
It's a gap

And you'll have a few laughs
On the way.

Release inhibitions, and break your positions

This rat race is over,
So smile :)

As I go, with a wink, take a look (take a think)!

Though it may take you almost a while...

If you're needing a ride, or a jump, or some change

At your service, and happy to say

That's it's no parting now, you'll get back here somehow

As you're walking, you're coming my way.

Thirst

Sand and sand for miles around
My feet are clad in gold
The light is bright, the sun is warm
My heart, I fear, is cold.

The water seems so clear ahead
So desperately I pound
Ahead in bursts... It melts away
And fades into the ground

Mirages are a senseless ploy
To keep you walking on

If it makes you hope, or smile, or happy?
Blink, and then it's gone.

Flash Legend

There came a time when the revolution seemed imminent,
          when one could hear the crowds banding together
          in the street and demanding their leader's head on a pole,
a great terrifying time when those who wanted most
          to see everything crumble feared most for
          where their course was destined,
the place beyond the edge of the earth that can give life to fallen heroes, they
          were all heroes who were shot down in their own blind fury
          we sat around wondering who would be the next to dive before Leviathan
she swims the ocean floor lurking waiting dominating
          and when she dies the world will hear her howls
          her bastard children melt, become fuel for solidarity
The upheaval is no pessimist condemnation excuse
          for self-isolated chemical craze, negation
          but orgiastic rites in a collective vision quest congregating

I prayed to Saint Allen Marx who knows time,
          gave emerald and jade absinthe libations
          green fairy offering tithes, red manifesto
and his reply: “Stop praying now,
          stop believing in prayer or in God's religion
          but get up and shut up and go make your own luck.”
He trod here once sensual and demanding one or two hits
          is all he took and then I offered a drink
          so he told marvelous things, the downtown musk
          the drizzle rain wind, light buzz pheromone breeze
          hazy Dublin mist-drop rain
he made his way inside and sat down for awhile to make a stir
          stirring me awake driving-in great hard inebriation

Lioness swayed me hopping hope motion
          she told me to play the trip guide psychonaut
flocks rolling above shining air circles
          she told me to play the slut pleasing
          striptease low tectonic golden grace, faraway intensity
Spanish priests naked on the warm floor torn
          tune hum lamenting time and its forgotten instruments
          she told me to play the delicate flower soft delight
          my head held to her breast breath rising rested

Our melody, our beat was post-apocalyptic
          and the song she sang post-rock after music muted
          with no more concertos or ballads or dirges left to write.
Our beat, our beat-down drumbeat hollering bellowing downbeat
          uptempo, a hard-on your feet dance, not a friendly
          dance, frenzied impassioned flurry—PLUR dance
through the whole night we flailed sweat-covered light
          happy gay neon, everyone stripped down nude
          under moonlit club lights, rough play-fights,
          all-day torrent lip chewing, blue green purple pink
happenings and danger music plow down Molotov cocktail crowds
          firecrackers pop ejaculation flare-shots to cloud cover

On this day the mushrooms sprang with caps ignited like
          the churning razors of sand, of salt, of passionate ill
          enter Oberon with the wispy concoction
an herbal remedy for the ages, high-pitched coloration swing
          high-strung mentality sprung from earth's surface
          this our sight and sense, warmth of feeling-up heat bodies
Arise! today tears drip from God's face,
          a gray mourning black morning-time tide ripped asunder
          the face of earth itself, and wind...
She floats in glass clear sunlight ocean sands
          today bright terrestrial high and fierce contentment
          wind and solar breeze strand blown into being.

Myopic

Oh how quickly you forget
What happened in reality
When you’ve been
Locked in
Your sweet self-started sleep so long,
Insulated from the world,
Isolated from the world.

Oh how you’d like to forget
What you did
And what you’ve done before,
And will surely do again.
Get out from beneath the covers
Of your dark deceitful mind,
You have to wake up one day.

You’re languishing there
On your pretty padded pillow,
Softening the blows of reality
As you remain, eyes closed,
In deepest slumber,
Blind to the real world,
Blind to what you’ve done,
Blind to yourself.

Wake up! Reality beckons,
And you cannot escape,
Nor will you,
For even if you choose to stay
Upon your darkened path,
The world still sees you stumbling,
Still sees you for what you are:

Fragments

I.

If I get what I touch, what I crave, what I feel,

why can’t I get a touch of the real?

If nobody matters, then nobody tries

And the world is collapsing, just open your eyes

to the futures of blindness. Enlightened, I guess

The horizons ahead are a journey, a test;

NO NO NO.

Just brighten your eyes , add a spark to your spirit.

Is the end really coming? Well, only you hear it.

II.

It’s not terror that follows my step or my eye

But a realization; reality dye

And steadfast, it holds , hiding

the old, tarnished face

of reality’s limit:

the truth,

a disgrace.

III.

As the time passes by,

and the trees lose their leaves,

then the cycles repeat. Through the night;

Until stimulants fade, and the background is made,

and the apathy starts to feel right.

Anosmiac

it is said the animals trace life by scent…
purple clots smeared on the sanitation napkin reek of iron—
portents of industrial babies, spitting up smile-shaped blood,    
sickles, acid teething away the moon to marrow crescent.
toddlers sharpen their gnaw on puppy breath fumes
spiraling up in red smokestack tunnels
seducing unsuspecting adults by breathing on them,
dirty cupids.
elementary school students smell sick days, proven
vomit on waxed desks, polarizing into the gag finger, pointing—
portent of teenage bulimia, singed fur throats.

parents teach the ways of electricity, the fan, the potpourri—
any excretion is a sickness to be aired out, exorcised
corner your smells in some private sex closet,

formaldehyde your dead in metal cubbyholes—
permanent prisons, foretold.
never strain your neck to smell the mausoleum yet unsealed—

The Monster Living Under My Bed

There's a monster, living under my bed.
And I lay so still, tucked tightly under
The sheet uncreased with tension against my chest,
Daring not to look anywhere but up.

In the mornings I wake with caution,
and sneak with silence across the room.
For that monster I know still dwells
Under my bed.
And I do what the day asks of me.
In the grinning sun I forget for a while,
I go untamed and with a smile.
I stroll about sidewalks and lawns,
And breeze past those yawning sleeps yawns
And I am happy.

But the sun never fails to set down
Its flaming soul, somewhere far from me,
Leaving behind a cold, damp dark.

And that monster is still under my
Sprawling body.
I can feel it there in its intangible presence,
So devastatingly close,
Despite the barrier of my bed.

It can be subdued, for a while at least,
But it will never depart my haunted head.

Paranoia

It starts with a secret, forged from desire,
Cooled, hardened, and made solid
Inside the ear of another.
Looking up, I glance over my shoulder.
No one’s there.
Perhaps it was just the wind.

Now solidified, that forged tool
Is buried deep within,
If only so that it cannot be used
Against me.

But still it is wielded
By an otherworldly being,
Something more than human.
I look over my shoulder.
No one’s there.
Is this some sort of trick?

I see them
Speaking softly,
Laughing, whispering, talking –
Are they laughing at me? Joking about me?
Slandering me?
Stabbing at me with wild abandon,
That weapon holds great power.

I gaze over my shoulder.
There it is!
The horror, the horror!
Surely I’m done for!
For there, holding that weapon,
Are all my fears.

Hands Over Eyes

Drifting slowly through the branches, ever sluggish downward motion

Last night my head hung in my hands, and the winter rain

Drippingly defined the vertices of walls to thud my forehead against.

Driving this car, I'll propel into the midnight air with a gust of

Acceleration, with all the windows rolled down until the

Roof blows off like an old plastic bag and I freefall into stars.

I'll stand upon this promontory, an old rusted shipwreck dream

To be a part of hummed lapping river, acquiescing to ripples,

With the far off vibrato of apathetic traffic overhead

A cold breeze will whisper to remind me of this skin.

There will only be so much that anyone will ever see,

Whether I leave it upon the front porch to dry or hold it deep within.

Perpetually rolling people will never stop to grow or look

And I'll keep the philosophy of wind, to myself.

Irretrievable

Chapter 7

Friday was a large disappointment. I was expecting something more fulfilling that would flourish into satisfaction. I was rather frustrated with the night’s result, yet I was not necessarily bothered by it, as if somehow I already knew roughly what would happen. Things between her and I were pulled taught by a lingering tension for a while afterwards, mostly because I felt no need to be around her any longer. It was gradual, the slow deterioration of a one sided effort to interact. She eventually gave up trying, I believe, and I noticed only after a while the lack of her presence. That was okay. It really began that very night even, at the bonfire. She pranced about in a feigned drunkenness and acted absolutely ridiculous. I hid my anger towards her with a crooked smile that bent at the corners in reluctance. I tried to lead her toward a group so I wouldn’t have to listen to her and only her, and I could hide my true reaction with more ease. I didn’t want her to see it; I knew she’d be hurt. And she was hurt. I could see it in her face in the following weeks each time we silently crossed paths or for a split second caught the other’s eye. I just gave a neutral wave when she looked at me long enough and that was all.

It dawns upon me now that you as a reader may be angered at me for having such a reaction. That’s understandable. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t plan it, I assure you I wanted her more than anything. She was a peculiar case in which the emotions she provoked within me actually settled in and had influence. She, and, by she, I mean her essence, her individuality, her seemingly perfected self, had sought me out and grasped me in a rather tight grip that even I could not break. She was an exception to what I thought was an imperfect ‘sea of fish’, if I may. But Friday night came around and plunged her deeper into that sea than I could have ever imagined. And it wasn’t because she was less of an individual than the rest. Rather, she was the most individual person I had been physically and emotionally attracted to and it was because of that not-so-mainstream characteristic I was attracted to her. She became such a figure of frustration to me because she was a beacon of hope in an otherwise hopeless world that perhaps could have proven me wrong. When she unknowingly snuffed her faint light, I embraced a darkened world for what it was, accepting that it was satisfactory. But it also meant that I embraced a world where people didn’t matter all that much, and that inevitably included her.

I regret what didn’t happen. I regret that a possibility was never indulged, and that something turned into nothing. It was at its basest level unproductive. Yet at the same time, I am thankful for that night, and appreciative of what did happen. It surely saved me a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering upon dwelling on the entity of someone else. Of course, it also prevented me from knowing the joys of connection with another, that thing they call love which apparently can’t be put into words. How could it, though? Love is a completely subjective emotion felt only when a person chooses to believe he or she is, as a matter of intuitive fact, in love. I love a good steak, but I think that is something different.

Yes, that is something different. It’s trivial, and that’s okay in my book. I still find joy in life but I suppose it’s a sort of cynical joy. I take things for what they are without embellishment, and often find a very filling humor in others’ attempts to discover the good in something that is clearly not good. Similarly, I’ve accepted the fact that most people are absolutely absurd and their indecency is rather funny. I overheard Maddie one day as I was walking in front of her. She was the one who was ranting to Phil in that history class I described long ago. She was complaining that her boyfriend of one month had not done anything for their alleged ‘one-month anniversary’, which in itself would’ve been a total joke had it happened. She also mentioned that she told her boyfriend not to do anything. At that point I had a good mind to tell her she was an idiot and that she overestimated the amount of affection people actually had for her. But I kept my mouth shut, knowing it would do me no good to lay the truth in front of her. I just laughed at her arrogance.

You see, I had finally understood that nothing had meaning unless I chose to give it meaning. It was a sort of freedom unique from that of speech or even independent thought. It was a freedom that allowed me to pursue whatever I desired, and disregard everything else. It was, and still is, personal liberation. I am unaffected by the fallacies of the world, simply because I choose to be. Of course, I still must deal with my own imperfections, because I know there are plenty, some glaring, but those shall be dealt with when I deem it necessary, because they don’t matter.

------------

Banks and I stood in a chilling night air on the track of a nearby elementary school. Everyone had left for home, slowly but surely. First the goers of the fair, the small children and their parents of dutiful attendance, then the staff, packing up their supplies and clearing the area. We had volunteered to help out for the night, but planned on staying a while afterwards. After a while only a handful of people remained, finishing the jobs left incomplete by the rest. We were on the far side of the track, opposite the school’s edge which was plainly decorated with shrubs and trees. There was a faint, yet appropriate light cast on the grey surface from a few lights that lined the track all the way around. We had with us a football, and that was all that was necessary. It was a simple activity that invoked as much joy as the more typical teenage endeavors of Saturday nights. We were both aware of the supposed absurdity of what we were doing, but in reality, we knew it was okay. The frigidity of the night, the late hour, the alienated notion of being at a school on a Saturday night; we did not care. It was fun, and that’s all we needed.

“Alright, short passes first,” said Banks, “Let’s just work our way up.” I agreed with him. After maybe two throws each, we were delivering tight, precise spirals into the other’s hands. The ball became merely a magnetized brown oval that was drawn into the embrace of our palms. We didn’t drop one pass.

“You know people would probably think this is ridiculous?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I said with a chuckle, “and it is a bit ridiculous.”

“Absolutely. We can barely even see the ball right now.” It was true. The dim light coming from overhead didn’t do much to illuminate the scene. Like he said, to be there in the first place was in question and to be throwing a football in near darkness was silly. We enjoyed it.

“So are you over your little depression now?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I am. It’s over”, I replied.

“Can you tell me why you were even depressed, now?”

“A girl, Layla. Everything went wrong, but I think I’m over it now. You probably think the whole thing is dumb to begin with. That’s why I didn’t mention it until now.”

Banks didn’t stop tossing the ball back and forth; he hardly stopped to dwell on it. “No. I can understand it.” he said. “But it’s good that you’re over it, it was controlling you for a while.”

“You can understand it…Oh that’s right!”, I exclaimed in the excitement of having just
remembered some intriguing fact. “You never told me the story of her.”

The ball was flying faster now. We both had gained a grasp of the action that was in itself flawless. That night Peyton Manning had nothing on us. We were keeping it level, aimed at the chest of the other. The spinning nose of the ball would head directly for the spot where the ribs meet. And just as it was about to strike the chest, a pair of hands would rise up from seemingly nowhere, snag the ball from its seeking flight pattern and return it in the same manner to where it had come.

“I suppose you want know” he said with a hint of questioned tone, although we both knew he’d be telling the story. I nodded, just for excessive affirmation. He spilled out a vast amount of information condensed into just a few minutes. It confirmed what I had already knew: that he was deceiving everyone. Banks had most under the impression that he was some sort of unfeeling robot of sorts. Banks took little interest in women, because he didn’t want to. He would if he felt the desire. But most thought otherwise. I told him.

“A lot of people think you’re emotionless, or just plain mean…” I said. For the first time there was a sort of hesitation in him, but it passed quickly.

“What do you mean?” he returned.

“People think you don’t feel, that you don’t have emotions, especially regarding girls. I’ve heard them say it before. They think you’re…not human, that you don’t feel anything, at all…” At this he did not throw the ball back. He just stared at me. I thought he was quite literally going to engage in a passionate rage about such a preposterous suggestion. He did not, however. He simply began laughing. And it was a hearty laugh, a laugh that he was truly enjoying. I was surprised by his reaction.

“You aren’t mad?” I asked him, in a mild astonishment.

“No, man. I think that’s hilarious. They are all so wrong. I can’t believe I have them that fooled.” His tone was that of amusement.

“How are you not mad?”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. I know the truth and what they say is absolute nonsense. I define my world, they don’t.” I replied with just ‘yeah’ and sort of trailed off. There was a silence now and I pondered what he meant. He defined his world. How absolutely true. It was so simple, yet so perfect. I understood then. Banks pumped the ball forward as if pointing. I understood what he meant and took off down the track, pushing a yard of concrete behind me with each step. The ground before me melted into nothing. I picked my head up and looked backwards. Banks took a few steps forwards and heaved the ball. I saw it spinning through the air, somehow outpacing me with graceful ease. As it began its arching descent I lost it briefly as it passed through the gleam of one of the lights. But not a split second later it reappeared, much closer than I expected. I heard it more than I saw it, for it carried about it a subtle gusting whistle that told me where it was. I followed it with my eyes, then, directly over my shoulder and then the whistling ceased. The ball landed softly and silently in my hands and I slowed myself down to return to where I had begun. Perfect.

As I jogged back a smirking satisfaction could be seen on both our faces. That was a pass of perfection and it alone, even had there not been dozens more like it to be recreated later, made what we were doing worthwhile and made it absolutely not absurd. I tossed the ball back to him, and just as I was about to sprint down the track again, I heard something odd, like a faint smack against the pavement.

“What was that?” I inquired.

“It was a butterfly” Banks informed me. I looked at him with a mixed expression of confusion and doubt. He was right though. There laid, on the cold pavement, a small butterfly. It seemed to be struggling to regain flight, to right itself and fly away as if nothing had happened. It lay on its right wing as the left desperately tried to carry the rest of the creature away. The image was entirely poetic. It was quite possibly the most intricate, beautiful animal I had ever seen. Its wing consisted of swirling lines and colors that morphed into each other, never ending but always changing. There was really nothing we could do to help it. It had simply fallen from the air and could not leave the imprisoning pavement. Its desperate flap had slowed to a calm, less frequent wave, and with each wave it knew, and we knew, that it was dying. Nothing could be done and Banks and I soon enough paid it no more of our attention and continued throwing the football. The butterfly was a creation of absolute beauty, it was natural perfection embodied in a subtle creature of fleeting presence that catches one’s eye in utter intrigue and is gone again within moments. It quite literally had dropped from the sky, never to get up again. The butterfly, the image of absolute perfection, had died before my eyes, and that was alright.

Watching Emily

"Watch Emily do this."
But, I can do it too.
"Just watch her."
Sometimes I can do it better.
"You should watch Emily"
In fact, I've beaten her
"because you'll learn a lot"
Twice.
"and next year she'll be gone."
So will I!
"I'm going to miss her"
What about me?
"so much."
But I work so much harder
"So pay attention"
And she hardly tries anymore.
"because this is her thing."
She's so boring to watch now.
"Were you there"
I hit everything sharper.
"when I told everyone"
My emotions are real.
"to watch Emily?"
Yes.
And I don't want to anymore.

war-sown world

blood runs down every human handful of soil
we unclench Nature’s determined fist
to snatch up any surviving pleasures
to crack open the specter of the shed crab claw
meat pulled between our white teeth makes graveyards of our bodies
we have piled bodies on top of bodies
as blood froths between our toes on Waikiki
(every beach is Normandy)
fossilized in our temples, blood has pulled us to poles
we cut our naked step, wetting paper seashells
funneled from the hourglass bowels of Blank Sea
with blood dried under our fingernails, we dig new wells in lovers’ skin,
blushing scrapes and scratches as
groin blood gathers in prayer circles
hoping for death after death

Translated

The sun shines but not for long.
Half a day's work is hardly enough
To crowd away the darkness of night
That works just as hard.

And I walk toward the dying flame
That slides down the horizon's
Roughened edge, in hopes that I
May catch it some day and
Embrace its incinerating heat.
Incinerate the pain that chases
Close behind, forever, until all
That's left is the faint
Illumination by my side,
Loyal and determined.

Nostalgia creeps with the throng
Of a yearning that I can't seem to break.
But it won't break me.
Not yet.
And as I search for words to express
My frenzied heartbeat I turn away
From those already written,
And lay down onto paper
The very emotion that stirs within,
And condemn it eternally
To history's tale.

Just One Door

You scream 'no', while I sit still
Insisting that you quickly kill
All protest from within.
Your sight is narrow and
Your skull is thick, while your
Weary soul has grown quite thin.

You tell me that I'm just no good,
That I won't let you be what you could,
But you are wrong, despite the urge
To write me off and move along.

You take me for a fool, full of
Fickle flaky folly.
And I know you are quite stupid to assume
That I am unaware of the way you loom
In stubborn rage inside the cage you
Built in self-inflicted gloom.

You tell me that I've closed each door,
That you can't possibly do any more,
You're done, finished, defeated, unable.
I say that's bullshit and you cannot quit,
For if you would just accept my advice,
I do believe you wouldn't mind the price.

Yes I've closed many a door,
And kept them all tightly sealed,
But the one you want, the one that's best;
That's the one that I've revealed.

Out of Tune

Strongly singing songs of the season,
Phrases of joy and warmth,
Coming forth,
Ringing with perfect rhyme and reason.

Cutting through the summer's day,
The chords play, in clear tone,
Until they groan,
With the dissonance of a heart gone astray.

As the winds grow colder,
The racket grows bolder,
Until the last played sound grows older,
Leaving the remaining tones sit and molder.

All that's left is ages of silence,
No muse to guide the hand that plays,
Or form any sort of rhythmic song,
As the life freezes within the finger.

But suddenly, someone warms the hand,
And picks up what has fallen,
Warmth flows through again,
As the player's songs ring out once more...

A beat flows out slowly but surely.
Strong like a march, but soft like a ballad.
And the chords ring out just as purely,
If not more than before they went poor and pallid.

A muse has appeared to guide the young hand,
And add a new voice, to this one heart band.

Dark

Sometimes I feel

Like a motherless child

Left orphaned and fighting

The suffocating wild.

I am not an animal

To be left whipped in a cage,

A mustang left chained

At a flagpole of hate.

My dreams are haunted

By visions of flying leagues

Past the overcast pall

Of the noose next to my neck.

All this, for I want to be human

A dream I will swallow

And guard in my veins

Though you cut out my heart

The love still remains.

A Note of Appreciation

“You know?” No, no I don’t.
Thank you kindly for the information.
I didn’t realize that I spent my days
Surrounded by sleuths, turning
Their spectacled sights upon
An apparently ignorant specimen
Of woman: that I do not possess
That glass of magnification, burning
Through my delicate eyes, as it would
Ants with concentrated solar power.
No, my sight did appear intact,
But you just opened my eyes to yearning,
And I now know that vision is fickle,
And that burning? Turns out that lenses
Are obscured by plastic covers. Who knew?
Heated plastic melts, drips, churning
Forming opaque beads of reluctance
In a puddle of perspiration and tears,
Of which there is no dire shortage.

Anyways, thanks for that.

A Special Kind of Paradise

The shimmer of a crescent moon illuminates you.

How divine one can appear under this navy cloak

on which, perfectly scattered, are shards of a shattered crystal;

and a crisp breeze playfully tugs at our hair; doubt will poke.

Your eyes, Oh your eyes, when they meet mine

I could just melt into this sand unintentionally. 

Make a castle out of me, dear, and say goodbye to me soon

for I will slip away into these bold waves of the sea eventually. 

Your name has been carved into my thoughts effortlessly.

You are here, in front of me, close; breathing in our own air. 

Your hands reach for mine. How soft and warm; a sharp contrast 

to my clammy cold hands of which I hope you’re not aware.

All you want to see is my smile; your intentions so innocent.

This must be heaven for I’ve never been this happy before.

This must be a dream for I’ve never felt this free before.

My arms around your bent neck, we gaze not at the sky or the sea,

but with those dimples and that half smile, you look at nothing but me.

I watch you open my side and jump in shock to find an empty space

where cobwebs and dust are left with a jar full of tears labeled Old Times.

I expect you to walk away then. Leave me and my heartbreak suitcase 

at the start of your trail of footsteps to a land full of love crimes.

But you stay; your face of shock returns to that cordial face I know.

You reach into your chest and retrieve your left atrium and ventricle. 

You give half of your heart to me. I am yours. I begin to glow.

I gently grab your face and pull it close to mine. Curiosity begins to trickle.

My lips meet yours with passion and there is no uncertainty

that this sweet kiss shall linger on for eternity.

An Illogical Equation

They roam, they roam,
These halves alone,
In search of the right equation.
An unpaired journey to
Find a home
In the unity of elation.

And thus they do, they
Add their essence to another's
Giving rise to strengthened wholes.
Integers of integrity bound by
Loving arithmetic vows,
Till death may do them part
They use what each rule allows to
Exist at ease as to appease
The lust for which each prows.

Yet when another variable
Intrudes upon this righteous harmony,
Be it bigger coefficient or perhaps
A solution more efficient,
Those halves no longer one can be.

And when they part, sadly they do,
It's never done in equal portion -
One must face a forced distortion:
Say a half joined naturally with another,
Then parted in reluctance with it's
new found lover,
It becomes a mere quarter of a whole,
For the part now missing the
Other half stole.

And now forever that half holds
The other's ailing addition,
It is sadly so that these halves
Experienced love's tradition.

Pensive

Conscious soup, distracting doubts

What should be focused in, without

Fantastic musings, taking root

Inside my mind - a bastard shoot

I take no pleasure, feel no pain

Receptors, softened in my brain

If signal'd scarce, a guilty lapse

The stuff of excess thought, perhaps

But time and time, this proves to be

a time-bomb, like my sanity

Impending trouble, shrinking from

the fear of what it may become

For now, it simmers. Daring eyes;

I'm watching, breathless: I despise

myself for wishing. Yes, it's sweet.

Forbidden fruit , thy will defeat.

It's taste, if offered by your hand,

my body, I would cease command

of silently. But not too long.

Though light and cold, my mind is strong.

So strange, I to myself return

And from the chill, I grow, I learn

The pleasure of lucidity.

I smile, alone; my thoughts, and me.

ode to emo poetry

oh, the skill it takes to discard the world as a rusty book
to spill the curdling lies your mother or stubbornly unrequited lover
served you, slipped into your porridge at breakfast time
oh, the patience it must take to dredge your eyelashes
in baleful rhyme, lament the splinted wing of the caged songbird
singing, singing…
oh, how much more difficult to spit.

postcards from a nude beach- wish you were here

the people here are very nice.

sunblazing skin bronze beneath the black hands
of my towel neighbor, a French Caribbean
massaging oil in with gold-ringed island fingers
(the oiled muscles of his groin I won't soon forget)
I exchange glances like sips of gulf air with
this strange family
as evaporated salt winks between my open legs
(the men appreciate
my utter nakedness especially;
the women
laugh
or read magazines)

the gulf gulps me down
in frothing mouth abandon
sucking new lighted liquid suns from
every pore
and I prance down the lip of shore,
a patchwork of beach umbrella tourist
beneath pastel Miami coquina
laughing with all our gaily glee
as father and child wander past, bare-assed
specimens of sprawling blush-bellied creatures...

most never learned
my mother’s sharp tongue,
the tight lipped spewed sarong words I had forgotten
with that first splash
stripping my shore of its jetty,
rough maritime relic just as curious as the
CAUTION
sign that heralded this fresh-eyed
modern paradise.

Blinds

There is a set of dusty acrylic blinds upon

A large window facing a placid street

Where dappled light drifts through

An old oak tree that breaks concrete

Into two softened stony cracks.

Never does that lonesome and hollow feeling

Settle as deafeningly as when I grasp

This prison visage when the room is dark

And the love of crisp breeze and caressing sunshine

Tries to spread open these plastic bars

With illuminated silken fingers.

A forehead leans against the window,

Moving the stiff slack layered blinds

To make room for this hot and aching skin

Of a human bound by the straight jacket

Of a life never chosen, but stumbled upon.

The brow is chilled by the dying winter's glass,

Left over from a passionate brawl with wind.

Sweet relief from the fire burning within

That is smothered, smoldering white

And ready to set aflame the papers

Between which, I've settled into;

The lines and paragraphs of

Living a lie.

in response to observations

I stare at the sun, too, you know.
I, too, long to touch the sky
When crimson beams envelope the horizon
And for an instant the spectrum is complete.

At nightfall I gaze upon a black canvas
And curse our lives for hiding the stars
That have long ago stopped trying
To free their fiery bodies.

Among a crowd of bodies I walk alone
And hear nothing but my thoughts,
My selfish, pointless thoughts
That waver between daydreams and banter –
Banter with myself, with the faces on which
I mark my daily ration of metadiscourse,
Subconsciously overdosing to the point where
I no longer find bliss in acceptance.

Why stand, unwanted, in the hub of conformity
When the path less traveled is calling you by name?
We know you’ve chased the maverick
But, by God, no, Satan, no, someone, you aren’t alone.

Backtrack

How

do

you

know

if something is worth

following?

What about

retracing your steps for?

We waste masses of minutes contemplating quality

Spilling our seconds on trying and truth

Foregoing our freedom for worry of waking

and finding that yesterday’s taken our youth

I was walking forward fearlessly, until I caught side of you beside me and I took a step

back

to try and see

whether retracing my steps

would bring me any

closer

to you.

Irretrievable

Chapter 5

It was Friday morning and I was sleepy. I did not understand, in fact, I’m not even sure I was aware of the implications of ‘Friday’, as I drove myself to school that morning. I was in some sort of trance that held onto my mind like a dog does its bone. I couldn’t shake it. I turned up the music, I opened a window to let a crisp morning chill slap me a few times, I slapped myself a few times. I could not think and I had no desire to. I had never felt like that before, and I haven’t felt it again since. I wasn’t even entranced in one of my circular thought processes about nothing. I was nothing. Before I knew it I was in the school parking lot, slipping my backpack around my shoulders, getting ready to start another day at school. I couldn’t remember anything about the drive: the slow-moving traffic down Beach Boulevard, the quick pace of the expressway, the climb over the bridge. What the hell was going on?

I heard a voice say ‘good morning’. I heard it but I did not comprehend it, at first. It was just another sound in my head. But as my eyes told me what had produced the words I understood. Katelyn was speaking to me. We were actually walking side by side. “Good morning”, I repeated. I looked at her with a dumb expression on my face and slowly brought myself out of my mysterious hypnosis. She laughed at me and asked, “Rough night?” “Yeah, sure”, I said. She proceeded to make dumb small talk over the weather, saying it was “so cold” and she didn’t like it. I think I just groaned in response and eventually she stopped talking. I stared up at the sky: the clouds were not puffy. They were thin wisps of white dust stretched out in the sky and I remember wanting to run on them.

“Don’t you want to just run on them?”, I asked to no one.

“What? Run on what?”, invoked a confused Katelyn.

“The clouds. They’re like runways waiting for me to take off from them, and fly to nowhere…”

“What the heck are you talking about?”, she asked sternly.

“Ehh I don’t know, I don’t really know…” I trailed off. I was staring at the sky, paying no attention to her. I stopped walking and just stood with my head tilted at a severe angle, observing the sky. When I finally brought my head back down Katelyn was nowhere to be seen. How long had I been standing there? Oh well. I suppose she got bored like anyone would and proceeded into school. I did the same now. I walked into class and everyone else was already there. Katelyn gave me a funny look. I sat down in my seat and started getting ready for class. My teacher addressed me in her annoying high-pitched voice that always found a way to irritate me. “You need to get a tardy pass. You’re ten minutes late”, she told me. I said, “Oh. I’m sorry”, and stood up to leave. I made the trek all the way from the portables to the main building and back. I did not pay much attention for the rest of class. Other than Ronnie’s incessant singing I retained nothing. Second period came. That was the class I had with Layla. I wanted nothing to do with her for the day. I only wished to skip to the bonfire and be with her then. When I got to class and saw that she had not arrived I felt a great amount of relief. I went straight to my out-of-the-way seat, and stayed there. I did not even to turn to face the class. When class ended I made sure I left when she was not looking, packing up her things or something, and did so in a stealthy manner.

The rest of the day was a blur, and I didn’t care that I was missing it. I was thankful that it was Friday and I had no responsibility for the next day. When I got home I sprawled out on my bed and turned on the TV. Eventually though, I fell asleep in the middle of some sitcom that I was actually enjoying for once.

I woke up feeling much better, much more coherent. I took a quick shower and got dressed for the evening. It would be cold so I wore a few layers along with jeans. I was ready to go to this bonfire and I was excited. I could hardly wait. It would take place at Eric’s house. I knew Eric as an acquaintance, I suppose – well enough to be comfortable going there. I wondered how many people there would be though, who I would know, would not know, wished to see, wished was not there. There was a picture on the refrigerator, and it caught my eye. It was of my father, with my mother. I don’t know where they were, I didn’t recognize the place at all. My mother was in ecstasy, wearing a wide grin on her face as she looked up at my father. But my father, my father had a vague look in his eyes, staring at nothing in front of him. It looked as if he were unaware of the company he was in. It struck me as odd. I’d never seen this photograph before. But I must really be my father’s son because I was a spitting image of him at that age. And somehow, somehow my mom looked, distantly, like Layla with her golden hair and comforting expression. I was intrigued by the picture and I stared at it, as if I were expecting something to happen. I studied it for a while to the point where I was frustrated that I couldn't name the place, or even recognizing the picture at all. Oh well, I wanted to leave for the bonfire, and I wasn’t about to get preoccupied. So I left the kitchen and proceeded outside.

I hopped in the car and was on my way, happy, and nervous, as ever. For some reason I was not in one of my concentrated realms of thought, so I put on some music, The Doors of course. It seemed nothing could ruin this night; it would be absolutely wonderful. The CD transitioned to the song ‘Love Her Madly’. Jim Morrison asked in a deep, intent voice, “Don’t yah love her madly? Don’t yah need her badly?” Yes. Yes I do, I thought. And I laughed. I sure as hell wanted her. Soon enough, my head lights drew back the darkness from Eric’s driveway. I sat for a few minutes reassuring myself I wanted to do this and that it would be fun. There were lights flickering from the backyard. The glow danced drunkenly on the wall of the neighbor’s house and a deep bass line rattled my insides as I sat in my own silence. Finally I mustered up the meek confidence to walk back there. As I unbuckled my seat belt the song was still playing. All your love, all your love is gone, so sing a lonely song. I twisted the keys out of the ignition and walked briskly towards the backyard. I stepped through the gate and saw a fire blazing wildly high in the center of the grass. It seemed to be wavering back and forth, as if pointing at me then directing its finger elsewhere, then back at me again. It made me oddly self-conscious. And there was no one there. I did not see Eric or anyone else. I was really quite confused and I began feeling that eerie doubt like I had at school the other day. This time it was worse, and it directed me. It compelled my legs to turn the corner to the patio of the house - for what I did not know. And when I did, I-I died. Standing there in the arms of someone I did not know, was Layla, sharing a kiss with that unknown kid. My heart sank like stone to somewhere within me I did not know existed. I was frozen with dread, telling myself that what I was witnessing was only a trick being played by that wicked fire. But when Layla opened her eyes and glanced at me, and only kissed him more, I knew it was no trick.

I turned and walked painfully toward the gate again. Each step was like a strike to my chest, and it was getting harder to breathe. I stumbled over to my car door, having trouble gripping the handle. I could barely find the strength to pull it the two necessary inches to open the door. When I finally did, I started the car, not knowing what else to do. “Don’t yah love her madly?” Fuck you, Jim. I sat in utter shock, contemplating what had just happened. Did she actually look at me? Did she mean to? What if she didn’t want to kiss him? What if I had just showed up at the absolute wrong second? But then why wouldn’t she be running out here now to explain? What was happening? ‘No’ was the only thought running through my head, the only thing I could come up with. No. No. No….

Chapter 6

I awoke in a heavy sweat, panting as if I’d just been running. I sat up quickly, eyes wide, my hands searching for anything to grasp. My shirt was stuck to my back as I began calming down, understanding that it had only been a dream. A great rush of relief swept over me, alleviating the painful weight on my chest. I threw myself back down on the bed in a grateful respite. I covered my face with my hands, dislodging a few curls stuck with sweat to my forehead. The dream had felt so real, so indistinguishably similar to reality. It was the worst experience I never had. I felt physically disgusted and emotionally spent. What the hell was that dream supposed to mean? It was some subconscious fear illuminated in an all too real nightmare. I did my best to shrug it off, running through a list of reasons that wouldn’t happen. And I think that was the beginning, despite its subtlety, of my understanding that something was not right, not quite normal. Attempting to logically justify an emotionally irrational thing is never good, and never satisfying. Of course I overlooked that then, and shrugged it off without much consideration, although I did take notice. I jumped in the shower to wake myself up and get ready for the night.

I felt better afterwards, but not quite the same as in the dream. That gave me a bit more confidence. It was nearing the time to leave, and I really had nothing left to do at home. As I walked through the kitchen to get out the door, I remembered the dream. I glanced over at the refrigerator to catch a glance of that haunting picture. It was not there. I searched the entire face of the fridge door, but found nothing. Interesting that I would create such a significant image on my own; I suppose I really was sort of enamored with Layla. Again, I was happy that reality was different than my dream, that there was no such picture that could have possibly confirmed my subconscious projections. I left, satisfied with myself, and comfortable with the hours to come.

The drive over was an apprehensive one, however. I was nervous, but who wouldn’t be. The night was alive and I was aware. A slight sheen of light dancing about a water-slickened road slithered along the road next to my window as I proceeded to Eric’s house. It would bend and hop with the imperfections of the road, seeming as if it were happily traveling with me. I found it somewhat amusing. Then, as I reached to turn on the music in my car, I remembered the dream again. I hesitated, fearing that it would parallel what had happened in my mind’s little scene. I did not push the button, and drove in only the noise of the engine’s constant hum. I was being superstitious, stupidly careful. I knew it would make no difference if the CD was in fact The Doors, or even if I listened to the same song, that what happened in my dream could not possibly be replicated in a sequence of actual events. But, I was being careful because I had convinced myself it meant something out of a foolish concern for what might happen if I wasn’t.

I arrived at Eric’s house shortly. It was completely different than in my dream. The house was larger, wider, more decorated and intricate. Why hadn’t I realized that in the dream? There was no backyard visible from the front, no fence through which to enter, and cars littered the street, lined on either side narrowing the space though which one could drive. A beckoning glow shone from inside the windows, creating a soft, rounded luminescence contrasting the commotion going on behind it. I added my car to the line, and began walking toward the house. The night air was cool, but not uncomfortable, just enough so that a small cloud of air would form in front of your face if you took a big enough breath. As I approached the driveway, Eric stepped out the door, looking for something in the garage. He saw me and seemed excited.

“Hey man! Glad you could make it.”, he said.

“Yeah, I’m happy to be here”, I said back. I don’t really think I meant that. He was rummaging around in a cooler, picking out drinks. I assumed they were alcoholic but I didn’t pay close enough attention to know, and didn’t need to. He told me he’d take me out back where everyone was in just a second. I waited for him to gather everything he needed and then followed him in a winding path through the house out to the backyard. We entered a screened off patio where a long table with various foods was set up and Eric deposited the drinks he had in another cooler at the end of the table. He asked me if I wanted one of the cans, and I declined, speculating what it was. He opened the screen door and motioned for me to walk through it. I did. And it was as if I had entered a different night than the one I was in out front. It was different, somehow, the lighting, the feel of the air, the soft static of idle chatter. Eric veered off to the right to talk to some people I didn’t know, so I looked for someone I was familiar with. I saw Phil and Jack and a few other people I knew standing closer to the fire. And the fire. It was calm, controlled, burning peacefully in a pit a little lower than the ground, crackling and wavering in a gentle sway. It was inviting and entrancing, not wicked like that of my dream. I felt its soft heat even from a distance as I approached the group in front of me. They appeared as vague silhouettes, as the fire’s light peered out from behind them, masking any detail of their faces or clothing. But as I moved closer they all came into detail and all had a loose smile on their face paired with that bitter breath that clued me in as to what filled their cups.

“Hey dude, what’s up?” Jack asked me. I answered casually telling him nothing at all. The others said their hellos, and I returned them. I sort of melded myself into the group without drawing much attention, just listening to what was being said. They were discussing something that happened at school, some garbage that didn’t mean anything. I just stood quietly, observing the rest of the yard. I scanned the others, looking for Layla. I soon concluded she had not arrived yet, which was preferable. I would see her soon enough. I grew bored with the people I was with; their discussion had become even duller. I silently left the circle, shuffling closer to the fire. There was an arch of chairs around the reddish-orange center. I observed the people sitting in them. It really is revealing to observe people when they’re not aware of you. They’re real that way. There’s no barrier between their true self and your raw perception. It’s humanity understood in its simplest form.

I searched for someone I knew to take a seat next to but found no one. I thought about sitting in one of the empty chairs but when I came closer I saw a sweater had been lazily draped over its side. I remained standing, especially after realizing the next three chairs were filled by girls. They would have undoubtedly engaged me in some awkward conversation about something insignificant and ultimately aggravating. I ventured away from the fire, back towards the house. I was becoming uncomfortable. I felt as if I were out of place, yet no one really noticed. I don’t know whether it bothered me more that I didn’t know so many people, or that no one had really taken into account my being there. Attending was a mistake. I didn’t belong at things like that, I had no interest in them and they were in most respects stupid. Layla wasn’t there and she was the reason I went. Again, how stupid of me. I decided I had to busy myself just for the sake of not looking like a complete idiot. I trudged back up to the patio where the table was and collected an unnecessary plate of food to look occupied. I wasn’t hungry at all.

I started at the left end of the table, as if I were following a premeditated set of instructions, and slowly made my way down the rest. I grabbed something from literally every bowl and dish containing food. It was so mindlessly done. Chips, cookies, all kinds of crap, even some truly frightening dip that someone probably made them self, found their way onto my plate. It just made me feel even more awkward, standing there with a full plate I did not intend to eat. A girl I didn’t know walked into the patio. She eyed me but said nothing. She was curious – just kind of floating about there, not speaking, just watching. I stared back, perplexed as ever. She stumbled around to the opposite side of the table from where I stood as she shifted her eyes continuously from me to the table and back at me. I figured she was judging me somehow, but did not react to her strange behavior.

“My name’s Rose”, she said. Okay, so what? I didn’t say anything, just kept walking. “I didn’t come in here for food, you know.” Her breath seeped across the room in a wave of the terrible stench of stale beer. This would be funny.

“No?” I replied, “Then to get warm?”

“Nope” she said in a goofy, playful voice. She put on, or attempted to put on, a seductive look with a less than innocent smile spreading across her face. She bit her lip as if to tease me, but I saw her ease the force. She probably hurt herself. I knew exactly what she was doing and I was having none of it. I was waiting for Layla and there would be no distractions, especially not some drunken girl who had no idea what she was doing.

“Well, shit, what’d you come in here for?” I asked. I didn’t wait for an answer and walked back outside without the plate I had gathered. Where was Layla? I was getting frustrated, regretting my decision to come more and more as each minute passed. I could feel a light sweat beginning to break the seal of my skin as I stood, scanning the yard over and over again finding the same empty results. Everything felt wrong, as if I were watching the night from behind a pane of glass laced with a gentle fog. I was beginning to think I should leave. What was the point of being uncomfortable and alone even amongst a yard full of people? It was stupid and I was done with it.

Yet, something compelled me to stay just a bit longer. I persisted through my discomfort, in the anxious hope she would arrive. I paced around the yard a bit, stepping in briefly on various conversations, yet never really involving myself in one. After a nervous five minutes or so my wishes were granted, my anxiety transformed to a pure appreciation. I had made my way back towards the house and as I turned around once again in my desultory gait, I finally saw her. She was standing in front of the fire, in a group of people, beautiful as ever. Never was I struck so tremendously by her mere image as I was at that moment. My blood quit rushing around inside my veins in its furious frenzy and it slowed to a calm, peaceful, absolutely comfortable flow. The breath in my lungs vacated at once and I just stood. She was immaculate, and she was everything I expected. She smiled and laughed at something someone else said and she was perfect. Yes. This is what I came for. She is my purpose, I thought to myself. And I was glad I came. In an instant all regret was wiped clean; all anxiety was replaced by utter content. Layla was there. I remained standing there, just looking at her. She caught my gaze and I knew she saw me. I didn’t do anything. I just waited. She seemed to be parting from the circle she was in. I hoped she was doing so to come talk with me - after all she was my purpose for being there. And to my great delight she began heading in my direction. Her eyes were on the ground in front of her but she looked up at me and showed a slight smile. I only smiled wider.

The fire illuminated her essence as she proceeded towards me. The image was literally straight out of some sort of movie or sequence of events thought up by a screenwriter. I was awestruck. There was nothing to say. The orange glow caressed the outline of her body and seemed to make her emanate a glow of her own. Everything I expected and more, or so I thought. She approached me in her flawlessness and at that point I was happier than I’d ever been. She was there, and for me, and I for her. It’s what I wanted. But I would learn that it wouldn’t last.

As we said our hellos and engaged in the actions of greeting I sensed something was different. Something was not right. It was her. She was acting very odd, like she was drunk and in a state of happiness that would be broken by nothing.

“You’re here! Yay! This is wonderful.” Here sentences were fused together in a lazy train of thought. “Oooh I like your shirt. It’s so,“ she paused for a second as if looking for a clever way to describe it, “green.” Green. My shirt was green. Wonderful. I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. I suppose I thanked her, awkwardly. As we walked on towards the group she was just in, she seemed to stumble slightly as she went. It was not a natural stumble, it was forced. I asked her if she were alright, and she replied with, “Of course I’m alright! I feel incredibly…” she was searching for a word. It seemed as though she forgot and ended her sentence with a clarified smile and a cheerful nod. She must have been drunk. What else could explain that?

But her breath carried no odor, and if it had I would have noticed. Her drink was a bubbly black, not the golden brown of beer. She was not drunk. Yet she danced about to no music, and exaggerated the length of her words for no reason. I couldn’t really understand why she was doing it, why she was pretending to be something, something else. My bliss was slowly departing, oozing out of me like the way spilled water crawls about the ground so painfully slow, and like air replaces the water’s occupation, my bliss was being replaced with a newer emotion, or lack of emotion, rather, that was in a way more comforting. I was still happy to be with her, in her presence, even just talking with her. But she had completely changed who she was at that bonfire. I don’t know whether it was in some unnecessary scheme to impress me or what her reasoning was but I was slowly entering a deeper realization that most things were absurd. I had been trying to connect with Layla, I wanted to, more than anything going on at the time. She really was a special girl, one that I admired more than the rest.

But this night, this night that was supposed to be of absolute content and what I hoped to be the foundation of something great, shattered everything I had planned for it. It was disheartening yet revealing, disappointing yet very necessary. Layla was no longer my focus. She was no longer the subject on which I dwelled, she was just another girl. Why had she acted that way? Why had she feigned herself? It angered me and it was heartbreaking. Just when I thought I’d found someone who stood out from the rest, someone resilient and individualistic, she took it away. She too had acted differently from what she was only to be accepted. All it got her was my rejection.

Fortification

I’ve dwelled in infatuation’s arrogant abode,
Enveloped by warmth, singed upon my exit.
I’ve braved the cusp of fulfillment
And returned, empty-handed, full-hearted.
I’ve visited the shores of disappointment,
Gone for a swim, and broken from an icy grip.
None were quite hospitable enough,
Nor were they temperate, or calm.

Through the tumult of extremities,
I landed, face buried in a pillow of stone,
Your image cemented to the lids of my blind eyes.
So open they will stay,
Shielding me from perfection,
Locked in a staring contest with interdiction.
And here I shall forever remain,
On my throne of unwavering denial.