Last Winter

With angry brown eyes she threw fistfuls of flowers at me

but it was I who was Icarus and she the sun

so through the fogged window I wondered of the cold earth and its children

as the colors of the autumn slowly came undone,

and it was white all around with death to bear witness

a hollow scream echoing from red dusk till the dawn

to slither between the rich cedar logs of our cabin

and permit the candlelight to this, flicker upon:

from lonely villages she paddled her needle-sharp canoe

only to etch the nose unto the cracks of my chest

but beneath these woolen blankets by the stone's dancing fire

did I embrace her and lay the past to rest.

A Trail of Crumbs

She woke up and discovered, to her dismay, that she had finally developed feelings for him. Gently reaching across the sheets, she brushed her fingers through his dark hair and chuckled at the meaningful predicament that had arisen from all the meaningless nights.

He shifted and opened his eyes halfway.

"Hi," she whispered, propping herself up, "did I wake you?"

"No," he murmured, "I was just thinking about something."

"Oooh...what's that?" She flopped down on the pillow and faced him.

"When I was a kid, my mom would always put this beautiful, porcelain cookie jar full of chocolate-chip cookies high up on a ledge where I couldn't get it." He waved his right hand at an invisible jar on the ceiling. "Then there would be this other equally beautiful porcelain jar on the counter, within my reach - only there were oatmeal cookies inside." He turned to face her. "I could always get the jar of oatmeal cookies, but that wasn't what I truly wanted." A small breath of disappointment escaped from his nostrils. In a small voice, he added, "I wanted the jar of chocolate chip."

She looked him in the eyes, only to discover he was looking past her. Although she felt a slight pang in the back of her throat, she mustered a smile. "Baby," she cooed, thinking about her predicament, "am I your cookie jar?"

His eyes returned to meet hers. Something ran across their dark brown pupils, but he smiled. "You're a beautiful cookie jar." Without another word, he tossed the sheets aside and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Her arm reached down and slowly pulled the covers over her naked shoulders. She had thought about having oatmeal for breakfast, but she didn't feel very hungry anymore.

Our Sandcastle

cool water laps at her ankles

soft sand melts beneath her feet

gentle wind tugs at her summer dress

setting sun caresses her face

She walks along the line where the ocean meets the world

and she dreams of dancing where the ocean meets the sky

- where she can find all the things that have washed away.

She wants to sleep on the beach

but we don't sleep on the beach anymore.

The Last Note

It was twenty-one in the night when the lights came out to murder the stars.

The windows had frosted over from the contrast of the world outside radiating its warm wishes and the cold muscles inside running slow veins, and the soundboard had been tuned to amplify the constant beeping against the ambient backdrop that was, otherwise, life.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Rain charmed the jaded taxi and elevated the desperate embrace. Quiet avenues hushed the rustling of the branches lest the secrets were blown to the wind.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Jasmine wafted over hills that sprung to battle the railroad.

Beep. Beep.

But always - always there was swing! Oh it tore a fierce hole in the wall and the floorboards were alive! The walls trembled, the windows shook, the piano, the piano! How it roared and cried its winking song beneath the shrilling bottles! Hats had flown, dear mercy, hats had flown! Where should ever -

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

In the darkness of the great hall, the last burning bulb on the swinging chandelier fizzled and, with little fanfare, popped and shattered, its shards forming the clement drizzle into forever.

Dearest,

Remember when we were young? When blue fireworks blossomed on pink skies that smelled of orchids and teas from farthest India? Remember when purple handprints dotted the sidewalk of swirling cotton candy that crunched and sploofed beneath our bare feet? Remember when the elephants of Jupiter paraded through the orange tunnel we made in the jungle?

You don't; you're hundreds of miles away. You take a photo album off the shelf, blow the dust off, and don't notice how the specks float like the seeds of a dandelion. You flip open the cover and see smiling mouths, green grass, blue skies, a yellow kite floating above it all.

Somewhere, between flying off the swings into the clouds and staying in the office all night to finish the Milan project, the elephants of Jupiter lost their way.

But I'm still here, and I will wait for you until you come home.

(Corr)ode to Tender

O glorious night, that day may break

its back upon the sea

of cocktail glasses that form the wake

ringing your soliloquy -

for yonder rests a beauty great

that eyes shall never know,

shrouded by the dusky state

that is the lover's woe.

And in this time sin's sweat shall stain

Great Eden's bed so pure,

and lonely lips design disdain

that wine flows in to cure,

bestowing all the cursed visions

of the promised land

between the grasping, blurry tension

of the head and hand.

When empty bottles scrape the sky

and blue lights trail the dust,

when suggestive smiles fade to sighs

or limbs succumb to lust,

the steadfast artist sits there still

in hopes that you may stay,

that liquor does not render him ill

and starlight ne'er turns to day.

Secrets of the Wind

The beach was silent as the little boy slowly created a trail of footprints towards the ship.

It was a large ship, wrecked upon the rocks but valiantly pointing northward nonetheless. The masts stood tall, pointing towards the sun and billowing even where there were no sails.

The little boy scampered upon a large, barnacle-covered rock and reached out to touch the salt-beaten wood. It was cool, soothing, and whispered of adventures and delights untold.

Jumping from splintered plank to plank, the little boy eventually made his way on deck, whereupon he proceeded to take his post at the bow. There, he pointed a finger out forth towards the ocean.

The wind blew, and somewhere a harmonica began its soothing song. He closed his eyes and listened with all his might, and almost thought he heard a mermaid sing of hidden treasures.

Outside the Ring

Whap!

Left hook, upper cut, whap! Whap! Whap, whap! The red punching bag swayed wildly as he delivered blow after blow. Sweat stung his eyes and its repulsive taste seeped into his mouth, but that was nothing new.

"Alright, that's enough, you've been going at it for two hours now. Gotta rest up!"

He lowered his arms and absent-mindedly pushed away the punching bag as it came swinging back towards him. Grabbing the water bottle, he silently reminded himself: two days until fight night.

The music thundered and the lights swung as he walked into the stadium. The walls were shaking, the crowd was on their feet, they were chanting, chanting, but he had to tune it all out, concentrate, focus, concentrate...

He stood up from his corner and cracked his neck. His opponent was a beast of a man, an archetypical monster. But he wasn't afraid; he had studied his opponent for hours, days, weeks; he had jabbed and cut his way through months, seasons, years; he was a monster himself. Sneering, he clapped his gloves together and strode towards the center.

Third round, and he felt the nerves in his arms vibrating gently. Tired? Never. From beneath a dripping brow he eyed his opponent, readying a punch, looking out for an attack, stepping...and then it came. He saw the left glove coming down from the top, and he lifted his right arm to stop it. He blinked away the sweat and suddenly, a red train came barreling right at his eyes and - ! It was over. He hardly felt anything as his legs slowly gave way, his head fell backwards, his arms came down...

He lay, gasping, on the floor. The paparazzi flashes did the blinking for him, and he felt something stinging his eyes. Must be sweat. Something repulsive seeped past his mouthguard. Must be sweat. He licked his mouthguard. No. It was blood, it was blood and his eyes stung with tears, it was blood and tears, and he was seven.

"Henry! Stop hitting him! Please! Honey, Henry, please! He's your son!" His mother's shrill voice rang in the background like that of an announcer shouting numbers. His father towered over him, belt in hand.

No, father. It was not over. No more, no longer. This was what he had been fighting for twenty-some years. He bit down on his mouthguard, slowly steadied himself, and stood up straight to face his opponent.

Background Noise

All the lights were off in his studio apartment, and his face was pressed to the TV. The picture flickered and distorted the colors as he paused the VCR and began rewinding. 

The colors danced schizophrenically in his face, lips moved at speeds beyond comprehension, until, finally, he lifted his finger.

"...and little brother has lost his first tooth! Look!" His mother, bouncing his little brother on her knee, held up the lost tooth to the camera. Behind her stood his father, a wide grin stretched across his face.

Little brother yawned and his parents laughed. "So tired, huh?" His mother beamed.

With wide eyes, his father leaned towards the camera. "We are going to see the dragon boat race tomorrow. Little brother will be so excited! And then..."

He stood up from his hard, wooden chair and let the tape play on. With slow, small steps, he made his way to his bed, where he lay down and pulled the cold, cotton blanket over his shoulders. "Are you eating well? Mommy worries you don't eat enough."

His back to the TV, he looked out his window at the buildings, the homes, the lives beneath the dazzling skyline - and he felt something sink. Then it was gone, and he closed his eyes as the tape flickered and the familiar voices talked on into the night.

Melting Plastic

When she woke, the sun had stabbed the moon

and somewhere out there, a tender voice did croon,

"You lose things on me, like love and irony".

But with deaf ears and blind eyes -

she refused to believe,

she refused to believe.

No no no no

(louder now)

"Where did you go, I'd like to think I miss you so,

and with every waking breath you keep me from below;

won't you stick around before you miss the show

where my heart breaks into a million pieces

that shower you from head down to toe."

Oh no no no no

"Get me away from here," I said, "I promise I'll behave.

It's just that every waking moment is a moment you can't save

and photographs are fingerprints that smudge and ruin our past,

believe me, darling, some things get lost in a universe so vast."

And then the music slowed and I looked into her eyes

but all I found were layers of paint over the goodbyes;

I reached out to smooth her tangled hair and all my lies

but the wind rustled and released my desperate cries -

Oh no no no no

"Can't you see that all of this is just a piece

of fiction, art, and everything else in which you believe?"

No no no no no

"Make this real then, all my dreams and fairy tales."

So I leaned forward and kissed her so she would close her eyes as well.

The Ethereal Suspension Between Past and Present

He sits on the edge of his stool, leans against the greasy counter, and munches on a fat, cold, soggy french fry. Needs more salt. Reaching his right arm across the counter, he captures the shaker and proceeds to douse his fries in a generous drizzle. It is a little past two in the morning and the diner is deserted except for a tired-looking waitress and, huddling in a corner booth, some guy that looks like a bum.

He knows that outside the diner is a phone booth, and that he should be in it. But it smells of rain in the cold world, and, out of dread, he convinces himself that he prefers the stench of cooking oil and hopelessness.

The plate is empty. He removes a few bills from his wallet and leaves them lying on the counter. It is time.

He pushes the door open and all at once it sinks into him, the smell of the rain and the sad wailing of the brick tenements. The phone booth is across the street, its lights buzzing inconsistently in the dark isolation. With a foot in the gutter, he glances down the street and crosses.

It smells of sweat in the phone booth, and he swings the glass door shut behind him. With shaking fingers, he lifts the phone and he hears the dial tone. But, but, there is something. Somewhere in the silent distance, he hears violins singing softly, and, as he reaches out to press the metal numbers, the warm bark of a tree greets him. He looks upward and finds the light flickering, no, filtering in through the treetops. The leaves rustle beneath his feet as he peeks out from behind the trunk of the giant tree.

She is standing in a pool of sunlight, her white dress glowing like a candle in the snow, and the violins soar. She giggles and runs, and he finds himself laughing and gives chase through the maze of weather-beaten trunks and leaves. Faster and faster now, she looks back and laughs as he reaches out to scoop her into his arms...

"Hello?"

He stares, dumbfounded, at the receiver.

"Hello?"

Then he blinks and suddenly remembers where he is.

"Hey, it's me. Don't hang up. Look, I know what..."

"No. No. I've told you, stop calling me. It's over."

There is a click, and he finds himself listening to the dial tone once more.

"If you would like to make another call, please deposit twenty-five cents."

He hangs up the receiver and notices the various ads rustling beneath his feet. With a sigh, he seats himself on the floor of the phone booth. Inside the phone booth, it reeks of sweat still, but he prefers this to the cold world, where it smells of rain and the forest.