White Trash in a Nordstrom's Suit

He fled the hills to the city,
Armed with a college degree,
Got a good job that paid him well,
And then he ran into me.

Uptown girl who liked culture,
To read and collect postage stamps,
He quickly tried to change me,
Into one of his hometown tramps.

It wasn't enough I was a lawyer,
He wanted a slut who would,
Cook, clean and do laundry,
Without ever asking if she should.

Well, I got very sick trying,
To be "super" this and that,
He couldn't cope with the situation,
So he hit me and got thrown out.

The morale of this story,
Is no matter how much power or loot,
Unless someone really changes inside,
They're just white trash in a Nordstrom's suit.

Whore, whore,
I am no more,
Not in body or soul,
I know who I am,
And don't need a man,
I'm whole and in control.

*****

Unendowed

I grew up in the '60's,
A time when Twiggy was "in,"
I never thought it'd be a problem,
My being so thin.

But then I entered puberty,
And nothing much developed,
"So why, a bra," I asked my Mom,
With nothing to envelope.

"You've outgrown Carter's T's," she said,
"You need to be publicly modest,"
We settled on a full length slip,
I always wore a dress.

Years later, I went bra shopping,
And the salesperson struck her blow,
"Don't worry," she said sweetly,
"You still have time to grow!"

*****

The Darkness of the Day

The alarm goes off,
And you bound out of bed,
Into the shower,
To wake up your sleepy head.

You dress in haste,
And eat on the run,
All to get to the office,
Before the rising sun.

Messages, meetings,
You try to do it all,
Soon it's dark out,
Oh, just one more phone call!

Back home, the house is dark,
You walk into an unlit hall,
No time or inclination to,
Contemplate the meaning of it all.

Life to work,
Work to live,
That's the darkness of the day.

*****

If Only She'd Let Me Be Me

My mother grew up during the Depression,
Third girl, the fourth child of six,
Her father abandoned the family, then died young,
Having an opportunity only to pick...

The career path for the first two children,
Lawyer and doctor, respectively.
His lack of instructions for the life of my Mother,
Created a huge problem for me.

First born and looking the most like her,
She ignored my proclivities,
Having been given no guidance for her life,
She took it upon herself to steer me...

To things she had dreamed of doing,
And because of brains and an eagerness to please,
I spent my young life going in directions,
The main goal of which was to appease.

The pattern carried over into adulthood,
My marriage was more of the same,
Stuck in a profession I did not aspire to,
I had only myself to blame.

Mid 30's, I could no longer do it,
Physically ill and ridden with strife,
Forced to give up the game, I took time to ponder,
What I really wanted to do with my life.

As a youngster, I had dreamed of designing clothes,
Or being a writer, alternatively,
Though given a second chance, I still often wonder,
What would have been if my Mom had let me be me.

*****

It's Only a Number

One sunny August day,
When my age was a single digit,
At an outdoor birthday party,
My Mom really began to fidget.

"29" is what she told me,
I put the numbers on her cake,
Her sisters began to laugh,
They knew the age was a fake.

I ran into the kitchen, in the house,
And counted from her age when I was born,
She followed behind me, it didn't add up,
She found me sitting there very forlorn.

Upset that she had lied to me,
And her explanation didn't ring true,
The number of your real age wasn't too big for me, Mom,
But apparently it was too large for you.

It took a long time to trust my Mom after that,
I've really never understood why she fibbed,
To me age is only a number,
Be proud of how long you've lived.

******

A Sports Widow's Lament

It starts on Saturday afternoon,
In the Winter or the Fall,
For a man, sports are equivalent to,
Going to the mall.

He channel surfs incessantly,
Football, basketball, college or pro,
Eyes transfixed on the TV screen,
A true couch potato.

Arising only for bathroom breaks,
Or to go to get something to eat,
He talks only to the TV set,
Cheering his team's opponent's defeat.

He dreams away Saturday night,
Analyzing a day's worth of plays,
He wakes up Sunday morning,
Eagerly awaiting the Sports page.

Sunday's the same, click, click, click,
More games, no time to brood,
But whether his team won or lost,
Will determine his back to work Monday mood.

My man,
The fan,
King of spectator sport.

Coaching from the couch,
He's no slouch,
Just give him the remote.

Pasted below are three poems I'm submitting for your consideration.

I am an emerging poet from Delaware and looking to get my work published. My contact information is as follows:
T.J. Streett

This Wall

I will not allow you
to penetrate this wall
I have erected
around my open wounds

And from high atop
this shleter of self deception
I stare at the world
through the cracks
in my shell

I desperately
want to fly
but I'm more so
unwilling to fall

Chalice

I was given a moment
I couldn't turn into a life
now
I am he who isn't
and my doing
no longer does

God
you are a creation
of those below above

A flockless shepard
who has turned a back
where is my chalice of peace?
the countless virtues I lack?

You gave me a life
and a shadow
that's more like alone
what did I inherit?
but a whisper of that
which I cannot disown

The City

If I ever loved
it was out of fear

If I ever gave
it was because I took
more than I could carry

I assure you
I've harmed
because I could not heal
but I have faith
my pride will deliver me
from the city
of my transgressions

Mr. Logan

Would you consider these poems I have enclosed for publication in (A Brilliant) Record Magazine? The Poems I have included are titled, “Street Lamp,” “Dandelion,” and “A Patriotic Sort of Leaf.”
Sincerely,

Jake Heller

Street Lamp

The deer
like a street lamp
lying on the side of the road
at dawn.

legs stiff as poles
light dim, but still in eyes,
as I step from my truck.

flicker and.
Out
-dead-

continue on


Dandelion

Do you remember that day atop the little hill in my backyard?
the only day we ever spent there
Among the ferns and trees and rocks bathed with moss,
and the sun guiding us with her custard skirt.
There was a fence and a shed
and an old bicycle wheel half buried in the dirt.

My cat prowling in the grass,
underneath a tree.
(The same one Bobby fell out of once
while we were trying to climb high enough
to peer into you backyard, two houses over)

What were you holding in your hand that day?
I can’t quite remember.
Perhaps, it was a dandelion. It was something yellow.
How yellow we were then,
So shy on the hilltop.
And we’re even shyer now.

We barely talk anymore.
And then you lifted up the dandelion (or whatever it was)
and put it in my hand and what happened next was this:

you kissed me
on the lips
it was quick
my eyes were open
but they weren’t looking at you,
no, but my cat
who was playing with the dandelion
that had dropped to the ground.


A Patriotic Sort Of Leaf

The leaf sings and falls off the tree
It is singing, “The Star Spangled Banner”
And the rocket’s red glare it croons

It is a patriotic sort of leaf
Light is refracted off its underside
As it comes to a rest, tickling leaves of grass with its long white beard,
The grass tastes the leaf and wonders where it came from
Grasses don’t have eyes; it couldn’t see the leaf fall from the tree
(the grass is curious about this, but not judgmental)

A wispy passerby drops a butt in the grass…smell of smoke
It spirals slowly upward in the way a hamburger tastes, juicy
Paul loves hamburgers; he orders them extra juicy – no mayo
But he orders them well done – extra mayo
“Number two and make it snappy”

They don’t make it quickly because they work at a fast food stop
“It was like, you know he like, first he brushed the hair of my cheek”
The prudent meanderings of a speaker box
He gave them a tip the snake he was
And then he slithered out through his window, in through their window, and up
and into the ice cream machine
He will eat it all
And the eccentric leaf is floating upwards now with a rock onboard
The upward sift of the air is what is causing it to rise

“Look at me!” the rock wees over the mumble of the leaf’s singing
Oh say does that star-spangled…
And the smoke billowed forth from the butt in an array of brilliant colors

Dear editor,

Hello, my name is A.J. Chilson. I read your blog. I think the poems you put out are really good. I would like to submit several poems and haiku for your consideration. Thanks for reading my material.

Best of luck,

A.J. Chilson

IF I COULD SING A SONG

If I could sing a song,
a song so beautiful
that it would mean something,
something for the whole world
to relate to, and for the world
to be filled with passion,
and with joy, and with deep comfort,
I would sing a lovely ballad,
one that would last a lifetime
a million times over.

And I would sing that song
just for you.

TO DOROTHY

Was it the eyes
blushing in its delight?

Was it the lips
hungry for a big kiss?

Was it the smile
igniting passion from within?

Or was it the photograph
that made me love you?


FALLING OUT

As the two of us held hands for the last time,
the fingers slipping away, one by one,
the tears rolling down our sullen faces
as we continued to stare at each other
it was then we began to realize the love
that had materialized over the course of
so many years, only to see all that go away
over something so silly, so stupid, and so wrong.

HAIKU

adorable you,
that impeccable smile
makes me feel special

your presence cheered me
but it was the warmth you gave
that touched me the most

seven years have passed
and the moments we both shared
continue to last

Dear Mr. Logan, Pasted below are four poems that I am submitting for yourconsideration: "Remember the Wild Days?," "That Sweet Tune of Us,""Self Indulgence," and "Beta Male." I am a fairly new poet, based inLos Angeles, and have had my work shown in several online journals. Iam inspired by the absurd behaviors of mankind: our goals, ambitions,desires, and how we try to pursue them while making a life. Living ina town as ridiculous as L.A. has given me no shortage of material. I look forward to hearing from you and thanks for reading my work! Sincerely,
Matt Dennie
matthew.dennie@gmail.com

REMEMBER THE WILD DAYS?

Let’s get drunk and HOWL
at the moon.
Not tonight but tomorrow.
And everyone will say in shock:
“Look so carefree and impulsive!!”
And afterwards we’llindulge in delicious diner fare,
licking our chops
like the wolves we once were.
Yes.Tomorrow let’s HOWL at the moon.
Not tonight…. plan for tomorrow.

THAT SWEET TUNE OF US

The Bone Daddy
is always playing something
heard by the herd
that keeps them
racing ‘round
as they scramble
to stamp their seal
in the History Book
and not be left
off the page.

SELF INDULGENCE

Confusion is confusing,
and illusions are boozing
one’s self to saturation
without worry.
Oh, how often we waltz
to major minor injuries
that have no story or sense
and will always hold the
twisted truth of a scar
from us.

BETA MALE

The Beta Male-
bitching like a beagle-
but always keen to lie belly upand be rubbed by his mastress.
A paradox of pathetic,
he lacks neither brass nor balls,
not that he should be boss
but that he shouldn’t be so completely
lost. Anytime power is tipped too much
the meek suffer
(and he is surely stamped out as meek)

The poor Beta-
shrugging his shoulders and
living life by his unmotivated mantra:
“Meh?”

Capturing Spring

In a field of soon-to-be crops

Fresh growth tickles my skin,

I navigate clouds swimming

Across the sky as they blanket the sun,

The air cools only briefly as a breeze carries

A comforting scent of new life across my face.



At brook harboring water to its end I lean-

Over an iron barrel that bridges the walkway,

My fingertips dance atop the water, grazing leaves

As they glide through-

Only to muddle at a lone branch suspended between banks.



My hair hangs like the long-stretched branches

Of a weeping willow tree thirsting to drink from the water below.

Their tips dampen, shrivel and fall cold upon my neck-

I stand and they nestle against my skin as if for warmth.



I take a path through the woodlot-

With a stick as my guide I comb the understory-

Sifting cool tiny fragments of earth through my fingers

Investigating veins that surge through a leaf.



I trudge along the path canopied by the ageless trees staring down

Like watchers; I reach the edge looking back-

Capturing spring.



Laurie Griffith

NO SURPRISE

I am as outraged as everyone else over the millions paid by AIG in "retention" bonuses, mostly to unperforming executives who got the company into trouble in the first place. Given that some of the recipients aren't even employed by AIG anymore, Mr. Liddy should have had the common sense (?!) to know that when the payouts came to light, it would at a minimum be bad PR. That said, the Federal Reserve, the same Ben Bernanke who assured us on "60 Minutes" Sunday night that the recession would be over by the end of this year, should have written the bailout contracts to override industry standards and abrogate the corporate ones. The bureaucrats who bungled are now crafting ways to recoup the monies, and I wish them luck in doing that, however usually "once it's gone, it's gone," and there is no substitute in the public's mind for an ounce of prevention. I was fortunate enough to not owe the IRS a single penny this year. But I hear rumblings of taxpayers getting as creative as the financial players formerly did to get US into this mess so as not to have to pony up on April 15th, effecting their own individual "bailouts."
Treasury, BEWARE. It should come as "no surprise."

Karen Ann DeLuca

BEWARE, BAD AND TORPID

About the same time the Chairman and CEO of BB&T was writing Congress, saying that the bailout was a "bad deal" and that he saw "no compelling need to participate," as the problems were confined to high risk financial institutions and Wall Street, I was dealing with fraud on my BB&T checking account. I'll spare most of details of the back story; suffice it to say that someone I had issued a paper refund to months before, during the last of my selling on eBay (a subject for another day), used what little information there was on my check to construct a fraudulent one - and badly at that - to the tune of $556.68. Despite the fact that the bogus check had TWO addresses, in Florida, no less, and mine do not, and I live in Virginia; a check number that was not in my sequence; the bank information at the center, not the lower left; and a horrible imitation of my signature, BB&T paid it, commercial law be damned. And then started bouncing my checks and assessing me NSF, overdraft and collection fees. Due to a lack of coordination and communication between the branch and the home office, the matter took weeks to resolve, and when all was said and done, the fees, which the bank had to absorb and credit back to my account, exclusive of the value of the check, totaled $480, and they had provided me with TWO sets of new desk checks because, and how stupid is this, on the first order they printed my address, although I had specifically told them not to, had NEVER done that before (and this account dates back to 1988), and had just been a victim of fraud! The free checks which will last me for years are the only reason I remained with the bank, and for checking only. Bank personnel never admitted responsibility for the blunder and I never got an apology.
Not shortly after, Mr. Allison did an about face and accepted 3.1 million in bailout money. I can't help but wonder how many "mistakes" that were made similar to the one with my account accumulated to contribute to BB&T's and other banks' woes. Allegedly, some of the 3.1 million may have been used to take over an insurance company and scratch the itch to merge with Zions Bancorporation. I can tell you from personal experience, none of it went to upgrade the customer service.
Just last week, I needed a medallion signature guarantee on four sets of IRA Transfer of Assets papers. The manager/loan officer was the only one who could do that at the branch I frequent. After keeping me sitting there for over a half hour, while she mysteriously darted back and forth between her desk and a back room, she handed me the paperwork which I later discovered she had failed to SIGN. On the second go round, using two sided copying, she failed to capture all the necessary pages, causing me to have to properly redo it for my own records. While admittedly two trips to the bank and a stint at a photocopier is a minor inconvenience, it was an unnecessary bother nonetheless.
Can't sign, can't copy!? It left me wondering...Just how is this branch and BB&T in general managed? How thoughtfully does the 14th largest bank in the country make loans? Is this the ineptitude that our bailout money is going for? Would it be better spent transferring customer deposits to completely new and untainted institutions built from scratch and letting these mismanaged and irresponsible monstrosities fail? Maybe so.

Karen Ann DeLuca

PUTTING THE RETAIL "HOUSE" IN ORDER

Malls now dot the landscape as overbuilt temples and testament to our economic reliance on consumerism. Debt laden real estate abound, as "bricks and mortar" investors were slow in anticipating the impact of online retailing, to say nothing of the slowdown in purchasing (you can only buy and need so much) and purchasing power. As industry after industry lines up for a government handout, it may be only a question of time before retailers join their residential counterparts in that crowd. But what if rather than queuing up for the privilege of being a potential propped up "zombie," merchants took a proactively responsible and innovative approach? Consolidation in an industry that has merged into homogeneity is unlikely as a panacea. "Close and disburse," flippant at best, lays bare an "everything is disposable" and perhaps generational view, surprising in view of the somewhat exalted place malls held in the social lives of the younger set. While in small towns that may bring the bustle back to Main Streets, most modern suburbs were specifically planned not to be "urban," but to sprawl, so there is no one central, commercial, community "drag" to which businesses can "retreat." To play on the words of Ronald Reagan, during whose administration this trend for mercantile Meccas truly blossomed, given the opportunity cost of the few construction jobs it would create, don't tear down that mall. Recycle.
Rather than remodeling and renovating ugly cookie cutter external facades to enclose ornate and ostentatious orbs of overstimulation, in foolish anticipation that the former hoards of faithful happy feet will soon return, spending that whopping $13 a week extra they will be getting in their paycheck come April 1st, if they still have a job, or following the suggestion for demolition and diaspora, owners should convert their big boxes, as long as they are structurally sound, into mixed use. Some tenants, mostly anchors, actually own the land their stores are located on, so they most likely aren't going anywhere, and to augment their lagging sales, they could "landlord" lesser but still viable tenants in a mutual symbiotic relationship, an acceleration of the store within a store concept. Sears, Macy's and Nordstrom come to mind as good candidates for such "nationwide nesting dolls." As for the rest of the space - and there will be plenty of it with high profile liquidations, bankruptcies and store closings being announced almost daily, the least radical option would be to change and downgrade its composition to include discounters, dollar stores and yes, maybe even pawn shops. Using eBay and other electronic sales sites can be expensive, labor intensive, and does nothing to support local economies, something to be considered in a firesale situation.
A more novel and unique approach would be to utilize the existing retrofit for individualized plumbing, and make a back room a bathroom and convert some of the space into affordable housing under 1000 sq. ft. per unit, grabbing the renters incentivized by the first of what will most likely be many stimulus packages to buy. Let the balance be allocated to a downsized retail presence; add grocery stores, offices, libraries, art galleries, TRADITIONAL places of worship. Diversify, rather than continuing to put every egg in one upscale basket of virtual clones. Redevelop the property into a town center, mini urban villages with a tightknit, neighborhood feel, giving the buildings distinctive character, inside and out. Investors would then have a reliable base income from which to service their debt, and the properties would be transformed from "one stop shopping" into "one stop living" and would be much better integrated into the community as a citizen and a diverse job engine, insurance against the "rise" of "dead malls" in the future. Modified, this plan would work for converting free standing "big boxes" into individual, noncommercial use as well. Instead of wasting taxpayer dollars adding to the glut with new construction, stimulus money would be better spent refurbishing and repurposing "empties" before they become permanent, dilapidated eyesores.
The one thing malls have is plenty of parking, a plus, so the owners need to get creative to fill up those spaces, particularly if they follow the lead of the Westfield Group and shorten their hours of operation. Think "outside the box," literally, no pun intended. Embrace and start charging for commuter parking. Many centers for shopping, particularly those located in rural areas or distant outskirts, are built on what was once farms and/or pastures. It may be feasible to return some of the land entirely back to its original purpose, producing, particularly with the rising interest in organic foods, or in any event, to revert part of a parking lot into plots that the public could then rent to "grow their own." Not ever Green Thumb wannabe has a yard.
As I write this, Circuit City is closing its doors. Another "ghost box" bites the dust. Wouldn't it be nice if retail was the ONE industry that took the self reliant initiative and route and somehow figured out ON ITS OWN a way to survive? A couple months in and the new Administration appears to be fresh out of fresh ideas, recently inviting young entrepreneurs to the White House to brainstorm with the President. I just dropped a clever and creative idea, or two. Here's one more: tourism. Emotionally attached, people may want to visit deserted malls and be willing to pay an admission fee to gaze at the modern day equivalent of the abandoned remnants of the Wild Wild West. After all, they are listed as attractions in tour guides...Like museums...MMMM...

Karen Ann DeLuca

HOOKED!

It is only now that the health care system is overtaxed and the associated costs are overwhelming, that medical research is most emphatically promoting the simple and cheap : prevention - diet and exercise. Call me a cynic, but while whole industries, from fast food to couch potato home entertainment to on line shopping, to say nothing of the medical industrial complex, were growing as the result of the public's bad choices, there was nary a peep. Eating right and walking were intuitive to and permeated my parents' and grandparents' generations. They lived to be nearly 100; baby boomers, and younger, who prefer to seek the fountain of youth through plastic surgery and pharmaceuticals, are dying off in droves. It's no coincidence that Obama's downpayment/reserve proposal for universal health care was announced on the same day as the results of the latest cancer study. The message is unmistakable: change now or pay. Problem is, from drugs to donuts, as a nation, we're hooked. So which way do we go?

Karen Ann DeLuca

"New" Deal, Whose Deal?, Raw Deal
During the waning days of the seemingly interminable Campaign of 2008, slurs of socialism filled the air, and the airwaves. Republicans needn't have worried; continuing the initiatives begun in the Bush Administration, Obama is propping up the zombie automakers in true Soviet style fashion, probably going to nationalize some banks, while giving the financial industry in general a huge handout, and is subsidizing our overbuilt and overextended "houses," because, let's face it, those are the only things left that we build in this country anymore. Socialism for the "haves" over the "have nots." Meanwhile, in order to make his budget numbers and spend down the debt and deficit in four years, he envisions cuts in Medicare and Medicaid, a slashing of costs that will never happen, but that will rather be achieved by paring benefits to those who need them most. Hooked on health care and left to go it alone. Think about it...
For all those in dire straits through no fault of their own looking for a helping hand, this is not your father's, or your grandfather's, New Deal or Great Society. For those in trouble after traveling down the long road of failing to take personal responsibility for much of anything, this socialism is for you. Programs that might be more deserving of the "we're all in this together" treatment ...health care, education... forget about it!!! There won't be any money left.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Benjamin Nardolilli February 2009 Featured Writer!

Carte General

To be Western
Means to look East.
Put your nose at Sicily,
Capture the Roman view,
Aquiline, the world reclining
Ready to be conquered,
Put it at Spain and spin
On an axis of your nostrils.
Look south and west, but only
To make a detour of going East,
Looking at the desert and skins
Getting darker, lay down
In France, sit in Germany,
And play with Poland,
Trying to draw a line in the soil,
But your legs are too big and you expand.
You always end up taking everything in,
And your toes freeze
At the outskirts of Moscow,
When you want the best view,
Putting your stomach over the Alps
And looking to the Bosporus,
Your troubled tongue lands on Turkey.

Opening the Kingdom

Those bottles on the floor,
Still upright despite the subway,
Let them remind you
Of the buildings outside,
The glitter of those towers you admire,
Add the empty boxes to the mix,
They can stand for tenements.

Transport yourself to a thrift store,
(I know you never served
In the West Germany army,)
With the impotent books
Upright, yet broken spines,
And the jackets that are too tight
For either of us.

The empty shoes are no problem,
Get some paints and make yourself
A Van Gough, those half-
Eaten peaches will make a fine Cezanne,
And think of carpet stains
As the latest in my abstract expressions

You always tell me
How much you love to run
Your fingers through my hair,
Now you can do it all over the room,
On the pillow, the sheets, the chair,
On the sink and over this body
If you decide to spend another night.

Trial and Separation

Every divorce
Is velvet,
The word sits
Smoothly
On a compact,
And divides
Two histories
Into two parts,
Magically attaches
Prefixes to people
And acts
Perfectly, to expectation,
Only the heart
Makes drawing the line
A complication.

They Shall Not Pass

Let us make for them a requiem mass
Time has run out and drawn a line
Mourn for these saints and sinners, they shall not pass

They saw their future in visions of glass
But now they are buried in this shrine
Let us make for them a requiem mass

Raise our voices to match the brass
We make for ourselves a canopy divine
Mourn for these saints and sinners, they shall not pass

A fate for them they could not surpass
No matter if they were dull, or lived to shine
Let us make for them a requiem mass

Here are the pauper and king, free of class
Let us drink for them the fruit of the vine
Mourn for these saints and sinners, they shall not pass

In shades of amber and green, they will turn with the grass
Under their name borne in a stone sign
Let us make for them a requiem mass
Mourn for these saints and sinners, they shall not pass


Pareidolia

The little man on the roof,
Fat white face and small eyes,
A light for a mouth, I hope
He never screams at me,

I do my best to keep the air clean
And flowing, he hates smoke
And so do I, he’s a guard dog
Against night flames, hot intruders.

And it makes me feel safe,
There are other faces around me,
Some carved, some assembled,
None of them friendly.

Worst of all, is the mirror,
She takes on makeup
To look just like me,
And everyone else who visits,

I admit, now,
It’s an easy metamorphosis,
But she manages to wear a face
Whenever I’m around.

Certain nights I think
About the last real face
I was able to get close to,
See for myself and touch,

But all I remember
Is the feeling of leather,
Latex, and eyes
That resembled broken bottles.

Now, I try to think of this bed
As a palm, with lines
That can be read, most
Importantly, a place to be held.

Another Kind of Where

The exquisite awakened
And we tasted the water,
Threw precious mistakes
To enlist prohibited goods
That the marketplaces of heroes
Earn by their way.
The customs of the conquest
Of distance recall with banners,
Their transactions are brief
It is things overboard at first sight
Despite no chance of finding it promptly.

These immediately liquidate
Exceedingly choice feasts
Regimenting the song sung
Short at the customs regulations.
Rare for a returning, precious as a danger
Long without feeling
These bear you on recompense.

Should we purchase your story to belong,
Please use your real mission
Until a new issue
Has any song drawn from the deep.
You have cut and pasted
An attempt to bring an axis
Back to the author
After both have logged out.

So should sensual goods
Shiver coral decorations,
Recall that they are no moment
Shaking like a mountain,
Shaking like a name,
Shaking like a submission.

On the Loose

I lay rocking after
You were gone,
The doctors of the day
Said I’ll be alright,
Just keep away
From the news,
Distill my sentimental side,
And climb a little bit
On something astral.

The other doctors
Put me to rest,
But fearing
Being put to sleep,
I ran away,
Mistaken by a ghost
Because everyone out
Was superstitious.

I was somewhat
Missing, with foam
Eyelids and batteries
For eyes, but
I looked remarkably real,
And I felt the edge of alive,
Making up
For lost organs and time.

I put gold into my hair,
Tried to call you,
And prowled
In front of your door,
Did you hear
How nervous I was?

Night on the 17th Floor

The buildings rest quiet now,
Tall, black, empty,
Their windows form a toothless grin
Out onto the night.
The winding roads are lit,
Through little explosions of light
Dropped from those bombers, streetlamps,
Who terrorize the stillness of the dark,
My window cuts the scene up,
The light metal bars form grids,
While the galaxies of light from across the river,
Shine on in pulsating haze becoming a hue.

Halfway to the Grave

“If I'm an ass, I should say so. If I don't, somebody else will. If I say it first, that disarms them” Charles Bukowski

I shot myself in the foot, figured
That I couldn’t go out,
Then I was free and they were still busy,
But they came anyways,
With flowers and wishes,
Both of which rotted away
By the end of the week.

I shot myself in the arm,
But only in the one I never used,
So I was free to drink
And whack off, free
To shoot myself again
If the need arose, and it did,
Because they came out to me
And gave me casseroles.

A shot to the stomach
Created a crimson fountain,
I thought that would keep the armies
Bearing casseroles away, it did,
But then they came with pennies
To toss into the bubbling remains
For their luck and mine.

Shooting myself in the head,
I thought that would end it all,
For a second they stayed away,
Buried me and called my bones cursed,
But they wrapped my body
In a mythology the youth could not resist,
Dancing and drinking on my grave
They still keep me awake at night.

The Corsican

Sometimes you just can’t trust a Corsican. You never hear much about them, when you do, you’re shocked the island has so much spirit. One of them once declared himself an emperor and made his brother King of Spain. Took his crown from the Pope he did. They even named a pastry after him. He was crazy. The only thing that stopped him was the sea and the winter.

Gently Lies the Fur

I saw you on that woman’s shoulders and I wondered, where did you come from? Obviously you were not from here originally, how could you have been? I cannot envision you frolicking in Washington or Tompkins Square Park. Somebody would have noticed you, screamed and then you would have been dumped in the zoo. Of course, now that seems like a better fate. You might not be able to roam there, but at least you would be alive still, having children of your own and growing old, being taken care of until you passed away. Your death would then bring forth tears from the children and maybe they would name a fountain or something after you, but this only would have happened if
you had lived in the City, but you didn’t. You come from a place, maybe far away, maybe closer than that, but a place with trees and untamed creatures, because you were that just, a wild animal.
I’m sure you were happy there. You had water and food and space. Other animals feared you, you had nothing to worry abut, top of the food chain. But I suppose you became lazy, you lost the edge to your instinct and were unable to notice that trap they had set for you, the one with a little meal on it and steel teeth all around buried under the recently fallen leaves. You should have been wiser, you knew it the moment the trap sprang into action and trapped you. Maybe it was cold then and winter had fallen to some extent, the things you ate were underground and sleeping, an easy meal lying in
the forest was too much a temptation I suppose.
Well now you know your lesson. The trap devoured you, they took you from it and at first you probably thought those men were liberators, freeing you away from the sharp things which had caused you such pain. But then they put you in a cage and sent you to a dimly lit building and there you waited with your cousins, all like you, all tempted easily, to be released. One day they did release you, but you tasted the freedom around you for only a few moments, for then they killed you and removed the fur off your bones. How they did it was probably just a shadow to you, until it fell to your body. A blunt object most likely, a knife would have spilt too much blood. It was quick, I hope. Maybe they had to do it twice, but no more than that surely. You were not the first one they slaughtered, nor the last, they had their technique down when you came along.
Then it was bedtime for you, time to go sleep with your ancestors while your body was reborn, to become an adornment, not for a hunter or warrior to inspire fear, but to be worn and admired, the admiration coming from you, but going to the wearer, the woman who dons you now. You are not proud, you are not beautiful on her shoulders. Your legs look so small, your tail so pathetic. You are a prize, a symbol of defeat, bowing down before this woman over and over again all day, you are nature made submissive. You cannot fight back.
She wears you but does not respect you. You are not allowed to be a lone trophy upon her, no, you must compete with the others, with the cow and the crocodile, with the cotton blossoms, the silk worms, and the diamonds. You are strung out high and dry with gaudy clothes and accruements. You were beautiful living, but dead, you have no real value except that which money can buy. You have brought status to the woman, yes, she makes herself bigger by wearing your skin. It is a gift not freely given by you, but taken from you. Though you might protest, it is a gift because you received nothing for your loss. On top of it all, your death serves to make the world uglier, to make this woman uglier and to disgust everyone around her, including me.
Yet I know this is not your fault. You never dreamed this up,. You had never been to these streets and seen these people, I’m sure you may have heard rumors about them and if all I had ever known was fallen logs and earthen burrows, then I too would have dismissed the tales of animals who do not kill for food or clothing, but for decoration.

In Class

My professor stood before us all and went on about different philosophies regarding human action. The topic was motivations for our actions, essentially what was it that made us do certain things and so forth. He paced around a table in front of me, his tweed covered arms flailing about as he dangled a piece of chalk in front for emphasis. I was sitting in the first row, the rickety seat moving as I started to doodle in the margins of my notebook. Fantastic cities with beaming towers covered in strange alphabets, adorned with men clad in fine silk jackets and plumed hats sprung from my pen and came into a cramped existence between the edge of the paper and the faint red line which marked the beginning of my notes.
The professor continued onward, criticizing those who held that death was the cause of all human endeavors. His jowls centered on me, “some people hold that a fear of death motivates everything, but I don’t believe that…” I raised my head; he seemed to be asking for my response with his eyes reaching out into the class. He was getting bored trying to argue with himself in front of an audience, there was only one side of the debate he really cared to defend. “…Since most people think that young people, and even people your age do not really understand death…that you don’t even know what death truly is.” He looked down at me, I had stopped doodling.
I walked up to him; I looked him in the eye. He showed fear. I did not grab him by the lapels of his jacket to get his attention and pure focus, I slid my hand inside the folds of cloth instead, eventually tightening my grip. I continued staring right at him. “I am too young to know death? I am too young to understand it, to believe in it? Look at my shadow…I stepped to the side so he could see it. It was there, as always, a dark stain upon the floor. “See it? It follows me everywhere, it mirrors everything I do, but it is darker. I am presence and it is absence, it is nothing, the void. It is me minus life, minus essence, it is death’s loyal fan. I am followed at all times by death, and I may forget about him when the sun burns brightly and lightly overhead, but as the sun sets, I am once again reminded of his presence. As I wake, shower, eat, work, dance, write, party, weep, and sleep I am followed by him and he colors everything I do. I know about death, I understand it as a pure nothing which has come to mean everything in some people’s minds!” The class wasn’t sure to applaud, laugh, or take notes.
He looked down at me, I had stopped doodling. I looked at him back, he smiled as he took a breath and continued with his speech.