Built the Sky

It's about time
I lived inside time with
road rashed skin
bone and and flesh
left along the road of so
many times I forgot
the future is the wind
the suture is
a hand held
by a daughter
who thinks her father
built the sky

No Poem

I have not written a poem

I have not printed it, sold it, been sold by it

there has not been ink spilled in glory’s name

there have been no profound insights

         important distinctions or favorable descriptions

I have not been changed by this poem

         That I did not write

there were no new outlooks or dreams made clear

I have not danced with this poem

there are no beat words, no flowing of sublime reality

         nothing to hold on to

you never read this poem, I assure you

there were no comparisons to dead men’s ranting

         dead as this poem is

you are not reborn through my words

you, my friend, are exactly

                           the same

same as the dirt you forget or the iron that does not

         compose your will

same as same loves and has no name

there never was a poem

there have been no self songs, no fire or ice, no Grecian urns

no samurai who sing, no diamonds, no chimneys swept, no gods

no conversations about death

                          there are none

I am NOT better off, I am NOT a better man

there is nothing to ponder

there is no paradise

my 2 + 2 is still 4

I am still…

I have not written a poem

I have not written this poem

There is no poem

Spark

I know of a fantastical creature

A being of some kind of mad sun 

Joy futures place

This being is named 

quite perfectly

Spark

spark is the first and only

To hold the beginning: the moment

Spark is the type to flitter about

Swimming inside those 

Who want something

Spark is the type to have grand eyes

Wandering the thoughts that seek 

And those who want magic

spark has been hidden

Washed in empty black space

And yet a tickle of light 

Whispers purpose

But spark has spent the better 

Part of forever 

Swimming in pitch tar 

Confusion

Spark had friends, oh they had

Glorious fun, sleeping on the Atlantic shelf

Wandering the core of hydrogen and helium

Visiting the beauty of synapse

Now spark is trapped, holed up

Imprisioned, spark 

Is slipping into the past

And you are the savior

Will you open up

The thousand year door

It is no match for 

Your secret strength

will you know 

Spark, will spark 

Be safe inside you

Now

That you

Have a voice

Scents Memory

For a long time now I have hated the smell of nail polish. There is no specific reason why I hate the smell, or at least not in any way that relates to painted nails. You see the smell reminds me of hospitals, and really one particular hospital and one particular experience. A defining one. The kind of experience that links itself to an certain kind of smell.

I have always found myself attaching memory to scent. I am sure there is some scientific legitimacy to this idea. I cannot say, and finding out is not the point of whatever this is. For my own story, every single event that has made the person penning this, has been indelibly attached to a smell. Like wood or gasoline or nail polish.

This is one of many examples.

When I was 15 years old I was angry. That sounds quite cliche I know, but it is the only I know to describe my problem. I wanted and longed for something. Maybe it was affection from others or some sense of reason or purpose. Either way, it made me hate all that I saw in the mirror. I had those in my life that would care for me, but it was not enough, and so I was certain I must take my own life. I was sure that if I was dead or had almost died then people would really care, not just care out of obligation. How truly awful is that? I used suicide to try and make the people did actually care, care more. I have no way to really explain why I did this.

My first love came to me at this time, and maybe that is why I was such a mess. I had never really known how mysterious and beautiful a woman could be. How like trying to hold water they could be. Up till now women were mom, sister and the other. Andrea tore open my chest and left me vulnerable, and I loved every moment. We spoke as much as possible, and spent all our time together. Her parents hated me, and as a parent I am sure would have felt the same. I was a wreck in all the ways a parent fears the most. But I loved her and she loved me. It no small way my love for her was also because she was the first girl who let me touch her. Not my first kiss though, but my first body buzz. You know that sense of warmth and confusion that only learning sexuality can explain. She was all I wanted all the time. How foolish it all sounds now.

I would never love like this again. There was just no way it could be possible. Life must be all down hill at this point. So I took a bottle of prescription strength Tylenol to seal it up. I would entomb my love and it would last forever. Doesn't that sound so romantic? It should, because it is a lie. Many things that are romantic are 40 percent lie. Look it up.

I took the pills because the anger said to do it. So I did, and later on did it again. This time it was around 9 pm. How odd I should be so sure of the time? I had been sleeping and I remember looking at the clock. I have often reflected on the possibility of it being something in my dream that drove me, but it is to fuzzy to know.

So I took them, and when I did I was so sure of the need to do it. It felt good to really control something. My life, the most important thing, was under my control so I would exert that control. I felt power.

Then when my mom came home and I looked into her tired eyes, I knew I had done something horrible. I also became distinctly aware that I would do it again. So I told her what I had done but not the truth of what my intention was. I told her I had a stomach ache and took too many. I was in a considerable amount of pain at this point, and begged her to drive me to the hospital. The closest hospital was several miles over in the next town, along the way I confessed my true intention of suicide. Only I was not really sure what that meant, so I just said I wanted to stop the pain. The absurdity of wanting to stop pain with further pain seems woven into the human condition. We fight wars to save lives. So I confessed that I just wanted it all to stop, and I took pills to do it.

She immediately began to cry and feverishly ask why I had done it. Why did I want to die? I said I did not want to die, I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted to stop being angry all the time. Living inside of such frustrated confusion was too much for my young heart. If only I had spoken those very words to her then, she might have understood. As it was all I could do was cry and repeat how I just wanted it to all stop. I am sure she never understood. It is my mind and it has taken twenty years to understand it myself.

She rushed me to the emergency room. From here the memory becomes quite blurry. I remember they tried to get me to drink charcoal which would absorb the Tylenol. In case you are wondering drinking charcoal is exactly as awful as it sounds. You are consuming a liquefied charcoal substance. To this day I can taste it. Each time I would try to drink it I would throw up. Each time I threw up my mother would cry. And with each cry I could feel my shame consume my everything. I remember vomiting so many times that at the end I passed out from exhaustion.

The next time I woke up I was being given some kind of clear liquid medication. It was early morning and a nurse was coaxing me awake to take my medication. The nurse had glasses and gave me a concerned mother look. She looked middle age with blond hair. With a mothers tongue she told me I had to finish the whole container, or I would have to get charcoal again. I finished the medicine without hesitation. Why should I recall this nurse I cannot say. I never saw her again for the three days I was at the hospital under observation, which really means suicide watch. The one thing that sticks out most of all was the powerful scent of nail polish. Before my eyes had opened I could smell it. Possibly the nurse had just painted her nails. That is the only explanation I can think of and should not care to find another. What I will say is that I will always have an instant link to that place in my time. By choice or not I go there every time my wife paints her nails.

When you are young it seems like you can feel the entire world all at once. Even as your every action may be truly selfish.

For every memory that fills my story
there is a smell
an odor that will
forever link my present
bridged through the mind
into the forever that is my past

The scents of memory
tickles my nose
whispers into my ears
do no forget

this is who you are

Relaunch

The night was written

I was late to arrive
And there were so many people
Not much air to share
Breathing in each
Others self consciousness
I found the poet
I envy
but respect, he
Has his gears oiled
I find the first ATM
Ever constructed and get
Whiskey, and then more
In the crowd of friends
And fools
I touch
A greeting
My favorite ginger
hugs me while
Ordering a drink
She is not the mess
She was
They call out numbers and
The readings are impossible
To hear, but I put on
My interested face
I smile as poets and
Essayist's wax romantic
Screaming to be heard
Above the crowd
Captain suit coat was
Missing, but queen
Of the spectacles was
All the voice that was needed
She soothed
Like the poet I envy in song

I speak to those
I will never know
Never laugh with
There is a man who asks
About the Victorians
And I bitch about Tennyson
And old man Fischer

I feel old here
But I am not
I feel the white noise
Of people loving youth
And possibility
But I do not touch it

I know you all
I know you all

I love you all

Home is waiting
Home is waiting

Basement

       

Brick Shelf

      In my basement there is a shelf against the north wall. It is constructed of cinder blocks and wood planks. This shelf has been in my last four residences. It has moved with me every time I have moved, and was at one point much larger. I store my art supplies on this shelf and even a good amount of books, before it was paired down. There are various paints, usually primary colors, charcoal pencils, paint brushes, pastels, both oil and chalk, paper, pens, pencils and one unintentional artist book. (I will get to that later) Lately when I go down to the basement I don't even think about this shelf. I should.

This shelf is filled with reminders, and almost all of them lead back to my divorce with painting. Maybe it's just a trial separation, but we have not been talking lately. So I have been avoiding this shelf for some time. It's as though we are awkward friends who have had a falling out, but we still run into each other every once in a while. You have to try and think of something to say, but it never feels right, so you find yourself avoiding that place. Then you feel guilty about avoiding. Today I do not feel this way.

     Basements love covering your memories with dust and dirt. The wood of my favorite brushes is warm when I hold them, even though it is always cold down here. When I finger the charcoal pencils I am reminded of my favorite medium: Black, white and all the wonderful shades of grey, always so beautiful to me. 

Painting stairs

I.

These stairs are dangerous. They lead into the basement of our home, and I never quite get used to how dangerous they really are. Our house is so old. On the real estate listing it just said 120 + years for the age of the house. Somehow, this made it more appealing to me. Whoever had bought the house before us had tried, with mild success, to remodel. I gather they had wanted to flip the house, but had to give in and sell it for a loss. I say this because the basement looks like they had started but never finished reworking it. Walls are unfinished and the stairs are one heavy foot fall short of collapse.

      When we first moved in, my father in law had put in a railing so the stairs were slightly less dangerous. We still do not let Olive or Ronin go down there, well, never Olive anyway. The basement is what we keep hidden in the basement. We rarely bring anyone down there. If someone ends up in our little pit of despair then they are usually drunk or in the process. This is ironic as no person, let alone one intoxicated, should traverse those rickety bones. And somehow they are my bones.

      Whenever I go into the basement I am going into my psyche. Flashes of my life events become basement lights. They are turned on so I can change the laundry. The floor is unfinished; covered with dust and dirt.

It floods every time it rains and we keep our distance till the memory subsides. Here it is always cold.

II.

I feel some shame for keeping my paintings all wrapped up in this dungeon. They are bound together and set aside. Huddled like the masses, waiting to be wanted. There was a time I felt an intense love for them. Now they are the prisoner of my basement. Erin only loves some of them. The paintings know it, so they understand why they are in the basement. It is not fair to Erin that I speak this way.

Ego was hung up on every wall of every one of my previous homes. I was sure my work was breaking the mold, changing the game and unflinching in mastery. How could I have not known how foolish I was? I still love these painting. From time to time I will go to the dungeon and feed them with attention. My little hunchback babies, chained to this dank remembrance. Hidden away.

Erin doesn't actually dislike my work. I think I am the one who really does. Maybe I just wanted more people to think they were wonderful. Some people did, but they were usually high. Erin keeps me grounded. I still have a painting hung up in my dining room. It is not my favorite.

Drivers License

I.

  

On my basement shelf as I am rummaging through my art supplies, I come across an old id and two drivers licenses. At first I am not sure why I have these. Then I am reminded that at one point I had the intention to catalog my aging. What an odd thing to do.

     The most striking of the three is the first drivers license. This is not due to the image of a clearly handsome man, but do to the date of issue. I did not get my drivers license until I was twenty two. While in high school I liked to drink, a lot. This was among several of my other extracurricular activities. Being young and enjoying the drink often leads to the law telling you that you are not allowed to enjoy the drink. I got several underage drinking fines. The total was somewhere around $1200.

      It is interesting, how you cannot truly notice the passage of time until after it has passed. Had I understood how much these fines would affect my later life, I might have been more cautious in my drinking. And yet I can also be quite certain I still would have not given a shit. It was hard for me to care about anything but my own immediate gratification then. 

When Serena first had Ronin we moved into a nice duplex and tried the whole family thing. It was such a nice place. I got a new job, and things began to look up as they often do. Soon after, the calls began. Money was owed from my transgressions. Willfully I had chosen to ignore these calls from collectors, so they did what they do. My wages were garnished. I remember Serena showing up to my work crying about how much money was being taken from us. We wanted to hate everyone but we knew it was my fault.

Things became very hard for us for a long time. Eventually we were broken just before the debt was paid. I can now say that this was when I knew I had a divorce in my future. Is this why I kept these drivers licenses, to be reminded? I still have them. Hindsight is a cruel thing. Money is worse.

Oz Cup

When you work in a call center for a cable company you are often inundated with useless trinkets. They hand you shiny bobbles and posters, and little puzzles with famous people on them. All of it is essentially garbage. I have however kept a few mementos. One of them is a tin cup with a logo for the former HBO show Oz. It is approximately four inches tall and has a diameter of about three inches. I use it to store all of my useless pens and highlighters, as well as my charcoal and regular pencils.

       I separated from Serena and later on met Erin while working in this call center. It is interesting how much change can be linked to one location. My life changed for the better in getting the job, for the worse when Serena left me and then when I met Erin, well what can I say? We are still married. This was all over the course of three years which feels like both a short, and long time.

      When I first met Erin she was outside smoking as I walked into the call center. She was chatting it up with one of my local female ambivalent acquaintances. As I came upon them I mentioned to her that I liked her scarf, Erin that is, and she thanked me as I beeped myself into the security door.

                            Intermission

I am struck by the number of highlighters I have. I laugh at the fact that most do not even work, due to use, and I have not thrown them away. It must be because I once turned a college notebook into an artist book, with the highlighter as my main tool, and several blue/black office pens as my secondary tools. Working in a call center in my mid twenties lead to more than one of these little books. I only kept one. Sometimes I will flip through it, but it usually makes me feel old.

      The last time I paid any real attention to my art supplies was almost a year ago. I was commissioned by a friend to paint a picture for auction at the opening of a play at The Alchemist Theater. It had gotten one bid that turned out to be false. It was apparently submitted by a man who later had a nervous breakdown and was removed from the theater.

I never picked up the painting from the theater and they actually have several of my pieces. One hangs in the main lobby/bar. It is of my ex. It used to hang in my apartment until I realized how much I loved Erin, and it needed to go. It has been some time since I have been to the Alchemist, so it may not be displayed anymore. If you see it you will know it by the woman floating out to sea on a red couch. Just like my ex she is always out of reach. I knew then, when I painted it.

                                  Oz Cup (more) 

Later on after we had started seeing each other, Erin told me her friend had told her not to talk to me. Had she known Erin at all, she would have known this would have the opposite effect.

      Now looking at this simple tin cup I am inundated with so much memory about Erin and our courtship. We had both come out tumultuous relationships, and were not ready for the love we both felt so immediately. Even up to the point after we had moved in together, we refused to admit we were a couple. Then I asked her to marry me, this was almost a year and a half before I actually proposed to her.

Now I look at this tin cup and it is a bit dusty, but still very functional. I wipe off the dust and it looks new. It shines. I should bring it upstairs and use it again.

Tuss King

A molecule will dance

Upon me, turning my

Eyes sideways-inside

I loved you, friend

I cried a single tear

When I knew you

It was I who taught

You about humanity

And failed