Creakiness

We all live in a house on fire

but Art–is a house that tries to be haunted

like a room without windows

 

You shall not build a house again for me.

 

a happy-looking place

a great many of our memories are hidden

but in their place I got a house of fog

that’s easy to hide my feelings in

 

the only stair that doesn’t creak

is my fire and essence

 

This was composed of excerpts from quotes about houses. Each line is from a different quote.

 

Contagion

Do you think that humans will ever fully eradicate viruses from the planet?

I sit in the exam and my foot is shaking in a rhythmic manner and I can’t quite remember if we talked about this in class or not. Hell, I’m not a scientist, how should I know? Mrs. Scratts sure didn’t tell us there would be an essay question. If I’m not a scientist, how can I answer some sciency question? Mrs. Scratts doesn’t want some seventeen year old’s drivel about viruses. My pencil’s feeling a little sweaty in hand.

I think that humans will never be able to eradicate viruses fully. Viruses, like other life forms, like us in fact, will keep evolving and there is nothing we can do to stop them. We can try to slow them down with vaccines and such, but eventually they will

overrun the planet

sprung from our own needles

infecting

destroying

the apocalypse is squeezed from a syringe

into my blood

where it mutates

and I mutate

My senses are leaving me

I must infect another

So I am not alone in my despair

The world is tied together

by ebola

and by cholera

and by all the flu from 1918 to 1580 to now

and to forever

don’t mess with the virus

it will mess with you

Pierce

The rebellious husband of an empty space

lamentable in his sorrow

the stone creature has become rigid

‘there is no turning back’

they say

an omen

of roads that must be walked

without shoes

piercing

piercing

piercing

cry

knife of the unbending mother

a baby

Poker

The radio was humming in the background with some shitty old jazz. The smoke was rolling around our heads in thick clouds. I inhaled that scent deeply; it was a breath of life. Joe was holding a seven of clubs, I saw out of the corner of my eye. He was always a shitty poker player. The queen of diamonds was in my hand. I had a sweet spot for her. I used to screw people over by playing with a deck that didn’t have a queen of diamonds. Joe was no poker player, but he was a card counter and he got me on that one.

“Hey Tony, pass that bottle o’ whiskey, will ya?”

I put my cards on my knee and dragged the bottle off the shelf behind me. I poured some into Frank’s glass. He reached for it and I saw the jack of hearts and the four of diamonds.

We began to bet, and I went hard. I downed a glass of whiskey and watched Frank fold. After a couple rounds, I pulled in the cash.

“Fuck you, Tony,” Joe said good-spiritedly and puffed smoke in my face. I breathed it in and took his money.

The next hand was shit and I folded. But the whiskey was going to my head now, and I didn’t care. The radio was still buzzing, and made the smoke seem thicker. Without a window open, the fog became heavy and we sank into a stupor. The 2 am blues we called it, and it happened almost every night. I dropped off with the whiskey still coursing through me violently.

Then they took my money. It always happened like that.

Drop

It was a drop of water

Ceiling cracked

What misfortune

Dripping on to her wrinkled toe

As she stood by the mantle.

With the storm outside

And the ceiling cracked

And the wet toe

There was fear.

She raised her head,

Let water drip on to her tongue.

If it filled her up slowly, from her toes

To her stomach to her heart

That would be good.

She could join him,

That beautiful man

Who had slowly filled up with water.

The drop was ineffective

Only an ocean could have drowned so many sorrows

 

Lettuce

In the morning the lettuce was still on the counter. Almost on its way to becoming a salad. The sun was limping up over the horizon. Its long rays began to tip in the window and slant across the floor. My bare feet brushed the light. The small breakfast table still lay in shadow and I sat there. The seat was cold and hard. The light was creeping, but it never seemed to quite reach me. I watched the lettuce sit serenely by the sink. The light began to melt over its green leaves. I rose and ripped several leaves from its body. Standing and watching the sunrise through the window, I ate a lettuce leaf.

When the phone rang, I chewed the lettuce slowly. It reached the fifth ring and I wasn’t listening anymore. The lettuce was tasteless. I tore leaf after leaf. I began to litter the floor with lettuce. When the phone rang again, I held only heart of the lettuce. I tread on a leafy carpet to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello Ms. Hayes, we’re sorry, but he’s not coming back.”

Masquerade

We dance a waltz

Time taps

Time melts into each second

To see past you is to see nothing at all

The clear air of a breath

Passing through space

Empty eyes are simmering

Behind the silver swirls

To melt through my ribs

My heart leaps from the cliff

Falling is a kind of flying

And it removes the mask

The Model

            The parking lot of the restaurant is very full. Rita is wearing a short dress. She made me wear a red tie to match her dress.  

            She’s pretty. She’s always been pretty. Shoulder length hair, dark and shiny. It smells good. Women’s shampoo, I guess.

            There are so many street lamps lit. The street is flooded in the warm light. It is flattering light; Rita’s legs shimmer smoothly under the glare. It is a balmy night, and the moon is big. Summer is around the corner. I can smell it.

            The restaurant is fancy. There are lots of waiters. White tops, black bottoms. Silver trays, red wine. White table clothes, silver spoons.

            Rita lays her fingers on my arm as we wait by the door.

            “You look handsome,” she says. “Good tie,” she says.

            “You chose it,” I say.

            Her lips are very red. They are made up carefully. They are for me.

            We are seated. A red-haired waitress. She gets us red wine. I sip carefully. So does Rita.

            “How was your day?” she says.

            We have not seen each other since Monday.

            “Journalists,” I say. “Too many of them.”

            “All journalists?” she says.

            “All day. They took too many pictures. I had to talk to too many.” I say. “They write too many stories with too many lies,” I say.

            “They can’t be that bad,” she says.

            “They don’t write about you,” I say.

            “They might.”

            “They won’t.”

            The wine is gone.

            “Your day?” I say.

            “I tell you, Ralph’s got it in for me. They’re going to sack me any day now, I tell you,” she says. “The more ideas I got for him, the more Ralph gives me trouble. He’s a real bastard, that one.”

            I tell Rita that’s too bad, I’m sorry.

            “Real first-rate idiot. His fucking head isn’t screwed on straight, I tell you. Don’t give a damn about the people, just the money. Just the profit. And he’s got plenty of money, I tell you,” she says.

            We get more wine.

 

            I met Ralph once. Bastard’s a good word for him. A rich man, a wealthy fellow. Crisp suits and pretty damn nice ties. He ain’t a moral guy, but he knows how to play the game. Not an honest cent that he earned in his life, but he can tell some pretty good lies. Knows how to play the women too. Not Rita, but all the others. Rita’s special. She’s got the goods on him and every other guy who ever tried to play her.

            Ralph’s one of them Wall Street guys, a real risk taker, a top-floor-of-the-building kind of guy. I met him at an office party. Rita took me on her arm, the best date she ever took to any party, she said. Ralph’s got that penthouse with the showy crap all over it. Gold stuff, carved stuff, expensive stuff. Reproductions of famous painting like he was buddies with fucking Van Gogh or something. Windows all looking out on to the park, pictures of fancy foreign places. You go into that showroom and think, what the hell is this guy playing at? And whatever he’s playing at, it’s working, because you like the guy already. You know he’s a bastard and you want to be his friend. And Rita says: don’t talk to him too much, you’ll think he likes you and, of course, he doesn’t. But I have to talk to this genius, because he’s got a beautiful woman on his arm and you can tell he’s had one there before and you’re thinking, how the fuck does he do that? He’s no stunner, nothing anyone should fawn over. But everyone’s all over him.

            “Hey, man,” I say, “Ralph, right? Nice to meet you.”

            “Yeah, I don’t think I know you. You’re not from the office,” he says.

            “No, I’m Rita’s boyfriend. She really loves working for you,” I say even thought she thinks he’s a bastard.

            “Yeah?” he says, and he tells the girl on his arm to get him a drink. I need a lesson from this guy, he may be a bastard, but there’s not a moment when he doesn’t have his world in control.

            “Rita talks about you a lot, so it’s nice to finally meet you. I like you’re place,” I say, gesturing around and watching as someone almost knocks Starry Night off the wall on to the bonsai collection.

            Ralph straightens the painting and tells everyone to take it easy on the artwork.

            “Thanks,” he tells me, straightening his striped tie, “Rita’s a good worker, good ideas, gets stuff done.”

            That doesn’t add up, I thought he had it in for her. But I guess he knows what he’s talking about.

            “So, what do you do?” he asks me.

            I hate telling people what I do. Everyone thinks I must be an idiot.

            “I model,” I say.

            “Yeah, you’ve got the look, a little too stylish to be just any guy, a little too virile to be hitting on me. A model for sure,” he says.

            I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what means, to be honest. But I respect the guy. I excuse myself to get a drink.

            That was the only time I’ve ever met Ralph and every time Rita bitches about him I know he’s that guy that’s gonna be president someday and is gonna fuck the country up pretty bad. And I’m gonna vote for him.

 

            “You wanna get dessert?” Rita asks me.

            “Only if you want to, I’m fine,” I say. I’m watching her full red lips.

            “We’ll just get the check then.”

            I touch her hand as we wait for the check. We stare into each other’s eyes. I’m uncomfortable, because I’m thinking about being in that apartment and how Ralph said she’s a good worker. I can’t decide if it’s better to be honest or to be Ralph. If I had everything I wanted, would I really care if Rita called me a bastard?

            The check comes and I pay it. I pay it because I’m a nice guy. And I leave a 9 percent tip, because I’m a bastard. 

Reflection on Completion

Tightly knit threads

In the unraveling, they cry,

Like the quiet depths of a distant ocean;

And ships are swallowed,

Drunkenly laughing at destiny.

Let the casino never close, don’t let us unravel

Only we know how the story began

And we are the victims

 

This was originally part of a group poem that I wrote with two friends. These are my lines, removed from the context of the poem.

I am the Captive

This is not part of my writing challenge. I wrote it last year for English class.

I

            Ropes rip at my soft, gentle skin. Chains chafe my ankles and I can barely walk without falling over. A thin silk dress covers my torso and falls to my knees, which are caked with dirt. My dress is sweaty, stained with mud, and completely inadequate. My thin sandals wore out long ago and the soles of my feet are in danger of doing the same.

            They are the captors. The men are angry and brutal. They wield powerful broadswords, pointed spears, or large arrays of knives. They place their weapons against my body and whisper dreadful words in my ear. If I cry they mockingly wipe my tears away with the sharp edge of a knife and laugh. They wear stocky leather boots with metal tips, which have bruised me too many times to count. I could not resist if I tried.

            The war has been going on for years. The land is charred, the buildings demolished, all sustenance is destroyed, and soon the people with it. My father’s fortress has been valiant, has sacrificed itself for the people, but now they too will fall. The walls of our fortress are battered, our armies fallen, and myself taken. Soon I will be nothing but a memory.

            Smoke from the men’s fires smells of home, grand fireplaces around which we used to sit and exchange stories and trays of delightful delicacies. But now there is no dainty conversation, there is only raucous laughter and the playful yet deadly wrestling of intoxicated men. When they go to bed they have all drunk more than their share, and when they pass by me and laugh, the stench of whiskey makes me dizzy.

            My stomach yearns for any bit of food it can get. There are no more fine delicacies on silver platters, no more crystal glasses of champagne. Most days I get a slice of bread and a bowl of soup, appearing more like mud than anything else. I get a bowl of water, sometimes to drink, sometimes thrown in my face. At night if I am lucky and have been obedient that day, which I usually have since I am too scared to resist, I get an apple, or occasionally an orange. Every day I get an orange is like a holiday and I spend the whole night sucking the juice from each piece as slowly as possible. Long after I should be asleep I am still savoring it.

            Sleep is something I should look forward to; I need it desperately. But the wet ground is so miserable that I would rather not lie on it. I miss my fluffy mattress and my warm covers. I miss the lovely scent of roses that floats around my bedroom as I sleep and the buttery light that trickles in my window come morning. My mother’s soft hand against my head and her gentle crooning, “Wake up, dear. The morning awaits.”

            But when I wake up here, it is before the sun has risen. I am damp and shivering and still as chained up as ever. Darkness is my only friend because it shields my eyes from the hell that surrounds me. I lie in my discomfort until the sun rises and the men come and press their mouths to my ear and snarl and threaten me all over again. I am nothing more than the lost little princess. My only job: to be ridiculed.

            The men put out their fires. They pack up their tents and eat their breakfast. They grabbed my chains and drag me to the middle of their ranks. Then we march.

            My feet bleed. When I stop because the pain is too great, I am shoved forward again. I could just stop forever and they would have to leave me behind, or kill me. But life is too precious. If I don’t hang on to it with all my might, it will be gone. Everyday I think the marching will be my demise, but it never is.

            Around midday I can barely walk for hunger. At home I would have a table of fruits and salads and beautiful plates of fish or lamb. I would drink lavish amounts of orange juice and relax in my own opulence. My father would smile at me and lead me on an early afternoon walk around the gardens. I would pick a flower or two and tuck the blooms into my hair. They would always have to go with the dress I was wearing. A light pink, or a baby blue, or, when I was feeling fiery, a rich red.

            Now I never feel fiery. It is too dangerous; it feels like rebellion.           

 

II

            Life is a gift that was given to me in a beautiful form. Then it was taken and given back to me in a form as ugly as death. If life is like death is it even worth living? This is what I ask myself over and over again.

            But I am afraid of dying. I think that I must be a coward for this fear. Death is one swift motion that is over in a moment. And then I would never be the captive again. I would be free of the chains, and free of the expectations and rules. Life is binding, but death would be like a blank page or an open door.

            I am unable to decide which is preferable sometimes. Yet I know that I am constantly on the brink of both, hanging somewhere in between. Life is sweet, but often it is too much to deal with. Far too much. An ordeal that can be skipped if only one is brave enough. I am not brave.

            The next day I march. And the day after that. How will my feet ever heal if I march every day? How will my heart heal? It hurts too much. My father is gone, and my beautiful, gentle mother too. My old life is only a shadow to me now, and it is pain beyond belief. Far more than my feet or my chain-chafed ankles. I will never see my family again.

            It takes me several days, but I am decided. I will die soon. I cannot live in this hell anymore.

            And suddenly I am brave. A knife could end my nightmare. Or I could not eat, or drink. Surely I would die soon. Perhaps it would be agonizingly slow, but it would come, and without the self-mutilation of a knife. But no, a quick and relatively painless end would be better.

            The soldiers deliver my food that night. I tell them I will need a knife to cut open the skin of the orange I have received. They hand me a small knife and sit away from me while I begin to cut the orange peel. I cut slowly. This knife is so small. My life force is so big. Would it not be painful to end this way? My cowardice is back. I ponder my demise, and fear is boiling in my stomach.

            As I think I take a bite of the orange. Sweet juice drips down my chin. The luscious orange touches my tongue. And I know in that instant that life is too precious. The orange has given me the gift of the courage to carry on.