Is there anything as eternity?
When time promises it will never die.
But time with no end
Is time with no beginning…
Has time been living for eternity too?
I am told
That before the birth of the universe
There was no space.
But was there time?
And what did the clock measure,
When there was nothing?
I am told
That there is something like infinity,
The truth of which I can well believe.
But has the pendulum been
Swinging before creation?
Was there ever
Anything as eternity?
I could fill each line
Every single blank space
In the entire world
Force it upon people
“Poetry. It’s poetry. I’m a poet”
I would say haughtily
And it wouldn’t mean anything
I could sit and spew words in ink
Wind Elephant Moon Tattoo
And insist that it’s poignant
Only me and the “ignorant”
Would know I’m full of shit
And that I don’t say anything
Everything is disposable
Why should words be different?
I’m not sure, but in rare cases
They are different
And effecting
And altering
These words aren’t
But when it burns right
And your mind makes it to the page
It is—in a way no one can explain.
The reality of solitude
Is simple and obvious
Though entirely unspoken
But the practice
The goddamned practice
Is another issue completely
Best described as blurry
And constantly fluctuating.
If we’re as singular as evidence shows
Why are there so many people?
It seems that despite every yin
Having a yang
There is no balance in people:
When one is needed
They’re in hibernation
(or their souls at least)
And when all that’s desired
Is peace and time to sift through
Our individual insanity
You’re swamped by insipid people
Wanting from you
What they don’t give in return
I see the bud slowly opening
Its pale petals to the sky.
The sun welcomes it with its warmth—
Warmth of love.
And life garlands it with pearls of dew.
The flower sways gently in the breeze—
Breeze of comfort.
It nestles in the safety of the leaves,
Inconspicuous—but beautiful.
The breeze builds to a gale,
Rocking the frail stem.
But the flower stands still,
Fighting with courage,
For it wants to live to see life,
To be greeted by the sun every day,
To sleep under the night’s stars,
To lend nectar to the bees,
To do what it can for the earth’s peace.
To die, only when the petals
Shrink to nothingness.
I see God’s every creature as that flower,
Fighting to live in a cruel world.
Yet longing to give and help,
Longing for joy—and peace.
Every heart is a soldier,
And a beautiful flower.
A flower that will give
Its radiance to the world.
A flower that wants to live,
Not simply survive.
how can I not have known you
how can I have not seen you
did you hide from my prying eyes every day
were you smiling as I walked by oblivious to your beauty
am I intertwined with you for some reason that I cannot know
do I feel the same pain that I did before I knew I could not have you
how can something that fits so right not be made for me
did you see me watching you when you walked by
can you help me
that mountain stands before me and I do not have the energy to climb it
will you please notice my pleas
you intimidate me with your infinite knowledge of all things incredible
I watch in awe
I watch in disgust
I miss the times that I could have known you and didn’t
I tire of my thoughts and yearn for yours
can you even hear me?
like clockwork you pass
it’s time for me to leave
Oh God,
put your arms around me
and whisper in my ear
Late at night, in my dreams
when I feel like
crying out, for I fear
I cannot hear
your whisper or voice
Late at night, in my soul
when I feel like
crying out, and I
know it to be
sweet as candy
soft as velvet
and evertouching in my heart
Speak to me Lord
Late at night in my mind
when I feel like
crying out, ’cause when
I was a little
baby
I’m sure I heard you then
Late at night, in my crib
when I felt like
crying out, I want
to hear you now
when I need you
Is that really too much to ask?
Late at night in my bed
when I feel like
crying out.
It is a difficult thing at seventeen
to read Poe and Stevenson and feel a certain connection
with them, knowing that recognition
was almost solely posthumous,
post-death,
having spent all their lives pouring—
emptying—their very beings onto paper,
into masterpieces of life-containing language,
and then struggling with the hope
and ever-accompanying despair—
will this alter an existence?
One poet said the best measure
for good literature is whether we
live more intensely for the reading of it;
Poe and Stevenson spent
decades waking early,
wrestling with idea symbols
read left to right,
and then, eyes bloodshot,
crawling into an arctic bed, shivering.
Their whole lives long, they never knew
if the fervor they had squeezed from their own
would transfer to others’ or if it
would wash away
like windshield graffiti in a thunderstorm.
In suburban America I am told that I
still have six decades to look
forward
to. I think that will perhaps be
a terrible trial, an artistic
eternity; to write even when no one
cares enough to love you like Greene
or to even to be as important as Orwell to
know you are hated.
The paper stretches blank
before me, beckoning my pen.
As if drafting a will, I worry that it will matter to none
until I die.
Thirty-five miles until we
reached the exit, the sign read, that has
meant Christmas to me
since I was six.
So I tried to sink back
into my seat, discovering, though,
that once you have sunken
all the way, you have to
sit up again, surface for air, and wait
a time until you can sink
again.
In a green minivan flashing by
a girl looked skyward as she
sat silent with her headphones.
How far was she
from her exit?
The driveway was smooth black as
we pulled in, glistening with melted
flurries as we left.
Back on the highway, swimming
with the red glow, watching the white light
flowing against us.
Trying to sink, heading home.
“I’m always especially tired after twelve hours of consciousness,” Ryan stated, “but today was different.”
“How’s that?” Ted asked.
“I actually had an idea for a poem. Actually I probably would’ve written it as a short story, but I didn’t end up writing it because I thought it probably would’ve been a stupid story”
Ted, surprised, replied, “Ryan, weren’t you just complaining the other day that your ‘well of inspiration had become a thimble of mediocrity’? Just tell me what your little poem was about, and I’ll let you know what I think about it. You oughtn’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Well, you won’t be impressed, and it would’ve been a short story, not a poem.”
“Get on with it, man!”
Ryan cleared his throat and collected his thoughts so he could clearly explain, “The story goes like this: There’s this astrologer… or astronomer, some guy who studies space; well, this guy is looking through his telescope one day and he sees a planet, or star, or something of that sort that’s so far away and blurry he can’t be sure what it is. What he can see of it, though, he finds to be the most beautiful object in space he’s ever seen. He knows maybe this is all in his head, you know, like he subconsciously knows that he’s overdoing it because one day the observatory he was working for upgraded to a more powerful telescope, but he never zoomed in on that beautiful body even though he could. He didn’t want to find out that the thing that inspired him and occupied his creative mind was just another ball of gas or chunk of rock.
“That’s basically it, except I would’ve written it with more detail and with a dramatic feel. I can see it on your face that you weren’t impressed. I told you you wouldn’t be impressed.”
“Well, first thing is your story wasn’t stupid. Seriously,” Ted said in an almost patronizing voice.
“Enough of that. What was it, do you think?”
“Honestly, it’s just starting to bother me that your story was just another of your typical whining-romantic themes. Its obvious that the star represents that Girl. I’m just trying to say that these types of stories, in excess of course, tend to warp your mind from a sensitively sentimental one into a morbidly depressed one.”
“How do you mean?”
“You still like Her, and you never stopped liking Her. It frustrates me to see you doing this to yourself. That wounded heart is self-inflicted.”
“I don’t like Her! You’re being very rude.”
“I thought you’d want me to be honest.”
“You’ve just got to feel like you’ve got everyone figured out, don’t you?”
The essence of life is to be found in the frustrations of established order.
—John Gardner
“God, Kris, you are so fucking disgusting!” I made a noise like a rhino in heat as I opened my mouth to reveal the large piece of orange gum that hung precariously from my tongue.
“Thanks a lot, E. You’re the one that called it an orange slug.” We both let out an uproarious laugh and quickly quieted ourselves. The geriatrics nearby were looking at us again. Our stifled laughter was still loud enough to make passersby wonder about our sanity, and that was just the way we liked it.
“Wait, wait! Do it again, but open your eyes wide; like you did the first time.” I concentrated hard for a second, then with my eyes as wide as I could make them, I dropped my jaw and flicked my tongue wildly in her direction. I then snapped my mouth shut and blinked heartily. I licked my lips and tasted the sweet, artificial-peach flavor. The “slug” rolled around gleefully in my mouth as Erika and I chuckled at the various mallrats screaming and laughing in the opposite corners of the food court.
“What a bunch of fucking losers!” Erika said as she flopped the middle part of her “tri-hawk” to the right side of her head and looped the barbell in her tongue through the two lip rings that protruded awkwardly from her mouth.
A putrid scent was carried our way by crowds of people that were walking by us. I could taste the stench in the air.
“Let’s get up and walk around. The Cookie Guy said it would take thirty minutes or so.” We’d ordered a cookie for my mom who had just had knee surgery. The “Cookie Guy” in question was a good-looking, nice guy who had helped us. It was more than a little strange to tell him that I wanted a giant cookie that said, “We love you, Mommy!” I thought about telling him to write something like, “Welcome back from the state pen. Thirty-five years is a long time, Daddy” or “We love you, Elvis,” but in the end, I decided against it.
We followed my suggestion and walked up the mall to the Deb Shop. Even from thirty feet away it reeked of perfume and cheap polyester fabric. As we closed the distance between ourselves and the store, the sheen of the predominantly sparkly clothing temporarily blinded us with a bright reflection of the healthy orange glow emitted by the fluorescent lights perched high above. I shielded my eyes and sidestepped my way into the store.
“Keribou!” a nickname for me. Which only Erika used. “Check this out!” With anticipation tugging at the corners of her mouth, she lifted up a very large dress, which had butterflies printed on it.
“Whoever made this dress should go to Hell forever. Oh look, Krisi, it’s a fatty dress!” Her sarcastic comment reached every corner of the store and the customers looked at her with bewildered and sometimes disgusted faces. I knelt down, embarrassed by her comment, and laughed into my knees.
“God, Erika, you are so mean!”
“You know the fashion industry has really lost its touch when butterflies and flowers are the ‘in thing,’” she stated sarcastically.
I walked away, but she continued to talk, “What a stupid combination anyway. How do you decide to make a mumu with little butterflies and shit all over it? When did… stupid… get…”
My bare skin mingled with soft velour shirts and sordid little sweaters that looked like lint balls glued together.
“Delicious,” I said to myself sarcastically as I reflected on some of the uglier outfits of the day.
Unbeknownst to me, my journey was leading me toward the shoe section, which consisted primarily of fuzzy black things and animal print shoes. By the time I reached the shoes, Erika had already picked out several pairs of them. Her favorite pair were chunky-heeled, red leopard-print shoes.
“I want,” she said as she shuddered with excitement.
“Erika, it looks like someone killed a New York hooker for her pelt. Those are gaudy as hell.”
I quickly realized my mistake as I took a step back and looked at my sister.
The short skirt she was wearing had punk-rock overtones, and many patches that were complimented by her fishnet pantyhose and a pair of clunky black shoes. The little bit of red in her outfit was pleasantly accented by her hair, which was indeed a nice shade of pink. Her black eye shadow, which made the whites of her eyes stand out, contrasted her pale face perfectly. She was a walking work of art. I suppose she resembled a Picasso in a strange, unfamiliar way; beautiful, ugly, and somewhat confusing all in the same note.
“Oh shit, it’s cookie time,” Erika said as she led the way back to the food court. I sang to myself as we ambled down the cheap tile toward the shops with fake Oakleys.
You don’t bring me anything but down
Everything just crashes to the ground
no more playing seek and hide
no more long and wasted nights
can’t you make it easy on yourself
I know you wish you were strong
you wish you were never wrong
well I’ve got some wishes of my own…
I walked behind her and watched her strut. She walked confidently, even as strangers stared at her. It was incredible.
As we reached “The Great American Cookie Company,” I started thinking about my relationship with Erika. I could remember only the terrible and heart breaking episodes of my life with her.
Her drug addictions had controlled her life for a long time, as had her alcohol abuse, lying, cheating and stealing. She alienated my family by constantly defying our moral beliefs. When she went to boarding school after she was arrested, her antics led to a speedy expulsion and the loss of a great deal of money. My family had been devastated physically, financially, and most definitely emotionally for years.
But on that day, she had forced me to laugh. Smiling at her jokes stung my cheeks, and I found myself rapt in thoughts of the past. As I paid the cookie guy, song lyrics rattled through my mind.
“You don’t bring me anything but down…”
For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I realized that I could love Erika again.
What a long road it had been. I missed the times we had spent together on our farm rolling through thick blades of grass. We had touched every inch of the property that we had grown up on. We’d climbed every tree, smelled every flower, and tasted the sweet juice of every honeysuckle. I had been near her since conception and I was forced away by her actions.
It was the most difficult time of my life when I could not love her. She had beaten the sensitivity out of my bones and had forced me into a corner. She made the choice for me, and I did not fight her.
Now it was my turn to make a choice. And I did. I made the most difficult choice I could have. I let the thing that had hurt me more than anything in the world back into my life, my twin sister. I had fortified my defenses for years, and I simply decided to submit to my need for her love. But that was just the way I liked it.
Would it be wrong
to run
among these marching masses
to sing and laugh
at nervous floundering hands
on sweat-stained plastic leather
to sigh and say
I don’t have to keep a grimace?
Would it be wrong
to cry
and grow to great dimensions
small enough to creep beneath a door
instead of knocking?
Would it be wrong
to grasp hold of the telephone
and scream
in answer to its scream
and force a question
no one wants to hear?
Would it be wrong
to shake Pandora’s hand
and fly
only to return with tales
astounding with originality?