I am here

                                                 Section 1: The Fourth Wall

In the attic there is a sort of cove, a secret storage chamber, behind the wall at the top of the stair. It is sealed shut by means of a large door, if you could call it that. It is a large, heavy triangle, composed of planks of wood, fastened together, cut to shape, and sanded smooth. There are two sturdy handles set far apart on this giant wedge. The door sits in a groove that protrudes slightly from the wall and runs across it at the height of the still, only mostly completed attic floor. To gain entry into this hidden chamber you must rotate the long, sharply bent nail that is driven into the dense beam that stands perpendicular to the last step. The nail prevents the door from tumbling forward and crashing against the roughly hewn and splintery stairs. By revolving this nail just over 90 degrees, the bend is made vertical, the heavy lumber, set free, and the makeshift bolt, unlocked. To lift this door off its slotted supports, you must be of sound body and delicate balance. Feet uneven on the steeply sloped steps and arms spread out wide to grip the smooth pine handles, you must lurch the door upwards to clear the lip, while at the same time, pulling forward, angling it just so, as to not thrust it into the declining ceiling above. 

You must be quick to set it down and very careful. On the stairs it’s easy to lose your footing or trip as you try to advance a few steps, reach out- and as gently as possible, place the corner of the three-sided door upon the attic floor, which lies about level with your waist. Once you slide the door over and lean it up against the base of the polished aluminum coat-rack, you can finally peer inside.

Inside, there is a memory, and perhaps even a little bit of yourself. Within these angular walls, echoes a voice, a voice which may seem faintly familiar. It’s not quite clear, perhaps you may not be able to place it at first.

If you listen hard enough, there is a chance you might hear it stronger, louder, feel its realness. Take a moment to pause and let it all flow in,

This is where our story is set,

This is where the voice comes alive,

relax,

sit back,

breathe,

Hear the voice.

The voice is mine.

       c♦.a

    

                                                Section 2: The Lullaby 

I am here

As I have been

That which you once held dear

They found me the other day,

Long forgotten and cast away, my body broken and marred,

The hair torn from my helpless head,

My eyes,

Faded and dull,

No longer twinkling as I smiled

That soft, warm, smile.

And you smiled too.

You once loved me,

As I

Loved you

Though you battered and bruised me,

I loved you still

Though you carelessly tossed me about,

And pushed down upon me with all your weight,

I loved you still,

As I love you

To this very day.

But soon enough,

You were done with me

And I was forgotten to that glimmer in your eyes,

No more cool autumn mornings or sweet summer afternoons

They laid my body to rest in some secret tomb, tucked away

In the deepest and darkest of places,

So I wouldn’t get in the way

For years I waited for someone

To find my mortal remains, the skeleton frames of a time long past.

Back when happiness was in your head

And hopes and dreams filled your heart,

But perhaps they died alongside me.

For now your heart is weighted with granite and lead

And the voices of desperate ghosts fill your head.

Do tales of silver chains and hurricanes,

Still swirl around inside your brain?

Those lullabies and fireflies that once reflected in your eyes,

Do they remain?

Or were they swept up in the storm,

And have all been washed away,

What about The Velveteen Rabbit,

And Chessie the Travelin’ Man,

Have they become small shadows, little grains-
In a glass full of sand?

Didn’t the Rabbit teach you about patience and the magic they call Real?

Didn’t you know that was something that not even anybody could steal?

Do you remember sitting in Mr. Feeny’s class, with Cory, Topanga, and Shawn?

Or sifting through the Beanie Babies in Stop & Shop, until you found just the right one?

What about crying for Mufasa,

Or standing tall and proud at the helm of Pride Rock?

-How about those barrel juices with the peel-off foil lid?

They were so sugary and sweet that they were bad,

But that only made you love them all the more,

You once loved me,

But I understand.

Towards you

I could never be mad,

Nor lose my love

I have but one wish,

One request that you might grant,

It is not for me

But for you

Whom I love,

Something so very simple such as this:

when you get weary from the meanness in this world,

and when you’re full of sorrow, feeling lonely and lost,

remember.

when your eyes which used to glimmer, fill with tears

and there’s no one there to wipe them away,

remember.

when all seems hopeless, and the dagger of time has cut you deep,

and has plunged into your chest,  nicking the bone as it’s thrust,

remember.

Remember the moments

When life was love

And love was life,

And I was by your side,

Remember the games we played

And songs we sang

When each moment was ours for the taking.

And we took each moment,

Because we loved

To feel loved,

And we loved to live

The life of love

And for just one moment in time,

To laugh.

Remember how I, your favorite old friend,

Was faithful to the end,

And watched over you as you slept,

Keeping all the nightmares away.

I, your wooden rocking horse

With my beautiful brown yarn locks

And friendly, silly eyes,

My red rubber gripped handles,

And pointed pleather ears,

I loved you,

And you loved me,

Remember?

Remember.

And no longer despair.

I am here.

As I have been.

That which you once held so very dear.

Taking a photograph on a deserted beach right before the storm

houses in in the ocean,    
subtle depths deliver,
I could be,
I am,
I see,
           shallow crosses,
   wading slowly,  
  through warm grey water,
    water droplets fall like silver solder beads,  
  memories that fall like silver,    
   follow you to shore,  
  the sky,    feels open,    falls apart,     breathes

I went outside

  

I went out side. The sky was bright, but the clouds ran down heavy and obscured the blueness that could have otherwise shone down. It was a maritime sky; a sky that would have stood bold and beautiful against the rolling border of the sea, had the sea indeed churned beneath it. Though my feet were planted on solid ground, looking up into the hazy air, I couldn’t help but see the breathing ocean. In my mind I imagined the dark, foaming waves dancing frantically about. I could smell the salt, laden in the harsh and coarsely thrust breeze, my daydream made all the more real by the physical touch of the westward wind, a deceiving chill, -a mild moistness in the air.  

As my boots grazed the emerald grass that grew in thick and healthy tufts from the damp soil, the breeze rose and fell subtlety, but never disappeared. It would grow more powerful and burst forward yet never quite become fully akin to the furious tempest’s gale; then retreat slowly and softly as the decaying yet sustained chord, refusing to wholly lay down its weary head, and in admission of defeat, agree to die away. Curly locks of scallion shoots patched out from between the square, angular stones that lined the short, flat slate walkway leading into the small yard. A few reluctant dandelions peaked out from the familiar earth, little golden Koosh balls scattered across the living lawn. 

On Folding Socks: Part One

I wish to tread the ground,

And hear the trembling sound,

Of each footfall’s blissful sweeping across of the earth,

The smoldering, burning,

Carelessly turning

Earth,

Which cries out to dreamers, lovers and schemers,

And holds them to some high and subtle flame,

Yearning to see,

Now, for once clearly,

What it is that compels them to dream, love, and scheme.

The earth,

 In order to carry out its desperate attempts to catch this fleeting glimpse,

 Stares down into their solitudes,

 And brings forth the Turning To Night,

And with it,

The sunken and soulful sobs,

Of the frothing ocean,

The earth decides to scream,

But the night is not yet done being born.

Profound Realization/ the lonely things

Imagine my mind,

Wrap around a mellow melody,

Waking with wishes,

Dying with dreams as you awake,

Here we enter the golden slipstream,

Running blindly into what seems, at first, to be the sun,

But it is not the sun, it is the setting,
And the setting is sinking,
And now it is night.

The lonely things gather near,

By the side of the highway, on the edge of the wood,

There is a bridge,

A dark box sits upon the damp wooden rail,

Prepared to tumble forwards, although it might as well be backwards,

Into the shadowy unknown,

And what is known?

For I cannot see very far past the edge,

It is dark.

And not as close as I at first believed,

Believe?

What do I believe?

Never mind that now it is dark.

And I cannot see,

Very far past the edge.

I cannot see because it is dark down by the water and I am up here and there’s just too many Godamn lights!

I’m on the edge of the highway.  

My eyes can’t adjust.

The red lights roam past with their whittled down glow,

The soft ruby pillars warm my bones,

I’ll rest here no longer.

This cold sidewalk has given away any comfort it once held for me,

I’ll rest here no longer,

I will continue on.

The Artist?

The first thing I would do is paint the sky,

From well behind the stars,

Where clouds are no longer,

And the cosmos, fall apart,

When all the planets have washed away, I would start,

I would breathe in,

And then breathe out,

And only when there is no doubt, I would feel the warm air,

And the gentle, flowery breeze,

And begin to make the coastline,

Exactly how I please,

Perfect Hollywood Hallelujah,

Then to the ocean,

The sea,

Imagine all the beautiful things that there, could come to be,

Then I would dive down,

In some brassy beast,

To bathe the cracked diving glass,

And in looking out, see

The blood-red coral grave.

Remembering mocha beans

I’ll take a picture,

Of this moment,

And of your smiling face,

Show me that delicate butterfly shadow,

Single lens reflex,

Mirrors in check,

35 mm love,

Bring it all back,

Let the summer breeze come rushing in.

Live for just that hurried half,

One week or more,

Like the time when you went to the movie-store on the way home,

The one right by the super stop & shop,

They were having another “goin’-out-of-business” sale,

You popped in

And popped out with a VHS,

Because VHS’s are just that much more fun,

You wore that white, flowery dress

The one that’s light and thin,

And keeps you nice and cool in the sun,

movie day, popcorn, potato chips, 3d doritos, snacks, soda, on couch in living room, stuff all over the coffee table, window open behind the couch, lights off, soft air coming in, light summery curtains sway, tugging on the sofa, bottoms caught between the back and the wall, create little sails to frame the windowsill, the sun shines brightly beyond.

warm. 

  

We could turn on the radio,

And listen to them play those sweet dreams,

That acoustic rock and roll,

We could talk and laugh for hours,

Until the soft summer night takes hold.

Somebody once asked me,

For one of those Kool-Aid bottles

With the pharaoh-top,

I had some blue and I had some red,

But he decided to grab a Yoo-hoo out of the fridge instead.

I’m tired of finding all my precious things, out in the backyard broken,

I’m tired of letting go of the ribbon tied to my silk-screened foil balloon,

The balloon was tied with a thin yellow ribbon ‘round the bottom,

The balloon was tied with the clear blue sky ‘round the clouds,

Floating away towards eternity,

Gone forever, never again to be found.

Now it’s probably somewhere off in space,

Like Team Rocket blasting off again,

But it’s a Bye-Bye Butterfree kind of episode,

And the ending is so very bittersweet,

Though it was happy when it began.

The shower’s gone cold, and I got shampoo in my eyes,

I get out, but my hair won’t dry for quite some time,

I went to put on my favorite faded blue jeans,

They were torn at the knees,

I did that myself, not with scissors,

But when I fell down onto the pavement to bleed,

Now I got those blue jean blues, so I’ll just put on some pajama pants instead,

They’re all different colors, with monkeys all over.

All those crazy monkeys in a felt jungle, swingin’ from vine to vine all the way down,

Jumpin’ from tree to tree, just feelin’ like monkeyin’ around,

And I guess that’s why I like them,

Because sometimes I can’t help but feel the same way too, 

So I’ll put on my fuzzy moccasins, 

Instead of my heavy, leather, steel-toed shoes.

I’ve been lost in a sort of darkness within my head,

so maybe I should be in the jungle sun instead.

I’ll just watch a movie, a nice one where no one dies,

I’ll let the magic moral laser beam right into my tired eyes, 

Or maybe make a tie-dye T-shirt just for me,

 I’ll do a good job, make sure the colors don’t bleed,

I won’t let them bleed,

There’s much too much of that,

I don’t want the colors to have to know what it’s like, instead,

They shall live, brilliant, beautiful, bright, a most magnificent sight,

within everyone’s eyes,

And maybe I’ll get myself some new pants…

Il Cielo era Blu

Ero sicura che ti saresti salvata,

Ma ero sbaglio,

Dopotutto sono sol’uomo,

Non ho potuto fermarsi dal pensare

che era

colpa mia, che son’ stato per colpa,

La mia mente

e` come la barca s’e`rigirata nel mare schiumoso,

Avrei voluto sentire

i suoni rassicuranti

del tuo voce

dolce,

Ma quando mi sono svegliato,

Non c’eri,

E cos’e` stato,

E cosi sono,

Cosi appena,

Laciami cadere per favore,

Proprio verso il cielo,

Nel blu infinito.

Nel blu.

3:51-4:02 A.M. April 6th, 2017

I was in the kitchen. Just for a moment, or perhaps not even at all. It’s hard to say.

The first thing I remember is taking a few sliding steps  from the kitchen and into the small hallway after turning my head to toss back a few last closing words on some subject or request. I left the three or four people standing there, still carrying on, uninterrupted by my passing presence. Some were gathered around the kitchen table, talking; maybe one person was standing by the counter or sink, trying to organize the hazardously set collection of dirty cups and dishes.  A couple well paced steps through the narrow and over-stuffed pantry and I emerged into the still somewhat cluttered dining room. Maybe I was getting something or looking for someone, intent on delivering some message entrusted to me, but for whatever reason I waltzed into that room, the only thing that mattered was the fact that I had.

 She was sitting alone at the head of the long table, opposite from where I had entered. The blue plastic table cloth was left wrinkled upon the hidden wooden surface, scattered here and there with abandoned and half empty drinks, crumbs, and the broken bodies of tipped over, unlit candles and crumbled up napkins. She looked up, and smiled a little when she saw that someone had come in. She was mildly occupied by the pages spread out unobtrusively on the table in front of her. She had pulled back the dirty blue veil and folded it over itself, exposing a foot or two of the clean, polished wood, creating a sort of low and delicate barrier of thin plastic, crunched up and pushed away from her seat. There was a subtle but very real look of worry or sadness in her tired yet resiliently bright eyes.

I asked her what was wrong from doorway as I passed through it.  She said “nothing” casually, with a hint of cheerful optimism, but somehow I knew better. I moved forward softly, and gently kissed the top of her head as she looked down again at her variety of papers.  In an almost half whisper, I repeated, “what’s wrong?” And in that one instant I suddenly knew who she was by the softness of her hair. A rush of familiar feelings came flooding back so quickly, as if an entire lifetime of emotion played out, eternal, in that singular moment.   She looked up, and smiled, much wider than before, her eyes glistened just enough to show that she had understood. She asked me if I wanted take a look at what she was working on and I said yes.

Poetry and painting, fused together in surreal perfection, the blue ocean burst alive with flame, the setting sun on the horizon. Bold black words and silhouettes blended, crashing against the warmly lit shore in unison, together as one medium without fault or flaw.  It was in a word: Beautiful. I studied every inch of the artful passage she handed to me, entrusting me with her most precious thoughts. What was this beauty that she had revealed? Perfection? Perfection. 

            Then I awoke. Suddenly and sharply, I opened my eyes.  I don’t know why.

It was still dark save the tiniest glow that had managed to penetrate the thin black curtains. It was these curtains that tried their hardest to obscure the waiting world that slowly churned beyond the surprisingly cold glass window panes. It was these curtains that blocked the already faint light that bled from the lonely streetlamps, perched above the cracking concrete paths, illuminating their forgotten stories.

I stared up at the ceiling blankly, then looked around, barely able to make out the large, dark shapes that surrounded me. The memory of the fleeting events leading up to my now confused state, still danced around in my mind, refusing to die. I’m still not sure why I felt so strongly about what had transpired there. It seemed so real and strikingly powerful, yet composed through logic, somewhat insignificant. This moment never happened; these events never occurred. It was all a great theatrical performance, played out and set upon some stage, manifested as a dream. The characters of my dream theater were just that, merely characters; but she, she was the actress.  The actress who played always, the enigmatic part; unknowable, untraceable, and then gone. It was her. 

            And to think that when I met her, I never even knew her name.

Her name, oh, her name; once I finally learned it, I swore I would never let go of the feeling of it wrapping around my brain as it swam within my head. Though I’m not sure if I’d ever heard it spoken aloud save for in my own whispers.

And I had whispered her name into the solidarity of many a dark night.  Her name, which was printed clearly beside her picture in the most impossibly black of inks. The letters were smooth and cold, but the picture was grainy and soft.

It seems she finally put out those fires that raged, untamed, within her heart. Those burning flames that swept across the once fertile plains of her soul were extinguished once and for all. The smoldering cinders and flakes of ash, once tossed about in the frenzied breeze, no longer blew into her face with the scornful smoke, nor settled into her pristine and silken hair. No more blackened burn marks and pin-hole melts to mar her favorite stone grey dress. She had decided to drown the charred and mixed up memories of sorrow and pain that plagued her.  

I saw this picture of a girl and I was drawn in closer. I felt a tugging at my wrist, a boney grasp, guiding me to some secret place, frozen at the last printed word. I was captured, pulled into the hollow depths of her eyes, diving deep into the black water, were it is icy and cold. The welcome water, rushing over me, filling my sunken soul, –my lungs, with its promises of poisonous life. Oh Great River, smile upon my sinking as I slip from my mortal mind and bathe my frigid flesh. Above, the stars on the dark surface reflect, though they must fight the velvet haze to break through, when they appear, victorious in the night sky, they are free. Free from their celestial prisons, their heavenly cages, free to reflect on the calm waters that dragged me down, and to dive down deep, alongside; keeping me company as I sink.

            The water is black; yet the sky breathes alive with faint portraits of indigo vigor. The water is black; yet my eyes fill with dreams of yellow and blue, the shadowed cypress, standing tall against the horizon, citadel to my soul. Swirls of passion over the quiet city, the people of the city sleep, unaware of the restless and windswept spirits that ensnare the night sky. They wage war for all eternity in the electric air.

And so she jumped, just as it began to rain.