When you came into our presence the room emptied into frenzy:
Our bodies contorted for a glimpse
of your sun-warmed complexion,
of your dirtied, sandaled feet.
The voice of the crowd ascended
as we lifted our hands to this king of the Jews.
Our voices crescendoing louder
cavorting arms climbed higher to a climax
our raised hands cleaved tighter around calloused fists
My mouth spewed malice.
My eyes holocausted with hatred.
I screamed bitterly through shredded throat:
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Hang him on a tree!”

shoveled soil,
lifted,
reveals pale worms.

for tomorrow’s grass is greener
in my own yard than in my neighbor’s.
not for reasons philosophical, but rather,
i, unwilling to stand and watch this
‘scotts lawn’ continue, took matters into my
own hands in scoop after scoop of
industrial salt.

(something much too cheap for the world
out there like me, of evil scientists, who are
unwilling to let jobs that need to be done
right be done by someone else).

so make them great.
follow them with
removing your hat and
taking a bow.

i’d send this all away;
i’d walk right out the door
and never look for more.

i’d grow my hair long,
my beard would be fit for song,
and all anyone would see
would be the slightest resemblance of me.

i’d turn into a bum,
and shut myself in from the sun,
only coming out at night,
to protect my eyes from the light.

and no one would give me a thought,
i’d let me reputation rot,
glad to have finally disappeared,
glad to have finally repaired.

I had sworn to never re-read stuff I have written, yet at around 3:30 am, I found myself doing just that. Only to realize the outlandish fact that it’s been three years since I have joined S&S Much to my shock and dismay (given the non-committal side of me ) you’re slowly turning into the freakin’ love of my life which is troubling to say the least (but in a good way).

So having (somewhat) known you guys for some time, I think confessions are in order:

# I have never told anyone about the fact that I write at S&S (nobody has actually read any of the stuff I’ve written-possibly because I have yet to like any of my scribblings- I am just glad/surprised you put up with it)

# I am secretly convinced that none of you actually exist (like I have never thought of you as actual human beings- you sort of exist in a parallel dimension)

# My shadow personality is like Foma Fomich (“The Village of Stepan-chikovo”), tyrannical, self-important, master of the universe, full of crazy antics [except my universe has a population of exactly 1, thus having no human beings/servants to malign or demonstrate my moral and religious superiority to (although I have no clear life guidelines/morals/ethics to speak of, I still insist that they’re the best), I am simply absurd]. In short, like Fomich, I am a person who lacks awareness and is not able to understand the disparity between what he actually is and what he believes he is* (I am paraphrasing someone from a blog I don’t quite remember the name of.)

# Candy is to me what fresh blood is to vampires

# I have imagined & written tons of recipes/scenarios for some of the Disney’ s characters ( I think Tweety could turn into a quite tasty stew for Sylvester, and let’s not talk about Road Runner, I have contemplated kidnapping executives of the Disney Corp and forcing them to produce multiple cartoon (cooking )shows where Coyote Rock catches, cooks and eats Road Runner in a souffle, or as a summer barbecue or kebabs over sautéed rice (ah, the choices… Don’t judge me, I think it is only fair- those creatures had it coming).

That’s it, I have no more confessions/trivial facts to share. Actually, I could have written this in an email, but I decided to trespass on the wonderful space reserved for poetry because that’s how I roll, I am a Rebel without a cause(what am i saying ?! oh the shame, the shame, it’s not 1955 anymore).

Signed
FreakyNewchild

“He was not born to shame.
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit.”

..when the outside breathes close to my window, and that the door squeaks
and the friends we don’t want any more invite themselves into our days
Behind curtains, dissolving in … I know I am in trouble
(each season gets harder climbing besides you)
my fingertips run words on your skin hoping to
trace and connect oceans of lights together in a gentle beat
But, you close your eyes floating in the distance
Tossed out into the mountainous region of your heart, I spiral into dizzying patterns
the headwind hits hard and I need control
over someone like you (looking for balance and perfection)
safe behind sturdy fences.

Our northbound rambling soon took us
beyond the scope of either of our normal
driving habits. We were at a loss
and did not recognize the exit signs.

I wondered out loud that neither of us,
though well-traveled we had been,
had seen the places that were named
on the side of the highway.

He wondered for a moment, in a silent way,
and stroked his chin and tapped
the top of the arm rest in between us,
and he said it was no wonder to him.

What was there this far north, after all?
Why bother going to a place where
we had nothing?
What was the point? He said.

I replied that it must be the same reason
we were heading this way now, and that
we’d better come up with one rather quickly
to explain the money we’d spent on gas.

His continued to be a silent way, and
without further discourse,
as we finally took a pleasant-looking exit,
our quiet forced us
in to a further digression

that specific speck of dust in the road
from the exact spot where
we were done.

i saved it.
in a jar.
i look at it regularly.
whenever i’m feeling down.

knowing that speck was there
when life stopped sucking.

i took a video
of the mulberry branches’
shadows swaying.

Kind of quiet,
no?
’til she finds the corner of
the bench seat
but even then, not loud.
Not so much.

But she says what she needs to,
and isn’t that enough?
and what else is there, really?

The belts are not so tight
so she can move a bit.
She appreciates that, I think.
And when we took a short trip
in to the city, it was just enough
to stretch our legs.

The ducks were out that morning;
I heard about them, I heard.
I don’t remember.

There were other things on my mind.

i’ll don strange shoes and put my hair (what sad little bit is left of it)
up into something my wife would never allow me to be seen with in public

trudge mountains and valleys
and cross a stream or two.

take in the sky. grunt. fart. make penis jokes.
i’m fairly certain our creator knew it was hilarious looking when he made it.
and generally enjoy yourself
this is man time.

Everyone always says
that it’s the little things
that matter.

Where are the little things?
I can’t find mine.
And it’s been six weeks.

I’ve looked in the wardrobe
and in your hair.
They weren’t under there.

I scanned the grocery isles.
I asked the old lady,
the one with a limp.

I checked under the couch,
and behind the fridge.
They must be really…little.

Or are the little things actually big?
Am in looking in the wrong places,
because someone told a fib?

Are they the wine from last
night I can still taste
on the inside of my cheek?

Perhaps they’re under my pillow?
Oh, wait, that’s the t-shirt
you left here last week.

There are winds and rains
that reach you on these rooftops
and they don’t seem to phase you

Your soul was escaping that night,
though,
you told me.

So we stood for a couple of hours
and counted things quietly
and self-referenced our past lives
so that nobody else could hear us

There were insects crawling in your hair
but you didn’t notice them. You never had.
They’d been with you a long, long time I think.

And the starlight did not do those billboards
justice,
they just glared so that the giant smiling faces
were on what was like fire.

So I kept my coat buttoned and
kept pulling down my hat so
it would not fly away, and you were
preoccupied too, and there we were

I think I saw it all in a dream, once.
It wasn’t as cold as I remember
but there was quite a lot of wind and rain,
that much I am certain of.

It was Sunday.

 

Crashing out my door and into your palms. It was intentional –

you had a coat done up tightly around you

keeping me out and

keeping you safely inside, only just.

 

Carlton. Young bones rattling around

the pub like loose matches.

You slipped in beside me like a secret,

your blue scarf keeping the words in.

Keeping my face out.

 

It was Sunday.

You leant against my stool like you needed to.

I couldn’t blame you.

You came to find me as if I had stolen

your tongue and had it in my handbag.

You came to find me like I knew you would,

to hand me your liver,

and your lungs that should know better,

 

so I took them.

 

It was Sunday.

I think we’d already decided.

 

i could do this,
i could be your inspiration for the night.
should i execute it correctly you’d invite me
back for more sessions wherein i do something
inspiring.
of course as a writer i’d desire that inspiring
deed to be writing. i’d throw words out on the fridge
like magnets from a pre-made set.
but each and every word, as it landed on the magnetic
surface would shock you with it’s brilliance.
i’d be precise in a way you’re not used to.
i’d speak truth through verbs you’ve over-used.
and trite would be the furthest thing from
your imagination as i serve you inspiration for the
day.

i could do this.
even without the rhythm to back me up, and the years
spent on this one verse for each song. i could be your
inspiration for tonight.