"Untitled" Spring 2013 Poetry

Untitled

Black plastic hands

            sweep with a slow

                        cadenced grace.

     And why are you not here,

To hear

the ticks

tear through 

my own

heart beats? 

"You Dick" Summer 2013 Fiction (Rough Draft)

This is a very very rough draft of a short story I have been working on.

You Dick

 

             I’m sitting here, at my desk, in my claustrophobic cubicle, hyped up on my tenth coffee for the day, thinking of you. It’s five past eight at night. I’m sitting here five past eight at night, hyped up on coffee, printing some report, for God only knows what, because of you, you Dick.

            The clock on the opposite side of the office ticks with a slavish, grotesque hesitancy and I can’t stand it. Each second, that small hand slows itself, as if refusing to push forward. Maybe it doesn’t want to be here, at five past eight. Maybe it’s too tired to deal with overachievers, like me, never allowing it to just fall off the wall, crawl under a desk and hug itself for the evening. I want to relax too you know. This clock and I should go out for drinks, just forget about work and reports and you. It would be easier that way. Maybe I should replace the photo of you on my desk with one of the clock; maybe he’d at least be grateful. Because this clock and I, tired as we may seem, could have some real fun, go dancing, go shopping, sit by the river at night and talk, hype up on coffee together instead of alone.

            And isn’t sad, you Dick, that I find a clock more attractive than you right now? It’s slow, small hand, a chubby black, smacking, every second, against those sixty dashes. I bet they’re happy to be smacked. Maybe you could smack me again, like we used to. How about after work you slip off my heels, rip my shirt and we jump in the shower? I could be your dash again. I would beg to be your dash again.

            You’re always so tired though. Shouldn’t I be the one that’s tired? No, you say, I’m the one home all day doing the real work. Really? Is cooking really your work, you Dick? Because I would love to cook, I would love you to teach me to cook. But, there’s no time, never any time. Yet, even the small hand finds a second each day to smack around his sixty dashes. We don’t even have time to get pregnant, not that I’d want to bring one into this world anyway. What use would it be? I’d be forced to squeeze that baby out on my chair mat, right beneath me, hide it between my paper shredder and coat rack until lunch hour. And wouldn’t Miss Patty Sweets just love that.

            You know Patty Sweets, remember? The woman with bright dyed orange hair and those cankles. Well, you work next to her one day and then tell me my job isn’t the real work. Heinous, that’s what she is. Every morning I hear the air pulse through her too large, bleached white Keds. Her mullet hair reflects the fluorescent light into my eyes and half the day I duck beneath the walls of my cubicle with sunglasses on. Her voice is graveled from cigarettes; even her plastic hoop earrings carry the smoky scent. And Patty’s tights are always getting nicked by the desk, the chair, the filing cabinets, the copier. Do you know who she asks for nail polish, to stabilize those ever growing holes, in panic mode? Me. Because she saw me once doing the same to my tights and knows that I keep a bottle hidden in my bottom drawer, under the files of denied clients. She also knows I lock that drawer because I know that she knows that I have that special clear nail polish bottle. I also know that Patty Sweets is a raving kleptomaniac. She likes to steal donuts from Margery Hunt every Wednesday on “Over the Hump Donut Day.” But her cubicle has packed more than a few employees’ donuts and I’ve seen it all. There’s no way she’s getting my clear nail polish too.

            So don’t tell me that my work isn’t real work, since I’m here, and you’re not. Where are you anyway? You haven’t called, haven’t texted, haven’t emailed. Have you re-tapped into that “entrepreneurial” mind set of yours again and flown to, driven to, walked to, skipped to, hopped to, some random mountain that sits atop some random state, that I would never think you to be? By perfect, unique, unlooked for happenstance that random location has no 3G, 4G, 5G, 6G cell service. And so, for the following forty-eight hours, you will be unable to call me, unable to reach me at all, no matter how desperate you are. Please, don’t try that on me when you get home, you’ll stutter. We both know you stutter when you lie.      

            I know you’re not with “Sandra Bullock,” that’s for sure. Oh, you didn’t think I realized you were seeing another woman on the side? That makes you an ignorant dick. You named her that on your phone’s contacts. Did you think I’d believe you knew THE Sandra Bullock? You barely know Kermit the Frog. Next time you use my laptop, sign out of the private email account you created for secret “Sandra” purposes. But “Sandra’s” emails were entertaining. I guess she’s not a fan of no sex either. Even the adulteress is smarter than me, whoever she is, because after one year, four months, six days and eleven hours (quoted from her email of course) she chose to dump you, you Dick.

            But me, I’m still here. Still waiting for the man, who noticed me walking up concrete stairs eight years ago, to be what he never will be. You noticed how I juggled a box filled with a radio, pencil sharpener, and picture frames with my leopard sequined purse and bright purple lunch bag. You offered to carry the box and then insisted after I declined. You brought me to my first cubicle at the business and helped me decorate. Your whale decorated tie and navy blue suspenders turned me on. You then asked me out by pretending to be my first customer call. You quit your job so that we “could be together” and not break company policy. You were not my knight in shining armor, but my co-worker man friend with an abundance of staple supplies. And after never finding another job, after owing thousands of dollars in bank loans you cannot pay back, after crashing my Vespa into a field of cows (I’ll never forget this one), I’ll never lose faith in the man that once noticed me eight years ago.

            That is why I’m still here. Still sitting in this cubicle at quarter past eight, sexually stimulated by inanimate objects and wishing you’d touch me again. Still working at this business, because it’s the last shred of your dignity, the last bit of your white collar masculinity. When you quit, you made it appear as if you were doing it for us, to be what Romeo and Juliet could never be. But instead of a tag-team suicide for the premise of love, we settled for a studio apartment, a pull out couch, mumbled words in the morning over coffee and stale cereal, your hushed sobs in the shower, my holey underpants. Would death or at least separation not be more appealing?

            You quit eight years ago because I was an easy excuse, a “get out of jail free” card, a savior from the toilet of lost souls to the horrors of capitalist sewage. And now? What excuse do we have to relinquish our duties from each other? My excuse can be that you are a dick, a very pesky, tricky, unlikeable dick.

            But I still love you.

            That is my excuse to stay and the reason why you will never read this email. The reason I will delete it the second I complete typing the last word. The reason you will never know that when I awake at five in the morning, I stare at your eyes as they flutter under their lids until the alarm rings for six. The reason you will never know how I used to love tracing that one deep blue vein from the front of your neck to the arch of your back. The reason you will never know how I wanted to buy a shotgun and blow “Sandra’s” head off. Not because she was with you, but because she thought she was better than you. The reason you will never know that I flinch crawling into bed with you, with your sweaty toes, with your pimply arms, with your unnatural soft legs, but I could never sleep an entire night without you beside me. The reason that I know you don’t care and the reason why I’m so afraid to tell you the truth, you Dick.             

"Library" Spring 2013 Poetry

Library

She sat in the library staring

through the tinted glass windows, tarrying.

Rain raged upon the roof and the

acoustic clangs against metal drew her attention.

Neglecting to notice any others, a sly hand

grasped her arm, greedily and

eager for her exotic, earthy flesh. The

raw, rough skin fell to her wrist and squeezed.  

"Lecture on Loss" Spring 2013 Poetry

Lecture on Loss

Maybe I missed it hiding under his

folds of skin. Or perhaps the phlegm-ish

chuckle in his throat rebuffed my anguish

and the ever present stench of his

 

death. But when the pale fluorescent lights

illuminated the bruised colored veins underneath

his white paper thin membranes and the lungs beneath

his chest heaved and spat dark mucus reflected in the light,

 

I had to recognize that mortal pain.

He was no longer my grandfather,

as if never in human history was anyone a grandfather.

He was just pain; ominous and unknowable pain.

Crusty, lopsided lips gaped open. My own

freckled face wet with the brackish tears of loss.

Because it was only then that I realized, loss

can be described as nothing more than one’s own

recognition that there is no love when facing the end of life.   

 

"The Lifeguard" Spring 2013 Poetry

The Lifeguard  

I.

A reflective sun sparkled

in the happiness of the heat

and the thick, humid air drowsed

me on top of my perch.

Only tiny Eddy, his bright

orange floaters glued to his skin

with water and sweat, broke

the calm of the chemical blue. 

 

Under the shade of the umbrella

my eyes closed while the cicadas sang

their alluring ballads.

II.

With shrill screams like rapid dogs

I awoke as chubby pre-pubescent girls

crashed into the pool.

 

In the midst of their mayhem

one of these female leviathans

raised Eddy’s floater above her head.

 

The other laid, half-deflated

upon the soaked concrete,

its moist droplets slowly

evaporating into the dry air.

Short Story: The Insignificant Other

The (In)significant Other

            It was ten years since Michelle watched the episode of the Newlywed Game, but a stilled image of that show glared from the television. It was him she recorded, all those years ago, and he that now stared at her on the screen.

            The bright white color of the television barely illuminated the room. Shadows danced across the walls and hid the picture frames, the dated rotary dial telephone, the stained brown carpet, the piles of newspapers scattered across an uneven coffee table. She sat on a couch, small and worn. It’s floral pattern of purples, teals and blues were ripped, torn and stained with blotches of urine.

            Michelle sat on the permanently depressed cushions and heaved a sigh. She never took her eyes from the man’s frozen face.

            “I miss you,” she said.

            Michelle’s face appeared older than her age. Her skin was riddled with wrinkles as if it were cracking like dried clay. Her small hazel eyes were bloodshot. Gray strands sifted between the bulk of chocolate hairs which fell to her shoulders. She wore a sweat shirt, so ragged that the white lettering chipped and the sleeves were shredded at the ends.

            She took the remote in her hand and pressed rewind. The figures displayed sped by in reversed motion and their voices reeled in high pitches. When the cursive title of the show appeared Michelle pressed play.

            “Welcome to the Newlywed Game!” the host yelled as he walked onto the center of the stage. He wore a navy blue suit with light brown shoes. It was clear he had too much plastic surgery. His cheeks were too round, lips too long, eyebrows too high, skin too orange.

            “What must he look like now?” Michelle said.

            Her cat, an immense black fur ball, jumped onto the couch and purred at her side.

            “Come watch the show with me, Mitzy,” she said and pulled the cat nearer.

            “Here are our contestants,” the host said.

            The camera zoomed in on each couple. At the last pair Michelle paused the show again. There he was; just as she remembered. His red hair was cropped, hundreds of freckles popped from his light skin and his round blue eyes glowed with a bright spark.

            But it was his smile, the radiant white toothy grin, which always caused Michelle to stop at that very moment of the recording. He was happy, happy with the woman he sat next to, happier than he used to be when he sat next to Michelle. A decade prior, when she watched the episode for the very first time, it was this smile which ceased the progress of her life. She knew about the relationship, about the proposal and the marriage. Michelle dealt with those facts and survived the unrequited feelings and the loss. Yet, when she saw it, when it was thrown into her face and projected for the world to see, her stability crumbled. In that smile she saw his life and her own. His was one filled with partnership, family and happiness. Michelle’s was one doomed with unfulfilled dreams and an irreconcilable lonesomeness.

            She never played the recording further than his smile. The truth proved too painful for her. Although tonight, as Michelle stared at his face, his laugh lines, his dimples, she thought why not? Ten years had passed. Whatever happened after his smile, it was too long ago to change. She pressed play.

            The men were asked to exit from the stage. He walked off with a care free air and that smile still on his face.

            “Now, ladies, let’s begin with the first question,” the host said.

            Michelle watched his wife. She was the perfect woman. Brown curls stretched down her back as she sat up straight, confident. Michelle bent closer to the television. She could see his wife’s thick but muscular legs, her sizeable perky breasts and her full dark red lips. Even through the television Michelle noticed her perfect smooth skin, its shimmer and tanned beach like color. She was a Barbie Doll, preserved in a box until the very moment she interceded Michelle’s life so long ago.

            “Let’s hope she looks ten times worse now, Mitzy,” Michelle said.

            There were five questions in all and for each Michelle answered along. Both women answered that his dream vacation was China, that he always dealt with the money, that for five years he refused to go to the dentist and that he hogs the bed covers every single night.  

            “What was the day and time of your first date?” the host said.

            “February twenty-fourth at six p.m.,” Michelle answered out loud.

            His wife answered, “March sixteenth at eight p.m.”

            The men returned and as expected Michelle’s lover answered the same as his wife for all questions. They held hands.

            It killed Michelle. After a decade she never accepted their end. She loved him to such a degree that she could not let go, could not be okay with him loving another, could not settle with the fact that her life and his life never remained unified.

            The show played on. The women walked off stage and he sat on his heart shaped couch with the smile. Tears fell down Michelle’s face. She heard nothing of the host’s comments. The cliché heart ornaments hanging from the stage’s ceiling and the cupid murals on the backdrop behind the contestants was blurred in Michelle’s vision. She zoned out the on command audience laughter and the corny sexual jokes of the host. All that mattered was that she lost him and he was on that stage answering questions about a different woman, a woman he chose.

            By now they probably had three children, a vacation home, anniversary parties, special memories and countless intimate moments. For over three thousand six hundred and fifty days they shared the same bed. They played footsie under the covers, smacked each other awake if one was snoring, shut their eyes as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. All of the small moments, the one second glances, the quick touches as they passed by one another, the whispering of feelings and dreams, brushing teeth together, the phone calls on lunch breaks…it flashed in Michelle’s mind and cut through her heart with the pain of a razor.

            “Ohhh, it looks like our last contestant is having some trouble answering the question,” the host yelled out.

            Michelle looked up.   

            “Let me repeat, what is your wife’s favorite color?” the host said.

            He looked dumbfounded. The host egged him on, alluring the audience toward laughter. He remained silent. Michelle held her hands together and moved directly in front of the television. The cat meowed in protest at her movement and jumped from the couch. Her face was inches from his. Her breath moistened the screen. 

            “You know this,” she said. “Say it, for us.”

            “We’re going to need an answer here,” the host said, now sitting right next to him and imitating the ticks of a clock.

            “Alright, well, I guess I’ll go with black,” he said.

            “Black?” the host said.

            “It’s the only color you can’t cover up. The only one you can’t change,” he said, “all the colors help make the color black. Some say it’s the most powerful color there is.”

            The host’s mouth fell open into an elongated oval. The audience did not laugh or clap. Michelle smiled for the first time since the recording began.

            “For some reason, I don’t think that’s the answer your wife is going to give,” the host said.

            “I know. I forgot her favorite color, so I chose someone else’s,” he said.

            He was not smiling the same smile as before, but rather one that Michelle recognized and was comforted by. The grin was subtle; no teeth exposed or mouth open. Just enough for his dimples to pop and his lips noticeably squeezed together. His eyes were alight. They did not spark, but they were alive, awake, passionate. He stared through the camera, through the lens and through the television and through all the years that passed by. He was looking at her.   

            Michelle stroked her hand against the screen and whispered, “You remembered.” 

             

"When the Willow Trees Blow"

When the Willow Trees Blow

Moonlight, wind, raindrops-

Your muffled vibrato in my eardrums

and steamed breath moistening my cheek.

Bony limbs lash dampened leaves against our backs

and shredded green blades stick to my toes.

 

Can’t we go inside?

The thickening storm thunders above.

Your African prince hue spreads

defiantly within the darkness.

You step away, like a stiff choreography.

 

Your mouth opens wide enough for my own.

We are too far apart.

Lost syllables, lost pronunciation, lost meaning-

Circles, ovals, a black hole between those maroon cushions.

Please, let me move close again.

 

The wet washes your scent from my skin.

The wind blows the sound of your restive voice from my ears.

Further you walk from my sight.

You have ceased, with final absolution.

I never thought you could say goodbye.