[2011] Joyshower

My body shivered, starting with the edges of my ribs and slowly the cold worked its way in towards the sternum, where it shot up into my jaws and started my chattering.

“Cold?” He shot me a wry look, his head tilted to the side.

I stuck my tongue out. “No.”

“Do you want my jacket?”

“I have my own.”

“Really, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” One of his hands began to tug at the sleeve on the other arm, but his eyes remained set on me, as steady as his always patient hands when they reached out to correct one thing or another.

“No,” I insisted, this time taking out any pitiful whine it might have had earlier. “I like things this way.” The cold seemed to dissipate a little, as if my determination made some of it slip off in fear. I felt rather proud of myself. Huzzah, frigid rebels! I have defeated you through sheer willpower! I laughed at the thought and he, although a little surprised, soon started laughing with me.

Our voices rose into the air and spread out across the sky, as if the dark clumps of rainclouds soaked them all up like a sponge. If our laughs were taken up, where did they go afterward? Did they slip into raindrops that fell back down on the earth? Somewhere under this vast, vast sky, did someone dance in his laughter? Did someone cry in mine? If they shouted or whispered, did their sorrow lift into the air and disperse as well? I lifted my head so the little droplets that had previously only grazed my nose began to touch me, more wholly, more truly. My glasses were getting blurry, so I pulled them off and stuck them into my jacket pocket, and closed my eyes this time.

I felt his gaze on me as he noticed my silence. Something moved between us and it took me a moment to realize that his silence was pressing into mine and so I let it happen, until we shared a…something, an indistinct and hazy something, that filled the gap between us.

The park was empty, except for a few boys skateboarding in the rain and stragglers here and their moving their way through the plaza. Everyone else in the group had gone into the coffee shop, to order a mocha this or chai latte that. We had both promised to join everyone else soon and I knew that in a few moments he would stand up and corral us both in that direction, but for now he only sat next to me under this steady pattering.

When it came time to go in, he stood up and looked at me. I wiped my glasses quickly and put them back on, my eyes readjusting to this grey half-light. He still had that teasing look, but somehow it had softened.

“Did you hear anything?” I asked. “I think raindrops carry secret messages.”

His dark brown eyes never left mine, quickly shifting from steady to a little jumpy, the sort when he made fun of me or the when he was nervous because words slipped out his mouth before he could stop them. “Really?”

When I nodded, he only said with a half-smile, “I hope you heard something important then.” As I stood up, in the space of one blink to another, I felt his hand brush my arm. Before long, he was ahead of me, his broad back growing smaller and smaller. I realized our shared silence was growing thinner by the moment and that neither of us were to blame. With this, I ran towards him, calling out his name with a smile. “It’s laughing!” I said. “The sky’s laughing at how weird we are!”

[2011] An Awful Middle

Softly the lilting of a tenor bleeds
into the space of her sinking absence.
Cobwebs, cloying, plaster to the insides
of his cheeks, his hands
full of cobweb hairs as grey
as the heavens when they met that
day, just as rainy, just as
quiet.

She sleeps, her head tucked
in his lap, lips parted with a breath
she never finished, like the letters
they ripped up, each heart
felt piece strewn across the floor
of this dollhouse that together
they loved in,
that together they
broke.

He took her into his arms,
she takes him up the stairway–
The book lies open to its
awful middle,
but they have long forgotten
tragic romances that never amounted
to the one written on this wall
paper.

[2010] An Abstract After Considering the Importance of Hygiene

I like to tear pieces of myself away
and send them off
on their own lyrical adventures,
in hopes that they will fare well
independent of the mother source,
the mother who could not keep them
because her heart only had room
for one.

I tell them they are repulsive,
a stain to who I am.
I pretend that I am right
but the truth is,
I want nothing more
than to keep them all
and find a way for the masses
to love me anyway.

The world collapses into itself,
yet will always explode anew,
like reciprocal functions across
this function known as
identity.

I won’t ever find the solution(s), will I?

[2010] Camera 4

The actor, a fresh face of twenty-six (so not really that fresh, but makeup artists knew their trade well) leaned against the peeling doorframe of classroom 116 as the lights came on and the cameramen adjusted the focus of their lenses to match the requested shots. He had his doubts about Camera #4. It seemed too far down, too far left. The director paused in his work on seeing the actor, and stared at him, questioning.

“What now, Mistah Hotshot?”

“I just think Camera 4 isn’t set right, Joe.”

“Lew, zip it boy-o. He’s jus’ makin’ yoah head look moah symmetrical, tha’s all. ‘Sides, we gotta hide that scah makeup for scene foahteen. Ey, getcha military pins all settled out,” he added and pointed to the leaning metal pins along the uniform’s lapel. The director muttered a ‘sheesh’ before skittering down the hallway at the beckoning of the producer’s snapping fingers.

Lew sighed, giving up the fight, ignored the squeezing in his chest,  and brought a hand up to his face, careful not to get any powder on his fingers.

Trivia fact #1: Sixty percent of the scars on his face was really makeup. They’d put that on the DVD later.
Trivia fact #2: It was actually eighteen percent. They’d leave that part out. You couldn’t be Hollywood’s new pretty boy with that stuff leaking out.
Trivia fact #3: He actually was a war vet. They had already released that one to the press.

He brought his arm down but the elbow nicked a poster on the wall. It clacked as it hit the ground. The words “All Quiet on the Western Front” demanded his attention in stenciled orange letters. A toy soldier, drowning in clear glue, pointed its rifle at him.

[2010] High Hunting

Startle my heart,
deliver it from its
discretion so it may
soar across the sky.
Gaze at it for a
moment, take in the way it
flutters at the presence of a
companion. Like a newborn,
yawning to the waking world,it
becomes cognizant of
what should be.
The world inundates
with hope, and this little heart
dives downward to
touch upon it. Take
careful note of where it will
move, wait until it reaches zenith once more.

Now shoot. Laugh
at how it
plummets to the dust and
chokes on the bullet.

I don’t know if I like this imperative point-of-view.

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