Something
To be real.
Not to catch a star
but to be only what you are.
No God
or Purple Phantom
can show you
until you know You,
the way you feel
without even a fly
in the room.
I used to believe
in a Galaxy
until it devoured me;
now I believe in
Something
that takes me from
the Northing.
It is not a thought,
it is without reason,
as is as natural
as the seasons
flowing
one into the other;
it is a whisper,
the falling of leaves,
my baby's breath
upon me -
The Child within
giving birth to its
Mother.
Horizon
The horizon is holding up the sun
shining as a floating torch upon the sea;
The moon is rising in the east
pale as a see-through disc
above the cliffs.
Time is now both night and day,
black and white exchange to grey
and the tide moves uncertainly between
a premature birth
and a lingering end
as the moment spreads into infinity
upon the pastel sands.
Pigs in Clothes
I don't like
dogs that talk
pigs in clothes
snakes that walk
Or
fish that know
which way the wind blows.
So baby
be real
be real baby
baby be real
with me.
Diane Laurie-Farmer: I was raised in Southern California and began drawing and writing at a young age. Being a child of the sixties, I was a flower child who took psychedelic drugs and went to Love Ins... By age 25 I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which has been a lifelong illness. Apparently the tendency to develop sz was there, but I believe the drugs pushed me over the edge. Through therapy and medications I was able to earn a bachelor's degree in psychology. I then worked as a behavioral therapist with autistic adolescent boys who had severe behavioral problems. This was a rewarding and interesting job. However, my husband and I moved to Northern California, leaving our old lives, friends and family behind. I had a hard time adjusting to our new environment, but I'm now doing better and back in school studying computer networking
Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena
Thursday, March 01, 2001
David Ruslander
Soundless As Dots
"Soundless as dots--on a Disc of Snow-" *
I stood with hood up, galoshes unbuckled
and my navy blue knitted mitten outstretched
to catch snowflakes as I waited for you at the corner.
The soundless dots covered the wool like
the milky way covers the night sky.
What mystified me was not the snowflakes
but rather the spaces within them.
For the first time I saw space instead of shape.
Slowly the snow transformed to water droplets.
My toes began to ache.
Why didn't you meet me
at the corner like you promised?
*Emily Dickinson
Grandfather Davis
Lamb's wool graces his head.
It's a porch-sitting kind of day.
Invited by his metal fanned-back chair, he sits.
Only content silver backs still enjoy the porch.
Brown eyes still sharp and bright.
Veins protrude from his lanky arms and temples.
Long thin fingers clasp loosely in his lap, he reflects.
He has grown accustomed to his less able body.
His small vegetable garden weeded for the day
and all the produce nurtured to ripen.
Sheets flapping in the sunny breeze send
clean laundry smell to his nose.
His wife Vera from 50 years ago floats to him.
Eyelids heavy, his head nods for an afternoon nap.
A pleasant memory returns to the ether
to be captured on another porch-sitting kind of day.
Tangerine Morning
Today is a mild tangerine morning.
Peasant women stoop and brush
the night away with stick brooms.
Maids soothe crying crickets
as they light their laundry pyre.
Cauldrons of steamed laundry
paint clouds on the sky
Mourning doves pray night's return.
White faced Geisha hobble down cobblestones,
bow at each other in still perfect kimonos
until they arrive home to rest, before lessons.
Silk rustles with the flowers in the morning breeze.
Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena
"Soundless as dots--on a Disc of Snow-" *
I stood with hood up, galoshes unbuckled
and my navy blue knitted mitten outstretched
to catch snowflakes as I waited for you at the corner.
The soundless dots covered the wool like
the milky way covers the night sky.
What mystified me was not the snowflakes
but rather the spaces within them.
For the first time I saw space instead of shape.
Slowly the snow transformed to water droplets.
My toes began to ache.
Why didn't you meet me
at the corner like you promised?
*Emily Dickinson
Grandfather Davis
Lamb's wool graces his head.
It's a porch-sitting kind of day.
Invited by his metal fanned-back chair, he sits.
Only content silver backs still enjoy the porch.
Brown eyes still sharp and bright.
Veins protrude from his lanky arms and temples.
Long thin fingers clasp loosely in his lap, he reflects.
He has grown accustomed to his less able body.
His small vegetable garden weeded for the day
and all the produce nurtured to ripen.
Sheets flapping in the sunny breeze send
clean laundry smell to his nose.
His wife Vera from 50 years ago floats to him.
Eyelids heavy, his head nods for an afternoon nap.
A pleasant memory returns to the ether
to be captured on another porch-sitting kind of day.
Tangerine Morning
Today is a mild tangerine morning.
Peasant women stoop and brush
the night away with stick brooms.
Maids soothe crying crickets
as they light their laundry pyre.
Cauldrons of steamed laundry
paint clouds on the sky
Mourning doves pray night's return.
White faced Geisha hobble down cobblestones,
bow at each other in still perfect kimonos
until they arrive home to rest, before lessons.
Silk rustles with the flowers in the morning breeze.
Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena
Helena
Waking
nothing more soothing, I was lost in embryonic sleep
and I woke to surmount clarity and wounds too deep
everything lighted up and blinded my grey eyes
I slipped into the funnel to far-gone azure skies.
to be a mother of a thousand breaths was a feeling
that throbbed under the skin and veins so healing
bringing forth in code works the somehow lost notion
of the cycle and the responsibility to its bounding motion.
we are pressed to the floor by ice shards from the waste land
i saw that I am your fingers and you have become my hand
dreams have faces that only on occasion will be divine
and these occasions will set a theory that I can enshrine.
Notes
It's been an eagle-day.
And people were scratching
their heads,
I got a cold from walking around
moving from place to place,
sleeping on wet clothes.
But that's a while ago now.
Now I sit in my warm room.
I've scrubbed too many floors with
the same water.
Well, I don't think you want
to throw up the expensive medicine.
See, I am not bothered by
such things, that was all
he said…
…there goes the days.
The Field
Like brave new children
jumping about
on the field that's the
end of the world,
they are just playing
in the sun
making fires
burning young love
into the very last air
Well, I have been blind
because this is the first
time I see how the end
looks like and it's a place
where I'd like to stay and
only because I know my
hands will be warm and
the air will be fresh
on the field
The field is endless
as a fargone asylum
made to fill the empty
hole of clean morning air
inside
the hole where I am
aloof
Helena: I was born in 1983. I live in Copenhagen, Denmark where I am studying (high school).
Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena
nothing more soothing, I was lost in embryonic sleep
and I woke to surmount clarity and wounds too deep
everything lighted up and blinded my grey eyes
I slipped into the funnel to far-gone azure skies.
to be a mother of a thousand breaths was a feeling
that throbbed under the skin and veins so healing
bringing forth in code works the somehow lost notion
of the cycle and the responsibility to its bounding motion.
we are pressed to the floor by ice shards from the waste land
i saw that I am your fingers and you have become my hand
dreams have faces that only on occasion will be divine
and these occasions will set a theory that I can enshrine.
Notes
It's been an eagle-day.
And people were scratching
their heads,
I got a cold from walking around
moving from place to place,
sleeping on wet clothes.
But that's a while ago now.
Now I sit in my warm room.
I've scrubbed too many floors with
the same water.
Well, I don't think you want
to throw up the expensive medicine.
See, I am not bothered by
such things, that was all
he said…
…there goes the days.
The Field
Like brave new children
jumping about
on the field that's the
end of the world,
they are just playing
in the sun
making fires
burning young love
into the very last air
Well, I have been blind
because this is the first
time I see how the end
looks like and it's a place
where I'd like to stay and
only because I know my
hands will be warm and
the air will be fresh
on the field
The field is endless
as a fargone asylum
made to fill the empty
hole of clean morning air
inside
the hole where I am
aloof
Helena: I was born in 1983. I live in Copenhagen, Denmark where I am studying (high school).
Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena
Friday, September 01, 2000
C.E. Chaffin
With Her Fog, Her Amphetamines, and Her Pearls
But she breaks just like a little girl. --
Bob Dylan
Twice you've asked me to leave.
This third time, uttered groggy
and forgetful from a hospital bed,
incensed that you're still alive, almost succeeds.
How glad I am you chose the wrong pills!
How glad I am they found you in the forest!
Yet you are more bitter than the taste of morphine
at how you failed at this, your final failure.
Now I see how you squeezed your eyes
harder than God shut your ears. This is not
a judgment but an observation-- I keep repeating this--
I thought the deaf saw more.
Your sainted dad's an alcoholic
and your noble husband beat you--
you never mentioned it. In AA there's a saying,
"Your secrets will kill you." Yours almost did
but you are now exposed, your pale moon
near full behind the flapping borders
of your hospital gown, blue print-on-white,
(thank God!) not rose-tinted black.
A Dying Fall
Blessed are the deaf asleep.
Sleeping, they hear; hearing, they know.
Knowing, they cannot explain
why their music is always in color.
Do not disturb their snoring,
it is their passionate breath.
Do not wake them to this
strange world of silence
But touch their honeyed skin;
hear the descending submarines.
The Dumpster
This is your dumpster, beaten by usage,
misshapenly blue, blotched with rust
though resilient as steel, still serviceable enough
to mount on a truck.
Throw in what you can bear,
the broken torso of his vision of you
in clay and wire, the discarded water heater
and the towing chains.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Throw in your father
who departed for the eternal suburbs
in a fit of gradual senescence;
throw in your golden retriever,
arthritic and blind, who needs a boost
to stand, christened "Sunny"
for his excellent temperament.
Throw in the plastic tarpaulins
that shield what feeds on darkness,
spore and fungi, throw in
the bitter pomegranate,
the purifying hyssop,
the man-shaped mandrake,
the hemlock and the yew,
all wilted keels of earth's
imaginary boat propelled by tears.
Throw in your confidence, your job,
your mother bearing bad news of your birth,
the striving to acquit yourself
persistently more equal than
those spared your handicap.
Throw in the cigarettes that killed your husband
(though you still smoke two packs a day),
throw in the blackened chest
that housed his far-seeing eye.
Throw in your only child,
the empty fuel can begging fire.
Pile it on a camel (one hump for each Testament),
send it into the desert
to empty you of that emptiness
beyond hope and reason.
Epilogue
Imagine you own nothing--
your body is rented, for instance,
your mind borrowed.
Though all your suffering is real,
you are not your suffering;
your losses cannot destroy you
nor your gains restore you.
Gather love's souvenirs
into a necklace of pain;
when you bless the seasnakes unawares
you will know the weight of it--
Let go!
C.E. Chaffin's first book of poems, Elementary, was published in 1997 by the Mellen Press, available through Amazon.com. He edits the online literary journal, Melic Review, and has been widely published on the web and in print. He lives in Long Beach, CA, with his three daughters, and is presently on disability for psychiatric illness and chronic spinal pain.
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
But she breaks just like a little girl. --
Bob Dylan
Twice you've asked me to leave.
This third time, uttered groggy
and forgetful from a hospital bed,
incensed that you're still alive, almost succeeds.
How glad I am you chose the wrong pills!
How glad I am they found you in the forest!
Yet you are more bitter than the taste of morphine
at how you failed at this, your final failure.
Now I see how you squeezed your eyes
harder than God shut your ears. This is not
a judgment but an observation-- I keep repeating this--
I thought the deaf saw more.
Your sainted dad's an alcoholic
and your noble husband beat you--
you never mentioned it. In AA there's a saying,
"Your secrets will kill you." Yours almost did
but you are now exposed, your pale moon
near full behind the flapping borders
of your hospital gown, blue print-on-white,
(thank God!) not rose-tinted black.
A Dying Fall
Blessed are the deaf asleep.
Sleeping, they hear; hearing, they know.
Knowing, they cannot explain
why their music is always in color.
Do not disturb their snoring,
it is their passionate breath.
Do not wake them to this
strange world of silence
But touch their honeyed skin;
hear the descending submarines.
The Dumpster
This is your dumpster, beaten by usage,
misshapenly blue, blotched with rust
though resilient as steel, still serviceable enough
to mount on a truck.
Throw in what you can bear,
the broken torso of his vision of you
in clay and wire, the discarded water heater
and the towing chains.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Throw in your father
who departed for the eternal suburbs
in a fit of gradual senescence;
throw in your golden retriever,
arthritic and blind, who needs a boost
to stand, christened "Sunny"
for his excellent temperament.
Throw in the plastic tarpaulins
that shield what feeds on darkness,
spore and fungi, throw in
the bitter pomegranate,
the purifying hyssop,
the man-shaped mandrake,
the hemlock and the yew,
all wilted keels of earth's
imaginary boat propelled by tears.
Throw in your confidence, your job,
your mother bearing bad news of your birth,
the striving to acquit yourself
persistently more equal than
those spared your handicap.
Throw in the cigarettes that killed your husband
(though you still smoke two packs a day),
throw in the blackened chest
that housed his far-seeing eye.
Throw in your only child,
the empty fuel can begging fire.
Pile it on a camel (one hump for each Testament),
send it into the desert
to empty you of that emptiness
beyond hope and reason.
Epilogue
Imagine you own nothing--
your body is rented, for instance,
your mind borrowed.
Though all your suffering is real,
you are not your suffering;
your losses cannot destroy you
nor your gains restore you.
Gather love's souvenirs
into a necklace of pain;
when you bless the seasnakes unawares
you will know the weight of it--
Let go!
C.E. Chaffin's first book of poems, Elementary, was published in 1997 by the Mellen Press, available through Amazon.com. He edits the online literary journal, Melic Review, and has been widely published on the web and in print. He lives in Long Beach, CA, with his three daughters, and is presently on disability for psychiatric illness and chronic spinal pain.
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Sam Vaknin
Prague At Dusk
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
Sally Ann
I wrote, Sally Ann, I wrote:
Shot from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Course set.
Explosive clouds that mark
your video destination.
Experts interpret,
pricking with laser markers,
inflated dialects
of doom.
Hitting the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
The molten ashes,
the cold metallic remnants,
the core...
A peace accord
between you and your self.
Narcissism
The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
A Hundred Children
Tell me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of barefeet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
you gave
and you received.
Sit down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I am among them.
Sam Vaknin: I suffer from a few personality disorders. I am the author of "Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited"
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
Sally Ann
I wrote, Sally Ann, I wrote:
Shot from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Course set.
Explosive clouds that mark
your video destination.
Experts interpret,
pricking with laser markers,
inflated dialects
of doom.
Hitting the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
The molten ashes,
the cold metallic remnants,
the core...
A peace accord
between you and your self.
Narcissism
The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
A Hundred Children
Tell me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of barefeet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
you gave
and you received.
Sit down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I am among them.
Sam Vaknin: I suffer from a few personality disorders. I am the author of "Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited"
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Dottieann Stucko
Vegetation
Plant legs and arms
the arms that soak in Life
choke the light until the eyes grow tight
and the mind becomes hazy
when that mind projects the Whole Being
without disgust, the cell divides
and unplugs the entire thought
Desire and React
give the fibers a chance at motion
The Drive
Not in soul In Mine
if you were by my side
by my current holding hand too tight
now watch her painted frozen face
be taken to a secret place
touch them
hold them
lose them
is this contest a challenge
to question SELF control
With the acceptance of humanity
I lost their remarks
and began to feed the sharks that told
Valerie
I remember when she said I think I'm loaded. I think I'm loaded.
and it was the she moaned this it was the way that it
was sent to me fever and sweat dancing maybe it is Your
running
a pity on the idea that I have no idea what I am doing
there, there instead of releasing the sweaters Pile on more
labels and sets now now moan and take the sweater off
there are so many corners and a voice will never answer even if
the voice is offered will it ever be given and this could be a
Switch
the paint is given when it is said lay the medium on quick
and never look back forget the tongue and tape
certain ills the only wish I wish
Is without perfume the perfume on the
inside of your elbow a fallen leg could be a strategic maneuver
but it wouldn't belong to me
Dottieann Stucko: I am a 22 year old art student from Chicago majoring in painting. I'm also interested in music and writing. Last year I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Some of my influences are Lawrence Ferlinghetti, William S. Burroughs, Egon Schiele, Sonic Youth and Scratch Acid.
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Plant legs and arms
the arms that soak in Life
choke the light until the eyes grow tight
and the mind becomes hazy
when that mind projects the Whole Being
without disgust, the cell divides
and unplugs the entire thought
Desire and React
give the fibers a chance at motion
The Drive
Not in soul In Mine
if you were by my side
by my current holding hand too tight
now watch her painted frozen face
be taken to a secret place
touch them
hold them
lose them
is this contest a challenge
to question SELF control
With the acceptance of humanity
I lost their remarks
and began to feed the sharks that told
Valerie
I remember when she said I think I'm loaded. I think I'm loaded.
and it was the she moaned this it was the way that it
was sent to me fever and sweat dancing maybe it is Your
running
a pity on the idea that I have no idea what I am doing
there, there instead of releasing the sweaters Pile on more
labels and sets now now moan and take the sweater off
there are so many corners and a voice will never answer even if
the voice is offered will it ever be given and this could be a
Switch
the paint is given when it is said lay the medium on quick
and never look back forget the tongue and tape
certain ills the only wish I wish
Is without perfume the perfume on the
inside of your elbow a fallen leg could be a strategic maneuver
but it wouldn't belong to me
Dottieann Stucko: I am a 22 year old art student from Chicago majoring in painting. I'm also interested in music and writing. Last year I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Some of my influences are Lawrence Ferlinghetti, William S. Burroughs, Egon Schiele, Sonic Youth and Scratch Acid.
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Dave Benson
The day arced in, thieves of light,
and no one explained themselves.
The differentia was apparent--
It was a soul kiss, a festal way
of seeing. These narcissi, how
How beautiful. Just to notice
things: Diapason of bird
call, thread of babbling
brook. Not to take aim,
not to.
Breathing
Breathing breaks the distance-
my grasp of the evening,
the shape of my blood-
the fall of light.
The window is open
to gulls crying the
falling light.
Soon
it will be dark,
knit with eyes;
an autumnal tangle
of whispers
Spit
Spit. Look in the mirror.
You are the last leper of Saint-Lazare.
You are time slowing down, lonely as falling snow.
Look into these eyes.
Figure you're in there.
Spooky.
Kiss of the waters.
Close your eyes.
Remember running barefoot through the snow.
Relax. God kisses your feet.
The trees get more, your breath explodes
into clouds of vapor that twitch and strive
like animals rejecting sleep.
Tonight you marry the moon.
Your progress is blind, your eyes are closed,
you crash through the underbrush. Your eyes are
closed.
You forget to breathe for two full minutes.
Saplings beat at your body like truncheons. You know the truth.
You're on your back, laughing. Blood bubbles in your throat,
the taste of iron, spluttering helplessly, your lips a garish red no
one can see.
Close the scene. Spit.
The sun is the song of medieval girls,
it is hidden behind clouds.
It is luck in the fireplace,
glowing, hammering dulcimer
into atmosphere.
We kiss her, though she dies.
Dave Benson, NJ USA. 28, soon to be student again. I'd just like to say that mental illness is a way of life...no, seriously...anxiety, with occasionally severe panic...depression that cycles between minor and major...anyway. I've never been comfortable with the idea of being mentally ill, although i know i am. I guess the question is, especially in the arts, where do you draw the line, and why do you feel the need to draw it?
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
and no one explained themselves.
The differentia was apparent--
It was a soul kiss, a festal way
of seeing. These narcissi, how
How beautiful. Just to notice
things: Diapason of bird
call, thread of babbling
brook. Not to take aim,
not to.
Breathing
Breathing breaks the distance-
my grasp of the evening,
the shape of my blood-
the fall of light.
The window is open
to gulls crying the
falling light.
Soon
it will be dark,
knit with eyes;
an autumnal tangle
of whispers
Spit
Spit. Look in the mirror.
You are the last leper of Saint-Lazare.
You are time slowing down, lonely as falling snow.
Look into these eyes.
Figure you're in there.
Spooky.
Kiss of the waters.
Close your eyes.
Remember running barefoot through the snow.
Relax. God kisses your feet.
The trees get more, your breath explodes
into clouds of vapor that twitch and strive
like animals rejecting sleep.
Tonight you marry the moon.
Your progress is blind, your eyes are closed,
you crash through the underbrush. Your eyes are
closed.
You forget to breathe for two full minutes.
Saplings beat at your body like truncheons. You know the truth.
You're on your back, laughing. Blood bubbles in your throat,
the taste of iron, spluttering helplessly, your lips a garish red no
one can see.
Close the scene. Spit.
The sun is the song of medieval girls,
it is hidden behind clouds.
It is luck in the fireplace,
glowing, hammering dulcimer
into atmosphere.
We kiss her, though she dies.
Dave Benson, NJ USA. 28, soon to be student again. I'd just like to say that mental illness is a way of life...no, seriously...anxiety, with occasionally severe panic...depression that cycles between minor and major...anyway. I've never been comfortable with the idea of being mentally ill, although i know i am. I guess the question is, especially in the arts, where do you draw the line, and why do you feel the need to draw it?
C. E. Chaffin Sam Vaknin Dottieann Stucko Dave Benson
Thursday, June 01, 2000
Melissa Marino
Six Rules to Live, Love, and Die By
Bodies warm with the still-sweet memory of dreams
I roll over towards you -- half asleep --
My reach: tentative and guarded.
In your waking, you somehow perceive the impending threat,
roll away, and rise -- never looking back --
leaving me grasping
at the empty space that you used to occupy.
I lower my hand,
my fingertips tracing the ghost-shape
that you've left in the sheets,
as I watch you stride away
leaving only your fading warmth to soothe me.
~ There will be no lingering.
Skirting around the periphery of one-another,
we go about our separate, disentangled existences
the illusion of our familiarity threadbare and tenuous,
like a transparent cloak of invisibility,
as we ride together in silence, our faces peering out
on our own, individual landscapes.
I turn my head further towards the glass
feigning interest in the nondescript, flavorless scenery,
so you won't see the tears
and we drive,
the thirteen-inch span between us:
an infertile, long-dead wasteland
that neither one of us has the will or courage to cross.
Then, in a stone-still, breath-holding moment,
you reach for me, and I mentally race your hand to my face
where I imagine its sensitive, warm caress
on my cheek -- with one loving touch --
saying all of the things that we've no words for,
and you grin, and grab my breast for a friendly little squeeze.
~ There will be no tenderness.
We play footsie with reality
talking about the paths that we've chosen to travel,
while we avoid, at all costs,
even one truthful word about what brought us here.
We pretend that we're the greatest of friends
sharing our triumphs, tribulations,
fleeting moments of fame and conquests in love,
all the while, acutely aware of when, exactly,
we should insert the appropriate smile
or congratulatory pat on the back,
giving Oscar-worthy, flawless performances
with every mouth full of lies that we choke upon.
We choose silence over serious discourse,
the echoes of conversations long-dead, loud in our ears,
and when the silence becomes unbearable,
we veil our distress in laughter
each joke ensuring that the last laugh is on us.
~ There will be no communication.
Hour-upon-hour,
we voluntarily occupy one-another's space,
settling for "something" rather than "nothing",
and, you become the visitor that you are attempting to portray,
decked out in all of your finest visitor dress, "just so".
You say "excuse me" when we pass too closely,
put the seat down,
and pick your socks up off the floor.
We discuss our jobs, our futures,
the weather and your wife,
and, when we fuck, you close your eyes.
I'd rather you leave your socks on the floor.
~ There will be no remembering.
Balanced upon the precarious ledge called "suicide"
we resist jumping, out of fear, and, also because
to do nothing at all still ensures death
as an eventuality.
"I'd like to linger when I die", you say in jest,
not realizing that the joke's on you.
You're already dying. We both are.
The difference is,
you just don't know it, yet.
~ There will be no redemption.
Know the rules before you agree to play the game.
~ There will be no refunds.
Poem for February
Ardour seeps
From a cracked ventricle,
Soaking the frosted ground
With it's caustic potion.
And once, the veins
Of these pressed petals
Swelled with dew,
Until their essence was blotted
In some candied chapter.
Now the demi-hearted
Winter sun washes discordantly
Over my seashell
Like a frigid lamp;
So flamy through the trees,
So harsh a hue against
The still, anemic landscape.
It tears in my eyes an awful wound.
Something rattles about in the bowl, a pearl.
Absence has not kept us apart.
Love Song for Him (thank You T.S. Thank You)
I finally dumped J Alfred when
you first asked to make love to my mind
suddenly, there was something
in that nada of my thoughts ... and
i found you bending wire into wings
strong wings, soft wings.
and i almost closed my eyes then.
there was just too much beauty.
you asked me why i look at you,
and what word could
i entertain?
someone drew your face into a photograph
that i carry within my heart
that only knows your eyes
asking to make love to my soul
there's no bloodletting required,
im open and absorbing
your dance is potent,
setting nietzsche's cows to pasture and
opening the windows to
midnight.
i exhaled the last breath of
childhood
when you asked to make love to my body
those folds are peppermint to the
pasteboard of my woman box
opening to you,
you hold one of the great mysteries of
life in the palm of your hand.
while the women came and went
talking of ordinary things,
you were not one of them
Melissa Marino: I was born in Warren, Michigan. I have a BS in biology and biochemistry and am working toward getting my phd in developmental biology. I have been an active writer for the past 7 years, everything from poetry to prose, to non-fiction pieces. I don't think I ever made a decision to write, I just feel that I need to. I am what most people would call a 'self-hater'. I cut, burn, starve, binge, and bleed myself. I suffer from occassional bouts of servere depression, flanked by self injury. Through all my years of hurt, and ‘treatment', writing has always been there to kill the pain.
Melissa Marino Shayne Walls David Ruslander Peter Timusk John Exell
Bodies warm with the still-sweet memory of dreams
I roll over towards you -- half asleep --
My reach: tentative and guarded.
In your waking, you somehow perceive the impending threat,
roll away, and rise -- never looking back --
leaving me grasping
at the empty space that you used to occupy.
I lower my hand,
my fingertips tracing the ghost-shape
that you've left in the sheets,
as I watch you stride away
leaving only your fading warmth to soothe me.
~ There will be no lingering.
Skirting around the periphery of one-another,
we go about our separate, disentangled existences
the illusion of our familiarity threadbare and tenuous,
like a transparent cloak of invisibility,
as we ride together in silence, our faces peering out
on our own, individual landscapes.
I turn my head further towards the glass
feigning interest in the nondescript, flavorless scenery,
so you won't see the tears
and we drive,
the thirteen-inch span between us:
an infertile, long-dead wasteland
that neither one of us has the will or courage to cross.
Then, in a stone-still, breath-holding moment,
you reach for me, and I mentally race your hand to my face
where I imagine its sensitive, warm caress
on my cheek -- with one loving touch --
saying all of the things that we've no words for,
and you grin, and grab my breast for a friendly little squeeze.
~ There will be no tenderness.
We play footsie with reality
talking about the paths that we've chosen to travel,
while we avoid, at all costs,
even one truthful word about what brought us here.
We pretend that we're the greatest of friends
sharing our triumphs, tribulations,
fleeting moments of fame and conquests in love,
all the while, acutely aware of when, exactly,
we should insert the appropriate smile
or congratulatory pat on the back,
giving Oscar-worthy, flawless performances
with every mouth full of lies that we choke upon.
We choose silence over serious discourse,
the echoes of conversations long-dead, loud in our ears,
and when the silence becomes unbearable,
we veil our distress in laughter
each joke ensuring that the last laugh is on us.
~ There will be no communication.
Hour-upon-hour,
we voluntarily occupy one-another's space,
settling for "something" rather than "nothing",
and, you become the visitor that you are attempting to portray,
decked out in all of your finest visitor dress, "just so".
You say "excuse me" when we pass too closely,
put the seat down,
and pick your socks up off the floor.
We discuss our jobs, our futures,
the weather and your wife,
and, when we fuck, you close your eyes.
I'd rather you leave your socks on the floor.
~ There will be no remembering.
Balanced upon the precarious ledge called "suicide"
we resist jumping, out of fear, and, also because
to do nothing at all still ensures death
as an eventuality.
"I'd like to linger when I die", you say in jest,
not realizing that the joke's on you.
You're already dying. We both are.
The difference is,
you just don't know it, yet.
~ There will be no redemption.
Know the rules before you agree to play the game.
~ There will be no refunds.
Poem for February
Ardour seeps
From a cracked ventricle,
Soaking the frosted ground
With it's caustic potion.
And once, the veins
Of these pressed petals
Swelled with dew,
Until their essence was blotted
In some candied chapter.
Now the demi-hearted
Winter sun washes discordantly
Over my seashell
Like a frigid lamp;
So flamy through the trees,
So harsh a hue against
The still, anemic landscape.
It tears in my eyes an awful wound.
Something rattles about in the bowl, a pearl.
Absence has not kept us apart.
Love Song for Him (thank You T.S. Thank You)
I finally dumped J Alfred when
you first asked to make love to my mind
suddenly, there was something
in that nada of my thoughts ... and
i found you bending wire into wings
strong wings, soft wings.
and i almost closed my eyes then.
there was just too much beauty.
you asked me why i look at you,
and what word could
i entertain?
someone drew your face into a photograph
that i carry within my heart
that only knows your eyes
asking to make love to my soul
there's no bloodletting required,
im open and absorbing
your dance is potent,
setting nietzsche's cows to pasture and
opening the windows to
midnight.
i exhaled the last breath of
childhood
when you asked to make love to my body
those folds are peppermint to the
pasteboard of my woman box
opening to you,
you hold one of the great mysteries of
life in the palm of your hand.
while the women came and went
talking of ordinary things,
you were not one of them
Melissa Marino: I was born in Warren, Michigan. I have a BS in biology and biochemistry and am working toward getting my phd in developmental biology. I have been an active writer for the past 7 years, everything from poetry to prose, to non-fiction pieces. I don't think I ever made a decision to write, I just feel that I need to. I am what most people would call a 'self-hater'. I cut, burn, starve, binge, and bleed myself. I suffer from occassional bouts of servere depression, flanked by self injury. Through all my years of hurt, and ‘treatment', writing has always been there to kill the pain.
Melissa Marino Shayne Walls David Ruslander Peter Timusk John Exell