For Maya, The Woman Who Lived

I don't know why I cry for Maya, but I do. She has had a long and difficult life, its beginning fraught with prejudice, it middle years of struggle; its end of peace. When I think of her, she is like a mixture of the three, and yet somehow towering above it, strong and wise, enduring. 

I don't know why I cry for Maya, the woman who lived. Perhaps there are some tears of joy for knowing her. Perhaps those are tears of sorrow for not knowing. 

Perhaps I cry thanks to Maya, the woman who lived. 

Love Liberates

The Detached - Maya Angelou {All Rights Reserved, taken from Poemhunter}

We die, 

Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets, 

Stranglers to our outstretched necks, 

Stranglers, who neither care nor

care to know that

DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray, 

Savoring sweet the teethed lies, 

Bellying the grounds before alien gods, 

Gods, who neither know nor

wish to know that

HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love, 

Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands, 

Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses, 

Kisses that neither touch nor

care to touch if

LOVE IS INTERNAL.

Shower Time

I tried to die,
I told my heart to stop,
Today, as the water washed over flesh,
Seemingly warm, sensually cold.
But my valve wouldn't stop
(though it did deign to slow)
As I cried and I begged it for boon.
"Let it go", I pleaded,
"get some rest", I did try.
For a minute or two,
I thought there was hope,
For the dimness was suddenly fresh;
And I thought that I saw,
Though it shimmered and sparkled,
A silence profound in my head.
And there were no voices,
Only water keeps running,
Keeps running all over my head.
And for one single instant
(it may have been two)
There was peace and serenity too.
But the voices returned,
The breath, it resumed,
And so did I, gasping for air.
And the moment, it passed,
And I still remain,
And all for a valve and a voice in my head,
And a memory that never was there.

Unnamed 0

I don't mind that I can't sing,

Can’t carry a tune;

I don't mind that I can't dance,

I don't mind that I don't smile;

The last I laughed was months ago

Though it seems like years.

I don't mind the falling hair,

My hands more bone than flesh;

I don't mind the headaches,

The bitter nausea in my mouth;

I don't mind the blurry vision,

The fact I can't quite hear;

I don't mind that I don't mind

Or can't remember who I am;

I don't mind the pain when I think of you,

Mistakes I've made so gross they trade their place with me;

I don't mind the job,

I don't mind the wage;

I don't mind the small bedroom

Covered in dust and ruins;

I don't mind the politics,

I don't mind the ban;

I don't mind the music,

I don't mind that I don't write anymore,

I don't mind that I'll never know or find out,

I don't mind the fright,

I don't mind the quiet,

I don't mind the noise,

I don't mind the voices in my head

No, I don't mind at all

They say there is a meaning

They say they call it love

But I don't mind believing

That there never was.

The Lonely Mariner

Another year, another drink,
A little closer to the brink,
I stumble slowly on this ship,
Hesitant to find a grip
,Flapping wild hands with care
Lest accomplish what I dare,
To forsake this dire crew
And step into the sea, askew.

And there I'll walk or maybe swim,
Dipping fully in the dream;
Crossing paths with stars and clowns,
Rubbing nose with those who drowned,
Free to roam the land below,
Mermen, crabs and ghosts in tow;
O, such a cheery entourage we'll be,
Down there, below the sea.

But the air here, it grows thick,
As I pour myself another drink,
The crew rebels and then lays waste
To whatever left, emblazed;
And I remain, all tattered chains,
Linked to rudder and the reins,
To sail this broken ship once more
And to dream of distant shores.

A Self Portrait

I saw death today;
Ever present, it was missing from
The dying man's eyes;
Nor was it noticed upon the wild
Creases of his face.

Paralysis gripped him
And me.

I saw death today,
But it wasn't the wheelchair
That betrayed it;
Nor the argent splinters still clinging to
The forgetful scalp.
It was in me,
Remembering, seeing, hearing, feeling --
Naught.

Tourists Through Eternity

Every day I go over my lists
Trying to figure out who I have missed;
So many names still waiting and still,
So many confirmed on arrival by quill.
Some running towards me with arms open wide,
Imagining a haven beyond my reaching stride;
The humans below tend to help quite a lot,
Kin and strangers tied in a knot;
How strange and confined do they all seem
When o' so vainly they're trying to deem:
Is it oblivion that they seek?
Or maybe good ol' eternity's chic?

Once in a while I go through the names
Of those I remember, of those with the flames,
I smile at their folly and cry with their souls
Endless potential there crashed on my shoals;
But for those who still wonder, for those who still care,
Let me tell you a secret, if you're willing to dare:
Everyday I hum with the spirits their life's joy
Sorrow hereafter unwilling to share nor destroy;
The music at heart is the sound of the babe,
The cry of the mother, do not be afraid.

This post is dedicated to Spencer Bell and to all those who have passed by, tourists hurrying elsewhere, taking and giving worlds filled with love.

Check out Spencer Bell on his last.fm and MySpace and beautiful memorial site.

Spencer Bell - Tourist {MP3} (from Feudal, Brutal, and the American Dream)

Darwin Day

One thing leads to another,
The joke long foretold so presumed;
The grandest design is no bother,
Or the mutated truth so assumed;
Tradition, religion directed to smother,
Progenitor hidden yet loomed;
The court then denied it and rather
Would have poor Charlie exhumed.

Happy Darwin Day!

As a treat to cover the horrible thing scribbled above, here's an interesting article in The New York Times to better convey the appreciation to Darwin and on the musical side, here's someone of more artistic worth. Check out Nashville, Tennessee's indie singer-songwriter Emily Harris on MySpace and last.fm for more tracks and updates.

Emily Harris - Living in Moscow {MP3} (from Elephant Angelfish the Musical)

Featured Artist: Johnny Flynn

Being a folk singer-songwriter and an actor can be quite useful, especially when you perform in your own video clips. When you add being a poet to the mix, things can be quite complex.

Johnny Flynn seems to handle it all quite brilliantly. On the more recent videos you might think all he does is play and act, but it's enough to be in one of his live gigs or see his Black Cab session to know that he's for real.

In his official debut LP "A Larum", which was preceded by several EPs, Flynn manages to be true to himself and his music, delivering energetic and vibrant melodies and songs. The poetic element is also present, supporting the feeling that this is a soundtrack for a life's journey, an ongoing self-aware and joyous adventure. Citing Yeats and Shakespeare as influence may be a bit pretentious is most cases, but not in this one. Johnny Flynn may yet have a long way to go.

Check his last.fm pages (also under Johnny Flynn & The Sussex Wit), MySpace and personal site for updates, streamable songs and poetry.


Johnny Flynn - The Box (from A Larum)


Johnny Flynn - Brown Trout Blues (from A Larum)

My Gift Of Selfish Rain: Imperfectly

My Gift Of Selfish Rain: Imperfectly

My muse seems to be on an extended holiday these days, but I hope to call her back by reading creative and mysterious poems such as this.

Incoming Lull

It is quiet now;
That peace that was allotted to us continues to elude,
Elusive in its path, it's elucidating the eco-systems of our lives:
An intermingled puzzle of duty, denial and derivatives
So cunningly contrived as to demand its own object of belief
And so alarmingly complex as to register as unity.
But I know the storm is coming,
I feel the currents in the air;
And though throughout the tension's rising
It is in peace I find despair.

For Kant

Is language the true barrier? Then why don't I write?
If thought is its own pretense, why does it delight?
Who am I to think me changed? The former or the latter?
And why is it so hard to keep myself from scatter?
Is Kant's frame enough or is it too little?
How can I go into this in any great detail?
"Sapere Aude!" he exclaimed,
And are the rest of us condemned?
The categories are our judges,
Juries quick in there to find us,
Human beast or Human being?
What is thought? What is meaning?
Verdict accepted and denied,
On time's anathema's we must glide,
Seeking no substance but our own,
To transcend that we had grown.


On a personal note: grow up, don't grow old.

Travelling Without Moving

I hear the distant rumble,
The dusk sky seem so bland,
Quiet in this weary breeze
Of a long afternoon.

It is coming!
No need to place my ear against the dry soil;
The itch has finally caught on,
Catching wild fire at the remnants of my heart,
Captured in that endless struggle between hope and peace.

The calling is within, now perhaps more than without,
A silent reminder of what never was,
As it slips its thorny caress around my breast,
My nakedness bathed in blues and crimsons,
I lie awake, awaiting the tomorrows.

The caravan, long delayed,
Still echoes its slow wheels,
Those chrome tinted spokes of promise,
Crushing underneath a yellow road afield,
Landing at the appointed gate until dawn.

For morning brings the crystal quality of dread,
That wanton old faithful,
And pondering remains, as I greet the new sun,
Where is my pilgrimage setting? How many roads?

The Invasion (a methodical pause)

I've scribbled this silly little ditty for Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompt on the topic of "Invasion". It's not surprisingly titled: "The Invasion".

I was there the night they came,
I searched they sky, I saw their plane;
Its form seemed to wildly shine
As it disgorged those conquerors of mine.

Look over yonder, behold their hair!
I cannot help but dare to stare,
The atmosphere suddenly electrified
And their presence there intensified.

I told Parker, and he could not believe:
"This is our time, our time to live!"
But even we, poor boys, had no clue
When we saw the British through.

Keeper of the Hollowed Tome

The empty pages are much sought after
(As the stain of steely ink does offer):
They keep our lore folded crisp
Lest recollection tend to lisp,
And future pass distorted truth
Limiting enlightened sooth,
Filling young with fancied notions,
Watch their heads! Their frantic motions!

Away with you, chars of black -
Let us not in this task grow slack,
The pictures tell a thousand words
Of plebs and snakes and mighty lords
Blessings, curses, all combine
In this sacred valentine -
Bloody language there to smear
an arc wide - and simply - disappear.

Not a Haiku

The leaves rustle softly,
Trees whisper in idiosyncrasy
And the brilliant shadow approaches.
I murmur angrily,
Clasping my good eye
(For the bad one is faulty -
It sees truth now:
Flickering along the edges of reason,
Resonating and dissipating in this hot summer breeze).
Where should I look for desire?
It has abandoned me at last;
At last I'm lifeless,
The least leafless in this long, oh too long autumn
That lasts and lasts,
Skewing like some Marxist's hopes
Around Christmas.
The mating season is over,
I limp away from its remains,
A hollow golden pond
And not a picnic blanket to spare.

A Lost Summer

It is known: what is is,
Their capital is gay Paris;
Children grow and up
No reason for it to stop.

The tiny country full of war
Fake humility drags on more
Rooted deep in the baseline
No less than comedy divine.

He came and went and locked the door
And nothing was just like before.
The colors swirl, no ounce I gain,
The touch of skin I now disdain.

A summer lost, so full of trifles
"You shall have no play of rifles"
Promised peace and chocolates there
By the desk in the back room where...

What happened? Do I dare?
How deep in the dark I stare?
A mustached man, a flash of pain
"The secret's ours, our domain".

Sweep Stakes

Kinda on the macabre side but bear with me...

Early Anwar goes to sweep,
To sift along the urban jeeps;
Hurrying the curbs to their termini,
Tiny speckled sweat determining.

The MP3 player in his pocket,
The seven colors in his heart;
He will be bashed again someday
Or maybe just explode.

Moderate Nicolai tends so well,
The coffers on the side to swell;
He hides behind the bus station
And with yellow liquid greets the nation.

His wife will not be coming back,
His children he devoured;
He saves his cash for rainy days,
A streetcar should have him.

Old Moses jostles slowly,
His vivid eyes are but a memory;
The street is wide and so-so long,
Now he's here and then he's gone.

I, Ol' Jack, have a few new friends,
So be prepared to make amends!
Did I rip these famous three
Or am I just the guy on 13B?

He sits there still,
Watching the dawn that never comes,
A yellow river at his feet,
A multi-hued shirt in hand,
Or maybe just a used fuse.

My Eros and Thanatos

A little love song for my angioma :-)

I feel your warmth enveloping,
How fortunate to witness the developing,
Inner crust there riddled
Burning slowly as Nero fiddled.

How I long to touch you,
To caress the filaments through,
Your small being encapsuled
Getting ready to assault.

Time, the great river,
Is but a trickle to thy reaver,
Biding carefully each drop
As I listen for each plop.

When will I see you, my love?
How frequent should I check above?
I long to finally wake this dream
And be with you, my aneurysm.

The boy in the back room

Here's something I've been working on these past few weeks. It's titled "The boy in the back room".


I - April 2013

"... anyway, would you prefer a multi focal"?
"That's not very funny, you know. It's my brain. What is a Dysrhythmia anyway? I mean... J. Lo's ass!".
"Pardon? Did you just say...?"
"Err... yeah. I made it up. Do you like it?"
"I'm not exactly sure what to make of it. What does it mean anyway?"
"It's an exclamation, just like 'Jesus Christ' or something".
"How un-demeaning... for both. What's the reference? Hollywood glitz meets what exactly?"
"C'mon, it's just Jenny from the bloke"
"You're kidding, right? Tell me this is your sick little way of dealing with your stupid tumor."
"It's not a tumor. And it is funny and you can easily use it as an f-word substitute in civilized places".
"Because the reference to Ms. Lopez's behinds is much more subtle, yes; I see your point."
"Anyway, I'm not the sick one with the WW2 memories."
"Thanks for bringing that up. I was just getting used to being the only normal guy around".
"Anytime".
"Besides, I told you, I don't know if it is World War 2, World War 1 or whatever".
"You'd think the black and white would be a dead give away".
"You're certainly on a roll today, aren't you? It's not in black and white".
"Whatever man. Anyway, this is my stop. I'll catch you tomorrow at school".
"Sure. See ya' then".
'J. Lo's ass indeed', Patrick thought to himself. His school buddy Terrance was
certainly a strange one at times. They'd taken few courses together but that seemed more than enough to create a mutual base of friendship. Terrance had his quirks (what's with all matching pens, notebooks and book covers? Is indigo a sign of success in studies?), but then so did Patrick. Carrying his MP3 player around, even when going to take out the trash, seemed a bit unusual in his neighborhood,
but he didn't care too much about that. His music collection was one of his chief sources of comforts these days, though, admittedly, Patrick bitterly thought, a very significant source of grief as well. The damned contraption refused to sync with his computer, and when it finally did, there was always a song missing or the wrong album artwork displayed. 'J. Lo's ass!'


II - September 29, 1975

"5 minutes to curtain, Mrs. D.!", the man behind the door said.
"Thank you, Angelo", the smoky voice rasped. Looking at the mirror was an acceptable agony now. After so many years on the stage, there was a certain defiance in the eyes, the ever so slightly wrinkled smile twitched a bit as the ever red lipstick did its bit and the powder covered the rest of the "imperfections". 'Well earned imperfections'. The thought flattered and disappeared quite quickly.

A long road to get to this moment, to this glitzy cabaret. Faded memories of that long deserted house with its surrounding bushes and pink and red flowers still lingered, even now. The years of service in the front lines, that lucky escape on that cold morning partly hidden in Sgt. Hathaway's arms, the very long self-imposed exile, they all had a purpose, a meaning. Not only did they lead here, to this night, but they would also pave the way for a more secure tomorrow, and based on the arrangements that were made and a few hopes, a more private and comfortable existance.
"You're on, Mrs. D.".
There was still tonight though. The smile returned to the somewhat weary and now semi-mystified eyes.
'Break a leg, Blue Angel'.


III - April 2013

He was having that dream again. His sub conscious, probably a bit too amused with itself, offered the experience with a glint of lucidity, which Patrick seized at. This time he would be more than just observer of his own dreams, he would try to direct the flow of thought to a direction his Id had been most reluctant to go - understanding.

The familiar bush fenced house materialized, as expected and Patrick caught a glimpse of a woman staring out one of its windows. He didn't recognize her, but he
was accustomed to that by now. The woman seemed fairly tall, blond and with an anxious look on her face. She was muttering something to herself but he couldn't make out the words.

Next was the bus station, but no - it was a railway station now. A creeping feeling of dread and a strong desire to flee began to overwhelm him, as he was struggling with his breath. Trying to relax, he thought about the
meditation technique Lilly Yang tried to teach him that sunny day outside the Social Studies library. Taking three deep breathes he closed and eyes and opened them again. He was still at the train station, a low hum in the background. "Hey you, you're gonna buy that newspaper or not?", cried the seller.
Patrick looked down: "War", shouted the headline of a skinny 1.5 Deutsche Marks paper. The hum was louder by now and he could almost make out the words. This was new, he noted. Why, though; what's different? What am I to do? "Can't help it", suggested the newsstand guy and faded away.

He was in Paris now, he was sure. Although he'd never been there, Patrick had a feeling of certain familiarity with the streets, the light, even the smell of freshly bakes croissants. With a start, he was awake. "Like moth to a flame".


IV - April 27, 1992

'Another damned curtain call. Damned that Roger and his "club"'.
"It's Mrs. D, you moronic little man! Don't you know who I am?!". There was no reply. The small snickering sound in the distance was certainly no reply to be considered. Adjusting the long shawl over the shoulders had a comforting feel to it. So had the extra lipstick - the best rouge this part of town. And it came with a price, as always. One of the mirror lights flickered for a minute. The delicate circuitry would need to be
adjusted, again.

"Mrs. D, can I come in? It's Jenny". The voice sounded slightly excited, even muffled as it was through the door. "Of course dear, come in, come in".
Upon first meeting Jenny, one would almost always think her out of place here. A slim, short woman with now graying auburn hair, she may have passed for pretty in her days. Those years she would hardly talk about to anyone but a select few. The memories pained her too much, she said, though it may have been the lack of any new notable ones in the years that followed that mattered. To her, the glory of the 40' and the 50', and, though she would vehemently refuse to admit it, the 30', has never truly passed from the world; at least not completely. Some, she seemed to believe, still lingered behind. That was one of the main reasons they connected so well. That, and the ever kindled, low flamed as it was, torch she was still carrying. They had a few conversations about it and Jenny did seem to understand and accept how things actually were though, most of the time anyway. And Jenny did look after her Mrs. D.

"You have to be careful, Mrs. D. Mr. Newsom there is... talking".
"That Roger always talks. He knows who I am, eventually. You know me Jenny".
"Of course I do, Mrs. D", Jenny said quietly. "I... You know you can count on me. Besides, I... I don't know... Mary and Joseph, Mrs. D. I don't know what to do".
Jenny was paler than usual, that was becoming evident now. Her lips were quivering slightly as she struggled for a deep breath of air.
"Mary and Joseph? What's wrong, Jenny? I haven't heard you invoke them since the airline strike of 73' and that was just because... Dear god, what happened? Tell me!".
"She... she is...". Jenny struggled for breath. "Jack Snipes from the Mission read the evening post and he knew how I'd felt, that is how I am and... you and..." Jenny could speak no longer.
"S-she is dead?"
Jenny managed a nod.
The view outside looked colder now. The easy lights and spiraling neons leading men to the "Diva’s Club" shone on just as darkly, luring the wanting patrons into the willing honey trap. But the taste has turned very bitter.

"Mr. err... Mrs. D.? I...". Jenny stammered. Funny, it wasn't like her to make such a mistake, not after so long. "She was the last, you know? There will never be the like of her again."
"No, I guess not".
"I'm sorry, Mrs. D. 'tis the passing of things".
"Yes, yes, of course. In a way, she lives through us though, right? What she stood for, you know".
"What she stood for? She didn't stand for the like of... I mean, You can't really know her... you couldn't really know her like I did. She's nothing like you".
"Well, no but -- what's gone over you Jenny? I've never heard you talk like that".
"It's just that you don't understand, that's all".
"Help me understand then, Jenny".
"You -- I've known you for years with your shows and make up and hair pieces and what not. But she, she was a real lady. A true woman. The 'Blue Angel' they used to call her. I... I've...". Jenny wept silently, unable to speak.
"You've loved her, didn't you Jenny?", understanding dawning suddenly. "You were in love with her".
The shock was quite apparent by now.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. D", Jenny managed, "I'm not like you. I've got Harry and the kids".
"No, I think I'm right. You are like me more than you'd like to admit. Who would have thought? I always knew you were a fan. I mean, that's how we met at first, on the line to the box office. But it's more for you, isn't it?"
"More?", said Jenny. "It's not more. It's special. It's just me and her. You could never get her like I do. You could never love her like me".
Jenny stiffened suddenly. "Yes, I loved her. I still do. You -- You can't know, you weren't there. It was a different time and She was different and even I was different".
Jenny wasn't crying anymore. Wiping the remains of her tears, she was nodding her head continually, muttering to her self. "Yes, I loved her. There. I loved Harry but she... To hell with Harry. I loved her. I love her".
"Here Jenny, won't you sit down. Let me help you".
"No, don't touch me. Don't touch me. You mock me. I see you", Jenny raved. "I see you. You think you can touch her like that, with that dress and make up and hair? You know nothing. Nothing!", shrilled Jenny.
"I only want to help you. It's a terrible shock for both of us. Let me help you Jenny".
"No! Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"
Coming to Jenny's side, Mrs. D. tried to calm Jenny down futilely. "I said don't touch me!", cried Jenny, pushing away, moving askew the carefully placed hairpiece.

"What the hell are you doing, Jenny?"
"What I should have done a long time ago, when I first saw you defile her image".
"Defile?! Jenny, I really don't know what's gone over you but you really need to sit down and have a glass of water or something".
"No, I'm fine", Jenny breathed. "The world is empty tonight, so what is one less diva in the sky?".
With that, Jenny pushed and heaved, struggled and clawed. A few seconds later, she was of the room as well.

The story in the next day's Bay Guardian amounted to a small rectangle in the back pages, titled "The Fall of the Diva". Roger Newsom took some small comfort in the mention of his time honored establishment. 'Bad press is good press', he thought.


V - Late April 2013

"You're still thinking about going ahead with it, aren't you?", asked Terrance.
"No. Well, yes. I have to now, don't I?", said Patrick.
"I don't see why really. Switching majors this late is never a good idea. And this Psych crap! I mean man, I know you dig the chicks there and all, but come on! You need a graduate degree to actually work in it, you know".
"I know all that already, Terr".
Patrick wasn't sure how much to tell his friend. Close as he was to him, even learning some of the details of his more hazy dreams, or as Terr called them (mistakenly, but why correct him?) "Your film noir experience", there were some things he was holding back. Things like his growing acrophobia he was barely able to mask anymore. That was one of the chief reasons he did not apply for Psych courses already. The ultra modern design of the faculty included a spectacular
view of its surroundings, but for him it was like going through vertigo just thinking of those stairs.

"Anyway, what do you think of my theory? Doesn't explain everything?"
"Ah, yes. I can understand why you'd prefer to send it as an e-mail. Very scientific of you, J. Lo's ass. You didn't even check the facts".
"What do you mean?", asked Patrick, nervously going in his mind over the long and repeatedly re-drafted mail he'd sent.
"Well, for one thing, you got the date wrong".
"What?"
"She died on May 6th, 1992 and you were born on April 28th 1992. I know I'm better than you in Math, but even you can see something just doesn't add up right here".
"Umm, no, I didn't know that. Damn.", said Patrick, genuinely shocked. He'd gone through it all, it all fitted so well but the date was something he did not even look very deep into. He'd known it was late April-early May. He just knew.

"Oh, apparently, and get this - I've found it on some obscure hard core fan site - there were rumors about her death a few days before it actually took place, but those were almost immediately denied by the family", said Terrance, rather triumphantly.
"But I've felt it. I felt that the date was approaching. How else can you explain the sudden increase in dreams I've experience, not to mention their content?", Patrick exasperated.
"Stress. Simply stress and fatigue", said Terrance. "You obviously have some Mrs. Robinson issues," smirked Terrance to a blushing Patrick. "Admit it, you always had a thing for older and powerful women".
"O.K, O.K. Suppose the date thing is wrong and the rumors were correct?", asked Patrick. "I mean, it's all so vivid".
"Two things. You're a student for electrical engineering without any apparent artistic streak in you".
"I'm not sure I entirely agree there, but O.K. What's the second thing"?
"You can't carry a tune if your life were dependent on it".


VI - December 2015

It was snowing early this year, global warming notwithstanding. The street lamps seem to sweat as the melting whiteness drizzled around them, adding to the occasional human breath vapor. The relatively dark corner, packed with overflowing dumpsters and dotted with broken bottles, was quiet, at least.
The nearby club, radiating now more in neon than fame, lent few of its voracious chords at this time.

Yes, some peace at last. An opportunity to light a hasty smoke and think. Those images were swarming his mind again, making very little sense: a house he could dimly make out among thickets of geraniums, a semi deserted bus stop with the sign "BERLIN -45" partly smudged by traces of smog and what he could only term as 'the peek'. It was a memory, he was quite sure enough of that, of a door quietly
opening to reveal someone waxing the hair of their legs.
His own.

The Greener Grass

Let the normals have their fun
Laughing clearly on the midnight run,
Criss-crossing fast parades
Masked in custom masquerades;
The greener grass a lonely witness
As they slowly bake to crispness,
The dullest music pours aloud
The little hearts it then enshrouds,
Pausing smiles and driving sorrows
Slipping by their stainless hollows;
Emptiness is held within
Right beside the biggest green,
Bringing chill I feel so well
Venting through this cushioned hell;
My story ends and theirs begins
As the gallows test its springs
And there, at last, strive to remember
We will never see September.