Often when walking the halls of the community college that I attend, I observe those around me and their actions for a while. The corresponding ideas associated with the observations are allowed to ferment in my mind until I decide to turn them out to be free and wild on pieces of paper or in words unleashed from my otherwise silent mouth. I cannot resist noticing how different and similar we all happen to be. How we fit so well into these prefabricated molds created by corporations that are influenced by society or celebrities that follow trends religiously. It would be a lie to say that seeing them in all of us didn't leave a bitter taste on my tongue, like chewing pecan bark.
I am well aware that I also have a prescribed mold. It fits me so well that it hugs the curves of my body and the edges of my personality as snug as a pair of 3-pack K-Mart gloves. With a quick and simple exercise of imagination, I can turn the whole educational institution into a great big box of chocolates and peer inside to view all of the confections dressed in their brown crinkled skirts and sat in their charted places. Scanning over them row by row, I can see the smooth outsides and perfect drizzles of varying shades until I stop shocked at one marbled chocolate unlike the rest. The map beside the nutritional information does not show this sort. It does not belong in this spot. It is on display for everyone to see; a zebra mess of dark and white chocolate which proves to be an obvious failure at blending in.
Oh, and the feeling that one will get when they know that they are stuck in the wrong box and the only way to escape is to be plucked from it, and transported by way of palm by some higher being or between fingers to the correct box. What anxiety is to be had with the knowledge that you haven't legs and the only right you have to mobility is to be chosen. The stresses that are pressed upon the chosen one. A burden that none exactly long for.
Jesus, Harry Potter, Skywalker and Frodo Baggins were all the chosen. I can't say that I like the idea of being crucified or chased around by strange evil spirits or otherwordly beings. So, when I walk the halls of the community college that I attend, I observe those around me and their actions for a while and wish for a few seconds at a time that I could adopt them, but the truth is that all efforts of adoption would be in vain for a million reasons that I would rather not take the time to explain.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Fountain of Youth
Tucked in a corner of a very cluttered, yet immaculate home is an olive green tufted faux velvet recliner. It bears a rip on the left arm rest and a small coin-sized stain on the seat from when the owner of the chair busted his pen while figuring a cross word puzzle. He, a dear old man, sits in the outdated chair and over his bifocals, watches his tiny wife buzz around their living area. She busies herself with arranging ornamental doilies and dusting crystal and ceramic knick-knacks; some purchased at dime stores by their adorably scrappy grandchildren and others acquired throughout the years at truck stops, state line gift shops, church Christmas parties, through door to door intermediate school fundraisers and in other predictable places and ordinary ways. She fusses over his shoes left by his chair and he keeps quiet with only a grin as a sign of acknowledgement. She bickers and he chuckles; and so this is their daily routine.
"Oh me, hon. This pickin' up after you, sure does throw my back into a foul mood." She hunches over and places her hand on the small of her back.
"I have got to sit down."
"What? You say your back hurts?" The dear old man can't hear.
"Yes, hon. That's what I said. I'm gonna take a rest."
He ruffles his newspaper and reads the obituaries. She takes a few steps backward and slides herself on their twenty year-old sofa and tucks her skirt between her knees, simply because modesty will always weigh heavy on her mind. She studies her hands for new bruises and then considers her fingernails. The old man sets his coffee mug and paper on the end table and pushes back on the arm rests to set his ancient chair into a recline. He nods off to sleep and his mouth opens slightly, allowing for a steady and low rumbling snore.
She was a bean pole with long straight hair and a sweeping gaze. She walked like a giraffe with the red sun setting color to her skin and the breeze catching hold of her hair; she was easily noticed. Straight lashes shaded her eyes and posed questions of mystery. She was plain in a peculiar way and he liked it. She stood in a field of cotton and he contemplated approaching her, but then he looked down at his dirty hands and noticed his bare feet. So instead he kept working for his meager wages and called out weights of cotton bales and she scrawled the accounts down on her pad of paper that was to be presented to the farmer who was away at the National Cotton Convention. Sweat poured from his brow and blurred his vision, but he reckoned it couldn't blur that pretty thing standing tall in her home sewn dress. She watched his mouth as he called out a weight and she scribbled his words and smiled.
The old man woke with a start, flickered his eyes and adjusted his glasses. He pushed his weight forward and when his feet touched the carpet, he scooted himself to the edge and forced his body up slowly with his back slightly bent. With hands on his thighs, he eased into standing position and looked at his wife who sat on the sofa with a notebook. She wrote in wide curled cursive a list.
"What's that you got there?"
"Oh, I'm writing down a few things to get from the store."
"Ah, well, make sure you get some of them snack cakes. I ain't sweet enough." He laughed with his eyes.
"All right." She marked on the paper and smiled.
"Oh me, hon. This pickin' up after you, sure does throw my back into a foul mood." She hunches over and places her hand on the small of her back.
"I have got to sit down."
"What? You say your back hurts?" The dear old man can't hear.
"Yes, hon. That's what I said. I'm gonna take a rest."
He ruffles his newspaper and reads the obituaries. She takes a few steps backward and slides herself on their twenty year-old sofa and tucks her skirt between her knees, simply because modesty will always weigh heavy on her mind. She studies her hands for new bruises and then considers her fingernails. The old man sets his coffee mug and paper on the end table and pushes back on the arm rests to set his ancient chair into a recline. He nods off to sleep and his mouth opens slightly, allowing for a steady and low rumbling snore.
She was a bean pole with long straight hair and a sweeping gaze. She walked like a giraffe with the red sun setting color to her skin and the breeze catching hold of her hair; she was easily noticed. Straight lashes shaded her eyes and posed questions of mystery. She was plain in a peculiar way and he liked it. She stood in a field of cotton and he contemplated approaching her, but then he looked down at his dirty hands and noticed his bare feet. So instead he kept working for his meager wages and called out weights of cotton bales and she scrawled the accounts down on her pad of paper that was to be presented to the farmer who was away at the National Cotton Convention. Sweat poured from his brow and blurred his vision, but he reckoned it couldn't blur that pretty thing standing tall in her home sewn dress. She watched his mouth as he called out a weight and she scribbled his words and smiled.
The old man woke with a start, flickered his eyes and adjusted his glasses. He pushed his weight forward and when his feet touched the carpet, he scooted himself to the edge and forced his body up slowly with his back slightly bent. With hands on his thighs, he eased into standing position and looked at his wife who sat on the sofa with a notebook. She wrote in wide curled cursive a list.
"What's that you got there?"
"Oh, I'm writing down a few things to get from the store."
"Ah, well, make sure you get some of them snack cakes. I ain't sweet enough." He laughed with his eyes.
"All right." She marked on the paper and smiled.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
migraine.
I discovered a demon today. A very vicious and feminine brand in the most grotesque and harsh way. She wore no flowers or pleasing perfumes; no soft skin to smooth across and around her angelically sculpted body. Her eyebrows spoke volumes of anger and cruelty, while the snarl beneath her chiseled nose didn't emit words, but aggravated huffs and puffs and moans that testified to misery.
Her skin was a deadly white-blue, nearly fluorescent, and it stretched across and around jagged and protruding bones. Her breasts were merely barely filled water balloons tacked to her skeletal chest. Her ribs, a xylophone that could never sing a joyful tune. Lungs full of ash; they spewed with every frightening cackle. Her locks; they were not corn silk, but dry corn husks angling from her head. Her eyes held no shine and not even in the depths of them could one find the slightest beginnings of happiness. Love. Nothing. A seamstress of the highest artistic esteem could stitch big black matte buttons over her sunken sockets and not a soul could tell the difference.
Arms, naturally two, were splintered branches and her legs spindly and spideresque. I saw the nails growing from her fingers and they were but miniature unfiled and unkempt ebony tusks, but her teeth happened to shine white. The better to chew on flesh, I guess.
Never in my day did I think I would stumble upon such an evil spirit or medium of any kind; nor did I believe one could live so close to me. I felt that if I ever uncovered something so cruel and hideous, it would be in a dark alley or in the ghettos with the tortured homeless. A third world country, perhaps. A neighborhood victim of drug abuse? However, I came upon this creature at home. In my mind. In my head. In some darker place or corner in my body.
And she tore at the muscles in my legs and made me weak. I felt her start from the back of my head. She scraped her feet against the dusty white from my beaten skull and ran to the front with an axe. She chopped herself to my vocal chords and molested them. They cowered and made the sounds she enjoyed. The whimper she craved. Never in my day did I believe my body would become her slave.
Her skin was a deadly white-blue, nearly fluorescent, and it stretched across and around jagged and protruding bones. Her breasts were merely barely filled water balloons tacked to her skeletal chest. Her ribs, a xylophone that could never sing a joyful tune. Lungs full of ash; they spewed with every frightening cackle. Her locks; they were not corn silk, but dry corn husks angling from her head. Her eyes held no shine and not even in the depths of them could one find the slightest beginnings of happiness. Love. Nothing. A seamstress of the highest artistic esteem could stitch big black matte buttons over her sunken sockets and not a soul could tell the difference.
Arms, naturally two, were splintered branches and her legs spindly and spideresque. I saw the nails growing from her fingers and they were but miniature unfiled and unkempt ebony tusks, but her teeth happened to shine white. The better to chew on flesh, I guess.
Never in my day did I think I would stumble upon such an evil spirit or medium of any kind; nor did I believe one could live so close to me. I felt that if I ever uncovered something so cruel and hideous, it would be in a dark alley or in the ghettos with the tortured homeless. A third world country, perhaps. A neighborhood victim of drug abuse? However, I came upon this creature at home. In my mind. In my head. In some darker place or corner in my body.
And she tore at the muscles in my legs and made me weak. I felt her start from the back of my head. She scraped her feet against the dusty white from my beaten skull and ran to the front with an axe. She chopped herself to my vocal chords and molested them. They cowered and made the sounds she enjoyed. The whimper she craved. Never in my day did I believe my body would become her slave.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Basement Bobby
Basement Bobby, he locked all of his doors.
He hid under the floors;
Terrified of nuclear war.
His soul was nice and sheer.
It was tinted with fear.
I knew that boy could love,
With a fragile heart like that.
Oh, constantly worried about,
Coming under attack.
He slept with unscented,
Candles by his bed,
A handgun under his head.
Yeah, if the Koreans came,
He'd blast 'em dead.
Oh, and at night,
Bobby held me tight,
Like a castaway would an oar.
Sort of like a lonely man,
Might clutch a whore.
When the hours stretched long,
We'd sing to his scratchy,
Emergency radio.
He would whisper to me,
Soft, soft, soft and low.
He did so,
In case if we were bugged.
But I'd like to imagine;
He did it for a romantic touch.
I miss Bobby and his sea of paranoia.
A sea that he drowned in, I guess.
His fatigues and post traumatic stress.
I miss his hatch and his theories.
Even his war documentaries.
He used to whisper.
He hid under the floors;
Terrified of nuclear war.
His soul was nice and sheer.
It was tinted with fear.
I knew that boy could love,
With a fragile heart like that.
Oh, constantly worried about,
Coming under attack.
He slept with unscented,
Candles by his bed,
A handgun under his head.
Yeah, if the Koreans came,
He'd blast 'em dead.
Oh, and at night,
Bobby held me tight,
Like a castaway would an oar.
Sort of like a lonely man,
Might clutch a whore.
When the hours stretched long,
We'd sing to his scratchy,
Emergency radio.
He would whisper to me,
Soft, soft, soft and low.
He did so,
In case if we were bugged.
But I'd like to imagine;
He did it for a romantic touch.
I miss Bobby and his sea of paranoia.
A sea that he drowned in, I guess.
His fatigues and post traumatic stress.
I miss his hatch and his theories.
Even his war documentaries.
He used to whisper.
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