My Flourescent Persona
February 2001, Narrative Verse
Having just returned from the grocery store, I am with my friends, entering the house from the north side. He begins passing as we unlatch the door, taking note of a florescent orange scrap which lies on the ground. Everybody knows him, he passes the house many times a day. He’s mostly referred to as the guy with the Barbie tucked into his football helmet or the guy that walks like this.
Today he is wearing the usual bright colors, layers of vividly striped shirts, on and wrapped around his waist where he fastens his pink bunny along with other items, trinkets of his personality. The left pant-leg of his faded blue jeans is securely pegged at the knee. Loose tennis shoes chase his feet and his selected headgear is a boxy, brandless, florescent-green cap over a paisley forest-green bandana disguised in more attached finds and an array of ballpoint pens wedged into the band of his swimming goggles. All this set off with a silver-laced smile.
Our eyes meet, though, as this makes our intentions vulnerable we quickly look back to our respective paths. I wonder his name… My friends are already heading downstairs toward the kitchen. I hold back, curious, peering out the small window on the door as it closes. His walk, confident, brisk with a hint of athleticism, exhibits a pause. He turns back toward the florescent orange scrap lying exposed, approaches and stands in observation for a moment. Decided, he reaches down, gathers and houses the treasure alongside his waist, as if he has found a piece of himself.
An Onslaught of Caterpillars to an Air-Conditioned Building in Florida
November 2003, Italian Sonnet, Take 2
A million footprints far away from branch
Abandoned, why? No parachutes or silk
String routes, pre-made cocoons or juice or milk
Await, yet still they fall as an avalanche
May hurry down. They flex their glands, crash land
Dismiss their guilt, reorient and bilk
The prey and predators they stilt—full tilt,
And like an arrow, make for the entrance.
From solitaire and lazy window gaze,
Through hall to patio, a cool demise.
The door hydraulically slows down to aid
A million feet beneath a glow of eyes.
What does it matter who will win the race?
They will not be tomorrow’s butterflies.
Temporal to the White Sea (As told by a critter to his kind)
October 2003, Blank Verse
The sea was blue for gravity, appeased,
Had pulled the blood of sky unto her depths,
With cold hand, tucking every tide between
The sands, as space calmly skipped asteroids
Across her breadth. In step with time, she took
A breath, nevertheless, quite hydrokinetic
And asymmetric—just this once. It’s said
Her shadows housed red fire—a vein between
The trenches and mountaintops, aloft, embraced
In nimbostratus—plentiful and racing
At a catastrophic alien pace.
The breeze, She held a sip of mist, permit a taste—
A tease of seasons, nonetheless, displaced—
Then hopped a hill to quench the groves who grew
As tides unto thus high. And as an eye
Who never winks, our clearing fathomed fate
At hand. Her lush grass grasped in fist of soil,
An offering to tempt the wave to land.
Now sea aside and trees asunder, close
We sit in history’s cold wake, the dark
Blue skyline silenced by a cumulous
Rouge silhouette with solar eclipse drawn
Upon—her lunar awning from folklore
And myth, eons beyond this campfire pit.
Much Thanks to Wild Boars
Shades of gray pervade
The night; 6:10 dark orange, true orange
Yellow, green, cyan forms
A defining light, shadows vague
She tromps ambitiously in plaid.
Contrails streak, contrails torn
Wispful, coyoteful, adorned
Sunlight, day, the colors fade…
Twisting away lampu-like
As so am I? And so as I,
Begins the day lamp bulb bright.
Bed we’ve emptied, cab arranged
And she romps vividly in plaid.
* italicized words deserve French pronunciation.
The Valiant Turtle Metaphor
October 2003, Non-metrical split couplet
Run little turtle, run for me
Swim little turtle, swim to freedom
And little turtle, when you’re free
Dance little turtle, dance for me.
~the people on the hill
The sand cracks, I take a peek,
Sneak
A whiff of a world I’ll only frequent
A minute.
Sun ringing, crisp air, cool sand tickling my nose—I tremble
Like a finger without thimble,
Exposed. I struggle forth, amazed with the beauty, the birds.
An urge
Overtakes me to slip from the shore. Oh, look! Not far,
There are
A whole lot of me budding and shuffling toward the sea.
The low frequency
In the wind spins whirlwinds, the colors are so bright.
So different than last night.
I inhale, my palate explodes, the scent of seaweed
Sweet,
So neat, there are no roads! A gust upon my face
Gracefully
Unfolds an air lift with a twist,
Brisk
As gold. It’s a great day for a dip, I’ll explore
Offshore,
As a form crosses the sun and circles once more—a goodfella,
Hello.
Wow! So quick, oh, he’s dive-bombing now.
I look around.
And why are those people up on the hill yelling,
Arms waving,
As if they’re suggesting I move?
Oh, God! He just ate one of me! Yellow mouth vice
Not nice—
Bad. Oh, jeez, six or eight out of one-twenty, reduced
By two,
Four, sixty, two—a handful. What luck,
Stuck Here,
I survived the selection. I survived the waves.
Now droves
Of jackals, wild pigs—insane. This is quite rare,
Where
Is my mom? I’ll take refuge in this rusty can.
Oh man,
Not for long. I must drag myself to the sea. Go fast.
At last,
A foot less, I’m so slow. No, fast, I will go
Straight as the crow,
Eyes! He pecked out one of me’s eyes! Oh dear,
So near
Keep plugging just twenty-five more years.
Tears,
They’re blocking my view. No accumulated salt
Yet, just the thought
Of the blue. Now quick, flip by flip, gosh, I’m so slow.
Flowing
Trickles of aid wrap soft like a handkerchief
On my ankle.
And why are those people still up there,
Dumb stares,
I could’ve used a little help you know!
Ahh, it seems my sight has improved.
I’m moved
By the undertow, swirled and shoed.
Glued
To a worry in the back of my mind, yellow beaks,
Tusks, cheeks
Munching the orange-peel soft carapace
Inside.
Snazzy, if I move my flipper like this, I glide.
No need for a guide,
I’m quite alive. Whoops, by surprise I’m tossed
Lost,
The sun, obstructed again, casts a long
Shadow and is gone.
What’s that figure? It grows. A big fish,
No, a shark!
Not this again. Go! Paddle fast as a galley
Two, three
Gunpowder’s incentive if you ask me,
Free
At home, yikes, what’s this? SWISH…
Ha hah, missed!
Look mom, I can survive on
My own.
As I come up for air, their cheers blare
Social welfare,
Jeers and suggestions of what I should know,
So,
I yell back, I’m not impaired!
Aware
However, that I am little and my culture is different… they probably don’t
understand.
Little Friedrich & Uncle Sam
Take 3
When I was a kid I had a few questions
Like how to walk and how to kick
Was I conceived in liberty?
What’s the use of knowledge in society?
At first I queried then I poked
Amazed and leary, brimmed and stoked
Then Uncle Sam took my hand
And said, “You’re looking stellar you mild Fabian.”
While he justified his grip
I pulled away and ran from him
To the Privatseminar and on
To some coffee house, here’s what I saw:
People communicating
The universe, the kosmos mating
An organic compound of benzol rings
The lattice of a crystal’s strings
I saw order
Spontaneous order
Hey Sam, get your visible hand off me.
I gasped aloud yet Sam grabbed my arm
And insisted that I don’t be alarmed
He said there could be competition
He said he calculated with precision
“There’s no taxis in these galaxies
The wind carries us quite happily,”
I said, “No Sam, competition is a discovery procedure!”
He did not understand. Of course
I tried to explain, however, verbose.
The double negative, after all
Has yet to be banned by federal law.
With a firm hand on my shoulder
Sam showed me his campaign hats and price controls
He offered to subsidize my thoughts
As I pulled a way again, he looked shocked
I want order
Spontaneous order
Hey Sam, get your visible hand off me.
I ran, I fled his crooked stare
Until I stumbled upon Ms. Lacy Faire
As fine a form as one need see
To be free to choose, and choose to be free
Lacy and I chose to get together
With a few good ideas and a few good friends.
Amongst us all and amongst us some
She’s who embraces our decisions.
As Sam carried on down the road to serfdom
I found myself in Switzerland
Between the firm, the market and the law
On the shores of Lake Geneva, here’s what I saw
People communicating
The universe, the kosmos mating
An organic compound of benzol rings
The lattice of a crystal’s strings
I saw order
Spontaneous order
Hey Sam, get your visible hand off me
Casual Tunes (Lauren’s Closet Poem)
Paths cross on the lawn, under tree, in the shade
With no path yet past fascinates and arranges the day.
A pair of swimsuits, a handfull of notions
Like geysers in showrooms or spoken explosions
To once again soak me
And you.
Tucked in an enclave, a pocket of sun
From short stories to a contraption that clunks
After the Fairmont the rain fell in lumps
Until the shelter of the Rep and a tale called ‘True Love’
That you asked that I read
To you
I won’t define well defined casual tunes
For the songs that I sing are the songs that grow old
Though the tales that I tell are the tales that I’ll tell
Again and again and again
Hidden in few - two tents, cookware and steed
Seeds, flower books mesmerize, marvel and feed
Your quaint mind mapping ‘tography photons with reeds
On your fingers whom dance on a stringed hollow-shaped tree
That once sung for me
I remember
Elephant Song
Take 5
Every single facet is linear—the walls, the transitions of the walls, the mirrors, the reflections in the mirrors, the chairs, their inclinations, the arrangement of the products on the shelves, the counter, the tile floor, the strokes of the combs. There is no reason to question any of it, that’s the way it should be.
The lighting makes the space even more desirable—a pure white, angelic—as a make-up that seeps into every pore in every corner of every face. The subjects are flawless, saturated in a platonic cast, with a look whose dimensions may be forged in iron for the diversity that is permitted.
There they sit, inclined, attaining perfection, waiting for their hair to dry. I’m sure personal beauty must be achieved that way. Hair is not meant to escape from its seamless mold.
I notice my own reflection crouched against the wall across the narrow street—a feeble, cowering body, weakened further by this simple recognition. The glass flutters in the wind. Do I look happy or sad? I shouldn’t walk this way any more. I decided so a week ago though my curiosity renews daily. I continue to the post office.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Alright, yourself?”
“Good.”
I’ve wasted seven eighths of my life on formalities. I’m sure of it. Most of the time I’m too tired to defy the conformity. Blandine and I decide to take a walk through the old town.
“Have you been to the ville ancienne?”
“I’ve just passed through, it’s a nice walk.”
We cross the Saone and she explains to me all the obvious tourist things—Fauviere, the working hill, the cusine lyonnaise—all cultural formality. After two hours, we agree to meet up weekly and part.
I make the 126 stairs from the street up to my flat. The elevator costs money. I take the stairs. I count them in French, for practice. The lights flip off by the third floor; by week two I could finish off the staircase with ease in the dark. On the fourth floor, hidden off to the left of a decorative oak door, I come to a pale-blue steel door. On the third try, the key rotates, and I continue up a crooked narrow stairway that leads to the top floor. The dimly lit passageway at the top slinks over dusty floorboards and loose tiles that clink like a child plays the xylophone. Some days I back up and walk over the tiles again.
The hallway reminds me of a barn in the country. There is a mustang hidden behind every door. The doors won’t open. Pent behind these robust walls, each mustang is plated in dust and quickly forgotten.
I turn the key to my door, scraping my knuckle as usual.
“Merde.”
A great situation to practice my curses. I enter my flat. Perched above the quiet side streets, the walls are white and a straight line is hard to come by. Everything is almost-straight—the beams, the light fixtures, switches and sockets, the threshold, closet space, shelves.
The windows look down upon me, informing me only of the color of the sky. Atop a chair, I learn the complexity of the rooftops, and, if I twist my neck far enough, on a clear night I can see Notre Dame de Fauviere, or at least the better half of it, lit as a crown on the hilltop.
The flat is too big to heat as a whole, so I close my door to concentrate the energy. Nearly an hour passes before the heat begins seeping out the faulty upper bow in my door, and another half hour before the heat does the same through the gap caused by the lower bow. My bed is at this level. I huddle here on my mattress, between a barrage of books and an alarm clock. The alarm clock doesn’t get much use.
My days pass slowly, far from relaxing. My only commitment being a plane ticket two months away—contemplation is infinite. What could I create in two months that I couldn’t lose in a day? The walls grow paler and stare at me with greater remorse. I let the time tick toward my departure.
“ Remember that one lady I told you about?” Lucien has few stories about his new job. I enjoy when he comes home—he puts my thoughts to rest, and the moment becomes more important, filled with a chat and two glasses of wine. “She’s unbelievable. I get to work and she’s already working, and when I leave she’s still going. She always says how much work she has to get done but come on man, you got to live a little. I go at nine and I leave at six, that’s my schedule, I do my work when I’m there and when I leave I turn off; I’m free to enjoy.”
I use my time much better when Lucien is around. We find time for a jazz show, a new locale or dinner with some friends. Sadly, Lucien’s work causes the nights to end early. I make back to my fort, open a book, and don’t set the alarm clock.
On my way down for a baguette, I pass the hair salon—people waiting for their hair to dry in every chair. I pause. I’m sure they have pets. I continue for the other side of town.
I find the café. A man I phoned the day before had told me to meet him here. I told him I would be wearing an orange sweater. He told me the waitress would know him. The waitress has no idea who I’m talking about. I take a guess with the lone man at the far end seated aside the window.
“Excuse me, are you Bernard?”
“Yes, yes,” he says standing, grabbing my hand with both of his, “How are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Well, you know,” he shrugs, “I’m trying to make this business. Do you like the movies?”
“Yeah, sometimes…”
“Because this is my plan—I am going to make plastics.”
“Plastics?”
“Yeah, you know those cards, they go like this.” He gestures something with his hands.
I nod a doubtful affirmation.
“It’s a great idea, plastics. Lots of money. I just need computers.”
Bernard wastes no time with formalities. He’s quite refreshing to talk with. After two hours, we decide to meet up once a week. In good spirits, I take a different route back and make sure I miss the hair salon.
I make my way up the 126 steps, pass the pleasant oak doors of the first four floors, clink over the loose tiles, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. I check the windows because it’s getting cold. The sky is grey—some days blue, some days grey. I close the bowed door to my room and turn on the heater. Lucien arrives at seven as usual.
“How’s the job working out?”
“Good man, though I don’t really relate well to my co-workers.”
“ That’s too bad. Have you met everybody now?”
“ Yeah, I ate lunch with the three women today.” Lucien pauses. “We talked about pets.”
I meet up with Blandine later in the week.
“ Formalité.”
“ Formalité.”
“ Formality, formality.”
“ Formality!”
“ So, where would you like to go today? Have you been to the Zoo?”
Lyon has an open access Zoo in the Parque Tête d’Or. They have everything: monkeys, peacocks, an alligator, chickens, Chinese leopards. All of the animals are fous. The panther paces, back and forth, on and on. All the cats do this. The bears howl and persistently paw at their concrete retaining wall. One of the monkeys is trapped out on an island, and the chickens, well, they’re chickens.
“You have to see the elephants.”
“Ok.”
The elephants look as if they are 600 years old—flabby wrinkled skin draped from their sides. There are two of them, each distinct. The first rocks front to back, back to front with his left front foot, dangling in the air. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The second spins his head as if he is trying to say yes and no as many times as he can as fast as he can. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.
“My god, why are they behaving like that?”
“Oh, that’s normal.”
Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk.
“What do you mean normal, they’ve gone mad.”
Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.
For the remainder of the day, I can’t shake it—they always behave like this? I try to convince myself that they are dancing, but that only works for a few minutes at a time.
Distracted, I accidentally pass by the hairdresser as I return home. Vacant. I bet they all went back to their oak doors and pets. I sneak toward the window for a closer look. Grotesque linear slum, Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. All of the chairs are still inclined, ghostly suggestions of their thoughtless habitual monotony. I touch the window just to leave my smudgy fingerprint. I know there are no smudges inside.
Once again, I climb the 126 steps, through the metal door, pass the horse stalls, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The walls stare blankly, cockeyed and inquisitive. Your crooked inclinations could never house such elite, I swear at them. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. I climb into my fortress, and stare absently at an open book. My curses no longer come in French; I haven’t yet learned to attach sentiment to the language’s benign sounds.
I think of Bernard, a zhoomp-zhonk himself, apparently free of the anguishing burden of contemplation. The elephants must have reached this state too. I’m sure they are dancing. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.
