She walks in the door,
The chimes matching her steps-
Walks lightly to the counter
Where her fingers dance their reps.
She orders in a broken voice,
Raspy and rugged as hell,
Her cheeks are red with cold,
Her stoney eyes have tales to tell.
She sits at the corner table,
Wide eyes analyze the world;
She's listening in on other's words,
A quite peculiar girl.
She's only tables away,
Drinking her coffee void of cream,
Black as the paint that polished her nails;
Like a stranger from a dream.
She makes me lose my concentration;
I've stopped trying to look at my screen.
Everything she does intrigues me,
This severely different teen.
My desires fill my consciousness,
All I want is to say "hi",
But how she intimidates me so,
It would come out as but a cry.
Suddenly she rises to her feet,
Then slinks over to the door,
She stops and says she saw my stare,
And then she's gone forevermore.
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing.
He was as good as he had always been.
But half way through, a woman appeared,
Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage.
Entering the ring of bright spot light near him.
Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck,
Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs,
Reflecting the light.
Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress,
Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day.
Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin,
Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend.
Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting.
The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message
Only they understood. Then starting slow and low,
The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black
Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting
her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin.
The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed,
In summer breeze, began to gently sway,
Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty,
The voice of both her Instrument and from within she,
Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall.
With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression
On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made,
As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords.
Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings.
For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone.
Her actions of body, hands and head in concert,
To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said.
The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed
Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there.
The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage.
I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted,
I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made.
Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged
To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless,
Little black dress.
It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again,
I know not, even her name.
And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those
Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell.
Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web.
With me sitting, third row, isle seat left,
Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty,
Slightly dirty naked feet, the striking
Blond woman in the black dress.
from a distance, on a train, the street, in a store, or a concert.
Captivated by someone we will most likely never see again.
Enchanted for but a moment? And yet unable to forget.
For me it was this past week at a concert.
Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flees their minds,
As selfish life fulfills these swines.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Do take a look at what they see,
And what they see is “A bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion, foresee what befalls
Upon them, too, as they soon explore,
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid,
Whose sex and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of irrelevance and mystery:
Their wisdom calls most urgently.
As this kid sees a life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with the fuss and mess,
Which most adults do not confess
To what they cause and what they bring,
Most taken in by their offspring;
And as one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss,
Dear vengeful killer, Oedipus,
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
And leave one there to squirm and rot,
Like a lobster boiling in a pot,
And free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die,
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But, the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, who feels must reign;
Nor the obliged one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl,
That turns, and turns, and turns, and turns
While greedy capitalists more they yearn.
Within this cycle is little choice,
Hetero-normatively sans a screaming voice,
For a true language for some not made;
Virile chest-pounds place a shade
Upon the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be,
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one
Who mostly governs with a gun;
And how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting sex the kid can't choose,
As in every win, each sex does lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see,
That to just one sex they must belong,
As 'genitalia proves feelings wrong.'
This funny theory most credits Freud.
By collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done',
For those who are all, but yet are none.
Great gender points makes Butler de Judith,
While her female likes are out to proveth
That she is wrong within her stance
‘Only female unity will give rise to chance'
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First, not Second or Third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other sex does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all the foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.
She remained unspoken.
She believed her words were a waste of air.
She didn't like the sound of her voice.
She hated the words that were never heard.
She thought nobody would listen.
She was so caught up in her thought.
She didn't notice.
She was standing in front of someone who listened.
She was right in front of him.
She didn't say anything.
She just left, without saying goodbye.
She was wise at
Five feet and seven inches
With a voice that could
Shake the barracks
Of a ship
When anger harvested her
As a lamb
With the soft creases
Of her hands
She said happiness
Is gargantuan but also
You can fit it in the palm
Give it away
But still it will be yours
Never let somebody else
—Especially not a
Hold your contentment
In their hot
i want a voice like the heartbeat of the metra tracks
as it shakes its way into your brain
while you're half awake
'bout something sweet
something that means nothing to me
but it's cute
the way you can't help but smile
i want to be that cringe of excitement in your skull
that you can't stop daydreamin' about
if you could find yourself fascinated by my freckles
and my flaws
and the scars all over from all of the near-fatal gashes
and the heaps and heaps of stardust rusting to my eyelashes
and the fact that i'm always talking about love as if i'd actually had it
i'd never say you were a fool
i could wear you like split ends
or a crooked grin
a handsome pair in inclement weather
somehow better together
not two halves
of one whole
thriving on each other
cigarettes and coffee
whiskey and beer
we're in the clear from here
nothing but salty tides and starry skies
straight on 'till morning
Her name was Holiday.
She smelled of pine,
and her eyes,
Glistened like the snow and ice
That blankets the lanes
keeping the families stuck inside.
Her voice was angel,
And she sang songs that only
Angels could hear.
She told stories that only taught
Families what it really meant to be a
And what it really meant to give and
Her hands were soft.
Her stature, so much grace.
She had a way with warming up
Like mittens you give to children
Or at least that’s what we’re told
In the fairy tales
that we will tell
Our children before bed
On those December nights
When the cold freezes over the windows,
But the wood stove is
Here I lay
Oscillating around the milky way
Into a colourful display
Of swirling rainbow fireworks
Surrounded on both sides
By soft warm palettes
Peach apricot hues
On my left
A firefly's faint glowing light
Almost fading, one could tell
Like a bowl
Of hot creamy soup
On a frosty winter night
Emptied so quickly
But relished throughout
Of velvety warmth within
On my right
A goldfish's glistening scales
Almost blinds my sight
Its stunning beauty insulted
By the inverted dome-shaped
Of a bowl
By the ephemeral allure
Of love, and of us
By the ruse of creatures
Who corner us
With towering walls of Time
Using help from the impartial
Law of Equality
"You have revelled
in your joy,"
A voice from behind booms
"Now it's time
to pay the price."
I never thought I'd have to see her like this so soon. So young. So cold.
I should have listened to her. I should have talked to her more. Seen her more. She always asked me why I seemed so distant from her, I always got frustrated and denied it.
Now she's the distant one.
We would argue often. About communication. Our feelings. Her feelings. She had a very hard life. A violent alcoholic father. She grew up untainted by her surroundings, but scarred. Chronic Anxiety and Depression. She would cry often, and get mad and angry for sometimes no reason. She said she didn't know why it happened; it just did, and that I couldn't understand. That made me angry. Even though she was right; I really couldn't.
I haven't had an easy life in the past few years, but it doesn't compare to hers. I didn't know what is was like to be as depressed as she was. To be as anxious as she was. She would always check up on me, because she always worried about me. I myself, just took it and never did it for her.
What a mistake.
I remember my 17th birthday. She was more excited than I was, and couldn't wait for me to finally see what she had done for me. She was adorable when she talked about it. I spent the day with her and she made me a homemade card themed my favorite video game, and a Key Lime pie from scratch. I love Key Lime pie.
How I wish we could make it together, one last time.
A couple days after my birthday, a package she ordered came and she was ecstatic for me to finally have it. They were custom made genuine dog tags. They had my information on one tag, and a personalized message from her on the other. Her message read, "KNOWING YOU HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE, AND LOVING YOU HAS MADE MY WORLD." I wear them everywhere, even to today.
But when her birthday came around, I didn't get her anything. Not even a card. She was really upset, and I felt guilty when she mentioned it, so I never did get her anything; I felt it was too late.
Whenever she was happy, she shined brighter than the sun. She smiled and laughed and was goofy. She would make up little songs about how much she loved me, and she would do anything for me. Now, I can only imagine how she felt when I left for the night, not doing anything for her.
I knew she had had problems even before she met me. I knew she was chronically sad. I knew she had always been a rock, but had slowly started to erode and needed someone.
Why was I so selfish!?
I notice her mother is crying. Hysterically. They were so close. Her mom was so nice, always inviting me over and cooking for me even when they didn't have much food. Now, she looks like an empty husk of what she used to be. Crumpled on the floor, covered in her own tears, mourning the loss of her world.
Her younger brother sits with their dad, hugging and crying on each other, as well as the rest of her family. You can almost smell the saltiness in the air from all of the tears.
I've cried as much as I can. When I heard the news, I was in shock. I didn't want to believe she was gone. But eventually I screamed, bawled and raged at my loss. She was the only thing that mattered to me.
Now I stand here, silent and empty. My mind is numb, and all I can do is stare at her. Eyes closed, chest still, but still so beautiful. I had to battle with myself to even come and deal with seeing her like this. I finally move my stiff hand towards her curly hair and stroke it, and slowly move my hand to her shoulder. I imagine her opening her eyes and smiling at me with one of her beaming smiles. But I know it won't happen, and that's when the tears come.
I'll never see her smile, feel her lips against mine, hug her small body again. I can never hear her sweet voice again, telling me "I love you." With a glow in her eyes.
Why didn't I show her how much she meant to me? Why couldn't I swallow my pride and be a little more caring and thoughtful for her the way she never failed to be for me? Why? I'm sobbing now. I collapse to my knees and rest my hand over hers. She's freezing. I rub her hands instinctively as if it will warm them up, but it doesn't.
I just want her to wake up. I feel as if it's my fault she's in eternal silence now. Apart of the world beyond, when I want her so desperately to be back here with me. I don't want her to leave me. I feel as if I can't live without her, she was the only one I'd ever truly loved, but in the end I failed her. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, I should have shown her more instead of using only my words!
I slowly stand up still covered in my tears, and stare at her sleeping body. I watch as one drips down onto her expressionless face. I use my thumb to gently wipe my tear away, just as I used to wipe hers. Now all I can do is think about what could have been, what I could have done, and what will never be.
"I'll miss you." I whispering through my sore choked throat, and kiss her cold forehead.
"I love you."
The day I learned what it meant to feel nervous,
you spoke my name for the first time.
It was funny, because your voice sounded like the next forty years of my life.
I somehow mustered up the courage that day to talk to you, and learned that your name was Jacque,
my darling Jacque.
While it was the most beautiful name I had ever heard, it somehow sounded incomplete,
like it needed my last name stapled behind it.
It doesn't take much more than knowing each other's names for something beautiful to grow.
I soon learned that your hair smelled like eternity, your skin felt like ecstasy,
and your kiss tasted like everything that forces a smile on my face.
From the first day I learned what it meant to feel nervous,
In love with you.