There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

One squirt, one pump of my Christmas in a bottle
The ultimate cure for late summer anxiety
Which most certainly exists when one's life has changed so drastically And will soon be put to the test
Literally...piles of notes translated into tests

HOW DID THIS BECOME ABOUT SCHOOL??!!

Being lotion would be liberating
So smooth
So satisfying
And if you were part of the signature collection
You would likely be a fan favorite of sorts
A must have in a bathroom cabinet
Purse
First (or last) date
Bringing delight in a nice portable cream

To my bottle of lotion
Thank you
Stay awhile
I don't mind the occasional mess you make in my bags when the cap is open

Keep the candy apples picked and ready
All year long
And to all a good night

                                             © 2018
                                        Brandi Keaton

god, words, where do you start?
when i get like this, i just write my thoughts
is that the same as speaking from the heart?
what heart, what heart?
this thing that beats against my ribs
i'm sure it's just a hollow shell;
pumps blood and oxygen
allows me to live through this hell
but there's nothing more to it
i'm not doing so well

do rhymes make pain sound simpler?
i have a bad habit of using them when i'm heartbroken
rhymes are used to undermine meaning, according to my old English teacher
half rhymes and nursery rhymes and rhyming couplets and sentences left open

to interpretation, to ambiguity, to aching wounds and clinical analysis
i'm thinking of pretentious hipsters and all my therapists as i'm writing this

"the mechanism which allows you to feel is broken"
it wasn't the best movie but that line stuck with me
i think the mechanism which allows me to feel is broken
don't worry, Harry, i know how you feel, Harry
i, too, use the adverb; i, too, feel badly.

the sharp things that cut me, the dull things that bruise me
everything i should feel is either absent or agony.
love, they say; let love in, she heals your thoughts and broken skin!
fickle *****, she is, what lies i've heard her spin.
do you love me when you lie to me, darling love o' mine?
do you love me when you trace your fingers over the nubs of another's spine?
love o' mine, love o' mine, that Touch was supposed to be mine,
divine, divine, beloved and reverent and MINE

it's a good thing i don't want to hold onto you anymore
the rope burns were finally sleeping into my core.
my god, these splinters, i'm bleeding from my fingers
as i try to reach out for something that isn't withered,
because the flowers that you bloomed are shrivelled and abused
i refuse to water them, give them life anew
does that make me a murderer?
well you murdered them, too.

We the people built the wall
You can look left
You can look right

But we the people
Yes
WE THE PEOPLE
Built the wall

He didn’t
She didn’t
We all did
We
All
Wall (“e” dropped)

The battlefield is one we meant to use in case of war with the enemy
When did the Enemy become one of our own?
Or an entire group?

When did the Enemy become the media?
The press?
When did it become Trump supporters?
Or Trump himself?
When did the Enemy become those who dislike Trump?
Or those who are politically liberal?

I believe we the people created the Enemy
As philosophical as that sounds
We, the people, did it

We the people touted diversity like the ticket to tranquility
Placing our bets that this warm embrace of peoples
Religions
Backgrounds
Would be a true gift for all people
Rich or poor
Christian or Jew

Here is the truth of the matter
The pursuit of diversity
Of creating a mural of the American people
Was superficial
It was not carried out to its full potential

We became frightened
Untrusting of others
And so we unknowingly
Yet willingly
Began to build walls

It’s quiet
Then there’s a hurricane
A mass shooting
An election

And suddenly you look and see a black man
Or a black woman
Or maybe a younger black boy
Or black girl
Standing behind their call to action of support for the Black Lives Matter movement

And for several months it Is everyone’s story
But then it is not
And people
White
Black
Any color
Feels disappointment
And the belief that walls will just keep growing taller

Because there is hate
There is a form of social paranoia that emerges
Which means more walls

An angel appears in the midst of the havoc
The grief
Under a night sky lit by vigil candlelight of yet another unfortunate event that stole the lives of our brothers and sisters
Saying that God did not mean for us to build walls and live behind them

So one day
A family makes a vow to spread kindness and love to their neighbors
The family comes together in unity
They keep the pieces of their individual walls
But now lay them down at their feet
As a way of getting somewhere
That way leads to their neighbor’s house

They reach out and take the hand of the hurting
No matter what color that hand is
No matter their beliefs
No matter what political wing they favor

It takes two wings for an eagle to fly
Left and right
An eagle with one wing would likely get exhausted
As many feel today

The neighbors receive kindness
And then they act
The walls come tumbling down
They do good regardless of the Enemy’s hatred of good
We the people can all agree
There is an Enemy
That we can be sure
And as we lie in confusion over who or what the Enemy is
We the people are all suffering
From all sides

As more and more people say one more kind word
And we the people find places
Music for the spirit
Food for the soul
That always has been
And always will be
Ours to share and appreciate

It is then we look left and right without a wall in sight
They did not disappear
For the walls simply laid down boards
Displaying the human nature of us all
As we
We the people
Stand on one unshakable
Indivisible bridge

That welcomes liberty and justice for all
That always has been
And always will be
A gift for we the people

© 2018
Brandi Keaton

ssssssh

listen to yourself

burp and gurgle and burble and

when you shake your head

side to side

your eyes can’t focus

and you get a headache

and passersby offer help

and words of support

or commiseration
(it’s hard to differentiate

sometimes

a helping hand

or a fist in the face)

– and you think of buster Keaton and the falling house…

the way he stood perfectly poised while the house fell

and he knew he wouldn’t come to harm

but you thought the whole edifice would collapse on his little head –

Hold the phone, hold the freakin’ phone. Lisa’s got a boyfriend!
I’ve never seen Lisa with a boyfriend. Lisa draws men like fireworks on a dark night but I’ve never seen her keep one. I mean, it’s not unbelievable but it’s on the edge.

Then, one Friday evening, he came to visit. His name’s David - “call me Dave,” he said, meeting eyes and offering micro-expression smiles as he nodded around the room. Knowing he was coming, our suite’s common room was full, as if everyone came to see Lisa do a dangerous magic trick.

Dave’s got a young, Michael Keaton vibe going (the original movie batman), with a cocky, easygoing confidence and comedic snark that suggests he has everything under control. He’s 26 years old, about 5’11’ (a little shorter than 5’9” Lisa in heels - but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind), with brown eyes and unruly brown hair.

With some cagy sleuthing (I asked) it turns out he met her at her father’s (company's) Christmas party last year! I was there - and they’ve been secretly communicating for ten months!! How did I miss that? My situational awareness is obviously porous, and unreliable - was the room spinning?

You know, I hadn’t really focused on it before, but one of Lisa’s flaws is that her feelings and opinions don’t always show up in her expressions - it’s very annoying.

I’ve always been interested - umm, obsessed - with fashion. If I weren’t going into medicine, I’d have majored in fashion (called ‘Interdisciplinary Studies’ at Yale). Anyway, Dave’s been “dropping in” for the last few weeks - every Friday afternoon - arriving from Manhattan in his (my guess ~$6,500) business attire. What does Dave’s fashion sense tell us?

His business suits (charcoal-gray or olive-green) are Brioni, his dress white shirts are Thomas Pink, his ties Hermès and his shoes are Santoni. He’s slim and well tailored. I give him 5 stars.

If his work attire is lux, his casual attire speaks volumes as well. His weekend wear is a white dress shirt, open at the collar and jeans - both crisp and starched to hell and back. The long, stiff, white shirt sleeves are never rolled up. The jeans - deep blue and new - have a razor sharp crease down the front and his shoes are burgundy, Timberline, boat shoes with no socks. That outfit screams (Texas) oil money.

“What is it you DO?” I asked him, that first night, as Lisa was off getting ready to go out.
“I’m a “M & A weasel,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. (that’s Mergers and Acquisitions, if you don’t know - with one of the Morgans - JPMorgan or Morgan Stanley - I can’t remember which).
He’s one of those reviled, monied, ‘Wall Street’ guys. Yep, he‘s in control of everything.

“Tell me about you.” he said, giving me a serious, intense look that held immediate charm. He seemed relaxed, his suit coat off, his white dress shirt glowing in the suite’s soft lighting.
“I’ve got the highest GPA in Yale’s pre-med program,” I informed him, adding, “..in my opinion.”
He chuckled (which, of course, made me like him more).

You know, life in an education bubble can get tedious. Sure, it fills our days from edge to edge and satisfies our basic needs but it can be stifling - a faraday cage filtering life into carefully measured doses. Come Friday nights, we’re ready to hit it.

One thing I like about Dave is that he wants to be one of us and he’s never tried to peel Lisa away for himself - I think that shows an ease and generosity of spirit. Did I mention that Dave’s a Yale alum? He KNOWS New Haven.

The first night we all went out, it was the whole clan - my roommates, the girls in our sister suite, Dave and Andy (a friend of Sunny). We went to an expensive harbor restaurant to get to know Dave and seafood-martini celebrate. We had an epic time. Dave fit in like family.

I’m kind of used to paying for off campus stuff because some of these girls are tight and I’ve got a bag, but when the waiter brought the check, Dave and I found ourselves both reaching for it.
“May I?” He asked, with his Keaton-like smirk. “This time,” I said, with my own shrugging smile.

Later, back at our suite, Dave’s heading back to his hotel (less than a mile away) and slowly, quietly, saying goodnight to Lisa by the front door. “You’ve got some awfully long legs,” he said, like a 1940s black & white movie gumshoe. Taking her gently by the back of the neck and waist and twisting her tall, thin frame in a dancer’s backbend dip where she hung, suspended in his arms.

“I’d like to shimmy up one of those legs like a native boy looking for coconuts.” She chuckled.
Leong and I, sitting on our red corduroy couch, exchanged eye-rolls and smiles - he’s a romantic goof, but somehow, he carries it all off - right down to the kiss.

https://play.google.com/music/m/Tyxfxgv67h2wk46xo7f72kke2se

and I can;t even write about it anymore

Someone walks by and calls me beautiful
Beautiful because I am sitting alone at this bright red picnic table

I am surprised
It is such an unexpected and lovely occasion
To wonder if I am a melody of an unsung song

Something familiar to passers by
Yet entirely unique

Like an art form that is effortless
Simply because of my place in that moment of life
Surrounded by a cacophony of college students
Some of whom are my friends

This was my moment of solace
Of solitude

"Click"
School photographer takes a picture of me tearing into my hamburger Piled high

Once the party is over
I am gone
Like a shooting star

He looks up in the sky and sees me
And while I want the one to join me ablaze
I feel the fear in his heart
Fear I will never be the fireball I once was
If I am suddenly plucked from the sky

Having this unsung
Effortless
Imperfect type of beauty
I smile as I think of the one
The actual one
Knowing it is him
Always and forever
And walking up to the big bright picnic table
Hoping to stay awhile
We lift off ablaze into the night sky

© 2018
Brandi Keaton

Charlie Chaplin, set the pace
Buster Keaton, old stone face
Groucho and the brothers Marx
Margaret Dumont for some sparks
Harold Lloyd, The Brothers Ritz
Did I mention Zazu Pitts?
Stan and Ollie, Keystone Cops
Chases that just wouldn't stop
The Stooges, Larry, Curly, Moe
and then theres Shemp and Curly Joe
Bing and Bob, and Dean and Jerry
Two could sing, while two made merry
Bud and Lou and who's on first?
Harry Langdon and Charlie Chase
I think who is on first base
Mabel Normand and Mack Swain
Always tied before the train
Pie fights, slapstick in black and white
This was when we laughed all night
Mack Sennet, Roach, and Our Gang
Spanky and Alfalfa sang
Words were twisted, spun and turned
People splashed and others burned
Remember back to days of yore
To when they had you on the floor
Rembember Baby Rose Marie
She started at the age of three
Many more could make the list
For many I know that I missed
Make 'em laugh and take a pie
Get sprayed with seltzer in the eye
Go and watch their films again
So comedy will always reign
Thank you to the funny folk
Who taught us how to take a joke....

“We are all actors in an idiots play A tale of sound and fury,
meaning naught. Yet who would care to be a wise man's pawn
Where every twist of fate is well deserved And where a single flaw
could ruin lives? Far better to be in a madman's mind At least for
those (and are we all not so?) Whom fate has smiled on more than
we deserve If life were fair, earth would be hell indeed.”

“Macbeth” William Shakespeare.


From out of the darkness I can see an ever increasing
glow. Intensifying with luminosity as it gets closer and closer.
The blinding eye of fate is upon me. I am thrown with
tremendous vigour. Into where? I have no idea! Surrounded now,
by the blackest of blacks. I can only liken it to a bubble in a pool
of crude that flows wherever the black tide takes me. All I have is
the familiar company of my own voice. A continual narration that
one could expect from a television documentary. The life and
death situ of Michael Simon Jones, filmed in black surround
vision. It reminds me of oh so many nights, when all I wanted to
do is sleep. My mind just wants to stay awake, spouting that
continuous torturous soundtrack into the early hours of the
morning.

Through the darkness a piercing light, coming to me and
then gone, to me then gone. Do I dream? Perhaps of the high
seas. I picture a large tower, It protrudes out of a vast nothing.
The only safe path to steer by is a beam of light, cast down upon
me, from up high. Its beam Revolves continually around, a never
sleeping sun. A light that prevents many flimsy craft, from
grounding onto the craggy rocks that are hidden in the darkness
of the stormy oceanic swells, that roar below.

Again the quiet is shattered, am I not to be allowed to
sleep.
It can only be a dream, for through my bleary eyes I see a figure
of a man, sporting a bright yellow helmet. He seems to be
holding a huge lobsters claw, it is chewing its way through shards
of steel that seem to imprison me. His mouth moving, but I hear
nothing. I half expect to see subtitles appear below him, like an
old Buster Keaton movie. Then he is gone and once more I drift
into that blackened void.

Now a shadowy figure appears. Bending over me his hands
are holding something over my face. I think I can feel myself
struggling against his advances. He is too strong, I can’t breathe,
is he is killing me?

What sort of nightmare is this? Flat on my back in the
darkness, I am gliding speedily along the ground. Intermittent
lights flash past my closed eyes. I recall the deep red on-off glow
of the light, diffused by the blood that rushes through my closed
lids. Can somebody turn the ******* light off, I’m trying to sleep.

Gaaaaa………… I am blinded by the worlds brightest
light! Where am I? The light subsides and I can see, but nothing
is clear. It is like looking through a frosty glass window. There is
movement below me and the bleeding blurs of colours finally
evolve into recognition. What is this? What’s going on down
there?

Rather, what the hell is going on up here? How did I get up here?
I am suspended in mid air. Look I can move my legs. Holy Mary
mother of God, I’m naked! Naked and floating around what looks
to be a hospital operating theatre. Hovering above several
gowned professionals in the toil of their labour.

A naked satellite orbiting above the planet NHS.

Now tell me if there is something wrong with this scenario, but
this is totally not normal is it? I just hope I don’t need to have a
****. I believe that there can only be two possible answers for my
predicament. First is that I am in fact having one totally out of
my head dream.

Second, that I am experiencing some sort of out of body
experience. If that is so, then I can only assume, that the person
lying on that operating table, somewhere under the mass of green
hat and gowns spread eagled on that table below, is me! If only
that fat doctor would move his head out of the way.
Bah! Only so another head can immediately take its place. I think
I now know how a ****** feels when he cant get a clear shot. Oh!
Hang on a second, the assassination can go ahead. I can see!
No that don’t help, I can’t tell who the guy is, he has a mask
covering most of his face and more tubes coming out of him than
a Scottish pipe band. Oh my God! Who else do you know with
that tattoo? I should of known that an indelible red cartoon of the
devil would not be the luckiest thing to have etched into my skin.
I wish now that I’d gone for the Sacred Heart. That might have
been the healthier option and may just of tipped the scales in my
favour. I can’t really see Saint Peter letting me through those
pearly gates with a picture of Beelzebub brandished for all and
sundry to see. Oh ****! That’s me okay, and from this position I
don’t look at all in a healthy state. Can a spirit or whatever I am,
throw up?

But how did I get here? I can’t remember anything that could of
led to this. I do remember going to bed last night, I had an early
night, don’t know why though cause I never get to sleep before
4am. Its a bit laughable I suppose, an Insomniac reading a book
called Insomnia. Perhaps a novel called sleeping tablet would be
more apt?

Unless of course…………… If I can’t remember anything since I
went to sleep then perhaps it’s because I’m still asleep and that
this is merely a dream. That makes more sense, doesn’t it? What’s
happening down there? Something doesn’t look right, things
seem very intense. If only I could make out what they were
saying, everything is silent.

“Hello! What is happening down there? Hello! Hello! Can you
hear me?”

They can’t hear me, no, of course they can’t but why can’t I hear
them? What if this is no dream? What if I am really dying on that
table down there? I can’t make out what they are doing to me but
it doesn’t look good.

There’s a lot of blood.

I wish I had taken more notice when ER was being aired on
television. The only thing I know for sure is, that is a scalpel the
surgeon is holding. The guy at the head of the table should be the
anaesthetist? the woman to the left whom looks like a nurse and
is passing the instruments, is a nurse. But the others I don’t have
a clue.

If only I could hear what they were saying. ****. This is a
nightmare, I can’t believe this. I can see them, why can’t they see
me? Oh please God let them hear me.

“I’m up here, listen to me you death ******* I’m up here.”

So close yet so far away. This can’t be real, this can’t be
happening, not to me. I’ve, never done anyone harm, I've worked
hard all my life. Always been a popular guy, never had a problem
mixing with people. What’s that the nurse is pushing around on
the trolley. I think its one of those crash box things. That’s it, a
defibrillator! *******! I don't think I'm breathing. Look at the
screen, I’ve seen enough movies to know that the green line
should not be one continuous solid.

Oh no, I’ve flat lined! I’m dead! Oh God no, not like this. Looks
like they are going to try and defib me. Here they go.

BAM!

Oh no, the line is still flat. They’re going at it again.

BAM!

****! Still nothing. What they doing now? No don’t stop!
What are they talking about? What have you got to discuss? Just
get on with it, this isn’t a ******* seminar. I’m dying down there.
Just crank that hunk of scrap iron up and send some volts through
me. God, I sound like ******* “Frankenstein,”

That’s it, he’s greasing up the connectors, here we go, here we
go.

_When I came back to the real world I had been in the land
of Coma-City for almost three months and for all of that time it
had been touch and go. It was later explained to me that I had
been involved in a RTA.

It had been surmised that due to my sleeping disorder I had fallen
asleep at the wheel of my car (A classic American 1950’s plated
Cadillac) and had veered into the oncoming traffic. Hitting at
least one vehicle and careering off road and down an
embankment. Finally coming to rest three parts of the way
through a brick built structure, this in turn supported a steel
constructed dome. Used as a point for ramblers trekking high
above Sheermont Cove and offering excellent views across the
horizon and out to sea. An ideal location in particular for budding
photographers to shoot the best possible images of Sheermont
Bay Lighthouse. The Caddie precariously balanced with its long
bonnet hanging over the edge of the cliff top.

In fact I believe that it was the domes heavy steel frame that
secured my fate. The brick walls now demolished beyond
recognition caused the now unsuspended dome to fall onto the
roof of my vehicle. Pinning it solidly to the spot, it crushed the
roof in on top of me, also saving me from plunging to the depths
below and almost certain death. I was trapped under the structure
for almost six hours. I remember very little of the ordeal as I
tripped in and out of consciousness. My rescuers had to cut me
out of the vehicle, with a tool commonly referred to as the Jaws
of Life and I was flown to hospital by air ambulance.

And here I am to tell the tale. But!

Did this metallic redeemer smile on me that fateful night? Saving
me from that almost certain death, on the rocks below Sheermont
Cove?

I think not.

The Dome. It saved my life I know this but the price I would
have to pay was far to high a toll. As I spend the rest of my days
drinking my food through the proverbial straw with only my own
mindful narration forever keeping me company.

I pray to die.

She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone

Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by

Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen

Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart

Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin

The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed

The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do

Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent

She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp

It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.

"Phew", I say as I am catching my breath
Finding the words
Wanting chaos
Enough to be considered human
Enough comfort to be considered sane

Running
Being free yet confined enough to not lose the compass direction
Where am I?
Have I found direction?
Why am I always running?
Where is the thrill of having memories just to place in storage?

Stop
Breathe
Run
Repeat

So are the ways of the wild
Free
Completely insane


© 2018
Brandi Keaton

Dear boss/ employer/ professor/ supervisor/authoritative figure,

I am writing to you to inform you that I will be unable to attend whatever mandatory engagement I had previously agreed to appear at. I do apologize for the inconvenience this may cause, but I do have my reasons. I won’t be able to come in today because:

☐ I had a nightmare where I was abandoned and I woke up in a sweat and I wasn’t sure whether or not I was still dreaming or not.

☐ With these clouds, the sun doesn’t show until somewhere around 8am and it’s sometime around 4am and the darkness just doesn’t seem to end, whether it be outside my room or inside my thoughts.

☐ I passed a park on my way and as I sat I found a small happiness in watching nature and young joy mingle in a simple way and I couldn’t bear to take myself away from it.

☐ I passed a lady who reminded me of a past love and the next second I was convinced that I would never, ever be loved again.

☐ For the first time I actually came to the conclusion that I will never accomplish as much as I have ever wanted to

☐ I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror

☐ I realized that Freud was right about some things

☐ I accidentally listened to Keaton Henson

So it went
like this -
she said,
"My therapist
thinks we
should break up."
and I replied,
"Yeah,
my psychiatrist
says that we
should break up, too."
so soon after,
we broke up.
It was like
Woody Allen
and Diane Keaton.
I didn't know
that such comedies
could actually
be real.
The way
that it appears
in my memory
is something
that isn't exactly real.
That's life!
(I think...).

All the sun had to do was kiss the moon
      One taste of her breath as the world looked on
             Slowly consuming the phenomenon
                      It can't be
                           How does this end so happily
                         Pictures click click click
                        Two minutes of totality quick quick quick
              Makes all the world of difference
As we commune with this galactic love affair
                                            
             ­                                     © 2018
                                            Brandi Keaton

I listen to Keaton Henson when my head is spinning
My head is constantly spinning
There are 124 moments in a day where I have to close my eyes
because all I can see are his hands
I hated his hands, five fingered noose
When I was eleven my goldfish died
I cried for seventeen days straight because I wanted nothing more
than to take my life back
just so he could have his
I used to keep my closet doors open to the idea of monsters
my feet off the edge of the bed as I slept
so when they reached out for my child toes
I could ask them to save me from the real monsters I saw every day
When I was 14 I recorded my final words on tape cassettes for my family
so I didn't have to breathe anymore
it was too much work
I was too much work

Now, I drink red wine to awake my soul
and I kiss the lips of the wind when I walk
so I don't have to see it as anything but a lover, a friend
Now, I miss the way his hands enveloped mine
and his body felt like beach rocks under my soft water tongue
and I needed his truths but I couldn't look at his bright suns anymore
I'm a lover of the night
and now, I sit up and write about him instead of sitting next to him
because I'm afraid of the music and I'm afraid of perfection
It doesn't seem right to have things handed to me so easily
in tightly wrapped packages with bows and ribbons string
so beautiful like a journal
Now, I leave my light on when I don't sleep
I don't sleep
He was the only part of me that made any sense
but I wasn't used to making sense
so I threw him to the lions
and prayed he'd never let me love him again
One day he'll know he's better off

a lot of people ask who I write for

and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend

I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl

that makes you write poetry.

it’s to express the endless love

the irretrievable gratitude

and the unconditional happiness I feel.

but it’s also for the broken ones

who desperately want to believe in hope

who have Pandora’s box

wrenched from their hands.

for the crying ones

who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea

overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.

it’s also for the 9-to-5’s

who drink when they come home

for those who are simply fed up

and want an escape from it all.

I write to help heal.

for the people out there

who just need to know someone understands.

I write because it’s 4am and

I’m listening to Keaton Henson

and these raw feelings

won’t leave my brain

and won’t let me sleep

so really,

I write

to save myself.

Bright Eyes: Lua
Loudon Wainwright: Motel Blues
Radiohead: No Surprises
Keaton Henson: You don't know how luck you are
Tigers Jaw: Never saw it coming
Fleetwood Mac: Songbird
Paolo Nutini: Candy
... and your laugh
the clearing of your throat
your sharp intakes of breath
the chattering of your teeth in the cold
and the movement of cloth against your skin

I made a vision board
in CBT therapy
four years ago

I pasted a Keaton Henson quote
“I think a lot  of art is trying to make someone love you”
on my board

I just thought it was a nice quote

My therapist then proceeded to tell me
not to create for anyone else
but myself.

I proceeded to not listen.

I’m still writing poems about you
I’m still drawing your hands
I’m still in love
and we haven’t talked in years.

yep it is accomplished he did come to my dream and he was my fcking uncle he bought mi a pick up truck iff i remember the dream exactly the way it came to mi

I like the way Peter is sitting,
his eyes are very expansive
he reminds me of a solo climber
effervescent with pride
joyous on his return
His gist is simple Buster Keaton
with a straw hat
and there is  always Sunday theatre
to gallivant to
with my earnest Friend.

Tap tap tap...
Break out the apple and cut in half

Tap tap tap...
One ee and ah
Two ee and ah

Rough as nails you see
Trust me it doesn't get easier
Practice is essential
Resilience of the mind and soul is helpful

Then wake up and what do you see
A great big world and you have the key



© 2018
Brandi Keaton

Resolutions?
I resolve not to have any in 2019 and many more years
Until I forsake the rebellion and child-like carelessness
These promises are only broken

Resolutions
Re-solutions

I am tired of duct tape solutions
Time to figure things out like aged cheese does
With age comes experience and a few new sights
Sounds
Smells
The wonderful, good, horrible, and everything in between

So I resolve to not resolve



© 2018
Brandi Keaton

and the word
                 rolled of my tongue
raced past my lips
          to pratt fall to the floor,
buster keaton style
      only to lie in a curlicue
puddle on
the ***** sky blue lino....

people applaud my performance
in a politely
dissaffected way,
before
returning to they desultory
gossip with regard  to
the state of the art draped
upon the walls....
strange blueprint of
                  mug ulgy beasts.
they say, in excellent      
                 babylonian accents
dropping
tibits of manna cake
and spilling ambrosia nectar
all the while....

**** me
i am  going to have to
get the clouds steam cleaned again... hope
monsoonal cleaners are'nt
busy this week..

and the word squiggled away to hide in the corner

Absurd
Insane
Happy
Emotional
Theatrical
In love with life
With memories
With you
(Who? Who?)

Sorry.


© 2018
Brandi Keaton

but wait,...I had s. o. m. e. hope
itfeltsostrange in my body
so displaced on-my-tongue
let's just be honest; I knew that it didn't
be\Long

it's a place I've. come. to. know.
A little {A lot} Too Well
it's sick; i've found there's a comfort
~in the broken~
grown "ac"cust"om"ed" to this hell

oh-sweet-love; i don't have the vanity to
pretend
...that your g. o. n. e.  doesn't a\c\h\e\
... my whiskey bears witness to how
my >hands> qui>ver > and> shake

spendingmy nights
on-the-living-room-floor
dra _ gg _ ing>>>  a cigarette
while 'ole Keaton sings... my... songs...

^H^op^E^ is wish _ ful th°in°king°
better saved for those who-know-it's-worth
cause I've tossedthedice; and/my/love
,... and it {just} hasn't been,... e n o  **ugh.

There he was all alone
Fighting on the billboard
His relevance shown
It came with a flow
Spiderman is a teenage boy
that flies around
and lands like a toy
on the ground.
He has an African-American girlfriend
in high school
that he has to stand up
to go on a mission to fight a fool
played expertly by Michael Keaton
Spiderman doesn't have too a boyfriend
He seems "clean" to me and on
the up,
not that I would hate him
if he was for example a bisexual
They're surely not fishing
with looks like Tiny Tim
and even a *******.
They seem not fishy too
He fights mission after mission
fighting grandiose figures
seething repression
On and on the action goes
Spiderman is the hit of the show.

Dad, please show me the finger tracks
The flick of the wrist
To see the flint stone find its place
As it hops across the Bluestone

Dad, please tell me how to master putt-putt
How to not be such a mulligan
Rushing into things unawares

Dad, please tell me - oh I can't say it
How to keep my heart from ever breaking again

Watching me in the rearview mirror
He knows I'm there
Living in rearview

And Dad,
I need you to tell me I can stay there awhile

© 2018
Brandi Keaton