It's such a different perspective to see her self-hatred outdoes my own. She's a brilliant, dying star. Vacuuming away all the evil in her, siphoning it through her throat. Flush it down. Pulling apart her bones from the inside out. I can understand that.

I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose. Take a deep breath, look up at the clouded sky. The blown, restless leaves endlessly remind me of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Let my mind go blank. Refocus, come back down from wherever I went, finding I've been working questions over while unaware. Autopilot likes to steer toward the ground. I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose, of the best way to say goodbye.

I've been dreaming of writing this down all morning, all night. Who's to say I haven't been anxiously awaiting this all my life? To tell you what it's like to hate yourself so much that others become mere blips on the radar; still there, but so unrecognizable. I become unreachable. I've been dreaming of opening myself up, seeing all the things that are tucked inside, away from my reach. They all tell me not to go looking for trouble, but hell, how could it possibly get worse? I'm curious.

Lying here loathing myself for being so pitiful. So pathetic. Part of me knows I am wallowing, stewing, dwelling. The other part knows what they don't: there is nothing of worth  here. Take it all away, no more trying. Drop my cards on the wood between my elbows, stand & take my leave. You guys can split my poker chips. It'll be so...so lovely...not waking up to the bleak, the empty. Not to have to face myself in the mirror, with my troubled eyebrows & worried lips & the nervous twitch of my mouth that wasn't there a month ago. Not to wake up to every 'can't'. Not to stare into my own blank, listless eyes; numb. So mortified of myself, miserable with me, yet so distant, removed, disinterested, distracted.

Please don't be upset if I think of you before I go. Understand that just because I want to die doesn't necessarily mean I want to leave you. Don't count this one last sin; dreaming of my fingertips memorizing the contours of your face, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, your neck, hands, tears. Breathe in the scent of you. Maybe you could give me some courage to hold onto as I let go. Don't penalize me for this, please. Let me live in how much I love you one last time. I'm sorry this hurts you.

I just figured out how to say goodbye.

Most of the girls (Anna, Sophy, Sunny, Bili, Leong and Lisa) are in the kitchen eating breakfast. “Where’s Anais?” Sunny asks, spooning some eggs onto her plate and taking 4 strips of bacon.

“She’s out by the pool, feeling sorry for herself.” Leong whispers, distractedly, reading the “Fruity Pebbles” box and poking the multicolored flakes with her spoon. “These are good.”

“She was cantankerous.” Sophy adds.
“Aungery.” Anna adds.
“Stevening.” Lisa contributes, competitively.

The front door causes the alarm system to chirp as it opens and Kim calls out, “Morning!” from the foyer.

“What’s going on?” Sunny asks, frustratedly and looking around in concern.

“Charles told her she couldn’t invite Peter this summer.” Lisa said, half whispering. Bili and Anna look up from their plates, like interested bystanders, to check Sunny’s reaction.

Sunny looks shocked, “Really - he can do that? Why?” she asks, almost confused. “He’s usually such an invisible figure.” she notes, quizzically.

Kim comes into the kitchen and hangs her purse on a white coat rack - out of habit - like she’s done for years. “Charles tells her what to do,” she says, giving Bili a hug. “and the girl obeys.”

“Yep,” Bili confirms, bobbing her head offhandedly, like it’s a done deal.

Sunny nods thoughtfully and putting a napkin under her plate, heads out the double-French doors toward the pool to find me. I’m sitting by the pool, watching the water, one leg crossed over the other, which is in the water, slowly kicking, making deliberate waves that ripple across the light blue surface.

“Hey,” Sunny said as she approached, “mind company?”
“Nah,” I reply, “I’m over it.”
“I heard,” Sunny reported, taking a seat next to me, “sorry.”
“Just a disappointment - and a little social embarrassment.” I said, chuckling self-consciously.
“Did he say why?’ Sunny ventured.
“He just said, “It’s a bad idea,” I repeated, shrugging.
After a moment of silence I added, “He’s probably right - I’m glad I hadn’t asked Peter yet - THAT would have been lethiferous,” I cringe physically at the thought.

“Besides,” I disclose, “that might have been weird, me with someone and no one else??”
Sunny gives a “maybe” nod.

“Like when one of us brings someone into our dorm room for the night,” I continue, “and you have to walk through the common room - where everyone’s studying - and they know what you’re doing, and you know, they know, what you’re going to do. It’s SUPER awkward.” We both chuckle in agreement.

She is my second favorite poet on this list
But she doesn't need to be reminded of this
She doesn't give a ****
Cause she is here for her
Not for my approval
As she hits the high note
Of the last bars that she wrote
With a little sneer she disappears
Holding that disdain in her veins
From years of abuse

I compliment her but
My blandishments fall on angry ears
She fakes gratitude
Not understanding the sincerity
Of my compliments
Assuming I am sexualizing her
That I am just another perv

I understand
I thank her and walk away
Never letting even an inkling show
Through my face
But I am disappointed

She could have been my ally
Not my lover or fling but friend
Dismisses me so offhandedly and angrily
But I let it slide
There is always other nights
There are always other venues
Under softer lights
Where writers delight
In what others write
And they are not so angry
But she is still my second favorite

If you just ask me to out my blades on your nightstand while casually checking your email on your iPhone, it won't happen.

If you offhandedly remind me to eat while heading out the door for a few hours, it won't happen.

And if you tell me living is worth it while slapping me in the face with a ton of mistrust and coldness, it won't happen.

Trust me.

We’re in NYC - at last - on Christmas vacation, and it feels like a pardon.

It’s amazing what can happen in just a few wild and change-filled hours. One minute, seemingly, you’re in a picture postcard rural-scape (I think campus fits that), where crickets choir in rhythm, and the next you're in a Manhattan high-rise 50th floor kitchen, eating Fruity Pebbles for breakfast and looking down on man's lesser creations.

It’s 9am, 37° and clear this morning. Central Park looks bright and multicolored, like the lonely rectangle of nature was determined to spend its last fall day in spectacle. The sun’s glowing too, warming the earth with the glory of heaven. Its beams are so bright and crisp, that even the deeper shadows seem fair.

“I think I just saw a UFO,” I said to no one in particular, a second after something whizzed by the kitchen window.
“A UAP,” Leeza (Lisa’s 14 yo sister) corrected me, “and it was a helicopter,” she updogged.
“Then it wasn’t a UAP?” I asked, as if confused.
Leeza carefully selected a blue pebble-flake and flicked it at me - I ducked - because she can be deadly accurate with those things.
Leeza gets prettier every time I see her, she has deep-dark, wavy red hair brushed with copper highlights, green eyes and the coltish beauty of adolescence. She’s taller than me now, which seems somehow unfair.

Lisa’s front door chimed, and two voices called “Morning!” It was Will & Karen, two friends who live with the poor people down on the 46th floor. “Morning!” They repeated again, as they came into the kitchen. Will’s 20 and Karen’s a salty 12. Since Lisa’s mom is named Karen too, I’m going to shorten 12-yo Karen’s name to Kay.
“What’s for breakfast?” Will asked, looking around. Kay, a slim, waif-like pixie with jet-black hair, went over to Leeza, opening her mouth like a little bird and Leeza fed her a spoonful of Fruity Pebbles and milk as if practiced.

The morning I met Kay, two years ago (when she was 10), she offhandedly told me Will ‘liked’ me. While nothing ever came of that - we’re just friends - I always feel kind of ‘attractive’ around him - you know what I mean? Like I hold the jewel of his esteem. I mention that, because Lisa and I made an early start, abandoning morning vanities for a 7am hop-over Long Island Sound. I probably look like something evolution hasn’t bothered with - but let’s bowdlerize that.

Lisa’s in the living room rearranging the presents - it’s her job as the official head-elf. When Lisa and I came in, Leeza grabbed me by the hand, dragging me towards the guest bedroom, “Look at all the packages,” She marveled.
“Maybe I got carried away,” I admitted, looking at them for the first time.
“You’re obsessive,” she pronounced. “Ya think,” I snarked, “have we met?” I asked jokingly, while offering her my hand as if in introduction.

We’re going shopping in a bit - as soon as Charles gets back from settling in at the Ritz Carlton (about a block away). We want the fevered and manic NYC-Christmas shopping experience - the chill air, the gabble and fuss of the crowds and the joy of the season passing person to person, like bacteria trading plasmids.
.
.
Like Christmas tunes?
Stream one or two of MY (free) unique Christmas playlists.
Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!
http://daweb.us/xmas/

on her fiftieth birthday our alleged mother hires a driver to remain parked outside an abandoned warehouse.  she promises to pay the driver extra if he sees more than two stray beasts and promises further employment if he consciously brings the uglier of the two or more home to his children.  we hear offhandedly these things and others

     as if we are hidden inside a very large cake.  

     the driver is an hour deep into the assignment when he notices a barefoot woman flat on her belly scooting across a puddle of oil near the warehouse entrance.  the woman is swallowed by the puddle before the driver can call to her or commit her outfit to memory.  he says aloud she was feral and her ******* had to be, by then, bleeding.  it’s christmas morning when the driver comes to and his wife’s sister has this look like she could **** the red from a childhood firehouse.  his kids are crying over invisible toys.  invisible because our mother touches the future without looking.

Allow me to enumerate, subjugate and demonstrate.
To those parts of you which hold doubt.
But first, I must abdicate, on how your words agitate,
all the parts of me which act out.

You talk about eternity, the ageless infinity
But your precocity holds you like a vice in its grip.
You hold its hair back, like girls in sorority.
Desperate to keep it making the slightest of slips.

Don't ask for reason, is there ever any worth hearing?
I can tell you "you're beautiful, with a personality to boot."
But does that really make my words any more endearing?
For me, that is something that your self must refute.

If you had telepathy your thoughts would be a mess.
Sorting out the messages, from thoughts I can't suppress.
Enabling my addiction to your body and your soul.
You would watch my mind, as infatuation takes control.

Faith I have in abundance, in people not in gods.
Charon can take all his coins, and I will take those odds.
I approach with uncertainty. and offer it candidly.
My love is yours to take, don't take it offhandedly.

There was a purpose to it all. To the man who just missed his taxi in New York, to the young child hopping between rocks deep in a forest, on a bubbling stream. Just as the city pulsed with life, seeping through cracks in the pavement repaired just last week, in the wheels of the taxi driving away and in the man's curse under his breath...
Just as the city pulsed with life, billions of trillions of ideas and thoughts and galaxies in heads thinking about their coworker one cubicle over who mentioned offhandedly to their friend about not having plans this Thursday evening, about whether their mother had remembered to take their medication this morning because she always was forgetting and did she realize how much easier it would be to hire a servant for these things...
Just as the city pulsed with life, as did the forest, a snake slithering between the dancing shadows from the shaking leaves, the child unaware of this impending surprise until the moment of impact, yielding a sharp report and a mad dash for an exit...
So did the forest, birds swooping between branches swaying ever so slightly from the gust caused by the boy's speed, one train of thought, one heartbeat racing to catch up with its feet...
So did the forest, with billions of trillions of thoughts and ideas in heads wondering about whether the snake had bitten him or not, about whether their grandmother had remembered to take her medication this morning because she was oh so forgetful and Daddy did always say they needed a maid since he was always busy and Mommy left...
So did the forest.
Feet flew, wheels sped.
A puppy, patiently waiting by the window, tennis ball in mouth, for her buddies to come home. Her older dog companion had fallen asleep in the wait.
And in these moments, of waiting, all with one destination...they were already together in their minds.

To have peace of mind
In the palm of your hand
To twiddle and fiddle with it
Playfully, offhandedly
To throw it high up in the air
And to trust it to come back
To the fold of your palm
Like a piece of metal to a magnet
Simply and automatically.
Could this be the higher ideal?

We’re in Paris, staying with my Grandmère (Grandmother) for a few days around Mother’s day.
Peter (my bf) is getting to know my Grandmère. They’ve started to relax and enjoy each other. This time, when they met, they hugged.
“You look great!” Peter said, “Have you had some work done?”
She made a face that acknowledged the absurd, and shook her head ‘no’.
“A rib removed?” He followed up.

Last night she told him a story about the strict and regimented world she’d grown up in.
When she was 8, she and her mom (‘GG’), had visited a friends' home for tea. Afterwards, GG asked her, “Did you see that?” In a horrified voice.
“What?” Young Grandmère had asked.
“When the houseman brought in that calling card?” GG asked, watching her daughter like she was taking a test.
Grandmère thought about it - but couldn’t find the fault, “What about it?” she’d finally asked.
“He just HANDED it to her - without a (silver) tray.” GG was scandalized at this debacle of civilized standards.

“That’s what WE were up against,” Grandmère said, “It was a strict and judgmental world.. back then.”
“But you were a strict-old-bird with my mom, right?” I asked (because I live to get a reaction from her).
“Oh, nothing like the OLD days,” she sighed, looking to heaven in reverie.
“Now YOU,” she said, (indicating me) like she was revealing some melodramatic truth, “get away with ******.”
“Yep,” I admitted, “That’s me - I’m guilty.” I shrugged.

Every June, there’s a grand masked ball at Versailles Palace and it’s AMAZING. Like the MET Gala, there are only some 400 tickets and those are instantly sold out. This year, my Grandmère has four extra - in an envelope.
“Give them to meeeeee!” I begged, shamelessly, stretching out a quivering arm, like a ****** in withdrawal. “We’ll see,” she said cruelly.
“If you do,” I bargained, “I’ll buy you some land in Camargue (an area of worthless swampland in southern France)."
When she didn’t give in immediately, I decided to try and keep her engaged with sparkling conversation.

“Ever noticed that the word ‘perfect’ has 7 letters?
So does meeeeee,” I said. “Coincidence? I think NOT”

My mind searched for leverage. Grandmère had taken Peter and I to a horse jumping competition earlier that day. I love the smells of horse, hay and leather - you know - all that - but I can barely ride. I continued to bargain.

“You know,” I began (like an actress on stage), in a shaky voice meant to convey extreme, past suffering, ”my parents never bought me a horse.”
It felt like there were tears in my eyes.
“Ok,” she said, boredly, tapping the envelope with ******* then sliding it, my way, across her desk.
I picked up the envelope - counting the tickets. Grandmère wasn’t above withholding one as a ‘business lesson.”

“Can I bring Peter, Lisa, and Dave?” I asked innocently. ‘Bring’s’ the magic word - what I’m asking is whether she’ll pay for everything (airfare, hotels, cash cards, designer costumes - maybe €60k in all).
She’s no fool, she’d offered those tickets knowing this - but it’s only polite to ask. (I could pay for it myself, dip-tha-fund as they say).
“Of course,” she said, offhandedly, “call François.” She’d moved on to the next thing on her desk.

François, a handsome, 27ish, perfectly tailored, hipster with straight blonde fringe-hair and a Sorbonne Université MBA, is one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive-secretarial minions who’ll now coordinate all aspects of our travel and expenses.

I came around that desk and gave her a big hug, which she endured as she read something.
“You’re the Beatles,” I pronounced, before scurrying off to tell Peter.

songs for this:
Love Is Strange by Frenchy
Depression Royale by De-Phazz
Take Three by Club des Belugas
Inesaurible Tu by St. Project

Gaps and distances,
and what's in between them,

innocent questions and
gruff answers, spoken offhandedly;
tones which speak volumes...

just like that
...love rekindles.

rising anger.
that particular intonation that just tips you over,
weakening admittance to the cold disappointment,
that you were not enough.
so unbearable,
yet complacent in its stature,
the niceties removed,
politeness overthrown,
like ugly pebbles next to an oh-so-perfect skipping stone,
smooth and untouched,
undeniable.

maybe one day,
I will write in absence of emotional pain,
passively forgotten,
as easy as the first pebble,
the first pebble so offhandedly selected
for practice, and nothing but,
to hone in on technique and capability.

for now it is embraced,
opening doors and crystal window panes.
an outlet,
for the things soon to pass,
like the ripples on the water surface,
skipping thoughts and skimming time.

James Sebastian Middlemarch was a prodigy.
No other way to say it in truth,
And those who knew him and his gift
Were in agreement that he was destined to reach
The apogee of the musical world,
Though he, even at a very young age, discouraged such talk,
Sometimes offhandedly, but at other times
Quite insistently indeed, for, even then,
He had the constant, gnawing suspicion
That there was a disconnect between the harmonies
(Mad, excruciating, yet unspeakably lovely)
Which scampered unfettered around his head
And those he could bring forth on the piano or viola.  
Nonetheless, his aptitude pulled him along
Through longitude and latitude,
To Julliard, then Paris and Vienn, maixing with others
Marked by their provincial peers as The Next One.  

Through all this time,
The sonatas, concertos, and full-blown symphonies
Danced on in his mind without restraint or retreat
Yet, when he tried to corral them onto paper,
They kicked and bucked and spit out the bit
In spurious sixteenths and turgid quarters
Which cantered along in pedestrian time signatures.  
These pieces (the “sad imitations”, as he called them)
Were performed on more than the odd occasion,
But on smaller stages by undistinguished orchestras,
And those freelancers dispatched by features editors
In the Rochesters and Pensacolas of the world
(Small-timers themselves, yet wholly without sympathy)
Would cluck and sigh dismissively in their reviews
That the works were derivative,
With easily discernible bits of Strauss and Schumann
(Clara Schumann, according to one acerbic small-town wit)
Scattered here and there,
And they were unanimous in their belief and opinion
As to the minor nature of his presence on the musical landscape.

After some years, he stopped publishing his works
Which made him even less of an afterthought
Than he had been at his low-slung zenith.  
He continued to play with some regional symphonies,
Where he was deeply loved by his colleagues,
As he was modest in the face of praise,
But never sparing in dispensing kindness in return,
And to all appearances the frenzied siren airs
Which had ridden roughshod over his psyche for so many decades
Had ceased at last, but after his death, one of his sons discovered,
Squatting surreptitiously under a mound of ancient antimacassars,
Several trunks containing untold scores of sheet music,
(Updated versions of earlier work,
New pieces abandoned in exasperation)
Which sat in mute testament to the difficult labor
Of unfastening onself from the yoke of being ordinary.

Though I know your heart beats for someone else,
I can't stop my thoughts from tumbling along the familiar suspicions.
Do you feel something for me, after all?
Rationally, I know I'm a fool.
I know you love me as a friend, a confidant, nothing more.
So why can't I get you out of my brain?
You torture me in tiny heartbreaking ways,
The way you have others hanging off of you left and right,
The way you sing without thinking about it,
How you cut your hair just the way I like,
The soft admissions that you should be worrying about me and not the other way around--
How do you manage to tear me apart every single time?
I can't stop the ache when you offhandedly mention how attractive she is,
And I have to catch my breath when you flirt with everyone except for me.
What did I do wrong that made you not want to be with me?
What sort of cruel joke has God made, letting me find my soulmate when I'm not his?
Why am I not enough? I'm not a supermodel, but I can be beautiful when I try... So why doesn't anyone notice?
I have the worst sort of luck falling for my friends,
Mark this the seventh occurrence on my ledger
Perhaps when it finally reverses my luck, my karma will be so great that you will change your mind.
Maybe I'll find someone better.
Until then, though, there's nothing I can do to stop my racing thoughts.
They run circles round and round my head, torturing my mind with thoughts of inadequacy and imperfection--
Why? What have I done to deserve all of this pain?
I may never know, and that scares me the most.
I can only hope you will come to love me in time,
Before we part ways and before our time is done
For, you, love--
You're all I want in life.

It was me that stole your light bulb
I switched it when mine blew.
And now you lie there night after night
reading by candlelight.
Slowly going blind.
I don't really mind.
How am I to know ?  you come to bed so late
my cold shoulder turned to you as I feign sleep.

You could go and buy one for yourself,
you won't.
When we're speaking again
You'll offhandedly say," would you pick up a bulb
when you're out?"
And so
it will be my problem again.

I have seen that same movement of air in the modifying
moods of sea
seen from  a crest and immobilized; on clear days and in clouds
paled by wind
on a reproach; and in a woman’s distraction
when she carried herself to awkward seasons
and her room swallowed a strange light; when she is exhausted
not dry, not from burning, but with desire, and things are still moving
but moving less, and she reckoned how many will remain
when she delivered it down to herself through the years,
without a touch, without a thin chord
and her hands have changed it, when until now it is
strangely reserved
like something in perfect stasis, and offhandedly, she says,
“It will rain.”

maybe later, when we wake up tomorrow
i'll tell you what i want to say--
maybe another time,
when your eyes find themselves dry
and your feet calloused
from walking barefoot
on sandy beaches too far from home
i'll pipe up--
but i know you hurt so deeply,
and i know your heart has withered,
so maybe
i'll keep this sapling
and plant it,
and maybe one day--
you could find solace in its shade
and think offhandedly
of me

Sometimes one's just overwhelmed by this reminder.  

All Living Things Love Life II

Written many moons ago;
Writ by life-observer poets;
Scribbbled scrutinies and comments;
Detailed now on TV shows:
Perils menacing or imminent;
Calloused killings of the other,
That despite all men are brothers;
Pain or dread;
The many dead.
Frog, fly, ant
Stepped, crushed without stop or conscience -
Well, what can one say!
Living things that pant for breath
Robbed of air from man to plant.
Air, the global element,
Constituent shared by us all:
And still
We ****.
Implausible! Impossible!  But actual
This second as thought formulates;
Loved beings each transported
To a valueless oblivion.
We watch offhandedly,
Or helpless, mourn.

All Living Things Love Life II 5.11.2021 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin