I don't know when it became
Such a game
To just communicate
With you
Some power play

But dang I'd choose
Cups and strings
And walkie talkies
Over this "thing"
Any day

Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis

He waits in the park for a date.
A bus full of los Angeles Models and photographers
talk through walkie talkies.
He walks around spying through his peripheral.
pretending he's James Bond trying to scope them out.
He wonders if he seems suspicious, or if he's going undetected.

A Beautiful girl passes briskly by, looking curiously around.
She long dark bangs, fall colored scarf, flirty skirt.
She sits on a nearby bench.
He no longer thinking of his date.

"oh my god."
"wait, no."
"what if she showed up right when you started flirting?"
"be respectful."

A vibration in his palm.
"I'm Here"
he looks around
the only woman to fit the profile is perched on the bench.
"no way."
He walks over to the girl.
"you walked right past me, beautiful."
on his face is a smolder
the gas mask used to hide all sorts of jumbled feelings in the past.
Today. it's hiding a tiny jumping boy. feeling like he just won the gorgeous girl lottery.
This is his Date.

They go to Dobra Tea,
She takes a sip.
"It tastes like peaches" she says.
"Peaches come, in a can." The boy starts.
"they were put their by a man" she adds.
they screamingly harmonize a bit too loudly for a tea shop
"In a factory downtown"
they shush each other.
giggles erupt out of them as they collapse into the tiny pillows.
they get quiet.

the girl explains she puts her "bad pictures" on tinder
so people are surprised to realize she's beautiful in person.
stricken by her brilliance.
He applauds the flawless strategy.
as it clearly worked on him.

They go on a few more dates.

First She takes him to a graveyard.
They talk about their Jiminy Cricket's
Shared demons, so familiar some
creep from behind gravestones.
push leaves from their path as they stroll along.

Then He bring her to lighthouse.
A thick cold fog.
they switch between belting 90's pop hits
and laying peacefully up at the sky holding hands.
Music.
sound of bleeding hearts rubbing against each other.
bow and violin.
how soon they flint and steel.
spark too hot, too real, too soon.

later, in bed.
His heart leaks something.
He wonders if he looks suspicious, or if he's going undetected.
when she pushes "did you just say you love me?
Tired, and teary eyed, He says:
"Peaches."
It was their safe word.

As she starts in, Clearly not satisfied,
"C'mon, I know I hear-" she interrupts herself.
"oh... you said peaches."

See, he could have said yes,
It would have been more honest.
but this was only their third morning waking up together.
even though his heart wanted to say it again.
his Jiminy Cricket doesn't care if he loves her.
it knows he can't take care of her.
Jiminy knows that when he goes home tomorrow, she's a poem.

So He says peaches.

i.
your teeth chatter and the wind hits your face.
you can no longer feel your hands or legs.
something about frostbite floats around your mind.
and while your head is screaming, go home
your legs are screaming, left, right, left, right.

you remember walking this way from school.
when your sister would pick you up and walk with you.
or when your "best friend" would make you take the long way
so you could walk her home.

you remember trying to climb that tree
to impress a couple of kids
in hopes that you would become friends.
you remember falling
and the shrill laughter of "never never friends"

you remember sitting in that field
and writing poetry
about the dogs that passed.

you remember playing in that park
with a girl you thought
you'd be friends with forever.
you remember sitting on the swings
while your mom talked to other moms
about what it was like to be a mother.
you remember sliding down the slide,
playing in the sand,
and the reluctance to go home.

ii.
you find yourself in His neighborhood.
you still remember the exact way to His house.
how could you not?
you are still smoking.
you imagine the smoke hitting His face.
He would be shocked, if only He could see you now.
what He made you.

you stop by His house.
you remember the path across His house that would lead you to school if you followed it.
you remember the tree next to His house where He poked a wasp's nest.
you remember His backyard, how you would build forts and He would always win.
you remember His living room, blanket forts where you would tease you until you cried.
you remember His mother and her patronizing smile.

there are christmas lights.
you wonder which room is His.
you wonder if His house still looks the same.
you wonder if He remembers what He did to you.

how He touched you
even though you said no.
how He told you that you wanted it
even though you said you didn't.
how He told you that you needed him
even though you knew you didn't.

He is a ghost now, just like the rest of this neighborhood.
and you know if you stay long enough
the ghosts will take it as an open invitation
and come out to play.

iii.
you keep walking.
you put the cigarette out.
you think you're lost until you find a familiar looking building.
you walk towards it.
you realize it's the church across from your elementary school.

ah, elementary school.
remember how they broke you?
remember how they called you names?
remember how you tried to **** yourself?
remember all the friends you didn't have?

you can see the ghosts, now.
the school is filled.
your legs are moving towards it.
you remember the nightmares you had about this exact place last week.
you take pictures.
you try to catch a demon on film.

you have lost all control of your legs.

this is where you told ghost stories about the old lady that lived in the forest behind the school.
this is where you made a pact that you would be friends for life.
this is where that kid told that teacher he was death when he meant to say deaf.
this is where you sat under the playground and laughed so hard you peed.
this is where you showed them the scars on your wrist.
this is where they rolled their eyes and called you "attention seeking".
this is where she told you every lie they'd ever said about you.
this is where you sat when you told them you were going to **** yourself tonight.
this is where you bled and everyone saw.
this is where you broke.

this is where you became who you are today.

iv.
the anxiety is killing you.
you light another cigarette.
you hear voices and a bark.
you make a left.

down the road is the fence you kicked your show over in the second grade.
you wonder if you should thank them for returning your shoe or not.
you don't.

you walk towards her house.
the last time you were here was halloween in grade nine.
you were dressed as the mad hatter.
being chased by some guy dressed as michael myers.
trying to figure out who you really are.

she became someone completely different less than a year later.
she had been telling people she wished your best friend would **** herself.
she got into drugs.
she was always too good for you, anyways.

you want to knock on her door and ask how she's doing.
you wonder if she remembers you.
you don't.

v.
you walk past His best friend's house.
he has bright, shining lights, too.
christmas spirit.

you wonder if he still lives there or not.
you remember the way you went to daycare together.
the three of you.

you were never close with him.
he was into hockey and more attractive girls.
by the time He transferred out of your school, he had no reason to talk to you anymore.
he forgot all about you.

he started dating girls in grade one.
he started cursing in grade five.
he had kissed a girl by grade eight.
she thought she was in love with him.
he had no idea what love meant.

he still plays lacrosse with Him.
he talked to you about Him, sometimes.
he told you how He was doing, how much he hated Him.

at least the two of you had that to talk about.

vi.
you are almost home.
you check your phone.
four missed calls.
three unanswered texts.
where r u?
you turn off your phone and put your hands in your pockets.

you're walking down the same path you would during school.
you remember the way the boy you had a crush on would tease you as you walked home.
he lived on your street.
he would call you names.
you told yourself it was only because he liked you.
he didn't.

the two of you used to be best friends.
you played in the park together.
you had matching walkie talkies.
he came to all your birthday parties
and you went to all of his.

until you weren't cool enough.
and that was that.

you still see him sometimes.
you don't exchange a hello or even a smile.
you act like he doesn't exist.
he does the same for you.

you wonder if he feels as guilty as you do.

vii.
you are home, but you are not alone.
you've returned with your own ghost.
she is whispering in your ear how you have become
everything she would be ashamed of.

she wanted to be a veterinarian.
she wanted to be thin.
she wanted to be pretty.
she wanted to be smart.
she wanted a boyfriend.

you are unemployed.
you are overweight.
you are ugly.
you are dumb.
you have a girlfriend.

she is dead and you are the only one to blame.
because you killed her.

I’d get a call over the walkie-talkie, write down what parts were needed, find them in the parts’ warehouse tent, load ’em up, and deliver them to the job site. It was pretty easygoing. In between orders I’d just sit in the air-conditioned truck, listening to Howard Stern and napping here and there. When I could. After a month, they hired another guy to be my partner. He was a computer programming geek, married with kids, and he had these stupid cartoon tattoos all over his arms. Japanese anime **** and Hanna-Barbara characters. The guy really got on my nerves, one of those know-it-all nerds.
Our boss was the biggest Native I’d ever seen. Looked like a Navajo Andre the Giant, only he had a big, black, handlebar mustache. Which as surprising, because, I was under the impression Navajo’s couldn’t grow ****** hair. He stood at nearly 6’6” with long skinny legs, a barrel chest covered in silver and turquoise jewelry. When he got angry, his eyes went wild, like fire raging out of control. Like the time I got the flatbed truck stuck on an embankment and the back axle snapped off. “******* JUNIOR!” he shouted. My old man was one of the foremen there, so everyone just called me Junior. Oh yes, my boss, Darren, was a scary guy to say the least. So me and my delivery partner were making a run to the jobsite one day, the radio blaring “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, just getting into the fast final part of the song. The good part. Right in the middle of the guitar solo, my partner changed the station to Nickleback, of all things. I quickly switched it back to the Skynyrd.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t change it in the middle of “Free Bird,” I said.
My partner rolled his eyes and switched it back to Nicklecrap.
“Come on, get with the times, man. This is the new ****.”
“Yeah, **** is right.”
I switched it back AGAIN, but the song was ending.
“You made me miss the song, ya’ ******’ *****.’
“Why don’t ya’ just cry about it then?”
“*******.”
We delivered the parts and parked the truck back inside the parts’ warehouse tent. With no calls coming in over the radio, we cranked the a/c and dozed off to Howard Stern talking about an “**** ring toss” game they were going to play. I woke up an hour later to Darren’s angry voice coming in over the radio. “Where the **** are you guys? *******, we got parts that gotta go out. I’m headed to the tent …”
I looked over to my partner, snoring away in the driver’s seat. For a second, I contemplated waking him up. Then I remembered the Lynard Skynyrd/Nickleback incident, and I left him sleeping in the truck. I walked out of the tent, to the Port-John to take a squirt. When I returned to the tent, Darren was staring at my partner, who was still asleep in the truck. Darren’s eyes were big and crazy; he was furious. He turned to me.
“What the ****, Junior?”
“I’ve been trying to get him up, but he just won’t budge. I’m having to do all this work myself!”
“******* …” Darren said, with a heavy sigh, before pounding on the driver’s side window.
“Andy! Wake the **** up, *******! Junior’s carrying all the weight here!”
Andy did wake up. He glared at me, and I smiled back with a ****-eating grin.
You don’t ever interrupt The Free Bird. I don't care what your name is.

What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it  
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you

Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like

My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.

Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b

Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow

Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds

I love spending nights on the lake.
Once the oven-like sun disappears,
things get suddenly quiet, except for
the occasional hoot of an owl, crickets, frogs
and the soft lapping of the lake on the boat.

When the moon rises above the pines
the sky lights up, like a fireworks bloom,
its reflection is brushed, in scatters on the lake,
giving insubstantial moonlight a sharp substance
not unlike a fractured, undulating, glittery lace.

This evening, there’s a rumble, stage left, off to the west,
and a thunderstorm’s growl, like a wolf on the prowl.
The wind was picking up, so we began battening down,
stowing things in the galley and taking in the flag. The wind,
had become almost solid with its insistent and restless energy.

The question, with these daily, southern, summer thunderstorms
is whether you’re going to catch the edge of it or get the full onslaught. The doppler radar, of my iPad weather app indicated the monster was headed right for us.

Just as our phones, watches and iPads began chirping
with National Weather Service, “Severe Weather Alerts,”
Charles asked, “You two still want to stay?” His voice fighting
against the stiff wind as he watched the tall pine-tree tops bob,
like boxers, afraid of the far off lightning flashes in the sky.

“Of course!” I chimed in, wearing a grin, I LOVE boat storms!
“Lisa, there’s a storm on the way but we’ll stay on the boat, ok?” I asked, trying to English the question with both a sense of adventure and nonchalance. Lisa, of course, followed my lead, saying, “Sure.”
“It’ll be ill,” I assured her.

Charles nodded and leapt to the dock, replacing the gunwale rope lines with longer dock rods to distance and secure the boat (lowering front and back anchors too).

“We’re staying,” Charles walkie-talkie’d Carol (his wife) below in the staterooms where she was probably making the beds. “10-4” she replied.
I love her, she’s so game for anything. While Charles worked, Lisa and I sealed the upper deck from cockpit (helm) to transom, putting up sturdy plexiglass windows and closing the transom doors.

Charles came aboard just as we turned up the air conditioning and thick raindrops started falling. Having finished our work, we looked up and the moon was gone, hidden by dark clouds that writhed like some angry, mythical, steel wool animal.

The rain went from a delicate pitter-patter to a generous applause and finally, a steady torrent. We felt it initially pass over us from port (left) to starboard (right). The wind whistled, like a giant’s breath, rocking the boat, alternately, in two directions. It was wonderful.

The far-off thunder had become intimate, bomb-like and personal, with its Crack-k-KA-BOOM! Every time such a concussion rocked the air, the boat and our teeth, I cackled, with joy, like Poe’s Madeline Usher, the madwoman in the attic.

“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT!?” I yelled to Lisa, but she made an ‘I can’t hear you,’ sign. Carol, who’d been working the galley, produced yummy tuna-fish sandwiches, potato chips and milk. We played a dominoes game called ‘Mexican Train’ until the rain stopped, then we watched ‘Jaws’ on the fold-down TV. Lisa had never seen it!

The boat had rocked, lightning had flashed, the cutting wind howled and the thunder boomed, but it was the clawing rain, like a tiger trying to break into the boat, that made it an unforgettable night on the lake.

Amelia, our baby first,
in nine  months have grown a third;
no speech, no talkie,
all she wants is walkie-walkie.

Being our first we naturally debate,
on how best to educate;
dolls for girls and guns for boys,
what nonsense, toys are toys.

Will she a doctor, lawyer or housewife be,
I live long hope to see;
right now she is just naughty,
and breaks the dining cutlery.

Of food she is choosy,
and eats most daintily;
she is chubby and she is fair,
we only lament her lack of hair.

Every now and then a few steps she takes,
tip-toe grace does not a ballerina makes;
like all parents our hopes high burn,
to a swan, our little Amelia turns.

Knowing games played by Fate,
we have decided, now of late;
to take the profit with the loss,
to let nature takes it's course.

The things of value we provide,
the self-life chart she decides;
this happy burden, we dare say,
is gladly borne, day-to-day.

As we look on her behalf,
down life's long and winding path;
we can only say, with a sigh,
sweet dreams and goodnight.

How can he be so cocky, fight like rocky
talking in morse code, like a walkie talkie
how can he be so cold, like an ice cube to hold
so bold like a robot that can't be controlled

how can he be so sarcastic, ******* spastic
no fantastic antics seen in plastic
won't bend and won't stretch like elastic
doing flips like a drastic gymnastic

possessed with true ability, like a runners agility
but no flexibility when it comes to futility
a never seen utility with no docility
showing capability, breaking through the fragility

Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots

Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek

Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line

A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor

Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week

Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy

The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like

A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2

Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars  in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president

I shrunk down
To be an equal of one of those little green army men.
Not one of the weaponized ones.
That one with the Walkie-Talkie
Everyone made fun of for being useless.

I stole his walkie-talkie, actually.
I was scaling your mountain
So I needed some sort of communication.

From the sheets, I rose.
Carefully, clumsily climbed up you
Mount Olympus for mortals.

I almost fell
I almost dropped my radio
I almost got lost in you.
But I prevailed.

And when I reached the top
I said "I claim this"
But I couldn't really claim it
Because I didn't have a flag
And how do you claim something without a flag?

And in a way I don't think I should be able to claim you
Because claim is a word for lesser mountains.
You cannot claim what wasn't created by you
Or name it.

But I was two inches tall
With a tiny green radio
That just kept squawking
"Are you there, C? It's me, Ego!"
So I tried my best.

I found -in the shadow of a
Crane rigged and ready- that
I couldn't help myself.

Took a ladder to the huge sphere
Of chipped and battered iron,  
And threw one leg on either
Side of the chain.

Sang leaning and rocking
Into the walkie talkie
As my foreman spat his
Coffee not to choke; laughing along
With Swedes, Polish, Lithuanians
And Norwegians alike.

Miley. Bringing people
Together.

Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.

A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.

When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.

I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—

A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.

What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?

Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—

delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.

Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.

The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—

The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.

A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.

Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.

A GARLAND FOR NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

My Once and Only Garden

It’s no longer mine
But I pass it
Nearly every morning.
It’s untended,
Overgrown, autumned,
The camellia needs a prune,
The irises have gone;
The garden needs
A good seeing to.
A sad garden to pass
Nearly every morning.



The Chestnut Avenue

I came back to fallen chestnut
Shells, conkers, everywhere,
But the leaves are still
Thinking about falling.
No wind you see.
On other trees I pass,
The lime,the white-beam,
There’s a crinkly brownness
Scattered across the path.
So dry, no wind,
September sun.
The chestnut avenue
Has some way to go.
Wind, rain, frost perhaps
And the leaves will fall.


******* a Boat

There’s this girl,
A young woman really,
On a boat.
Not living on it yet
But plans are afoot,
Along with essential repairs.
It’s not ‘Offshore’
Like Penelope Fitzgerald’s
Boat on the Thames.
But in a quiet and placid mooring
On the River Lea instead.
I thought of sending her this book,
But it’s all about liminality,
People somewhere in between,
People who don’t belong on land or sea
. . . And the boat (eventually) sinks.


Still Waiting

We sat on the seat
Under a bower of roses
In the herb garden
And she talked in that singing
Way of talking that she does;
Such a tessitura she commands
Between the high and the low
With a falling off portamento
Glide - from the high to the low.
Her hair stills falls
Across serious freckles, auburn hair,
Gold with a touch of red
Like her mother’s only softer,
Like mine once was, and my mother’s too.
She has a slighter frame though,
and is still waiting, waiting
For a real life, a woman’s life.


Cyclamen Restored

I went away and left it
On a saucer, watered,
In a north light
Near a window sill.
Its pink flowers were *****
And nodded a little
When I moved about the room.

On my return it had drooped,
Its leaves yellowed.
There were tiny pink petals
Scattered on the floor.
I put the plant in the sink
For half an hour.
It revived,
And the next day
Seemed quite restored.


Driving South

Driving south through
Dalton, Shoreditch,
Hackney and Hoxteth,
The Hasidic community
Garnished the Sunday street.
Driving down the A10
South towards the city:
The Gleaming Gerkin,
the Walkie Talkie,
and further still,
a Misty Shard.

As a child, the buildings here
Were so much slighter
And a grimy black;
The highest then, the spires
Of Wren’s city churches.

Sundays to sing at ‘Temple’,
With lunch at the BBC,
Driving south from New Barnet
In my Great Uncle’s Morris,
Great Aunt Violet dozing in the back.


Gallery

Small but beautifully right
For her London show,
Good to see her surrounded
By tide marks from the shore,
Those neutral surfaces,
Colours of sand and stone,
Rust (of course) from the beaches
Treasured trove, metal
Waiting to become wet
And stain those marks with colour.


Ascemic Sewing

Having no semantic content
These ‘words’ appear on the back
Of a chequered cloth of leaves
Backed all black
Stitched white,
A script of a garden
Receding into
Trans-linguistical memory.


September Dreaming

Facing the morning
Above a barrier of trees,
Oaked, foxed, hardly birded,
I would  wonder while she slept
About the richness of her dreams,
Dreams she had spoken of
(Yesterday, and out of the blue)
And, for the first time, in all
These precious but frustrating
years we’d slept together,
shared together.
I had always thought her dreamless;
Too fast asleep to experience
Envisioned images,
Sounds and sensations.


Think of a Poem

She told me in a text about
Think of a Poem
On National Poetry Day
Just a week away.
That’s easy, I thought,
There’s always that poem
Safe and sure in my memory store
Once spoken nervously,
under a rose garden walk,
but there, there
for evermore . . .

Who says it’s by my desire
This separation, this living so far from you. . .


Missing Music

Today I read a poem
Called The Lute: a Rhapsody.
‘From the days of my youth
I have loved music,
So have practised it ever since,’
Says Xi Kung.

In his exquisite language
He then describes its mysterious virtues,
And all the materials from which it’s made.

How I miss my lute, its music,
And the voice that once sang to its song.


Drawing

I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.
John Berger says:
Drawing goes on every day.
It is that rare thing
That gives you a chance
Of a very close identification
With something, or somebody
Who is not you.
I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.

Make me bleed,
dig in,
shards of ancient revenge,
words of Christmas mints,
eyes of cellophane.

If I scream,
tell me I'm the last of my kind.
Sympathy is a joke,
the fire is stoked,
my misery is going for broke.

Make me believe,
the love in your eyes is earnest,
stamp it out with your apocalyptic brows,
tell the four seasons
have not been cruel enough to me.

If I bite back,
muzzle me, baby.
Tell me I'm a silent movie lost in the era of talkies.
I'm in your woods, traveling with a broken walkie.
I'm the prey your hungry mind has been stalking.

If you don't destroy me,
how will I ever create?

rotting horse carcass.
green glowing filament by moonlight ******
& mistrust us.
radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams.
boys swimming.

fistfights at night
by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets
lit & danced upon.
plumes
of gas-can outcries.

the days & abuelitas
& ghosts
pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy
on the grill.
his gasping yellow dogs.

judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie
& a p.b.j.
desmond leaps from high rocks; he
descends into another world by way of molecular-mishap.
dove deep.
riding the portal boar.

wasps hover above spilt wine
& declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns
& firecrackers
& spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas
between beams of heat laughter breakdowns
to knees, to bees,
honey.

homecoming queen dead & wrapped
in plastic.
body found with
turtle bites.
fungi.
the slabs of granite.
old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives.
toast.
jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

Skies are waterfalls of snow above
The white veiled construction site.

I can barely see the crane, blowing
Grey slush from my walkie before

Telling the driver to lift these
Two-by-fours that just days ago

Reminded me of lake piers and
Diving boards under tomorrow's

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

Streaks of oil and concrete on
Cheeks pale with winter under an

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

This is Norway.
This is where giants come to shiver.

walkie talkie
boy like shawty
shy but naughty
but whose identity?
"that's so girly"
prejudice from early
10:23
who am I supposed to be?
pink fizz and blue drips
materialistic shizz and new kicks
is it that hard for me to fit in?
besides myself, I feel it heavier on my shoulders than ever before
who am I and what have I found?
three, how unlucky
egotistical, dependent, broke, dumb,
drop out of school kid
with dreams that are too big
still this age

“Can you hear me?”  “Can you hear me?”  …. “Come-in”
Boys with “walkie-talkies”, walking and talking, squealing and squawking
The girls were chalking – on the sidewalk
Range, one quarter mile.  More over water, the box said

If all you hear is static
Run some wire in your attic
Or tie it to your gutter
“Can you hear me?”  You may utter

Copper wire strung on a fence
For Russian signals the pretense
Every beep, buzz and whistle
Was that to do with someone’s missile?

A weather fax for steaming ships,  “doodle doodle” sound
Deadly tips!

Vacuum tubes soft-lit for me
RCA, Westinghouse, and GE
Their glow-warm magic casting a spell
A hook set lightly - I could not tell

Gizmos, and gadgets, in crate after crate
Rolled into the business - helped shape my fate
War surplus it was, "truck's in" they would holler
Purchased for two-bits on the dollar

So thank you Dad – the hook you set
grew into a job, my needs were met
A needed change, a needed change

Courtesy, Machinery Exchange

I

if I yelled into a walkie talkie,
would you melt, or burn,
blaring noise
glaring sun,
glaze the windows, someone!

                 II

fade away and radiate,
move the people dis-populate,
we may all glow,
there are leaks, they know,
but that is not all
they are going to build
an icy wall to STOP thoseleaksnow,
some one strong willed
                                      is taking charge of those positive and negatives
                                                       ­                        keep an i on atom, physically speaking.

         III


shake, shake
roll the water
shake shake
roll the dice
shake shake
what happens
in the kitchen
where it is hot
and you bang
plates together
the do break, explosively
this time, no
tsunami, so sue me
but it was a six point one
when we get a nine what then?


           IV
they have politics,
they have unrest,
they have strife,
put the ad in
the paper, some
one misunderstood, vehement
denials, sabres rattling cementing
bad relations blame the propagandist
bad formula blame the chemist
bad politics cost elections
bad people take lives
that are not theirs to erase, displace
or otherwise disgrace, I know we will
never know what has gone on,
but it really comes down to ONE,
all it takes is one to die,
and it - whatever the point is
is wrong,
all it takes is a million refugees,
not one in power will listen if we
say   STOP                    please,
think of the creative talent who have died,
think of the number of times you have lied,
think of the geniuses unable to breath through their face,
oh wait, if you did think, in the first place,

you still would have done it anyway,
because that is who you are, makin' people wear sarin, eau de ... deathly
                                                silence is a grave filled with the cries
                                                of the innocents
                                                chaos is a grave filled with violent
                                                death with intent
                                                lashing out first and with such force
                                                is a grave filled with numbers of
                                                the lost, who now are no more
                                                the cost is too dear to bear
                                                except with sadness, and mourning
                                                but there is no time there is danger
                                                          ­                              and warring
                                                         ­                                                   while the world dithers uncertain,
close the blinds
draw the curtain,
cover your ears,
we are doing something
here, umm, there.

“22½ euros for a Martini,” Peter remarked, when he first scanned the menu.
“It’s not like we aren’t going to get them,” I said, “we’re not going to cheap our way to abstinence." The waiter came and I gave him my card, “Put that table on this card too, please,” (pointing to Charles’s table).

It’s a cool night in Paris and doof-doof music’s slammin’ from a stack of Mackie DJs. It’s about 53°f, but they have those umbrella heaters at every table and other heaters that blew warmer air on the dance floor (maybe not a great idea). Peter and I have a table on the terrace, out under a muted, light polluted starfield.

We danced, we debated the issues of the day, like, when will Taylor dump Kelcie and what were the best Oscar movies? (We chose ‘Poor Things’ and ‘Past Lives’). We ate Steak au Poivre with Red Wine Sauce and then we danced some more. We were having fun.

But when a party turns into ***** mayhem it’s time to leave - or is it? Watching the shadowy edges of things, I asked Peter, “It’s getting CrAzY, wanna go?”
“It’s just getting interesting,” he answered.
I squinted at him, was he serious? I couldn’t tell - martinis scramble my amygdala.
I decided to flow with it. “Ok, freak, get me another then.” I said, calling his bluff, and sliding my glass his way.
As he left for the bar, I glanced at my watch, 2am. It felt like 10 pm to us American east-coasters.

I looked around and Charles and Chinthia (Mrs.Charles) were laughing and chatting away.
‘You GO, old people,’ I thought - not unkindly.
Peter came back, two martinis in one hand, snapping pics with the other.
“Stop!” I barked, holding my hands up like I was fighting off paparazzi, “stop!”
I’ve learned things, like how, in early pics, when we arrive at a party, I look like Mary Poppins - but in end-of-party pix l look like Norma Desmond. Peter doesn’t see it  - but I do.

I sipped at my new drink - It tasted sour and bitter as sin - I made a face. Peter cackled like a villain in a low budget flick. “It’s a Winston Churchill,” he reported knowingly, “they were out of vermouth.”

When the bar runs out of vermouth, it means something. I pressed the walkie-talkie app on my watch and asked Charles, “You guys ready to go?” He didn’t look around but gave me a thumbs-up just before they rose.

My mom and (step)dad have joined us, at Grandmère’s, for this vacation. I was gleeful, at first, but it’s like my mom hasn’t noticed I’m not in high school anymore - that I grew-up in their three-year absence. I get pressed when she thinks I’m slouching, rearranged when my hair’s out of place and shown a pained, icy face if I order a martini.

She’s piercing the membrane of my privacy and expecting obeisance! I tried to explain it, like an adult. “There are multiple value systems,” I gently reminded her. My Grandmère even suggested Peter move into his own room. Luckily, Peter and my rooms adjoin and she put my parents on another floor (in the suite she grew up in).

I’m secretly afraid they’ll be up when we get in, that it’s 10pm for them too and I’ll get ‘the face.’ I told Charles about my situation and he said, “Look, she’s missed you, she’s just lavishing you with attention, she’ll relax,” but his oceanic optimism seems.. hopeful. We’ll see ??

I’ve got it - woot!  Well, we’ve (Lisa and I) have it. The Covid.
After living carefully serpentine lives - for the last half decade - we both have it.

Lisa started feeling ***** Friday night, after work. Saturday she had some sniffles and we both took Covid tests, coming up positive. By Saturday evening, Lisa was laid-low and looked a flu-like death warmed over. I am asymptomatic, not a cough or a sneeze, although I do feel some fatigue and an occasional little dizziness.

“I hate you,” she said, in a moment of clarity and focus. I think it’s a temporary, fever-driven hatred - but time will tell.

Charles, our escort and consigliere, who goes everywhere we go, didn’t catch it. He’s become our designated shopper. When I asked Lisa if she wanted anything she said, “Orange juice and mango gelato.” Twenty minutes later, Charles handed me (masked and gloved through a door crack) two bags - one contained a large, extra-pulp orange juice, the other had a $70 selection of various ice creams, gelatos and ice cream sandwiches (the receipt was still in the bag.)

Saturday night, I texted my mom, who’s spending yet another summer overseas with “Doctors Without Borders.” She Face Timed me not two minutes later, from somewhere in Poland, or Ukraine - 4,170 miles away - and after checking I was ok - delivered what I think of as “family infectious disease lecture #17, full of “If you’re going to be a doctors” and “You know betters.” I love technology.

My sister Annick, a doctor herself, was knocking at our (her) door twenty minutes later. She gave us both mini-physicals and left a list of things to periodically check (like blood-oxygen levels) as well as two boxes of Paxlovid, “Do NOT take this unless or until I tell you to.”
We all have Apple watches and are now walkie-talkie connected for even more instant communication.

Rebecca, my fellowship surgeon, was, of course, very sympathetic and supportive when I told her but displayed a careful, verbal, clinical distance - addressing me as “Mz Vionet” once - instead of her usual “Anais” or the even more usual “excuse me.”

I’ve been promoted to nurse, cook and bottle washer - but the ice cream, topped with a little Bailey’s Irish liqueur, is spectacular.

Anyway, here we are. We’ve finally joined the Covid parade. I guess Covid isn’t over after all.

What the **** is wrong with you America?
Why can't you wake up and see,
Why aren't you craving more,
Doesn't the sight of obvious injustice,
make you shudder and quake,

The pawn shops, the walls, the harems,
The grotesque, vile eating establishments,
The silly, sadistic joke of their,
devourous wake,
The prison sentence of commercial onslaught,
The centers,
The hubs,
The craters in the sand,
The dead pools,
The pool halls,
The mess halls,
The halls
and walls,
Mingled together,
Why haven't you made the distinction;
Why haven't we done anything,
Indeed...
                 Who are you to ask?
I felt a crushing depression,
being among the people,
we all sat and glared,
my normal disposition,
unaligned by the new line,
the path unknown made me
Feel Uneasy,
I always pull out my Kerouac,
and start massaging my brain,
feeling the nostalgia of a past
                Soul,
             a zero soul,
            a poet's cries,
         reach my ears, the innards,
                resonate out the mix,
    usually it works,
          But the bus driver yelled at my ***** *** for not knowing
Hamline, of Course!
         He said it seven times.
Inside the current trend of atrocity,
      in the heart,
             the core,
                   the honey,
  in the mad swirl of current trends,
       the sway,
              swirling of the dilapidated ocean,
I was returning work shoes that were,
                                    (I hadn't bought them, but were intended for a                   now terminated co-worker)
Given me, but two sizes too big, floppy.
She talked to her supervisor.
(Should've just walked out with the new pair)
Supershit said no over walkie,
"try yo luck at the counter."
Went to the counter,
to try my luck,
Striked conversation,
with a rough,
dusty girl,
who told me they had ******* at her
for being there too long.
I just wanted to get the **** outta there.
I handed the box to Lucy (cashier)
She besmirchenly said no,
I didn't fight the decision.
Which I felt will always haunt,
a moment in my mind's heart.

I should've stood up and
pulled off my shoes and
whamped her for what
she represented,
None of it made sense,
I asked nicely,
I mean was I supposed
to walk barefoot in these
subzero temperatures?
Lackluster I slunk away,
None of it matters,
I positioned myself
toward the
beacon twin,
The personification of
Racism!

The super Target across from
the Mart of Wal,
Whose merchants bumble,
yet I made no progress,
speaking distressfully,
influently for them,
While the policeman shelved the chips,
I spoke as courteous as any,
yet was torn away,
tuned asunder,
Lumbered over to the far off
sigh, Red...
They don't even have,
work shoes at Targé,
What does that say America?
The serpent silly sneakers,
laughing and hissing as I leave.

The bus is right there and
I have to catch it,
Lest I spend another half hour,
outside in this turmoil of frost,
In a wheel of torture and rejection,
always missing the bus to,
seek warmth,
Thought I would be hit by oncoming car
but made a mad dash to the door,
Just in time to be ticked off
at the empire,
at the ruminating,
the fermenting,
the rheumatoid arthritis,
affecting the fingers of careful planners,,
the scent o futility,
the fertility of existence was barren,
anything...
something... I'll pop up 'ventually

There I groaned,
retracing my steps in my brain,
but would end up at a
better launch,
in the ***** of downtown.

I kicked myself when it
said my transfer was expired,
with no way to tell time,
I just paid the man,
Then kicked myself because,
I must've used the older one,
from the former veranda
of the morning 'fore all this,

Now I kicked myself off the bus
pulling the yellow halt cord prematurely,
then walked the snowy,
lonely streets,
the cascading thunder of cars,
shoveling the air around,
the city sighing beneath my feet,
Walked past and contemplated
jumping on the little
platform between the
stages of the coaches
of the train...
16... to 17,
St. Louis Park,
Where began the loud,
obnoxious cacophony,
Obliterating my remaining faith in humanity,
The reason for this rant,
in solitude now,
in grateful sorrow,
in menacing tones,
the joke,
that we should all wake the **** up...

A B-boy girlie,
talked of pounding *****,
taming ***,
                                                    (how literate heroes will view this is outrageous)
Her counterpart with fisherman,
camouflage hat,
remarks of suckin' **** for two dollas.
I pretended to put my headphones in,
silencing the onslaught,
of inhumanity.
I had already gone through
my circles of hell,
that charlatan-laden circus of consumerism,
Now on the home stretch were,
these monstrosities,
mocking everyone in the bus
They talked of drink indulged,
The B-boy girl was the ringleader,
it was apparent,
the lackey sat behind her,
taking pictures, documenting?
and sharing images on devices,
that all amounted to,
nothing,
but tragic decline.
They spoke of dads in jails,
They spewed out nonsense,
They reminisced of fights,
The B-boy girl had a cast on her arm,
She had lied and told the
story of how she had
coldly beaten someone in the ice.
how brutish and untrue.
Obviously I didn't have words until now,
after arriving finally to my haven away,
to express,
in the mullings here,
on the pages of existence,
That we all need to
WAKE UP AMERICA!!!!

I met a girl I may not meet
I love this girl I cannot touch
I love this girl who lives far away
beyond reasonable doubt
we cant ever say
when it will ever start.
It's getting too close
its like I'm in love with a ghost.
She in a life but
not the one I wish to live.
100 times a think of this
and still we kiss we kiss we kiss.
I'm afraid I'm worshipping a mark
that I will never be able to rub off
I want to be honest and tell her
I want her,
And I'm lost because I can't,
I talked to her because I was lonely,
now I'm lonely because I want more.
That's a little bit my fault.

I told her everything,
except when I cheated on her
from across the sea,
because I gotta get it.
I can't help it.
And it kills me to know she prob does the same.

In tonight's dream we met again
but she was with another man
and all I wanted was to leave
this world of dreams and seal
this deal.

So I'm getting too close to a cold sun.
I let myself do this,
here's to you Vic:

Let's be honest,
Let's share life,
Let's be crazy,
Let's be fast,
Let's be slow,
Let's be forever,
Let's be a show,
Let's be the ground,
Let's be the nothing,
Let's be hole,
Let's be the stuffing,
Let's be a team,
Let's be together,
Let's be supportive,
In any weather.
Let's be happy,
we found each other,

Don't cry because it's mortal,
Smile because it had the luck to be.

Let's be the dirt,
Let's be ****,
Let's be a thousand
more days of luck.
Let's be Juillet and Roméo,
Let's be two strangers in the know,
Let's be an ******,
Let's be my dream,
Let's be The light
that can't be seen,
Let's be that thing
you never touch
Let's be the Light that can't be seen
but that you see,
Let's be that thing you can never touch
but that you touch,
Let's be a walkie talkie,
Let's be one,
Let's be a story,
Let's be sung,
Let's be boring,
Let's be numb,
Let's be worried,
Let's be hung,
Let's be something,
Let's be almost nothing
but still something,
(where already that)
Let's be Sumner,
Let's be winter,
Let's be all ages together,
Let's be lucid,
Let's be wise,
Let's be my sister just came back home really sad from failing her exam and It sort of bring me back from reality. One where you have to sign bills and dreams break in pieces. So now I have to get back in the mood of writing this without failing the general idea. I just reread the whole thing and it seems stupid.
Let's be synchronised,
Let's be doubtful,
Let's be sad,
Let's be mad,
Let's be alive,
Let's have a dream
I'm just realising the only reason I'm feeling good is that I have a dream you.
Let's break the boredom,
Let's melt the chains
and make our own
Let's build
Let's break,
Let's gjxzl
djzksls
cjxjs
coco
eosoc
ekdks
cjciwl
vj jzpa
gogo
vic

Last night I dreamt,
that I was in the house of my chilhood.
It was stormy outside, like a hurricane.
I was looking everywhere for you- I think it was the apocalypse.
Then I recieved something in the mail, a package
and it was from you.
There was a ring inside the box.
The ring was also a walkie talkie, and you had one too.
As soon as I saw what was in the box, I looked up and you were there.
You began showing me how to use it, then
all of a sudden,
there were people everywhere
in all the rooms
all around us.
It became difficult to stay close to you, so we used our talkie rings.
I found you and the storm got worse.
Everyone around was shouting and you kissed me.
It was a really good kiss
and you didn't stop.
Then, I woke up, and I think for a split second I thought you were in bed next to me.
Today the clouds are grey
but there is no storm.

I've heard the creak of the stairs
as she passes over them
for the eleventh time today,
laundry basket wrapped around her hip,
its soft plastic shape
molded to the curve of her
from the number of times she's held it close.

I've heard the silence of a muted television
when he lets the flatscreen lives pass by
as my sister starts in on another story,
laughing about children he will never meet
and looking into her
to remember how much of him she is.

I've heard the warmth of two voices joined into one
from the telephone pressed closely to my ear
both of them sitting in separate rooms,
a different receiver in each of their hands,
as if our living room is the size of this whole country
and the arm chairs in it are rooms
in which we each sit,
the phones walkie-talkies we've made
a part of this game
of pretending that we are all together,
conversing across the fireplace
of New England autumn and
the blue carpet of Lake Erie.

I don’t know how the quiet, invisible love affairs don’t break your heart more--you have to swallow it back down every couple of seconds, build it a coffin and bury it six feet under before anyone notices and still.

Still the heart is so determined, it claws its way back up, your waking, vital, beating nightmare, and it falls in love again.

It makes you remember simple, but terrifying things like your name on his voice over the walkie-talkie or how small his waist is when he tucks his shirt back into his pants. It gives you a burgeoning affection for baby blue pick up trucks that you can’t explain away except that maybe your heart hopes he’s sitting in every single one you see.

But it doesn’t imagine, that’s the thing about quiet love affairs that hurts the most. Your heart refuses to overstep, preferring to tear off all its skin crawling back to the surface, over and over again, than to imagine it’s worthy of having what it truly wants. What it’s making you want.

Love is measured in loss, though, isn’t it, and you have lost him more times than anyone else by now, your heart rising and dying when his eyes turn to you or they don’t. He says things to you that you don’t hear because you’re so busy counting your losses and that can be love if you want it to be.

Your heart is not insecure and your heart is not afraid--of him or anyone else, not anymore--your heart is not trying to be a martyr or a fortune teller, it is just living the nature of things, the nature of a quiet invisible love affair.

It’s not inevitable, it can be tipped either way with a word, a thought, and it’s not unique, but it is shaped by him, the corporeal him and the bits of him your heart drags down to its grave, a magpie with your name on his voice, his small waist, and baby blue pick up trucks, and even if these things are not really him, they become living, breathing parts of you. The vengeance of your heart every time it bursts free.

It’s chaste, these quiet, invisible love affairs. Because your heart doesn't live long enough to catalogue enough of him to blueprint a plan--all you have is this haze of want, a maddening desire that won't’ take shape. It feels like your blood is one giant magnet, pumping through your leaden heart with great difficulty, stuck to your iron skin and grating as all the magnets in his blood scream at your magnets.

And it’s all over in a couple of seconds, nailed in with your heart, stronger for only having lasted that long.

And I guess the worst part is that he doesn’t know because your heart makes it so hard to get to your lips. Maybe he’d be kinder if he knew: he wouldn’t say your full name, he would tuck his shirt in before he was on the floor, he’d move the truck.

Or maybe he’d be crueler: smiling the way that pulled the hardest at all of your magnets, lifting his shirt up and out of his pants on more occasions, raising your heart up to **** it himself.

But he does none of these things, the quiet, invisible participant in the love affair he doesn’t know your heart is having, and he keeps doing all of the things that make your heart spring up, live its transgressions, and die.

To be reborn to the same mistakes.

It’s the worst part, but it’s not the saddest part. The saddest part is that one day, because your love affair has been so quiet and invisible, your heart will grow weary and it won’t break out of the coffin you built. You will have to build a tombstone for the love affair and you will want to put his name on the marker, as remembrance for all of the things your heart kept of him to bring with it into the afterlife.

But instead you will have to put your own name and live with the fact that he has no permanence when your heart doesn’t live and die by him anymore.

No, really, truly, the saddest part is that your heart is a graveyard full of tombstones with your own name on them.

It was a dark and stormy night, or at least it was for our single-parent family. The rest of the neighbourhood was enjoying the kind of clear skies which meant a hard frost overnight and a slippery ride to school in the morning.

The barometer in our neat, wee house at the end of our short, ordinary street was falling rapidly, as it often did these days. My father, an Iraq War veteran - ’Honourably discharged for dishonourable reasons, and don’t you forget it. ****** fascists!’ - was in charge of our weather. From blue skies with candy-cotton clouds in the morning to an eerie half-light of silent anticipation by late afternoon, we would end the day huddled around the kitchen table waiting for the maelstrom to hit.

We ate carefully trying not to scrape our plates with our knives and forks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. The cauliflower cheese was examined as closely as every other vegetable my aunt Kate - ‘I’ll not have my family eating slaughtered animals!’ - served up to us. You’d think the food on our plates was the most interesting thing in our precarious little world. Peas were my favourite because you could count them over and over...until they were finished.

Wind and rain lashed our evenings regularly. Sometimes we were treated to the automatic-rifle fire of hail, but worst of all were the sandstorms which ****** all the air out of our home and stymied any hope of sleep. On those occasions we all huddled together in my sister’s bed - ’No, Alex! It’s Livvy’s turn to hold the torch. You can look after the phone in case we need to ring Dr Matt to help Auntie Kate.’

We updated our worst-vegetarian-creation notebook and talked in close whispers about the weather. Mostly, we sat quietly and longed for blue skies and sunshine tomorrow, while the captain cowered in the cubby-hole beneath the stairs and screamed into my six-year-old brother’s plastic walkie-talkie. ‘Man down, man down, man down!’

The pounding on the door
Hammers in your heart
Each fist thumps to bruise the skin
Clipboard and red knuckles

Official uniform 
Stern face
Walkie talkie at the ready
To radio in his colleagues

He just wants to chat
But only you seem to know that
It will not be over
The sick feeling in your stomach

Rolling as a sixth sense
He starts making a scene
So you can't pretend you never heard it
As quick as a flash

Their eyes catch the twitch in the curtain
Can't hide, can't pretend, can't ignore
It ever happened
Never an action you so despised

As you opened that door
And let the flood in
Bad news
Had found you