Unfinished Painting

A few days to go and this picture's almost finished but I don't want to keep painting it. These brushes slide dry against the thick-coated canvas and the scratches of bristles on clumps of thick paint over stretched cloth aches in my ears when combined with the heavy iron ticks of the clocks on every wall. No timeless studios lacking the tools to continue. There's not enough of me left to keep up the pace with this stopwatch running out of digits to display that remind me, with burning red fluorescents, that tomorrow's their last day. And these muscles are tired lately in my face, so I'll glue a smile on. But eventually, like these last nine months, that too will fall and slip behind us on wet grass as they walk across the white wooden stage, right to left from our perspective, end to beginning from theirs.

And sometimes I wonder if I can put this piece in the trash and pretend it never started, so there can never be an end. But why throw away something I created without regret, but with the knowledge that one day I'd be finished? These layers of paint coat layers of paint coating layers of paint coating layers of life I covered with more memories that could never fully hide the older first thoughts and inklings of beginnings beneath this thick translucency. But I fancy this sort of thing. The swinging feet in an apprehensive audience, well-masked by crows' feet wrinkles and full-teeth grins, slow down to the pace of the heaving hearts of unready mothers and unwilling friends who can't let go of those sharp clean-cut boys and girls in white dresses. But one of these days, we have to let go and one of these days I have to finish this work of art. I thought it would be done 'cause tomorrow's their last day, but we've got one more year and I'm sure a few more layers upon layers of life won't hurt.

I'm Holdin' On, Holden.

My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions --

unkept before the walls crept back up on me and

crammed my thorough thoughts

into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation

from total cerebral closure --

and covers cognitive wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.

The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs

spring my curiosity through layer after layer

of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition

but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack

drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and

before my inexperience allows me to cry,

he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues

my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.

But despite his baseball mitts, he can't catch my verbal fits

so I scream, "My wants can't be blocked forever and Holden,

I'm holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but

celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise."

He looks me in the eyes, scared he'd been outdone,

so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and

I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer

with a backwards hat.

But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of

a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.

So wear your hat straight, Holden, 'cause in the rye,

you're not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and

catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself

in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.

Let me break through my caul, 'cause it's burning of decay and

I've overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,

and I like my life in my own hands, so I'll tell you now:

I'm holdin' on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.

Shit-Stained Penny Loafers

In your bruise-blocked glances at the gravel

kicked up by the shit-stained penny loafers

of streetwise drunkards, you catch the reflection of

a cracked-glass-half-ass ally clock

in the greasy puddle a few inches away.

2:17 a.m.

Your fast flood of tears sting running through

new cuts and reopened nightly wounds, but they

ache more so in your fickle consciousness and

lack there of because this scene is not new to you.

Your internal bleeding forces you into contortions

but before you can curl up for comfort attempts,

those shit-stained penny loafers drive themselves

through thick clods of tar and cigarette ash --

on a dingy New York night between abandoned broken buildings

that force your vitality under shadowed beatings --

and thrust into your sweat-covered swollen ribs.

And you tolerate sickening swallows of those volatile fluids

rushing up your throat, drowning out fistfuls of

scratched cries of despair, and you can do nothing

but sit there and plead with God that, if he exists,

he'll obstruct the pain and leave your every-night-wounded body

to those shit-stained penny loafers

and the poor excuse of a man standing in them

who calls himself your dad.

Sort of Home

Listless in the crevices of

this once-upon-a-

lighter-day

heartward bound train we used

to call a sort of home,

we lay,

we listen to

clockwork ticks

measuring time passes

in this lapse of

better times before cracks in

grey walls

flicked aimlessly toward narrow

corners and

before we recognized

the lines unintended in this

sort of home

leaned into us like a heartward

bound train,

removed from its tracks,

following unmarked paths

leading to crevices filled

with listless girls and boys.

And the grey scale walls

fell into pools

of black and white sheet rock

rocking steady

touching each other heavy under

piles of un-intentions

blown in circles around our

sort of home we used

to crawl to when things like heartward

bound trains crashed

and collapsed beneath our feet,

before sets of spirals that

cranked together and ticked above

our heads reminded us

of lighter-day

fairy tales and unawake

better times in our lapses of days

before the cracks

showed in

"Once upon a time."

Plastic Overlays

In our not in-obvious

provocations,

lust-covered

and laced with unprepared junctions

of finger tip to cheek

bone and lip curves grazing

neck lines leaving soft trails of

anticipation,

are lackluster warm breaths we

continue to emit and

pretend to enjoy but hide our pretenses

with sweat drops

lightly lying under our

thin plastic overlays

rubbing against each other and

ripping fissures

and provoking unprepared

junctions.

Montagnes Creuses

Sans souhaite insipide, nous

buvons nos pensées de profonde

montagnes creuses et

regardons nos réflexions dans les

souffles brumeaux

passé.

Et trembler les

murs comme ils

ne parviennent pas à nous empêcher

de nous-mêmes parce

que nous voulons

la vérité

et oublions nos propres secouant

quand nos pensées

déversement de

nos montagnes creuses.

Transient Dark Skies

Rapidly clasping

liquid dreams,

slipping between interlaced fingers

and through uncovered

bends not embraced, you and

I hold together the pieces --

with raw, untouched skins --

of naive nights,

offer nearly bare brushes ensconced

by inklings of starlit splatter

scattered past

dust-feathered window

glass on

crisp contours neglected

before wondering heeds

wandered needlessly across uncovered

bends to

embrace untouched skins

beneath transient dark skies.

Emerald reflections of dew-

glazed grass blades

cast onto newfound passions die

under lacked light

crusted over with stinging silence while

barely near hushes

whisper unaffected rhythms,

surges of slow

heart beats

falling from crescendos glowing

dimly through uncovered

bends embraced

as we hold together the

pieces of this

naive night beneath

transient dark skies.

Consequences

The only real thought on my mind as of late, repeating on a sequence, is whether or not consequences are always this drawn out. About three weeks ago, I got into a shit load, so to speak. Well, I didn't really get into it willingly--not like it was some cute skirt I wanted to slip on and take for a night on the town; I was more or less cannoned into it--like a horrendous pair of polyester overalls with a butt flap, but no buttons to keep it up. And I wasn't alone; oh no -- they made sure that anyone involved in my little hiccup was to be punished. It was their number one goal, which shouldn't have come as a surprise, but for some reason, our recollection of their tendencies slipped from our memories.

I made a mistake. I recognize that. I am sorry for that. But I am nowhere near deserving of the ongoing punitive measures that they insist to pursue and dump on me in these, well, shit loads. Sure, "shit happens," as they say, but if that's the attitude we're supposed to take, then why can they not take it and portray it in an equal manner? "You're a leader," they say. "You need not a title to prove your worth," they say. "We want you to move on and up to show the rest of the school that you can turn this around and get back to where you were before this mistake." Well you see, I would, if it weren't for the fact that they prohibit me from merely placing my name on a ballot for leadership positions. My name! My name, for Christ's sake. "Well, we don't want someone like you in a leadership position here. We want people who can be good leaders." Um...

Well, anyway, contradictions aside. Oh, but hypocrisy? Well I'd love to discuss that. Yes, let's. How the hell am I supposed to be a leader without their approval? Titles honestly are not that big of a deal to me, but when they specifically tell me they don't want "someone like" me in a leading role here, that's a bit disconcerting. I mean they took my head prefect position for next year away; they took my house manager position from this year away; they put my on final notice (I'll explain that in a bit); I had two meetings with the headmaster; I now see a psychologist; I served a week of work detail, along with Saturday School; and the list goes on. Anyway. They tell me I messed up and yeah, I did, and I need not validate their statement with an attempt at recreating my fuck up with words, 'cause I've already done that far too much to handle. But when they don't take responsibility for the fact that they let plenty of the richest children here slip up without a consistent punishment regiment, it kinda pisses me off. If the parents donate thousands, they are more inclined to keep the precious kids here. Terrific, right? Not corrupt or avaricious in the slightest.

Lies are terrible and I truthfully am about honour, notwithstanding the lies I told in this little mess up. But aren't lies on the same level of dishonour as stealing? 'Cause I definitely thought they were. But according to the recent decisions made, I'd say some disagree with such an assumption. And hey, that's how the world works. You win some, you lose some. But if you've got connections and if there's money in it, you're much safer in the long run. I'm TERRIBLY sorry that my financial situation isn't equal to that of some of the other students here. And I couldn't more thoroughly regret the fact that my grandparents donate here, my mom donates here, my mom went here, I go here, and that I am (or was) considering sending my children here. It's not like the legacy says anything great about this place. No. It did, but for now, it says jack shit.

Too many times have others gotten away with murder and not been treated the way they have treated me lately. And that's no understatement whatsoever. I just wish they were capable of seeing that they are at fault as well with the choices they've made in the last couple of weeks. This place has changed. And it's changed for the worse.

Messy Dreams

Tripping over tangled

tongue ties and

fertile love lies,

as they lie between us

contoured with skin seams,

your messy dreams

allude to grey feelings

and long misleadings that,

in our subtle hesitation,

swim through sticky

tangled tongue ties.

And the love lies to us

with its lackluster shine,

false coat of gold,

it beguiles us finely.

Shane Koyczan and His Ingenuity

I have never been more impressed with a written work than I am with Shane Koyczan's The Crickets Have Arthritis. With his "slam monologue," for lack of a better phrase, Koyczan turns an otherwise potentially simple story into a poetic orgasm. At first glance, the title doesn't make much sense; even while reading or listening to the monologue, the title is seemingly irrelevant. But when he gets to the sixth paragraph, Koyczan reaches the "moral of the story" and conveys his view on life and the fairness of who experiences the miracles it provides. It's his portrayal to Louis, a nine-year-old boy dying of cancer, of the possibility of him receiving one of those rarities we call miracles.

"The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around kid, and there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us. And right now, Louis, the crickets have arthritis."

There's a sort of arthritic tone in Koyczan's voice when he expresses his empathy with Louis; the knots he swallows while trying to force out impossibly depressing words create an ailment to his ability to properly tell Louis he's not going to make it. But why would it ever be easy to tell a nine-year-old boy he's going to die? Notwithstanding, however, the devastating story of Louis dealing with cancer, Koyczan kills the negative mood with an inspiring attitude and a desperate need to force to reader to understand that we've got it good. Louis, at the age of nine, understands more about selflessness, the values of life, and the world as a whole than anyone I've ever known. He knows, with aid of a monster that wants to take his life, that his life is worth something and that every single thing he has is a reminder that whether or not he makes it, he's done everything possible in the time allotted to him.

And even if Louis is merely a fictitious character, his voice is louder than any I've heard. And through Koyczan's rhymes through the lines, he creates a flow, which is what Louis wants out of life. He wants more than anything a road without bumps, which is why he cherishes the smooth parts of his journey. He takes each bit for what it's worth and holds it tight to his soul.

Life is slightly on the uneventful side for the time being, so thinking about this piece was something to get my mind off my own lackluster life.

Feelings of Betrayal

We glide through crescendos,

upsurges of down-throws

through thick brick walls.

And the know-it-alls who reach for your throat

teach the audience all they need to know --

Had we kept our inside voices

and not sung 'til our words died,

we'd have followed conduct

and been given a reason to cry.

But the knots, now tied, keep

constricted our God-given right to

scream our dreams and

fight for our life.

"I'm on your side."

Heard five hundred times and

that twelve-letter phrase

is a dozen per dime.

The papers, intangible, are,

by our keepers, signed.

Now all that we have

is treason defined.

Ego Systems

Necessarily, we step down paths,

under overcast eyes,

through old-growth forfeits,

and to my surmise,

the ego systems outshine rationality,

dispute credibility, and

reject actuality.

Faces of judgment, unwilling

to forget, distill the impure components

and purge any regrets.

Apologies ricochet against the

walls of the skulls, and thoughts hang heavy

until threads break and forgiveness

is absent.

And the words seem worthless while they

slip from my mouth,

but your ears catch the meaning

and cradle the sounds.

Through recognition of resistance,

despite my fervent persistence,

I see the doubt of the crowd.

Follow the Leader

Guilt, as it stands,

Has grown on me,

Erupted through my epidermis

Like a blemish, an imperfection,

A tumor.

Benign, so they say,

And it's soon to go away,

After maybe a day,

Maybe two, or ten, or

However long it may take --

But what they say

(Let it be or as it may)

Builds onto this cancer

And it's tearing me down.

"Upside down," they warn,

Is how I should wear my frown.

As if their name is at stake.

Please excuse my unforgivable

Lack of empathy.

But don't forget that you're the ones

Who get tense with me

And act as if I'm too dense to see

Right through your ever-present

Transparency.

Let, however, the word be spread

That my contempt is frail

And my hope is dead.

But have no worries and

Retain no concern,

Because from what I can discern,

Your pity parties

Are tiresome and time-consuming;

The false apologies

And tears turned dry

Sink heavy on your faces

While you attempt to lie.

Try, next time, to see past the fault,

Bring your mirror with you.

You set the example

And we're all waiting to slip up again.

Follow the leader is my favourite game.

Fickle Spirals

Distant glow--

don't blow it out.

This flammable infatuation is

sanctified and dripping patience.

But patients wear thin

when false prescriptions

after false prescriptions

tarnish their beings and leave them bleeding.

Side effects kick in, to start,

and this heavy heart pounds without rhythm.

But you transpose my blood flow

with that distant glow and you send me

spinning and stumbling

down fickle spirals that twist and turn

with us intertwined between the lines,

but the lines split open

and spit out whole truths and half truths

and lies, in spite of that lack of lines.

Because lines divide us, but never truly.

Now I'm upside down, focused on the ground,

fighting gravity with everything in me.

But I'm losing this fight

'cause my only goal is my only enemy.

So let's follow the rules and be closer than friends,

ignore the bends and just trust me

in this.

You're what I'm fighting for and

you're worth some pain,

but if the strain is useless, tell me now, because until you do,

I'm not giving up.

Jana Hengstler

Just as you turned your head

and headed down a different path,

nostalgia trickled through your thoughts

against your intended steadiness.

Hindrances presented by your attempts at rejection

ended with realization and reason.

Neglecting the initial pain, you

ground yourself in your heavy-heart-overload.

Still unknown,

the energy pulling you back

lures you in,

endlessly requesting your

rejuvenating presence.

Renaissance

We laid in the tall grass, blanketed by shadows cast by the trees around us, and the setting sun’s red rays blazed through the branches and lit up our faces. Time did not exist that day. Our fingers were intertwined and we spoke about our thoughts; they radiated around us and sometimes caught us by surprise. Chris told me about his experience while I mentioned my innocence. We felt like William Blake singing his songs. So we sang to our hearts’ desires, letting the world around us hear the contents of our imaginations. Our songs filled the heavy air with philosophy and wishes; Chris wished for simplicity and I asked for more time.

When I made my wish, Chris untangled our hands and sat up with a stern look of disappointment painted on his face. I didn’t expect such a reaction, so I shot up and turned to him with a glance dripping of anticipation to find out what I had done wrong. To my surprise, he initially uttered nothing more than a languid sigh of inability. Chris could not, at first, find the words.

A strong silence grew between us while the world’s sounds settled down to a quiet roar and the wind ceased to rustle the leaves on the trees. The sky got darker and darker with each passing second. Finally, after minutes upon minutes had fluttered by without a care for curfews or bedtimes, drops of brutally cold water slid from clouds and drenched him with compassionate thoughts and a severe need to show me his mind and appreciation for time.

“The time allotted to us right now,” he said, “is not important.” Confused at the statement, I slipped back several inches in isolation from the piercing words. “Seconds, minutes, hours; when the sun rises and when it falls hard below the horizon; the tick of the watch on your wrist; none of that matters. This is what matters.” He looked me dead in the eye, drew toward me, and kissed my cheek. “Our time is limited, yes, but don’t think on it. Live for the experience rather than how long it takes to get there.”

A smirk of ecstasy was glued on my face; the words hit me like a ton of bricks and woke me up to what I’d been missing by worrying about time. Chris noticed my admiration for his incite and he said, “Keep your fingers crossed, ‘cause all we’ve got is slipping past us.” So I locked my hope tightly in my hands, and I kept my fingers crossed. I kept ‘em crossed like arthritis was my passion. And even now, my hope lies comfortably in my palms, safely hidden from fears of losing track of something that really needs not the slightest deliberation. That day, to me, was a long awaited breath of fresh air, and any other clichés one can list. That day was my renaissance.

Evening Echo

It is in the evening,

after the sun has skipped through the sky

and sat upon the horizon--

but before the shadows have disappeared--

when the air is still and the

grass is calm.

Noises are dulled to a bare hush

and motion is minimal.

It is in the evening when

the echo of life reverberates

faintly,

like a soul lost in its travels,

whispering its memories

in hope that those

memories

will continue to dance across other minds

so that soul may move through its

journey,

with no worries of leaving the world

to only be forgotten.

It is in the evening

that the day creates its life.

Tainted Glass

"I want to believe,"

you said, and my heart flew

down flights of stairs to

a steady surge.

The night we sat in the studio,

singing about days gone by and

dragonflies and cloudy skies

draped with lightning.

You said you missed me,

but I was right there

with you,

pinched into a corner,

back bone aligned with

the wall seams.

And it seemed the walls closed

in on us

just enough to bring you closer.

The window to your left,

feathered with dust,

was cracked in six places.

"Should put it out of its misery,"

you sighed,

but I grabbed your hand and

tugged you back

to show you the window for

more than nicked glass.

I ran our fingers over the fissures;

pointed at fallen leaves,

the magenta and tangerine clouds,

resembling ocean waves and

ballet dancers.

Our misconstrued view

through shards of tainted glass

unearthed our world

and painted a mosaic.

I wanted you to believe in so

much more than what lies

before us.

And you said you wanted to believe too.

Truth, Autonomy, and the Life Text Creates

Truth is defined as the conformity with fact or reality. But in every matter, truth is based on the interpretations, perceptions and perspectives of each person involved. In reality, how can any of us be wholly truthful if interpretations differ from person to person? What may seem to be of truth to one person may present itself in a polar opposite manner to another person; we can never be “truly truthful” about anything – even ourselves. Since we interpret our own lives differently than outsiders interpret our lives, there is no real way in which we can describe ourselves and still maintain wholehearted honesty. If the mere factor of being oneself is not a liable enough excuse to state that he or she is truthful about himself or herself, then how can anyone be truthful about himself or herself in an autobiography? Autobiographies are documented thoughts, views, and components of someone’s life, written in that someone’s words. The author of an autobiography has the ability to create whatever life about which he or she desires to write, whether that life includes actual experiences from his or her past or people with whom he or she has interacted through the course of his or her life.

Whether or not an author of an autobiography chooses to include past experiences with people in his or her writing, everyone interacts with other people at some point in his or her life. Without the influences of others, no one would be able to exist, let alone live. Everyone with whom one comes into contact has some effect on him or her, regardless of the weight of the effect. One cannot maintain an individual or autonomous existence because everyone is dependent on other people, directly and indirectly. Without others, an author could not write, period; let alone recount on anything of any interest on which he or she could write. If an author does include the people who have affected him or her, though, there is still the interpretation variable.

If interpretation is the true basis on which truth is determined, then text could, in no way, come from life. There are too many components in one’s life to include in one sitting and along with the components, there are the perceptions of that life. Thus, lived lives do not spawn text, but rather text spawns life. Life has its influence on the content of autobiographies, but autobiographies present new life and an infinite amount of events for people to, once more, interpret.

Bare Skin

Softly blanketed by a moon shadow

and traced with grids of window panes,

her brilliant bare skin glows in the midst of a mist

of wintry breaths

shifting and swaying through open spaces.

Polar breezes decorated with snowflakes

line the air sweetly.

Frigid drops of frozen water lightly kiss

her uncovered shoulders,

waking the hair on her skin,

sending chills down her limbs,

causing heavy heart beats,

drumming thick and

she changes her faces.

Dark chestnut hair strands, stranded on white lands,

tickle her nose and eyelids,

lips and high cheekbones.

Three or so brisk chills crawl across her

blanketed brilliant bare skin.

She turns and unveils piercing blue eyes.

And she thinks back to yesterday

when cold days caused fewer heartbreaks.