In Response to Your Response

You think you know,
and drive your sharp disappointment
through the narrow tunnel I echoed in,
yet you didn't look around.

Don't bother to ask or understand.
My fear was far away.
All you saw were the numbers, etched in hard ink,
and it was all business.

Just ask, don't accuse
to push my anxiety and fear.
Fear for future, crimes never committed
because they pretended,
but my tears were genuine.

Understand.
That's all I ask
before you act.
I've dealt with ghosts beyond your realm.

Out of fear of your judgement,
scared of your disownment,
anxious from their demands,
I made an equally careless action.

Don't look at your numbers,
look at me and ask.

Capsule

A marble and garden capsule
fills with life and death.
Plantation that will thrive
or be neglected.

Guilt builds with neglect.
I witness fates too soon,
severed from this world:
a fraction of reality.

I could've tried harder,
entering brick and wood,
but I only stared through glass,
seeing fate fall on flora.

Taxing, it is, to keep up.
Routines intertwine,
taking away priorities,
building unnoticed savagery.

...but she stays close,
closest in the world,
closer to my soul,
set on destination and clarity.

Here, inside,
everything dies,
neglect or not.

Skeleton Keys Kept

A porcelain jar of skeleton keys

go to nothing,

lost their use in time.

Dusty jar

cracked

on the dresser.

Reminds of hatred like keys

unlocking nothing of use,

spreading rusty words.

Leaving a taste on tongue

of metallic opposition:

you and your orange ash.

Ignorance keeps old keys

no longer relevant,

but recycled into the dusty jar

cracked

on the dresser.

The rust continues on,

spreads

metallic ignorance

from your mouth

so used to the taste.

Inventory of Our Words

They crack the safes

hidden in our portrait of communication.

an  intercourse of social science,

flooding the streets of civilized city structures,

isolating outstretched pastures beyond urban diction.

We paint the portraits

of expressive thinking.

They map the blueprints

for oratorical robbery.

The rural fires of our desires are diminished.

The ashes scraped into our

six foot deep imagination asylums.

They stock coffins of our ideas

and do inventory on our intentions.

The sky box is shrinking slowly.

A blanket is draped over in refusal.

We stand inside

Eyes up

Heads cocked

In awe.

The sun sinks behind the dirt piles

crafted by spade shovels

that tear away at the grey soil,

like the escape artists

that tear away at our grey matter.

Anchoring our escapes,

we stand in the burial grounds of our words.

Night's Turbines

Awake in the presence of Night,

he claims the dreams from me,

and leads me onto my feet.

Noxious whispers clutch my lungs,

and drill madness into my bones.

The mocking shadows hide behind

night’s body, stretching to the yellow walls.

I shoot my arms through Night’s body

and grip the switch of illuminating armor.

The flaring explosion reveals illusions

on walls, portraits of shadows.

Night slithers into the floorboards,

and grinds the turbines of the basement.

Alarmed, I turn

to the looking glass.

Telling tales through my wild eyes.

My scorned memories swimming

in blind sight.

The Lens of Truth tells of Day,

the Achilles legend,

to dispel the Trojan Night,

and calm the Turbines.

And, once again,

Sleep unwinds,

kisses me,

kneeling me before Day.

The Death of a Crane

She laid down the pen. Gently, she closed the diary as she placed it on the table. Leona finally decided to step through the door. She saw the light in the distance as Death took her hand and guided her towards the soft glow.

She was gone. Her family stood around her bed, stricken by grief, yet a small number of them were relieved that her suffering was finally over. On the table beside her bed sat the diary that she held only a moment ago. The simple leather-bound book was worn from constant usage. The passages hidden inside would soon reveal to others her final days.

Diary of Leona Reece, February 15, 2012

Today was a good day. I’ve been wrapping up one of my last paintings to showcase in Pittsburgh in a few weeks. I’m excited because it brings back spectacular memories of my days as a dancer. I wish I could relive those days, but I’ve already sworn to live without regrets. She would be very upset if she knew I still had those wishes.

After gaining some inspiration, I decided to go back to my apartment and work on my painting some more. It didn’t last long; I started to feel the effects of my illness creeping back into my body. Leukemia is like having another shadow, always following me. It mimics my every move. It knows when exactly I’m ready to let my guard down. It strikes. For the time being, I’m going to rest. Tomorrow will be better.

February 21, 2012

My second shadow isn’t as forgiving as I want it to be. However, I’m always thinking back to what she said to me. It helps to give me strength, especially on a day like today.

As I continued my painting, I was reminded of Sage again. Sage Fallon always knew how to give good advice. She was not only my guide in dancing, but also, for two years, a guide in my life. I owe so much to her. If only I knew where she was today. Last I heard, she was following her dream as an archaeologist in the Middle East. She lives life by her own advice.

I knew how to live by her advice as well. Even after permanently injuring myself in the Jazz Dance Championship when I was young, I found other channels of free expression. She told me to live with passion. I lived enough for the both of us.

February 27, 2012

Sometimes mental persistence just isn’t enough. My body doesn’t seem to want to agree with me today. It wouldn’t be the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time.

It made me think back to when I first joined the Graceful Cranes Dance Ensemble. I was only 12. It’s hard to believe that it has been almost 19 years!

I’ve been dancing since I was 5, but nobody wanted to believe that I had so much experience at such a young age. My peers were harsh critics. Sage helped me ignore them. She taught me to be a strong and independent woman. After I turned 14, she left the dance ensemble and went off to college. Even after all that time, her teachings stuck with me.

March 3, 2012

It seems to be getting worse. I’m not sure how much more time I have, so I’ve been working harder on my final painting. It depicts our Dance Ensemble during the championship. Instead of a stage, we are dancing in a field of flowers. A flock of cranes circle in the background. They are judging us as we try hard to represent their grace by dancing with fire and passion.

It reminded me of the championship. I was 17 at the time. I tore my calf muscle during the solo, and I was surprised to find Sage rushing down from the audience. She came! I was so happy to see her that I barely noticed the pain. After all those years, she was still watching from the distance.

March 7, 2012, Final Entry

Everyone is here. My entire family came to be with me.  I was slightly saddened that Sage is not here, but news of my condition has probably not reached her. Maybe she will read this someday. I am dedicating my final painting to Sage. I’m calling it “The Birth of a Crane”.

This is my final adventure, Sage. Make sure this painting makes it to the exhibition. Drive my passion and perseverance one last time.

Sage closed the diary and set it back on the table. Tears streamed down her face as an overwhelming mix of emotions shocked her body. She stood up and wiped her face with her dirt stained sleeve. Slowly, she picked up the gentle work of art that sat by Leona’s empty bed.  She felt Leona’s presence in the apartment. After one last glance at the diary, Sage finally decided to walk through the door.

I’ll live enough for the both of us, she thought.

Frostbite Lobotomy

Doctor Moreau retracts his claws, says,

“You are running out of time,” says,

“Your eyes are falling out,” says,

“Your spirits are escaping your sockets.”

“Don’t let us go,” my eyes screech.

“You have no say,” the doctor responds,

“Your ears have developed cochmognitis.”

I don’t understand.

I ask. He responds.

“Your ears wake no frozen rivers.” says,

“No tinny frequencies

can unfasten the waters.”

Make sense, please.

I ask.

His napalm laugh echoes

the genocide pheromones.

It rattles my icy tunnels.

“The ones arched over your rivers.”

He saw my thoughts. Damn it.

They project in my frigid caverns,

like the Iceland mines.

I reach up, daintily caress

the icicles, for fear of shattering,

exploding ideas, like nuclear apples,

tempting no one, with dry, burnt

taste.

He says,

“I will preserve your mind

in the cryostasis masquerade.”

Perjury.

The good doctor’s eyes heighten,

“Your burdens are erased,” says,

as he extends his fangs

for the feast.

Tossing Stones

Draft 3


Bodi opened his eyes. After a bright flash of light, objects came into focus. He saw the stone beneath him. He could feel the cool, wet touch, parts riddled with dampened moss. Further out, he made out the mouth of the cave, water pouring down the entrance from the darkness above. He began to make out shapes in front of him. A tall, dark figure stood at the mouth, tossing stones over the edge. Bodi remembered why he was here.

“You’ll never get me to tell you where they are.” Bodi growled as he wriggled around in the ropes that bound him. The old, moist, rotting chair that he was tied to had since collapsed from Bodi’s weight. He rolled around on the floor. Dampened splinters shattered off and lodged into his skin. The piercing of the wood was miniscule in the moment of urgency.

Bodi had exerted all of his energy. He paused lying his face against the cool, stone surface. The figure of a man approached Bodi. The sound of water rushing in the background drowned out his voice, though Bodi could still hear a low, muffled range of vocals escaping his mouth.

The tall man’s tattered, brown clothes hung off his body, various tears revealing his bony body underneath. Excess skin hung from his arms and ribs. The cloth swayed around as he leaned in closer to speak. Bodi still couldn’t make out the words.

The Tattered Man grabbed a fistful of Bodi’s long, muddy hair and lifted his head from the mossy, stone floor. “Are you hearing me, boy?” Bodi’s eyes connected with the Tattered Man.

“Let me soften you up a bit.” The Tattered Man threw Bodi’s head against the ground. Bodi’s vision blurred as a sharp pain shot down his spine.

Bodi squirmed as he tried to regain his senses. The Tattered Man knelt down further and grabbed a handful of rope binding Bodi. The Tattered Man drug Bodi to the edge, overlooking a one hundred foot drop-off, concealed by the waterfall.

“Are you ready to go for a ride?” The Tattered Man said, grinning.

“It’s...bluff…” Bodi muttered, still dazed.

“We’ll see about that.” The Tattered Man took both hands and grasped firmly to the rope tied around Bodi. With ease, he lifted Bodi two feet off the ground and began to swing Bodi back and forth. Bodi’s head entered and exited the falls.

Face-down, Bodi could see that he was being teased over the edge of the cliff. He won’t do it, Bodi thought, he needs those jewels. The Tattered Man stopped swinging Bodi and dropped him on the ledge without warning. Bodi knew he wouldn’t throw him without getting the needed information.

The Tattered Man rolled Bodi on his back. He smiled down at Bodi. “I don’t need the rocks, you mutt. They only want you to disappear.” The Tattered Man, Bodi realized, was not tossing stones. They were the gems, now lost in the abyss below. Bodi slowly decoded the Tattered Man’s muffled words from before. Bodi was of more value dead than the gems altogether.

The Tattered Man lifted Bodi back up and launched Bodi over the edge. Bodi’s sense came back to him and he realized what The Tattered Man meant. The prize was his.

Falling, water rushing around him. His depth of field began to narrow. Weightless he fell, water drowning out vision and sound. His vision was replaced with swirling light among the blur. The took the form of gems, and then complete darkness.

Toxic Time Machine

In this barren and hazy asylum,

Of reveries and anxious ruin,

I enter this toxic time machine,

Never knowing where the next trip will lead me,

Senses numb as the motions blur.

Now in the clutches of

the intoxication

spooling

into my steps

In the confusion, she senses

my discomfort and

leads me

away

to the waiting

room irony

synchronized to the dissolution

of her disjointed words

The broken machine to

never shuttle back;

The gears of life

Grind away, wear down

As my heart becomes exhaustive and sluggish,

This dysfunctional time machine

misses its stop by a few milliseconds,

And I lust more for the high of wasted time.