SALAMI

  “Come ooooooooon,” John says as his ass furtively adapts to the velvet seat. He looks upon the stage nervously. “What’s the point of this? What am I going to get from some Jabba the Hutt singing her ass off?”
  “John, you promised me you would see this,” Renée says. “It doesn’t hurt to have a little culture.” John groans, but she continues. “And that ‘Jabba the Hutt’ you’re talking about is one of the greatest opera stars around. She’s been playing Salome for years.”
  “Shouldn’t it be Salami?” John asks.
  “What?”
  “Isn’t that how it’s said—Salami? I mean, I was looking at the program and it says here that the opera’s in German. So I guess you’d pronounce it like it is in German, y’know?”
  “Um, sure.” Renée replies hesitantly.
  “What’s the story of this opera anyway?”
  “I thought you said you wanted to be surprised.”
  “I lied.”
  “Well, when was the last time you read the Bible?”
  “Is that what it’s about?”
  “Answer me.”
  “I dunno.”
  “Well, it’s about this—”
  The lights dim down before she can explain any further. The orchestra tunes and allows the audience to engage in quick chatter. John decides to resume the conversation. 
  “So what’s it about?”
  “A princess.”
  “Stop right there.” John suddenly resolves that this is a ploy to curb his virility. “There’s no way my first opera’s gonna be some bullshit fairy tale.”
  “Now you stop right there, John. I’m going to speak in terms you’ll probably understand. I paid a decent amount of money to spend what I thought would be a pleasant night for us. But you obviously think this is going to jeopardize the size of your balls, so you can just go back to—”
  Another interruption. The conductor, a frail but confident looking gentleman, enters the orchestra pit. Judging from the boisterous applause, he’s a big shot. So much of a big shot the applause lasts five minutes. When it finally dies down, the old man turns to his orchestra and raises his baton.
  For most of the opera, John fails to catch up on the action between the actors and reading the English supertitles on the seat in front of him. By the time he gets to the “Dance of the Seven Veils”, he is exhausted, unable to look forward to another pitiful antic the main character can fix up. Even if she’s stripping. But as the dance progresses, he cannot help but be amused. Here’s Salami shaking her ass like no tomorrow, ripping pieces of clothing to shreds as if she’s on fire. The unthinkable occurs: he starts liking it. He denies it, tries shutting his eyes, tries making up excuses. Maybe the lighting’s just hitting her in all the right places; maybe the drinks before the performance are beginning to kick in. Whatever the matter, he’s engrossed in the movement, in the music, in the marriage between the two. As they become more passionate, reckless, and fatigued, more clothing disappears. 
  “This is what’s been missing all my life.”
  When the last strip of clothing is shed, he is the first to stand up, roaring with applause. He no longer recognizes Salami as ‘Matila the Hutt’. She is the definition of a woman.
  Renée feels a little embarrassed; John appears to be reacting with too much enthusiasm. A man in the row behind her asks if this is her brother’s first time at the opera. She affirms this with a nod, and turns towards John in the midst of the audience’s wild applause.
  “The show’s not over, you know! There’s more!” She has to shout.
  “What else could there be?! It’s already the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
  “She makes love to a severed head!”
  John is shocked.

Home

Unheard of, isn't it?
A kiss leaving a sour taste in your mouth.
Something's vanished unnoticed
and is now in desperate need.
We all walked in stride
until the lights changed.
We froze near the corners
hearing sounds of our own.
But our mouths were closed,
mine was ajar.
They dusted the fingerprints
and found us as the culprit.
You pulled me along and
we ran towards the sunset
out of the town we called home.

Coming Down in Buckets

Sorry to say, he'd sit, in shame, in rain
All in his cup, he'd abstain sippin' rain

His body held on to small drops that fell
Soon They became. He was named sittin' rain

He could not move, he just hated the truth
They soon made love, was his dame love-in rain

That water's a whore, it's been in us all
But he needed the love, he tamed sin rain

Even his wife lost all hopes in her man
She knew she was to blame, fricken rain

She tried to confess what she did was wrong
But Shonté, there's no flame, he's stuck in rain.

November

A gentle breeze brushes past my cheek,
whispering wordless thoughts into my ear.
The radiator hums contentedly as I sag against it,
quietly singing a warm lullaby as
I gaze out the apartment window.
The air is sharp in my nose,
turning my face rosy.
I can almost feel the atmosphere
weighing down upon me,
like a dream blanket so snug and velvety
that my eyelids slowly,
steadily,
silently,
droop shut.

Frost-Bitten Mind.

These branches.
These charcoaled and knotted branches.
Reaching for a grip upon something that my
Frost-bitten mind can't begin to comprehend.
Their upward roots point millions of fingers
At the very same thing.
Even the spotted few leaves, refusing to let go-
Until they notice me.
And mockingly fly, again, pointed to what,
I don't know.
But I'll sit until I do.

Mountainside Air.

A berry twinged white tea, cold as ice, flowing down the jagged crooks,
Protruding out the face of a wise and knowing stone Buddha,
11 thousand silent, brooding feet high; high on that nature's air,
The air that rushes slowly around my outstretched and reaching arms,
Lifting me into those soft, welcoming, clouds, that accept my voice and weight
And carry my open soul to a cave that holds death, truly, and takes me in.
Breaks my expectations there, releasing me to a soft soil
Under an elm's sap-encrusted and Golden bark.
Breath that air of nature and Oriental Dao-
Feel its detailed currents breeze within your cold and begging soul.
And climb the mountain's top, and don't stop there, says Japhy,
As he runs the height of a mountain, and instills the Aesopian morals
Deep in my heart.

Sapling Worlds.

A longing for a new and spiraling perception
Through the same twisted-green green eyes as always.
To search through infinite ranges of mountains-
Descending the aurora's purple valleys with a floating ability-

And to swim shimmering empty space's dark depths,
Breathing airy atmospheres of lands of dreams that hide
In a lunar forest, deep in the labyrinth of a hermit's lonely mind.

And to drift through an eternally green-
a tribal, south American green,
field that blesses me with lavender smells
That immerse my skin and eyes with a new understanding
of the soil's spirit.

And for a newly found center-
Entirely centered within an abyss' clear nothing.
Thoughts then flow, and form their individual
Sapling new worlds.

This I look for and continue to accept-
This free, free world.

Recession

Recession
by Claire Maby

I do not dream of him at all
Whenever we are thrust apart;
So as the world grows still more small,
I find avoidance is an art.
A selfish creature ‘til the end,
Sometimes I find I can’t refrain;
And searching for a list’ning friend,
My actions seem a lot the same.
Oh that he’d stay away awhile,
So in contentment I could smile.

Storm

Lightening slices the fabric sky, blinding the child-like stars.
They dash, sightless, to hide behind the moon’s midnight skirts.
Watching the galloping stars, someone wishes for rain.

A Siren's Sorrow

Being on an island all day
Can be fun,
But sometimes you feel all alone
And wish that you had someone

So I spend my time
Waiting all day long
For a new campanion
Who would love to hear my song

Once in awhile,
Sailors come and stop by
But once I start to sing to them,
For some reason they start to die

Other sailors, though, don't want to hear my song,
As if they had a choice,
Some put beeswax in their ears
As a way to resist my voice

So having beautiful looks
Is useless when
All the men you fall in love with
Die in the end.

Elegy

Somewhere a tree is naked
Because you’ve fallen to the ground.
You and your sisters –
Red and orange and gold and brown,
A flaming pyre,
Burning higher,
As you whirl around,
Blown down.

Five points,
A fallen star.
You have veins so you must bleed too.
You were alive,
But now you’re dying like your sisters are.

Your spine,
Your stem is bent over backwards.
My poor little hunchback–
You do not lie flat anymore.
The brown spots that cause you so much pain,
The small, arthritic dots,
They spread.

From your heart, your soul,
Through your veins of bright autumn fire,
All the way to the tips of your fingers,
They consume you.

They spread and spread and spread –
Until, my friend,
You are dead.

Wishing Well

And the wishing well was broken, yeah...
But it didn't stop my wish from being made.
Didn't stop my penny from being dropped.
The copper still shined in the sun.
It didn't need water for that.

God's not gonna see the penny,
Hear the wish, and go,
"Oh, I should get on that!" anyway.
I don't believe in that, at least.

So I walk back next day and see the fountain filled with water.
No penny though.
The water bounced as the liquid from the top
Of the fountain fell to the base. I looked up,
No Penny.

And i assume someone just stole it,
but hell, I don't know. Maybe it was rejected.
Maybe unwatered fountains don't accept coins.
Like an "Out of Business" type of thing. Maybe I'll just try
A dandelion next time.

The Almighty

I’m God.
I’ve been the Almighty,
Destroyer of worlds and lives.
I’ve earned it.
Finally I crawl my way to the top,
Like a spider crawling up the corner of my room.
Which, by the way, I squished.
And the stain stays on the wall
To show a life I controlled
That wasn’t my own.

November 4, 2008

You criss-crossed the country
in this pea-pod plane. You were photographed
in this window with your cell phone pressed to your ear
the day the past two years were about to seep out
from your eyes.
Look out, see how the tops of the trees
have turned.
Look at you now,
remember when only you knew your name.

It wasn’t cold today.
We went to the polls without coats.
And now the Great Lakes flicker through the clouds
sometimes visible but it is morning and dark.
The city of Chicago is a sight you have not
tasted often in these months.
In Virginia, you had to choose between professional and practical
when the wind was biting
but you were speaking next to the man
whose tracks you now tread
and he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
Once you said Ohio when you meant Florida.
Here you can hold your daughters
and recognize the streets.

Tonight we will stand in a dark bright park
and call to you.
We will press and praise together.
Your daughter’s hand will be warm and firm
when the music plays.
Look at you now,
this is what you sought.
The Olympian flame will be put out,
the glory seized.
Remember how it burned.
Remember what you were.

The Man (Sequel to "The Kid")

As I trudge up the road
Little dust clouds blossom around me,
choke the grass.
Where to go?
A tiny creek
like a stream of tears
chuckles in the distance.
I put out one foot, then the other;
the grass flattens.
Leaning over the water, the kid’s face glares back at me—
he looks scared.
I pick up a rock, and
his brains splatter
like the old man’s.
That kid’s got nothing on me.

Cliché

Dear Sir,

Remember that December? The December we met
in the little Starbucks on Fifth Avenue?
It was snowing, a very soft, sweet snow, and you had an umbrella.
I thought that was weird.
You ordered a mocha light frappuccino, with a gift card
that had on it a picture of a reindeer whose little red nose lit up
every few seconds.
I wondered who gave it to you.
The little Van Gogh stars on your umbrella winked at me,
and I wondered.
I sipped my peppermint mocha in pensive silence, feeling
very alone in the world.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet;
So would a peppermint mocha,
and that knowledge made me feel more alone then ever.
Suddenly—a miracle!—you glanced in my direction.
You stopped moving for the tiniest fraction of a second,
and the umbrella stars paused their winking.
You drifted casually across the coffee-stirrer-strewn floor
to my chair. You stared at me with bottomless eyes,
confident where I was teetering on the brink of decision.
You leaned forward, one hand on the back of my chair, the other tilting my chin up to your invitation.
It would be pathetic to accuse you of walking out of my life,
since you never really entered it. But
nonetheless, you left a hole. A little space in my cheek that I save for only the very sweetest things.
You were mistletoe—
fleeting and delicate, hanging just out of reach.

The saddest thing is, my peppermint mocha smells just the same as always.


S.

Autumn

When the colors are changing
the moist leaves jumble in an ecstasy—
an extravaganza—a calamity
of wet vibrancy.
Water in the gutter
turns the color of strong tea.

Darling Drew

Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
how I wish I could stop waiting for you
to finish finding life’s mysteries out,
while wondering why God is about
making us unhappy.

Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
I can’t imagine a world without you,
where man is a judge, corrupt and unkind,
who says we can wed only if we were blind
or very unhappy.

Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
give me reasons why I can’t love you,
why I can’t please you, tease you like before,
when we ruled the world like legends and lore,
never truly unhappy.

Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
we live in an age that’s not ready for you,
God wants you to learn to compromise
the life you yearn in your own eyes—
one that is not unhappy.

But Darling Drew, oh Darling Drew,
if you’re looking for something, look for you;
and know I’ll try my best to do
never getting tired of you,
for that’s what makes us happy.

RAPE

Right when she turned eighteen she was old enough to carry off on her own.
So, she wore short and tight outfits because she thought she was grown.
And soon she caught the eye of a young man did not know.
So, she gave him her number and they talked on the phone.
Previously, she gave him her address and invited him to her home.
So, one night he came through the door and shouted with an angry tone.
Eventually, onto the floor her body had flown.
And nobody was there to hear because they were all alone.

The Teenage Life

From ages 14 to 18, freshmen year to senior year when will it end?
The same old priceless moments occur again and again.
Fights. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. and Lies.
Bad Grades. Detention. Tears at Night.
Mocking. Gossip. Friends Left Behind.
When will all this ignite?
The fighting, the bickering, the nonsense the drama
Is so hot it could measure up the temperature of a sauna.
Will this all die out or will it continue?
Will I have to worry about my child dealing with these issues?
Or will it be thrown away and forgotten like a dirty old tissue?
The life of a teenager from my point of view.

A Game vs Reality

Are you really the one?

Or have I been struck with cupids arrow filled with passionate unanimous love?

Am I jus another fool to fall for you continuous, secret, little games?

Should I believe the stereotype that all teenage boys are the same?

Lurking and exploring any beautiful, insecure female you see.

Feeding her ears with lovely remarks, which builds up her self-esteem.

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"We are definatly meant to be."

Are two of the possibly millions of statements that had the audcacity to

Disperse from the tip of your tongue.

Please tell me if I'm wrong.

Is your love a "game" as they say?

Or is it so real that your willing to stay?

Thank You for Supporting, or The Souvenir of Stupidity

  I take about fifty of them. Maybe more. A friend convinces me that we should attach as many as we can to our volunteer shirts. Even though our shirts are heavy, we look pretty good, if not ridiculous. We become human support banners, and many of the participants are glad to see our enthusiasm. It’s the least we can do. Besides, the supervisor wants to get rid of the buttons anyway. 
  When it’s all over, I wait about an hour for my parents to pick me up. One by one, the parking lot empties until it becomes lifeless. 
  I try to ignore the chilly air. I try to ignore the dreary sky. I especially try to ignore my loneliness.
  Forebodingly, my parents’ car looms into the parking lot, and I try not to look distressed. They give each other confused glances while I settle in the car. 
  “Well, Sir Robin, you seem to be sporting the latest in chainmail today,” my father scoffs.
  My mother is less amused. “Did you get any hours done, or did you just spend your time fastening buttons?”
  I answer, “Yeah, I got plenty of hours done. But it was more fun than work.”
  “More fun than work? What type of service did you do?”
  “Oh, we just gave out prizes to the athletes and helped in some of the games. Lots of people. We got to see them compete and play games and win medals. It was pretty awesome.”
  “That’s great,” my dad says. “So you’ve now filled out your requirement?”
  Mom answers this. “Of course he did. Show us the form.”
  While I scramble to find it, the car hits a bunch of road bumps, and the buttons on my shirt clang loudly. Sooner or later I overhear whispering between my parents.
  Dad murmurs, “…He should wear that shirt during this year’s Christmas party. Am I right? That way he can dance when we all sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”
  “Very funny,” Mom replies sarcastically. “What’s more important is that he gets all those community service hours done. I don’t wait him failing for…failing to get a measly 10 hours.”
  “I’m sure he has it all filled, signed, and ready to go.”
  “This is his last chance. He’s already past the deadline.”
  I don’t believe in deadlines, but the faster she sees it, the faster I can relieve her nagging. To stall her, I ask if she wants to see one of the buttons up close. She accepts and examines the button carefully, seeming to admire the stick figures with arms spread out and joining. She reads the script on the button out loud: “Thank You for Supporting Somerset County Special Olympics.” She attempts to hand it back, but the car hits another road bump and pierces my finger instead with the pin on the back of the button. My finger starts to bleed. I ask for a Band-Aid.
  “I don’t have any on me,” she says.
  “But you’re a nurse.” 
  “You’re not going to die,” she remarks before changing the subject. “Where’s the form?”
  “I swear it was in one of my pockets, done and completed.”
  “You lost it?”
  “I dunno. Look, it’s not the end of the world if I lost it.”
  Dad barges in. “Do you want to go back?”
  I ignore this. Too busy thinking. 
  I blew it. I ruined my last chance. All that work was nothing. I went to the Special Olympics and all I got was this T-shirt and about 50 pins. Maybe I should come up with an excuse. “Yeah, it was really windy that day, Mr. Bartlett.” I take back everything I ever said about the Special Olympics. I didn’t deserve this; this wasn’t my fault, right? I mean, what did I come here for? I guess it was for hours. But we gave out about a million of those buttons and plenty of Frisbees and stress balls and all kinds of stuff. And they looked so gratified with us helping them out, and…
  Dad turns on the radio since I look so deep in thought. When I zap out of it, I say, “It’s okay. I’ll take the heat.”
  I glance at the button that pricked me. It will be a souvenir, something that will remind me of the joys of volunteering, and the consequences for losing its documentation.
  I pin it back to my shirt again.

Simply Autumn

A- Aesthetic

U- Unpredictable

T- Temporary

U- Undisturbed

M- Magnificent

N-Nature at its best!