When I Was Eight:
And we were married in the precoscious summer of 1987. She wore a clover wreath around her long knotty curls. The sun was high and cool, the wind blew; by the power invested in him by us, the cat led the ceremony. He didn't say much. We kissed like we only knew how and held hands all the way to the backyard where the Boxwoods waited toshower congratulations. She stared into the grass with her thin blue eyes cutting every molecule. I said we'd be able to buy a house someday. We'd have to finish school first. It might take some time, but we'd be together as long as we loved. I found comfort in the fact
that she only lived two houses away, so we'd never be apart.
The time I knew:
I exist as a Christianized Jew. I was not the party-goer. My soul made peace in silence. Then kissed by a tall catholic rain, wet with dark features and paler skin and a voice spoken to paralyze, I became liberty. Latin bled through general teeth--pulsing condolence, parting grace. I be not judged lest the sky be judged. I a Jew, born of Christ, singing out doctrines of a Rainy Friday Afternoon. What a day to know everything. What a depraved day to know the world.
I saw her again today...
I saw her again today. She was selling shoes on the street up from the pay telephone. No sun out, but humid from odd numbered temperatures and busy Chevrolets revving from work to home, from home to church, from church to supper, all passing her by while she sat peddling her soles away. A long red haired girl passed waving her skirt in the puddles. She stood to collect her things, to load the truck, and finally leave: her skull sunk slightly, bursting out from the inside through shining holes left colored by merciful God. Her knees felt sore from waiting all the humid days, and her feet turned outwardly attractive as they fell burden to angel weight. A high lonesome tenor shyly dripped from the truck radio, and the most attractive laughter squeezed between her perfectly straight teeth as the long, pale hand of death crushed it from existence to find another station. She carried on with a truckful of shoes and Unfamiliar while the gruff sound of sportsjournalism bled through the atmosphere.
Drugstore Queen:
They crowd the tallest cracks of the theater and the roof vents of Stone & Thomas and the big green letters by the sky of First Union Bank, and converse. They ramble about the weather and traffic and rate all the latest movies. They see dancers in the studio through frosty windows across the street. Three bare light bulbs accentuate each of sixty toes. And from the second crook of the big green 'N' they spy on the beautiful blue-eyed Queen in her drugstore temple. They worship pieces of her relic-colored hair lining walls that keep the smallest ones from dying, saved from death by the deadness of an ignorant royal. I wonder if it hurts when they fall. They speak of politics, of botany, of sanitation, and of the blue-eyed Queen who inadvertently protects them. They speak of God with contempt for not giving them souls to live past death. But they pray to their Queen and her drugstore temple. Everything will be all right as long as they have her. And they carry their prize to the second crook of the big letter 'N' by the sky of the bank down from the drugstore of the blue-eyed Queen.
The store was dead except...
The store was dead except for the smell of leather, and even it was decaying like the day he walked through the door.... He was short and lean and his green eyes pierced through her semblance of
work. Three curls spiraled fearlessly over his hard kept glasses. The rest of his hair swam the contours of its head to reach shore just under fragile ears. And she saw him walk to the row of bubblegum machines along the front window. His cardigan reflecting the afternoon sun yellowed his father-like hands and
strong-veined neck as it poured from his demure, distantly feminine shoulders. It swayed just enough as he moved, an uncaring, formal sort of walk. The kind of walk her father walked on Sunday evenings after church was out and the sinful men went to smoke on the lawn. He carried a book under his arm: Seduction in Berlin. She had no idea what it was about, but she imagined his strong German
accent flexing through ears at midnight in an overflowing Berlin coffeehouse. He took off his jacket at the table and waded through conversation and smoke to take her by the waist. He placed her closer, his European eyes a few inches higher than her own. He brushed the hair from her face and fully held her head
with fingers, the palm of his left hand just behind her. She surrendered everything as he spoke: "Du bist," as a crash of loving darkness fell. Her delicate mind opened once again, he was childishly chewing his bubblegum by the yellow window, the power of his jaw running through her spine. She plunged paralyzed as his yellowed cardigan swayed into the street.... decaying into the hour.
So Many Pictures of Jesus...
My grandmother peels open eyes with the morning sound of
frying bacon. In the bedroom there's a framed death certificate
emblazoned with a black and white illustration of the
resurrection. Christ looks down on my great-grandparents'
picture with grey-lined clouds and flashing sunlight all around
Him. In the bottom corner is a yellowed clipping from "The Welch
Daily News." There are four elementary school monarchs--King,
Queen, Prince, Princess--lined from left to right. One is my
mother, one is my father. Jesus stares at them form behind the
glass. I shake off the sunrise and march off to fight an easy
hunger. The matriarch directs the kitchen, so he does what she
tells him. When all the kids have more than enough, she floats to
the table in her cotton house coat and worn bare feet. She
towers over all that have come after her. And when all the plates
have been used and cups emptied, breakfast goes on until 10:30
or so: talking under thirteen vigilant pairs of painted eyes
mounted on the back wall. When all the traces of want are
satisfied, I shower. Three ceramic angels are the audience for
countless naked embarrassments. They keep watch over
exposed children of the Lord. All of yesterday's dirt is washed
away, and my eyes are open to the house again. Everyone else is
being social in the other room. Surveillance reveals the family
seated around a conversation. On the table is a large white Bible,
on the cover: a color picture of a young white man. He has long
wavy hair, defined features, and an overall air of the Messiah. It's
too good to be opened, but along the front wall lies a few hundred
pages bound formerly by now shredded leather. Every page is
marked, every page has been bled by hearts and eyes. Lunch
runs from about 2:00 until 4:30 after which everyone leaves me
alone upstairs. I feel the years of this house, of my preaching
great-grandfather, of my mountains, of my music... The last
meal: not as many stay for the turkey as showed for the bacon.
Night has simply ignored the day and fell quietly on vinyl siding.
Shades are drawn. The porch light is sent to battle. Dinner winds
down, and one by one they march off to sleep. I fall into bed
under the resurrection, her mountain voice, and the fear of God.
Charles
His name was Charles, and he was tall and black. I'd known him
since first grade when we both had the same teacher. I didn't listen
to music then because I didn't care about anything but girls and
playing in the woods out back. I remember he used to ride my bus
in the mornings in the sixth grade. He sat at the front of the bus and
always saved me a seat with him. Even though he was only in the
sixth grade, he was still bigger than most of the kids on the bus, so
I knew I'd be able to sit with Charles. In Mrs. Jarret's fifth grade P.E.
class we were climbing the rope one day when somebody had the
idea to swing over to the back of the basketball goal and hang there
for awhile before dropping to the floor. The only problem was a huge
screw that connected the goal to the bar that connected everything
to the wall. It was bolted in from the front, and the threads came out
the back, just above the bar we were grabbing. We had a good time,
everyone swung to the bar and missed the screw except most of the
girls and little guys who couldn't even climb the rope. That was one
of the best days in Mrs. Jarret's class. We had a little bathroom
break after P.E. everyday then. I finished doing my business and
pulled up to the sink next to Charles. I was in mid-wash when I
looked over to him. The water cascading from the back of Charles'
hands was a shade rusty like the faucets. I kept on, still looking,
dried my hands and I saw his red eyes gleaming back at me. Then I
noticed the back of his big brown hand with four huge gashes from
the threads of the back of the basketball goal. He'd not swung over
the right way and grabbed the wrong part of the bar. It had to hurt
like hell, but he didn't say a word. His eyes reflected the naked
bulbs of the old bathroom, and his hand was wet with blood the
color of his fifth grade skin. I'd known Charles since first grade and
he was never this quiet without good reason. He finally opened his
mouth, aimed his wet, bloodshot eyes at me, and said 'Look at my
hand,' in a weak raspy kind of moan. I didn't know what to say. I
thought Charles was the coolest and here he is crying to me with
big P.E. gashes he was afraid to tell the teachers about. I helped
him dry it off with the paper towels and when they ran out, the toilet
paper. He'd dripped some on his ratty Addidas warm-up suit he
always wore, but it blended with the dark navy blue color. We got
back to class and nobody knew except the other guys who saw us
in the bathroom. But they wouldn't say anything to get Charles in
trouble. After that day, I could always haul my clarinet on the bus
knowing I had a seat with Charles right behind the bus driver.
I See Elizabeth:
Believe nothing merely because you have been told it, or because it is traditional, or
because you yourself have imagined it. Do not believe what your teacher tells you,
merely out of respect for the teacher. But whatever, after due examination and
analysis you find to be conducive to the good, the benefit, the welfare of all beings,
that doctrine believe and cling to and take as your guide. I've thought about ninth
grade and bus rides and other mornings, but not in an overly scrutinizing fashion.
My present is in too great a shambles for that. I'm feeling very low at the moment. I
complain more frequently than I'd like. Things are things, aren't they? An image is
part of a concept. An alteration in image can change perception of concept. We
can escape from pain into the world of ideas. I am grateful within my bounds. I
must have breakfast. I've been inventing principles to justify my life. So am I floating
through? Would diligence make me whole? You make all your dates sound like
reflections from funhouse mirrors. Perhaps you have walleye vision. Marilyn vos
Savant was in the Guiness Book of World Records for highest I.Q. Now she writes a
column for Parade. She says to remember that the universe is not out to get you. Oh
Tuesday, you went from fair to difficult to sleep-suggesting. Thanks for sending
your comments to Crisco, Chris Ballengee. Suddenly it's winter. Everyone at school
wore muted tones. I'm happy. Tonight I am going to try to make a sweet potato
casserole. George Washington Carver found myriad uses for the yam. Lots of
vitamin A. By the middle of the month, I'll be older and I'll go out and get a
pumpkin. Not every day can be Thanksgiving. What are my chances of getting into
Heaven? My G.P.A. has gone up and I'm Co-Editor of the Creative Writing Club.
Good morning, as it may be eternally. All right, so now you've revealed something
very personal: you're composed of pressed olives. But (I repeat!) how can you be
extra-virgin? Wouldn't that entail negative pressing, meaning a transformation of
oil back into olives? Are you made of small Greek fruits? I'm back and I'm confused.
Hey, aren't you...Mister Mechanic? Since I have now decided that you are Mister
Mechanic, you can fix it when you're in town. Assuming there's anything wrong
with it. Probably there isn't. It's a perfect car. There are those who advise the young
to go directly into the world. Since I am a coward, I won't, but I think I can get
something out of matriculation. Guilt...materialism...materialism wins. At least for
now. We got gas logs. I've found that I feel a certain admiring love for almost
everyone I know, but not Love, capital L, which involves some comfort and trust.
Anything you'd like to do? The world is enormous. I've got lots to say. Are you
there? I am empty even when my life is full.
Print cornflowered feet tremble with boredom in a room full of English. She twists and turns and laughs and yawns and I know she has a lot to learn; to find fire behind ice, questioning diction and absurdity, knowing what it is to be music. Biving pleasure in being and thought to existence. Bacon knew Hamlet and Hamlet knew beyond himself; she becomes a content monarch upon time, forsaking all before her: trembing in cornflowered socks, bulging with sisters and cute personality. If only she knew Hamlet, William would be lost of a muse and speechless at the marriage of truest minds.
� 1997 [email protected]
Get your own Free Home Page