A Dedicatory, where this would have started if I wasn't so concerned with chronology

I think I see her in your eyes,
The daughter I would have had had.
She glows behind your flushing cheeks,
Your lustrous smile, your swelling tummy.
She is the hero I would write,
The dedication that I pen;
She hides behind every solitary line:
I think she is the best of me.
It is to her I dedicate my life;
She is the beauty of my soul:
The poem that I would write,
Her face that I would sketch,
Her story I would tell.
And yet she only lives inside me
Because you are too far away to tell.
Instead, enclose her in the words,
Make of them a little womb,
A nest for my baby bird
That I will happily defend
Until she is full grown
And then I say that I have lived
And then I say that I have loved.
I have loved.

An excerpt from my first story (Beating a Dead Horse) that was meant to be funny, but ended up just horrifying. Much like the subject matter.

Once upon a time there was a little boy.

The boy loved to laugh

The boy loved to play.

One day the boy's parents brought him to a play.

The Curtain rose.

The Stage stood empty.

The Audience held its breath.

The Actor tumbled onstage.

The Audience roared with joy.

The Audience danced in the Actor's hands.

They laughed until they cried and cried until they laughed.

The laughed until their sides hurt and their cheeks ached.

The Little Boy turned to his parents and said:

“Some day that will be me.”

The Little Boy began to play.

He performed in his backyard.

At first he imitates the Actor.

He practices his tumbles and his falls.

The Little Boy mouths the words and works very, very hard.

One day, the Little Boy decides he is ready for his debut.

The Little Boy invites his family and his neighbors.

Everyone from the Neighborhood is there.

The Little Boy performs until his heart could burst.

The audience applauds, laughing.

But it wasn’t like before.

He puzzled and puzzled.

Eventually the Little Boy concluded:

"I need to be bigger."

So the Little Boy grew up.

Once he was full grown, the Young Man left to seek his fortune.

The Young Man finally got a small role in a small theatre.

And he worked very, very hard.

He performed before a small audience to small laughter and small applause.

People came up to him afterwards and congratulated him.

They shook his hand and patted his shoulder.

But it wasn’t the same as before.

He puzzled and puzzled.

The Young Man concluded:

"I need a bigger role."

So he got a Leading Role.

And he worked very, very hard.

He performed.

And all the critics said, “He performed.”

But it wasn’t like before.

He puzzled and he puzzled.

And the Young Man concluded:

"I need more training."

But where was he to receive the training?

The Young Man cried.

And with no solution, the Young Man died.

Suddenly, his friend entered the room.

His friend, finding him thus, wept and asked,

“Why do you lie so low?”

The Dead Man answered,

“There is no one I may learn from and so I died from sorrow.”

“Who might teach you?”

“Only one.”

“Then why not go to them?”

“Because they would not teach me.”

“I am certain they would. Go seek your teacher.”

The dead man revived and leapt high into the air for joy.

The Revived Man journeyed across the wide world, searching.

At long last, he arrived at the Institute.

He entered the grounds.

There was a single auditor and a chair.

There was no desk, no door, no walls, no ceiling, no floor, nothing.

The Revived Man sat in the chair and waited.

The Auditor peered at him.

Time passed.

The Auditor asked, “Why have you come?”

The Revived Man said, “To learn.”

The Auditor stared at him.

The Revived Man stared back.

The Auditor said, “First, you must be tested.”

The Hopeful Man leaned forward.

“I will work hard.”

“Yes. You will."

The Hopeful Man entered the Examination Hall.

There are dozens of students.

The Master of the school enters.

He tells them they have but a single task.

“You have but a single task.”

The Master explains:

“Your task is simple. To beat a dead horse.”

The Student raises his hand: “But, Master, how are we to do this?”

The Master nods.

A Horse is led into the room.

The Horse is presented to the master.

The Master bows to it, respectfully.

The Master grasps a Bat.

The Master breaks the Horse’s neck.

The Horse falls to the ground.

The Master beats the Dead Horse.

Over and over.

Until the Master stops.

Until the Horse stops.

Until It stops.

The Master looks at the gathered crowd:

“Now you.”

Association experiment III

Goodness. Godness. Gold. Guild. Guilded.

Guiled. Beguiled. Behaved. Behooved.

Behold. Behind. Beknight. Bespeak.

Kind. Dread. Dead. Doom. Moon. New.

Ghoul

Speak. Sick. Dick. Dyke. Poke. Pike.

Pile. Pill. Will. Wall. War. Was. Walk.

Talk. Tall. Tire. Tired. Wired. Warred.

Good as gold

They said of me.

Polite as of old

And what a delight to see.

"A pleasure in class"

They wanted me to be.

"A right royal ass"

was all I could think of me.

They calmly all fled

Through kindness to me

Filling me with dread

And showed me what a good boy should be.

An excerpt from my novel about love, the afterlife, and love/loss. The prologue.

My dearly beloved was dead: to begin with, but, that was all the more reason to get married. Mother maintained.  It was a cold winter morning, as is often the case in such events herein recorded, when she sat down on a park bench. She went out for a morning stroll, when she became winded and needed to sit down for a spell.  Now, I don’t know why she did it. I believe she had been concerned about her weight at the time; I told her time and again that I didn’t mind that she had gained a few pounds, but she seemed awfully determined to lose said pounds through rigorous complaining.  Then, one day, for no apparent reason, she had decided to try exercise.  I advised against it.  Not that I am against exercise, far be it from me to contradict the whole of Western medicine as to the health and benefit of a practice almost universally reviled by the population it is meant to benefit, nevertheless, I do have my concerns <footnote?> However, this was not an average concern of some trifling matter as exercise or the pursuit thereof; my concern was almost wholly preoccupied with the day on which my dearly beloved decided to begin said exercise: December the 23rd.  

Now, I have no particular, personal dislike for the day of December the Twenty Third, only inasmuch as any schoolboy does where the date is neither Christmas Day nor the Eve; it was, rather, the weather. Now, I am not one to talk about weather as the weather is a trifling subject in almost any conversation and bores both those who bring it up as well as those forced to listen, but it does bear some import on the events that followed thereafter and I would be wholly remiss if I did not least mention it in this particular instance.  You see, the weather was considerably bad on this particular December the Twenty Third.  You may remember it was snowing, then again, you may not.  There was a terrible blizzard that day over our cozy little city of N________.  Ah, now I see you remember.  Yes, it was a positively dreadful day; the snow came from every which way and positively wouldn’t stop. It blew for hours over the entire city limits and encased the entire city in banks of snow as tall as buildings, whole streets were filled, people had to shovel tunnels just to get to their yards to allow for their dogs to have their business, which the dogs rather enjoyed, though the owners rather didn’t, (though I cannot understand why dogs are the only creatures under creation who should enjoy their business).  Needless to say this was a peculiar day on which to decide to take up the sport of walking, but take it up my dearly departed did.  She got up at four in the morning, at this point the street cleaners had been remarkably busy contending with the cascading snow for four hours already, they were quite winded and considered giving up, until they saw the lone form of my dearly beloved striding down the street.  Shocked, they stared, confounded.

Now, when this began, imagine the scene:

• The tired men leaning on their shovels
• The snow drifts rising steadily to about a foot or so
• My dearly beloved striding down the street, illuminated by the golden street lamps
• The clouds leaning heavily upon the earth, giving no sign of picking up their burden again

Well, naturally the men were terrified of losing their honour by not assisting this most august of ladies, this paramour of feminine tenacity and might, which any onlooker would naturally ascribe to my dearly beloved, so they did the most natural thing to working gentlemen and set to work, clearing the street of any snow-related debris  for this marvelous woman.

At first they did quite magnificently.  The men went to work as soldiers readying for battle; I like to imagine there was a little speech, something about the dangers of what they were about to attempt, the Herculean challenge, the Titanic struggle, but, alas, no record was kept of these men, save in these pages, and I am a woeful researcher.  But, if there were a speech made, I like to think it would be something like this:

<Speech?>

They pursued the horizon, these men, cutting a swath through the snow like the prow of a mighty ship breaking ice floes.  Nothing could have recommended these men more. At first, they cleared a foot of snow as wide as the street for my dearly beloved, which, one may assume, however wrongfully, that she was eternally grateful.  They moved as a unit, flinging snow to the sides, adding to the natural banks of snow, and contributing to the eventual dog tunnels.  However, after an hour, their work slowed to half as much. They were moving two feet of snow in a band as wide as an oversized elephant, then an average sized elephant, then just a wee elephant. Eventually, they became he; the crew leader, a man of remarkable endurance and spirit, was moving three feet of snow at a shovelful for my dearly beloved. After ten miles, he collapsed, unable to lift another load. He began to apologize to my dearly beloved, or so I imagine, but as he did so, she calmly stepped over him into the snow and proceeded to continue her morning jaunt. Flabbergasted the crew leader watched as she stepped through the deep snow without so much as slowing her methodical stride.

Well, at this point there are very few others who saw her and even fewer that knew what my dearly beloved was thinking.  There was a child of approximately five years of age who was whooping through the streets having thrown his paper delivery bag onto a snow-laden stoop and was currently in the middle of a very complicated maneuver whereby he would stand his feet upon his head, which, let us be honest, we all would appreciate to have witnessed my dearly beloved not trooped by in that very moment.  She made a grand impression, my dearly beloved did, walking through snow as though it was not there, covered up to her bosom, with snow plastering her front and insulating it from view.  In this state, my dearly beloved appeared no more nor less than a frozen monster, furrowing the street, searching for something or some morsel.  It seems she was terrible to behold for the child froze inverted and sunk face first into the snow. After several minutes of desperate struggle, the young lad managed to disengage from the wintry clutches of the snow banks and perused the street for signs of life only to discover that none remained.  The snow had obscured any trail that my dearly beloved had left in her wake and the child readily and rather gladly pursued his own bliss in of doors.  The only other person who has stepped forward as having seen my dearly beloved was a woman of about middle years, sitting at her window, writing in her journal. Now, we may be tempted in the vein of curiosity to peer over this kind lady’s shoulder and peer into her private diary and see what she wrote of the event in question.  However, my dear reader, you would be quite wrong.  A woman’s diary, much like her heart is to be kept private for both are secret and only meant to be divulged to a worthy companion such as a beloved childhood friend or a passerby on the street, not the whim of any reader that comes to call. Apologies.  Well, as she was finishing a particularly thorny passage of fiction, she caught a glimpse of movement from the street level, which was remarkable because at this point the snow was as tall as a person, or at the very least, a moderately sized woman of early to middling years, seeking to reduce her moderate size with extraordinary exercise.  As the lady in the window looked down, what she reportedly saw was a single black spot in the middle of the snow between the buildings (for at this point the street was completely obscured). It paused for a full minute (fortunately for us she had an egg timer at hand and could measure with remarkable accuracy this event), pondering (we assume) all the while and after much deliberation (still assuming) changed direction for the first time since setting out from her home, heading into the grand park in the middle of the city.  The lady in the window watched for as long as her eyes could hold onto the black spot moving before it vanished entirely underneath the ever-increasing snow and turned away to record all of her thoughts and inquiries as to the matter at hand, which we received in full as a manuscript (with some of the earlier, personal details redacted)

<Manuscript? misplaced..>

That was the last living soul to see my dearly beloved, so the rest is inference based on what was discovered later.  Apparently, she marched continuously (assumed) to the center of the park, by a little lake and stood by its bank, then, (inexplicably) found a park bench by which to sit and sat upon said park bench.  The snow continued until midnight at which point, it punctually ceased.  

Now, I invite you to imagine our lovely little park; it is a beauty to behold.  There are several entrances into the park proper; there is a wrought iron fence encircling the entire perimeter with great, tall oaks peering over the top creating a leafy screen, shielding the inside from prying eyes.  The fence has a foundation of brick that reaches one’s knees or thighs, I can never remember its exact dimensions, but it is of a good height, and whenever I am next to it or in the remembering of it, I always acknowledge the pleasantness of its height.  The trees ringing the park are not so gruesomely planted as to give a sense of foreboding or privacy.  The sense is rather that of a whispered secret, pleasing to the ear. What a surprise it is then to turn to your whispering friend and discover yourself in the park.  It feels ever so natural a part of the city.  One is often at a loss passing by and cannot help resist a brisk, healthy stroll through its environs, which we may assume was just so in the case of my dearly beloved. That upon seeing, or at least recognizing where she was, she was lulled by the peculiar, magical charm of that place and proceeded to enjoy it immensely. As you enter the park, you are greeted by a corridor of trees, charmingly planted, revealing the entire park to your eye through leaf and bough very like a crowded dance floor with limbs and legs and other such accoutrements akimbo.  Leaves invariably fall across the path, but do not stick to the wet cobblestones (did I mention the cobbletones?) and give a sense of muck; rather they float gently under foot and help levitate the passerby.  As you come to the end of the corridor of trees, the park opens up before you, stretching away into islands of trees, surrounded by seas of verdant grass, crisscrossed by paths of stone, all equally or more charming than the others as you pursue your leisure.  All of these many and myriad elements orbit the center of the park, a single, peerless lake.  It is of a size not too grand as to give a sense of the insurmountable, but quite large enough to allow for privacy on a morning walk (though its depths are untried and untested even by the youths of today). It is a favorite of many a perambulator that wishes for a well-earned respite; the view of the sky and the trees reflected in the lake are breath-taking, which my dearly beloved assured me often, though I never asked her.  All of this is rendered as beautiful in winter; the snow plasters the trees in shards of starlight while the trees shed their leaves to be replaced by icicles; the foot paths become overgrown with snow creating a mystical wonderland rife with possibilities. Naturally none of this could be seen by my dearly beloved, but I do like to imagine that she appreciated the view nevertheless beneath the snow. Or the memory of a view of the winter park or that of summer, whichever she preferred.  I like to think that she was happy with the view as she went down to the lake in the center of a snow-encased park to sit upon a bench facing a lake that she could not see.  For it was there, on that spot, that very day of December the Twenty Third in the year ____ that she died.

It wasn't about children.

I cannot walk alone

They cling to me

Like a hundred hungry hill-dren

gobbling---gobbling

Making meal out of my marrow

Come to me, chew to me

my children, my children

Blithely,

Breaking bones for them

My children, my children

As they suck my rind I cling to them

My children, my children

We all fall down instead

tumbling---tumbling

Losing loving lies and lost my head

Ding dong, the witch is dead

All my dear, deluded darlings fled

Left all alone in bed

crumbling---crumbling

I cannot walk alone

But I can die alone

My children, my children

Farewell.

A poem about staying still

On this island, I am here.

Surrounded by glass shores and ebony waves.

I breathe the ash, smells fresh, and I am free.

The edges jagged bite whilst I in repose.

The winds, a storm, echo

My head--well-sought freedom.

I cannot let go.

I do not let go.

On this shoreline, I am here.

The volcanoes crash my leaden skin.

The coral creeps, flaying me wide, under hide and bone.

Strolling along with the long-dead battleships.

Quite a toll.

No one here.

No one hear.

In this ocean, I am here.

Plagued by love letters in bottles adrift

Survivors doing little now.

Now, they are ashore.

Seeing little, feeling little--blight the lot

Feeling hopeless

Neverthelesses

In Your arms, I am here

Sweet relief at last

From all that “happiness” I threw myself to.

It hurt too much to be called good.

None shall find me less.

Less shall never find me.

I am no longer here.

Bury me in you.

Fearless

I am afraid

I am afraid of never being together

Of always making plans

Of never following through

Of always bleeding money

Of never building time

I am afraid

I am afraid of getting lost

Of never being found

Of walking till no one is following

Of looking ahead and seeing

the armies marshalled against me

Of never ever finding

comfort in the company I keep

I am afraid

I am afraid of being the hero

Of being forced to play the villain

Because I am so, so good at it

So, so fucking good at it

Of wearing the mask that sears

the ties that cry, the binds that brook no breaking

And none can see the tears run down

The hollow, empty joy when I am beaten down

Because the scars are cheap, heroes come easy

But, I can take the bruises, I can take the hurt

Because for every superhero there is a villain left unheard

So bring on the pain, bring on the curses

I can take it if it means the other children don't

No more fear