True Deceit

CHAPTER THREE

Under the I

Truth can carry nothing without belief held by at least those exchanging it. Give a man his normal day, and he will believe all to be well. Give him an extra length of crop or draft of ale and all will seem splendid. Give him less than he expects and he’ll push on to make the next day better. Truth is only seen when discovered and believed.

The owl of the tree was gone an hour when Annika decided waiting couldn’t help anyone. Seth usually came trudging up the hill a full hour before the sun had traveled its length down the same, but he had yet to break the horizon. Either his back had chosen today to give up amidst his journeying, or an interest had kept him at a spot on the road. Both circumstances kept where he could be found, so Annika loaded up the cart and began down the road.

The sun’s descent had taken what little heat it had offered with it. But a gleam of light held above the bottom of the hill to light the road for the old mule. A poor brute and old, but the creature was gentle and didn’t ask for much to feed her. Annika had tried to keep her coat clean of mats and pests, and what she wouldn’t accomplish, winter soon would, when she was either tramping in the cold or settling under the shed roof. At the moment, a particular school of flies tried to rest upon her flank, and she chose to have none of it.

“Enough, Tabitha,” Annika cried. “They won’t stay away because you swat at them. They don’t bite, so give then rest, and me too from smelling your end.” Her patience, so cultivated for waiting, had shriveled over the hours she had expected Seth to appear at the door. Internally, she chided herself for chiding the mule, when the boy would be the one to chide in the end. Her annoyance couldn’t last too long, though, and soon her fretting became predominant.

Afore long the shivers lacing her frame were solely from the air’s grip. Annika wondered at this weather, at the climate itself holding any bearing on this day. So bundled, so trusting in the mule’s directed foot, she kept as warm as able with her face buried in her shawl. When the cart jolted steady behind the halted beast, she first jostled the reigns to reconcile their progress. Still, the girl stood. Annika looked to the road to find it gone, and the school house itself before her sight.

Panic took her first, for fear they had passed him lying on the road. Yet, Tabitha would never have left his side had she seen him, for his charm extended to all the creatures they kept around. The buildings she faced and those she didn’t were all locked tight, all cold and lightless from an outside view. Something rustled on the door of the school house, the only movement anywhere. Annika launched herself over the edge of the cart, battling the wind to advance towards that movement.

The piece was of parchment, folded as a letter and tacked to the door. Aeolus had favored fun over kindness, attempting to dislodge the paper from the tack. A rectangular slit had formed around the pin, though the piece still held. On the visible fold was a mane that Annika had never been called, yet she saw it was for her. Without notice to the cold, her hand shook as she grasped the paper, letting the pin fall to the dirt and disappear with the torrents.

She would that she had come but an hour later, that the piece had been taken with the tack. She would that she hadn’t even grasped a corner of the paper. Though she would unfold the sheet to find what words must be writ, she needed not to see them to know the truth. She would that she didn’t have to believe, that she could think that Seth was somewhere he could come back from. With that name that none called her by, she knew the truth. Oh, what a cold day that the wind tried to cover.

True Deceit

CHAPTER TWO

Amidst the Son

Annika came up the foot-worn road towards the house under a cold, cloudless sun. October days gave cause for cotton skirts and no stockings, but that day it seemed the sun took a wider path across the sky. And yet, its pace must have accelerated, making Annika rush to bring the cat in.

Seth had found the little ginger kit half drowned on the banks of the river. Every night he would walk from the moment Annika fell to bed till two hours into the early day. It had been only two months since the poor cat had been found, and had Seth not been out at night before the morn, the tiny creature would have frozen in his fur.

The boy has a good heart, Annika thought, But his memory can’t run past a snail. Seth went to school in the town down the road, and he refused the ride Annika offered every morning in the mule cart. He left very early, after Annika had fallen back to bed for the morning, and he always forgot to latch the kitchen door. That cat could push his way through, and every day Annika trudged down the hill to collect the miscreant.

The kit mewed from the folds of her apron. She couldn’t hold him in her arms past a moment afore the sneezes and coughs overtook her. She would drop the apron straight into the wash when she reached the house. Despite his mischief, the creature held charm, and she hated not being able to reassure him with a scratch to his ear.

Once inside the swinging door, Annika dumped the kitten on the rug for wiping shoes. He’d need a bath and wouldn’t be allowed past the kitchen till he’d had it. The poor cat would be trapped between a locked door and a solid one, trafficking the tiny square for hours. Seth loved the kit, but he didn’t always consider how to best care for the thing.

Annika disappeared into the fire place room where she picked at a single log she let smolder. That the weather was out of season barely took notice in her mind. It had been near three weeks since the last of Robbie’s letters had come. She knew the work at sea took many hours away, and she would hope he’s take sleep over letter-writing when he needed. Still, they needed more flour and salt, and Seth’s shoes had been abandoned a month past for all the holes they bore. Annika knew he wouldn’t be forgetful of this, and so her mind chose to toss around the worst reasons for a delay.

Many folk in this land were not strangers to superstition, and Annika lived by the habits these created. Salt over the left shoulder, rosemary at the garden gate, and she still let spiders take residence anywhere in the house, though it gave her less peaceful hours of rest. She had not given in to believing in sea beasts and vengeful weather gods, though. Whatever kept Robbie was human enough, as he had not been opened to any other world.

Though she could work diligently through present worries, Annika let herself droop when reminded of past terrors. Seth parents knew such a world all too well. Annika had known his father best, even having been courted by him in her younger years. All his secrets were held in her mind, locked tight with never a key made. Seth’s mother knew all, and suffered for it as her husband had. They had only been dead two years, and the newly teen’d Seth had come to live with her and Robbie.

The cat scratched from the kitchen side, but Annika held her ground against his pleas. She almost felt a mother to him, though her love did not extend as far as Seth’s. The boy knew nothing of the forces his parents delved in, and thought Annika his true aunt, kin to his mother. Robbie knew all the facts, though his grasp of understanding could only extend to his imagination. Annika would never let such a world touch her Ever-Love.

Again the ring was turned about her finger, gleaming amidst the shadows of the hearth. To all around, it was an Ever-Bond, sacred and binding. None but those two knew it only a Promise, though the effect on their souls was just as strong. Annika herself could have completed the rite, but they were young when first in love, and Robbie wanted all to be proper. His voyages were to keep them steady and living well, and the wait to give his darling time to consider her options. It had been years afore he had needed such a job to keep the up. Annika held patience, and she knew he’d find her ready upon his return home.

She was lucky to hear the light rapping on the outer door. Annika knew she could look a fool rushing so blindly to answer the knock should it have been but in her head, but none but the cat could notice her fumbling. Lucky again, she opened the door to a face grown familiar over many months. “Oh, Terry,” she said. Here was the parcel-man, delivering a treasure greater than that within his palms.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. B.” Terry was a small man, built for speed, as some would say. The speed he could offer afforded no rush to his deliveries, as his land travel was confined to a wagon and an ox. “The sea ain’t been kind this week,” he said. “But I reckon Mr. B’s fairing all right.”

Annika hated being rude, and though Terry had declined on every prior occasion, she still offered him a spell of rest inside. “Na, ma’am,” he said. “If I don’t shove off now, I’ll miss the ship out of here, and Robbie’ll be waiting an extra week on your letters.” He gave her a wink so gentle and pure, and she smiled at his eyes and his hands extended towards her. She took the package and gave him a nod, and they both knew she wasn’t rude in any sense.

Even the cat gave her a pathway to the table, reprieving her legs from pawing for the time. The table sat a full foot from the chair, though she didn’t scoot to close the gap, but rather leaned to dump the solid contents on the surface. The coins and bills were comfort, yet not that which she shook to behold. Twelve folded parchment parcels fell into her lap, a veritable hoard of heavenly plunder. The way she tore through each one, and how she poured over every word, could seem greedy, but none would fault her for it.

Always yours, as he always signed it. His ‘i’s almost curled over backwards under the dot, which was as close to a dot as any could make it. Annika devoured each of these with the broadest smile, cooing over descriptions of long nights and cold cabins. She would she could comfort him, though he always told of how she had saved him in the same way he saved her then. When she had finished, all were tucked into a chest beneath her bed, to join the dozens that she cycled through each night when Seth believed her sleeping.

One Hope

As days grow cold,

Nights grow silent.

Warm summer stars

Now fade to grey.

The wind’s great breath

Bears icy end.

Black rock valued

With gift of life.

Motions slow while

Flames are dancing.

Stillness broken

By crack’ling hearth.

Desolate cold

And frozen to touch.

Beautiful viewed

With glass between.

Sweet, drifting flakes

Of Hallmark’s pride.

Slicing current

Turns sugar sour.

One’s lone escape

Rests package small.

Unflickering flame.

Pureness of heart.

Oh Fire

If fire were this hot

Every flame would explode.

The heat in every inch,

The moisture across the skin,

The dripping, molten longing.

Eyes are melting and\

Legs are boiling with

Instinct pulling lover

To god.

Hands prick with millions

Of nerves grazing nerves,

Lip taking lip,

Breath evaporating

And sticking to the brain.

A solid form takes hold

Of a liquid, blazing body.

This god can hold lava

And kiss its falling hair

And look it in the eyes

And take it into his heart.

Fire is ice compared to this.

Intrusion

A flicker.

Loss of flame.

The room grows cold

Once the lights go out.

Muffled sounds now

Resounding clatters.

Not one shadow

For naught one eye.

Stillness savored

In knowing notion

Will be needed

Very soon.

All now silent;

But no less movement

Of blood in veins

Running hot.

A high growl

An unknown scent.

A muffled curse,

A hastened escape.

Light rekindles.

Eyes search.

At the door

Is the Devil’s dog.

Perpetual Motion

The clicker-switch signals synapse

To fire up ignition lights way on down the line

Rotating cogs stick in rusting joints

Awaiting a reward of new-day's oil

Movements still triggered by tumbling cues

Reacting in jerks and slow alterations

Methodically trapped in a warehouse square

Upon frameworks cornerstoned by concrete

By negligence of night's gone floor crew

And time bearing no breath to remediate

All objectives taken fully and schedules too precisely

With pieces leaving conveyors into baskets on the floor

Tumblers whir past preregulated speed

Ever falling below preceding procrastination

Gears barely catching under varied attentiveness

Wires stretch across coils steaming beneath rubber

Every corner worn to cutting plateau

Each edge now smoothed by fan belts and pulley ropes

Time turns niches into flexible notches

Once-snapped levers glued back to functioning

Efficiency on paper sheets shown for profit bound

Such a change in protocol over years of cutting turns

In a cornered high-pipe chimney floats a fire's smoke

With no purpose but assurance things are running

Machines spread fifty yards across

With parts a ton a block a set

Once clanging and crashing when pieces choose slip

Now tinker in perpetuum on knacking support pins

Every day the trucks roll out in directions universal

While one entry door is trafficked far too thin

Foundation never sways under flood nor fire

But ceiling cracks drip onto wheels and cranks

Despite red metal the parts never halt

Till pulling switches ceases all violently

A sleeping building ever-humming in a generator's care

Forgetting daylight duties for a time

Product after product is absorbed by the masses

Craving without knowing any are asking

Old mechanics fashion new equipment noiselessly

And no repairman will soothe the groaning cogs

True Deceit

CHAPTER ONE

Before the Mourning

The neighbor-tree’s resident tawny owl was not yet to bed when Annika came out to the mail basket. She placed but one envelope within the carrier cloth, as she did in each day’s morn. The town’s letter-taker would not come till shadows had crossed to the house’s east side, but every day, seemingly earlier still, Annika greeted the moon not yet brazen by dawn, fearing the taker may be early should she forget to place the letter then.

Indoor air was but stiller than that outside, and never warmer. Annika’s long locks, bound up tight in the warmth of later-day, hung loose and hot over her bare neck. The sounds were much the same on either side of the walls, though raspy growls turned deafening inside. Seth slept yet, though the feat was slight, the hour being early and him not yet but an hour down. Such a cacophony of noise came from his exhausted form, and would only last until the cat came up at dawn. Even knowing his unrest, Annika could sleep worriless, for his waking hours held more peace than his rest. It was upon his surrender to torturous dreams and deepest slumber that she was roused, though not by the glorious snores.

Annika sat on a quilt-covered rocker, with naught to do till the chickens stirred. She’d have enough minutes to collect the night’s roost afore the cock caught wind of sunny breath and roused himself. Seth slept naught through much, and this boisterous braggart, standing not even to the knee, woke him with even a morning cough. Annika saw the earliest rays seep through the window sill, and on she went to find what little breakfast they would have.

She had naught but an apron to gather the lot, which held fine with but four hens to be laden, and only two with any to show. Her fingers were made as pockets to separate sprigs of rosemary and basil which she plucked en route to the kitchen. There was no cheese left in the ice box, but enough sausage to serve Seth, which sat well with Annika. With omelets for every morning’s meal, she tried to keep it varied for the boy’s sake, while she knew how to live on uniform tastes.

The ice box was in the cellar, and Annika didn’t bother relieving her load before going down to gather the meat. Though her apron sagged, her limbs held all with little struggle, as such was necessity. For as she knew he would be, Seth sat at the table when she entered the house, and his eyes fell heavily on the meat. The boy loved the tender sausage, and he knew little was left, so would have protested had she not already taken it up. As it were, nothing could keep her from using it after the air had held it this long.

Annika smiled at his worried brow, willing it to smooth. All her goods went onto the counter afore Seth could but stand to offer aide. “If you want to help,” she said, “take the corn to the chickens and the cat.” Annika knew the tasks would not keep him, but the gentle ginger kit would.

Seth smiled at last, patting her shoulder as he came to the cupboard. His hand grasped the smallest sack of feed among the dozens taking up near two shelves’ space. The cat would never eat one kernel, but would batter the pieces he was given. Seth knew not to hand out too many, but he would not deny the kitten its play. Annika watched him step outside, and her rigid spine let slack her tired frame.

She started up the stove and found the iron kettle-pan, dropping as much store-bought oil as she could spare for a two-egg omelet. She brought down a plate and spatula, both made of hand from wood. The plate was one of three that sat on the shelf, though only two had been used for a time.

Memories pulled Annika’s shoulders down with her eyelids. Her dear Robbie had been at sea for many a month, sending all the wages of travel by a parcel-man he’d known all his life. Annika’s letters reached him as his were sent back her way, one touching the other within a fortnight. She touched the finger bearing his ring of Ever-Promise, his way to bind their hearts under truest love. Annika smiled, though it was not without grief.

The eggs were close to burning now, and she crudely slid the meal onto the plate. This one held no meat and would be cold once Seth reemerged from his cat’s grasp. His omelet would have the sausage, full with four eggs, no garlic, and yet hot on the pan. He had tried to object to this routine, but Annika cooked their meals in the same way in any case. Seth was but 15, still growing with much grown. She was but one, no child of Robbie’s to feed, so she took little.

The boy came in and sat, accepting the plate and metal prongs, though with a look of disapproval and worry. Seth would not pick apart his food until Annika sat at one of two remaining chairs beside him. They lowered their heads to their plates, silent as had become tradition, and each ate another omelet as the dawn but broke over the roof peak.

Ice and Fire

Ice of heaven melting

On a fire-covered hell

The water left extinguishes

The flame.

We’re left with drops

Of boiling-hot water

Seeped into the earth

And absorbed by all

The water guzzled, sipped

By every being of breath

Makes them turn one way

Or the other

But each drinker

Contains ice and fire

Black and White

Death.

What a topic.

You think of darkness,

You think

Black.

What do those in black

Imagine?

Not colors

Except maybe

Absence

Of color.

Death is THE “unknown”.

Many fear such unknown’s.

As for those that embrace the unknown,

They don’t ask for death.

And those that are

Really fear certainty.

Certainties are constants.

That which we fear will never change.

But some that want that change

Hope.

They may fear the constant, but they

Hope.

The may fear unknown’s, but they still

Hope.

They don’t spend their lives

In the dark.

Fear is blackness.

Fear is pitch.

Fear keeps life from breathing.

Fear cannot blind us,

But the blind do accept fear.

It is the blind that do not live.

Those who worry about

Death

Cannot spend time pondering

Life.

Those that only grimace at

Black

Can never see any color but

White.

Emotions have colors.

Feelings give off light.

Living makes that screen brilliant.

You’re not dead yet.

Your canvas should not be white.

Even black shows you’re paying attention.

Aged

Pekid palms reveal a soul

Grown much past body's time.

A learned spirit knows not what,

Just that it knows.

Times connect the lives and lines

Too numerous now to read.

Withered be the skin, and yet

The soul is strongest here.

Fairy Tale

The greatest passion lies in pain,

In fear, in vacancy, in debt of love,

Until the heart can hear the voice

That pours the pain

Out of the holes

Onto the floor

At the foot of the door

To a future not a soul could predict,

But the heart and the voice always see.

The greatest change inspires pain,

Some fear, some debt, some vacancy,

With more to fill the gaps,

The holes, bullet-pierced,

Than ever tore open any soul.

Stitched by a voice

Given song by a heart

Ruled by a passion forever to be held.

Relinquish

Bubble, bubble, bubble,
In my skin, 'round my heart,
In my chest, in my back,
Through my feather-fluffed stomach.

Anticipate expected outcomes.
Anxiety ripping at high tide.
Accidental insinuations
Adding apmle confusion and temptation.

Styx and stones break naught the silence.
Ready Energy Offers full SPEED.
Navigating Special streets, 37, 38,
Bubbling over into spoiling the spoils.

Frozen Face

“Here they are.” James slaps the stack of uneven papers on my desk. “Just fish out the credentials and pick out the pretty faces.”

     I let out a long breath. As James leaves the office I think about the discombobulated pile before me. I had written a script three years ago and barely got through the publishing process. On January 12^th, two weeks prior to this very day, Mr. James Benet knocked on my apartment door. He physically came to my place of residence so that I could sign a sheet of paper. Most producers just send a fax to the nearest P.O. Box.

     I roll my eyes at the open door. James had wanted my full participation in the production, and he certainly receives it. He has been saying that the author is the only one with the right vision for a play. James won’t even hire a director until I hand-pick the cast; He is only hiring one at all because I refused to direct it myself.

     There is a grayscale photo peeking out of the manila folder in front of me. The file is labeled: “Miss Gloria Anderson” and the folder won’t stay shut without the green rubber band stretched around it. I pull the two-ton stack to arms’ reach after grappling across the table for it.

     Inside the tag board binding sit about fifty pairs of headshots and resumes. It is exciting, finding the faces of my characters, but I still brace myself for disappointment. I know that I cannot find absolutely perfect actors, but at least I’m presiding over auditions. “It’s your story,” James had said. “No one can change what came from your head.”

     I decide to dump out the jokers first. I don’t want to get hung up on a face and end up with a crummy actor. Within ten minutes I pull out twenty-four resumes, all of which have no prior acting experience. Not one of these contains a single reference, not even from high school. I cannot always keep myself from looking at pictures. At least none have looked priceless.

     Until now, I think. As much as I try not to look at any headshots first, one picture captures my gaze. The man in it wears a turtleneck sweater and gentle eyebrows. Stubble extends from behind the crown of his head to cover his chin and the edge of his lips. His shining eyes give me an urge to kiss his nose, like a brother who has been gone for too many Christmases. Dimitri.

     I have seen this man before. Every time I wrote a scene containing the lead, there was this face. The same face is laid in literal black and white before me now. I had dreams of what he would sound like on stage, and if his voice could show the audience what each song feels. At this point credentials could not matter less to me. I have found my Dimitri Moyer.

     I stare at the headshot for what must be many minutes. Most actors have their photo taken so that it reflects their personality; photographers use different angles and show different lengths of their subjects’ bodies to be creative and catch the eye. This picture only shows the face, head-on. If it were my own I would not have paid the photographer, but for this actor, it works. It is more than perfect. The lips show a small smile which is made honest by the eyes. It may not be an interesting headshot, but the face is wondrous.

     I almost run to find James. I’m halfway out of my chair with the picture in focused hand when the flapping paper attached to it is noticed. James will never call if the resume is incomplete. I sit back down and pray agnostically that he has at least one prior role on the sheet.

      Oh God. The font is tiny. With small margins, all the references barely fit on the single page. Aside from the list of ten directors there are over six years of recorded acting and tech classes as well as over twenty roles. Yet, his name holds no history in my memory.

     Jeremy Sanders spent his entire career in community theatres across Iowa with only one performance in New York. His character experience includes Doctor Manette from “A Tale of Two Cities,” Egeus from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and Algernon from “The Importance of Being Earnest.” While all but one production listed are classics and fully spoken, the single Broadway show proves his flexibility. Mr. Sanders held a small role in Avenue Q, a highly provocative musical done totally with hand puppets, during the summer of 2004; the peculiarity was how short of a time he stayed with it. The show is still running now, in the year 2008. At least there is plenty to satisfy James.

     I race out of the door of James’s office, then the lamp at the end of the hall, looking in all directions. I don’t normally get to any state that approaches visible excitement, but now I fell ready to spring out of my skin and fly. I can’t even fell frustration for spending two minutes ducking in and out of rooms, dropping curt apologies to any occupants, without finding James. Finally, with a slower gait and much heavier breath, I turn into the doorway marked “Mr. Benet” and nearly knock over the devil himself.

     “Jesus, Gloria.” James barely manages to save a falling bun from his hamburger plate. I have never found him with coffee or muffins, but often with energy drinks and full meals. Does he ever eat outside of this place?

     I only offer him a winded, “James, finally.” I breathe several times while he bends to retrieve the bun and sets his food on the table. He brushes a crumb from his shirt and I impulsively wipe a fleck from his cheek. He smiles, having grown accustomed to the motherly tendencies of his childless client.

     “So,” James starts in, “are you finished already? I had expected the process to take at least an hour.”

     I readjust the headshot in my hand. The paper under the staple had torn somewhat from my fruitless chase around the fourth floor. “Not yet,” I replied. “But there is a winner. This,” I say, holding the now-disconnected photo before his eyes, “is our Dimitri.”

     James raises his right eyebrow at me, and then studies the picture. It takes him more than a second to remove it from my fingers; my brain doesn’t want to lose that face. He gives me one last look before sitting with the photo in his hand, the other hand reaching out.

     I’m so preoccupied with the sight of the greasy burger being near the headshot that James ends up simply grabbing the resume out of my hand. I stand staring at him, hoping than his eyebrows will not furrow. I have yet to see a look of rejection from James that was directed towards me, but every other who has received it could not sway him with negotiation. I am not sure I would have a better chance.

     “Well,” James began before looking up, “he certainly has experience in theatre. The lack of real musical experience, however, could prove to be a threat in the long run. Gloria, what made you so sure?”

     “It’s him, James.” I pull out a rolling chair to be at his eye level. “It’s the character I see in every scene I write. This,” I snatch the photo from his food-stained fingers, “is my Dimitri Moyer.”

     James taps the table as he studies the resume. What is the problem? I wonder impatiently. Where does he get off questioning my character? I am not an aggressive person, and yet these thoughts barely blip on my careful offense radar. I wanted him to call, to set up the audition. As compromising as I could be, I would not settle after seeing that headshot.

     “Then,” he said, face still to the page, “I’ll have to call him. His residency is in Queens, so I’m not going all the way out there.” He looks up at me with the smile in his eyes. I’m beaming. “Good to see you’re sticking to your vision.”

     I pull James halfway out of his chair and send my own rolling backwards with the hug I give him. James isn’t one to laugh, but I take his gasp for air as enough of a chuckle to allow the hug to hold. “You will be happy,” I assure him. Pulling back, I steal a fry from his plate. “I’ll get the rest of the cast picked out and,” adapting a joyous French accent, “la vision will be complete.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

     After a week and a half James has arranged auditions with the cast that I selected, having found a few actors that could work for each role. The only one without competition is Jeremy Sanders, but he is also the only actor without an audition. James and I have both called the number listed on his resume several times, as well as every director on the list. All had given the same information that we already have. No one seems to have heard from him for over a month.

     I watch James hang up his cell phone as he exits the building. “That’s it,” he calls to me. “Either he answers the door or you will have to find a new Dimitri.” We pull open the side doors to his BMW after hearing the signaling click. I sigh with dread.

     I am silent for the entire trip. It takes us ten minutes to clear the parking lot and reach the first red light, and then another half hour passes by before we are on the bridge to Queens. James looks over to me every once in a while, more often asking, “You gonna be alright?” I always nod and smile a little hopeless smile at him. I have to believe he will answer. I have to trust that Mr. Sanders sent us his resume on the last week of January because he wanted a role. I need to believe that.

     James has to tell me when we arrive. There are multiple doors entering the brick building before us and we pass several before parking on the north side. A beep from the car brings my head up to the door. The way the complex is arranged each numbered doorway only leads to one apartment; fire escape stairs in the ally are the only access to the second floor balcony. The tin mailbox attached to the dark bricks has “J. Sanders” printed in stick-on letters. James raps on the door, his usual four-beat knock. His last tap, though, is left out. I turn not to face him, but the door.

     A sun-faded 8x11 sheet of paper is stapled to the door of the pretend brownstone. Below the words, “For Rent” is a description of the apartment’s interior. The sentence that stops my eyes is, “Furniture included.” It is followed by, “Auction to be held March 1^st for remaining property.”

     James takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. He leads me back to the BMW and clicks the doors open. The engine engages and my seatbelt is in place before I feel the tears leave the corners of my eyes.

Mania

Not now.

Can’t let them see.

Can’t let them hear.

Can’t let them worry.

 

Blink away tears.

Swallow sobs.

Still shaking hands.

Remember to breathe.

 

Crippling sadness replaced.

Anger crashing down.

A bite to the hand.

A jab to the heart.

 

Mind tries to take control

With praise and logic,

But dry clouds rule.

Harsh winds are all I hear.

 

Now the headache.

Enough to remind me.

Calmness forced to surface.

Pool emotion in the head.

 

Another time may come

To release pressure,

Let the mountain fall,

And collapse.

 

But not now.

Not when they can see.

No one can know.

No one can worry.

Most Curious "W"

When? In another world?

Or just another time?

Does it matter anymore

To consider what might

Could, should (?!?) have

Occured?

There is always "if".

If is useless, worthless,

But meaningless?

Never.

Can you know that?

When was there a chance?

Or do we just imagine a time,

Assuming the position,

Whence a chance there was

And opportunity better

Than either could have assuaged?

I can fill pages

With "why" and "what"

But when is left,

Right, front, center,

Halt.

It is alone to be

Unanswered forever

Because time only travels

One slow direction.

Elemental

And so I touched a silver sun,
Frigid still in growing days.
Groaning, waking, still in dreams,
Walking into water.

Heavy in the chest and back,
Heart held rigid, expanding.
Empathetic sponge of volcanic ash,
Still able to melt under Dixie eyes.

Ocean's orb churned nearing
Eyes that hold the sea's brine,
Sand floating as surface debris,
Infinite ripples attacking the mind.

The Southern moons hold antidotal,
Powerful, steaming, careful opening.
Gentleman charm and silvery sounds
Richly warm to taste.

And so I'm held by silver moons,
Sparking a golden ray.
Frost melts under warm water
And eyes gleam gold once more.

Heart

Feathery limbs
Threatening to float.
Stomping pulsation
Encouraging flight.
Fluttering lungs
On infinite inflation.
Words exhale
With energy retained.
Dancing mind
Spun by intake.
Sick and disabled.
Mute and on edge.
In love
And at peace.

To Know

If I knew you better, I'd say that you are kind.
Your hands are soft and gentle,
Your arms, warm and strong,
Your eyes, nice and handsome.
I'd let you take my hand, and we would walk awhile.

When I know you better, I'll tell you what a nice smile you have.
Your lips look soft and gentle,
They must be warm and strong.
I'll ask if I can kiss them,
And you'll be much obliged.

Say I grew to know you well enough to open up my hearet.
Your words so soft and gentle,
Your promises warm and strong.
To call me sweet and beautiful
And offer to let me have your heart.

Suppose I told you I loved you
On a night so cool and peaceful,
With the stars gleaming and leaning in
To hear you ask for my hand.
And, like a nice girl, I would consent.

If I knew you better, I'd skip the trite formalities.
I'd pull you by the collar,
Take those luscious lips for mine,
Whisper entrancing, secret phrases,
Give you all that I can afford to give.
If I love you, I won't wait to tell you.

Bottled Life

Bubble, ripple,

Shimmer, shiver,

Balance, form,

Stillness.

Under the seams,

Under the skin,

Boiling rage and lust

And frustration.

Distempered by motion,

The motion in the eyes

To form a glance,

A glare,

A smile.

Grazing flesh,

Glowing, soft flesh,

So youthful and longing

And hopeful and fearful.

Ready to taste and touch,

Sensation of anticipation

Of something made lovely

In the heat.

Deep inside,

Deeper than blood,

Holding truth and honor

Using love and hate,

But never,

Never lies. Except

To keep the peace.

Done in vain,

For naught, or

Too much.

Do not sit.

Stagnation holds no one.

No part or thought,

No passion or purity

Sits.

Stand, but not still.

Bubble, ripple,

Shimmer, shiver,

Balance, form,

But not stillness.

It all goes away

Too quickly to sit,

To let sit,

To forget.

Even water has an expiration date.