A dreamy, poetic exploration of creativity and the opposite sex. |
THE PENCIL It was the heart of the city that was his home, his father. He stole what he needed to survive, even though he took his survival seriously, he couldn’t bring himself to like what he did. A precarious position for one whose death is thwarted by a hated profession. So was the irony of his poor life, his poet’s existence. Although he liked to think of it a little differently. Stealing was more of a career to him than most others considered it, he suspected. More of a poetic yearning towards perfection than a sweaty, desperation to survive. Which he also knew to be the poet’s goal on occasion. So, in the summer of eighty-seven, thirteen years after he came to be, he calmly shined his shoes on a doorstep to an apartment where he wasn’t welcome. It was a boarding house for wayward girls, the stuff of his dreams. Mellow visions, contemporary oily thoughts slipping, like a worn tooth pick between scarred lips into his soul on a warm, wet city day. His madness, no cure but within the walls the ivy coated sick beds heart beats and alley garbage beats. What new spells had she spun almost, half-breaths until she appeared, shadowed drawing upon the greasy afternoon to conceal, shimmering cloak. Uncomfortable, mistreated wounds settling in for a terrible winter storm in the middle of a Boston July. He knows she has a feeling for terrible winters. She loves the paradox of endless chills in summer evenings. Deep into the misty morning, before the sun can illuminate the drowning, inky mystery she toils. Slave to a muse that criss-crosses her arms with snaking gashes, rivers. He pants like a heavy Shepherd, eyes dark and longing, as she sweats over grounds maintenance. Her shirt, has no prior memory, and so exposes a stomach, slick with salty labor. A white cotton tribute to institutions and squeamish self-confidence. Hands working the pitch, turning and turning and turning. Even the stubborn earth has experiences to share with her, for her to translate into words. The steady whisper of traffic, edging along over tired roads, and the buzz of summer serve to separate the two destiny’s children. His fingers massaging, without thought, the polish into his cheap paten leather wingtips. What kind of city would it be if there wasn’t the young, stylish chaps? His shoes were things of ridicule and story among the ones without that style. He had it though, a breed of wonder and hope. In the future, he would have someone to shine his shoes, as he sat, poolside with this girl. Dreams and city heat mingle and sweat stings delicate, egg shell retinas. Reality no longer clouds his perception of the situation. He will go to her and become her muse. Her poems will speak his name in a thousand different ways and each syllable, a tribute to their romance. Ambition, fruit of murder and of general silliness. So be it, he thought, in such a way that even he didn’t know what he was going to do with that particular ambition. A trifle loud and the rain said- damn it! you know how to fly!- oh…we are in disagreement seeing the present and licking the future like a dry ice cream cone furnaces of passion and sweaty stomachs, perfect…too much reality for one helping must rest and calculate general silliness and other tom-foolery recipes, manuscripts, journals and other mind toys devious directions for ambition as well or the directness of kissing extra soft lips sweaty, extra soft lips, exchanging thoughts like an easy breeze how could it be any easier than that She glanced back over a winged shoulder…misperception, due to heat…and her eye trembled. Destiny has a million fairies spreading madness like brush fires in wild, grainy 8 mm home movies. A myriad of insane, rambling nets tumbling over thoughts and actions. Everyone is subject to these prodding’s and misdirection’s as it were. Even the Pope and Mr. President. Back to stealing. So, he was walking along a cracked, crack littered Boston walkway of side concrete walking, when he saw an open door. Not even reacting to opportunity, more like reacting to smoky destiny, hidden behind a veil of poetry, he rushed in. Not looking even where he was going, or what was to fill his pockets. His specially modified pockets, with release strings and collapsible top seams. A career, not a hobby. The dry, library air sucked all the noise into an invisible hole. Bleached floorboards felt his shuffle, discussed his weight and watched his career take a twist. Sensing no one nearby, he scanned the tightly spaced shelves. Noteworthy…nothing lined the shelves…just dust. The light sprinkled down, like fairies tidy work. Shuffle, shuffle…casting glances…like a pilot in a dogfight, frenzied, but cautious. Music, lazy, snaking, a low country drawl…easy, caramel bass and a flicking b flat strum. Picking his left and right ears, at different times, teasing, slow, and deliberate. Then a scream, pinched bottom string, somewhere, she sighs and feels a vibration…right here he feels the same, though not with the same pleasure. A lonely pencil, being the only item in the place as far as he can see, sits, quietly on an eye level shelf. The music again, and a tug at the ends of each hair follicle, those damn fairies again. Unfair and hurried, surely, but destiny waits only for Winnie the Pooh and sometimes Piglet too. What a mess Unfurled destiny takes me to the gates, into the lion’s den without training that kiss…extra soft first touching smooth, sweaty stomach then pulling away as she withdrawals into the written version Will she ever stay alive with me? blood and tears of a virgin mind living an inner city life, in her own inner city Meaning what? Destiny, you’ve got some balls who’s ready for an encounter? a crescent moon, tackling the slumberous, deep midnight crouching into doubt, i rest This pencil says -take me- OK So he takes the pencil, a shy, yellow thing. Sharpened to a nice point. Not a black list item for a suicide watch inmate. Not a gentle cusp of graphite either, nor an unsharpened hack job. Perfection in the writing world…if you don’t count clicker pencils. This pencil. That was just it…nothing else, just, this pencil. He turned and walked out. It was raining when he exited the noiseless, weird fairy place. He thought-how stupid to steal a pencil.- But then some fairies spilled a bucket of powder on his head and he forgot, but the face of his destiny. As he walked back to the bridge. Bridge….OK, i live under a bridge. America, where’s your fires where’s your canned foods where’s your itchy blankets? America, where’s your parents where’s your hobbies where’s your average, normal life? Bridges, tossing worn pebbles…memories. He wanted to think a poem on that dumb store. That gave him a headache. What’s the use, of having thoughts and feelings about memories, and hope for the future when your past is deleting itself little-by-little? Answer; you go insane living under a bridge and writing poems to survive. Mentally chained to a girl you barely know. That’s no fun. The rain dodged the concrete and somehow managed to find it’s way deep inside his head. It turned concrete, not protective, but porous to the cold, driving wilderness. She was going to be gardening tomorrow, at the apartments. OK. The Next Day he walked up to her, after shining his shoes, after panting for her like a heavy Shepherd, and kissed her. A gentle kiss. His fingers, like pencils, stiff, but with perfect, easy tips felt her sweaty stomach. She didn’t flinch from him at all as he approached her, a welcome sign to destinies door. This was a beautiful thing he thought, she thought. A fairy flipped them the bird, jealously. He let go of their tasty embrace and timidly offered the shy, yellow pencil -Gift- -For me?- -Yes, this is your pencil now- -I love pencils- -Great- -I write poems- -I know- -You do?- -Yes- -How do you know?- -Because I see thru you- -…?- -Thru your beauty, into your hands- -My hands?- -And your scars, blood ink- -destiny?- -destiny.- Together, they felt equilibrium, a rush of truth. -Would you like to read the latest poem I’ve written?-she asks. He nods. She turns her forearms out to him, tiny words, jagged, each one, biting pain, line her skin. Slightly puffy, edgy with wisdom and self-torture. Each ‘E’, four tiny cuts, each ‘G’, misshapen but loud. He gathers a breath and holds it in. What next he thinks, she thinks? It’s obvious. He turns and pulls his shirt up to reveal his raw back, a maze of split skin, still seeping jags from broken glass. A moment, a transparent moment. Tear-less response. A bind of experience, needs no explanation for it. Destiny is no fool. -Can I read your back?- -Only if I can read your arms…- -OK-, as hands gently whisper over his bleeding canvas. Muse meeting product, feeling hard work and twisted soul, bare as an exposed joint, dull and yet still glistening, like an open, gasping clam. Two people, earthly, limited, reaching across a million words, cuts and pictures to unite. Coming together like churning ocean and frightful sky, purple, straight across the horizon. Destinies gleaming aftertaste, no longer evident between them. Not even a concern, or a pencil shaving to remind them of earth, or pain. |