Status Migrainosus II: The Unlovely Smell of Oranges

She says "Dance a little dance with me".
She sings "Dream a little dream,"
And again I fall into the dark.


She holds me close as we dance,
My oldest friend,
As close as my memories of her
That stretch back in my mind almost as far
As the face of the quiet Hunter,
He who has always been my goal and my goad.
She holds me tight in the dark
And it is hot and we dance and we spin and spin.


She says "Dance a little dance with me.
Dream a little dream".
She sings in a language she has taught me
And again I fall into the dark.


My oldest friend,
As close as the lie in a lover's kiss
As we dance and spin and spin
In the darkness where everyone passing through 
Is limned in fading light
And the rising dark of our dance is
Intimate in every way.
We dance in the dark and know nothing of the world.


She sings only for me
And this is always her song:
"Dance a little dance with me, dream a little dream".
And all duty and desire fall away
As I fall into the dark.


Her perfume is oranges, likely blood,
As sweet and as sharp as Love's first kiss,
And it envelopes me as we dance,
Scenting my reality as we spin and spin
Through the waves and the valleys and the hot.
My oldest friend and I,
Together here at the bottom of the dark,
Where the world is  a memory
And there is only the dance.


I know that one day she will call,
In a voice of marmalade and cold wet earth,
And she will sing "Dance a little dance with me,"
And through my tears I will dance;
She will sing "Dream a little dream,"
And I know only her embrace;
And she will whisper, into the cups of my ears,
"Stay here, a while with me, in the dark,"
And all of my desires
And all of my hopes
And all of my breaths-
All of my equations- will fall to zero,
To the smell of oranges
As we spin and spin
And then spin no more.

The Riddle of Sand

I: Angel of Broken Stones

“So heavy the burden I bring with me from the past,

I doubt that I should make these vows for the future.”

                                                     – The Tale of Genji

I am the eater of days,

Father of the Indefinite roads of Time,

Consuming hourglass moments and sundial liquor.

As I let the ages run down a throat

Dry with ancestors dust and the heat of being,

I swallow sand and time,

Drinking dust

Drinking dust

Tasting in it steel and blood,

Diamonds and lead-

Sweet sepulcher wine.

I bring a song of kings and battles                                              

Sung in the voice of the outer world,

War and warriors all fall forgotten, water upon the sand

While my wings beat

And stir the other side of the light.

I am the arbiter of dreams,

Sender of the dark sundrinkers

That sail through the cold, impotent ashes

Left after the living fire of the Childe of Night

Turned the men of dust into the dust of men.

We seek the jewels of the desert, the roses of the sand.

Status Migrainosus 1: A Poet’s Thoughts Near Death

‘I have read, I have cried, and I have

Supped full with passion and horror,’

Thought the poet, his eyes preternaturally bright,

‘I have ticked away the seconds in a dry age

And have put pain to paper and turned rage to words,

As is a poet’s job.

But, most importantly, I stood in the night

And felt the breeze blow mortality;

I stood in a field of flowers under the sun

And knew the Power of God;

I played carelessly within the silverness of the moon

And relearned the untroubled days of childhood;

I held her hand, and watched that same moon

Rise in her eyes

And knew Love.’

The poet stops, sighs and wipes tears from his eyes.

He sits quietly for a moment and then continues:

‘These are the things that truly define me or men

Or Mankind; it’s not the things written or said,

It’s the things that are lived.’

The light in the poet’s eyes fades.

The poet dies.

For Mrs. Martin

What follows is something that I started writing 8 years ago. I had been married for 7 months to the day, and my wife and I were out shopping for Desjhauna, who turned 5 that day and Xenia, who was 4 weeks old at that point. (Stop doing the math!!!) I had called and spoken to Grandma that morning and our conversation had not gone well. She was very short with me, almost to the point of rudeness, which was so unlike her. After getting off the phone, I told myself that maybe she just didn't feel well because- she NEVER talked to me like that- and I'd just call her later and check on her. My father called me a few hours later to tell me that she was gone. I never got to make that call. I never got to say good-bye, but most times nobody does, do they?

Anyhoo, we made the drive down from Springfield, MA in a blur. The drive back was a horror story in it's own right, but that's another blog. I remember seeing cousins that I hadn't seen in years. I remember speaking at the service, but not what I said. I remember that it was cold and wet.  But mostly what I remember is the smell of Noxzema from a late night in July of 1978 and I remember putting off a phonecall that, as it turns out, I'd never get to make.

What follows is something that I started writing on the night she died. I suppose it was gonna be what I wanted to say at her funeral, but I never finished it. In all honesty, I haven't looked at it since sometime around February 20, 2004. I present it here, in it's raw unfinishedness, only because it rings so true to me after this space of years and to honor her on this 8th anniversary of her death. 

And because I never made that phonecall, never apologized for whatever I did that upset her.

And because we never really get to say goodbye...

Granny

2/18/2004

I am a different man than I was a week ago.  Not to say that I am better or worse, just different.  You see my Grandmother died today and I don’t know where home is anymore.  I only now understand that even in the home that I share with my wife and most of our children, she was such an important part.  What she taught me made my home, HOME and made the home she raised me in Heaven.  I remember so many days, so many nights feeling safe, feeling RIGHT because she made it possible for me to.  I am a father now, a husband and as much of a man as I know how to be, I have my own life, my own family, my own house and all the things in it and I know that I have been blessed.  But I don’t know where home is anymore, not with her gone.

See, I still remember her first words to me and my big brother that night in July 1978 that we first met, “Do ya’ll want something to eat?” she asked.  Now if you knew her, especially in the days before she started losing the energy that was so much a part of her, you understand what I mean.  That was her.  It was late that night I remember, I was only 4 going on 5, and the only people around that I knew were my Dad and my brother.  But this sweet Lady, who seemed like a giant back then, and that should tell you how long ago that was, made me feel safe. Made me feel comfortable, you know?  As far as Erik and I knew then, we were going to be visiting her for two weeks and I already felt at home after five minutes.  I still felt at home when I left for the first time 13 years later.

My Grandma was the sweetest little mean old lady you ever wanted to meet.  She had a smile that would warm your heart.  And for me, my brother and sister and various cousins, she had a strap that would burn your butt.  She was a great Grandmother, loving each of us in the different ways that we never knew we needed.  

Epitaphs of a Fallen Man

I am

The lucent shadow,

Covering nothing in my darkness,

Warming nothing with my light;

I am

The mute jongleur,

Singing my song in no voice,

Covering my ears from my own silence;

I am

The anesthetic desire,

Filling empty hearts with naught,

Emptying soulward and dying in love;

I am

The unbelieving philosopher,

Shouting from the foot of card-towers of Babel

That there is no God and He exists in all things;

I am

The esoteric parasite,

Feeding eternally of my own materiel,

Never filling a need never named;

I am

Hammurabi abased,

Alexander conquered,

The legacy of Judas

And the uncertainty of Jesus.

I am the fallen man.

And here I rot, even worms must eat.

NeverSummerNights

On these never-summer nights, when the air of my life

Forms clouds that hover about me,

I raise my arms to distant chips of bitter ice knowing only

That somewhere, under this uncordial mantle, you are;

Even though those dark, sweet hours when it was

Your hand that I held by this very frosted moon are forever lost.

My soul is one with this winter night.

This ice that kisses me when the wind blows is enough,

It burns my shadowed face like your kisses never will again.

But still, my tears should not freeze to my face-

Each day I spend without you is cold enough without the mockery of winter.

So I lay me down, under a diamond blanket, to rest at last

Wondering now and ever more, by what storm came you here. 

fin del año

“I had not known the sudden loneliness of having it vanish,the moon in the sky of dawn.”

                                                      -The Tale of Genji

This is the death of the year,

These last, precious days when

All my world is the silence of snow

And memories of you, slow as if covered by ice.

These are the last days of my recollections,

The final thoughts of late kisses and midnight dreams.

Every day, all hours, each second that passes

Burns you indelibly onto my soul

With a heat the ice of this world never cools,

Just this cognac shall never warm me

As fully or as completely as you.

These are the last hours,

Soon what I am shall be no more;

The substance of these words less than

The memory of a snowflake while

Nestled in the bosom of June.

I cherish the nights made nutritious by your smile

And I long to regain August while in the heart of winter.

Stretching each hour, always aware of the passing seconds,

I lick the face of my watch to taste the essence

Of the times we spent loving,

Of all the words between us,

Of every passion we ignited,

Every dream we gave birth to.

But this is the death of the year

Spring’s promises and summer’s heat

Gone just as surely as autumn’s leaves,

And your hand gone forever from mine.  

Lamentations

It has always been easy for me to write.  It is part of what I am, who I am.  So as I stare out this window, across a moon filled night that I’ll never again share with you, I write.  Pen and paper, the only two constants in my life.  All that I had when I had nothing, and all that I have again.

I find myself writing anything these empty days.  Phrases from old songs, random thoughts, hell even grocery lists.  Anything and everything. I even copied, word for word, that Bugs Bunny cartoon that you used to laugh at.  It’s almost funny when you think about it, I’ve been writing since I was 10 years old and never have the words been so available, so prolific or so meaningless.  Hey, if it was somebody else’s life, I’d laugh myself.

At least I can still call myself a writer.  I mean I still put pen to paper, or fingers to keys if you want to be all technical about it. And that’s what writers do, right?  Even if all I manage to do is rehash bullshit.  The only original thought that I’ve had these last months is that when you left, all the color, all the magic in my world went out that door with you.  I see your face every time I breathe.

I am a man of words caught in a place where all my words are no more than pale memories.  If I write “eyes,” my hand does not drown the way my soul did in yours.  No matter how many times I whisper the word “kiss” it is not the excitement of your lips, not the racing of my heart.  I can say the word “touch” until it echos off these empty walls, but it will never be the hand that placed my hand on the pulse of the world.

All in all, I have learned two things since I’ve had all this time to reflect.  The first is that writing is all bullshit.  It’s worthless.  I can, and do, write the word “stop” until the cramps make my whole arm tremble.  But not once has it kept us from arguing that day or you from driving away. I can and do, scream the word “no” until my head pounds and the tears start again in these eyes that I know should be dried out by now, and it doesn’t keep you from walking out that door or that car from hitting you head-on and taking away my love, my life, my Art and my future.

The second thing I’ve learned?  Well, I’ve learned that the saddest thing in Life is that Life continues, even when our hearts tell us that it should not, that it must stop; that living just goes on and on whether we want it to or not. 

Three Crows at Sunrise

I often awaken in time to see

Dawn’s initial understanding,

But at first light today what appeared to me

Were three crows, off in the field standing.

I wondered, ‘Is this some kind of warning,

Or the unseen world’s shorthanded way

To let me know that my death comes with the dawning

And this is to be my last earthly day?’

‘Should I run and wake my sleeping wife,

Tell her one last time of the depth of my Love,

Give her all of the hidden secrets of my life

Before I am called back to that I was made of?’

‘Shall I hold my son one last time

Praying and imploring him to grow to be a Man?

Or should we play and sing some silly rhyme

So I can hear his laughter as I hold his hand?’

I awoke this morning, as always, seeking the sun

And found instead three solemn crows.

Now, wondering if my life is now done,

Should I shoulder my lifetime of woes?

‘Will she remember me to the children

While I lay rotting in the ground?

Or will some other man grow with them,

And take all of my pictures down?’

‘Will she cry for me in the night? ,’

Is what I ask these hateful crows,

‘Or forget me once I am out of sight?’

I guess I’ll never really know.

But then I stop my breast beating and ask,

‘Is this how I am, is this really me?

To see three birds, casually hopping past

And let myself start to feel all melancholy?

If these that I love grow to forget me,

Then that is, of course, their right.

But even if they won’t have tomorrows with me,

They’ll all know that I loved them last night.

I tell these crows, ‘Yes they may find another

If with you I am called to go today,

But if you look into their hearts you’ll discover

That my memory there will ever stay.’

‘So I won’t be split by this internal strife,

Stupid birds, if you’ve come to carry me on.

The saddest thing that I know about life

Is that life must always go on.’

‘I will not let my soul be lost

Even,’ I say, ‘if it is time for me to die.’

And with that the crows as one take off,

And silently up, over my head, fly.

‘Be gone,’ I say. ‘A good riddance to you,’

I scream at their ebon tails,

‘Love is Love and that stays true

Even when all else fails!’

I stand a little longer in the doorway

Just enjoying the fair weather.

And on returning to bed, I have nothing to say

Finding my wife, newly stilled, lying next to three black feathers.