Classical Observations of a Self-Absorbed

14:11: My (or am I supposed to be detached?) classics professor speaks of “niggling questions.” I had to look up what “niggling” means for the purpose of my observations.

2:12 pm: The professor lifts his two hands, and pushes my invisible spirit off of his podium with great force.

2:10 pm: A girl in front of me strokes her hair five times in succession. I hope this doesn’t become niggling.

2:10:45 pm: I am confused as to why the girl has to feel her chocolate strands in front of me five times in succession. Does she know that I’m secretly salivating?

2:06 pm: I arrive late to class.

14:00: The classics professor makes introductions to the class. My spirit observes his perspiring scalp and the sigh of relief his thankful Panama straw-hat makes upon feeling the chilled surface of the inorganic laminated desk next to the podium. 

2:21 pm: I catch the phrase “The House of Oedipus.”

2:22 pm: I receive a call from my mother. Luckily no one seems to oberve the irony of this, or the sound my cheeks make when they try to hide behind the crimson pool forming at the surface.

2:24:50 pm: The girl in front of me strokes her chocolate strands again.

2:25:05 pm: The girl in front of me strokes her chocolate streaks yet again. I’m starting to get annoyed, both at myself, and the girl who seems to love the feel of her hair more than I would. The girl sitting next to her doesn’t seem to notice or care.

2:27 pm: The girl with the obsessive need to taunt me with her Willy Wonka chocolate rivered hair combines the flow of the aqueous strands and pulls them into a concentrated sweet stream over her shoulder. I can’t help but think of a water hose.

2:28 pm: I’m pretty sure the girl knows that I am writing inner-monologues about her hair because she throws her head back, and with it the hair. Everything is in order; I hope for good.

2:31 pm: I become concerned that my audience will find my writing surreal.

2:32 pm: A student to my left is sleeping. I wonder what he is dreaming of. Does he too think of the girl in front of me, who again strokes her hair teasingly at 2:32 pm?

2:34: I start to daydream about meeting my poetry. I think I’m smirking at my own cleverness because there is a girl wearing a casual blazer (probably a business student, or pre-law) giving me an economically odd look that my eyes object to. Also, I think I caught the girl in front of me feel her hair again with my peripherals. Where does she think it’s going?

20 ‘til 3 pm: I consider using the lenses in my sunglasses to catch the reflection of the girl with the beautiful hair’s face. I’m almost sure that it is beautiful.

2:40 pm: I think about how I used “river” as an adjective.

2:41 pm: I think about how terrible I am at using correct grammar and Mass-Observation.

2:42 pm: I promise I’ll try harder at observing the masses.

2:43 pm: I think about George Orwell and the phrase “Opiate of the Masses.”

2:45 pm: I tell my poetry to stop peering over my shoulder in order to peek at my observations.

2:46: The girl with the scalpal waves of chocolaty clay remodels the tide on her head to look more becoming of Venus (or Juno, which ever one is prettier).

2:47: I think of Paris and the “apple of discord,” and then my thoughts turn to the three times I climbed the Eiffel Tower only to find that Paris is ugly on a cloudy day. I am determined to find the beauty in French and conquer Parisian clouds.

2:48: Oedipus’ wife/mother denounces the Gods and my plans to battle Paris.

2:49: The chorus listens to my Parisian aspirations and laughs to create an imagined V-I cadence.

2:52: The girl in front of me attempts to make the universe not so indifferent to her hair, that I’m sure is just exhausted at this point.

2:53 pm: I think about not writing about the girl in front me until she cuts off my thoughts with her compulsive need to illustrate hazel nut velvet.

3:00 pm: A student walks out of class before my professor gets to read Oedipus’ soliloquy.  I should have stopped him.

3:01 pm: The class understands that the girl in front of me is beautiful, as they acknowledge this in spoken silence.

3:02 pm: “Alas, alas” I start to wonder if I should have been more serious with this documentation.

I think that (15:04) I am the love child of Dionysius and Apollo. A student four rows down snorts in reply.

3:06 pm: Class is over. Everyone seems to wake up in unison. I think I may have failed as an observer. The Greek chorus acknowledges this failure with a melodramatic minor chord progression. 

Westport Is a Wasteland But I Call It 'Home' Anyway

             Running along the choppy coast of Compo Beach, a child on the cusp of fifteen feels the chilled sand beneath his raw feet.

“Where’s the poetry in sand?” he asks the waves gasping for air.

The breeze was catching up, so without a reply from the waves, he sets off. The innocent-enough boy hid behind the famous Minuteman statue, at the moment depicting how America struck the British from behind, like a cold, or a Connecticut spring. It was late November, and yet there was another boy rollerblading inside the caged basketball court.

“A wheeled prisoner,” the boy whispered to the ironclad Minuteman.

Immediately, the smirk was wiped off the boy’s face though, as the statue tried to struggle against its encasing.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but can I ask you something?”

The statue said nothing verbally.

“How many children come and go, playing with hearts blown by Michelangelo?”

Again, the alloyed statue said nothing, not appearing to be interested in glass hearts or blossoming curiosity (even though I was).

“How many birds flee, from a poet’s feathered simile?” the kid asked, not knowing if he was on to something.

For the third time, the statue said nothing.

“Am I boring you? I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be meeting someone. That’s right. She’s really pretty too. ‘But isn’t beauty just a fleeting pheasant?’ Or is it ferret? I’m pretty sure it’s ferrets, but ferrets aren’t very poetic, don’t you think? Their eyes are all squinty, like an inside-joke or an ultimatum issued by Switzerland. Anyway, there she is!” There was a girl of sea foam porcelain that popped out of the choppy Westport waters, and beckoned to the bemused boy.

            “Swim with me,” she said. “I’ll be your muse, and you’ll be one of Odysseus’ crew without the wax in his ears or just captivated by my bare breasts.”

            “Ok,” replied the boy. “Just know that I’ll follow you, like Dante followed Virgil to shake Satan’s peppermint hands in Hell.”

            “But I’m a fish and this isn’t Hell. This is the Atlantic Ocean,” the sea goddess wittingly responded.

            “It’ll be our aqueous Hell then, and besides, I want to play with the symbolism in your scales.”

            And so it was that the ironclad Minuteman, the kid with the rollerblades, some discarded sea shells, that kid’s dad, and I all witnessed a young generic Westportian walk entranced into the shivering Atlantic Ocean like one of Odysseus’ crew captivated by the song of the Pied Piper; or maybe he was just high (or “inebriated” according to the papers).  Maybe he just had a problem that could only be solved after going to the Ben and Jerry’s on main street, ordering a large “Orange and Cream” ice cream (because his mom liked it), and throwing himself into it until he discovered the orange peels that gave up their innocence in order to please the endorphins coursing through his tongue. Maybe he just needed to blanket himself in beach sand even though it was forecasted to snow later; but then again he could still taste the spoiled cream in his mouth, the cream that went into his lungs instead of his now-upset stomach grumbling about hot cocoa. He was hungry, sad, “inebriated,” sensitively desensitized, judged, abandoned, discovered, betrayed, injured, broody, melancholic, redundant, dragged on, prosaic, poetic, artistic, redundant, chaste, resentful, confused, enlightened, and glad to finally see something open up to him that wasn’t broken up into stanzas.

         "But children come and go with hearts crafted by Michelangelo," sang the Westport waters contently as she savored the boy's creamy citron lungs. In retrospect, I should have applauded, or cried, whichever seems more appropriate.

A Response to a Long-Overdue Letter

Dear Justin,

You would probably write

something along the lines of,

“My thoughts were meant for couplets,

Not these iron circlets and moldy

Toilet seats.” My clothes reek of myrrh and syringes

And you’re an

Asshole.

I mean, who the fuck

Writes, “I can’t say anything about the breeze that wanders

like some invisible spirit beckoning me to play.” I may be

The convict,

but who does society truly

Value more?

The convict or the poet?

And by the way,

I don’t remember what that

Cross-dresser’s name was

as I was too busy noticing

How much he resembled

You in leopard pants and Uggs,

Strutting like they were stilettos.

Anyway, give my warmest regards

To Mom.

I love her very much.

         -   Julian

P.S. By the way Shakespeare, get the fuck out of my room.

I Write a Long-Overdue Letter

Dear Julian,

Your room still smells of prison. Your clothes are still lying around, with cigarette pock-marks scarring their youthful features. I still have one of your sweaters, the one with the cut-out smiley face on the right sleeve. The left sleeve looks gloomy in comparison. I probably shouldn’t mention anything regarding freedom, so I guess I can’t say anything about the breeze that wanders like some invisible spirit beckoning me to play outside or the weather that changes like one of those cross-dressing prostitutes you and I met after getting lost in London. I think one of them was called Jen, or John, I can’t remember. Don’t ask me why I’m in your room right now. Maybe it was the siren I heard outside of the mall the other day, or dad’s glistening gold watch that reminded mom of a missing handcuff. She quickly told dad to cover up the naked time piece.

Mom cries now every time she sees baby powder at the store. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the whiteness, or maybe it’s just the powder. I’m guessing it’s because it kind of drips through your fingers, like satin, or the tearful clichés I’m trying to hold back because frankly, I’m fucking pissed like a urinal cake. When you come back, instead of smelling like hibiscus blossoms, or even ivory, you’ll come back reeking of damp confinement and sun flowers in October. I’m picturing you coming back looking like the letter ‘Z’ and being reminded of the line, “I dream of hospital beds / and you lying / in one.”

I hope you aren’t too upset with me for not visiting you, but I didn’t want to be reminded of Jen (or John) and have mom tell me to explain the politics in my poetry to kill time.

Your Fraternal Foe,

Justin

A Tragedy In One Act (A haibun)

I woke up from a nap thinking about in medias res. It was 7:30 pm on a Tuesday and my room was sweltering with something in between radiation and sleep deprivation. My skin felt like the outer layer of garlic and my breath reeked of rotten banana peels. My left eye was swollen, possibly because I dreamt of the inclusion of the letter ‘T’ in the word “dream,” and I never have a good reaction when it comes to grammar. Anyway, so I wake up thinking about what happens to mornings when faced with the letter ‘U’, and seeing the spit stains on my pillow case resembling something of a twisted cloud of enzymes, salts, DNA, bacteria, and whatever it is that makes my breath taste like my toothbrush whenever I forget to douse it with Purell, I terrifyingly screamed hoping to scare off the possible mouth ulcer forming on the inside of my right cheek. I fell back to sleep briefly, as I sometimes do after being faced with long journeys to Oku and having to act serious in front of my dinner plate. I look at my open closet door and ask,

“Why is it chilly

For a window to think of

Existentialism?”

Suddenly a middle-aged fist starts banging on my door followed by the onslaught of, 
“Justin, wake up you lazy ass! You better not have fallen asleep at the computer again.”

“Is it wrong to sleep

When the eyes are heavy with

Syllables and mulch?” I responded.

            “21 years later, and I still regret teaching you metaphor. Anyway, get your ass out of bed. It’s dinner time and I made a nice ambrosia casserole, i.e. turkey and cucumber sandwiches with a fresh canned cheese garnish,” replied the fist.

Sometimes I wonder if Venus really is my mother, or just another stage name. 

Arizona

I dream of desert mounds, cacti, and pomegranates

Where I snore in hollow mauve orchestra pits

And wiggle in cool sand sheets

I dream of coyotes, snakes, and spiders that may kill me in my sleep.

I snore in hallow mauve orchestra pits

With eyes shut, I see gold-laced clay rooftops dancing just for me

I dream of coyotes, snakes, and spiders that may kill me in my sleep

The prickly cactus deity watches over me.

With eyes shut, I see gold-laced clay rooftops dancing just for me

The sun bakes nectared promises to lure my dry palette

The prickly cactus deity watches over me

Scarabs perform a dance to a Navajo’s appeal to blue.

The sun bakes nectared promises to lure my dry palette

My skin sings of pomegranates and rubied citrus flesh

Scarabs perform an interpretive dance to a Navajo’s appeal to blue

A heckling diamondback displays his scaly cicada rain stick.

My skin sings of pomegranate spectrums and lemoned flesh

My feet savor the taste of freshly caught desert sand fish

A diamondback displays his scaly cicada rain stick

Unknowingly wooing the desert with scales, fangs, and sensitivity.

My feet lament over the forgotten taste of sun-lathered sand-koi

A cactus pines for green garnished with daybreak

“Does wooing the desert require more than scales, fangs, and sensitivity?”

I write her a poem about urban Stop signs and laundromats.

A cactus pines for shades of vegetation and chilled starlight

A rock seeks some shade beneath a fruitful carcass

I read the desert my urban poem about stop signs and laundromats

Shedding her veil of impassioned hummingbirds and blooming Saguaro flowers.

Upon the return of the long-departed thunderclouds that bellow like timpanis

I am roused by the crunching of store-bought pomegranate seeds

And the wind’s rant reeking against my window forgetting that

I dreamt of desert mounds, cacti, and pomegranates that watched me in my sleep.

Trinity* (Renku Collaboration)

1945

A boy sits and ponders as
A boil explodes

Radiation burns scarring
Soft faces and bloody skies

Patches of sun burnt
violet massage
the tainted air

Come! All you disbelievers
Praise in the name of science!

Splitting the atom
yields the thunderous applause
of our fearful land.

Explosion defines the earth.

Flames destroy its surface.

An odd cloud appears.
Somehow, I know I will die
Or count my blessings

Atomic, verdant crater
Melted into a glass bowl.

Thunder howls in pain

Screaming out thousands

of bullets in one voice

Men in masks stare at a girl
as she excretes destruction

Planet-cracking force
shakes the scales of Gaea's skin;
Tectonic thunder.

Fumes of reaping metal cling

To the planet’s scarred flesh

Numbers chant in sync.
The ritual melody
Adds tones of despair

Binary screaming heralds
the gallop of four horsemen

They helplessly trot

through sands splashing specks

of glistening ash

Shards of green glass and crystal
Bond; Earth’s radiant smile.                                   

Gaea smiles no more.
Blood spattered on melted sand
Countdown to sorrow.

Drowning in a Hennessy

intoxicated sun

John and Blanche made love,
And drank chilled rum and Cola while,
“Don’t Fence Me In” played.

The atom's atomic dance
in a throng of thrashing force

Destruction is the

Weapon that fizzes

Fumes furiously

My skin tells me that it’s time.
One day this is how we'll die.

Festered barnacles
of irradiated flesh
pockmark her children.

Leaving them exposed to the

Poisons filling into their land

“Please take the children!”
Cries the father, as the lumps
Begin to surface.

Dark splotches on milk white skin
Sunspots mark the dusk of man.

Tarnished land feeds on

memorable sunken souls

lost in gloom disguise

Solvents now find themselves in
A realm without alchemy

Lead and Mercury,
Archaic elements now
Obsolete witchcraft.

Divine power unraveled
Behind masked western science

Director Kenneth Bainbridge,
Said, “Now we’re all dead”
To Oppenheimer.

Oppenheimer said, “Now I
Am Death, destroyer of worlds.”

And so the sky said,
“Bienvenue!” to the newest
Fungal Phoenix.

God missed the divine rainbow,
Trinity’s "bulbous fireball."

White sands melted green
Glass grows molten in the glow
of nuclear lamps

Light burns the atmosphere

illuminating radiance

Manhattan, borough
many boroughs into one
Secrets in shadow

A breathe of dusk protects

the camouflaged agenda

The Atomic Age
heralds the dawn in the shade
of a mushroom cloud

Pieces and particles prance

In the public’s pupils

Gotta get 'Gadget'
Secret names for omega
Hark! The end of days.

Twisted conclusion of a

demolished beginning

There goes the blue-sky
atmospheric deletion
or complete dud.

Red smoked gray’s beauty

as the mountains just watched

Flawless disturbances

abandon civil

beings in wreckage

Raising blemished questions

of broken moralities

The Allied gamblers
Toy with the apocalypse
The horseman called war

War it was. Shock waves rippling

Riffles through distant echoes

Verdant glass a scar
forever on the white sand
the new age cometh

An Impatient generation

yearns for new science to come.


* Note: This poem is about the July 16, 1945 Trinity nuclear test. This test resulted in creating the world's first atomic bomb.