A scene that came to me in the late hours of the night, just before the stirring of a new day. Inspired by the haunting melody of Saint-Saens’ “Aquarium.”
The deep, sonorous melody of a piano-organ echoed throughout the cathedral, the sound magnified tenfold amongst the shadows that obscured its high, vaulted ceiling. Corin recognized the atonal rifts and impossibly dexterous cadences of Saint Saens. Aquarium. He blinked away the memories of his mother sitting at a sleek black piano, teaching the neighborhood children how to play, with sunlight streaming through the yellow flower-print drapes in the house that smelled of lavender. Instead, he focused on the solitary figure that sat hunched before the ancient instrument, pale, skeletal fingers dancing like white spiders across the worn, faded keys.
The safety of Corin’s gun unlocked with a soft click. It was enough to rouse the piano player from his trance, white fingers pausing, hovering uncertainly in mid-air, as if poised to strike.
“Freeze, you son of a bitch,” said Corin in a voice like ice.
Corin drew in a sharp breath as the piano player turned to face him, with the slow, deliberate motion of a man who has waited for this moment and now yearns to savor it. Eyes the color of mist blinked at Corin from a face as dry and wrinkled as parchment. Silver whiskers lined a pointed chin and cheeks so hollow that there looked to be holes in the man’s face. His scalp was hairless, though long, white eyebrows were arched in anticipation.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his thin, weathered lips widened into a humorless, toothless smile that sent shivers down Corin’s spine. Only then did Corin feel the silence of the vast space descending upon him with such a force that for a wild moment, he thought the entire cathedral had collapsed.
Corin’s grip on the gun tightened until his knuckles turned white. His knees locked, legs shaking from the effort to remain standing. After what seemed an eternity, the ancient piano player looked away, and the immense pressure lifted. Corin landed heavily on one knee.
The piano player spoke then, in a voice that sounded like the shifting of mountains: “Long ago, before this country even existed, the sky witches landed on this planet. They were ephemeral beings, enchanters of space, atmosphere, of color and light. Their radiance rivaled that of angels. It was their greatest blessing, and the cause of their downfall. For their power they were exiled, condemned for using ‘the devil’s craft.’”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Corin forced out through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead; his palms felt moist, yet he kept the gun trained on his target. The strange force from earlier had left him drained, and with an inkling of something akin to fear.
There was something rueful about the ghoulish, black figure sitting with his blind gaze turned heavenward into the black abyss of the cathedral roof, his fingers splayed gently, almost lovingly, across his sole companion through the ages – an instrument that saw as many, if not more years, than its withered owner.
“You hunt me, yet do you have any idea why?” he asked.
“Five people died because of you,” replied Corin, with hatred in his conviction.
“Ah, because of me? Are you so sure about that?”
“How else would they have drowned in a place without water?” asked Corin, his voice bouncing back at him in the darkness.
A single crisp, clear E7 note answered him. Corin struggled to his feet. The shadows rippled around him.
“The problem with your world” – D sharp – “Is how everything can be so black” – E7 – “and white.” The man’s fingers became a blur across the keys as he played three notes in quick succession.
Corin found himself submerged in a sea of pitch black.
Haven’t written poetry in a long, long time. It might be rusty and rough around the edges, but people’s hearts aren’t made out of diamond.
Do not force-feed me hope
in a fragile shell
forged from wicked hearts
and paper promises.
Let it stay buried
beneath a white beach
in a kingdom by the sea,
under the perpetual shade
of red clouds
colored with roses
and the blood of assassins.
Trust that the rain will come
in a downpour of flame
to wash away the dead space
and the solemn gray
of strangers turning into dust.
First three paragraphs of a short story titled “Man in the Machine.” Heavily influenced by Martin Scorsese’s Hugo and Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? A psychedelic mix of cyberpunk and steampunk.
He dreamed that he was an automaton disguised as a human – a flesh and blood machine with an artificial network of nerves that connected the living, breathing part of him to a computerized brain that sent pre-programmed electrical impulses down millions of wires like microscopic lightning. A brilliant scientist from a bygone epoch in which steam engines powered all modes of transportation must have created him, realized the horrifying implications of his work, and intended to destroy him. Yet somehow, his creator did not have the heart to relinquish the receptacle for his sweat and blood, in which ran all his hopes and dreams. And so, in a moment of desperation and weakness, he decided to preserve his forbidden invention, his artificial son, and hide him in the shadows of obscurity, which, in time, would darken into oblivion, that blackest of all nights.
Jacob Rosenthal awoke with a violent twitch and fumbled to turn on the lamp on his nightstand. His wife, Megan, mumbled something incoherent and rolled over onto her other side so that she faced away from the light. Jacob leaped out of bed like a startled deer and raced into the bathroom. In the fluorescent white light that gleamed above the mirror, he studied his face with the intent concentration of a plastic surgeon that would dig and dig deep into his skin for those life-inducing wires that animated his bones and muscles, that allowed him to smile, frown, and take on the drawn, wide-eyed expression of distress.
He studied the sharp cheekbones, high forehead, the chiseled yet rather severe countenance, hazel eyes that were sometimes brown, sometimes green, or a mixture of both, as if they belonged not to him, but to a stranger in whose body he suddenly found himself. Three moles on his right temple formed a skinny triangle. His pores were expanded, glistening with sweat. Newly formed stubble darkened his chin and cheeks. The longer he stared at his reflection, the more familiar the features became, and the more he realized how ridiculous he was acting. Of course he was human. He ate and slept and breathed like everyone else. He had thirty-five years of memory to prove it, as well as an eight-year-old son. He would go back to bed and dream of being human.
Written back in the Fall of 2009. Dedicated to a friend and fellow writer. Rest in peace, Sil.
Pelt of liquid moonlight,
eyes of deep thunder -
Her silent steps leave not prints
but glowing hieroglyphs.
Like fiery plumes of meteor rain
she dashes through the sky
chasing her red-eyed brother,
driven by a savage desire
to swallow the sun.
And she wonders what
the world would look like
swathed in a mantle of ice.
Introduction of a character from a much larger work.
It was on the coldest day since the days of war that Castor flung his stories into the ocean. He watched them flutter like helpless birds in the biting wind, their tragic twists and turns, until one by one they plummeted into the iron gray jaws of a churning sea. Without looking back, Castor returned to the tiny cottage on the beach, his home for the past twelve years, the home of his sister, and of the man who had been like a father to them. In that narrow space, with sunlight streaming through the windows and a fire crackling in the grate, he had learned to bring words to life through paper and ink, to traverse the remotest corners of the world with only his mind as guide, and what he thought was happiness. And just as the warmth and laughter fled the cottage, so too did the man, his sister, and now, Castor. He stared at the vacant windows, the darkness behind them, the drooping thatched roof, and the walls stained with the breath of the sea.
All he needed was on his back, some food and clothes in a threadbare old rucksack, and in his pocket. Castor pulled out the matchbox, his fingers fumbling with the thin sticks, numb from the cold and something else that he could not name. On the third try, a tiny flame erupted. Castor flung it onto the roof, watching the spark flicker to life and grow into a ravenous monster with a will of its own. The searing heat warmed his face and brought feeling back into his hands. When the smoke became unbearable, Castor turned away from the cottage and its crown of fire that would destroy everything he was and ever hoped to be. In water, and in fire, he would bury twelve years of dreams and memory before he set out to meet destiny, and to embrace revenge like an old friend.
This little beauty won an Honorable Mention in the 2011 Frederica Hearst Poetry Contest for lyrical poetry.
I.
Dear Edgar,
The poison is rising
the sky is falling
This bird is as flightless
as it is tasteless.
Chew on the flesh nonetheless
Like an unhealthy obsession
like winter and despair
and swamp fever
Because someday somewhere
your girl will be reborn
along with the wind
But in the mean time
let’s study the theories of dreams
and the anatomy of ravens.
II.
Dear Charlotte,
To one person you may be the world
and it’s all just love
glossy, illuminated
a good start to everyday
Starfish and boys
and mermaid tea parties -
you like those, right?
If only you knew
It’s not a game.
It’s destiny
It can all burn:
black horses, archangels,
the art of crying
Because when you face
the end alone,
you are but one person
to the world.
III.
Dear Francis,
One cold winter night
full of murderous intent
consider killing me
no words needed
because I miss you badly
and you can’t see me
(I’m hiding, get it?)
But if you reach
through time
and walk five days
through a world of vapor
wrapped in light
you’ll find the place
where icicles bloom
where lightning is born
Where you’ll discover that
underneath the vanity
underneath the meltdown
is another beginning
with flame-red hair
and a beauty mark
Which could be worse
than an assassin
after your heart
chasing you always
from Spanish summers
to snowy Sundays.
Written in the Spring of 2010, based on Anne Carson’s Short Talks. An old work, but one of my personal favorites nonetheless.
On Cyclopes
How’s the panoramic view?
On Eyes and Sight, and the Differences Therein
When I look at your eyes I see nothing but sensory organs, dark milky pupil nestled between pigment-colored iris behind which a lens slightly altered in convexity curves like the contour of a spaceship. (Isn’t that why you need contacts?) When I look deeply into your eyes I see beams of light composed of infinitesimal photons refracted (or reflected?) by the cornea and focused into the retina where it is received by cells shaped like rods and/or cones that transmit the signals all the way to your brain like microscopic lightning. When I look at your eyes I can only see myself reflected, because I can only see so far. But when you look at me you see a white beachside house, two children, a dog, warmth and laughter gilding the air. That is because you cannot see what is right in front of you, only distant visions. The difference between our eyesight is 10.00, the distance between our eyes is 10 cm, but it may as well be 10 lifetimes.
On the Proper Application of Heat
Sometimes your name melts like molten chocolate on my tongue. Sometimes it burns my throat, my lungs, my veins like fire or arsenic.
On Warning Labels
Warning: Do not read.
On Personifying Death
A constant companion followed Bastion throughout his life, from the moment of his birth and even to the far shores of the otherworld. Sometimes it walked alongside him, like a faithful guard dog, and at other times it shuffled forward, clearing the path of any obstacles that might hinder his master’s procession. But mostly it stayed hidden, lurking within Bastion’s shadow – a constant presence that never left, and most likely never will, due to some inexplicable attraction toward this seemingly unexceptional man.
On Crayfish
So then he said, I just want to massage my butt and eat food, okay? I really had nothing to say to that. He sounded like either a cranky old man or a rape victim. When I pointed this out, he agreed that it was more like the latter. Then he began to rattle off a list of all the delicious foods he wanted to eat at that moment—bruschetta, roast duck, chocolate milkshake (despite the lactose intolerance), crayfish. Have you ever eaten crayfish? he asked excitedly. I mumbled a no. Ah, he said, and began to fondly recall a most charming story in which he not so much ate as demolished a crayfish in a crowded restaurant while a nearby patron looked on in morbid fascination. It was the food of kings, he claimed. Really, I said, so if I ate crayfish everyday for the rest of my life I might eventually fulfill my dream of becoming world dictator and having all the boyfriends I wanted? Well, no, he replied with hesitation, it’s ok if men do that, but seeing as you are a girl, that might make you, you know… Well then what’s the difference between a whore and a manwhore? I ask. He stared at me blankly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: A manwhore doesn’t give birth.
On Leadership
Don’t depend on me. Don’t fear me. Don’t sympathize with me.
Don’t love me.
