Poem #3

Can you feel a word

honey

before it leaves your mouth

smack

escaping into the air

bitch

where it can never go back?

Or a color, can it caress your eyes

red

with soft slender fingers

white

or great fat ones

yellow

that might gouge them out?

I can feel a word, deep inside my bones

stupid

when you whisper it to me

stupid

rattling inside my head

stupid

before I can shut it out and it all goes

black.

Enola Gay

The first nuclear bomb in all the world was named after the pilot's mother, Enola Gay. No one knew what she would do, except perhaps the few men huddled around the plans in a secure room shrouded in secrecy and, perhaps, tobacco smoke. I can't keep my mind off the idea of clouds of exhaled cigarette fumes hovering above the men, hovering above the plans that would tell unsuspecting engineers how to build a creation that be flown over a tiny island before annhilating forty thousand men, women and children in one, split second. I can see that hazy ceiling, smell the stench, and I feel like holding my breath. They say nicotine's a drug. And power. And money. And war. There's power in those pages of facts and figures. There's money, too, and I fear they, too, are a drug. We didn't lose our taste for her once we saw what she did. No, we dropped her twin, killing another forty thousand innocent souls, and then we built so many, many more. Those plans had a life of their own, traveling across borders and into other smoke-filled secret rooms. What does it feel like, Enola Gay, having your name painted across that thing that kills like the devil with his eyes ablaze with addicted lust?

Poem #2

Freedom is a cigarette
The crackle of cellophane, the flick of a lighter
Then smoke, heavenly smoke, it lingers
Beyond the burnt nub crushed like a cockroach under my heel.
The rose red cherry diminishing into charcoal ash
And coating my lungs like
A pink bottle of pepto
Except black like soot
Like the plague
And Death.
Such is freedom
From a flip top box.

Poem #1

Do you see me?
I often wonder if you do
Or if the me you see reflects the person I am
Or hope I am.
Do you still see me through starry eyes?
Or has the magic I wove tattered, leaving my naked flesh bare
Like a baby ejected from the womb?
Am I even that pure?

If I saw me, would I laugh or cry
Or simply close my eyes?
Sometimes I think I'd shake the me that I see
Or walk away.
What does that mean?
Is it natural to cringe when faced with your own reflection?
If not, then what is wrong with me?
If so, then what is wrong with you
That you should love the face you see staring back at you?
Your approval sends shivers into the depths of my soul I never knew existed
Let alone felt.
How do you not question the who you are as I question the who I am?
Did you're mother raise you right?
Did mine?
Raise me right?
Is there a question there?
I don't know.
Is that an answer?

kids

   As soon as they enter the gym, Oscar is riding Phillip like a pony, slapping him on the bum and screaming at an intolerable pitch. Phillip laughs and smiles, like always, and mum is off to secure some seats and pull out the food. Oscar dismounts by shoving Phillip to the ground, then tramples on his little hand as he runs to his mum who is holding out a treat. She makes no notice of her second son lying on the floor, quietly picking himself up and brushing off his trousers. "I want one, too," he calls as he runs after his brother.
   "Ha ha ha ha ha, I have one already," Oscar sing songs, then pinches Phillip's belly, twisting the skin.
   Phillip shrugs away, one hand holding his treat, the other rubbing his belly. His face squishes up in pain. Their mother pulls out their football jerseys and proceeds to undress Oscar.
   "I want another one," Oscar demands as she pulls the jersey over his head.
   "After class," she answers him. "Phillip, come here," she calls, another smaller jersey poised to dress him. Phillip passes his brother, not without another assault, this time a jab in his back, somewhere else to rub. "Finish up, it's time for class," his mother urges. Phillip shoves the rest of the treat into his mouth and chomps quickly in obedience.
   Oscar sprints out to join the rest of the children gathered at the back of the gym listening to their coach's instructions for the drill. Phillip runs out after him and sits next to his brother. In front of everyone, the mothers sitting next to one another watching their kids, the two coaches, the children gathered next to them, and his own mother, Oscar reaches out for his brother and chokes him from behind, his arms wrapped tightly around Phillip's neck. Oscar pulls his small brother toward him in this hugging choke hold and lets go after a few seconds in order to punch him in the belly in quick successions.
   "Stop it," Phillip says, not a yell, not a whine, but a resigned voice that expects nothing at all.
   Oscar grabs Phillip's trousers by the back of the waistband and yanks repeatedly down until his naked bum is exposed. Then Oscar laughs like a horse and points and kicks Phillip over.
   "Stop it, stop it, Oscar," one of the coaches calls toward him, swishing to Oscar's side. "He's your brother, don't do that to him."
   Oscar's smile is like an angel, practiced to perfection. The class continues like this, week after week, month after month, and the only change is the aggression in Phillip. One day he pushes another kid and steals his ball. Another day he pinches a boy for running into him. And the last day I see him, he slaps his brother in the face. Their mum all the while, digging in her purse or reading a magazine, never sees a thing.

crazy

She was crazy. Not insane or mad, but absolutely crazy. When I woke up in the morning and clambered down the stairs into the breakfast room, I'd find my mother stark naked, except for a pair of high heels, frying eggs and bacon while buttering toast. She'd say, "Hello, darling, so glad you could make it to breakfast. Eggs are nearly done, love. Pour the coffee would you?" as though nothing about her lack of apparel deserved an explanation or even a comment. We would eat that way, she sitting across from me, her naked breasts hovering just above her breakfast plate, me staring at my eggs wondering how long this would go on. Some mornings she would wear a scarf along with her heels, other times a diamond necklace. Each morning I arose wondering what I would find next. Then one morning, she simply wasn't there.

I entered the breakfast room prepared for her naked flesh and patent leather heels to say hello and give me food, but silence greeted me instead. I never heard a quiet that pervasive, or felt a room so still. The air felt cool without the greasy heat from a frying pan permeating through the air. "Mother," I called out to an empty house. "Mother, are you here?"

Uncertain what to do, I wandered through the house searching for her. When I didn't find her, I went into the backyard and searched for her in the garden. Then the shed. Then the garage. That was when I noticed the car was gone. I ran inside and looked in her closet, dresser, and jewelry stand. Everything that belonged to my mother had disappeared with her.

Beginning to feel the loneliness of abandonment, I picked up the phone and dialed Harry's number. After the fourth ring, he picked up. "Hello?" answered a sleepy voice belonging to my father.

"She's gone," I said.
"What?"
"Mother. She's gone."
"Trey, is that you?"
"I don't know where she went."
"Don't worry, I'll be right over."
"She took all her clothes. She never wears clothes."
"I'm coming over there, Trey. Hold tight."
Then he hung up. Even though Harry and I never got along, I felt hopeful at the fact he would be there soon.

(to be cont.)

first times

The first time I rode a bike without training wheels, I lost control and rammed it into a car parked on the side of the street. I managed to leap off before impact and land unscathed upon my feet. The first time I fell in love, he broke my heart. I managed to end things without ever looking back. The first time I saw a porno, I hid my eyes behind my cupped palms. I managed to see enough to know pornos were indeed naughty. The first time I lived in London I fell in love with tall buildings and crowded trains. I managed to find myself in the midst of all the chaos. The first time I kissed a boy, I thought I was going to suffocate. I managed to hold my breath until finally pushing him away before I passed out. The first time I swam in the ocean, I saw pilot whales cresting over the waves. I managed to ignore the woman screaming 'sharks' on the beach and enjoy their elegant proximity. The first time I went to a dance club, I managed to arrive during a male strip tease put on solely for 'ladies night'. I managed to exit the venue before the banana hammock clad dancer made it to my table. The first time I feared for my life, I was walking home from school. I managed to escape with minor bruises and a few missing strands of hair. The first time I met a dirty old man older than most human beings, I was walking to an Anthro lecture. I managed to evade the elderly gentleman once he started spewing numbers relating to the inches of his allegedly enormous cock. The first time I saw horrors beyond words, I cried and wondered how human beings could hack off the head of a helpless child. I managed to reaffirm my belief that God lives in our hearts and minds and not upon this earth. The first time I found religion, I was only four. I managed to lose it several times afterward, only to find it once more in a somewhat altered but recognizable state. The first time I ran a 10K, my feet cramped up in muscle spasms from my Nike's. I managed to complete the race barefoot, sloshing in the rain, and enjoyed the freedom of naked feet upon the black pavement.