He

“He”
by Cameron L. Maris
(an imitation of “The Man on the Stairs” by Miranda July, from her book No One Belongs Here More Than You).

He was just a dim, shadowy figure across the street, but it caught my eye because of the way He was staring at me. I rubbed my eyes, but it -- He -- just stood there. I narrowed my eyes, I whispered aloud, Jesus Christ, because that was his name. I timed my breathing in perfect whole notes, slowly and deliberately, in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. I was trying to invent a new way of breathing that was more like composition, so that if someone happened to notice me, they would only think that I was conducting a pleasant artistic science experiment, rather than cowering from the religious icon across the street. But after a while I realized I was counting aloud, which I felt took away my scientific integrity. And he kept staring at me, Jesus of Nazareth. He was standing with his arms spread wide, sort of a “let the children come to me” pose. He was thrilled to be there, in my neighbor’s front yard, finally finding one of his lost sheep after all these years. He was glowing. I don’t think I’d ever been as pleased with myself as Jesus looked at that moment. That is my problem with life, I’m never content with what I’ve found, even after chasing a dream for however-long, like the girl who worked at Target. She was barely eighteen, long brown hair and braces, which were a quality unique enough to give her beauty sort of an off-kilter look. She was perfect as an object of desire, but desire leads to consumption and consumption to over-consumption and to contentment, then to boredom. Or if I’m broke, I get a job and work diligently and never complain. I’m the first to volunteer for cleaning duty. I only do this because I know I have to show initiative so I will be paid. The sooner you volunteer for extra cleaning work, the quicker you can call in sick.

Jesus Christ the Nazarene, of course, is the total opposite of me, his whole thing is being Love Thy Neighbor and Do Unto Others and such. He was smiling so genuinely that for a moment I forgot everything that had gone on between us and simply recognize an old friend, only to be shaken by a quick flash of a memory of neglect and ridicule. He was here to take me, or to kill me, or to damn me, or something, and He looked so fucking happy about it. I stopped trying to adjust my focus, because I didn’t want to make my eyes so squinty. It gave me a headache, and it also made me look stoned, which I was, but if Jesus saw that it would alert Him to what a disappointment I had become. He might even wonder what else I had done wrong, and He might start asking questions like if I have a girlfriend, and was I having premarital sex, and if I was in love with her. I did, and we were, and no, I wasn’t. Alisha was looking for someone to marry, and I was looking for someone to fuck. She loved me desperately, desperate like love so often is, and she wanted to have babies and buy a house and get married. She might have thought I had wanted some of these things, too, but I did not, and I didn’t need to tell her that. Alisha would later fake a pregnancy with me, and go on to cause a real one with one of my close friends, Jason. I apologized to Jason afterward for not warning him. I still feel bad to this day.

I didn’t want Jesus to know about all of these sins. But He would already know. The moment I crossed the street, He would try to embrace me or kiss my cheek or shake my hand and the moment he touched my skin, he would feel all of my crimes. He would feel it in my clammy palm, feel it on the hair standing straight off my arm: O Lord, I Am Not Ready to Receive You, But Only Say The Word and I Shall Be Healed. But when He looked into my eyes, he would see Eli, Eli, Why Have You Forsaken Me? Would He like that I used His own words? Would He be flattered if I cleverly quoted Him? Most people like that kind of thing. Sometimes, when I’ve had a big fight with a close friend, I find it useful to slip in a little situationally-appropriate phrase that I had learned from them, maybe even something that I had teased them about saying in the past. This way, they feel like not only am I sorry for having been angry with you, but I forgive you, and have maybe even learned something from you. People really like the vindication of being listened to, really listened to, that comes from someone else quoting them. Even more than that, I like to quote pop songs and films to people that I may have once listened to or seen with them. Obsessively quoting pop songs is the third-most endearing-but-irritating of all my traits, which are:

1. I get bored easily.
2. I procrastinate to a dangerous level.
3. I reference film and music in casual conversation.
4. I feel no shame for any of these three
things and it makes me seem self-important and elitist.

Being bored easily isn’t so bad, but it’s the procrastination that makes the boredom so awful. There are interesting and important things that require my attention, but they are the very things that make me bored in the first place. Perhaps they are only problems because of the way they interact, and if I could convince them to play nicely with each other, they would be charming, likable qualities. Maybe I am an unsuitable host for my own characteristics.

I first met Him in in the third grade, when my parents thought I should attend Catholic elementary school. He took an immediate liking to me because I was freckled and fat, and my parents were both teachers. I was an easy mark, most likely to feel a need for some greater answer, if only as a way to make friends, and for some time, He was right. Then I got older and discovered theatre and writing and good music and how to talk to girls, and Jesus kind of became and arbitrary figure, someone I only talked to when I thought I needed some sound advice, or maybe a penance or two. On the day of my Confirmation in the eleventh grade, I wore my best shirt and tie, and even though the shirt kept coming untucked, and the tie wouldn’t stay straight, I knew that this was possibly the last time I would ever make my parents genuinely proud, and I could do it by doing nothing more than walking down an aisle at church. As I knelt in the pew, I looked up at the heavy wooden crucifix painted with streaks of too-bright red blood, and I remember thinking If you’re really there, give me some kind of sign, anything, if not, we’re done, man.

And now here He was, standing across the street as I slouch in a chair on my porch. Jesus stands so still that I almost wonder if he is so tired from his long journey that maybe I should offer him a seat on the step. Or maybe He wants me to come to Him, all prostrated and humble, or maybe He doesn’t see me at all, and if I hold as still as Him, I can melt into the shadows; he won’t see me, and I can start looking for a new place tomorrow. I can see His long white robes glowing in the purple summer night, the nail-holes in his upturned palms look like oddly-placed moles from a distance. I have a cigarette in my plam, but I don’t want to light it, for fear of attracting his attention. My roommate is gone for the night, as she is almost every night, so I’m not afraid of her coming home and getting freaked out that I was staring at The Lamb of God across the street. The only sound is of the leaves whispering softly in the trees, and a streetlight whirring and sputtering to life on the corner. He is so still that I begin to wonder if He is a statue erected during the day by that old woman who lives at the house, and I just hadn’t noticed It until now. What if I sit here until morning, hiding from something that’s not there. But lo. In the dim ambient light I can see His fingers start to move in a “come over here” gesture and what I feel is terrified vindication. Jesus is alive, He is across the street, He sees me, and He wants to talk to me, but He wants to do it on His terms. If, by the end of this night, I was spared eternal damnation, I would never forget this lesson in stoicism and tenacity. He was calm, relaxed, and perfectly content in staring me down from a hundred meters, while I was too timid to answer my phone when my parents called. And it was working, because it was scaring the fuck out of me. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to intimidate anyone that well, even when I was a starting lineman on my high school football team, or when I was elected to student council. Perhaps if I were more assertive and persistent like Jesus, I could have gone back to college and gotten that theatre degree, and I could be a famous actor, and I could even play Saint John in a movie about the crucifixion. Maybe the actor playing Jesus would look down from his CGI cross and say to me “Son, this is your Mother,” and I would quietly let a tear fall down my cheek. Maybe. Maybe He would come to the premiere and sign autographs and slap me on the shoulder, and I would lean into His ear and whisper: We couldn’t have done it without ya, Big Guy.

I slipped my hands in my pockets and stood up. I was still dressed in my untucked half-tux that I wore for work, bartending banquets at a local hotel, because what the hell. Maybe He would think I considered the chance to speak to Him for the first time in years a semi-formal occasion. I stepped off the porch, walked across the yard, and onto the sidewalk. I felt naked in the yellow light of the streetlamp, but I could see Him more clearly. For the first time, I noticed the red heart on His chest. I stood waiting for Him to motion for me to come closer, or for Him to smite me with a thunderclap, whichever came first. Finally, I stepped across the street to Him, and I could see his soft, brown eyes. They looked watery. I was right in front of him now; I cocked my head and furrowed my brow to see him better in the darkness. Our faces were parallel. I could smell musky incense burning. It was familiar, He was familiar, I felt safe in His presence. I stood there, and He stood there, and He spoke, and He made a sound that was not a human sound, but an ambient one, like a church organ squealing a wrong note. And I spoke human words, in a human tone, as only a human can speak. And suddenly I could see Him clearly, and I remembered all the reasons we had met in the first place. We were staring into each other’s eyes and suddenly I felt angry. Go away, I whispered. God damn you. Leave me alone.

The moment that Alisha finally told me that she had gotten her period and that she was not pregnant, I bought us a drink. I drank with her, tapped my empty glass on the bar, and told her to go to hell. I walked away smiling, and I took her best friend home that night. She had wanted to name the child ‘Taylor,’ anyhow, which is a silly and utterly pointless name. I began to fall in love with her best friend, and soon the whole matter became something that we just didn’t talk about. It became an amusing little anecdote, a story-often-told. But I didn’t laugh when I told it. I steeled myself against laughter; I would rather die than laugh. I didn't laugh, I did not laugh. But I died; I did die.

I Am a Ptolemaic Astronomer

I Am a Ptolemaic Astronomer

I am a Ptolemaic astronomer
staring ceaselessly at the night sky
trying to predict
where Venus will land

convinced that the Earth
is the mother
the center of the universe
I keep adjusting my hypothesis
changing my values
amending my expectations

scribbling drawings
on notepads
plotting fictional patterns
in nature
turning science
to prose

adding
epi-cycle upon
epi-cycle
until Venus is spinning
madly over and
out of control
in the sky

epi-cycle upon
epi-cycle

drawing chalk lines in the shape of an egg
rolling the dice, trying to
abolish chance
(but a roll of the dice
will never abolish
chance)

We are Ptolemaic astronomers
ceaselessly staring
at the night sky
telling lies
about Venus.

epi-cycle upon
epi-cycle

It's a Metaphor, Fool

Can't sleep tonight. Words digging trenches in my brain. This poem is a reaction to something that happened in Modern Poetry class tonight, a story that ends in my professor telling me, "That would be fine, if this were a poetry class." Yeah. The first two lines are an Asian Figure poem, and the rest is me.


"It's a Metaphor, Fool"

Silent
like the thief the dog bit.

the best man
in love with the bride,
the furrow
on the brow
of the girl in the coma.

the eviction notice
posted on the door
of the man who died
alone
three days previous.

the sound of raindrops
to headphoned ears.
the screech of the tires
just before
the car hits you,

the letter
you wrote to someone
the moment before
you burned it.

Remembrance in Fall

An old man with a walker
stumbles up the ramp
of the facility
that’s now his home.
He misses his picket fence,
the trees that he planted in his yard,
the whisper of bubbles popping in dishwater,
and the soft, warm arms of his dead wife.

I turn a corner
onto another shadow-lined street:
a child in red
running across his yard,
crying for a toy,
while his mother stands at the open car door.
She looks in the mirror,
and misses the way her lips
were once soft and pink
and how her husband’s eyes used to sparkle
when he told her he loved her.

Another corner:
children playing soccer.
Families lining the edge of the field,
wrapped in blankets.
I stop and listen for your voice on the sidelines,
cheering for your sister.
I miss the way your cheeks turn red when you’re cold,
the way you sang me to sleep,
and how your eyes curl like ribbon
when you smile.

elegy

this afternoon i stepped outside --
finding myself in need of breath --
and between the passing of cars --
in my mind’s only empty corner --

perceived a leaf’s
flutter flicker
on a branch

tkksttttkksssss

i took a stick
and nudged it free
and it spun
awkwardly
haphazardly
a dusty moth
hell-bent
to the ground.

O
venerable leaf
your life cut short
by the season’s change
the shortening of the days
the tired, dark rotting of your skin
that used to be yellow and pink and green
now covered in black nail polish
and coarse white hairs
we pray you sweet farewell
on your journey
to god’s waiting arms.

in his name
we pray
amen!

aaaaaeeeeeyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeemeeeeennnnnnnn

this afternoon -- i stepped outside --
(i felt a funeral in my brain) --

“And hit a World, at every plunge
And Finished knowing -- then --”

then --
then --
then --

(Curtain falls).

That Song We Missed

Back from the Monolith Music Festival, and writing a music blog thing to tell you about it. For now: Mental exercise by free-form poetry. I'm not incredibly happy with how this turned out, but I think its evolution is complete, so I'm tossing it out there anyway. Love/hate/whatever it.

Also. I'm posting it as an image, because I'm HTML-illiterate, and Blogger is fascist, and doesn't believe in creative spacing. Hope you can still read it.

Black Square and Red Square

So you can call this a

warning shot.
test pattern.
tenative whisper.

hey what’s up.
demo tape.
sound check.
if you ever.
tributary river.
catalyst.

midterm essay.
non-fatal overdose.
down-payment.

dress rehearsal.
pre-emptive strike.
A before B.
less than three.
question mark.
low tide.

breath before a word.
calm before.
reading the launch codes.
knock-knock joke.
drumstick count off.

idea without words.

Sonnet for rain--

the air grows thick and wet and all the sounds
start ling'ring in the atmosphere like smoke
in winter's freeze-- the clouds-- like brash young hearts
that fly across the bed-- now chase-- elope--
the air collapses, folds like crashing cars,
as clouds implode to tiny particles--
how gentle, o how fragile-- all these shards
of stained-glass shattered in the wet wind's swell--
they flick the ground-- they smack my tired face--
they leave their fingerprints across my chest--
a single heart-shaped spot-- near the same place
she left a teardrop last night-- safely pressed
within the chaos of the thunderstorm--
like all the tears on all the shirts we've worn-

Sam Cooke and the Last Days of Summer

“Sam Cooke and the Last Days of Summer”

In these,
the final days of August,
we’re sliding around the curves of a winding two-lane highway,
rattling through man-cut canyons in a classic car,
Sam Cooke’s soul is pouring through rattling speakers,
straining and popping to be heard
over the wind whipping through the open windows.

In these,
the cool, cloudy final days of the summer,
the brown and green of the Wyoming prairie is unending,
the skyline is punctuated with telephone wires.
The wind is thick as water, as thin as sunlight.
Red-dirt rocks tower overhead.
I strain my neck through the window to see the summits.

The engine hums a soft,
lulling death-rattle for a quickly-fading summer.

...

The girl behind the wheel is wearing a cowboy hat,
smiling, and saying something about the music.
I see her lips form the words “song” and “amazing.”
I agree, even though I can’t make out her words
over the rush of the wind,
and the buzz of Sam Cooke on the radio.

In these,
the last days of a rainy and bittersweet summer,
I watch her lips, moving like water over pebbles.
I can’t still hear what she’s saying,
but I watch her smile at me
as the speedometer eases past 70,

Summer, suddenly, without warning,
feels infinite.

"We're Passing Through Them."

If you've never lay in the back
of an old El Camino
and watched as the meteors tear their way
through our atmosphere,
like chalk-lines on a
speckled blackboard sky,
then you've been doing something wrong.

If you've never rested your head
on that spare tire
next to a beautiful girl
who is telling you her life story
in a voice that sounds like whiskey
flowing across her satin throat,
then I don't know how to explain it to you.

And if you've never let that girl
play you Tom Waits on vinyl,
pour you a glass of bourbon,
and listened as she sings along to every word,
until the record begins skipping,
and you press your lips against hers,
then you simply can't understand it.

"Know what's amazing?
We're passing through them,
not the other way around."