Versions of Chai

Amid the crunch of collision, such a small thing wards off death in the moment of slow-motion crash, protecting from the reckless hand of fate, but not without cost. Sighing in the instant before impact, it warns, "This might hurt a little." Then steels itself for the inevitable task--its created purpose--and when released from duty bemoans the necessary bruises it left behind. Such a little thing, really, yet with so great a job. A small strip, narrow but strong, the very reason I am still alive.

Words crowd into my mouth, burning my tongue, pushing against lips sealed shut by fear--the paranoid, paralyzing kind. To rid the acrid taste I swallow back each incendiary noun, verb, and adjective, though the action scalds my throat. Before the pain can subside my stomach retches them up again to begin anew their acidic onslaught. Why do I not speak? How can speaking out possibly cost me more than the turmoil of keeping silent? No answer. For the questions never leave my head. Afraid to speak yet tortured for not doing so, this silence is killing me.

O Apollo, blazing golden in the sky, ruling day from a chariot of fire, think of me, Artemis, pale goddess of night. Imagine me waiting in a shadowy glade. Silver arms outstretched, beckoning you to my wild embrace. O Apollo, meet me in the dusky hues of evening and in the first, gray light of dawn, Where we-- twin halves of one soul-- can unite and once again be whole.

I wish I could slash anger across a canvas that shrieks to be seen. Or draw bare lines whispering of loneliness so that all who look turn away with wet eyes. I wish I could paint joy in colors of the sun with laughter pealing from the end of the brush so that hearts and the corners of mouths are lifted. But my paint-by-numbers hands only copy laboriously images conceived by another. I content myself with words and brush them across the page-- the only canvas I will ever paint.

Mab is waiting, watching, biding her time with fingers poised, waiting for my eyes to close. I fight to stay awake. Futilely. Her nearness soothes, lulls, opiating the darkness until sleep enshrouds me. Barely conscious, I attempt to evade, but the ground is sand-- loose and crumbling. Her fingers overtake me easily, clutching with paralyzing grasp. My mind numbs. I am slave to her nocturnal deity, pliantly tasting the visions concocted from her arsenal of romance, insanity, and terror. Into my sleep-steeped brain she ladles the chaotic brew, flavored with emotions strong enough to taint the first few hours of my waking day. She reigns supreme until daybreak loosens her tyranny and I struggle in her grasp, finally pulling myself awake, shaking away illusions clinging like cobwebs. I curse her power to rob me of peace, of rest, and plan anew night's escape. Mab watches unfazed, waiting, biding her time with fingers poised.

With the pale light of morning, Christmas Day filtered into the chill of an Ogaki apartment. In a corner of the living room, lights twinkled on a small tree displaying a few ornaments that had eluded the reach of tiny, exploring hands. Beneath the tree lay a mound of Daiso gifts, purchased with an allowance of one thousand yen and wrapped with the truest of intentions. The family--a brother and sister reunited after months of separation along with their spouses and children--huddled around the kotatsu eating a Christmas dinner of ramen with chopsticks. After dinner, the brother pulled on a santa suit (unintentionally frightening the children) and passed out the gifts. Soon the festivities were punctuated with oohs and aahs at the treasures garnered from the Daiso. Once the gifts had been admired properly and the colorful wrapping papper cleared away, the family once again settled around the kotatsu. This time to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas . As the strains of "Christmastime Is...

The long awaited release of the Pet Milk Project has finally arrived! Conceived by Kelli Burton, this collaboration of writers, artists, and musicians culminated in a literary magazine, art exhibit, and CD that was unveiled tonight at the Arts Place in downtown Lexington, Kentucky. The event was well-attended. In fact, all the copies of the magazine and accompanying CD sold out before the end of the show. One of my poems--"The Stranglehold"--was included in the magazine and was the inspiration for artwork by Allison NeCamp (image above) and a song by Fanged Robot, track #3 on the CD. For those of you who were not able to attend the event or arrived too late to get a copy of the magazine and CD, here is the poem: The Stranglehold Callous hands around my throat choking out my livelihood I struggle and kick but they squeeze tighter only relenting long enough for me to gasp noxious fumes The people around do nothing to stop them Most rush past and pretend not to see shielding th...