Versions of Chai

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...

Man created a monster, A mechanical beast intended to serve convenience purpose-altered to frustrate the hard-working masses and thwart efficiency. With feigned collation the beast begins a task and suddenly balks, pain stapled on its face, task lost within twisted entrails. So thoroughly hidden as to stymie even the most skilled technician, trained in the science of mechanical manipulation. The beast refuses to work until every whim has been met and once working, produces pages crinkled and streaked from effort. Man created a monster.

To Andi on Halloween In the beginning My world was orange with hope, Full of clementine promise. Thoughts sunny, I delighted in dreams of blazing The globe as an agent of change, Bringing fare to the starving, Strewing blossoms for the depressed. But the crush of hours and Minutes made my world vulnerable To black numbers creeping in Dispatched from those in whom good Was long rotten from inactivity. Their mounting instances of greed Pounded and squeezed, churning my Best intentions to marmalade-- Sweet, but sluggish. I could not withstand the dark digits That pierced my resolve and Peeled back resistance to ravage The sun-kissed fruit within. A million onyx boots trod My world to pulp, until the Ground ran with the juice of dreams And only a citrus tang in the air Remained of what had been. Or so I thought as I drifted In black chaos of disillusionment For months on end. Then a light scored the gloom, Illuminating a single slice of hope Encasing a seed--small, but enough To awaken the...

Like an addict I barter for a little more sleep Missing the dawn Finally awake But trapped behind glass I watch a cloudless landscape roll by Afternoon is Locked in a curtained house Listening to voices drone Deprived the feel of breeze And the smell of leaves Freed at last Sunset has long faded Into Autumn night Unwatched Too few, too precious These waning sunny days To be squandered thus This is the last day The last day of sunshine I will waste