As Samantha stumbles through the quad, orange book bag in tote, she tries to remember her classroom number. She is late to class again, because the only way she can make it through the day is by drowning her sorrows in alcohol and cocaine, and her boyfriend is slowly withdrawing himself from her. After three fails, she finally drifts into the right room. Dr. Flemmers threatens to withdraw fail her if she is late one more time. As her need for the drug goes stronger, she finds herself leaving class early to heed its call. As she starts laying out this line of cocaine with the rest of the money she had to her name, she thinks to herself: why? She can’t comprehend why the call is so strong; she wants to be done with this drug, with this life. As she snorts the line, she pulls out her 500 pill Motrin IB bottle. Pills ready, drink in hand, she downs all of the pills she can, leaving in enough time to make it back to class before the end of it. After class she scurried back to her apartment. The pain reliever starts to kick in, while her life starts to fade away. Samantha is surrounded by white light, white noise, white death. Life ebbing out of her, someone near is rushing to help. “No” Samantha screams, “I don’t want to feel the pain anymore”. Next thing she hears, sirens all around. A few days later, the only person that comes to see her is her boyfriend, watching her for the last time, as she enters into the ground.
This is a house without a home. The grass is matted with weeds popping out in between. The yard contains nothing more than a whisper of what it used to be. The house is stark and cold, the only sign of life is the twenty year old cat sitting in the dusty window pane. The first floor is dark and hollow. The kitchen contains no more than ten dishes, all of which have been neatly placed away for two years now. Adjacent to the kitchen is a “living” room. Two dirty flower printed sofas rest on top of a red and blue circular rug in the middle of the hardwood floor. The dining room does not exist. Up the stairs and to the left is an office. The office has nice electronics with a brand new glass desk that faces the window to outside. Beside the office is a bedroom with no air and no circulation, the comforter on the queen sized bed is moth eaten. One pillow lies in the center of the bed. Across the hall is the only bathroom in the whole house. A dingy shower mirrors the dingy toilet. Blue countertops are the only sort of light that reflects in this room, aside from the butcher knife that lies on top of it.
I walk into this house filled with despair, prepared to pack up everything that once used to be my father’s. Why did I get stuck with the task of handling his last wishes? It’s not like he “loved” me anyway. As I step into the front door, I notice a foul odor emanating from somewhere near the living room. There are dirty clothes lying on the floor, dirty dishes sitting upon tabletops which seem to have never been washed. As I peer into the corner of the room I notice the source of the stench: an over-flowing cat litter box. I didn’t even know he had a cat. I start to sort through his “belongings”, pile by pile. The amount of clutter in this house, hell in this room, begs for rodents, which to my surprise I haven’t encountered yet. As I walk outside and stumble back in with two armfuls of boxes. I ponder to myself, aren’t the people who actually cared about him supposed to be doing this?
I have managed to slip the photograph of Stella into his pocket. Maybe by letting him see something that he can’t have, he will realize what he wants. He needs to feel as if he is playing a major role in his matching of himself with other people. Leo and my daughter are both “dead” in a sense, spiritually and emotionally, and this union will be their chance at redemption, saving each other in order to save themselves.
He asks if she is okay, she replies “yes”, but in her own reality nothing is okay. She doesn’t want to leave him. He has no idea the intensity of the pull Washington State has on her. The pull he has on her is just equally as great. She doesn’t know if she will go. One day he will call and she won’t be there. She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know what to do. Dreams or love? She wonders why it has to be like that. She wants both. Why can’t she have both? He said forever, but he also said he would not move. She wants him but he doesn’t want her dreams.
Over here no over here take him from behind he’s going to get my shirt that one was mine I’ll stab you oooh I’m so scared I got a gun bitch you don’t want to mess with me I’ve got it she screamed as she ran up to the counter to purchase it as she was laying the shirt down to buy that same woman came up and yanked her weave out the security guard came over and took both of them away.
Sally was in the process of purchasing shoes from Meg’s afternoon store. Green ones, red ones, blue, Meg had shoes of every size shape and color. Sally faced a dilemma, there were so many that she wanted, but only few that she could afford. As Sally was walking to the back of the store her hopes slowly fading, she noticed a pair of black flats with black bows on the front. Sally had to own these shoes, but if her husband Gerald knew how much they cost, he would make her return them. “Too expensive” he would say, “you can’t bleed turnips woman”. Sally purchased them despite the possible repercussions she might have to deal with from her husband. She decided that if Gerald asked about the bill on the bank statement she would say “I had to pick up groceries from Meg’s”. If he didn’t believe her, she decided that she would hit him in the head with a shovel in the way that her mother would hit her father with the shovel when they would get in arguments when Sally was younger.
Where do I begin and you end? There’s no line, no break. Two souls beat as one, forever trapped in this state of limbo. Soul mate. Define it. Why? To define takes back from the meaning of what it is. Everything I write is about you. Everything I know is you. Where do we go from here? I beat with you, if only we could intertwine as well. Is that even possible? I know what you have shown me. I feel what you have told me. Come closer, speak, listen. Do you know me? Do you know who I am? Can you feel it, can you feel me? My arms searching for yours. Where are they? I need your hands, your touch, your love. Can you promise me that? Until it fades? Until distance separates us? Until time separates us? Or until you separate us?
Foot pounding against the floor, the pavement slowly kicking up, fingers moving so swiftly against the guitar strings in the movement of the way of a snake pounces to catch its prey. Pressure mounting, as I feel all of the eyes in the room turn to me. One mistake and I am done. How can I give them myself when I don’t even know who that is? To say I play this instrument well, would be lie, considering it’s the one playing me. I obey its demand, I heed its call. Every day, more of an internal struggle between life and the guitar. When did I let myself become so consumed by this instrument? As my fingers strike the last chord, I get up and walk away.
This particular one, is a new draft of this poem.
You cast your line into the water again.
As I start to get away you reel me back in.
The hook pierces through my skin.
As you pull me above water,
I slowly start to die.
Trying to break free from the hook,
I flail around in the air, but it’s to no prevail,
I’m slowly suffocating.
My scales start to flake off.
Until there are none left and I am raw.
You cut the flesh from my bones,
Pick me apart piece by piece.
Into your stomach I descend as nothing more than
Yesterday’s fresh meat.
This one is also another new draft.
The Devil Wears Prada’s music is no longer playing on our radio. Instead of intense music, Christopher Drew spouts out songs about cliché’ situations. The phrase “that word just wears me out”, constantly repeats itself, wearing me out.
As I place my USB flash drive into my computer, fresh with music Kyrk downloaded last night, the first band I notice is the Devil Wears Prada. Closed Casket Requiem is forever repeating itself on my computer and in my head. As the sound reverberates out, the first memory that comes to mind is of that blazingly hot summer day. While I am driving down Clem Lowell you ask if I have any of the Devil Wears Prada. Closed Casket Requiem is the first song chosen. The car’s tires, fresh with air, lackadaisically bounce up and down the hills while the windows slowly warp due mainly to the heat. We are full of hot air, and the car is full of music as we drive down that familiar road to your favorite store.
Car is full of air
As we start to lose our own
Love hate betrayal
You are watching me
While I start to stare off too
Help me, I need you
Pills everywhere
Fill the countertops and shelves
Functioning is hard
You are not close now
Silence and distance keep us
Lets remove the space
Friends are good to have
But not when they detract you
Keep focus in life
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