End In Sight.

A watercolor sunset, a magnificently swollen bruise,
fades and beckons to us. It throbs in our eyes.
The restless ocean swallows itself again and again,
tiny ripples scratching the tired shoulders of the shoreline.
Smoke from distant explosions threads the storm clouds
Encroaching on the horizon. Charcoal fumes.
A chill wind throws itself recklessly about us.
A tiny nor'easter. A baby maelstrom. A sigh.

And your hand squeezing mine. Our feet
Dug into the cool sand, this blue desert song of ash.
My stomach tight with some brew of fear and hunger
Anchors me to this; A soft anxiety gnawing on the tail of Time.
Every dawn colder than the last.
Our faces aching and dim.

The Raven’s Egg

Walking into the book store, a beautiful blond girl whisked past me on her way out. She did not make eye contact, did not even glance at me. I wrote a love poem for her in my heart. I held on to it very tightly for a moment before letting it go. She would never know how perfect it was. It could never be more perfect than that.

The book store embraces me, a magical realm since my childhood. I love the smell of the paper and the colorful quilts of covers arranged on every possible surface, stacks of books, cities of words huddled silently. I run my fingers over them as I browse, savoring the different textures. I think of my favorite writers, living and dead, and wonder which books here might attract their attention. I whisper to the books as I browse, comforting them, assuring them that I will be back for them some day, one at a time.

In the greeting card section, I scan the birthday cards on the rack. What kind of card do you get your father for his 70^th birthday? Which of these colorful folds of paper will communicate your feelings over so many miles to a man you hardly speak to anymore? The grumpy clown or the watercolor flower? The birthday cake or the cartoon bulldog in a party hat? I sigh. The same sigh as my father.

The only book my father ever read was The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Though he said he liked it, he hasn’t cracked another book since. I don’t know if he just isn’t a reader or if that particular book just scared him so deeply in his soul that he decided no book would ever be worth that sort of risk again. He has since collected several books that he said he intended to read. He still says he intends to read them. I smile and nod. The books stay on the top shelf, dusty and quiet.

I decide that greeting cards are a sham. They are a heartless racket profiting from people’s gross inability to adequately communicate their feelings. They are a physical endorsement of giving up even trying. I would rather receive a torn scrap of paper with a little heart drawn on it in pencil than a greeting card bought at a store. I leave the store without buying a greeting card for my father. His 70^th birthday is a week away and I will create something more significant, something genuine, a personal treasure that will erase all the fear from his heart.

My father’s heart is a delicate thing. I know for a fact that it is the most tender heart in the whole world. I know because only a heart so tender would dare push everyone in life away. It’s a defensive measure, and I understand it, and I forgive him. Everything hurts less if it is far away. I’m sure he would have buried the thing if he only believed he could dig a hole deep enough to protect it. But no hole could ever be deep enough to protect a heart this honest and true. I believe that this is why he divorced my mother. He had grown tired of digging.

70 years is a lot for a tender heart like his; a lot of joy, a lot of laughter, and all the sadness and loneliness that accumulate and hide beneath these things. It is a wretched day when you discover the sadness in your father’s heart. This holy muscle that you grew up revering as capable only of joy and wonder, of love for you, had been lying to you your whole life. And when you find these savage bruises, sighing heavily in some dark corner, it is so overwhelming because it’s actually a testament to the bruises that hide in everyone’s hearts. These are the bruises that even time doesn’t heal, the chink in the golden armor, the loose thread that will eventually unravel the whole façade, exposing all your hopes and dreams to the elements. If I could absorb his bruises into my own, I would.

I decide to build a monument to my father’s heart. For his birthday I will build a giant wooden heart out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue, glass soda bottles and saltwater taffy. I will build it how it would have stood before all the bruises. I will build it weather-resistant and sturdy enough to bet your life on, and I will make it so beautiful that once seen it will be impossible to walk away from. It will be a heart incapable of loneliness. People will come from all over the world to marvel at its magnificence, to bask in its tenderness. They will smile at it lovingly and laugh at its jokes. They will tell it stories and kiss it goodnight. They will pray for its safety and comfort and never take it for granted. It will be the heart that my father deserved, that we all deserve.

When I was a kid I used to crawl under the floorboards of our house while the old man was watching TV. I would wriggle through the dirt and cobwebs until I was just under the armchair where he reclined, and I would listen for sounds of his heart. Mostly I would just hear the muffled drone of news anchors prattling about the horrors of the world, but sometimes he would mute the TV, and I knew he was watching sitcoms, preferring to read people’s faces than to listen to the recycled story lines. And while he sat there deciphering the hidden intentions buried beneath each actor’s expressions, I would listen for the sound of his heart. And when he sighed, I would sigh with him, so many years ago, exactly the same sigh.

Spring Fever / Some Things Never Change

Ascending from the dank tomb of the subway station, I squint at the white overcast sky. It is not a beautiful day. It is a day better forgotten. I fumble open a pack of cigarettes only to realize I don't have a lighter. Wedging the imminent stogey behind my ear, I make for the nearest bodega which, lucky for me, is within shuffling distance.

Minutes later I'm back on the sidewalk, flicking my new orange lighter and inhaling that first relaxing drag. The ashy taste brings me back to 8th grade, to my first cigarettes smoked rebelliously at the neighborhood park, the same park where I first made out with Donna, back when I was little more than nerves and wonder, timid and curious and attempting not to appear so.

I fiddle to remember how I liked to hold it. Everything feels unnatural, but my nerves are settling a little. I don't think I ever developed a smoking style. These days peer pressure is geared more towards quitting than lighting up. I've got to start standing my ground.

My head swims from the nicotine and I relish the gentle tilt of vertigo. What am I going to say to him? In my head, the conversation plays out like a scene in a movie: my steadfast accusations met by his guilty retorts, his attempts to shrug off the blame and my deft repudiations. He'll blame it on being drunk, and I'll tell him it doesn't matter. He'll claim ignorance, and I'll prove otherwise. He'll apologize and I'll stare him down, letting the weight of my silence crush him. The actual conversation will, of course, veer violently from any conceived trajectory, but my thoughts are otherwise unable to settle. I'm really no good at confrontation, but this one is necessary.

I take a deep breath and tuck my chin into my scarf against the cold gusts of city wind. As I approach the corner of Houston and Avenue B, I am nearly toppled over by two impish children squealing around the bend. They disappear into one of the anonymous entryways ensconced among the shabby Chinese joints and dollar stores.

I remember playing "boys chase girls" as a child, but I have no recollection of what I did when I caught them. I would sometimes cage them up in the jungle jim, but that only ever lasted as long as the damsel wished to remain a captive. Some things never change.

It's Spring and the trees protruding warily from these gum-spotted sidewalks have begun to sprout new leaves. I remove my non-smoking hand from my pocket and pass it through the downy tufts of foliage. The freshly sprouted leaves are still soft. They show no evidence of the harsh winter only recently abated. They shimmy in the wind, eagerly anticipating anything and everything. I rip a fistful of them and let them flutter to the ground a verdant confetti. I take a deep pull from my cigarette. Sometimes Fall comes early.

The coffee shop is across the street from me now and I can see Sam inside sitting by the window, head inclined, probably reading something. We have known each other for years and only recently began taking steps to become actual friends. His cherub face is completely relaxed. He could be meditating on a mountaintop, green eyes collecting light like koi ponds at dawn. It was a face I had trusted. My stomach is tight. My lungs feel tiny. I hate this.

He thinks I don't know. I wonder how long he would continue the charade if I let him. Would he ever tell me? Forty years from now, would we be old friends on rocking chairs, and would he lean over and say to me, "Christopher, I'm not a good friend."? Would I have secretly betrayed him by then? Would I smile and tell him that we were even?

Part of me wants to keep walking, just leave this all behind, ignore him out of existence, but I know it's not that easy. I take a final puff of my stoge and catch a wisp of smoke in my eyes causing them to tear up slightly. I honestly don't know that I will be able to forgive him. It's a shame, really, but trust, once broken, is a tenuous repair.

Fancy Writer

I have a friend who fancies himself a writer.

He begins every conversation with me excitedly describing some skeleton of a plot he has just conjured. Though sometimes mildly promising, his plots are consistently under-developed and rife with inconsistencies.

"But I've got a great title!" He grins spearmint and chapstick, eyes wide enough to swallow the world whole. I can seldom argue; "My Three-Legged Neighbors" or "Aboutface, Clockmaker!" seem as if they would portend hilariously imaginative plots or situations. The smiles I return to him are as encouraging as I can procure. I tell him that I absolutely can't wait to read it, though I've never actually read any of his stories.

It is only after he leaves that I acknowledge Envy perched on my shoulder, flapping his ragged wings. I used to be able to shrug it off; no longer. The earnest optimism is gone for me now. I know it takes more than a catchy title and a burst of adrenaline to craft a proper narrative. This awareness was my golden egg. But it's gotten dull, and it's a cold place to sit.

I never loved you.

I peel the skin from my orange. My practiced hand deftly removes the skin in one piece. It expands like a mottled corkscrew, perfect for the lip of a giant margarita glass. I wish I had a giant margarita. It’s hot today and a giant margarita would be very refreshing. I would drink and swim and drink until I couldn’t swim any longer, and then I would be drunk. I wish I was drunk. I’m not, and my orange sucks. It is dry and tasteless, a product of poor breeding.

I ask you to take a walk with me but your feet are made of sand. I promise to bring an umbrella with us just in case. In case we decide to go to the beach, which we do, and lucky for us my umbrella is very large. I turn it on its head and we use it as a boat. We decide to float to Hawaii, but we never make it there, of course. Your feet get wet and they disintegrate, detaching from your body; they turn into small islands while you sink.

For awhile I live on these islands. Every night I dream of you sinking. Every day I wake up and sculpt a giant sand cathedral where every angel on every spire has your face until the wind blows. I know that if I leave the island the dreams will stop and I will forget you. But there is a beauty in the forgetting. And I will probably drown before I get anywhere significant, never to peel another orange again.

Human Nature

(this is still in progress. any comments are appreciated!)

It wasn’t that her eyes glowed so much as that everything else in the room dimmed when she looked at me. Even the sounds of the party, the tinking of glasses and forks on hors d’oeuvre plates, the subdued cacophony of small talk, all became attenuated when her gaze locked with mine. I was instantly entranced, like a snake dancing with an Egyptian’s flute, watching her watch me.

Darlene, a friend from college with large engineer’s glasses, was standing next to me telling our friend Rory about some new movie currently playing at the art house theater downtown, and Rory, as usual, was quite happy to carry the bulk of the conversation. I merely had to smile when they smiled and I could appear to the world at large as if I were involved in the conversation. In actuality, I was transfixed by the woman in the red dress ensconced on the far side of the room, waiting for her to steal another glance in my direction.

“Where’s Karen tonight?” Darlene asked suddenly, jutting her chin toward me.

“At home,” I said after a slight hiccup, “She’s studying for her exams.” This was a lie. She was at her parents’ house “visiting with them,” which meant she was in actuality discussing her dissatisfaction with me and our relationship. We had been arguing more and more frequently as of late, the price for moving in together prematurely, I suppose.

“That’s a shame,” Rory remarked letting his own glance travel around the room, “She never comes out anymore. I do hope she graduates soon.” He and Darlene kept talking, lamenting over this and that regarding Karen’s absence and her extraordinary insight into Italian cinema, but my focus was again across the room, meandering the curves of this mysterious apparition.

Her crimson dress, cut low enough to entice without being too provocative, clung to her youthful form like the scales of a ruby crocodile. I took her in slowly, lingering on her sleek sumptuous legs, the type of legs you imagine sprinting effortlessly through a jungle—Amazonian legs. She turned to me and caught me admiring her, but only cast me a sultry smile and tilted back the final sip of her martini.

I don’t know why I moved in with Karen when I did. It just seemed like the right time. I’m getting older and had been thinking about settling down. We had met at a party like this and hit it off more or less right away. I was ready to fall in love, had been actively looking for it, and when our conversation took all the right turns without crashing I found myself unwittingly sizing her up as wife material. I suppose I had been drunk too, but this is the method by which many of my friends had acquired their spouses. Karen and I weren’t married yet, but the topic of engagement had arisen once or twice and now hung about our apartment like a pesky poltergeist.

The Crocodile Princess had disappeared while I was in my reverie. I quickly scanned the room hoping she had merely migrated to a new circle of friends and conversation, but she was nowhere in sight. Darlene and Rory barely acknowledged me as I excused myself. On my way to the kitchen, I downed my drink so that I would have an empty glass to fill should she be in the bar area. She was not, but I refilled my glass of Pomerol regardless. Swirling the wine under my nose to savor the aroma, I was considering to where she might have retreated when Trevor appeared from out of nowhere.

“Hey Jack!” he said, shuffling up in his dumpy way. My name is Jackson, yet Trevor can never seem to remember the second syllable.

“Hey Trev,” I responded with a sigh, looking past him, still pondering the mystery woman’s potential whereabouts.

“Hey, where’s Karen? I haven’t seen her all night. Is she sick?” Trevor was short and built like a pillow with legs. He spoke the way an old soccer ball might talk if it were given to conversation. I don’t think anyone really likes him.

“Yes,” I said, not really caring to commit to any specific lie at this point.

He sucked some beer from his can and shook it absently. “Must be that bug going around. I think I just got over it too. Had me laid out for a week. It was horrible. I swear I musta gone through six boxes of tissues I had so much snot comin’ outa my face.” His snicker vibrated through his arm fat and plump jowls, and I felt the slightest bit nauseous.

“Yeah, she’s pretty bad alright. Listen, can we talk later? I’m looking for someone,” I said, moving away from him.

“Who are you looking for?” he asked, opening another beer. I pretended not to have heard him as I stalked toward the back of the house and into the yard.

Living with Karen has been a learning experience. I had never lived with anyone before her besides the obligatory college roommates. Compromise was something that I was accustomed to choosing whether or not to accommodate, but Karen already had me seeking out her opinion regarding the most minute decisions. I was especially bothered by the amount of artwork I had collected over the years which she absolutely forbade wall space in our apartment. Her excuse was that most of my pieces lacked frames and were therefore inelegant. I told her that was how I liked them.

In the yard, guests were grazing in clusters around a luminescent swimming pool. Tiki torches were planted intermittently along the edge where the cement met the grass, their orange citronella flames barely keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Though there were at least five conversations going on in the yard, I knew that everyone was ignoring at least one other person; it was just that type of crowd.

I wove my way though them, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone lest I get sidelonged into another pointless talk-off. Stuart, tall and loud in an ugly shirt, barked at me to back him up on some inane point, but I just laughed and kept walking. Finally the glow of a lone cigarette in the periphery caught my eye. For a second I just watched the cherry bob in the shadows, but when she took a drag and those eyes ignited once again staring directly at me, I began my cautious approach.

She was standing just outside the immediate glow of the Tiki torches. As the distance between us narrowed, the scent of her cigarette smoke mingled with the citronella creating a primitive musk. Stepping into this new realm, I could feel my heart beating as if I had just chased her down through a wide plain. “Hi,” I croaked.

“Hello,” she said without blinking. She took a pull from her cigarette and exhaled rain clouds.

“What are you doing out here?” My voice sounded distant, the world around us fading as I let myself be consumed by her unwavering gaze.

“Smoking,” she replied, a tiny laugh flitting into the air like a phantom butterfly.

“So I see.” Talking to a woman is always a balance of confidence and nerves. I ran my fingers through my hair attempting to conjure some of the former.

“Someone here told me you were with Karen,” she said. She pulled on her cigarette again and held it for a long moment before blowing out the side of her mouth.

“You know Karen?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows perform an impulsive dance across my forehead.

“I know of her,” she said, raising her head slightly so that I found myself sliding down her neckline to her shoulder.

“Uh, yeah. We live together,” I said, taking a big gulp of my wine.

“So you’re with her?” She was relentless. I was transfixed. We were standing close enough that I could smell the soft powdery scent of her perfume; I wanted to drink it off her, I wanted to drown in it.

“Yes. I guess for now I am.” I said, watching her closely to gauge her reaction.

Her smile flickered a barely distinguishable transition as she took another slow pull from her cigarette absorbing the implications of my wording. “So what are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was suddenly sharp and cold; it gutted me.

“I don’t know,” I said, breaking eye contact and looking down at my shoes. What I had thought was grass was actually Astroturf, spongy and artificial, surrounding me in all directions. I caught myself wondering if any of the plants in this garden were real and alive. When I looked back up her, she was already looking past me to the beasts around the pool.

“Maybe you should figure that out,” she said, dropping her cigarette and crushing it into the synthetic earth.

The Cypher

His name is Jim but everyone in the circle knows him as "Cardboard." The collar on his lime-green oxford shirt is popped up and his dark jeans are tight and rolled up over his leather boat shoes. His clothes are a stark contrast to most everyone else's baggy urban attire, yet it is seldom acknowledged aside from the occasional good-natured jibing. The night air presses in around their huddled shoulders as they pitch and sway to the beat Cardboard generates. One voice rises above the approving hoots and exclamations of the others, his full alias is "Fantastical" but they mostly call him "Fan." The deep baritone that emanates from his corpulent mass brings images to mind of burning butter.

Fantastical gestures towards the middle of the circle with one dark hand as he speaks. His hand punctuates his rhymes like a piston driving an engine, "My style is casual. Compared to me, you niggas is just gradual. I smash through your defenses like a cannonball. I'm sayin. I reign supreme. The king of the cannibals. With a sting like a scorpion. Royal like the Tannenbaums. I'm sayin. I'm so classical, niggas read me like a manual to hood hustlin. The Hood's rumblin! I get more tail that Tiger Woods chasin' his own tail. I'm runnin shit'!"

The skinny white guy to his left jumps in cutting him off, but picking up on his rhyme scheme, "Let me carry the discussion, verbal percussion touchin you in places teachers say is disgusting. Ugly Ducklings. Whose feathers you think you're ruffling. It's Mother Goose I'm plucking. And I scramble golden eggs for the hungry." He spits his lyrics much faster than Fan and his frenetic movements match this new cadence. Cardboard picks up on the shift in style and alters his beatbox accordingly. He's good at this. His carefully timed breaths never interfere with the explosive rhythms he delivers using solely his lips and throat. Though he offers no lyrical content to the cypher, his contribution is significant and integral. It's why he decided to call himself "Cardboard;" he can't rap, he's just "The Box."

The rapping white kid goes by "Lucid." He stands sideways and leans into the circle so that the skateboard he clutches in one hand can hang on the outskirts. His T-shirt is two-sizes too big and waves like a sheet on a clothesline as he intensifies his flow into a double-time staccato, "Don't begrudge me for my lusting after nothing and flustered grunting stunting like Knievel jumpin.' Beetle Bailey struttin through the dungeon punchin' destruction!"

The man known as "Welfare" comes in next. His modest clothes, aside from the large tri-color Africa pendant swaying across his chest, match his straightforward delivery. He could be speaking to a class of first-graders, "From the top of the track, I'm sayin' ya'll are properly wack, like the property tax, we need to take our property back! Compose a plan to get the gold in hand. Don't ya'll know we livin' here on stolen land!? Taken from the natives and then taken for granted. Makin' ends but never trust who we shakin' our hands with. Proclamation is candid. The type the cameras captured till we were banished for droppin' all this science and mathematics. I'm mad thematic with the anthems I brandish. Too bad so many heads are vacant and distracted."

The cluster of their bodies if seen from a distance would almost appear as one entity, all their heads and shoulders bobbing in time to the beat, throbbing like a heart in the darkness of this anonymous park. Some people who wander by are drawn by this energy. They approach the outskirts of the circle, standing on their tip toes to see what's happening on the inside, craning their necks to hear the verses being thrown triumphantly into the center. Some cautiously snap a picture or two to validate this story when they recount it later in the quiet confines of their living rooms or the dank circus of some corner dive bar. This was not the rap that they had heard on the radio.

The next man in line has been standing haughtily throughout everyone else's verses. He has been listening intently but appears non-plused aside from the occasional snicker when one of the other MCs fell off rhyme or ran out of ideas prematurely. He doesn't come in immediately and Cardboard adds in a few rhythmic flourishes while this new character attempts to muster some gusto. The beady eyes that peak from under his low brim baseball cap match those stitched into the intricate pheonix on the back of his massive Avirex leather jacket. His voice is small for his otherwise imposing frame, "Yo. Yo. Yeah. Cheah!" He takes a deep breath and plunges into his verse, "I got a clip fulla hollow points. Quick to pull the trigger. Body any nigga tryna meddle with my figures." The other MCs listen intently but his voice fluctuates and trails off leaving them struggling to remain attentive. He continues, "And if I catch you snitchin, I'ma clap your nigga and be back in business soon as I smash your sistah. Kilo's got more kilos than Deebo. Gettin over on your team like unlimited free-throws. I'm so diezel. Full of.. Yo. Waitwaitwait... I'm diezel. Got a tank full of.. yo. Naw. Naw. Naw..." He backs out of the circle shaking his head. Some of the other MCs give him supportive fist-pounds and slaps on the back; they've all been there before.

With the interloper retreated, no time is wasted. "Jade Promise," the only female in the circle today swoops in confidently. Her red dreadlocks are pulled back to frame her freckled face so that her crystal blue eyes appear to glow above her modest tanktop. She begins her verse with a touch of melody, "I find myself in a divine circle full of giants and titans. A whirlpool of energy manifested to remedy the suffering of every spiritual entity." Her warm voice fills the space between them, and her fluid gestures add the slightest jingle as multiple colored bracelets clatter up her forearms, "There will be time to remember me. September to February we meditate to replicate majestic kinetic connections. Renovate these tattered frames to rebuild the empire we let go down in flames. We'll be the phoenix born as passion from the ashes. It's the magic we've mastered to counter the tragic disasters!" Welfare has been watching her intently and gives a strong nod of approval before reaching across the circle to slap her a low-five. Some of the others follow suite.

For Cardboard, this is church. As the MCs recite their verses, most of which are composed impromptu, it's the closes thing to hymns or praying that he experiences. The community of MCs come from backgrounds as diverse as their motives to rap in the first place, but in this circle they participate simply for the art of it, for the heat and the energy, and the immediate reactions and approval from their peers. As a beatboxer, he provides the soapbox for them to stand on, and they all appreciate his art as much as he does theirs. Before someone else can start rapping, Luicd shouts, "Yo Cardboard! Bust it!" and Cardboard launches into a beat breakdown. He throws in random tongue clicks and lip pops to an already intricate beat which he then morphs into a near perfect reproduction of a song they all had been hearing lately on the radio. Beneath the "Booms" and "clacks" he musters with his lips, he hums bass lines in the back of his throat like a Tibetian monk. The whole show is punctuated by his grand finale where he replicated record-scratch sounds of his name.

As Cardboard finishes and returns a little sheepishly to a more standard beat a new face has approached the circle. His dark Latin-American eyes flicker around the faces in the circle as he asks, "I can? I can?" Nods of approval pass around as room is made for him and he launches into a beatbox of his own. The surprised MCs cheer him on and Fantastical readies for another go saying, "Yo. Yo! I got this!" Finally, Cardboard thinks to himself, I can grab a drink of water.

((LEAVE YOUR VERSE FOR THE CYPHER IN THE COMMENTS SECTION!))