Beautiful and Strange

Feline If there is anything we share with house cats, it is our innate disregard for the known; our pessimistic outlook which disallows us to see the constant good of everyday. A black cat stares intently at a candle’s flame, evaluating whether to take a closer look. Consumed by curiosity, the cat is blind to the surrounding good. Spring flowers, butterflies, and green grass all go undetected to the cat’s narrow fixation.

Almost The beauty of Earth is the almost of its fullness. The morning grass almost full of its morning dew, The leaves so--I sneeze-- almost full. Looking back up the dew is gone. The late afternoon sun almost spreads its warmth evenly, Almost every being feeling its love. I close my eyes to take it in. The warmth escapes me and when I open my eyes, The morning dew almost runs Down my almost bare feet again. Sometimes I wish I could just stop, But like almost every moment in life, I must move on. It’s like we’re almost present in every moment, but never fully there. What is truly beautiful that lasts?

Misery Her mind forms clouds As the gentle breeze brings butterflies That take her to misery-- Drowning in thoughts of those That give her jitters and tingles.

The Black Room Sitting in front of the zebra in silence. I approach closer to the other side, Unnoticeable. I swiftly move my pieces with an elegance. Every step is precisely calculated. I know that one mistake will be the end. I cleverly and immaculately play the game. I smirk, I persuade the opponent into thinking that I am a zebra. The taste of victory Gallops next to the knights, and the shops. Nothing less but finishing at the top. The Zebra arrives. I turn into a black lion with manes of fire. My heartbeat is visible in the veins of my eyes. Stunned, not believing that I captured the king, I take a deep breath.

Shark Week For one week of the year My fame over rides your fear. Living in the shadows I won’t be oppressed by your hatred. You’re gonna need a bigger boat.

I Remember Everything Still I remember that moment, my Grandmother’s Raspy voice: Look around, it’s almost our turn. Excited, toes wrinkling, soft Sorel Caribou boots retaining My warmth. I push my mittens through the snow, as Evergreen trees surround me, hefty with laughter. My eyes peer down the lengthy slope, heart Beating rapidly, a family of snow Eagles cruising together in unison, the sun’s Radiant beams striking the ground. Ecstatic, when my grandmother whispered, Very well, it's time. Her voice Echoing, as the skis bounced off white, granite Rocks, wind howling in my face. I Yearned for this moment, the line of Trees seemingly infinite, my Grandma’s Heartened laughter, the memory I would conceive like a child. Now, years later, staring at the photo... Grandma, I miss you. Softly, I hear, Very well, it's time. I Touch the snow, feel its resentment. I am lured by deception’s breath, Licked by the salivating tongue. Lonely, I plunge into its mouth.

What He Wants A field past the house entertains the curious feline but he has become bored with the all too simple daisy’s. The flowers are dead through winter so what is there to do when he isn't allowed in the house? How will he keep engaged? He desperately craves a loving rub on the nose. He follows the glow to the house looking inside. He wants the warmth of someone holding him. Some people to bring him in from isolation.

Wings What did man do when they saw the first butterfly? Did they swat it away and break its wings like my dog, Or did they admire the stripes and colors on its back? When I first saw a butterfly, I’ve been told that I tried to eat it, the black and orange stripes Must have reminded me of the candy corn I had eaten during Halloween. Part of me Still remembers my mom’s screams As I tried to take a bite out of a tasty looking wing.

Forsaken                                   The smoke still gets in.                                                                                                           The spark from the flame, Is the only color that God                                                            Has forsaken me to see; It burns.                              How am I alone to hinder         ...

Or, But Even though my aspirations Have never been as exciting, I’ve always wondered how An astronaut decides His sleep schedule. The sun does not go down For him, nor does the moon Come up to tell him goodnight. No. In orbit, we are the masters Of time and space. As the earth Rotates, he is unwary, undeterred. Hence, stuck in blissful limbo. In this way, aren’t we the very Time that we choose to worship But refuses to conviene for us? For time is simply rotation. As clockwork, we puppeteer ourselves. So, I’ll strike a point: Maybe if “Orbit” turned into “Or, but,” we’d find A divergence from this undignified Staggering to our timely aimlessness.

The White Room The silence of the room was overwhelming. The walls so white they’re blinding like fresh snow under the sun. I sit down in the clear chair at a table. I notice a chess board. The black and white squares start moving, Spinning to the silence. I focus on a chess piece: It becomes a zebra, the squares still moving Underneath. The zebra looks at me as if It was trying to tell me something. My head shakes vigorously, The silent room is filled by my submission, As if pushed by a syringe.

Alone The town is gone. The state is gone. The country is gone. Everything is gone, except for the three red trees. I do not want to die like this. There are sounds coming from the red trees. Click-Clack. Click-Clack, then a long burrrrrrrrr. The stars and moon have disappeared, I do not want to die like this. The trees suck up all of our purpose And spit out the leftovers of what they Don't want. They want to shine. I do not want to die like this.

Quicksand It's not the snow, Or the fluorescent glow, As it radiates off the mountains, It's not the satisfying palette Of blues, greens, and white, It's that ghostly invitation to disappear, To wander outdoors, Embrace the elements, To be swallowed, In the mouth of it all. I press my nose against the glass, The chill, a fresh change of pace. The pine trees, their dusting of snow, Drawing me closer, Pulling me away, Relieving all of my innocence. Some may call it wanderlust, Others just say I’m crazy, But I can't shake the feeling That something is drawing me, Pulling me, begging me, To crawl into its mouth, I’ll let it drag me along its teeth. I'll let it lure me past its tongue.

First Monkey : What ever happened to Emme Gravely? Second Monkey : We buried her in self-doubt, remember... First Monkey : So she could dwell on everything she says….now I remember. How did we do that? Second Monkey : We just introduced her to her own shame. First Monkey : Oh yeah, we gave her the mirror her mother used to own... Second Monkey : And chained her down, forced her to stare into it.

I despise my joy, everyday. Looking out the window hopeful, As if the view would change: The same blue sky and sea. The other day, I was given a book; The Brueg(H)el Phenomenon . I scamper acrylicly. I come across a painting. Two monkeys sit chained together. I tear the page out, and tell the guard, Dispose of the rest. I ask the monkeys, Where should I put you? By the window , they plead. Now, we are all sedated. They whisper to me, 729 days, 23 hours, 58 minutes, 42 seconds.

I envy my past And I imagine the migrating birds, The docked ships and the awaiting passengers. I can see everything that is out of my reach Like the monkeys see their chains and then the blue outside. My tail is tied to the concrete of my castle Bound to the people around me. Chaos isn't a pit, it's a ladder. Now my imagination belongs to the birds.

I sit on the edge of the chair, in my dark living room, lit only by the sun. I peer at the window where my two monkeys are chained up. The van is about to get here, to ship away the last two pieces left from my family. I hope they love their new home as much as they loved living in mine: I hope that they are chained where they cannot move out of a 3 foot diameter. I hope they are researched and tested as every piece of their body is picked apart. I hope they are prodded with instruments from untrained professionals, I hope they suffer like I suffer.

They stare at me with beady eyes. I think they’re plotting a pandemic. Suddenly I’m thankful for that chain, Limiting their power of ignorance, Saving me from their luxury. We all longingly look out the window, Wishing we could surrender, To this room, this tower. The chains rust and rub their wrists raw. I circle the room again, Hoping to find it, Even though I don’t know what it is. Instead I reach out to them, Thinking we’d thrive together. They turn away, Consumed in their own simplicity. They know how to escape, I’m sure of it. They’ll leave me, No goodbyes, no second thoughts, I’ll be left to rot, with just the scars Across my legs, distinct memories, From my negligence, and their deception.

I stubbornly refuse to believe That at one point within my lineage, Or if I switched garments with My ancestor, that the creature In the skyview may not look So different after all. The primate, Solely fixated on me, as if he knew Of my morbid discriminatory nature, Stared at me with wonder, too, A wonder that could've dreamed, Talked, breathed and lived. No wonder Curious George was always told To be a good little monkey.

I chained the monkeys. They stare at me, that sickly gleam. I spit to the ground they walk on, foul creatures. They ask why the prodigal son, the evolved man that has returned to their jail: I tell them, “I came to tighten your chains.” They shriek in sloth as tourists take photographs of their ecstasy.

“These seniors think they have it bad today, but seniors at their age were sent away to war,” some random guy on facebook claimed as if out of his own experience. Thus every somber heart must share the blame, for someone felt sorrow far more intense. Why disprove our sadness, we’re the same. Coming together for this makes more sense.

I have been spending time in my house exploring the depth of my rooms. The light flickers and when it dims it leaves my mind in darkness. Everyday I am learning something new about myself. Apparently I like sushi. I'm a fast reader. I like to listen to Chopin and write poems. The TV remote has curves on it. My desk is divided into 3 geometric shapes. I can live in this house. I am a house. My consciousness is like a candle in the wind. Everything else lies in the shadows But they are there. I am this candle flickering, I am the hallway's shadows, this empty room.

The wind flies in from the east with purpose, But not one filled without intent. It’s voice coarse, like the pitbull in my neighbor’s lawn, Gasping for air as the spike collar sinks into its throat. I know it has seen some things, No different than he who owns the mutt. To muzzle the noise, I turn To the white collar media panitng over its ratings The lives of the old sickened dogs. But still, it’s muffled by the barking tyrant. I want to establish a villain. One who I can blame for robbing me of my time, When time seems chained to a limitless leash.

Dull dark snowflakes, overwhelmed with the rigid expectations of a new decade, Hang in the air, waiting for spring to commence. I rub my eyes. Or are those flower petals? Flower petals hold endless color but these, these hold something else. Spencer? I hear the teacher say behind me. I look back at the dull screen.

I see golfers stroll by playing their balls. They are all joyful, doing something they love. Or at least that's how I want to see them. I see him stroll up the fairway, as he sports his sky blue polo with plaid black and white pants. He oozes confidence as he approaches the green. I think about after golf, as he goes home and sits with his family around the dinner table as they eat a pizza he picked up on the way in. I think about him as he wipes his nose before he shakes his neighbor’s hand. I think about him showing up to work the next day, sneezing inside a cubicle with co-workers surrounding him, who go home to their own families. After a long day, he turns the light off, walks to his childrens’ beds, and kisses them goodnight.

Funny enough, as if life’s irony Hadn’t shackled me adequately, My grade school was unfortunately Named Corona. They say the past Is far behind you, but apparently it’s The next three months, as if my Self-proclaimed “easier days” Have now morphed into the most Dreaded time of my young life. I stare into my own Zoom screen, My reflection, more weary than ever, Heavily plagued with loneliness, gifted Under-eye bags despite the ample Amount of time allocated towards rest. There is beauty in this, the way A smile turns into a fearful glance; It secretly unravels everything That I may come to regret.

It started with a cough. We took a step back. Are you feeling ok? My body just hurts. Oh god, please not my family, Not today, I need them. We are supposed to have more time. Get the thermometer. .. My legs don't seem to be working. I'm stuck, frozen with worry. Now! Only 99.4, that's better than 100. Maybe it's a cold, or the flu, Maybe he ate something bad. But if he did then I’ll get sick, We have eaten the same things. My mom grabs the phone And hands it to my dad, The room filled with dark silence. Hello, Corona hotline, how can we help you? We could all hear the operator. I've been stuffy and I have body aches My dad said, his voice was shaking. It might just be a sinus infection... Oh, ok, thank you. If you have any other questions please call back. Bye. Bye .

Puzzles, for the boredom, 1500 pieces, scattered, some chewed, A few probably in the vacuum, Engulfing us, swirling us around its insides, Deciding if we’re worthy of its protection, Only to be tossed aside, Scattered, leaving us hoping, to be put back together again, before we’re dispersed, packed back into a box. We’re stuck. Stuck accepting change, Stuck putting life on hold, Stuck with asthma and allergies, Stuck with sisters chatting, Overstepping boundaries, The cardboard edges frayed and peeling, Stuck keeping distance from dad, Stuck with dogs barking at squirrels. I’ve escaped for meer minutes, Venturing into the woods, Stopping by a murky lake, The frogs chirping, hidden in the reeves. A few pieces miraculously join, But I'm still stuck. In this box, waiting to be unpacked, Put back together.

Once you see panic, you become it. Breathing. Something so simple becomes so hard. Your heart pounds, your body shakes, and death feels tangible. You sit, legs and arms distorted. Robot-like. It’s like when your mother tells you she’s leaving. Her face as long as day. The skin on her hands pulled tight across her bones. Her body weight pushed against the side of the doorway while a smirk creeps up her cheek, as if to mock you. And you feel your hands, stiff like cold metal, your tears patient. Once you see panic, you become it.

I can’t see past the front yard. The torment that lays beyond is actually closer than I think. It could be right next to me as a matter of fact, with my father attending work. The smell of cleaning supplies and hand sanitizer pollutes the air as he speaks: I need to work from home , he thinks out loud, covering his face and muttering under his breath.

I look out my window and see that the world has been packed up to collect dust for a while, just until this clears up. There’s a bird perched on my window sill and the squirrels re hopping on the white fence. My neighbors are tucked inside. I can see them through their windows like flashes of blue light. The streets are naked and quivering.

Blank unforgivable stares in the black chair at her brown desk. Dozens of hi’s and hello’s ring out of her computer. She looks at all their faces in those tiny boxes, stuck in their boxes, living in their boxes, the boxes she carries. She carries these boxes in her pocket till the weight bares down too hard and they are put on a shelf, where they collect dust.

I can see the flowers blooming and laughter suffocating the air around me. This is just a memory. Memories are all I have now, stones thrown in a quiet pond. Ripples in the water escape back to shore and are greeted by stillness and silence. The wind and birds call out for each other but are met with no response.

I can hear the cheers and laughter. The salt taste of tears becomes sweet. The pure, and cooling wind, swiftly passing their faces. The day of replenishment is approaching. Interaction and touch, locked in a wooden box. Hearts drum the beats of fear. The angels land softly, graciously. They filter the still, contaminated waters. Vacuum the dust and grey out of the air. Sweep the lands from plastic and chemicals. Replenish the earth with new energy and matter. They are exhausted. They take the world’s debris like a blanket, travel back to the heavens, And curl back to sleep.

Cutting love on the laminated counter, you mix in Onions, peppers, celebrities, elderly. Rinsing the bowl in the sink, turning On the stove, placing us in the pan. You Never lifted the lid, until we were marinated, Arranged like lungs. You threw Vindication into the black trash can. I glanced at your recipe, Read the smudged lines. How careful your Utensil stroked the crumpled paper. Why Soften us in preparation for the freezer?