The Chronicle | Fall 2015

Chronicle Magazine

Fall 2015

CONFESSIONS

Chronicle Magazine

Editor-in-chief Managing Editor Creative Director Promotions Director Art Submissions Editor Literary Submissions Editor Merchandising Director Business Manager Layout Editor Webmaster Copy Editor

Matthew Delarosa Cody Hosek Christian Steinmetz Kristina Toney Ella Wesley Kate Thomas Kelsey Worthington Kristina Toney Larissa Barkley Emerson Smith China Moore

Staff Members John Armstrong, Tara Brown, Lauren Craig, Nicholas Frederick, Austin Hays, Lisa Imber, Katy Koon, Diana Nguyen, Kylie Raines, Rebekah Shaffer, Valerie Smith, Sara Stamatiades, Carlie Van, Everett Zuraw

Cover artwork by Lisa Imber

editor’s note Two years ago I would’ve never imagined myself in the same position as my predecessors, seated in the same spot in our Hendrix office. Back then I had just joined The Chronicle as a bright-eyed freshman—unaware of the sweat and toil that went into producing the magazine each semester and in absolute awe of the determined spirit of efficiency that I so idolized in the officers.

Even as I write this note, introducing the alluring works of poetry, fiction, and art that reveal more about the students on our campus than I could ever hope to express, the fact that I’m Editor-in-Chief still hasn’t fully sunk in.

With this newfound responsibility resting on my shoulders, I think it fitting that the first issue under my helm simply be titled “Confessions”. Clemson— and South Carolina as a whole—has had a cascade of polarizing events and tragedies within the past year, each bringing with them passionate opinions and arguments from all across the state. With such a weight upon us, I think our being able to confess through writing and art is more important than ever.

Reading this issue you will notice a fairly different style and design of the magazine than we usually have. The colors, shapes, and textures of previous semesters have been set aside for a starker, minimalist design. Confessions can be cathartic self-expressions that stand on their own, so we favored a layout that would have minimal intrusions on the power of the works we selected.

This issue’s design also evokes the feel of top secret information that is just becoming available for wandering eyes to see.

In addition to the design, publishing completely anonymous submissions is another significant risk we took. The source of a particular confession can often be just as important as the message being conveyed. However, this vulnerability carries with it the potential anxiety that can prevent the message from ever being shared at all. There is also no solid platform for anonymous confessions to be shared on campus; Yik Yak may be entertaining, but it isn’t the place for more artistic, meaningful entries. Finally, the lack of names associated with each piece imbues the entire campus with a sense of ownership of the submissions. Any person you may see in your classes or during your day-to-day activities on campus may have expressed these confessions or have ones inside that are similar, allowing this issue to truly encompass the entire student body.

Looking back on these past two years with The Chronicle and seeing where I am today, there is one confession that I’d like to share: I’m pretty terrible at internalizing things. Although some of my poems have been accepted in the past, I never really immediately felt ownership of them when I went back and read them. I tend to have a rather transient worldview, so this feeling of detachment from my work may stem from me not necessarily relating to the specific mindset I was in when I wrote it.

Strangely enough, this is a major reason why I wanted to be the Editor-in-Chief.

Because I don’t internalize things easily, I don’t feel like I’ve ever led a team to some larger artistic goal. Obviously this isn’t true, as I’ve produced many poems and led many groups over the years. Nevertheless, the feeling still stands. So, I’m excited to start leading The Chronicle to new horizons; this magazine’s success is something I’m truly passionate about and something that I will greatly cherish in the future. Confessions being a cathartic experience really rings true with me, and I think the theme acts as a cathartic expression for The Chronicle as a whole. I’m exploring new territory, the magazine is exploring new territory, and even the submissions themselves are exploring new territory.

In the end, I hope this issue represents a new creative endeavor for the magazine as well as a podium from which the anonymous, artistic confessions collected within these pages can be heard. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

Matthew Delarosa

What’s never said Is it really lying If it’s never said?

A sin of omission, as my priest would say.

I have not confessed in years, Since college at least.

I know that they would scoff And quote long passages: (Wo)man shall not lie with (Wo)man.

What about men who lie to men?

I wear my letter with the pride That comes in the colors, Like rainbow and rainbow.

Everyone sees it.

Somehow.

No one understands Silently chastising Campus must be Holy Ground Zero.

Automatons are walking to and fro, Voting Red and pr(e)aying hard What if our baker in the sky Used the wrong cookie cutter on me?

Whoops…

Better not fall in love with a girl Because that is wrong!

Don’t it feel wrong?

Not to me it don’t.

Well all have a confession; Mine’s just right here.

[7]

Unzipped

[8]

Gal Pals

[9]

Girls Loving Girls Hidden beneath the starry rainbow light, two worlds collide, but can you see? No one hears or speaks what’s lost in this secret place.

What is gained by this chemical stardust?

I touched your breast without effort—searching, the comet sings pain’s passionate kiss; rapid, fiery maw consumes the fear of night.

Buried alive, but left alone to mourn the lie; we drift through the craving for that which is not inherently good in their blind sight.

Who can judge, or trust, the truth to be told of love, of faith, of what is right or wrong; from what I have seen it does not exist.

I kissed your mouth; you crumbled from the weight, this sex you were forbidden to answer for: hearts and souls, the substance, sorrow’s voice.

Cupid’s plight—a broken arrow poorly notched; rent through air, sent along a crooked path, split apart on the course and shot clean through.

Hidden beneath the starry rainbow light Two worlds collide. Girls loving girls.

[ 10 ]

SNAKES IN MY HEAD My father said to me “All women have snakes in their heads,” after my mother divorced him.

“And one day, you will grow to have snakes in your head too.”

At four years old, I nodded with agreement.

My stepfather said to my brother “Grown men aren’t supposed to play with stuffed animals,” on the day he married my mother.

“It’s time to let your balls drop.”

At seven years old, he didn’t know he was gay yet.

My grandpa said to me “Your tits feel really nice,” once my baby sitter dropped me off after school.

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

At nine years old, my lips were sealed.

My boyfriend said to me “I love you with all my heart,” when I caught him cheating on me.

“I’m truly sorry, give me another chance.”

At sixteen years old, I was lucky to be loved like that.

My reflection said to me “Your stomach’s too large and your hips are too wide,” before I walked down the aisle.

“God has blessed you with a man to keep your ugly ass in shape.”

At twenty-two years old, the surveyor within me was male.

[ 11 ]

Untitled

[ 12 ]

Untitled

[ 13 ]

“take Notes” I cannot trust nuns/virgins/fugitives p 869 I met Galileo p 191 Derrida --> natural p 63 Phallic symbol filled with little people p 18 Mental contraception p 10 We know each other – sex, acquaintances p 68 For Shakespeare, nature is kind of porn-y p 100 Small --> big p 111 The New Orgasm Satisfaction of the mind, then sex p 70 Mutual enjoyment p 23 Intellectual sex p 890 kings have small penises p 8

[ 14 ]

Collison Certainty The Andromeda and Milky way galaxies are on an inevitable collision path—something that won’t happen in my lifetime or yours, separated by concept and reality by billions of years but that’s not the point.

The swinging arms of this celestial body are like drunk dancers and needy lovers and andromeda moves like ripples in closed spaces and other things that are more contained than I am so what I’m saying is I’m half a bottle in and my medication makes my heart feel like midwinter shivers and I’m on a collision course with you—something I can see from a billion miles away, distance is arbitrary but I can see it coming and I can’t make myself move out of the way. You’re looking inward, spiraled down inside your own star paths and asteroid belts and I’m reeling outward like drunk drivers or existential philosophers after midnight and I want you to know that it’s coming. Because you’re a childish kind of self absorbed and I’m a reckless kind of giving, reaching out into space without looking first and we’re bound to make the stars shiver and tremble and burn and I want you to be ready for that. For what us will be like— because it’ll be close to crying late afternoon loneliness and the bitter aftertaste of strawberry vodka and me being too much and you never being enough and if we’re lucky, only if we’re lucky, it’ll be something more beautiful than terrible.

[ 15 ]

Night-Day

[ 16 ]

cinematography The movie of my life was a soft image— like an 80s film, depicting the 60s it had a pale, grainy hue but it hurts my head to watch it now this 3D sci-fi thriller it really hurts it there’s red so much red red on my white comforter dropping on the hardwood leaking down my arm from the scars I cut open myself purple purple and blue on my hips or my legs because black blacked out again and again and again because not remembering how you got home is better than remembering when you did but someone someone was with you blue

[ 17 ]

blue skies mocking blue eyes looking at you and telling you that you are safe but you cannot believe them you will not you want to but but but green green brown yellow red all of the colors of the rainbow of the foods you used to love there in the toilet bowl back again to say goodbye and I see all of this sometimes all the time when I stare in space and I see it fast too fast too bright I hate all of these futuristic blockbusters

[ 18 ]

YUP It’s funny. I never realized how wrong we were- how wrong they were. When you’re young, the sky is always blue and babies came from their mothers’ tummies, not vaginas. I used to walk in the store and run to the flashiest thing that caught my eye, like one day I could afford the entire company. My friends and I had play dates all the time after school. Now I just want a date. Dad used to be the tough guy in my opinion. He was firm and strong-like that totem pole we saw in Alaska, sturdy with a lot of different faces.

What happens when you learn the truth and carry all of his weaknesses? What happens when bear hugs downgrade to one arm? It’s okay-I have my mom. But wait, she’s confused too. “Where’s your father?” she asks. I thought parents had all the answers and were supposed to know what to do. I tell her it’s the top button on the remote. Sometimes, the receiver turns off. Let’s talk the future.

They can’t breathe anymore. I can’t help them and they can’t help me. “Please try to understand.” But they don’t. They listen and can’t hear me. It’s not their fault the world works this way. Time and technology are against them. There are no more traditions for me. It’s just a bunch of excess noise that clouds my moderate lifestyle. My mind is screaming for innocence, for playfulness, and time outs. I cannot reminisce when it can never exist again. There’s no more trust! It will always be distorted so I’m alone here, like everyone else. Because they knew one day I would see dad eat Santa’s cookies, learn how to spell N-A-P-T-I-M-E, accept love at first sight is a fallacy, and know that I can’t be whatever I want to be when I grow up. “How’s college?” they ask.

[ 19 ]

Untitled

[ 20 ]

Discourse with the dead

At last it’s quite decided, My mind is this big book, Filled with verse, a grand discourse, On the journey I partook.

Well we’ll take your words and twist them, We’ll make music of your sighs, Dance and jig to each sad whim, And love what you despise.

Either way it does not irk me, I write to pass the time, And heaven knows, a bit of prose, Can heal an aching mind.

Well then we’ll take your thoughts and apply them, To our petty little lives, We’ll read as though we wrote our own, And for you we’ll compromise.

Again I am not bothered,

Not bothered in the slight,

The monster Years can’t wipe your tears, But poetry just might.

Well maybe we’ll take pity, On the sorrowed life you led, We’ll thank the stars that it’s not ours, And that we’re not yet dead.

A charming idea you’ve conjured, Flattering at best,

But once again, might I chime in,

At least I have some rest.

[ 21 ]

Untitled

[ 22 ]

Counting twonobody remembers how old they were when they were two except it’s the most even-tempered of numbers

two children, two parents, two home two birthday parties- one for family, and of course one for friends two pets, two cars, two television sets too privileged to not be living it all out in odd numbers where that outstanding last digit upsets the whole flow three and five and seven and so on were unbalanced unequal and unfair but I grew up with two and two was the most even-tempered of numbers threethree has its bumps, a hitch in its pattern that keeps it from completing the circle like a waistband on those jeans that are too tight now, that don’t fit anymore pulling you tightly into the middle then pushing you right back out onto your original track three is an interruption just look at its shape not necessarily a bad interruption, but a hindrance nonetheless three is what she counted to when we wouldn’t get off swingsets because nobody ever wants to stop playing three is the calm before the storm, the deep breath before the leap On the count of three comes the action three is when you move, change, grow, run, kiss, leave, go you think there is a set pathway and suddenly you are flung in an entirely different direction before you are set back down and can carry on with your journey because three is an interruption

[ 23 ]

fourfour looks like the prongs on a utensil he used to flip the burgers in the backyard we sat on a checkered blanket, penciled somewhere on the horizon between the greenest of grass and the bluest of sky four burgers meant one for you and one for you and one for you and one for me we didn’t need noise because the summer crickets were enough sometimes, after grilling, we fell asleep in right angles on the edges of the blanket four of us a corner for each mustard stains on the tips of our chins fivefive is the place where time halted because its start was flat and true but the bottom rounded out into a crescent shape, altogether smooth and altogether contradictory from its top counterpart and when you were five years old, you grabbed School Bus Yellow in your grubby fist and contributed five stick figures to the expensive living room abstract art and our mother responded, whipping five words like knives from her disciplinary tool-belt and we thought the curved, supple earth, the flexible love of that mother, the bottom of that five had given way to that sharp, angry line on top, the daggers that shot from her eyes, the straight School Bus Yellow streaks across your living room canvas You’ll notice there is no number “one” And that’s because there is no one thing There are many, many things I could go on Six then seven then twelve then thirty-two then ninety then four thousand seven hundred and eight So there isn’t and wasn’t “one” thing for me There have always been many But at that age, I could only count to infinity

[ 24 ]

Freckles I wish you would stop asking me if I’m sober— I can hear you fine with my red wine stained lips.

I’ll cry as I wipe at your face— I can’t see your freckles. I need too.

You’ll grab at my arms and tell me to stop.

The same arms that were yours; cashmere hugs and four collective hands across the dining room table— you remember. That night we were all hands and lips and cheekbones.

You cried and I leaned my face against yours. Two wet cheeks. I told you that you were enough. Always enough—you remember. Please let me wipe all of this away so I can see your freckles.

[ 25 ]

Man in the Moon

[ 26 ]

Untitled you have cotton candy thighs that dissolve on his tongue and lips that taste like lemonade on a 90 degree day and you’re light brown hair blowing over your shoulder from a cool breeze touching your tongue and tangling through your open mouth because you’re laughing and you’re a white t-shirt and yellow flowers pushing up against the grass and rain after weeks of an empty sky and everyone wants to drink you up; they melt under your fingertips you are paint stained hands and peppermint tea and strawberry ice cream and then you meet this guy and you let him touch you and he sets you on fire and suddenly you’re a girl who likes the heat and won’t run when a room is full of smoke and you’re coughing up ashes and you think you’re brave but you’re just dark and hard and cold and empty and you’ve got a heart that can’t love anything but fire and boys who play with lighters

[ 27 ]

Addicted

[ 28 ]

Free Rotation

[ 29 ]

moonshine rider Toxic every time In every way Poisonous and flesh Eating Like an open wound, like running mascara The stars burn out And the moon melts into the deepest waters Leaving nothing But your reflection A sinner and a desire A cigarette That smokes itself Fresh mint and the smell of coca cola To cover those broken promises “Quick” “Here she comes” Do you see walruses?

Playing guitar and drinking Moonshine Wasted, dirty You lean against the wall Blood stains and cuts surrounding your hand’s Skin Sex lingers And stilettos wander off with its pair of hot legs And a faded skirt It’s like drinking your juices And spitting tobacco You are mephitic, acidic But I still want you Words Vomit The way a dealer would sell Moonshine In your truck with empty bags Of sunflower seeds and avocado peels You just want one touch Of me Because I’m contagious like you are dark Pass me the bottle Let us regret it all one day Let us ride [ 30 ]

Summer starvation Runs Get up—early.

Temperatures read nineties, hot but not impossible.

No eating for twelve hours.

Hopefully more.

You only consume 700 kilocalories anyway.

You feel a little weak, but not tired.

Your shoes feel comfortable— Ready.

First, your mouth fills with sticky saliva.

Later it fills with bile.

Your body hesitates to sweat.

If it gives up its water there will be nothing left.

The empty stomach a stone, contracting on air.

So instead of sweat you burn, I burn.

The body warms quickly.

Muscles burning with heat, exertion, and sweet, sweet, lactic acid.

Bubbling under the skin’s surface.

In the dermis?

Hopefully. Not quite. But it feels that way.

Then the pain.

Breath ragged, a tight fist grasping the stomach, Tighter than a pyloric sphincter, reaching up the esophagus.

Tight.

You start swallowing the sticky taste.

Metallic taste.

Did I bite my tongue?

No. Just a little iron flavor. Ignore it.

Swallow, swallow.

The body’s feeble hope that the next one will bring sustenance.

It’s not rewarded.

Heat.

That’s when you notice the sweat.

It always gives it up.

Too much work not to.

It pours from your arms, neck, forehead. Into your eyes.

Salt on your tongue.

Salty iron.

If you were bloated before, it’s impossible by now.

Can’t retain water in the heat.

Mile three.

You’ll force out five.

Maybe a cool down?

Depends on the hunger.

Will I be numb or in pain? [ 31 ]

A lack of nerves will keep me going.

You feel the sweat because the pain—once unendurable—has faded.

It leaks into the head.

The fuzzy, fuzzy thoughts.

You forgot what clarity was.

To not have to fight through explanations.

Not enough glucose intake.

Worth it.

For control.

Then it’s like a cloud.

You can’t think, you can’t feel, Your legs are running on acid and you tongue is stuck to your mouth.

So you revel in flying.

Going and going and going.

Until…

You know when it hits.

The fluffy feelings turn to cramps. To confusion.

To Way Too Light Fainting in the street is bad.

Very bad.

So that’s when five miles may become four.

Or three.

Did I pass three?

Done.

You go home and drink water.

Drink away the pain, Drink away the sticky taste, Drink away the iron.

But the floating persists.

Because it has nothing to chase it away.

If you ate now the bile would return with vengeance.

The stomach is closed. Too contracted.

You had to force in the water.

So you float.

Sit—don’t fall.

Float quietly. Your body is tired but you made it.

Control Control Control Tomorrow, I’ll do sprints. [ 32 ]

[ 33 ]

There’s no Words

[ 34 ]

In a kitchen Somewhere, sometime She leans over our kitchen table and lets her hair down It is a light brown curtain, woven from straw and sorrow It hides her face from the buzzing bulb overhead and the gray rain tapping at our jailcell window She smells of bargain store perfume and sleepless nights and worthiness that was earned and not given From what I can see, she is cut into fragments by her own hanging brown threads, so I have to examine each bit of her one at a time I spy a small ear too full of biting words and harsh music I spy a freckled nose infiltrated one too many times with urban stenches I spy a forehead bristled permanently with anticipation and unwelcome worry I spy shut eyes that clench themselves tightly against ugliness, trying to replace an outer lack of color with her own shade of black I spy such hardened features I want to weep for her.

But then I gently take her broken pieces and I arrange them into a puzzle on our table and at first I see a fuzzy picture and then abruptly, she comes into focus and I see her.

I really see her.

She shines. She glimmers. She shimmers. She is unmistakably divinity itself.

Her absolute, untouchable beauty strikes me squarely.

She knocks the breath from me.

I suddenly think that maybe her shattered bits are the only real radiance that matters in this entire world.

[ 35 ]

Beware of breakage

[ 36 ]

my nighttime secret I’m ashamed to say it, but I talk in my sleep. I didn’t believe my roommate when he first told me. I wrote it off as his sleep paralysis mixing with an overactive imagination to make a cocktail of delusion.

I was drinking my coffee when he broke the news to me, and I felt a chill run down my back. I became defensive, worried I let one of my deepest secrets out. You know, the kind you pray blacked-out-drunk you doesn’t ever say under any circumstances.

“What did I say?” I asked, terrified of his answer.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t understand, but I remember thinking it wasn’t gibberish. You were very clear.”

I was relieved to know my deep obsession with girls in rompers was still safe.

He told me about an app for my phone that records sounds through the night. It was built specifically to capture the things sleep-talkers say.

Two nights went by before we actually got a real recording that wasn’t one of us coughing or rolling around. It was a quick recording that started with a moan, followed by a deep sigh, and finally me saying something.

“Moshi moshi, otosan,” sleep-me said.

Nothing in life can prepare you for hearing yourself talk in your sleep.

It’s your voice, for sure, but not your thoughts.

“Woah,” my roommate said. “You sound so Asian.”

I shook my head dismissively. I am not, nor ever have been Asian. But the more I listened to it, the more I agreed with him. He picked up my phone, played the recording, and typed a rough transcription into the nearest computer. He found out that “moshi moshi” is the customary phone greeting in Japan, and Otosan is Japanese for father.

Apparently my dad called.

We recorded the following night as well, and were surprised to find

[ 37 ]

an even longer recording waiting for us when we got up. I was having a conversation with myself. We translated it as best we could: I asked directions to the Shinjuku Avenue train station, said thank you, and fell back into a quiet sleep.

It all made some sense in hindsight. My brother loves everything Japanese, and when we were in high school, he bought a set of Japanese language CDs. They had phrases and sayings you could repeat again and again until you eventually learned enough to have a relatively normal conversation with a native speaker.

I would occasionally wake up with my headphones and CD player right next to me, but I never actually brought them to bed. Sleep-me must have walked across the hall and borrowed my brother’s CDs to teach himself Japanese.

Another week passed without a useable recording. We were patient, though.

“Kon’nichua,” a voice said. It wasn’t either of ours, and it sounded like it was coming from a computer.

The voice tore off into a long block of Japanese words neither of us could follow.

Sleep-me said a few words that I was able to write down and eventually look up. They included: house, the riverfront, and the phrase, “I promise an honorable deal.”

We soon figured out that Sleep-me was buying and selling Japanese real estate, primarily in the Chiba Prefecture. It explained why we had been receiving mail from a Mr. Yoshimata, and why my credit card was once cut off after a shop in Tokyo charged me for neckties.

For the most part, life remains the same: my roommate still occasionally wakes up to midnight renditions the traditional folk song “Sakura Sakura”, and I once woke up in my suit on flight 471 to Kansai International Airport. But really, who hasn’t?

[ 38 ]

UNTITLED Mid-winter sigh around your to-go tea the cup is too hot to hold you do anyway the morning is curling up your spine like a bad cold you don’t know how to shake can’t shake me—memory of me in your nail polish color passenger side door wine-stain and the fresh blush on your neck chest fluttering with your heavy breath last night I’m mouthing at your skin you don’t self-identify as anything other than “dick loving” and try as you might you can’t erase the sounds you made gay is not a disease you caught—I need you to know that. The cup burns your palms and I am curved, moving in small circles, lipstick stain on your jaw. Can’t erase that.

[ 39 ]

Beauty of the sublime

[ 40 ]

I had a penny left

[ 41 ]

“BE CAREFUL, YOU ARE EASILY TEMPTED.” Panda Express—Panda Inn tempt-ation curling in the backseat, leftover take out and the sweater I borrowed last week—a half empty bottle of honeyed jack it’s not the real stuff but it goes down easy when I park near the river-near the bank of red dirt and blue blue water that looks deep enough to sink in I am so far gone now. So far off the road—the headlights are cutting through the edge of vision hazy like late day drinking I think I’m Oscar Wild wilding after you, evolved past alcoholics anonymous—resistant to antibiotics I cannot stay away from you is this what they call love.

[ 42 ]

Untitled

[ 43 ]

Am now I do so easily—drinking to sleep in the quiet chaos of a mind mindful of the candles burning by my bedside the world feels too heavy to hold some nights.

Everything is condensed to pot smoke and strawberry vodka—the fleeting dream of being loved—the movie buffering in slow circles—I have stopped pretending to be, am now only this.

Small balcony in fading light the sky is flushed purple like a new bruise like a morning glory like the skin beneath my eyes I am lost found nothing but a carton of cigarettes crushed beneath a car seat and a concert ticket now taped to my mirror I am Iam The drinking makes it easier The drinking makes it easier—even my fingertips grow numb in the dark. I am dark now in the dark how stars are am now only this.

[ 44 ]

Had i Loved Her Had I loved her, I would have described her eyes as illuminating.

They seemed to radiate sunlight, as if that was what her very soul was made of.

They were the color of life and of springtime, The color nature adorns when it leaves behind the barren wasteland of winter.

They contained such warmth you could not help but feel as if you were right where you needed to be.

In her eyes, you were home.

But I didn’t love her.

So I’ll describe her eyes as predominately greenish hazel.

Had I loved her, I would have described her personality as beaming.

Not only did she light up a room, but she made you feel welcome too.

As if you had been personally invited to partake in her joy.

Maybe it had to do with the way she looked at you, Into your very soul.

Oh, and now I’m back to her eyes, which shone with such ferocity and sense of purpose that you could not help but feel empowered too.

But I didn’t love her.

So I will describe her personality as friendly.

Oh, and her hair! What could I say about her hair, if I had loved her.

It fell from her head like a glistening waterfall hit by a tornado. Her curls were Perfectly defined, placed in such a way you could tell it just came naturally.

Had I loved her, I would have wanted nothing more than to run my fingers through it all day and all night.

But I didn’t love her.

So I will say it was brown and curly.

Had I loved her, I would have adored her brain: the magnificent way it wondered at all life’s beauty and mystery.

And the way she always tried to think of ways to help others.

And the way she didn’t need to think about it at all. It was simply instinct.

But I suppose that more describes her heart, which was so enormous and full of love, it couldn’t help but overflow into everything and everyone around her.

You could just tell she was placed on earth to make others feel loved.

A love more than love. [ 45 ]

Compassion.

Empathy.

Understanding.

But I didn’t love her.

Maybe I hated her, for her beauty and for her goodness.

Maybe I hated her because of the way she never made me feel inadequate, even though I could never be worthy of her affection. I was just a busted drug dealer, a lowly waiter, going nowhere fast.

She believed in me and I hated her for it.

Now that we are free, she can carry on to spread her unending enthusiasm for life with the rest of humanity.

I can go back to being happy and ignorant of the possibilities that life can present if you have a little faith.

All the same, I’ll never be able to forget the way her eyes shone when she cried and the steely resolve in her voice as she said goodbye for the last time.

Despite her heartbreak, she still said she loved me.

And I believe her.

I shattered her trust and stole her innocence.

For that I will always hate myself.

Because I did love her With the entirety of my incredulous heart.

A heart that couldn’t love itself.

A heart that will haunt me forever.

March 13th, 2015 Airplane to India Gazing at the sunset over the horizon, while the towns below lit their fires to prepare for nightfall. [ 46 ]

one to twerk, two to tango You can’t twerk in an airplane bathroom Or even turn around in here You can’t inhale through your nostrils The sink - completely covered in puke And so is half the floor Flying disagrees with someone When did you agree to this?

Shudder, revulsion, Germ-x, sting “Fuck you, paper cut” – you think “Fuck you, Pablo Picasso” – you say All the art in Barcelona wasn’t worth this hellish trip She saw each masterpiece Surviving time and taste And all those pictures saw her die Deadpan crime, in selfish haste Neither party changed expression Neither party even blinked You’re halfway home and halfway dreaming Reality and not combine The flight attendant coughs blood on your pasta “I said ‘parmesan,’ not tuberculosis, please.”

“My mistake.”

She hacks cheese instead.

“You wanna know something about cats?” she spews, “ They can jump seven times their height.”

“It would seem so,” you correct, “they’re really just pulled up by their strings.”

Those puppet cats have claws and those puppet girls have hidden scissors To detach when they’re detached On Monday your marionette felt her wooden heart beat “It’s a metronome - won’t vary, can’t care” How dare you cuss out Picasso?

How dare you recall a dead girl’s tears?

“She was so strong,” they’ll say “Wooden, you mean.”

[ 47 ]

Tangle

[ 48 ]

Feathers

you crack me up

memories of the honeysuckle bush that killed me [ 49 ]

fields of Stone Walking through fields of cold marble and stone Wind’s icy clutch rends over scattered air Rustling leaves of summers past, dead and gone Serve as reminders and making aware There once was life, now buried in the ground There once was love, but now is not allowed Hollow dreams, shadows of what once was dear Executed in the silence of night The sorrow of loss, now my burden to bear My grief too shallow to find what was right There once was life, now buried in the ground There once was love, it now cannot be found A distant memory of passion’s flame Lingers on the tip of my sanity I long to feel its ardent heat again No longer this cold, constant apathy There once was life, now buried in the ground There once was love, now in sorrow drowned One day, one moment was given to chance Like a greed stricken thief, death would steal My life, my love, methodical romance Ripped from my chest, only time will heal There once was life, now buried in the ground There once was love, but now is not allowed

[ 50 ]

focus.

My eyes are glued, like the time Ella got super glue on her fingers, to this stale idea of what I should be focusing on.

It’s hard to focus, of course.

I don’t have the drugs or the will to care about much other than myself.

I’m trying to learn how to break out of that but it’s a hard thing to pull oneself out of efficiency.

I had to type that in to make sure I was spelling it right for something else.

I keep telling myself and the blogs and articles and people keep telling me that I’m getting smarter.

But I can’t spell efficiency.

I just know how to use my resources.

What was I looking at?

Focus.

Write things down, lay out your options, compare them, don’t think so fast.

That’s what mom would always say “You just think faster than you talk” t-t-thanks m-mom. I love you.

Focus.

It’s hard to focus when I could go watch more porn,

[ 51 ]

when it’s so easy to entertain myself, when the alternatives are better than bettering myself.

Wh y why w hy wh y w hy is my only means of expression self hate is a strong word but I really really can’t focus.

I’m too old to keep wasting away on image macros and too young to have true mobility away from this lifestyle.

I need to prepare for … something.

It’s hard to do that when the thing that’s coming hasn’t popped over the horizon yet.

But it’s coming and it’s loud and incredibly fast. I don’t know what it is but I am focusing on the sound.

The ringing in my ears that keeps me awake at night frustrated with my choices.

The fucks I missed.

The shots I blew.

The shots I took.

It’s all behind me but it’s all I have for sure.

Maybe the tattoo on her arm wasn’t so wrong after all. hope That might be the thing on which to focus.

[ 52 ]

nonstop

Re-reading your letters When everyone else has nestled down into their dreams and all the world is still I sit down each night squeeze shut my eyes in preparation inhale, 1, 2, 3 then I pop them open and begin to scan For hours I glide my hands over your dark pencil marks Working down page after page after page hoping your writing will reach through the pads of my fingers, curl up my forearm, stream through my shoulders, and barrel straight into my heart I caress your lines until my skin and spirit turn matching shades of gray, I am hunting for sheets to dog-ear with love I am searching for words to imprint in my mind I am longing for phrases to call favorites but nobody is brave enough to break it to me that you can’t have favorites in a language you don’t understand [ 53 ]

Pink Giraffes in Yellow Rooms Pink giraffes in yellow rooms, walking on the doors. Orbed helmets on each face, they were anomalies in outer space.

A green bear floating through the stars, mocking the righteous crew. They gave chase, as they were taught.

Too hard, too fast the rocket ship zoomed.

Straight into Mars they flew. Were they doomed?

A sudden landing, a startled lot.

Giraffes on Mars, an interstellar debut.

The crowd applauds, the credits roll away.

A man in the back gets mad and cries, “Hey, you!

Does it make you mad that the pink bouquet does not match the pink helmets which do not match the pink giraffes?” “I am livid”, I say

[ 54 ]

third world reality

“To my ungrateful ass of a neighbor who called my house once and told my mom I smoked the weed and who actually uses the phrase get off my lawn�

I ran over your dog Scooby.

Ruh-roh raggedy old man.

[ 56 ]

Inmate 1927-0245 They said I drowned a man in his sleep They said, they said, they said so many things In this prison I lay my mind to keep It’s amazing the peace that madness brings.

Late one night in the old abandoned shed He said, he said, he said, “I want you to—“ and I did, but not because he said, but because it hurt, because it was true.

The night sang a melody, soft and still.

He said, he said, he said don’t break inside; He whispered possessions that made me feel a pain I hadn’t known before—Jekyll meet Hyde.

Morning brought with it the breaking of day She said, she said, she said no, she said no.

I want to believe the things that they say I died that day, more than a year ago.

They said I drowned a man in his sleep They say, they say, they say so many things.

A mad cat, a pistol, sowing what you reap— I can’t remember, have we ever met?

[ 57 ]

weird self portrait

[ 58 ]

the way i like it Ha. Jokes on you brother.

You thought I was loving it. And I was - but not for the reason you thought.

I was loving it because I was fucking you and fucking you hard. I fucked you until you couldn’t see straight and you knew I was good.

You asked me how I was doing, and I said nothing, but not for lack of breath.

Truth is, I was fine. A word you really don’t want describing how you make love. Who wants ‘fine’?

Well, I do. Because then I am in control.

I know what I’m doing with you. I know how to move my body for you. But I am not in ecstasy like you hoped. I am not writhing with pleasure.

No – instead I am staring at your closed eyes, (counting the minutes until I know you will finish inside of me) waiting for you to finish inside of me so I can make my claim.

That I fucked you. But you can’t say the same about me.

Because you came while I went nowhere and that’s the way I like it.

[ 59 ]

fetus box

[ 60 ]

Dear grandma Dear Grandma, I must confess that every time I look at you, I bury you six feet under the ground.

It hasn’t always been like this. One day I looked up, and suddenly realized that you are old. Ancient. I realized that your voice shakes and one eye is smaller than the other.

Realizing how old and fragile you are was like realizing that I was listening to commercials on the radio, wondering how long it had been since the music stopped.

I was startled by your oldness like I am annoyed by the voices of men who want me to buy cars from them.

“There’s something inside me,” you told me once, “That’s killing me. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

Can you blame me?

One day last summer I visited a nursing home just for fun. On the way there, I passed a road named Snail’s Pace Lane. I really enjoyed the conversations I had with the two old ladies who were not dozing and drooling and farting and “watching” the Voice in the living room.

I planned to go back. I even told the sweet ladies that I would be back to see them many times that summer.

But I couldn’t get the smell of that place out of my nose for days, and I couldn’t help thinking that it was the smell of death making its way from the inside out. So I never went back.

Grandma, every time I see you, your hands are shakier. I wonder if you ever think about what your hands used to do. The way they used to dig deep into the soil, the way they used to caress and create. Now they tremble as you try to get soup to your mouth, pretending like nobody sees the grainy wet splotches on your sagging front.

[ 61 ]

Look at your face, Grandma. What once was smooth is now rippled and droopy.

Your face looks like a map. It used to be smooth and even, but as you’ve grown older, I have zoomed in on the landscape. Each year, we get a little closer.

Look, there is a new state line between your eyebrows. You used to squint as you watched your children play in the yard, but the night your boy got lost in the woods, that line was permanently etched into you.

A little closer. There is a highway in the turkey folds beneath your chin, and a river delta has formed outside each eye that gets deeper when you laugh about the time I hid in a bush and you called the police.

A few more years. There is the street you grew up on—circling around an earlobe that now hang low, stretched out by the weight of precious gifts.

Each line takes me somewhere, tells me where you’ve been. Year after year, the landscape becomes more detailed, and eventually your skin becomes thin and papery enough to see even deeper. I see the blue veins on the tops of your fisted hand that loosely and nervously clutches a spoon as old as I am. After all these years, I can see all the way through. All the way zoomed in, I see the veins stretch like roots all the way to your fingertips, and you curse as yet another greasy spot takes settles into the threads that cover your heart.

Yours, C.

[ 62 ]

you can search, but you will not find

[ 63 ]

bottomless It’s late summer rain, cold breathing down the neck of thunderstorms, our edges staticked and aching—I want to say I’m falling for you. Say instead that ninety five percent of the ocean is unexplored. Say the rain is picking up now. I think too much about what bottom-sea fossil-memory might still filter oxygen through heaving gills—what yawning mouth of fairytale nightmare might be curling in the ruins of Atlantis tonight I’m curling in the sheets alone, ninety five percent of us unexplored, ninety five percent of me riddled with small pockets of luminescence neither science nor you have found yet, and the salty taste of midnight ocean, where no sun has seen and are you as scared of what you might find in the dark as I am?

[ 64 ]

[ 65 ]

untitled [ 66 ]

mixtape so this Guy gave me a mix tape I said I didn’t want it but he insisted I told him no, please stop but he gave it to me anyway and made me listen I guess you could say it was like mix tape rape— ha ha I will give you a choice, though, you can listen if you want I usually listen through headphones —I can’t help it, with the songs always stuck in my head— okay, are you sure?

I’ll plug it in the aux The intro songs are pretty dark this first one kind of scares me sounds of sobs seem to echo— don’t you love the acoustics they’re using? it was recorded in a bathroom cold tile gives it that depth and if you concentrate you can hear the steady beat of her skull pounding the wall this next one’s called “Distraction” it has an international flavor it’s the perfect song to pick you up, ya know? whenever you’re feeling down? but it’s the shortest track on the whole mix tape there it goes, fading out this next one is an indie track—yeah, you’ve probably never heard of it it has a singular tune the sounds of nails and knives and bites and other self-inflicted wounds I don’t like this one either let’s skip it

[ 67 ]

these ones are all the new hits—they came out just recently here’s that one song “Loneliness”—come on, everyone knows this can you hear the wind through car windows? can you hear the heavy breathing? a little mainstream, for my taste— oh, oh, this one’s good— “Desperation” it sounds like the bathroom fan rattling, sink running, knees slamming the floor dry heaving, tears streaming because she just HAD to eat more the rhythm of this next one throws me off—it’s called “Shame and Guilt” can you tell me what the lyrics are?

Why all of that self-loathing is spilt? where all that pain comes from? here’s the slowest one on the whole tape it seems to go on forever the bass gets so low and slow like a heart that wants to quit pumping it think it’s called “Starvation” but I don’t really know wait wait wait this next one’s the best it’s called “Peace at Last” just wait, it’s so worth it, for the beat to drop— a rattle or a bang or a splash oh, you want to hear it again? unfortunately it’s been scratched you know what they say about a rape mix tape we are not meant to last

[ 68 ]

the struggle [ 69 ]

gender(less) She’s not got the words to say that she’s a hippie rock and roller with the top down, biker boots and flower crowns, the leather pants like Jagger like twenty something women in $15 cover charge clubs, heels like hell like lipstick stains like curled fists, folded wallets creaseworn and stained with eyeliner and a good song.

He can’t explain to you that pronouns to him are pointless—rock into her/his chest like easy music no matter what, what you call the ocean doesn’t make it any less vast, doesn’t make it let go of the moon, phases seasoning cycling twisting into heavy silver jewelry and tattoos about love, hasn’t understood the gender binary since discovering seventies rock, rocking into pseudo gender roles in bed and we can’t have it all now but space is endless and the universe is multilayered and somewhere we can change our skins daily to stop the itch itching behind our eyes.

They’re still trying to wrap around the thesis of being art over gender, over useless pronoun markers marking boxes that he knows mean the world to most people, but there are so many words to describe a Monet-- both the universe and our minds are conceivably endless, rivers flowing in all directions, the word for that is whirlpool the word for that is beautiful and there’s not a word to explain the truth: they don’t feel like a gender he feels like herself.

[ 70 ]

Clemson university fall 2015