Firefly

firefly

My Muse
is a firefly
& temptation tells me:
trap her,
capture her
in a jar, screw
on a lid pricked
with just enough
holes to let
her breathe—
trap her so that I can imagine
she fires for me.

But she doesn't.

Fireflies fire
from their desire,
to flee, to breed,
to be! 

So I keep 
my firefly free
of jars or nets
or any constraints,
& she flutters & floats
& flitters about
& she burns,
she burns so bright
she ignites the sky,
& sometimes I catch
her just within sight,
on my right,
& confuse her
for a meteorite—
shooting stardust:
memories
of a Universe
more ancient than gods.

My muse is
a firefly, free
to fire anywhere,
& my blessing is
that she chooses
to burn brightest
near me.

Night Falls

Night falls
& I rise
to meet her,
bury my mountains
deep, so deep
her stars burn me,
turn me, I churn
& erupt
in torrid ash clouds
& magnificent magma.

My Night erupts
simultaneously, 
pouring
forth liquid life,
cooling my fervent fire,
whetting my thirst
in rivers that flow
to form oceans
where only desert—
empty wasteland—
once stood. I would 
be nothing
without Her,
my Night
bearing the water
of Life
to this once
barren Earth—
her air fueling
my fire inducing
her water infusing
my soil seeding
her air until
Creation
has been acheived—
& I am relieved,
knowing She leaves
Me with the arrival
of the Sun,
leaves me
with reminders
of our love,
crawling, swimming,
running, flying—
filling me
until my Night
falls again,
& I rise.

Cake

Cake

Let him eat cake.
Let him gorge
himself on that
sweet confection,
until his face
explodes
in streams of
colorful confetti.

Flour, sugar, eggs, butter—
Go on. Have another!

Enjoy every morsel.
Lick every last, lingering
crumb from your filthy, 
flaccid lips.
 
You’ll never taste the icing.

Cyclops

“Stranger, you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they.”—Polyphemus

You’d like to think
me Οὖτις,
no one of consequence,
a mere Fool, lost
in the wilderness,
but you’d be wrong.

You are the one
unworthy to be
my rival, my equal,
my superior.

I may be Nobody,
but you are nothing,
nothing but an uncouth
cyclops feeding
from my crew,
coveting what is mine.

I pity you, Polyphemus
condemned to see
the world through
a hub, only fit
to cast straightforward
glances, always
missing the periphery,
blind to the Universe
outside of your myopic 
vision. 

Narrow vision leads
to a narrow mind.

& it will take nothing
but my guile
to intoxicate you,
to drive my spear
through that eye,
blind you so that even
your savage world
goes black.

Throw stones,
if you must,
curse Nobody
as if it were my name,
cry to the Gods
you have no faith in, 
shout for your father,
that wrathful Poseidon;
it will not help
your cause.

As you draw the spear
from your eye,
I will already be flying,
sailing back to my dear
Penelope. 

I will climb
the topmast
& reveal 
my true name,
you will know it,
and say it,
& curse Creation.

Cursed, perhaps
I’ll be, but I can’t
let you trap me,
even your father—
Tosser of Tempests—
can only delay
me. Nothing
can stop me,
keep me
from returning
home, returning
to the arms
of my sweet
Penelope. 

The Longest Day

Another Poem inspired by Nüt & Geb

 The Longest Day

How long must I burn
under this cruel Sun,
expose myself
to the light
when all I want
is darkness? 

I miss my Night,
cloaked in her blueblack
robe full of the infinity
of stars, spread
only for me, 
to show the Moon
glowing in her womb.

There existed only me,
& Her, & our lust. 

But Shu, in wisdom,
knew The Earth
needed Life,
needed to grow,
needed to prosper,
& He blew
us apart
with a promise:
Soon enough
my Love & I
will be reunited,
if only for a few, 
brief hours,
until that Sun,
that cruel, cruel sun,
returns to chase
Her away.

I already hate
the Sun,
& it's only 
the first day.

The longest day.

So I wait
for this day
to give way,
for this Sun
to drown
in the horizon,
for Night to descend,
to envelop me
as she once did,
to fill me
with her darkness,
to dazzle me
with her stars. 

Will this day never end? 

Won't the Sun
at least suspend
His cruelty long
enough for me
to simply taste
the bliss that is
my Night,
my Night,
my precious
Night?

Purgatory

Purgatory

I put You through Hell,
so I suppose I deserve
no less than purgatory.
 
I must climb
that mountain alone,
without You. 
There is no other path
to redemption,
to forgiveness,
no other way
to wash
these wounds.

So I will begin
by scaling Pride,
bearing the stone
of my own creation
upon my bare back.
I will stare down
on my way up,
learning to see
everything beneath me
with more clarity.

Envy seems easy,
as I have a generous spirit;
but here too,
there is work to do,
to roam with my eyes
sewn shut
until I learn to listen
to my heart,
to stop hating
those ready to take
what I’ve lost.
Ownership is
only arbitrary.

I will rise
above Wrath,
allow my meek 
nature to shine
through, not let
myself be blinded,
choked,
by wrath’s acrid 
smoke & seek
harm for those
who’ve caused
me pain.

I shall not be beaten
by Sloth, by my desire
to fold,
to hide,
to die
in the face
of each failure, 
to get lost
in perpetual mourning.
Rather, I must work,
keep busy,
keep moving,
keep living,
for death before dying
is a Hell in Life,  
a perilous prison
in whose residence
my soul would only rot.

I will glide
through Greed,
as my desire
for things, for riches,
for great gain,
has never been
debilitating.
My desires have always
lain elsewhere.

Nor am I saddled
with Gluttony,
being One of
moderation,
for the most part.
That is not to say
that there are not times
when temperance
is needed,
when I allow
myself to get lost
in the smoke
forgetting how Holy
the fumes are. 

Lust.
Ah, Lust!
How to even begin
battling those flames,
fighting the fire
that consumes me
for You? Here,
like Dante, I
will lie in wait,
afraid to face
my flaws.
Here, You must be
my Virgil, reminding
me that only in
risking getting burned
can I ever hope
to reunite
with my own,
beloved Beatrice.

& here I will summit,
each sin purged,
brushed away
by the wings
of angels.
I will summit,
reach Paradise,
find my innocence, 
redemption,
forgiveness. 

Yet I am full
of fear,
fear that for all
my climbing,
for all my penance, 
I will learn much,
but earn nothing:
No Beatrice to guide
me through Heaven,
No Love to fly me
over the hard,
cold rock I have
traveled. But I cannot 
allow fear to stop me. 

I walk this path to heal,
not to be rewarded. 
Your Love is a gift
which I must be prepared
to never receive, again.
But I tell you,
My Love,
MY LOVE, 
It is what drives me.

If You do ever offer
Your blessing again,
to feel Heaven again,
I swear to keep it
Holy, for Heaven 
is no place 
for the lowly.

Spiral

Spiral

I

know

right

know

it

feels

like

all

is

out

of

control,

like Life

is

just

spiraling out

from

under

You,

like

no one,

no thing

is

there

to slow

your

mad

descent

from

your

shattered

tower

into

the dark.

Not so.

The Universe never let you go.

Jealousy

Penelope unweaving her father's burial shroud

Jealousy

I’m not blind
to the subtle
changes: new
passwords,
emailboxes,
making certain
that your facebook
is always logged off,
your face
perpetually booked
into your phone,
the way your eyes
& lips smile slyly
when you’re flirting—
the way they once smiled
for me—
stories
that add up,
but don’t.

Subtle, except
in sum, & I expect
not as subtle to some
less dumb than I
have been of late.

& I find
myself
jealous,
not because other men can touch
you, I know they can’t,
but because they reach you
like I once could,
like I once did:
with a word
or a glance
or a smile,
because they can reach
you more easily than I can
with little more than a text.

So, forgive me
my baseless suspicions,
excuse my infinity
of questions,
ignore
the self-inflicted
anxieties laying waste
to me from the inside
out. I was the One
to make a mess
of things, the One
who allowed the suitors
to swarm
during my selfish
odyssey.

I will return
to hold the high
place in your heart
I once did,
& you will not
have to undo
the burial shroud
you shrewdly weave.

I will return
& I will see
your eyes
& lips smile
slyly
for me
again,
& jealousy
will die
painfully,
like each & every
one of Penelope’s
suitors. 

Sky

Sky
Open the Sky for me.

Let me see the beauty that lies

underneath, the air of Life,

the bearer of stars.

I am not worthy of such glory,

a greater Fool than me

does not exist, but if the Sky

will let me peek

under Her glorious clouds,

my gratitude will be shown

in eternal

worship.

Lilith is Covered

Original Art by Josh Collier

Today is the 16th anniversary of the day Sharon Denburg Lopatka let some dude she met on the internet choke her to death. You might not remember, but I could never forget. I just had to explore her life and her decision to die. Form that research came the seeds for my novel Killing Lilith. Now, at long last, I'm ready to release a finished version on the book. 

I have the manuscript back from the proofreader (Thanks Kris!) and the cover art. Now if I can get the text to pass Smashwords' requirements while maintaining the integrity of the manuscript, I'll be golden. Thank you to all who've waited patiently. I hope you won't be disappointed.

In the meantime, remember: There may be fifty shades of grey, but there's only ONE shade of black.

Pimp on Fire

Fall is here, and while our hemisphere is cooling, I'm burning white hot with a number of appearances coming over the next few weeks. Let's start with Baltimore Book Festival weekend!



First, I'll be reading with the sharper-than-scalpels  William P. Tandy and his incorrigible, yet megatalented Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore crew at 6PM on Friday on the City Lit Stage.

Immediately following my Smile Hon gig, I'll be jetting back uptown to read at Mind Trip, the release party for Redlines: Baltimore 2028, an anthology of speculative fiction chock full of stories that take place in my hometown during that year. It includes my tale, Dream Catcher. The party starts on 7PM, Friday, September 28, 2012 at the Living Well at 2443 N. Charles Street in Baltimore.

I'll be back in the spotlight at BookFest on Sunday when I read at Lit & Art with Eric Goodman and lots of other great writers on the City Lit stage at 2:30PM. Finally, I will be closing the City Lit stage out by emceeing MWA's Me, Myself & I: The Art of the Monologue, starring my MWAB resident President of Vice, Shirley "Princess Leia" Brewer, and a host of other great MWA writers putting their unique twists on the classic ego trip.

But wait, there's more.

There's a chance I'll be reading at RAW: Baltimore on Thursday, October 4th, at Luckie's Tavern, 10 Market Place, Baltimore, from 8:00PM - 12:00AM. That hasn't been confirmed yet, so stay tuned.

I may be in a bit over my head on Friday, October 5th, I will be part of a truly Di-vine Reading featuring uberlitgods David Eberhardt, Clarinda Harriss (editor Brick House Press), Chris Mason (the Tinklers), Constantine Pantazonis, Stephen Reichert (editor Smartish Pace), Bruce Sager, & Laura Shovan (editor Little Patuxent Review), but I'm committed to holding my own. The Di-Vine Reading takes place at the Ivy Bookshop, 6080 Falls Road, Baltimore, at 7:00PM.

And last, but by no means least, I will be descending upon Laurel for Riverfest. I will be emceeing the day's readings on the Scarecrow Hollow stage, featuring oodles of fantastic writers, including Jennifer Kieth Ciatti and Sid Gold. & yes, there will be an open mic. Riverfest takes place around Main St & Avondale St, from 9:00AM to 4:00PM on Sunday, October 7th. Scarecrow Hollow opens around 11:00AM.

Phew!!! I'm tired just thinking about it all. But there it is... Thank you to all my supporters out there who've helped make this possible. I truly believe I have the best friends anyone could ask for. I hope to see at least a few of your friendly faces over the next few weeks. 

☮& Love—The Word Pimp

Candelario

Another from the hoard. This one chose me. I came across an old schedule book from 1993, the year my uncle, Andres Candelario, died. I grabbed the book, and it opened to my original, handwritten version of this poem which I composed after visiting him in the hospital during his last days, as his body gave in to AIDS complications. His last name derives from candela, the Spanish word for flame, also related to candle, chandelier & lamplighter. Uncle Andy's last days are also chronicled in my short story, The Handsome Man.

Candelario

Yea, though your candles glow dimly—
stubs to the towers I once saw—
and yea, though you walk through
the shadow of a death you deserve,
I come to your bedside,
not to blow out your puny, pungent flames,
but to watch them die
out on their own, perhaps
even stoke them a bit,
with forgiveness.

No, I don’t forget
the days we had nothing,
yet you took it all,
anyway, to sell for a few days'
euphoria. But I also remember
holding your hand through the streets
of Manhattan, your friends laughing
as you put the dice in my hand,
shouting every time I rolled sevens.

I don’t forget the tears
abuelita shed
every time you were caught
in the act, or after the fact,
not knowing which of you would survive
this incarceration. But I also remember
walking through schoolyards
with you, my friends asking,
“Is that your dad?”
the temptation, not knowing
my real father, to simply say,
“yes!”

I don’t forget the peace
you broke, showing your face,
waving your carrots
in mami’s face, pulling
her off her wagon
by her teeth. But I also remember
the tears you crying at my bedside
as I lay on the brink
of death, again—the porno
mags you gave me working
as well as any medicine.

I owe you no debt,
Candelario—
the days I basked
in your glow are equal
to the days I wished
to spit your flame out—
tears & smiles flowed
concurrently. Yet,
one last request,
since you are incapable
of making one: please
tell mami I said, “hello.”

The Lilith Legend

Only thirty more pages to edit, as of 1:00pm today. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Editing is actually moving at a fairly quick pace, which is a great sign. It means that I'm not finding anything blatant that I think I need to change. We'll see. the true test is a week from tomorrow when I meet with my critique group (¡Hi Barb, Holly & Tracy!).

Anyhow, my brother, Carlos, was talking about Killing Lilith yesterday, and he referenced some of the legends of the mythological Lilith. So I decided to post this small excerpt for him. Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts!

Artwork by Kara T. Wells

 My father considered himself the consummate bible scholar and student. “You learn until you die,” he would say, “What you learn is up to you.” Obsessed with origin myths, he would use my misbehavior as an opportunity to expound on the legend of Lilith. “There are those who study the secrets of the scriptures that believe, before Eve, God made another woman for Adam.”

These same secrets are now sold with a red bracelet and a bottle of blessed water to any celebrity looking to ride a new wave to enlightenment.

“Certain students of Kabala believe that lost versions of the B’reshit (or bear shit as I would joke about the first book of the Torah behind his back; ‘bear shit, smut bear shit and smut,’ I would mock once he left the room after one of his lectures) tell her story—Lilith’s. She came not from Adam’s rib, but from the same earth from which Adam was formed. Some even say she came from Adam’s filth. Like you, she went against the word of her father. She rebelled against her husband and was banished as a demon. Do not follow her path child; it will prove a difficult one.”

The more he called me by that name, which he did more often as I got older and wilder, the more I identified with her. Why couldn’t we be equal? What made him better? His knowledge? His wisdom? His rib? The power of his voice? Men and women swooned, even shuddered, as his vibrato tenor resonated throughout the temple, the words of the scriptures pouring over them as if from the mouth of God himself. All I ever heard were his admonishments.

Dying to be My Muse

A class photo of Sharon. She's the one in the cap, staring off to the right.

A little over fifteen years ago I was taking a class, Writing for the Internet Age—one of the first of its kind. During the ides of October, word came of a woman's body being found buried under a child's swing set in a trailer park in North Carolina.

Within days, as the police discovered during what they thought was a murder investigation that the victim, Sharon Denburg Lopatka—a housewife from Hampstead, MD—had solicited her executioner, Robert Glass, to torture, rape & kill her. He wasn't even the only one. Glass was just the first to follow through.

While many dismissed her as yet another crazy, I was fascinated with Sharon. As I  researched her story, a novel took shape in my mind. Click on Sharon's photo to read about the woman who inspired Killing Lilith.
Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts!

Killing Lilith (excerpt)

Wrapped up the latest edit on Killing Lilith. Going well! Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts! Here's a little excerpt for you Lilith fans out there:

4:14pm

Phone’s ringing—been ringing now for twenty minutes, on & off: Emily calling from the stables wondering why I haven’t picked her up from Equestrian practice. She’ll use it as an excuse to petition for that new car she says we’re too cheap to buy her—as if she can’t realize that she doesn’t deserve one. I’d be shocked if she didn’t drive any car we got her straight to South Central and trade it for a year’s supply of crack.

Jacob calling from his guitar lesson. He decided he wanted to learn guitar after he abandoned violin, saxophone, flute, & piano. He’s been talking about giving up music for acting. The older he gets, the more attention he craves. Perhaps it’s other things he craves. Women. Drugs. Fame. I have little doubt he’ll find anything he seeks. I also doubt he’ll be capable of handling any of it before it destroys him.

Jack’s called a few times—probably pissed off, not because he’ll have to leave the office early to pick up the kids, but because he won’t get the chance to have a few drinks at the bar with his colleagues after work. He needs that to wind down before he comes home.

I get to try winding down between cleaning, errands, picking up the children, cooking, and lifting up my nightgown once in a while so Jack can release some sexual tension. None of them are worried about where I am.

Point Dume. Sitting on a beach staring as the sun burns a trail through the Malibu sky, listening to the vain attempts of my family to contact me. I stare directly into the sun so that it might dry the tears before they leave their ducts. They love me. No, they need me. Dependency misconstrued as love. Fuck them!

My love was unconditional for a time. What have I been able to depend on? I never expected anything in exchange for that love. Regardless, I am mourning them. I will die, but they are already dead.  So I sit here, burning my ass on the sand, beating my chest, setting my retinas on fire—sitting Shiva.

  I stand and begin to make my way back to the car through a haze of black and yellow. The phone rings again. Jack, Emily, Jacob. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made my peace. I turn around once last time, facing the waves and the waning sun, and throw the phone at the offending horizon.

---

 [FQ31] 4:14pm Chapter Three (Malibu)

Jasmine

The one poem of mine that I've memorized, always ready to recite on queue. Written circa 1992.

Jasmine

I put my fingers to my nose
& smell the sweet scent of jasmine.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

I close my eyes, fists pressed tight
against them, & through the stars
I see her face.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

I lick at my tears as they roll
down my face, & through the salt
I taste the essence of our sin.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

& through the static of my speakers
I can hear her sweet,
sweet jasmine voice, speaking
to my soul, singing,
"I love you."
Is it so amazing that I needed only touch
her once, & now I know
the scent will never go away.

The Daisy Field

The Daisy Field

I walked past 

a daisy field

today—
a rock garden
casting shadows

on my head—
my heart

searched for you,
lost in a haze.

But this heart, 

you see,
this heart

still has problems
with the way

things ended—
left so suddenly—
so unprepared.

& who was I

to deny
your request

that you find rest
traveling

the many rivers
of our motherland,
not trapped

with worms & things

that crawl & squirm?

¡Pero coño, mami!
Would've been nice
to have a place

to visit you 
on lonelier days—
to think

about those too few years
we were granted

together.

Now, unless I fly

a thousand miles
to find

your beachfront

home, I'm left

to the sterile

corners 

of my room—

left to strain

for memories—
sometimes

I strain so hard
my tears burn

worse than the loss.

My Night ( A Poem)

This poem was inspired by the myth of Nüt & Geb, a personal favorite.

My Night

¿How can I

stay away

when You wrap

so tightly

about Me,

sealing,

enveloping,

protecting Me

from Everything,

leaving room

for Nothing

else but the feel

of You wrapped

tight about me

like wet rice

paper?

¿What else

can I do

Sister Sky—

Heaven full

of stars,—

but grind

inside You

until My mountains

are raw

& My rivers

boil beneath

Your pressure,

Your pleasure,

Your gravity?

¿So what

if there is room

for naught—

nothing but

us, no space

for other Gods

to roam between

Us, to breathe?

The feel

of Your breath

is all I need.

Let Them separate

Us if they must—

make room

for Creation,

for Life,

for Other

than Our bond.

¿Could we expect

Them to continue

Existence smothered

between Us?

It matters

not, my Nüt—

They can keep

Us apart—

divided for only

so long

before Night

once again wraps

itself around Me—

when

the Sun hides

You fall

& I rise

to meet

You.

Perhaps

the time will come

when the Sun

abandons its

task & We can

again join

in perpetuity,

when You & I,

and nothing else

will reign

supreme—

Our Love,

Eternal Lust,

Chaos.