Daily Archives: March 23, 2005

7 posts

“The Years” by Maria Anca Ranta

The cherry tree in my grandmother's vegetable garden is to be cut. It is rather hunched, with its leaves scattered about. It is wilted beside the young prune tree. My grandmother woke up one day and walked around, as is her habit, with no specific purpose, thoughts flowing smoothly around her, until she stopped, caught one, labeled it as a problem, stopped, caught another, labeled it as a solution and then woke me up.

"We will cut it down," she said "today."


My grandfather sat by it many times, winter and summer, looking out onto the road, never stepping on it, not one bit of curiosity towards the outside world. Not because he could not or would not possibly be interested, but because habit has established itself upon his brows, clouding his thoughts, his sight. Perhaps he did prefer to leave the street as it was in his memory. Perhaps, having stepped on it once was happiness, and to walk it again would be trite. His wooden chair knew how old the days had grown, how the memories persisted on the morning dew. It could feel the weeks, the seconds. It knew my grandfather had become weak, his hair gray. He sometimes pointed towards an airplane crossing:

"What is that, Anca? Can you tell me?"

"An airplane, Oti."

That was in the good days, when he still remembered my name. Those days he looked at me with weathered eyes and beneath his forehead I could still see a flicker.

"What is the time?"

"I don't know," I used to say. I did not want him to worry about time. Time would pass either way. Time is subjective and I did not want him to worry about it.

"In '65 we went down to the river. Did I tell you?"

"No."

He had told me, thousands of times. I knew the story by heart; I mouthed it while he was reciting.


My grandfather died in February and I forgot to say goodbye.


"Talk! Tell me what you know! Tell me something!"

I kneel to cry beside the chair. It remains quiet.

The cherry tree is to be cut today. The same cherry tree my grandfather sat beside, smoking his cigars, talking with young girls, spending his time, passing his years. Its trunk is full of memories that would fly with the wind, away from us, away from me. I am afraid of losing the one memory that I hold most precious. I have hidden it in the trunk for my grandfather. I may not be able to catch it in time.



My childhood died with the cherry tree.

“Summer” by Dark Angel

I lay beneathe the crystal sky
I bask under the warm sun
Summer months have come to be
And brought with them their fun

The balmy breezes of Spring
Have long since blown right past
Taken with them the chill
And the shadows that were cast

Replacing the dark dreary colors
A vibrant bright new day begins
Filled with a new type of passion
As well as a new type of sin

Who can lay the longest?
Beneathe that powerful sun?
Who can stay the longest?
Without the need to run....

“Public Nudity” by Rocky Johnson

The elderly have sinned to the
point that they are afraid to die,
they become hysterically
puritanical while discussing
the nudity of the Sistine Chapel,
the homoeroticism of Naked Lunch,
the blatant irreverence of Hip-Hop or
monkeys masturbating in public or in
private or at all. I bought a beer for
an old woman at a circus who later
considered me a bum and fed me
meals resulting in explosive diarrhea.
She died of a stroke two days ago, but
the chapel doors were locked so I couldn't
light a candle or even say a prayer so I
just got stoned and drew pictures of
The Loch Ness Monster on napkins at
a jazz club on fourth street.
And this girl who calls me religiously
says she wants no more original poetry,
(if that's what this is)-
she digs only the Bible and wants me
to adopt a cat, she was dead asleep as
I gathered my belongings and vomited
twice at my parents' house. Though she
was the first girl to ever beg me for
coitus interruptus, she was miraculously
not the last; I witnessed a recent date
inhale three tacos in my presence and
command me in a rather intimidating
manner to render my services in a
fashion that I have never even heard in
an adult movie. Two weeks later she
seemed to have lost her former verve-
"I'm not a porno star, I'm just a regular person..."
That regular person split with over $200.00
that she owed me for maintaining her household
Electricity--Is this a nasty poem, S.G., or the truth?
Anne Frank just died on ABC and, sometimes
when I'm drunk, I forget the Lord's Prayer,
the Hail Mary and that public nudity is illegal.

“An Experiment Gone Arie” by Aaron Sweet

I taste your lips
A shade of wine
Balanced by your eyes
delicious and malicious
Is your heart
Pumping venomous blood
Spilling
Into my cup
Forcing me to indulge
Temptation
An act seldom encouraged
Passion
An act seldon praticed

“Baker Acted” by Rocky Johnson

It was probably a holiday,
Nothing to do, no place to go,
Cruising Central Avenue,
Browsing thrift stores with
Antique Coca-Cola serving
Trays and toys from The Aristocats,
The cashier too busy with a customer
Willing to trade his first born for Hitler's
Bed than to acknowledge your 28 cent
Purchase of a useless sculpture of Disney
Sentimental paraphernalia.
So you cool your shoes and analyze costume
Jewelry and an alien from The X Files for $75.00
Languishing in a dry aquarium.
Brush the dust off the price tags for lamps
Looking like something culled from Clockwork Orange.
One eye closed from a foreign object careening
Through the rarified air of a deserted city.
Stepping intrepidly into strip club disorientation--
"Is Tiffany here?" He said.
"I'm Tiffany," said she, a temporarily disembodied
Voice of a slight blonde in a tattered, yellow Kimono,
"Don't you recognize me?"
"I was hit in the eye just now, really can't see much."
"Well you come on in and sit next to me. We'll have
to fix that, won't we?"
She pulled his lips to her nipple and told him that her
Boyfriend was a house painter.
He exited the bar under a cloudless sky and
A future teeming with unfathomable possibilities.
"Tiffany, right? She said her name was Tiffany?"
His first sexual encounter was with a girl named
Tiffany who once tried to break his jaw and told
Him that she hated Jazz as she tortured his radio
Dial into horrified acquiescence.
He wanted to buy the stripper a new Kimono.
He wanted the Jazz critic Baker Acted.

“Story of Us” by Angela

Rays across your face
The darkness that shields
I know that today
Will be our last.

Once upon a time
You shower me with kisses
Today the only shower
Is one of my tears.

The winds are blowing
The wind chimes are singing
Let it go, let it go......
My heart's breaking.

In between the sheets
Your hands holding mine
The ultimate connection
Haunts my mind.

Nothing unique
The pain is nothing new
An experience for all
But I still love you.