Fix-Me-Up

There was a woman who loved a broken house.


              She found it shattered and dilapidated, worn weak in its frame by the abuses of history. The paint was washed out by a single, or perhaps even a series of powerful storms, as paint is wont to do, when faced with the scorn of sky. She found the house distrustful of her. Unsure of her touch, it flinched back as she tried to lay her hand on its face. It was unsure to trust this woman to live within it, as the previous tenant had not been kind. They let it fall apart. They left it to face storms and time alone. How could it so easily trust a new human?


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               This woman had a name, but this has chipped away, lost to time like old paint to a storm. Whether her name was Daria, or Alma, or even Frieda did not matter. Names matter not to a broken house. No matter your name, the windows are still punched in, the beams are still rotten and the ceiling still molded. The house worried that at any moment the roof would come tumbling down. That the rot in its beams would finally destroy it. Of the feelings the house was capable of, fear was its most intimately known. Of course, there was contempt, as it had never seen good treatment aside from those who built it long ago; it could not imagine being proper treatment as a possibility. There was sorrow, for being left in such a sorrowful state, and there was also a thick dollop of self-loathing, since if no one else had ever loved the house, then how could it love itself? But yes, fear was the most familiar of feelings for this house. Fear of the future, fear of the past, and fear of every woman that ever lived.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


                When she first moved in, she did not stay with the house for long intervals. They were distant at first. The house knew she did not care, and this was acceptable, as it had expected this. Her heart, however, was warm, and slowly, almost unnoticeable at first, she began to piece the house back together. She started by marking down every broken place in a notebook. Every structural piece that needed adjusting and fixing. She vanished for some days, and the house did not see her and assumed that it had yet again been abandoned, but it was not. She returned and had its punched out windows replaced and tempered and sealed so that the elements could no longer enter freely.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               She began to spend more and more time with the house. She took to it and it took to her. She cleaned the floor of dust and spiders. They shared an afternoon together, painting the sides of the house and another afternoon painting the inside. The house watched as she built up coat after coat of protective paint and as she dusted away layer after layer of harsh times and spider-bitten memories. Though painful at first, the woman had the rotting beams replaced by sparkling new ones, and the molded ceiling redone in clean white tiles. The pain of removal quickly gave way to a new feeling, filling the house, as if a faucet had been left running. No longer did the fear of imminent collapse haunt this hearth.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               As she restored the strength of the house, she also restored its spirit. Its walls clean and its beams ready to carry the weight of an attic of new memories. When she smiled at the house, it smiled back, not with apprehension, but with confidence. She had delved into that secret place within the house that no one else had dared to go and she came back alive. She did not run from this house. She killed the spiders of the cellar, even the biggest and blackest. She tempered the windows against even the strongest storms. And yet. There was something in it that was unsure. Though it felt clean, it still did not feel warm. It remembered that in its childhood it had warmth in its soul. Something that kept it happy even when there was no clear reason. When the house made apparent to the woman how it felt, she knew what it meant and she fixed it, just as she had with everything before.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


                It was like a magical ritual. She locked all the doors of this house, turned off all forms of communication with the outside and interned herself within the house. And it in turn did the same. Together they were locked in, with only each other to have as examples of how to breathe the air. The woman played her music aloud. She danced and sang and spun and burned. The house filled with her solar, august warmth. She had so much of it to spare, and the more she gave to it, the more she seemed to have had. At the end of the day, they watched the sun set and the moon rise. It grew dark and the hearth of this house yearned for a new fire. She built it for him. He lit it. He felt so alive again.


There was a woman who loved a broken man.


             But she no longer loved a broken man. Now, she simply loved a man. And he loved her.

At the end of my hall.
They see me.

I know it. I feel it.

I'm worried. It's frightening to be followed.

By someone else who sees these things. Someone else who knows the fear.

The rims of my eyes hurt. I've been watching too long. Awake too long.

I need to protect myself from them! They must know by now. I'm not as clever as I thought I was.

How could they know? No one, but me...

I hate it so much. So I did what I did! I did what I wanted to. As anyone would expect. It's not my fault.

But they can tell, can't they.

I need to pay attention.

I hope my neighbors don't stare.

I hope my father doesn't laugh.

They're all so angry at me, and I deserve it.

I don't want to be this alone! This isn't fair! I'm not the first and I won't be the last! It's natural!

Heart's beating too fast.

Too fast.

Too fast.

I need to calm down. I need a little more. Nothing bad has happened yet. I must be...

Overreacting.

Unless.

Unless this is a ploy.

Unless they want me to think they don't know.
Caught red-handed, they'll say.

I won't drop my guard.

I won't be tricked! I cannot be! For that, I'm sure I am too clever.

I know they're still coming. I know they know. I just need the comfort.

No. This can't be real.

Oh god it is.

It is.

Please.

I have to.

Stop.

Shut Up

 

  It was a funny thing, how the rain spoke like an old, long lost friend. It called to me in hushed, placid tones, familiar, yet frigid. Each protracted whisper a gentle reminder of a half-healed maiming. How dare this falling water presume to take her voice? How dare it speak to me? Have I not heard enough? Through this mocking noise I can clearly make out the shape of her mouth and the water dripping down my hair feels like fingers and her lips pressed to my ears, whispering, taunting, reminding me that she, my friend of old, is lost, gone. She fell out of the sky and into my hands and dripped through my fingers, all in a moment, leaving me cold and shocked and shivering. I stand here in the street, fuming at this calm rain, hoping it would explode into a furious storm. That it would scream and spew profanities and hate and anger, but it does not. It only speaks. Quiet, steady, it speaks.

I Wonder What Would Work

I wonder what would work. I can’t help but wonder. This would have to be a very delicate operation. Something new and fresh would need to be done! She’s experienced, been around the block, but in a good way! Sort of like a big colorful float made for Halloween or Macy’s or something. That experience and intelligence is sexy. I feel a faint shock in my heart and knew that I wanted her. I wonder what her lips taste like?

I can’t help but wonder what would work. I would sleep at her feet, like a dog for weeks upon weeks, but that wouldn’t work. No, for her I need more finesse. I can’t drive really her anywhere, it’s too early to presume on her desire to travel with me. She would want to have to get in the car with me first though, and for her to want that, I would need to find something that would work on her. I must find her formula. Or else how else will I ever see her hips swing in the moonlight?

I’ve been sitting on this bench in the park across from my building for three hours. I brought a book with me to look like I’m not vacantly staring. I’ve seen her pass by four times. I suppose I hoped that she would see me reading my big smart book and come talk to me about authors I’d never heard of and I could charm her in an intelligent, yet not well read way. But that did not work. I’ve always wanted to be a poet, but I’ve always been told I didn’t have the “constitution” for it, whatever that means. Maybe it would work if I were a poet. I could woo her at some swanky club that I’m sure she frequents. The fourth time she came back to the building she looked a mess, yet there was something in that. The air of a woman waiting to be loved. And how did I want that. I’ve always wanted that.
I do not know what will work. I think I might be in love with her. I think I did the right thing today. I watched her as she left her apartment through the little peephole in my door. I carefully followed to see where she would go. I was right! I knew someone who smelt of such intelligence would go to a coffee shop. It was a cheap one, but it was still a coffee shop. I sat in the booth behind hers, so she wouldn’t see. I listened to her slurps and thought that maybe if I ordered the same drink she ordered she would speak to me and fall for me. So I did and it did not work and the drink is disgusting. I left and instead opted to sit down at the bench in the park across my building. This time I did not have a book and instead tried to look thoughtful. I saw her enter the building with a man. I think she noticed me, but I may have just imagined that.

That’s it. I’ve decided I’m definitely in love with her. I’m going to write poetry about her and I’m doing to see her in a train seat next to me on the way to New York City, or Chicago and the golden light of the sunset will gleam in her eyes and illuminate her skin. And when that’s done I’ll treasure the memory forever. Well until I die. And I’ll die in her arms, because we will have grown old together. I’m sure she’s not like the others. She’s a rare one, I can tell already. I think it’s starting to work. I’ve seen her shoot glances at me when I walk into that shitty coffee shop and when I sit on the bench looking thoughtful. I think I’ve figured out where she works, but I’m not sure, yet. Her glances speak volumes. They hiss like hearty snakes into my ears. If only I could speak snake, then I might be able to tell what they were saying. Maybe they were telling me what would work.

All I want to do is to swing from the tangles in her hair. I saw her looking pretty tired today. She came home very late. She looked roughed up. Her make-up was a bit smeared and she had grey circles under her eyes. Not make-up circles, but natural ones. I can imagine her wearing one of my shirts and nothing else and looking at me with those eyes. Filled with longing, I think they were. I didn’t do much else. I stayed home today. I didn’t want to seem too needy. I was planning on staying in at night too, until I noticed that she was coming back home with that same man from earlier. That hurt me. I can’t believe that nothing thus far has worked. All my strenuous efforts and yet there is still nothing that works!

I still love her though. I forgive her. I left my apartment at the same time as she left hers today and sped my walk to meet her. I was going to talk to her. I think that would work. Maybe just saying hello and telling her I liked the weird gross coffee she likes would work. I thought I might be overthinking things and that that might be the reason nothing has worked. I wonder if she would appreciate that. When I sped my walk to meet with her she shot me one of her sultry looks and darted down the stairs. She didn’t run, but she sure was in a hurry. I figured she must be late for something, and since I’m quite understanding I let her go.

As it turns out, I did figure out where she works. She works at the waffle house on the edge of town, near the highway. A waitress is a cute job for her, though I think she can do so much better, a pretty young woman with her degree of intelligence and class. Maybe she likes it there. I decided I would try her venue’s food. Unluckily I did not get her as a server, but I do think she saw me. She looked nervous. I bet that she’s just as nervous about these feelings as I am! She must love me too. I’m happy that I’ve finally found someone who loves me back.

Today was the day. I thought about what I was going to do and about what would work. I knew that she tended to rush to places whenever she left her apartment, so I wouldn’t quite be able to catch her then, but I knew when she got off work and I would wait in the lobby of our building and hop in the elevator with her. She liked to take the elevator up the building, but would ways take the stairs on the way down. I thought that was a cute quirk. I think that’s another thing to write a poem about. Maybe I’ll get to it later. Maybe I’ll make a song out of it and sing it to her on a beach one summer in our twilight years. I finally got her in the elevator and I tried to civilly introduce myself. I’m sure I stuttered, but I believe I was clear and true. She did not react the way I thought she would.

She screamed at me and panicked. She told me to stay away from her. Her nerves were much worse than mine. I tried to explain my feelings for her. I tried to evoke poetic imagery, calling the feeling she gives me shivers and the desire burning in my heart as being an Elysium that I can retreat to at any moment. Finally I buckled, hoping this last ditch effort would work. I told her I loved her and that I wanted to see her hips sway in front of me in a hotel in Paris and that I wanted to see her dancing with me along to music only she and I could hear. I told her and she fell into silence. The ding of the elevator opening to the eighth floor ruptured her already nervous disposition. We stepped out of the elevator together, facing each other. With tears in her eyes, I expected an embrace and yet I got a spear in the gut. She told me she did not love me. She then turned around and ran into her apartment.

I decided not to go home. I walked the entire night. She does not love me. After all we have done? After all the times we shared? She dares not to love me! That’s unnatural, that’s not human! There is something wrong with her. I cannot believe that nothing has worked. I was so considerate too. I knew where she worked, where she liked to hang out and I knew she was lonely. I knew that all those times I was around her that she did not speak to anyone except for customers at the waffle house. There have been a few other men, but everyone slips! I knew that we would share our loneliness with each other and make it more bearable for the both of us. Loneliness is a terrible thing when you have to carry it by yourself. I must find something that works. I must find a way.

She had called the police. I’m getting so tired of these mind games she plays. I spoke to them the morning after her madness and gave them some excuses. I knew how to deal with this sort of thing. They told me to watch myself and that they hope I have a nice day. I told them the same. I reminisce. I wonder how many times I found women that did not work. Nothing ever really works on them. Untamable beasts, which will tear out your heart and run off with it. I think I’ll come up with a plan to make her love me. Actually, it’s not a matter of making her love me. I know that she does love me, she just simply doesn’t see, or perhaps comprehend it. Love is a complex and scary thing, but it is not all that hard to understand. She must be broken and I must be the one to fix her.

I know how she moves. Just because she hasn’t left home in two days does not mean that I do not know how she moves. I must confront her again, and this time I will fix her. I noticed that she resumed her regular schedule after four and a half days of isolation in her room. I prepare myself for Friday night, when she goes to her all-so-precious fucking coffee shop in the evening and stays late. I made sure she did not see me. I didn’t want her to run off and ruin my chance at finding something that works. She walked out of her shop and I was watching from the shadow of a pawnshop sign two buildings down. I knew her path, so I went around so as to cut her off. She would be fixed. I knew just the place.

She slept very peacefully. I figured she would. My bed is a very comfortable place. Though I suppose it isn’t technically my bed, as I only use it when I need it. It’s an old bed and it’s not exactly in my apartment, but this place is abandoned and no one seems to mind that I put a bed here, or that I use it sometimes. I stroked her hair and wondered where we had went wrong. I wondered why nothing worked. As she woke and realized her woeful error she began to act up again. I had put together a few tools that might help me in fixing her. I wished that I could take a long sweet draught from her lips, but I could not remove the tape yet.

I have failed her. I could not fix her. I saw the way that she looked at me. Her eyes never spoke of love. She never understood that I loved her more than any of the other women before. She never understood that I could sense a spark. That I could see us making sweet love on an upscale London balcony and that I needed to find what worked to get her to love me. I told her to stay calm and that I knew what I was doing, but she never did stop panicking and wailing. Perhaps that’s why I could not fix her. She was crazy. She didn’t think she needed fixing. But she did. I did get my taste of her lips, but it was bitter as she was no longer there.

It was some time before I was able to move past her, the love of my life. I think I finally was able to move on when the apartment she had lived in was cleaned out and rented to a pleasant old Indian man. That reminder was gone, so I suppose it let me move on. I hate that I’m this vulnerable.  I hate that any beautiful and intelligent woman can do this to me. I wish I wasn’t that soft, but as I look into the street from my favorite bench in the park across from my building I spot a young lady walking a tiny dog. She flips her hair to reveal a soft and nubile face. I longed for a lasting romance. I had the heart of a poet, after all. The rapid passion of these love affairs are beginning to wear thin on me. I smile to myself and wonder if I could stop falling in love. I sometimes wish I would. I think that might work, but then I remember that it is in my nature. Lions cannot stop killing antelope and I cannot stop trying to love.

And I Liked Chess

She came in, rushed and in a huff. It took her a minute to compose herself.

 In one trembling hand she held a chessboard, while in the other she confidently gripped a fist full of pieces. She placed the board down before me and scattered the pieces upon the checkered surface. 

With eyes hung low, she set the board up.

Her white pieces formed an ominous circle of bishops and rooks on my half of the board. In the center of this circle she placed a single black piece, my king.

We survey the obscene, instant checkmate for a moment.

Her look then snapped up to me, apologized and left.

The Pianist and the Fisherman

    Thomas Becket had been attending these lavish parties for a few weeks now, but this was undoubtedly the biggest and in the most impressive house he had visited thus far. His friend, a successful composer, had been dragging him along to these, in the hopes that Thomas would find himself a wife, or at least a lady that interests him. The composer believed Thomas to be far too reclusive for someone of his musical talent, and perhaps it was a woman that would give him the bravado needed to make it in these social circles. Everyone seemed to agree that Thomas was easily the most talented of their assembly of musicians. Everyone also agreed that Thomas was the poorest, quietest, and dullest. Though he is not quiet musically, but quiet in the way he spoke of his music. He referred to it as a common hobby rather than a burning artistic passion. There was no bluster in his tone and he spoke only passively about it, fearful of appearing vain or arrogant, the very things he needed to appear as to be considered a true artist. An artiste if you will. Evidently, his inability to laud himself to others has left him fairly lonely and impoverished, at least in comparison to whoever it was that owned this massive mansion.

    He felt caged, locked in a zoo. People mashed against one another and formed a single drunken, swaying organism. Thomas slipped and shoved his way through it, polite as he could, trying to avoid being trampled, but was unable to really regulate his direction in the crowd. After being processed by the conglomerate of revelry and apathy he found himself ejected onto a third floor balcony, looking out into the sea. At the edge of the balcony stood a grey-haired man, looking out into the fluttering waves, wearing a sun-faded blue cap and a thick and blocky jacket, the same faded blue color, hanging off of him like an executioner’s hood. Thomas was hesitant to say hello to the man, as he wasn’t one to make his presence known, if that was not already evident. Unturning, the man told Thomas to close the doors behind him. Thomas did as he was told and waited for the old man’s next words.

    The man kept staring off into the sea and Thomas grew increasingly uncomfortable at the silence between them, though the music and noise still pierced the thin sliding doors of the balcony. “Hello?” he muttered. However, he was an unheard man. Flustered, Thomas took a step forward and repeated that double syllable, just a little louder. It was the second time that the old man heard and again, without turning, greeted him flatly, “Yes boy? Never seen a man of the sea stare out to the sea?” Thomas blinked and left his mouth agape. “Don’t you see boy?” After a pause, Thomas clicked back to life, answering as best as he could, “See what, sir?” Without missing a beat the old man bellows, “I am a fisherman!” and swiftly, yet quietly followed with, “And I need another drink…”

    Thomas could see the man swaying gently, now that he paid attention. And he did have that certain slur to his words. Thomas thought for a brief moment and said, as kindly as he could, “I only ended up coming out here to try to get away from the crowd a little.” He caught himself, “I-I mean, don’t get me wrong! I love this place but I have a little trouble around crowds if I’m around them too long. It’s just a nervous thing that I’ve had since I was little.” The old man turned slightly, with his body still facing the sea, as if pulled to it by some aqueous magnet embedded in his chest. “Got any whiskey? Or am I going to have to throw me wife’s bag off this ledge?” He turned his body only slightly more and lifted a posh looking beige handbag up for Thomas to see. Unsure of how to respond, Thomas didn’t say a word. The old man went on, “I ain’t seen her in hours. Just as I ain’t seen the sea. I swear I’ll toss it!”

    Not wanting to see such a nice handbag belonging to some other person unceremoniously tossed from a balcony onto the beach below, Thomas tried to distract the drunkard in the only way he knew how, with his music. However, he couldn’t play him anything. Not with this racket and certainly not without a piano. He remembered the short pieces he carried in his internal jacket pocket and hastily pulled them out, “I don’t have any whiskey… I haven’t got anything with me, but my jacket. And there’s no liquor in there I promise, but there are piano arrangements, see, I’m a musician! My favorite instrument is piano. And you’re a sailor, right? A fisherman, I mean?” The old man responded with half closed eyes, “Aye, I fish for a living. It’s decent money.” He punctuated these two simple proclamations by calmly and casually dropping the handbag off the edge of the balcony. “Why did you do that?” Thomas exclaimed, followed by “Watch out below!” The fisherman turned back to fully face the sea once again and lethargically rambled, “I ain’t got need for this old thing, since you don’t got no more drink. You say you want to get away from the crowd yeah? Well I know this feeling. I don’t want a wife with a handbag. I only want a wife like the sea. With arms that embrace me and pretty to look at. Ain’t no luxury handbags with a woman like the sea. Ain’t no fancy crowded parties.”

    Thomas took pause. It seemed as though the man would continue, but he did not. The two of them watched the sea for a moment. It seemed calm and gentle. Finally Thomas spoke, saying, “I suppose I can say the same. My friends keep dragging me to things like this. They think I’ll meet a girl. But I don’t want one that parties like this. I just want one to sit with. And play music with. Someone who will be my friend, not a drunken accessory.” The fisherman snapped into life, swiveling his head to look the young pianist in the eye. He roared to match the increasing volume of the world behind those sliding doors, “Ah hah! A friend! I shall be your friend! You, my good man must play me some of your music some time!” He ended his request with a heaving sigh and a hiccup. Thomas smiled and started to say, “Of course!  I’d love to. I—” before being interrupted by the fisherman violently vomiting off of the edge of the balcony.

God Thinks

You are imagining Things
It’s like you’re betraying yourself

I am against the condition of this world
Where darkness would destroy darkness

It’s an oddly creepy delight to see you

Collapsing on my metal plate
With no glaring lights
Only exposed bulbs

I’ll be glad when at last,
My plate is empty.