Poetry: Young Man

Young man lives in such poverty each breath he endures
Without an apprehension
Deficiency of angst
His bed sheets immersed in the blood
I know he sees
The Virgin Mary lies on his bed stand,
Gaping, wide eyed, Mary.
Bloody Mary, he utters to himself,
6a.m. His morning train to work,
Loud music he plays to drain out of the guilt he holds
The strangers passing by seem well acquainted with his folly
Enthralled in a woman, across the aisle
Young man is distracted,
Fingers full of rings, an exhibitionist of a sort, perhaps
Shoe laces tied in perfect knots
Creating obscure scenarios in his head he ponders,
Chopping the saloons with a hatchet
Burning her bra on a pedestal
Yet timid
Very timid
Her eyes not wavering from the soles of the rusted brown shoes, she wore
But then again, after all he is just a young man
Young man, heart of sulfur
The fiber is absent of thermo-plasticity
His back varnished in cuts
Bruised inner thighs, merely on the surface
Young man, owns a new car
The smell of his newly bought car is potent,
Without the mileage it dwells in the garage
The time will come when his vehicle will rust,
Consequent to several uses,
The blood still on his sheets
Virgin Mary still on the bedside table
Cuts still masking his back
Bruises on his inner thigh
Young man currently, sulfur heart
Hindered, perhaps but flawlessly veiled
Wounded young woman
Neglected.


(Artist: Egon Schielle)

Short Story: Hey Kid, tie them shoes.

My shoelaces were untied, I knelt down on my left knee and tied them. The stranger in a black coat, has a bruise on her, knuckles. The vagabond, on the street corner of Hyde, had a glistening tear down the tip of his chin, it might have been a raindrop, but I like to imagine it was a tear for now, because then I would know he, or was it she, was not content living the life that was not meant for her, or was it him. I was in a book store this morning, a conventional Sunday morning hot spot, I would say. So its Sunday morning right, quite the array of human beings, engrossed in their novels, magazines and comics, they sat, stood or strolled. A few loiterers among them, I could espy, the lack of captivation in their eyes, they really couldn't give a rats ass about the pages in these spectacular novels, their disinterest could not be more apparent, well to me, at least. Anyway, as I sauntered this bookstore, in search of a vacant spot to "kick it", I observed the silent freckled woman, a ginger, nibbling on her croissant, she wasn't from around here I don't think, she looked too naive, she was reading some cryptic science-fiction novel. Oh dear, what about those "tweens" as we call them, fixated around the "Twilight" paraphernalia; calenders, posters, bobble heads, which I find quite moronic, but that's really besides the point. So, I find a place to sit, right? Across the table is this elderly gentleman, I sure he used to be a handsome man when he was younger, he was wearing this sweater, which I'm sure he's had for about 23 years now, he was reading theses books, I didn't really get a clear vision of them, but they had something to do with astronomy, I think, he was quite the grumpy fellow, misunderstood I'm sure. Right next to me sat this younger man, Mexican I believe, he was an architect, I could tell, not only by the books he was reading, but the structure of his face, it was quite inevitable really. As I sat, quietly observing both men, while only pretending to work on an assignment, I hear a frantic voice in the distance. " Maria said she was coming home for dinner, but she isn't." And then a chuckle. I muttered to myself, "Damn mother fuckers on bluetooth!" A deceivingly poised elderly women scurries into the art section in a frenzied blitz, talking to herself, seriously, no bluetooth. She laughs, hysterically, in complete delirium, I'm sure. " Oh yeah, we are here in San Francisco, it's beautiful outside, ( it really wasn't, it was gloomy and miserable). Oh, how's Clara is she going well?" She seemed like a nice person, in her imagination. It was quite bizarre, as this white haired, well dressed woman in her what seemed to be Michael Kors-esque heels, ran to the illustration section of the bookstore, she picked up a book, I wasn't sure which one yet, and corressed it gently,back and front, with her eyes closed, and then placed it back on the bookshelf. She hesitantly stepped away from the books, and returned to her erratic behavior and uncanny conversation. As she walked in a distraught manner, past the shelves of books, she tripped over the wall that she had built in her mind, she laughed psychotically as she stumbled over her invisible wall. I walked over to the bookshelf, where she corressed the book, it was an Illustration book, Egon Schielle. I found myself in a sullen trance, the woman's vague innocence somewhat comforted me, but at the same time, unnerved me. She was laughing, she seemed so happy. Is there something she knows that I don't? Is there something more she sees? Am I wrong to have fingered her mental? The Mexican architect next to me didn't even flinch at the slight of this woman, neither did Mr. Grumpy Sweater Grandpa. It's quite mind-boggling how acculturated these men had become to such insanity, it's sad, really. I cried. If they live their life with a blind fold on, nothing will ever change. My shoes would still be untied.


Artist: Edward Gorey