Odd Man Out

Assault on the edges of reason
By the incredulous masses.
The sting of my ineradicable egoisms,
Shelter for tomorrow's obliteration.
The nuisance holding his breath out of derision.
The collusion of the psychiatrists on the psychopathic mind.
The sound of Hell bubbling through the crack in my window.
The woman who walks the streets
With nothing but receipts in her bag.

Morning

Out of the peeling sky,

The blood of day arrives.

No nuisance of shadow

Can hinder the great surmise

Of light that pours like water

From the freshet of the sun.

Come hither, dew-speckled roses

And emerald pines.

Give forth your beauty

To these night-withered eyes.

I want to drink the potion

Of this mad apothecary

And press my cheek to the lotus,

Let the light filter through to my dreams

As I doze like a long-worshiped cat
In this plot of grass.

Manifesto

The verisimilitudinous assault of the future
                     upon the present
                  is counter-revealed to us by its usurption by the past.
Awakened by the morning of our memory
                           from tomorrow's afterglow
             we feel again the vapid movement of ourselves through the day
        unaware as we shed skins revealing nothing,
     a pith more vacuous than space.
The continual process of revelation
              without understanding is all we have.
The Earth surges coldly through space
                   and the manifesto of our dreams
          is written in code by the luster of the stars.

Flight

Tonight I will sit on the branch of a tree
And sing with the birds.
By morning I will have learned to fly.
No longer will my eyes mirror the pain
Of stone-faced men who, planted on the earth,
Are driven on by their  need for weightless understanding.
My shadow brushing across the clouds, I will take you with me--
You, and you alone, will be the burden I carry.

Moon Slap

Gilded shadows erect the night
Upward toward the impossibility of the moon
Whose light is the theorem that proves
Matter and space to be alike.
The ocean, like a lost child, wails
For continuity of water.
But it will not taste beach grass
Or live oak tonight.
The moon interrupts its reaching with a slap,
And it recedes.

Naked In Paradise

The sound of my sandals against the sandy floorboards of the walkway, the sound of the old women dressed in white robes chattering as they walk by me toward the locker rooms, and the sound of the tides swelling on the beach in front of me are not enough to block out the foreboding sound of my heart thumping in my ears. “Are you ready?” Jason asks, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back, hard. “I am ready,” I say.

            We stand on the top step of a wooden staircase looking down at a white sand beach crowded with people. There are masses of them everywhere—laying in the sun, walking, running, playing in the serf. It isn’t the fact that the beach is crowded that is making my heart beat so loudly, though. It is the fact that all of the people, excepting no one, are completely naked.

            I remember when I was young I used to love the beach. My parents took me there every weekend. I loved to build sandcastles—the way the wet sand dripped like icing from a tube from my closed hand as I made minarets—and having my father toss me like a sack of potatoes into the waves. Things changed for me when I reached pre-adolescence, however. That was because of my uncle Jack.

Uncle Jack was a favorite of the family, the type of man who would do anything for a laugh. He used to show up at our house on random weekends, and though he was also the type of man who would spend his last dime on drink, my parents didn’t mind him coming around, just as long as he kept his drinking to a minimum. He worked as a garbage man up north, and his favorite saying was, “I don’t mind the stink, so long as when I get home, I get to drink.” He came to visit once a year or so, usually when he was on his way to the rock quarry to look for gems. I still remember the way the late afternoon sun hit his old rusty red Cadillac convertible as it sat in our driveway. 
One balmy summer Friday night he came unannounced. I was eleven going on twelve, and, despite my will to counteract the fact, I had begun to develop physically. I noticed that night as we sat around the dinner table that Uncle Jack was looking at me in a peculiar way, like he was trying to penetrate me with his glare. He hardly spoke to me that night. In fact, except for his strange glares, he barely acknowledged me at all.

            The next night my parents went out to a party and left me alone with Uncle Jack. We were sitting at the table, me eating out of the jar of candy he had brought for me, him sipping a glass of bourbon. “What does that taste like?” I asked him.

            “This?” He smiled. “Well, it’s not much for taste. But that’s not why I drink it.”

            “Why do you drink it?”

            “Because it makes life simple. Do you want to try it?”

            “I’d better not.”

            He pushed the glass across the table. “Here. Just a sip.”

            I picked up the glass and lifted it to my mouth. I smelled it. It smelled sharp, and strong. I took a sip. Immediately I began coughing. “Intense, eh? That’s the thing about life. It’s all about manageable vices.”

            Later that night as I lie half asleep in bed I heard someone come into my room. I turned to see and it was Uncle Jack. He came over to me and put his hand on my leg. “This’ll be our little secret, OK?”

            He got into bed and had his way with me. At least, as far as I could tell. I didn’t resist.

            The next morning my mother woke me up by knocking at my door. “Time to get up honey. It’s well past eight.”

            I stared out the window. The faint light was streaming in softly through the panes. I told myself that things would be OK, that time would solve everything. I knew I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. I was too ashamed. No. Time heals all wounds. That’s what I told myself.

            For a while, it seemed like everything would be alright. I pushed the incident to the back of my mind, and after a while, I rarely thought about it at all. The summer was coming to an end and my first day at junior high school arrived. When I got dressed, I looked at myself in the mirror. Turning to the side, I noticed my behind. It seemed grossly and disproportionately small. I thought perhaps it was the skirt I was wearing. I changed into jeans. But the same problem presented itself. My bottom, it seemed to me, looked like two deflated balloons hanging dejectedly from my backside. When my mother called up to me again, I decided the jeans would have to do, and I went downstairs, had breakfast, and went to school.

            All day long I felt self-conscious. As I walked down the hallways, I thought the people I passed were looking at my bottom and laughing at me. I tried changing my posture by pushing my hips back and walking in an exaggerated sway. But the feeling persisted. When it came time for gym class, I was so humiliated and self-conscious that I locked myself in a stall and stayed there the rest of the day, only leaving after the rest of the students had gone home.

            When I got home I went to bed and stayed there until dinner. I did not tell my parents anything.

            I became completely depressed. I stopped eating, had trouble sleeping, and always told my mother I wasn’t feeling well in the mornings so I wouldn’t have to go to school. Finally, it got so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed at all. I was sent to a psychiatric hospital, where I was diagnosed with major depression and prescribed an antidepressant. I didn’t tell the doctor anything about my uncle or my obsession with my body. The drug seemed to work, at first, and the therapist I began seeing once a week was somewhat helpful (despite the fact that I kept my secret hidden from her as well) but the same issue kept arising. It was especially bad now that boys were taking notice of me. They would pass me in the halls and smile at me. I was certain that they were making fun of me behind my back. I stopped looking at people in the eyes as I passed them, keeping them glued to the floor, and because of this I developed a hunch. The depression became unbearable again, and again I was sent to a hospital. This pattern continued all throughout the next five years. I was well behind in my education, and it was a question as to whether I would graduate high school at all.

            Finally, the resident doctor at one of the hospitals suggested to my parents that I go to a renowned treatment center in the country called The Weldorf Center. Supposedly they had doctors there that were highly respected, and offered various styles of treatment. I went there reluctantly, knowing that I would fall even further behind in my studies.

            The Welldorf Center was situated in the countryside just outside the city. There were pine forests all around, and the campus was beautiful, with a large yard in the back with a walkway right near the forest. They tried different forms of therapy on me, but it wasn’t until they had a hypnotist come in that my secret was finally revealed. After I confessed my rape and my obsession to the hypnotist, I was diagnosed with body dismorphic disorder.

            Having a diagnosis for my problem was a relief. I had never really suspected that there was an official name for what I was experiencing, or even if any one else in the world ever experienced it. I was surprised to learn that a large portion of the population had this disorder, and I was glad to know that it could be treated.

            I enjoyed my time at the Weldorf center. The people were kind, the staff attentive, and the food delicious. And I loved taking walks outside on the path. It was also at the Weldorf Center that I met Jason. He was there being treated for bipolar disorder, and the first day he came, he paced his room with the door open and sang old rock and roll songs at the top of his voice. I thought his voice sounded nice. There was a sincerity to it, and a warmth, that made me happy. I happened to pass by his door, and, curious, I couldn’t help myself from peaking inside. He noticed me and, embarrassed, I hurried away. But he rushed out and said, “Wait!” I turned around. “Would you like to make a request?” I smiled and shook my head. “Well, alright. But anytime you want to hear a particular tune, let me know.” Then he went back in his room and began singing, “Pretty Woman.”

            That evening, at dinner, he approached me at the table where I usually ate alone. “Mind if I join you?” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you. That’s what the food is for.” There was something about his smiling face—a mixture of devilish playfulness and childish innocence, perhaps—that I found irresistibly charming.

            “Sure,” I said.

            “I’m Jason,” he said.

            “Marie.”

            We ate in silence for a while. Then he spoke.

            “How long have you been here?”

            “About three months,” I said.

            “Three months! Wow. Well, you don’t have any moss growing on you, so you must not find it too confining. What are you here for, if you don’t mind me asking.”

            “I’d rather not say,” I said.

            He blushed and looked down. “Of course. It was silly of me even to ask.”

            We continued eating in silence. Then he spoke again.

            “Would you like to hear a funny story?”

            I smiled. “Sure. It’s not dirty, is it?”

            “No, not at all. It’s the story of how I ended up in here.”

“OK. Tell me.”

            “Well, I was up for three days straight. I’ve been living with my parents and it literally drove me crazy. For whatever reason I had this idea that I had to lead a revolution. But not for people. For dogs. So you want to know what I did?”

            “What?”

            “I broke into an SPCA and freed all the dogs. The next thing I knew I was running from the cops with a pack of dogs around me.”

            I laughed. “Did you just make that up?”

            “It’s the complete truth. Scout’s honor. I know. It’s pretty weird. You must think I’m crazy. Do you?”

            “Maybe a little bit,” I said, holding up my thumb and forefinger to show how much.

            We continued to banter and I got to know him. He was eighteen and had dropped out of school to work full time at a comic book store. He said he was looking for an apartment in the city, had a dog, Mischief, and played the guitar. He said he was trying to start a band that would, as he put it, “capture the sound and fury of my well-spent youth.” As the days passed, we became closer. Finally, I was willing to tell him my secret. His response surprised me. He began to weep. “It’s just not fair,” he said. “No one should have to go through such things. No one!” I was touched, and placed my hand over his. “It’s OK. I’m doing fine now.”

            He looked at me with his teary blue eyes and said: “You deserve nothing but the best. It would be a crime for you to be anything less than perfectly happy.”

            Once, as we were walking together on the pathway around the yard, he asked me which part of my body I obsessed over. I told him.

“Really?” he said. He seemed surprised. “But you have such a nice ass!”

           “I think it’s too small,” I said.

           “No, no,” he replied. “It is just the right size.”

           “And what makes you say that?”

            “Well,” he said, hiding his embarrassment. “I won’t lie to you. I have observed your ass from time to time, and I must say, it is an exceptional ass.”

            I laughed, took his arm, and rested my head on his shoulder as we walked.

            The day it came time for me to go home, my parents showed up and the three of us met with the doctor and the case-worker to discuss my outpatient treatment. The problem was still there, but I had learned ways to cope. And being with Jason had been the most effective treatment of all. He was like a cleansing fountain for me. When I was with him, all my self-consciousness and worries dissipated, and I felt at peace. After the meeting, I went to my room and collected my things. I came back out and found Jason seated at the table where we had shared our first meal together, reading an old, worn-out copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. He put the book down and stood up as I approached. I felt embarrassed, and didn’t know what to say. Naturally, he said just the right thing to set me at ease.

            “Looks like you’re moving up in the world, my friend,” he said, smiling. I threw myself into his arms. “I love you,” he whispered. I was astonished. I looked at him, studied his eyes. There wasn’t a hint of irony in them. Or doubt. Just the gleam of warmth and loving compassion. I smiled at him. “I think I love you, too.”

            “Well here.” He bent down and picked up a pen and opened a notebook that was sitting on the table. “Here’s my number. Give me a call any time you want.” He handed me the piece of paper.

            “Here’s mine,” I said, handing him a piece of paper on which I had written my contact information and a brief note.

            “Let’s make a bet on who calls the other first,” he said.

            “OK, sure.”

            “I’m warning you, though. I move pretty fast, so you’ll need to get to the phone quick.”

            I laughed.

            “You’re going to do fine. I know it.”

            “Thank you.”

I held up the piece of paper he had given me, walked over to where my parents were waiting for me, and left.

            The next two days all I could think about was Jason. I worried that we would never see each other again. I kept thinking about his smile, and all the kind things he had said to me. I knew I would never meet someone like him ever again. Then, as I was lying on my bed one evening, my phone rang. It was a blocked number. I knew it was him.

            “Hello?” I said.

            “Marie! Well, now. Looks like I get bragging rights on that bet we made. How are you?”

            “I’m fine. How are you? Are you still at Weldorf?”

            “I am. But you’ll be happy to know that I get out next week.”

            “Really? That’s great!”

            “And, I thought we ought to celebrate our mutual freedom. Would you like to hear my idea?”

            “Sure.”

            “There is a beach I know of, unlike any other beach around. I think we should go there.”

            “That sounds great. But what makes it so special?”

            “Well, this is the funny thing. It’s a nude beach.”

            “A nude beach? Jason, I…”

            “It’s OK if you have reservations. I’d be happy to go on a standard dinner-and-movie date, but I thought, what a better way to celebrate your perfectly perfect body than by showing off every inch of it to a bunch of complete strangers?”

            “I…I don’t know what to say. I mean…”

            “You can say no.”

            “OK. Then I’ll say no.”

            “Would you still like to go out, though?”

            “Sure.”

            “Great. I will call you again when I get back home.”

            “Sounds good.”

            When I hung up the phone, I lay back in my bed and began to think about Jason’s proposal. At first, it seemed abrupt, and a little presumptuous. But then I began to picture us together naked on the beach, and the idea of it made me smile. That was Jason. Free and easy as the wind. Lighter than air. Life, for him, was an adventure. That’s why I loved him. Anything was possible when I was with him. So why not do the most seemingly irrational thing if it was in good fun and there wasn’t any danger involved? Yet, part of me felt there was some danger. What if I grew self-conscious? What if I panicked? Then I told myself, and so what if I do? I’d end up at square one, but at least I would have Jason there with me. I decided then and there that I would go to the nude beach with Jason. I would do anything with him. It was exhilarating to know that I could.

            The beach is filled with life. Bodies in motion. Bodies enlivened with the spirit of freedom. We walk down to the beach and everything seems to be happening in slow motion. We lay down our towels in the sand. I look at Jason. He looks at me, smiling from behind his dark sunglasses. “Well,” he says, “here goes nothing.” He unties his robe and lets it fall to the sand. I look at his body, his pale skin glistening in the sun. “You’re not just going to stand there staring, are you?” he says. I look around. I feel insecure, and helpless. But as I look at all the naked bodies around me it occurs to me, that’s all they are—bodies. They have no personalities, no feelings. They’re just flesh. And flesh is impermanent. But what I have with Jason is not impermanent. It is eternal, and as I feel him looking at me from behind his dark sunglasses, waiting for me to disrobe, I suddenly feel a part of that eternal essence, and I lose all self consciousness. I take off the robe. I am standing naked in a mass of people who are also naked. There is nothing to hide. My body is one. My love for Jason, and the sand, and the ocean, and the sun—they help me forget. They help me forget what was never actually real in the first place.

Revelation

The moon hangs heavy over the rippling tides.

Soon the cord that latches it to the sky

Will break and it will fall

Down into the sea.

A great wave will rise

That will consume the Earth

And then the waters will recede

And the moon will slake its thirst.

Then too the parasitic stars will fall

And drink the fiery blood of Earth.

And the great symphony of the spheres

Will collapse into silence

As the last living prophet sheds his tears.