Chapter One - Riley and Ol' Roy

First, very rough draft. Chapter One - Riley and Ol' Grandpa Roy Sixty years before I was born, my great-grandfather was arrested and sent to prison for arson. He was a mouthy third-generation French-Canadian hood trying to prove himself to the Italians who had trickled into town with their shiny black cars, pointy shoes, and piles of greasy bills. As it seems, they were an uneasy but fortuitous pairing, Grandpa Roy and the Mafia. He, a spitfire firebug, and they an employer frequently in need of a scratchy match. Pyrites was a small boomtown on the Canadian border, seven hours north of the New York City, named after the rich deposits of pyrite under the sandy, mosquitoey ground. Fool’s gold. The mine had shut down in 1908 but then paper was all the rage. The hungry mouths of Hearst’s printing presses were hungry for more and more and more. $15,000 in payroll checks written every week. A community that swelled from a church and a few farms to 180 buildings. Saloon on every corner. Coins in every purse. The town was experiencing an influx of poor, huddled masses from the city searching for prosperity outside of the tenements. Borderlands at the time of Prohibition. The Big Apple had lost its taste for bathtub gin and Canadian whiskey was all the rage. The North Country had its own Wild West played out against a backdrop of corn fields and farm houses. The Akwesasne Reservation straddled the border like a whore, legs spread wide for anyone for the right price - Canadian, American, Heroin. Grandpa Roy knew he’d never be a real Mafioso and it riled him. Even when he connected the Wop fuckers with his connections in Ontario. Even when he risked life and limb smuggling the clanging clacking bottles of Canadian Club across the dark, writhy river. His resentment ran deep. They called him and his brothers “The Canucks” but he could do nothing but grit his teeth. He had, afterall, a family to feed and couldn't exactly change his bloodline. So a low- level mob hench he became. “I’m as American as you, you dumb fucks,” he’d say once those Mulberry Street mother fuckers were out of earshot. The thing was that Grandpa Roy was a coward. As most arsonists are. He almost told them to go fuck themselves when they ordered him to torch Frank Jurowksi’s poolhall but they sweetened him up with whiskey so smooth it seduced his tongue and his will. Frank was a good man and his whole life was in that leased building, ten years of equity and all his savings in a coffee can.. But the insurance money was significantly more profitable than rent so the choice had been made, the orders straight out of Brooklyn. To hear it told, the fire was so bright and hot that it melted the tar on nearby roofs. Nearly burnt down the whole damn town. Grandpa Roy was so startled by how fast the conflagration spread that he was seen stumbling down the street stunned, gas tank still in hand. He was arrested within a few hours. Found quivering in an abandoned barn, the stench of hooch and fuel strong and fresh. Years later, they’d try to blame the picture house fire of 1919 on him as well. A young woman had been pulled out blackened by flame, gasping for air and clutching a round, pregnant belly. They’d lost both her and the baby. Ol’ Roy never was charged and he never said either way if he did. He’d just shuffle his feet and mumble about being out in Brick Chapel buying some turkeys. My great-grandfather and his brothers spent equal time in both the Army and Dannemora. Petty crimes like theft and robbery but arson was the prevail of my particular blood line. Fire in our veins. A love of flame that lead to little three-year old Eva catching her dress aflame while playing with matches while her Daddy did his time in prison, cursing those Italian fucks for stringing him up. One minute a bundle of little girl giggles then a twirling, burning, screaming whirl of blonde curls, torched cotton, and agony. It was too late. Like some sort of karmic retribution for his sins. How many houses had ol’ Roy burnt down over the years either for money or for spite? During a time when the town was a tinder box of booze, straw, and newsfeed who was to say. But when they told Grandpa Roy about little Eva, he found himself dropping to his knees and begging the good lord Jesus to forgive him. He never meant to hurt nobody… he was a good man... He'd taken the eucharist all of his life. Eight years later he left prison quiet and bent. Long thin nose, long thin face. Same fierce, flaming blue eyes like a pilot light in the dark. Azure eyes that burn even in a black and white photo. The same eyes as me. “I see it in you, girl,” my father whispers as he gently pries the matchbook out of my chubby little girl hands. “You can’t do this shit. You’ll pee the bed. You’ll burn up like little Eva.” “And like Grandpa?” “Yes, and like Grandpa.” My father casts a glance over his shoulder out the large bay window. Out in the meadow you can still see how the hay never grew up quite right around the old driveway, as if their footsteps scorched the earth and nothing more could grow. The hulking, broken shape of the old foundation still visible, the house remains. The ghost of it anyway. The house where Grandpa Roy and Grandma Rose had died in their sleep when their old chimney caught fire during the blizzard of ‘77. Smothered, lulled, cremated. But I’m seven now and scary stories don’t bother me like they used to. Daddy steps into the kitchen to break a piece of slimy, waxy stem from the aloe plant on the counter. My fingertips are red and hard to the touch. But there is no pain.

every poem an exorcism
much like beethoven
driven insane by the unheard

you can drown in thirst
and break under a caress
if blessed with propensity
curiousity
and the inability to sate.

these notes on my back
if you look very closely
you can play me like a french horn
with your mouth applied just right

these twisted nodules of self hate
that rise from my skin, these bunches of ugly
knots in my muscles break under your touch
and then you hear my song

i am most beautiful in my most weak
when my rose thorns fail and
my snake fangs break
I am the most beautiful in my most weak
when the well goes dry
and the plane falls from the sky

no need to be sad
it really ain't that bad
girl, you've got a flower in your hair
and your ass upright in your chain

i want to smash mailboxes with bats
I want to live in a pink house filled with cats
mostly I just want to be loved and wanted for my crazy
and not despite of my emotional and illogical and crazy

i play this acer laptop like tori amos and her piano
it's non melodic and my rhythm nonsensical and meth-like
i'm magic and out of my pretty mouth slithers truth, you know
I walk the halls, I sing, I cry, I whisper, always a night light

i bash you desperation and fear, i eat you and demolish you
i smash you in the nuts like these precious things, these hues of blue
I gauge your eyes and I tear at your guts, fucking insecurity
I say, how can you doubt the existence of God and the lack of your beauty
in the same breath?
in the same breath

I say
you pause
night falls between our words
the needle slides in
the blood begins
this transfusion
has to be necessary
it has to be, you see
it has to be, it has to be
you see
you see

I leave
you step
forward forty six paces
hands confused and twisted in contortions
knots
we cross
knotting our own braids
fall back, one arm
breast stroke
down beat
embrace and my intensity
burns you
I turn to ashes

to dust, to dust

fucking editing

i hate it

i scoff at it

i throw pencils and sock monkeys
at arrogant pink erasers

if i'm not my best in the immediate
if i'm not my most authentic off the tip of my
tongue
then what good am I to anyone?

why does writing make me so angry
why does it make me wanna scream
so much changes when it's just me and the screen

white pixels and blank pages hold no judgement
no fear in losing love
when sharing truth
no fear in having my hand dropped
when being vulnerable

and fuck it all
if i stopped making sense
or rhyming or
if i repeat words in a non artistic
non aurally or orally way

this is me slaming letters down with my fingers
nonsensically
shooting at the stars with a .22
and hoping to knock myself in the head
with some dust and rocks

I'm going to knit striped scarves
and learn to can my own jam
I'm going to buy me a pink bike with a basket
and I'll ride it all over from Brooklyn to casket

I'm going to learn all about microbrews
and retain my indie cred listening to Spotify
I'm going to decoupage old Ikea coffee tables
and I"ll listen to NPR while smoking in my car

I'm glad you're not in Afghanistan
Thirty people died this week, mostly soldiers
mostly uniformed clones of you
all the Taliban sees is camo and flags
rage and hate and retaliation and frustration

I see you
across the car from me
driving to the store
so we can get some chicken
and all I can think is

I'm so glad you're not in Afghanistan
I don't know how those Army girlfriends and wives do it
So often I feel so inadequate when your eyes go dark
Like I'm not patriotic or heroic or selfless or ... worthy
that I'd rather you be in my arms then at war

You say that I just don't understand
and I fall to silence

Maybe I really don't.

flight of thought
this speeding clumsy train of words
might be all i've got
in this moment
where i'm biting my lip
and burying my phone

why must i feel everything at once
and want to say all my words in one giant blah
I lose my mind and I lose my sense
and I'm supposed to be so damn talented
with these words
these goddamn words
but when I'm upset and you're turning away
they turn into loose letters
drooling down my lips
pooling on my chin
dripping onto the floor

darling i feel it all
i see twenty chess plays ahead
and someone's always ending up dead
crashed and burned and burned and crashed and

this rage, this rage, this goddamn rage
I wish I could put music to this rage, this rage
I play the wrong keys, i sing so out of my key

i sang opera with you
sing my angel
i sang opera with you
drunk in my parent's garage
one am and i was singing
opera with you
my voice so high
and there was no fear
or projections or reflections

this house is full of cats and past
i sit at the same desk where i sat at ten
and here I am still writing, still writing
still trying to be better, to be thinner
to be this girl that I probably, honestly already am

no mirrors here now
i left them all in jersey
and the air is so thick of nicotine
that is not mine
cancer without the pleasure

and I gotta ask
while I don't believe
necesarily in mistakes
did I mis-step or at least pounced
too quickly?

damn my impulsivity
my compulsion
this minor mania that sets off in my brain
and why don't I take my damn ADD meds
when I have a whole bottle
that could make me slower and saner?

I'm so dented and damaged and bruised
You are so dented and damaged and bruised
you said people can heal each other
I believe that, I believe that still

I play this laptop
like the piano
I never learned
never had the patience
to sit down
and try to play

I don't know Major C
from a Minor A
and when I'm with you
I strain my ear
to hear the magic
in the tuba, in the horns,
in the symphony of strings

You can play anything it seems
and hear I sit
swaying in my chair
typing but not composing
can't quite create the same
feeling

my own two hands
can't seem to do what yours can
and my own two ears
can't seem to hear what you can hear

but i can sing
and i can string
words
together
with just
my fingers

no knitting needles
needed
and we both know
I've never been one
to have the
patience
to read the recipe
or follow a pattern

i hit the space bar before words ar
-e finished and the enter key
comes at random times
and I lack rhythm I fear
I lack so many things, my dear

including a mute button
a self-cleaning set of teeth
an off switch for my emotions

god how i fail
i fail myself a thousand times
more than i could ever fail you
and this i know
this i know
i try
i try i try i try

i see, i spy where i trip
where my ankles twist and
where i always seem to fall

i can't play the guitar
and my voice is so often flat
i strive
i strive

to read notes on a page
to understand languages i do not speak
like you
like you

i want to be like you
and i want you to want to be like me
two plants, two tendrils of ivy
twirling and learning and growing
muscle fibers breaking
mending stronger
i am mending stronger

broken bones
heal like titanium
and it takes time
everything takes time
like writing poetry
like playing music
like falling in love

and on top of that
how to do it
perfectly?

or at least in a way that
lends gracefully and gently
to apologies and forgivings

i try,
i strive
I'll sit at this keyboard
and pretend it's making the music I hear
I'll take your hand
across the console of my car
and pretend I know what the fuck I'm doing
and that I'm not scared all the time lately
that I'm doing everything wrong

no, darling I don't know what I'm doing
but I'm going to strive
I'm going to strive
pound on this laptop
and find a syphony in my pathetic,
halting cacophony
that maybe if you don't love
I will
and it'll be enough

When I don't know what to say,
I say everything

With you, my skin tingles
even before you touch
With you, my skin giggles
even before you speak

I fall to awkward, I bite my lip
I trip all over myself

I wrote bad poetry
and wonder why you don't call

I'm sixteen all over again
only you're not Doug Hamilton
and I'm pretty sure you're not gay

:)

I don't want to sleep tonight
In fact, I'm just about rested up

Instead I shall writhe on my floor
Duct tape on my mouth, hands tied to my sides

All the things I am not allowed to say
I scream into the gag

It's the only way
to stop my metamorphosis into a spinster hag

I am learning restraint; how to be a proper, sane girl
I shall practice The Rules and curtsey and fucking
stop swearing

(and swear I'll stop fucking)

the pseudo hippie says I sell myself out
with my Holly Go Lightly

I reply, "but I keep bumping into walls
blindfolded or not"

Existentialist crisis
on Hillcrest Terrace
I will walk a little bit faster
Dodging raindrops as I go

I leave my keys in the door
wet towels on the floor
wear my heart on sleeve
never know when to leave

If I could do cartwheels I might be saved
otherwise I assume I'm damned
left to fall into every vice I crave
my heart preserved in a jar, properly canned

I am a woman
that can only be loved
by a man
that can appreciate
the curve of a calf
and the call of the siren

Long slender necks
of arched-back birds
Circle, sail, hypnotize

Wet grass between toes
I dance with the porch light off
I'm won't be alone in the woods tonight

Here is where you will find me
Fourteen degrees off center
Raining fall around me

Hands outstretched
C'mere, now.
C'mere, soon
in the very least

I never doubt that I am magic
I never doubt that I am magic
I never doubt that I am magic
and a beautiful red queen

Clock hands break in my fingers
Endless ticking, endless tock

Pried out batteries
gears fall to the floor
freezing of memories
no more closing of doors

At the end of wit
is where I am
At the end of wit
is where I sit

You have a girl now
You've had her awhile
but it was a case of I don't ask
and I begged you not to tell

In the shadows of my room
you rest your head on my navel
It's playtime and I pretend
that this time you won't have to leave

I'm learning to bury things
I'm taking lessons from the neighbor's dog
I bought a shovel and a gardener's spade
I wait for my nails to grow

In the dark is the best time to dig
Under the canopy of Jersey pines
On my knees I sink to duty
Bleeding to discover bones and rock

Mom always said I'd end up in China
in my sideyard sand box
All I ever found was grass and endless
armies of tiny black ants

Raining is for dancing
Dancing is for the nude
2 am and the porch light dies
and I emerge as if born

I twirl
Wash away the dirt
Wash away the pain

A heart of gold
returned to the earth
a miner craving a cigarette
and a lover to kiss away the tears

I return to the ground
practicing Mandarin
blister on my hands
still refusing to wear any shoes

I can't listen to this song anymore
it makes me love you
tricks me into emotions
I'm not allowed to feel.

It's too slow and soft
too lilting but solid
evokes rain and a saved damsel
homesick and high

I know I can save myself
so beyond capable, I stand
but always, continually and always
I am throwing myself to the wolves
perhaps just to see how well I fight

If I could play the guitar
I'd set the world on fire

I am so much more than bare vocals
echoing on panelled walls

if I could play the guitar
I'd sing you to sleep

You'd settle down into softness
and embrace the still

if I could play the guitar

the dawning of days
this new refusal to apologize
for just who i am
and who i am not

i've packed away my costumes
all the masks are broken in two
it is so much easier
to just be me

i'm sorry i can't be
what you think you need
i'm sorry i can't be
the submissive chameleon

it takes so much energy
to just stay alive
so much energy
I refuse to not waste in lies

monkey

Again

I'm doing it wrong
Diving headfirst
down rabbit holes
where I once naively fell

And Again

I'm too old
to claim that I know
no better

An oops and a trip
but here I am
and there I go

again

I am blinding my own eyes
fingers plugging my ears
Running through the dark
Ducking under tree limbs
Dodging tripping stones
And I sing

lalalalallalalalalalallalalalalalla

I don't hear you
and I refuse to see
the insanity of repetition
the on purpose mistake
the wasting of precious time
and eventual tears

it's oh so quiet
here in the woods
that i do not fear
but it was oh so quiet
in the northern hills
but yet I shook

used to be so afraid of
nights alone and days silent
now so well practiced
in the art of the hush

a decade passes, perhaps another two
there is still meditation in nicotine
and although i am neither there nor
anyplace I am or used to be
I'm always here
breathe, you say
in and out
a smile
encircled
i think not of cutlery and car parts
i think not of
anything

could this bring peace?

do we fear peace and alas, boredom?
do we dig up old bodies just to gnaw on the bones?
marrow tastes fresh in death
my teeth sharpen as gums bleed

oh so quiet
and still
in the watchung hills
oh so quiet
and I'm so terribly still
in the watching hills