Some new poems

Проклятье поэта вот в чем:

Нельзя же ему охватить

чувство стихами целиком.

Остается лишь в грудь рубить

и может быть, павшем осколком

сердца тусклий след положить

того огня, чья суть иском.

----

It happens sometimes

that life gives you lemons when

you're not in the mood for lemonade.

I'm told you will find

you can use them for golf balls

when you need to add juice to your game.

To be clear, not inspired by actual events

“You are not there, and this conversation is not happening.”  I assumed what was meant to be a pose of studied nonchalance.

The six-inch tall gargoyle-ish thing in a garish red-and-yellow-checked jacket that was certainly not perched on my right shoulder contemplated me, amused, and said, “You can see me.  You can hear me.  You can feel my weight on you.  And you just spoke to me.  Clearly, wrong on all counts.  Why is this so hard to believe?”

“You have the head of Richard Nixon, for starters.   I’m pretty sure this says something disturbing about my psyche -- I mean on top of the general fact of seeing  you in the first place -- but does lend confidence to the hallucination interpretation.”

“Nah, I just have a quirky sense of humor.  I considered going with the robot Satan look, like Futurama, but it lacked a certain subtlety,” said the Nixongoyle, and then licked his own elbow.

“Oh, so this a variable thing, is it?” I fired back.  “Well, then I demand to be haunted by a six-inch tall Keira Knightley in a tight cocktail dress.”

“I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”  The Nixongoyle smirked.  Actually the Nixgoyle had more or less a permanent smirk.  But it intensified here.

“Anyway, we’re on a crowded street.  Yet nobody is staring or pointing at you.  What do you have to say to that, Tricky?” I offered, in a weak approximation of triumph.

“I said you could see me.  I didn’t say they could.  I prefer to keep this between us; some of them are probably dirty hippies.  Besides, everybody is busy dealing with their own demons.....  You see what I did there?”  Smug Nixongoyle is smug.  

“Wait a minute -- now you want me to believe there’s a bunch of other people out there with annoying little monsters riding around on their shoulders?  Then why don’t I see anyone else talking to themselves constantly, eh?”  I was sure I had the hallucination pinned down this time.

“You do,” he replied calmly.  “But the other hosts spent less time being argumentative motherfuckers and more time doing things like buying bluetooth earpieces.   Which you might want to consider, by the way, because people are going to start noticing your monologue soon, and conspicuousness is going to interfere with our plans.”  The Nixongoyle turned and stared in the direction of an apparently random empty shoulder and, called, “Hey, Gerry, I owe you one, buddy!”

I sighed.  “First of all, Tricky, watch your language.  There’s kids around.”  

Nixongoyle raised an eyebrow.  I thought about what I’d said, and banged my head against a nearby brick wall before continuing.

“Second of all, what do mean, ‘our plans’?  Because I for one, plan to go home, take a long nap, and wake up alone.”

“No, my friend, we’re gonna go rob a bank.”  The Nixongoyle looked at me expectantly.

“You know, you’re constitutionally barred from seeking another term in office.  There’s no point in plotting dirty tricks now.  Also, that’s totally insane.  Naptime it is.”

Poems, Fall 2012-Summer 2013

I feel obliged to note hear that this is not all the poetry I have written in the past year; it's just all the poetry that isn't awful.  Also, despite the impression one might get, I don't actually spend every day pining for someone.  Most days, perhaps, but not every day.

***

I measure my life 
by the distance between our 
bodies, and lament.

***

No glass of frigid ice water 
No biting arctic wind 
Can free me from the thought of 
You or tame the fire within 
I am condemned -- my lust for 
You is my burning mortal sin

***

This is an age of cynicism

And polite society will not consent

To talk of love at first collision

Or really any profound sentiment

So I shall not say my heart is stolen,

Lost in an unexpected seizure

I’ll just say -- the lock is broken

And you could pocket it at your leisure.

***

In the long historical view

Prometheus gets the credit

For stealing fire from the heavens

But forget not her merit who

First put the flames beneath a spit

And called the product barbecue

Science fiction noir-snark

I work at the venerable firm of Laslow, Smythe, Smythe, Bulkemacher, and Fine, which gives me a certain amount of cachet in particular company, at the least to the degree one might expect given that my name is Drovinsky.   I shuffled a bit in my slightly ill-fitting vest and sport coat, which had been carefully chosen for a particularly avuncular look back in the days when I was a litigator.   I continue to affect it largely out of nostalgia; most of my recent clients probably wouldn't know the difference if I showed up as a cross-dressing Elvis impersonator. 

I enter Bulkemacher's office precisely 75 seconds before our appointed time, as certain that this fastidious devotion to punctuality will go unnoticed as I am that I would spend the first five minutes being chewed out for tardiness were it otherwise.  The secretary waves me in immediately.

“Ah, there you are.  We have a another matter that calls for your, eh, special sensibilities,” says Bulkemacher. 

As it happens, I don't have special sensibilities.  I had, however, had several years in which it was inadvisable to show myself in the more decent corners of the legal establishment, and thus had been especially motivated to familiarize myself with the sort of specialized knowledge, both jurisprudential and... otherwise... that would allow me to get my foot back in the door without having it broken off with extreme prejudice. 

“Yessir.  And who do I have the pleasure of representing today?”  I'm not resentful about this situation at all.  Or at least, no one could see to the contrary.  I had been more than a decent courtroom attorney at one time, after all.

“The clients are not actually here today.  You will have to go upstairs to meet them.  I believe they are Quarterbacks.”

Ah.  Could be worse, I suppose.  I had read a fair amount about Lllll!!ldz, though I had not previously worked with the species.  They lacked anything analogous to a larynx, instead communication by touch using a sort of Braille output on their pseudopods.  Group discussions inevitably involved a sort of huddle, hence their English moniker.  First contact had been a bit sketchy, as the human diplomats had naturally developed goosebumps when the Lllll!!dz explorers bespoke them.  Initially, it appeared that our unintended salutation of “Curses upon your and all your ancestors back to the spawning of dzl!ll!” would provoke a real interstellar incident, but cooler cerebral ganglia ultimately prevailed.  Relations had been fairly smooth since then, so I had to assume that the case was not in the domain of treaty obligations or other such weighty matters.  That, and the fact that I was unlikely to be entrusted with such things any time soon, special sensibilities or not.

“What sort of matter is this, sir?” I inquired.

“The message is a bit hazy... amateur hour over at the 'teletype' receiver station.  It would seem to a be a matter of inheritance,” burbled Bulkemacher.

“Inheritance?” I said, forgetting the “sir” in my incredulousness.  “The Llllll!!ldz reproduce through budding.  Is one of them going to disown his almost-clone-to-be?”

“Well, Drovinsky, I expect you will determine such details at your meeting this evening  Do stop Ms. Larrel's desk on the way out and she will see that the necessary travel funds are placed in your account.  Good day.”

Through a combination of force of will and good luck, I managed not to sputter as I exited his office.  A meeting upstairs this evening.  Ah, but perhaps I should clarify.  Being a partner, Bulkemacher's office was, of course, on the top floor.  “Upstairs,” in this case, meant up the Elevator, presumably because the Quarterbacks wished to meet in a more convivial gravity for them.  Which meant I had until this evening to catch a plane from New York to Florida, and then to ride up to orbit.  I confess, I have a sensitive stomach.  Turbulence on the plane is bad enough.  The elevator, as far as I am concerned, should merit hazard pay, perfect safety record be damned.  

Epic dark fantasy (with not-yet-written Shylaman-like twist)

The Scourge of the North

I actually have a rather lengthy complete story in my head for this, but it's proving difficult to move it to paper.

The Scourge of the North stood at the parapet, composing poetry for the crows.  A chill breeze swept up through the surrounding peaks and whistled through the spires of his fastness, drowning out the raucous critique of his supercilious audience.  Winter would come early this year.  This was not quite enough to bring a smile to his face.  Not any more.  But the crows might have discerned a faint glimmer of satisfaction in the glowing embers of his eyes, had they been less indifferent.

He cast a long gaze to the south and surveyed the passes through the foothills, and saw no traces  of anything larger than a rabbit.  Perhaps this year would pass without any approaches from the foolhardy or the insane.  It had been a long while since the last time his isolation had been left undisturbed for an entire questing season.  He had actually lost count of the years, which was unfortunate, as there was little but counting to do in this desolate citadel at the edge of the world.  He sighed, turned on his heel, and stalked back into the keep.

            

Sleep beckoned, but he knew that he would be mocked by dreams of Before, so he sat on the throne and sulked for as long as possible.  In the end, he drifted off anyway, as he always did.  Death would not indulge him, and yet life was still a series of inevitabilities.  He dreamed....

                        *                                                          *                                                          *