capital letters no longer exist in my world.
there's festering clusters longing to begin,
but the phrases and people and places are now
humbled, because i jumbled them free of their
formalities, their faces, their opening statements.
if there is no genesis, there cannot be a revelation,
and certainly not a postscript. pressing messes into
sentences, i scan them until they spell sense,
but the definitions oscillate like oversized jewels,
accosting me with the scintillation of sirens, begging
me naked, bathing, to build them back their bridges.
but capital letters no longer exist in my world,
and the holocaust it's caused has a meaning that's lost.
the holocaust it's caused has a meaning that's lost.
-01/04/10
capital letters
Animalia - The Pandas, The Toucan, Vitiligo (The Butterfly), The Lioness
*Important Note: these poems are diverse entities and should not be read as a coherent aggregate, unless you decide that the animalia theme merits an interpretation based upon a sexual maturation process simulated by the chronological progression of the poems. This note is bullshit*
The Pandas
Curled in blue pandas and bottomless beds,
glow-in-the-dark stars overhead;
there is no crib and no baby blue
worn carpet with a prune perfume.
Slim silent trophies gesturing, moving
closer, their shaken shadows looming
larger and larger on the moonlit walls,
the anorexically thin acoustic stalls
that assist the singers who steal my sleep
in discordant duets between wolf and sheep.
Howling in communion, my voice
is unheard beneath my timid toys,
so I hold blue pandas close to my chest,
with glow-in-the-dark stars overhead.
The Toucan
I broke the beak off the balsawood toucan
that talked to me incessantly from her perch
on my bedside shelf; I took that green bitch
and I snapped her pouting pursed mouth
off like the stem from a banana.
I was content for a week before I glued her
back together; after that she always talked
with a lisp.
Vitiligo (The Butterfly)
She was on top,
undulating like an inchworm on a leaf,
trying to metamorphose.
I held her nascent wings tentatively,
disinterested until
I spotted a pale membrane rotating
on her left ribcage,
and for the first time, I entertained her
fantasy.
She asked – I said,
you have a birthmark; she rolled
away in silence.
Perhaps she thought it could pull
her butterflight down,
but she was already grounded, and I
can no longer picture
her face, but I see the smudge on her side
perfectly.
The Lioness
When you nuzzle,
when you knead,
when you splash your scent
into my mangled mane,
when you play your tail
and raise your haunches,
remember:
I have a barbed penis.
-02/03/09
The Only Difference
Her breasts are bigger. I closed my eyes and reopened them, satisfied to let post-coital bliss crawl from my toes up to my scalp, and glanced around the room, half-lit by sunlight through the curtains, finally resting my eyes back on her chest. After a few heartbeats, I closed my eyes again and breathed in the air; it smelled like hormones with a faint hint of latex and a tinge of secrecy. I could feel her eyes on the side of my head, and I craned my neck to the right to meet them. “Is she better than I am?” she asked, with a playful yet sardonic twist of her upper lip, and I paused before answering, “your breasts are bigger.”
-A short short, called a 5-sentence story, that I wrote for writing class.
-08/28/08
Manifesto
there are days when I can do nothing but
sequester myself with sleep, there are days
when even the softest of words invite
a cacophony of doubt, there are days
when my hollow reflection pouts and writhes
like a child for attention, there are days
when dawn beckons me, but swallowing my
golden sun, I choke and gag, there are days,
more often now, when I live only half
a life, when gravity’s game seems weighted
for a win, when my teeth tint every laugh
with growls of fuck this, and for my own sake,
I will strive each second to be happy.
each hour I will make myself be happy.
~11/08
Wisp
had never lost that wisp of red
hair was falling in flames you weren’t
afraid of living why should anything
scare you but it scared me you
jambed yourself between the keys the
piano played you to the final
arpeggio and on that note the end
piece of something falling besides your
hair it was your tenacity and
skepticism as we discovered new
words philosophical whispered
words that fell into the cracked
vastness that was stalking you with
claws extended legs sprung mouth wide
open to swallow you whole and
spitting out a strand of burning red
hair falling away from what ∞
~10/08
Stuck Pig
There are nails penetrating my hooves,
and I think of Jesus, and how I’m nothing like him except
that he was Atlas and I only bear my own sins, but
suddenly I remember that animals were crucified too,
grunting squealing oinking barking like unoiled
gears sticking together, grinding stuck pigs
into sausage.
I imagine my belly cut, my bowels spilled,
crowds of cannibals taking communion
from my body. My pale pink body, pregnant
with passion, or is that apathy? They soak me
up with tampons when I don’t give birth to their dreams.
And when I say forgive me father for I have sinned,
I realize I am squealing at those stricken deaf by religion,
and that I have no sins, for I am a pig and I cannot
sin and therefore cannot be forgiven because
I am merely instinct.
I roll and revel in shit when I’m alive,
and when I’m dead I look like Jesus.
~03/09
Ode to the Clitoris
lay down sally you bettah slow
yo mustang down down inuh earlier
song, ooo baybee said oooo, youre
tha pianer woman, im tha rockit
boy of summer thaz turn on me, turn me
closah, tiny danceh n yo lectric boobs n mohair
soot wah ditty, ditty dum, ditty doo sweet
chile o my, carolinee, baybee james, home alabamy,
charma kameleon, you cum n go, oh
mama mia, mama mia, letter go offa tha
rails on uh crayzee train wit layla n cocaine, you
got tha good vibrations, dun need no education, if
you was a bullfrog youd be no frien o my
slowride, tek it eezee, tha soun o your wheels
drives you crayzee bout tha sharp dressd man, maam,
shaykit up baybee, twistin shout shout let it all
grow whur mah rosemaree wakes me up before
you go go show yo funkee strong fightin crimson
n clover n over n over n over n over tha floodin
down in texas, safe n warm in l.a. wit peena
coladas, you lak dem peena coladas I put tha
lime in tha cokenut jus fo you.
~04/09
A Psychological Exploration of Richard III’s “Coward Conscience”
At the conclusion of Shakespeare’s Richard III, the title character is abandoned by his allies and his friends, and caught amidst a fierce battle without even his royal mount, he utters the famous last words, “my kingdom for a horse!” (5.4.13). Perhaps the horse did not forsake Richard, but it seems that every other character in the play does, even those Richard once considered friends - or as close as he gets to friends. And little wonder why; Richard is a “foul devil” (1.2.49), “a murth’rous villain” (1.3.133), “bloody” (3.4.103), “a hell-hound” (4.4.48), and “God’s enemy” (5.3.252), though the term “devil” crops up more often than any other (1.2.45, 1.3.117, 4.4.418, etc.). He murders on a whim, betrays even those most loyal to him (Buckingham in 4.2), and steals the throne of England from its rightful heirs, just to scratch the surface. It seems obvious why every character hates Richard with a passion by the end of the play, and there is hardly a point to exploring their acrimony. What titillates the Shakespearian theorist is attempting to understand Richard’s brain - specifically, his conscience, or lack of one. Why does he choose to be a “villain” (1.1.30), and how might this be connected to his physical deformities? Does he have a conscience, and if so, why does he ignore it? What light does his dream in Act V shed upon his soul?
Because of Richard’s profound dishonesty whenever he converses with the other characters in the play, it is necessary to focus on his monologues - which reflect his inner thoughts - in order to gain an understanding of Richard. Conveniently and appropriately, Richard III begins with that very dramatic technique, as the Duke of Gloucester summarizes the War of the Roses between Lancaster and York. By line 14, however, he confronts what the audience and the dramatic characters already see - his physical deformities. Richard is “not shap’d for sportive tricks” (1.1.14) and is “curtail’d of this fair proportion” (1.1.18). Then, in an almost metatextual moment, Richard concludes that, since he “cannot prove a lover” (1.1.28) because of his infirmity and ugliness, he is “determined to prove a villain” (1.1.29). Without further explanation, the “plots have [been] laid” (1.1.32), as has the plot of the tragedy. But why must his impairments precipitate his depravity? Perhaps, as evidenced by the juxtaposition of the “dogs bark[ing]” at him (1.1.23) and his confession to being “false, and treacherous” (1.1.37), the two are innately intertwined in the minds of many, including Richard. If he sees his own hideousness as an impetus to act hideously, the problem may lie in his self-esteem.
This interpretation is enforced by Gloucester’s monologue after his successful seduction of Lady Anne. Nearly ecstatic at his own skill at manipulation, he marvels that she will “abase her eyes on [him]” (1.2.246) despite the fact that he “halts and [is] misshapen thus” (1.2.250). Then, exclaiming that he may have “mistake[n his] person all this while” (1.2.252), he says he has “crept in favor with [himself]” (1.2.258), and desires “a looking glass,” “a score or two of tailors,” and a “fair sun” so he “may see [his] shadow” (1.2.255, 256, 263, 264). At what is the only point in the play where Richard seems happy, his gaiety is caused by feeling handsome for once. By inserting this monologue early in the play, before Richard becomes severely paranoid and completely loses himself, Shakespeare provides an insight into the character that cannot be found anywhere else. Despite the king’s profession that “Richard loves Richard” (5.3.183) near the end of the play, it seems that he does not love himself. Professor Kerry Bystrom, a Shakespearian scholar at Dartmouth, posits that this key statement is in fact Richard’s entire motivation to “[act] for his own gain” throughout the tragedy (Bystrom). However, it is more likely that Richard is in fact lying when he says he loves himself, and that his utter hate for himself - motivated by his physical appearance - is actually the reason he decides to be a “villain” and therefore undertakes and attains his advancement.
Self-loathing alone does not qualify as a conscience, however; the few moments where Richard is alone on stage must be examined further. Like many of the characters, Hastings misjudges Richard as being less devious than he is. “I think there’s never a man in Christendom/ Can lesser hide his love or hate than he,/ For by his face straight shall you know his heart” (3.4.51-53), Hastings says, blind to the irony of his statement. And like Hastings, the audience is not clued in to Richard’s thoughts from Act I through Act IV, as there is a remarkable paucity of monologues from the title character. By the time the audience is reacquainted with the mind of Gloucester, he is King Richard III (4.2), and he has abruptly changed from a successful, Machiavellian character to the epitome of a paranoid, neurotic monarch. While deceiving the populace into supporting his usurpation of the throne, Richard ironically protests that it is “against my conscience and my soul” (3.7.226) to be crowned king, showing a remarkable poise throughout that scene in his manipulation of the crowd. However, within two brief scenes, he has lost his prowess at iniquity, as evidenced by his dialogue with Buckingham. Rather than devising some devious plot to murder young Edward, he tells Buckingham, “I wish the bastards dead,/ And would have it suddenly perform’d” (4.2.17-18). There is no strategy to his cruelty now, but merely the temerity of the powerful. And finally, the audience receives a further glimpse into Richard’s subconscious - but it is as eloquent as it is insightful, which is to say, hardly. His reasoning for killing “the bastards” is that he is “so far in blood” (4.2.64) that sinning further does not matter, and he denies that there is any “tear-falling pity” (4.2.65) within himself.
Watching Richard, the audience may begin to believe what he does. They will see him describe himself as “jolly” (4.3.43) after his wife Anne’s death and call for “a flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!” (4.4.149) to drown out Queen Elizabeth’s admonishment of himself. Whereas in the first few acts, the audience understands that Richard could have refuted all her arguments - and most likely convinced her to marry him in the process - they now see him as harried, witless, and weaker. His cruelty is no longer admirable in a sadistic way, but merely deplorable because of its unrestrained evil. In one last grand effort, Richard convinces Elizabeth at the end of Act IV to give him her daughter in marriage, but his “self-misus’d” (4.4.374) wooing seems only an echo of his previous self, ending with less of a frightened committment and more of a temporary acquiescence on the part of Elizabeth (“Write to me very shortly,/ And you shall understand from me her mind” (4.4.428-429). Richard’s growing impotence reflects the unorganized chaos of his reign, and possibly represents his lack of conscience to the audience.
Then, at the climax of the play in Act V, the ghosts of each character that Richard has murdered appear to him, cursing him and blessing his foe, Richmond. They desire to “sit heavy in [Richard’s] soul” (5.3.130) and decry him as “bloody and guilty,” ordering him to “guiltily awake” (5.3.154). Because the ghosts “came to [Richmond’s] tent” (5.3.231) too, Shakespeare seems to want the audience to believe that the ghosts are real, not figments of Richard’s conscience. Even if the ghosts themselves to not betray his conscience, the king’s monologue upon awakening reveals his soul for the first time. “Have mercy, Jesu!” (5.3.178) he exclaims, divulging that he is fearful of Judgment Day, which affirms his self-identification as a villain at the same time as it speaks loudly of a near repentance in the face of hell. He is certainly a coward, and what does a coward innately fear but himself? “Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why--/ Lest I revenge” (5.3.185-186), Richard contemplates in a bipolar manner. His self-confident mien has collapsed, leaving an admission that he “hate[s himself]/ For hateful deeds” (5.3.189-190), and that his “conscience hath a thousand several tongues” (5.3.193), which “throng to the bar, crying all, ‘Guilty! guilty!’” (5.3.199). Perhaps if this was the only evidence that Richard had a conscience, his self-hate and visions of “tongues” - the ghosts - would merely represent his cowardice in the face of a loss in battle. However, Richard confesses:
I shall despair; there is no creature loves me,
And if I die no soul will pity me.
And wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself? (5.3.200-203)
The inner sense of right and wrong that is the hallmark of a conscience is evident in this quote. Richard understands, and likely has all along, that no-one loves him, that his death will go unmourned, and that even he himself would not love someone who had made the choices he has made.
What Richard labels a “coward conscience” (5.3.179) seems to be at work in his own psyche. A deformed man with miniscule self-esteem, he chooses to be a “villain” since he cannot be a “lover” - in other words, cannot see why anyone would love him. He commits his heinous acts with full knowledge that they are wrong. His wickedness, at first successful, causes his descent into incompetent malevolence by Act IV. Perhaps, to take the analysis one step further than it has yet meandered, Richard’s self-loathing is the reason he ignores the conscience that seems to be present in himself, calling it “a word that cowards use” (5.3.309). Perhaps his villainy is inherently masochistic; he subconsciously desires to be hated by both people and God, as he feels he already must be because of his deformities, and to be condemned to hell because he deserves nothing else. Thus he causes his own downfall - and that of many others - because of his masochistic cowardice. It is ironic that Richard continually correlates cowardice with a conscience, since the audience sees Richard as a coward, especially after his murder of Edward’s heirs in Act IV and his dream in Act V. Shakespeare seems to be implying yet again that Richard does indeed have a conscience, and knows he has one. The Bard of Avon has created a character so complex and so twisted that it is difficult to fully grasp the extent of his psychological pandemonium. That makes Richard III one of the most intriguing minds of the Shakespearian canon, perhaps of all literature, and thus an exploration or examination of his mind, soul, and conscience can never be complete.
Works Cited
Bystrom, Kerry. "Containing Richard: Richard's Loss of Self in Richard III." Dartmouth.edu. Dartmouth University, 1999. Web. 24 Oct. 2009.
Shakespeare, William. Richard III. Riverside Shakespeare. 2nd ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997. 748-804. Print.
Sonnet #1
May I make a remark, mistress of minds?
Despite your doubts, my current conviction
Calls in cadence your biases and blinds -
Hark! And hear the designs in this diction:
There's a paucity of persons whom pride,
Peddling perfect content and confidence,
Cannot conquer. To bide one's time beside
Beelzebub insults his intelligence.
Yet I yearn to test myself in mischief,
Daring the devil to break my blockades
Perhaps presumptuousness pauses, in brief,
To berate, before preventing parades.
I have no validity for vict'ry:
Great goals and grace are quite contradict'ry.
~10/07
Poseidon's Pitchfork
Somewhere inside the Triangle you appeared, my ghost,
Naked as the night you drowned inside my arms.
Knowing it was futile, I still shot at you and cursed you,
And with a phantom smile you said, “shoot me again!”
My conscience was corrupted, but the compass held my aim,
And cannonballs dissolved your body as well as my ship.
Smashed by sin, the water lapping ‘round my heels,
I took the last lifeboat into the harbor, and when they asked,
I told them I’d been a victim of mutiny. But who?
Oh, it was God, God Himself, God Almighty
On the Devil’s Sea, wielding Poseidon’s Pitchfork,
And stabbing me through. I spat up blood for a week,
And then, like a derelict ship, I floated away.
-12/15/08
Epic Verse
I had a dream:
I was alone on a vast expanse of dark desert.
A horse of fire bore down on me,
Rider's sword waving, rearing menacingly,
Like some grim and ghastly tale from colonial times,
And my head was ready for the taking –
Then to the tip of an iceberg, and I was chained to it,
Like Prometheus to the mountain's summit,
As a horse of ice bore down on me,
Gnashing its teeth, and I knew it was hungry.
If I was gutted next, I didn't feel it;
The blood only flowed from a bitten lip.
I shook myself awake, groped for a light,
Because every dark corner obstructed my sight.
This is where I might die, I might perish, I might become nevermore,
Like the Raven of Poe's, like the innocence of a whore.
Lighted now, the room seemed bare and seemed boring,
Yet sleep engaged me in hide-and-seek –
A game without laughter for a man who felt meek
After feeling the horrors that Bibles foresee.
Revelate, revelate! O reviled saints!
Paint me a picture of hell and of pain!
Paul and Peter, do you fear the rapture?
I’m fascinated by fate, but still I’m its captive.
Now shaking and shivering, I lack any courage –
The battle in my brain is of epic proportions,
And it distorts the logic that governs the days
Of the populace that plods along at a pace
Clocked and counted out by diamonds on a Rolex:
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock you're dead.
But still I wrap myself up in the blankets;
In fetal position I feel more protected.
A mother's love teaches a child, till finally
He makes his own life and fulfills his own dreams,
But dreams are fickle friends at the best:
Peace must be made if you desire your rest.
So cease not in temptation, but uncover our evils,
For this is the kingdom of power and glory
That never is tethered.
Amen, I say, amen,
For the good of our friends and of our children,
Amen, goodnight, the end.
~05/07
Sic Nos Teneo
He beat the pavement with brass knuckles
to find a purpose for life and pain—
the concrete held its secrets in
and smiled at the brash display:
how audacious the race of men can be!
fighting and flaunting their stupidity.
For even God, with infinite omniscience,
doesn't know the reason for existence.
But mice and men must have a pretense,
or the cats will hunt them down,
so on and on we hit the ground.
He beat the pavement with brass knuckles
until his breath came short and shallow.
The adversaries stared at one another,
and the man's eyes grew swiftly narrow.
What a cold, taunting, crafty surface!
but the ground, with all its pride and arrogance,
will never break to interrogation,
to scream to men and all the nations
that life's best lived with humble ignorance—
free of fists and brass and bile,
full of respect and humble ignorance.
~04/07
Socks
I think I’d like you best
wearing nothing but socks,
tiptoeing across the cold linoleum
to return with a blueberry muffin
that we baked the night before,
and spreading yourself over me,
a napkin, a tarpaulin, a sail…
while I enunciate warm weather words
of wonderful fantasy lands,
C.S. Lewis in one hand, the other
tiptoeing over your hip, exploring
the hollow near the bone, dancing
to a hushed duet.
-03/03/09