Monday, January 30, 2012

Blooper Reel

The editing process forces one to make hard choice. Some poems, though you feel fond of them, just don't fit, transition or sound right within the collection. These are the outtakes from my chapbook of poetry Night Poems. *queue laugh track*

Christmas lights
Alone and distant.
Their screams and yells
Have faded into thoughts.
Snowflake memories
Too dark to see.

Bottles to bottles;
Breasts to more breasts.
Learning to speak,
Regretting your words.
Crawling away,
Forgetting to walk.
Crying for everything,
Crying for something.
Soft food to hard food
And back to soft food.
The cycle’s as ugly as
It’s less than beautiful.

My wallet and my mind
are drained. The weekend’s
hit its end. And so have I.
Sleep is rushing in.
I feel the current
Pulling me.
I can’t resist,
Don’t feel the need.
It’s comfortable and
Beautiful like death.

I’ve left my consciousness in pieces
A little here, a little here,
Stashed in mothballs,
Jammed underneath the bed
Between a floorboard
With my tell-tale heart.
You see cobwebs in the attic,
I see neurons clinging to a surface
That I left behind.

Some of us are dying.
                 Right now.

You might know a few.
You might know more.
You might not care.
It might brush off.
But never stay off.
Feel your pulse.
It’s ticking down.
Your heart’s a clock
With broken hands.

Selective cataracts blur visions
In my memory. Fog sifts, distorts
Refusing to blank out completely
Mistakes that I have made.
I think it almost would be worth forgetting
And repeating just to feel my conscience clear
Itself as if a taped confession recorded
Over with smooth jazz.

Friday, January 27, 2012

Burning Man

I once heard a burning picture
Left an imprint in the sky.
Something less than smoke signals
But more than vague-shaped clouds.
Energy is transferred not destroyed
I’d like to think and somewhere
You’re still crying
I’m not laughing.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Hopefully the Craziest Thing You've Read Today


Heathcliff had a list.  It wasn’t for groceries or school supplies.  The paper wasn’t college ruled.  In fact, the dimensions and texture proved quite mind boggling.  It looked burnt.  How and why Heathcliff wrote on it or saw anything he put down was a prevalent observation.  Rumors started it was joke-shop parchment used to cheat on tests.  But he never had it out during tests and a teacher couldn’t easily miss something so easily distinguishable.

The real reason for the paper was far more fantastic than any perceived. Heathcliff was practicing an ancient form of sorcery.  Being on the smart and quiet side he had never quite fit in.  This led others to pick on him.  Sorcery seemed to thus have all the answers.  He could get his revenge clandestinely with seemingly no chance of retribution. You might be thinking of old movies where magic comes back with equal force on the conjurer.  Heathcliff was much too smart for this. The negative energy was instead channeled to a generator and sold back as clean power to the local electrical cooperative.  His parents got a tax deduction and everyone was happy; except his enemies that is.

Josh Bautista woke up one morning to find his head two times smaller than normal. At first he was elated, thinking a new workout and muscle supplements had finally paid off.  Any illusions, however, were broken as it continued getting smaller.  His girlfriend Millie literally gasped and fainted as she saw him walking to his locker that day, thinking him beheaded.  It was seemingly a large price to pay for questioning Heathcliff’s argument in Social Studies. How dare he deny my claim the world is metaphorically flat!

By all accounts, Josh had had it relatively easy.  Rob Mullins was debating in speech class when for seemingly no reason he took down green curtains from the window, garbed himself and pretended to be Robin Hood. The principal was called in immediately but Rob refused to back down.  He insisted Principal was short for Prince John and demanded his lands back. When pressured further he ran out the door into a nearby forest shouting for his merry men.  Heathcliff finally achieved his revenge for losing the third-grade Spelling Bee.  No one will remember accordion had two “c’s”!

Somewhere between shrunken heads and English folklore Heathcliff realized sorcery could benefit himself in the same ways it harmed Josh and Rob.  He wrote his name on the parchment underneath the others with the intention of becoming a shrimp; a graceful creature he had long admired.  Unfortunately, for Heathcliff that particular marine animal was on the school lunch menu and he became an exceptionally large cocktail.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

And Now a Knock Knock Joke!

Knock knock.

Who's there?

A rapist.

A rapist who?

A rapist who went through a traumatic childhood and needs to exert control to feel empowered.

... I'm calling the police.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Forever Still

I’d hold that minute
With my lips forever
Still and wishing how
Our hands weren’t
Tied to other hands;
Black and skeletal
While ticking down
And showing no remorse.
If only time would slow
As hearts sped up;
Kisses lasting for as long
As memories sustaining us
Between them.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Gnome More War

It was a Sunday morning and far from curious. Some were mowing lawns, others reading papers; the normal malaise. No one suspected anymore than sunshine and even at that very pleasant sunshine.  Mr. Plant was complaining loudly on the davenport about the stock market in lieu of other things to yell over. His wife ignored him as she looked at invoices regarding a pilates business she was starting. Neither knew much of the other's affairs. Mrs. Plant assumed Mr. Plant spent his day working over new advertising strategies for companies teetering on the edge of collapse. Mr. Plant assumed Mrs. Plant was fighting a pointless battle for fitness; everybody ends up fat, he thought, why fight it? In a strange coincidence, however, so unlike the day we now find them, Mr. and Mrs. Plant could not have been more different from each other's expectations.

Mr. Gregory Joseph Zinfandel Plant could not have cared less about the stock market. He was a devout liberal with a cover. It seemed the perfect allusion; a middle-aged, stodgy, boring conservative business man. In truth, he wanted to slap his more ignorant peers.  They were so against helping anyone but themselves with tax dollars.  But he couldn't let on he differed in the slightest.  No one suspected him of illicit activities involving the liberation of garden gnomes; not his wife, not the neighbors, not even the government.

Mrs. Regina Georgia Lays-Potato Chips Plant was the opposite as well of what she seemed. Pilates disgusted her.  Quite often she mumbled over the hippie shit she endured to further her cause. Does this dress make my butt look big? Is my wasteline smaller than before? Isn't the Prius soo ecological? Mrs. Plant found her self hearing on a daily basis. She wanted to shout that their asses always looked big; their wastelines were equators and the Prius couldn't make it through a windy day. But she held back. Her real life was a crusade against garden gnomes. For years he had worked behind the scenes, imprisoning the filthy creatures into plastic and selling them at maximum profit.

Yet, both were similar in one respect; neither could have contemplated the hoard of heavily armed gnomes soon marching past their kitchen window.  Mr. Plant was outraged less at the occurrence than at the timing.  This was not what he had in mind.  Weapons were given with instructions to overthrow the authorities covertly.  Mrs. Plant had assumed them all in plastic; her life's work nearing completion.

"I've got to, um, go," said Mr. Plant, getting up off the sofa and quickly to the door.  She ran after him.  The outside air was rich with the smell of gunpowder. Indeed, it appeared cannonballs had smashed the roofs of several unsuspecting neighbors.

"How did the despicable vermin manage to break their plastic encasement?" Mrs. Plant thought loudly to herself.  The words were not missed by Mr. Plant, who had long suspected agents watching him.


"What's the matter hunny?"

"You are responsible for the enslavement of millions!"

"Oh, please.  These pests running about?  It's a good thing we were taking care of them or else we would never have a moment's piece; always running around, organizing gardens against the owner's wills and what not."

"They are prideful creatures respecting beauty and the proper order! I've worked years to liberate them!"

"YOU! You're responsible for the counter insurgency!?"

The gnomes had stopped marching and were now watching with interest. Their greatest supporter and their greatest rival stood before them.

"Carry away the wench!" said one, "and crown the king!"

A few last shots were fired before the gnomes converged on Mrs. Plant. They tied her up as Mr. Plant said little of it. He waited for the crown before giving his first orders. It was a lovely gold with jewels embedded along the topmost prongs.

"My first order as King is a pardon," he said.

The gnomes laughed derisively. Mr. Plant had obviously misunderstood something.

"King is a ceremonial position.  You have no power.  The wench will live the rest of her soon-to-be agonizing life in the dungeons!"

"The wench is my wife!"

"Then you can join her!"


"Too late. She's already taken her cyanide capsule.""


Mrs. Plant was dead and Mr. Plant seeing his lifework a conspiracy and farce took off his crown. His neighborhood was burning; the fires spreading to God knows how many others.  What had he unleashed?

"Please, stop all this! We're sorry we hurt you!"

"Apology accepted, but, unfortunately, it's our turn to be sorry."

Negotiation was useless.  Mr. Plant had one option; the same as Mrs. Plant's. He bit down on a capsule and transcended to the oneness of the universe he used to think he felt while doing acid.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Much love to the most magnificent Marion.

Also this lovely moonflower.

I don't think anyone's ever left a book a better review.

Unmasking the night from gloaming to dawn, Ben Ditmars' "Night Poems" shimmer and shine like sky diamonds in the black velvety heavens. From silvery moonlight references to a magical firefly's elusive glimmer, each and every poem illuminates the mind's dark corners and startle in their beauty and lucidity.

I thoroughly enjoyed each of the 29 short poems, titled with a time. One of my favorite poems is "02:20:

"a night so dead
the lights are off
playing footsie with the moon somewhere
beneath the clouds.

dim paths will unwind themselves as
street signs stretch and yawn."

If you like heartfelt, sincere, vibrant poetry, then you'll love these gems by Mr. Ditmars. I highly recommend "Night Poems". I can't wait to read more of his awesome poetry.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Night Poems

Ben Ditmars' chapbook of poetry, Night Poems is now Available on Amazon for Kindle and Print.

So, the chapbook of poetry is on Kindle and soon to paperback! I decided to go with the file name I initially tagged it with as a title. You can always read more about it in the Bücher tab as well as check out my other works. But on another note a sincere thank you to my loyal commentators. You keep me writing and I love you. Hugs all around.

Also, Fern wrote a truly wonderful poem for me on her blog, Feigning Fern. You should check it out. Or else. I'll take the hug back. Just joshing I wouldn't do that. It won't be as tight though. Okay, I can't promise that either. But check out her site.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Perspectives on the Fate of Jodie Hicks

"I saw him take a hammer and a box of nails. No one ever saw him again."

"My brother said he was going to find Jodie Hicks. He had just had his heart broken for the umpteenth time." 

"Don't judge me too harshly, but I dated him for a few months. It didn't work out. We weren't right for each other. It was no reason for him to walk into the woods and never come back."

"They say he built some type of fortress for the broken hearted."

"I don't think it's a fortress. He just wanted to get away for a while and other people started showing up. You know how things go viral."

"The truth is no one's seen any evidence Jodie built a damn thing. The boy couldn't hammer a nail to save his life."

"Don't listen to the naysayers. I was out hunting deer one day and I saw it! A giant fortress if I ever saw one. People fawning all over Jodie."

"It's rumored the police found a body that looked a lot like him. They couldn't confirm the identity but the sanest of us feel it settles the outlandish stories that keep cropping up."

"The body was Ricky Smith's. It says so right in the police report and his own mother identified him.  Jodie Hicks is alive!"

"Helicopters didn't find anything but I'm still on the fence. It's nice to think he found some comfort and all those crazy people looking for him did too."

"It might be a cult. I don't know. Jodie was always more of a follower than a leader."

"The girl that did it to him? That's up for debate. Some say it was Martha Higgins, I say it was Cindy Lucas. Cindy had a bad habit of using up men and leaving them dry. She would say it was Martha though and Martha would say it's Cindy. It's how these things tend to go."

"They were all over each other. I never saw him leave Martha's side. You'd think they were attached at the lips or something."

"If he loved Martha so much why did he go to prom with Cindy?"

"She didn't show up; they never went. I think it was the embarrassment that drove him to it as much as the broken heart."

"If you want truth, forget romantic ideas of forts in the woods. His neighbors said they heard a gunshot after he walked off. Wishful thinking is the only thing keeping him alive."

"I still hear his voice when I go walking. I guess you never get over losing a child. Still, I don't think I could bear knowing for sure. It's better to imagine him away seeing the same sunrise in the morning, being around those other lost souls that truly understand his pain."

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Funeral Soup

My grandma had a recipe;
If you’ve heard of wedding soup,
Well, this was something different.
She made it when someone kicked the bucket.
I knew when relatives were gone,
As 5AM brought garlic wafting
To my room. It wasn’t pleasant
And I guess that was the point.
Funeral soup was meant she said
To make us thankful. We joked
We’d rather have the coffin
Than the soup. I never realized
How much I appreciated the
Gesture until the day grandma
Herself took ill and died.
It’s impossible to say how
Sad I was that she was gone.
But I knew precisely what
She would have done.
I found an old pot of hers
Under the sink and went to work
With garlic and whatever I could find.
A half-hour past before I tasted it.
Something in the soup was missing.
I leaned closer and a tear fell in.
It tasted like it always had.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

The Fall

I grew up in a place without trees.  There was no grass.  Yards were concrete and we dreamed of flowers.  Sometimes my brother and I would draw them with chalk.  It wasn’t the same.  We had only ever seen pictures on the TV; they were vibrant, beautiful and far away.  I sometimes touched the pixelated petals, imagining them soft, fragrant, in a vase or garden I could touch.
Seasons never came.  In the same way we dreamed of flowers we dreamed of snow or autumn leaves.  A long time ago children made snow angels, leapt into piles of fresh foliage.  There was a oneness with nature in the old films.

I will never forget the day that it was almost autumn.  My brother and I had finished downloading education for the day into our cerebral processors when it happened.  A leaf blew into the yard, just visible out our window.  We rushed to see it closer.  Another fell and then another.  It was a beautiful spectacle.  I raced my brother out the door.

Like children from another century piles of dark brown crinkled leaves lay before us.  I ran with all the speed I could gather and jumped.

Strangely, it was not the sensation I imagined.  I coughed as black dust stung my eyes.  My clothes lit up with the tiniest embers.  The sky was black and growing blacker.  From the distance a factory of immense proportions loomed.  Our leaves weren’t leaves but paper burnt and littered on the ground.

Friday, January 06, 2012

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

Satan for a Girl

He sold his soul to Satan for a girl.
But Satan never owned her soul;
Perhaps her body from the way she looked.
God does beautiful; he can't do that
Lips, tits, hips- the way, her hair swung back;
Seduction's always been the Devil's work?
But the love-sick, scrawny, no-chance-on-earth-but-maybe-hell
Prepubescent adolescent was willing to try anything to have his way.
A soul meant nothing, he was horny. It was obvious who came
Out ahead if he bartered it way. The Devil was a sucker.
Ha ha ha the teen laughed as he sacrificed rabbits, cats, squirrels,
Whatever roadkill or vermin he could get his well-lotioned hands on
In a pentagram drawn on the floor with black candles burning incense -
It smelled so terrible the Prince of Darkness had to like it.
Flames coalesced to form a figure in the darkness and dim light.
Embers smouldered into arms, shoulders, face, hair and breasts?
Much to his chagrin the Devil was a woman like in a movie he had seen,
Was it the remake or original? It didn't matter. He was screwed.
But not in a good way like he wanted with that D-cup hottie.
"I know what you want," she, the devil, said with fire.
The teenager could only stare. He wasn't thinking of her.
Satan was suddenly the only thing he'd ever desired.
"I want you," he found himself saying in a strange moment of courage,
And even stranger moment of speaking to a woman.
"Come with me if you've forgotten the other girl."
"What other girl?" He asked quite truthfully and
Took her hand. It burned as if a branding.
But the teenager could care less; he would have his sex. 
And nothing else mattered.

Sunday, January 01, 2012

Choose My Book Title!

Ben Ditmars' chapbook of poetry, Night Poems is now Available on Amazon for Kindle and Print.

Hello loves, I was thinking of a way I could involve everyone in a fun post for the New Year. It hit while writing night poems for my new book. Since, I have no real title I thought I'd write some ideas down here and let you, the beautiful, sexy reader choose one or give your own. Here's what's going through my head.

Bat Ben and the Joker aka Writer's Block

Writings from a Hopper Nighthawk

Nocturnal Admissions

When It's Dark

Moonbeam Baby

Star Tissue in a Battered Sky

A Pen and a Streetlight

Gecko Stops the Cricket Chirp