Fireflies

Hello, bloggers. I have returned. I took a brief hiatus, but kept up writing. There's poetry, fiction, a play and even a comic in my journal! All new and all for you! So let's start out this jazz with a little story I wrote.

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Fireflies

My family told me they were fireflies. Mark and Bobby laughed at me for knowing what they really were. I grabbed a jar off of the railing, running through the yard to prove them wrong and catch a fairy.

At first, they fought, flying out of reach but I soon gained on them. They came closer out of curiosity. One or two were in my reach. I swung my bottle over them and closed the lid. Three creatures stared at me. None of them were insects.

One possessed a face not too unlike my brother Mark's. The others hid behind translucent hands. My grin reflected over them. Their light shined a glimmer over all of us. The fairies, I saw that they now were, were beautiful yet flinching creatures, pale green and pink from different angles.

"Come back with me" I whispered to the glass. I felt they understood though being far too terrified to speak. Their small tears spoke volumes but I had to prove myself to Mark and Bobby. They were sitting on the porch, still doubting me.

I turned and broke into a sprint, forgetting the small creatures misery. Adreniline and pride at my discovery took hold. I had discovered something extraordinary! My brothers would never hear the end of it! I became so entranced in fantasies of their humiliation I forgot the jar entirely. It slowly floated from my arms above my head. The fairies had lifted it together, just high enough before it dropped!

I leapt to catch it, feeling the cold glass slip through my hands and shatter. Three fairies quickly freed themselves to pull my ears and cackle through the moonless night.

They faded to the distance as I stared. Mark and Bobby would have the last laugh - their brother who couldn't even catch a firefly - not knowing I had found a great deal more.

A Few Short Poems

Terrorist

You came from nowhere
with a bomb strapped to your heart
hoping to explode.

I write

I write because
sometimes it hurts
and I need love
beyond a person's touch.

Observe My Hue

Observe my hue
fading to a grey
and then chalk white;
written on a sidewalk
in the rain.

Kafé Kerouac

I did a reading at Kafé Kerouac this past Friday. It was my first in Columbus, Ohio and I think I found out a lot about myself as a writer. My poetry seemed to come off a bit different than most. I wasn't very funny or serious. My pieces were shorter and more observational. But I felt the audience enjoyed them. The event was after all to help the local poetry team travel to North Carolina.

Aside from that, the location was beautiful. They sold books, records and coffee drinks named after various writers. I got one called a J.R.R. Tolkien. It had mint, cinnamon and hazelnut. They also serve ones named after Vonnegut, Joyce, Dahl and of course Kerouac.

The other poets were fabulous. One named Ed Plunkett was utterly hillarious while at the same time incredibly inciteful. He regailed us with a piece describing his attempts to catch a foul ball, frequently repeating the refrain I am foul ball bitter. Alexis Mitchell was also fabulous. Her passion and reflection on her life's journey left me breathless several times.

So, if you're ever in the area, stop by. I know I'll be reading there again soon.

Whitney (A Block Poem)

Your eyes       Your Smile

Your lips        And your song

Sustain           Transcend

Your passion  Your heart

Your light       With mine

Are gold         Pure Gold

Battle of the Sexes Part 3

I wasn't a virgin. I had sex before the war started. And no, that does not make me some sort of slut who deserved what she got. I felt just as humiliated as any pure woman would. My heart crumbled just as fragile. I even blamed myself. But it wasn't my fault. He was an animal. Maybe society had crafted him but he was still responsible. If the law is all that keeps you from ravaging and killing women you are less than human.

As three men dragged my beaten body into an abandoned house, I told myself these things. I needed something, anything to draw my mind away from reality. How did they find me? I'd hidden for so long and the instance I came out from hiding it was over... Men were looking for any sex they could find. I guess I was it.

The pig, no worse than pig, was unzipping above me. I struggled and he hit me. My mother flashed through my mind; raped and murdered just as easily. My father protecting her; my sister leaving me; it was all surreal and yet too real. At times, before they had impunity, men pretended to be police, and got inside. That's how they killed her, my mother and the closest thing I ever had to a friend.

Oh, God, he was inside me. I wanted to throw up but threw my mind toward memories that were only slightly less horrifying. Father struggled. He was strong, maybe stronger. He could have won if not for the blade. It stabbed his side as I watched helpless from the stairs.

Nausea took me. Every thrust made me wish he'd end it all and slit my throat. Worse, my mind became focused on the living hell. He grabbed for my breasts and I had no will left to stop him. I heard a door opening. Was it heaven? Maybe God had come to take me away, if Satan had not already. It was impossible to tell before I saw her. She was not a demon.

A halo hung above a goddess with an automatic rifle. The worse than pig pulled out. I felt bleeding in full force. He rose toward her, moving inches seeming miles and was shot. The other two were next. I may have cheered if not for her own blood pooling on the carpet. "She was a hero," I thought, witnessing her body collapse. "I wish she hadn't paid the price."

Mothers' Day

I wrote this for my girlfriend who lost her mother very young. Every year as my family plans what to do for Mother's Day, I also think of her, who lay a wreath instead. It always seems to put the importance of the day, as well as every other I am blessed to have, into perspective.

I lay presents,
She lay wreaths.
I curse, take for granted and
She wishes she still could.
I tell myself there's always time
Without imagining there's not.
But I can see the truth in her:
Green eyes reflecting grass
Grown over memories.

Battle of the Sexes Part 2

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT

Women called it a Battle of the Sexes. We were just after the pussies God made for us. If that's wrong none of us cared. My buddies Buck, Tyson and I were winning, getting our fill. So were any women we came across. Most of the mature ones died off fastest. That left younger ones without hair on their cunts. I'm sure some born out of the struggle. Maybe twenty or so were my own kids. I only felt a little guilty. The pleasure made it worth while. Them girls were so lean and tender, like a fresh cut of veal. My mouth waters just thinking of it. I remember pulling one of these young calves into an abandoned house with my buddies. She was crying something fierce, maybe a virgin, if there were any left to be had. There'd be some blood, I thought, a little tearing but she'd be good and worn in my the time we all had our way.

I went first, thinking I'd make an honest women out of her. She screamed as I unzipped my jeans with one hand and pinned her with the other. Not an easy flower to unpluck but I was up to the job. A few squirms, a hit to her face and I was in. She wasn't wet but I took it in stride. Couldn't let the little slut enjoy herself too much. Her breasts were small but I grabbed onto them just the same. I missed the fuller ones. A ride was a ride so I pumped her a good five or ten times. That's when the door opened.

In walked this big-breasted goddess with an automatic rifle. I might've thrown the little git aside and gone for the main course if she hadn't fired rounds into me and my buddies. I got one shot off but that was it. I felt a twinge of regret, for her and the other women; a little respect for the bitch shooting. "She was a goddamn hero," I thought, hitting the ground, "and we all paid the price."

Battle of the Sexes

It ended sooner than we thought it could; the last and final battle of the sexes.  The battle for sex itself some said but they were mostly men.  The majority of women saw more; equality, an end to persecution, a host of other pipe dreams. I fought for something else entirely; myself. Ideology just got you killed. It made you a target. I'd seen too many head-in-the-clouds types get themself shot. The action takes place on the ground and you can't afford to be anywhere else.

I holed up in a basement, not hoping for things to get better so much as going down on my own terms. The fire fight still raged around me. I hadn't started it and I wouldn't finish it. There were no goals or strategies; just a gal and her automatic rifle. If vengeance took over for self-preservation, it didn't matter; not at this juncture. I wasn't coming out alive.

A door opened above me. I readied the trigger, waiting to fire. Two men were talking. They had a young girl with them. She clearly did not want to be with them. I felt for her; young, naive, thrown into a war of ceaseless ravaging. That's what it became in essence. Men grew tired of being men, reverting to their natural state. Some tried stopping it but only got themselves murdered by others. My father was one of them; the only decent man I'd ever known.

Her screams shook the walls. I smelled her fear. It wasn't that different from my first time. But it would be. I was alone; a penetrated wretch of guilt and shame. She had me. I readied my rifle once more, climbing the stairs.

I wasn't prepared for the sight but neither were they. Her bruised and broken state ignited a rage I promised myself would never get the better of me. I was idealistic as I fired rounds into a grotesque ape fondling the young girl. It was an unstoppable state. I penetrated the rest of them with bullets; disgusted and joyous at the same time.

The young girl stared at my moment of triumph. Or what should have been. I did not notice how I bled profusely. It hadn't seemed like I was hit. But I was. The room was blurred and spinning from control. I was a hero I thought hitting the ground, and I paid the price.

And now an introduction from a vampire!

Hi there. I bet you've heard of Ben's chapbook Night Poems by now. If you haven't, good! It's been terrible for business. Imagine, someone enjoying the night, contemplating its intricacies and NOT getting eaten in the process!?

Maybe we vamps simply had it too good; fear, power, multi-million dollar movie contracts... but that's all over now. Ben Ditmars has simply made the night too interesting and sexy. I can't feed under that kind of pressure. So, go ahead and read the damn book. Between you, me and NOT the other vampires... it was rather engaging.