Make Believe

The stories I imagine and tell as part of narrative I choose to, also, live

I tell them well and somewhere amidst articulation I start believing them myself

For instance, I recently imagined this

Instead of hypochondriac you are a magic wizard

You read my mind, tolerate my friends,

Enchantingly your mood remains even

There is no awkward, no misunderstood, no friendship season

(that’s followed by a season when – we shouldn’t talk!)

Just joyous endlessness and no such thing as reason

And when you kiss me there is no need to breathe

This made up tale has a time limit. Why waste it on banalities like air.

(though here, most will chime in and say – this is too saccharine, alas! A typical affair)

But this is fabled and after all, it is my story. So I go on…

You don’t get offended at my lack of manners, insolence

Instead you laugh and say, I know you didn’t mean it.

You use your powers for good.  Three dogs is not too many to adopt…

We rent a loft to hide from life in.

We teleport from Paris to New York.

We love same films, same books and talk about them till morning.

Instead of lectures on the harm of lack of sleep, you suddenly decide that health is boring

(too sweet again? I really am sorry)

My own power is memories.  Though fairytale ones get jumbled up with true-life tales.

All those who love me keep repeating – your problem lies in lack of barriers.

Why get so close, so fast?  You burn through love, they say…

I burn through love, I burn through stories, I burn through barriers.

I make things up, I take them back, I promise they are real.  I promise to myself they are

So I keep dreaming, so I keep feeling, until Another comes and makes me breathless

Makes me fearless.

And then I make him up into a wizard.  Or I will make him up from scratch, one day

About him I will invent another story.  And all of you, as always, will believe me.

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There isn’t really much to compare to being sick in paradise
The paradoxical nature of it emphasizing one’s loneliness
The perceived, forced through centuries magic-through-coziness
Replaced with – I would much rather be sick in my own bed.

The French are certainly masters at wearing ski gear
Prêt-à-porter and form-fitting for every graceful body
Every single family makes me feel as a pity-inducing nobody…
Moms with high ponytails and perfectly high-waisted ski pants.

In part, my current sickness at this francophone resort comes from the word Après
Après-Ski, par exemple, implying what one does ‘after’ they ‘hit the slopes’
But what if I never hit or touched them, only day-dreamt of the Alps snowy gropes
(In actuality, this entire time, I was living (coughing) it up in the Après-nothing really)

Why can I hear you think – Quit your whining!, for the duration of this excuse for a verse
This isn’t Jane Eyre,  you aren’t Edward, in fact, you aren’t even Edgar! (and now I can see you smile)
Having established all this, we are not to communicate in thoughts; between us a thousand miles.
If you were burned by your crazy wife who escaped the attic, its unlikely that I even would notice.

My mood is nothing but an aftermath, an Après-DécisionsStupides.  Asian family sits down speaking to one another with the pretentious melody of ‘je suis Parisien’ – well assimilated.
The Jew in me, can’t help but wonder which family member assimilated first. Then I facebook message you a joke that just seemed clever.  And if ‘tu ignores’ I promise I won’t be humiliated.

Because such “les pensées, les émotions toutes nues’ are simply not about you or me
If not for sickness, I would ski, I say, and the inevitable avalanche that it would cause (stop to appreciate the joke, right here) would make me fall and under all this snow I stay beneath the whiteness and, this, much needed pause, would help me think whats next.

Somehow its out of the joke realm, but you ignore it, regardless.

Amore More Ore Re

 

———————

You manipulate numbers

I manipulate you…

The beauty of mathematics

Functions, exponents,

All those endless brackets

You crave order

I – truth and

More

or(e)

I look away

This rhyme reminiscent of

Russian folkl-ore

Oh come-on (pun intended)

I can glue together

a better

Verse.

can’t shut up- you say

I can’t

Geometric inequalities

One thousand proofs

One thousand nights

From me to you and still

Three thousand more

Would re-main.

 

You manipulate numbers..

I keep listening

To your repetitive proofs

In

Mathematics

(and mathematics equals life)

Time is relative

Fluid, flexible

So, go on then,

11 into 1

And then I will show you

Who the real genius is.

Leaving Reviews on Yelp.

I want to delete my review on yelp.
About how stuffy and suffocating the place I am at is
As soon as I see a family in a mood very different from my own
– Thank you, daddy. Thank you. I owe you. –
Laughter. Dad (in charge), smiling wife, giddy kids, the youngest – loudest – daddy/ I owe you.
My mind fills in the detour they took to this hole-in-the-wall-waterpark-hotel. (You probably don’t know that I mean it literally, but regardless…)

I picture their conversation as the snow started, this April fools joke of a snowstorm derailing their Spring-weekend-plans that must have included proverbial cleaning -Lowes and Home Goods, maybe gardening and definitely hope.
Instead – excitement, all this joy.
Daddy. Thank you. Thank you.
I can’t find the review
to get rid of my tired bitterness or
bitter tiredness
or both
out of the context of this place.
My mind is in some postmodern race with my fingers to undo the damage and that takes me further and further from where the review I left is
Is yelp for happy yelping or angry yelling?

Or yelping and yelling while you look for where to go eat or sleep, depending on who is looking and with whom?
Endless potpourri of questions irrelevant
I must find the review and delete its contents
take the guts out of that darkness
So when it snows again in May, a family
Somewhere down route 495 on a Friday
From lacrosse practice or after a fight
Finds these sugar coated flickering lights
And kids beg yet another dad
Just for a weekend
No arcade. We promise.

movies and such

                                       i

walking back and forth in front of the door

isn’t the same as opening it and saying – here I am

The hint of light-life from your half-open window

talking about you endlessly  breathless

isn’t the same as being silent with you breathless

i am starting to run out of floor-room-airspace

While talking about you i pace-pace-pace

this is where white space says a lot less than i need

it to say.

 

ii

drinking cheap margaritas that leave

the type of aftertaste that you try to

untaste for days isn’t the same as drinking

Coke and Whiskey while watching Skyfall

I already know that you won’t be there when I fall

Because I fell, albeit not from the sky,

the fall wasn’t nearly that long or dramatic

God knows, rather, all ears in my vicinity know,

Our affliction aka effort for our interaction to be

Or not to be – cinematic

Enough humor. I am as serious as the clock.

I didn’t invite you into my anxiety for you to mock me.

Retourne back to Skyfall, Daniel Craig and Whiskey

Not for long,  just long enough to nod in agreement

That Skyfall also happens to be Adele’s best song.

at the very least, until Hello,

Hello. Its me.

I am at your door again.

Cut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laughter on a Mountain Top. Part 1

Uproar of laugher

On a mountain top

Is prosaic in its pomposity

I am glued to the cage with a dog inside

I do not like anything caged

 

The dog compresses himself

Against his side of the fence

It tries to find my hand or my face

I try to reach his fur through the cage

I can’t

 

The laughter continues in gurgles of glee

Not sure what they are mocking

My ‘middle school’ empathy

At almost forty, I admit, is riotous

And yet I think they are rotten.

 

Laugher by now has grown from roar

to something bombastic

Part of me hopes that in their spastics

Some of them fall from this mountain.

While the dog and I remain enraged.

Each in our own way.

 

I turn to the owners of so-called resort

“When do you let it out?”

Fighting back tears,

Imminent hysterics.

“When do you let him out?”

 

Barely upright from laughter

Fighting back their own tears

Frenzied in their pleasure of friends and this escape

So far away from home

“Please don’t let this beast out until we are on our way out

and he can be out alone”

 

One of the owners of this resort

Rubs my shoulders in a manner

That I imagine only a close relative would

I can’t reconcile her borderless warmth

Her host’s embrace and her kind face

With this dog and his lot.

She asks me if I liked dinner

and assures me that the dog is here

Strictly to protect the resort and safety of all guests.

And, yes, of course they love him very much.

 

(For a moment I wonder if some of the laughter

Is to conceal the shame for my post dinner manners)

I never thanked anyone for the view, the food or the company of this crew

Who are, yes, still, laughing.

And again, they ask the owners to postpone the answer

As to when and if they let the dog out of his cage.

Until we are gone.

 

 

Anger aside, I have to join them. Dinner is over

And so is this vacation.

I look at the “beast” again.

He is sliding down the cage with his entire back against

The part of the enclosure that is closest to me

By now it is dark on the mountain

So I can only see his shape and hear his barely audible wailing

And that is it for our interaction.

 

My laughing companions

Escort me to the car

The dog trades his quiet howling for thunderous barking

It echoes through the mountain

And suddenly the idea that he will keep sitting here

in six by four cage

as I drive down with an open window

is too much to bear

I slide down my seat and convulse from hopelessness and fear.

 

Suddenly the laugher ceases.

And in its place comes uncomfortable silence-

Followed by

Why do you always ruin everything?

 

Wasabi

I recognize you in the face of the much-younger-than-you waiter
In the way he wears his glasses, smiles and holds his gaze on me
Longer than is appropriate in our stare-at-your-phone-screen-with-ease- look-away-at-the-mere-sight-of-anything-resembling-emotion culture
I place my hand on my son’s head, palm disappearing-drowning in his curls,
Warmth along every meridian doesn’t stop at the boundaries of me
it spills onto you, well, not you, the look-alike you
And I keep running my hand through my son’s hair
Hoping that it makes looking for you in someone else’s face easier to bear and even alright somehow.
Your look-alike smiles wider, his eyes betraying a tingling
mix of curiosity and possibility of a game neither one of us is prepared to play.
It is getting increasingly hard glancing at the menu, looking at you and keeping my son by my side
I think to myself that all of it is unfair (something I think pretty much every Friday)
and then I ask “you “for some tea.
Green, if you have it.