by Steven Banks Bochinski
before the beginning the hall was empty
of the emptiness desire was born
the far end of desire was fear
time had a beginning and an ending
the second beat brought rhythm
the dancer was born
the daughter of desire and fear
the measure of time
between the first beat and the second
was space
the emptiness remains
between all beats
all rhythm is coming and going
the dance of fear and desire
existing and not existing
the third beat of the heart
brought the baseline
the first melody
the singer was born
the dance had sound
the sound moved
the heart beat
desire and fear passed through the heart
it grew and receded
expanded and contracted
moving the dancer
with the flame of desire
burning out into the dark cold of fear
back to the beginning
of the emptiness desire was born
the far end of desire was fear
time had a beginning and an ending
the second beat brought rhythm
the dancer was born
the daughter of desire and fear
the measure of time
between the first beat and the second
was space
the emptiness remains
between all beats
all rhythm is coming and going
the dance of fear and desire
existing and not existing
the third beat of the heart
brought the baseline
the first melody
the singer was born
the dance had sound
the sound moved
the heart beat
desire and fear passed through the heart
it grew and receded
expanded and contracted
moving the dancer
with the flame of desire
burning out into the dark cold of fear
back to the beginning
She looked up alert, listening for something. Only she knew what. Her small body still, almost breathless, as her eyes focused on the path leading to the road.
An old man limped by. Two laughing boys pushed past each other in an attempt to outrun the other. Dogs barked. Bamboo stalks creaked. She was oblivious to what went on around her. Her attention remained far in the distance, waiting for something. Or someone. Moments passed. Nothing happened. No one came. With a sigh she turned her eyes back to the pebbles she had been playing with. The evening breeze blew her long dark hair over her small round face. Lifting her tiny hands she pushed it back, revealing big dark eyes. Eyes that kept darting towards the road. Expectant. Silent. Sad.
Time passed. She heard her name being called. She didn't want to go. She had to be here. She had to. But the voice persisted. Reluctantly she got up, looked wistfully at the winding road and turned to go.
She stopped.
Something.
She stood still for a second and then whirled round. Her eyes lit up, all trace of sadness and uncertainty gone. She smiled the beautiful smile as she ran down the path towards the road. A woman stood there. A most beautiful woman with the kindest eyes and the loveliest smile. A woman who smells like the morning dew and whose embrace feels like home.
She hugged the woman with all the strength a five year old has. She is here! She did not want to let go. She wanted to stay forever. To play with the woman. Eat with her. Hug her. Be kissed by her when she fell down. She wanted to tell her a lot of things but her child mind did not know how to put these feelings to words. So she said nothing. She wished that the woman would understand. Wished that this moment would never end. Her eyes shone with the unspoken wishes. The love, the happiness and the sadness all rolled into one.
The woman kissed her and looked deep into the child's eyes, her own eyes reflecting the shared emotions. "I cannot come in today, sweetie. I have to be back home before it gets dark." Her voice trailed off in a whisper. She knew what went on in the child's mind but she was helpless to do anything about it.
The little girl sighed. She half expected it. "Will you come tomorrow then?"
The woman smiled, “Yes.”
The voice came again, calling the child. This time louder.
The girl looked back then turned again to the woman. "Say hello to them?"
The woman shook her head, pulling the child close again and giving her a tight hug. "I would only get delayed. I am already late."
The girl hugged back and looked into the woman's eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. The same beautiful dark eyes, the same full lips, the same smile, the same dark hair. She waved goodbye as the woman got on to her bicycle and rode away. Such a short time!
She smiled a small smile at the promise of tomorrow. Her smile grew wider as the cycling figure disappeared into the distance and she ran with a skip towards her aunt who had came looking for her.
"There you are. I have been calling you for ages." She looked towards the road. "Who were you talking to?"
The girl hardly heard her. She was already planning for tomorrow as she ran past her aunt towards her grandmother's house. Tomorrow her mother would be with her.
An old man limped by. Two laughing boys pushed past each other in an attempt to outrun the other. Dogs barked. Bamboo stalks creaked. She was oblivious to what went on around her. Her attention remained far in the distance, waiting for something. Or someone. Moments passed. Nothing happened. No one came. With a sigh she turned her eyes back to the pebbles she had been playing with. The evening breeze blew her long dark hair over her small round face. Lifting her tiny hands she pushed it back, revealing big dark eyes. Eyes that kept darting towards the road. Expectant. Silent. Sad.
Time passed. She heard her name being called. She didn't want to go. She had to be here. She had to. But the voice persisted. Reluctantly she got up, looked wistfully at the winding road and turned to go.
She stopped.
Something.
She stood still for a second and then whirled round. Her eyes lit up, all trace of sadness and uncertainty gone. She smiled the beautiful smile as she ran down the path towards the road. A woman stood there. A most beautiful woman with the kindest eyes and the loveliest smile. A woman who smells like the morning dew and whose embrace feels like home.
She hugged the woman with all the strength a five year old has. She is here! She did not want to let go. She wanted to stay forever. To play with the woman. Eat with her. Hug her. Be kissed by her when she fell down. She wanted to tell her a lot of things but her child mind did not know how to put these feelings to words. So she said nothing. She wished that the woman would understand. Wished that this moment would never end. Her eyes shone with the unspoken wishes. The love, the happiness and the sadness all rolled into one.
The woman kissed her and looked deep into the child's eyes, her own eyes reflecting the shared emotions. "I cannot come in today, sweetie. I have to be back home before it gets dark." Her voice trailed off in a whisper. She knew what went on in the child's mind but she was helpless to do anything about it.
The little girl sighed. She half expected it. "Will you come tomorrow then?"
The woman smiled, “Yes.”
The voice came again, calling the child. This time louder.
The girl looked back then turned again to the woman. "Say hello to them?"
The woman shook her head, pulling the child close again and giving her a tight hug. "I would only get delayed. I am already late."
The girl hugged back and looked into the woman's eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. The same beautiful dark eyes, the same full lips, the same smile, the same dark hair. She waved goodbye as the woman got on to her bicycle and rode away. Such a short time!
She smiled a small smile at the promise of tomorrow. Her smile grew wider as the cycling figure disappeared into the distance and she ran with a skip towards her aunt who had came looking for her.
"There you are. I have been calling you for ages." She looked towards the road. "Who were you talking to?"
The girl hardly heard her. She was already planning for tomorrow as she ran past her aunt towards her grandmother's house. Tomorrow her mother would be with her.
by Xandria Iva
I looked at you yesterday. This man in my house. This man in my head.
I have no idea who you are. I find myself staring at you, sometimes just a part of you, wondering what it feels like in your skin. Who are you? Why am I here next to you? Why do either of us keep coming together.
Yesterday I spent eternity studying your body. I find myself looking at your legs often. They are beautiful. The way the shin curves down to the arch of the foot and the beauty of the arc of the thigh. There is a sweep and a curve to your calves that is elegant. I find myself isolating parts of you, worshiping them with my eyes as though you were a stranger, posed for my viewing. I mentally bury my face in your neck. I am mesmerized by your eyes and the way the sun lights them, making them shimmer.
I am seized by the memory of us sitting in sunlight, harsh, brittle sunlight, in a cafe in Cleveland. There is snow on the ground, no one else in the cafe. The world, silent, belongs completely to us after one of our first nights together. Our eyes are locked together in awe of the raw emotion of our recent lovemaking, new and achingly intimate. We sit on bar stools facing one another, holding hands, unable to look away, trembling at the first forays into laying ourselves bare to one another, fearful of rejection, praying for validation. Your eyes are shimmering many colors, like tea at the bottom of a porcelain cup.
I fell in love with you looking into your eyes.
I used to long for you in a way that set a constant fire down deep in my belly. For years I could not get enough. I ached to feel your hands on me, your mouth breathing fire across my skin. I burned for you to reach out and stroke some part of me, to cool me with the knowledge that you could handle me so casually, so offhandedly. To know that you reached for me often like a touchstone to calm and please you was a reason for being near you.
I looked at you yesterday before we made love and began to feel friction. I approached you for love and realized that it was a need not a desire. I felt something chaffing me. An edge of irritation.
Too many things between us now. Too many moments you've looked into my eyes and your words did not match your expression. Too many ready explanations for things I did not need explained. I already knew the truth. Your lie only made the truth more harsh, more of a betrayal. Sometimes when I think of you my throat closes tight and tears sting my eyes. I feel fury and futility edged with weary resignation, an urge to strike out and an aversion to being near you at the same time. It has taken me a long time to understand that two people do not ever become one for more than a moment.
Why do mothers not tell their daughters that the fantasy we are fed as young girls is nothing more than a story, that it is not true. There is no happily ever after. It is more often two people fighting to live together and not lose control, trying to retain some shred of themselves while merging with another person. It is messy and shocking and requires that we shut ourselves off from certain truths, the double standards that are the hallmark of the insecurities and appetites of men and women. Why are we left to stumble into love's truth on our own like walking into a dark room? We bang into the furniture with every step.
The first few times are painful but I keep moving forward, hands outstretched, looking for the light. By the time I've gone halfway through the room the pain is dulled and the next hit is something I know is coming. Over and over I take the hits of betrayal, becoming more and more weary with each step. Where is the light? I want to navigate a room where I can see what is in front of me, a room in which I know where to place my feet.
You look at me out of the corner of your eye. Quick, darting glances to check my disposition as yet another set of lies falls from your lips. You hide from me and demand that I open to you. You require safety but wish me to stand, naked in the middle of the room for you. You are secrets and stealth. There is no light and I am almost too bruised to walk forward now. Your lies are transparent yet you are consistently shocked when I confront you with them. As the years spin out I confront you less and less. I reveal less and less and you are wary now. I tell you little, force you to ask me what you need answered. The questions come out as though even you have difficulty prying them from your lips. I am offhand, cagey and and have learned to be secrets and stealth as well.
I remember clearly the way you looked at me the first time you told me you loved me, looking down into my face as my body strained upwards to meet yours, open and yearning. A damn broke inside me at the words from your lips and the love in your eyes. I poured into you even as you emptied yourself into me. I realize as I'm watching you spin your excuses now that most of the time when our eyes meet there is a guarded look. We don a veil in order to make contact, an armor to keep those secrets from spilling out all over the room where we might have to face them and acknowledge them. Then where would we be? Watching it end is very different from knowing it has ended.
Nine years of banging around in the dark is making me rethink my trajectory. You see it too. You are darting more glances at me as we move together through our home. I wonder what is going on under your skin. You suddenly have no idea what is happening under mine.
I have no idea who you are. I find myself staring at you, sometimes just a part of you, wondering what it feels like in your skin. Who are you? Why am I here next to you? Why do either of us keep coming together.
Yesterday I spent eternity studying your body. I find myself looking at your legs often. They are beautiful. The way the shin curves down to the arch of the foot and the beauty of the arc of the thigh. There is a sweep and a curve to your calves that is elegant. I find myself isolating parts of you, worshiping them with my eyes as though you were a stranger, posed for my viewing. I mentally bury my face in your neck. I am mesmerized by your eyes and the way the sun lights them, making them shimmer.
I am seized by the memory of us sitting in sunlight, harsh, brittle sunlight, in a cafe in Cleveland. There is snow on the ground, no one else in the cafe. The world, silent, belongs completely to us after one of our first nights together. Our eyes are locked together in awe of the raw emotion of our recent lovemaking, new and achingly intimate. We sit on bar stools facing one another, holding hands, unable to look away, trembling at the first forays into laying ourselves bare to one another, fearful of rejection, praying for validation. Your eyes are shimmering many colors, like tea at the bottom of a porcelain cup.
I fell in love with you looking into your eyes.
I used to long for you in a way that set a constant fire down deep in my belly. For years I could not get enough. I ached to feel your hands on me, your mouth breathing fire across my skin. I burned for you to reach out and stroke some part of me, to cool me with the knowledge that you could handle me so casually, so offhandedly. To know that you reached for me often like a touchstone to calm and please you was a reason for being near you.
I looked at you yesterday before we made love and began to feel friction. I approached you for love and realized that it was a need not a desire. I felt something chaffing me. An edge of irritation.
Too many things between us now. Too many moments you've looked into my eyes and your words did not match your expression. Too many ready explanations for things I did not need explained. I already knew the truth. Your lie only made the truth more harsh, more of a betrayal. Sometimes when I think of you my throat closes tight and tears sting my eyes. I feel fury and futility edged with weary resignation, an urge to strike out and an aversion to being near you at the same time. It has taken me a long time to understand that two people do not ever become one for more than a moment.
Why do mothers not tell their daughters that the fantasy we are fed as young girls is nothing more than a story, that it is not true. There is no happily ever after. It is more often two people fighting to live together and not lose control, trying to retain some shred of themselves while merging with another person. It is messy and shocking and requires that we shut ourselves off from certain truths, the double standards that are the hallmark of the insecurities and appetites of men and women. Why are we left to stumble into love's truth on our own like walking into a dark room? We bang into the furniture with every step.
The first few times are painful but I keep moving forward, hands outstretched, looking for the light. By the time I've gone halfway through the room the pain is dulled and the next hit is something I know is coming. Over and over I take the hits of betrayal, becoming more and more weary with each step. Where is the light? I want to navigate a room where I can see what is in front of me, a room in which I know where to place my feet.
You look at me out of the corner of your eye. Quick, darting glances to check my disposition as yet another set of lies falls from your lips. You hide from me and demand that I open to you. You require safety but wish me to stand, naked in the middle of the room for you. You are secrets and stealth. There is no light and I am almost too bruised to walk forward now. Your lies are transparent yet you are consistently shocked when I confront you with them. As the years spin out I confront you less and less. I reveal less and less and you are wary now. I tell you little, force you to ask me what you need answered. The questions come out as though even you have difficulty prying them from your lips. I am offhand, cagey and and have learned to be secrets and stealth as well.
I remember clearly the way you looked at me the first time you told me you loved me, looking down into my face as my body strained upwards to meet yours, open and yearning. A damn broke inside me at the words from your lips and the love in your eyes. I poured into you even as you emptied yourself into me. I realize as I'm watching you spin your excuses now that most of the time when our eyes meet there is a guarded look. We don a veil in order to make contact, an armor to keep those secrets from spilling out all over the room where we might have to face them and acknowledge them. Then where would we be? Watching it end is very different from knowing it has ended.
Nine years of banging around in the dark is making me rethink my trajectory. You see it too. You are darting more glances at me as we move together through our home. I wonder what is going on under your skin. You suddenly have no idea what is happening under mine.
by A.J. Gazaway
thinking 'bout something
while I swept the steps out front
its run away now
while I swept the steps out front
its run away now
by Teo Potts
The alarm rings.
Time to get up.
A new day beckons.
Time for the masks.
Cheery ones,
serious ones,
funny ones,
curious ones.
One for each occasion.
One for each person.
Been doing it for ages,
so long
nothing fazes,
nothing deters.
The masks slip on easily
one after the other
as needed,
one over the other,
another primal need.
The clock ticks.
The days go by.
The masks keep changing
as others stand by.
No one asks why
the masks keep changing,
too busy changing
their own masks.
The day comes
when the body starts to crumble
under the weight of the masks
that never have slipped.
Masks that have become a sickness,
a sickness of the heart,
a sickness of the soul.
In the silence
of the darkest nights
the soul cries,
begs to be relieved of the weight,
this torturous weight.
In the silence
of the darkest nights
the soul cries and begs
to be free.
The masks peel off
layer by layer.
With each one peeled
comes the blood and the pain.
As each layer peels
the soul screams in silence,
for so long have the layers been,
they have become a part of being
Beneath the blood and the pain
a face emerges.
A face unfamiliar.
A face unknown.
The mirror seems strange
the reflection stranger.
But the heart sings
and the soul weeps with joy
for they know who it is,
the stranger in the mirror.
Time to get up.
A new day beckons.
Time for the masks.
Cheery ones,
serious ones,
funny ones,
curious ones.
One for each occasion.
One for each person.
Been doing it for ages,
so long
nothing fazes,
nothing deters.
The masks slip on easily
one after the other
as needed,
one over the other,
another primal need.
The clock ticks.
The days go by.
The masks keep changing
as others stand by.
No one asks why
the masks keep changing,
too busy changing
their own masks.
The day comes
when the body starts to crumble
under the weight of the masks
that never have slipped.
Masks that have become a sickness,
a sickness of the heart,
a sickness of the soul.
In the silence
of the darkest nights
the soul cries,
begs to be relieved of the weight,
this torturous weight.
In the silence
of the darkest nights
the soul cries and begs
to be free.
The masks peel off
layer by layer.
With each one peeled
comes the blood and the pain.
As each layer peels
the soul screams in silence,
for so long have the layers been,
they have become a part of being
Beneath the blood and the pain
a face emerges.
A face unfamiliar.
A face unknown.
The mirror seems strange
the reflection stranger.
But the heart sings
and the soul weeps with joy
for they know who it is,
the stranger in the mirror.
by Xandria Iva