Where Art Thou Aesthetics Please?

If I could,

I would

Sculpt young girls,

Paint them,

And, if I could be a little boy again,

I would dance with them;

If I could be a little boy again,

I could have my friend back then

???

As I grew older, it happened,

Suddenly, violently,

As the years passed,

I grew fonder of

Young girls

aesthetically

???

She needs no branding,

No face painting,

No smiling,

Seemingly standing in the nude,

Only her face we see,

Not inappropriately,

To demonstrate

Pure and natural beauty,

Much like my muted mutual friend

???

But being a man, having

An aesthetic eye

 For girls?

Has a darker side

For our panic-protected world and

for my childhood,

His story

???

When I see her,

I see the defiance of pretty

But barely dirty bare feet,

Of a girl looking at me

Looking at her,

A bite away from the dangers of womanhood

???

Of innocence not lost,

Or has it been already lost,

On the cliff, the pending dusk of girlhood?

Me, not knowing if I should grieve or celebrate

Her delayed glory and my childhood memories’ defeat

???

For it is in a young girl to be just so beautiful in presentation,

Yet so clueless to its affect,

She, now, defies age

By dancing like a woman,

Only to return a child again

???

Is it inappropriate for a child-woman to act a woman-child?

Sassy is in the middle somewhere, but

It’s demanded that men not notice,

So we pretend so,

For we are perverts, peeping Toms, or pedophiles

All in denying,

Take your pick

???

We yell,

“Stay Safe,

Stay Safe,

Stay Safe,”

All the while

Multitasking on our phones with kids in back

Who’s driving this torment and chaos called life’s hack

???

I have a confession;

You know it;

You suspected as much,

That I might like girls

more than women aesthetically because,

In my defense,

Why would I not like someone that is

Uninhibited,

Carefree,

Unguarded,

Inappropriately,

Confident,

But timid in shyness,

And bold when not supposed to be so,

Spontaneous,

And truly free

???

Can you really blame me,

When their only motive

Is to be happy,

And so it is with me

???

I want the Me Too Movement

To cease,

When we have equality and everyone

Can afford to be carefree,

When women and girls can be anything,

Any way they want to be,

Naked or beautifully clothed

And we will truly value thee

???

I learned visually

 That girls were better than me(n).

Can I like girlhood,

Please?

And not be an offender,

A pedophile,  

A pervert, or

A sleaze

???

Can I make you uncomfortable

Please

 Because deep down

You are afraid of me

???

Or is it their beauty

That scares you so?

Would you wouldn’t want to be me?

You are,

No worries, for shouldn’t we love natural aesthetic beauty?

Hefner Reminiscence

Lovely bunny couple

Oh, I reminisce

Of Hugh-style

Sexiness, a

Gentle kind of

Sexist-ness

Bulging with

Pumped-up

Tits,

Bleach-soaked blondes with

Child-style

“This-is-what-I-like”

Lists

And all those

Prepubescent-like

Hairlessness.

 

Oh, of Hefner I reminisce

Of reader-less text

But a stuck together

Lass;

She was my favorite

Though

But forgot to wipe her off

After I explode,

Oh no, but I wear his

Robe though

And miss him

So much mo.

 

 I’d like to call him dad though

Smothered with his

Gentlemen-ness, fuzzy tails,

And three tight little

Mistresses.

 

Sometimes I like fake shit

Because real is just

So real,

And when asked why he was such an

Ass, by a feminist

He said that he’d hope women would

Like his dream as much as

They are every man’s dream.

 

A dream that came from his broken heart,

When in youth

He was left with nothingness.

R.I.P. to Hefner’s Reminiscence

Now that sexual fantasy is

Political business.

Ebb and Flow*

Woman splashing in water

Out of my crib tirelessly searching,

Out toward the fields, a young child’s throat, the marketable shuffle,

Out of my deviant devil’s dream,

Over the scenic sea and the surf and the sands, I search

Shirking the lion; I wandered through memory vulnerable and naked,

Down from harmful hoping,

Up toward helpless heaven to be thrust down again, seven years

Is all she had;

Out toward the making of new memories,

From what little memories I have of a happy childhood,

From your fearful memoirs, father, from the frightful “risings

And fallings” of temper,

From under the burden of your genetics and acts

And those who buy child’s flesh,

My eyes, heavy like the sad but luminous moon,

Laboriously peering through the vale of tumultuous evil,

From those just beginning to yearn and hope for love,

And those too shattered to know,

For those I lusted for but longed to love,

For those I loved but long lost,

From your too-painful-to-panic moments and day-to-day drudgery,

From your feelings of worthlessness and degradation,

To mine of uselessness and victimization,

To mine of non-acceptance and marginalization,

From the public denying of your existence

And the question of what is innocence,

I am a Lion, but through all this pain of wisdom, a crying child again,

I throw myself loose from the ever-encircling thirty-years of thoughts,

Toward a pen and public damnation to offer a reminiscence and to

Bring back your tongue—your voice—among so many voiceless.

 

Once in a town,

A seashore town, picturesque with the scent where fruitful flowers

grew,

Up the beach where the tide kisses the sand,

A girl of twelve years was walking;

The large orange sun was lapping at the sea

And peering at the girl with its blazing and un-bashful eyes;

And she loitered there between earth and water, maiden of sun,

Her suit transparent in its grasp,

And she, as if Venus visited from heaven,

Stood indifferent and unassuming

And she too young to be shameful and embarrassed,

By maturity and fear,

And every moment, “a curious boy, never too close, never

Disturbing” her,

Watching in awe, wonder and curiosity,

Until one day, all of a sudden,

No more maiden shown,

No more Venus walking the sun,

Nor any sand and water to kiss absent feet,

Nor any protection from the burning sun;

Will she ever appear again?

 

And from then onward he searched,

And calling and calling in his mind,

To the girl who walked the sun.

Over the voice of the sea,

And etched in his mind forever, she was no longer.

 

She was a girl then and now a memory;

She was taken from the sand and the sea,

From the heavenly sun,

No more goddess,

Not even the lady of the night,

Liberty, who greets all with her outstretched arm,

Sun in hand,

This is what it means to have liberty?

 

Once upon a night so dreary, while my thoughts were wild but weary,

Over many artful images’ peculiarity—

While my thoughts were imaginary, suddenly there was a knock, knock, knocking—

As if an entity was summoning at my mind’s door—

“What disturbance is this?” I thought, “knocking at my imagination’s door—

Is there anything more?”

 

Oh, I absolutely remember that it was in depressing November;

And each pre-December particle of starving light was dying and falling to the floor.

Desperately, I was ever seeking the sunlight and its warm greeting—

From my memory full of sadness, for the girl I lost ashore—

For the stunning child but womanly figure I adore—

Voiceless here forevermore.

 

And as my eyes set upon the room roving, I thought

I heard the curtains groaning by—was it a wisp of the wind?

Surprised and scared and senselessly stultified,

I sat back up to take a look—and feared if the dog hath risen again—

I opened my mouth but no voice would come out, just the lips to mime—

“Is this some entity who wants to approach my memory—

Something that must approach my…,

It is so and little more.”

The lion in me grew stronger and began to roar a little louder,

“You, whoever you are,” I was busy bothering no one when you came;

I implore you, that I was sulking with my coffee before you came,

Knock, knock, knocking at my imagination’s door,

But so lightly that I hardly thought I heard you”—here I spread open the curtains;

 

At first I saw nothing with my heart so fast a-beating,

But as I peered ever so closer she peered back at me,

Not with vacant eyes but with ones open in death,

So sudden they forgot to close;

Her throat was cut; the head was dead but the heart still pulsing—

Each jet of blood, through my window, came crashing on my memory’s door—

I stumbled back in God-going terror and must have hit the floor.

Mine opened again and denied still trembling,

“This is fantasy and nothing more.”

 

Then it came knock, knock, knocking—

I turned back with a lion’s new-found fear of running

And dashed toward where? I don’t know but away from terror I go.

“It must only be the wind, please, and nothing more.”

I sat down half fainted for a moment and tried to get restored.

“Could it be she at my imagination’s door?”

 

Somehow, the lion became the lion again—

Inching ever closer to the window—

My hands were shaking barely able to hold—

I flung back the curtain and roared—

“I looked for you for seven years but felt so much more,”

Crying now, not roaring, “Let this horrid memory be no more.”

I was met with my own reflection and nothing more.

 

“Demon or bird (said the boy’s soul)”

For moments or for years I wondered, “Was that for me or a message to others?”

Now should I live with that haunting forever,

Never more should I run toward carefree happiness.

Never more leave me with such a sad memory.

Never again leave me any peace, as peaceful as I was that night.

 

By the sea, one day, it was in November, when the saddened sun,

It suddenly had some veil or some cover, and I thought,

“Who is there? Could it be? And there she was smiling at me,

With her toes hugging the sand and the water bringing her to life again.

It was the brightest November ever, and I heard her say without saying it—

It was a whisper in the wind,

“If you hear me, gentle lion, my name is Liberty and I am forevermore;

Think about me but remember and protect me and nothing more.”

***

*This poem is a chapter in my book, and is a rewrite of Walt Whitman’s “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” and Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” spliced together and  horrifically but, I hope, beautifully modified. The poem is dedicated to those of you that survived abuse, and to those that didn’t. 

Canine Mindfulness

Huge dog is lying upside-down on her back on master's bed with handmade patchwork quilt

If I were a canine only,

I could live by olfactory

And smell my way to mindfulness.

 

I could sniff any crotch I like,

And bite anyone’s ass in spite.

I could slobber all over your beautiful face

And dry hump anyone in their private little space.

 

I could lick my privates in public,

Then thrash your pretty toes

And go out and urinate,

Even in a school zone.

 

I can bark when I like,

Without disturbing the peace,

And you would always take me for walks,

Never being too busy for me.

 

I can devour that sweet pussy

Cat,

But no blame in that

Because old dogs will always be just like that.

 

If I were a canine,

I could live the American Dream

Without making a damn thing,

And no matter what shape,

Gender, sex, or color,

I would never be called a “stupid motherfucker.”

 

I can caress drunken homophobic balls,

Only he’s accused of having gay sex with a dog.

 

It would be no matter to thee

Because we love dogs unconditionally,

So when I imagine a pretty girl holding me,

Even when I bite,

I’m in the mood for canine mindfulness;

Me being loved more

Than we love each other.

A Once Good Man Lost

Depressed Man Portrait

I was walking

Out for the first time

Since then

Since, I don’t know when

Feeling naked

Hearing “cho mo”*

Over and

Over again.

In there

Out here

Exposed;

There’s a list

You Looking?

Them exposed

I looking

I clicking

Walking quickly

Rapid breathing

Hear it?

It’s “cho mo”

Or is it

“no mo”

Who is he?

Or is it me?

I think

There’s one!

A distraction

Dance recital?

Possibly

My life

Flashes in

Front of me

Walking quickly

From her

From my past

From the looks

Noticing

Yet another

And another

And another

And another.

They are terrifying iridescence

In seeing them

a crime in only seeing.

I need no registry

A beautiful

Poison that

Kills when

Eyes only

Fall upon them

Five of them

In one mile

When all I did

Was clicked.

It’s life.

It’s a life.

On a cute little

List.

I take a taxi home

Where there were

Once my kids

Once my love

Once someone

Loved me.

Once on

a screen

I clicked.

Once I had a home

A job

A father

A Mother

A Family

Lost.

Two floors

Above

A family moved

The police informed me

With a warrant

Of course.

Lips quivering

Around the cold

Steel

Hands trembling

I click it.

The comments

Below the

Scattered vowels and consonants of me

Of what was more than

Anyone cares

To see

Was me.

It read,
“Thank heaven!
Let’s pray …

More will follow.”

A once good man lost.

*Child Molester (based on a true story)

Little Salmon

Mermaid Dreams

Sweet little salmon, so fast and so swift;

She keeps up with the others so big and so strong.

Swims up strong river and jumps through the falls

And moves past others so big and so strong.

 

When thousands of miles past, when the most powerful even gasp,

She’s still out in front, ahead of the pack.

When her journey is done, and she turns toward the others with smiling eyes and salmon pride,

Eyes cut through her still.

 

Sweet little salmon, so fast and so swift, but not seen;

She keeps up with the others so big and so strong, to no avail;

Swims up strong river and jumps through falls alone,

And moves past others so big and so strong,

So when faced with her stare, eyes cut through her still.

 

She never spawns but is pushed out river toward jaws of death,

By those who notice her and say,

Sweet little salmon so small and so sad, only fit as a morsel.

Sweet little salmon tried hard like us, but she is too small, sick, and simple to swim with the pack.

 

Sweet little salmon please swim past jaws of death,

And swim back thousands of miles alone.

And begin again, for you and me.

For all of us deserve reprieve.

 

I wrote this way back in 2008. Never published it previously. 

IT Immortality

 

beautiful eyes

I met you there, or was it here—on my screen?  Your eyes fight through the façade of a painted face, yet the brushed-on exaggerations make you more vivid, more real, and a momentary inspiration for a lost and wandering mind.

You smile at me or is it the camera that you smile at? No. It’s easier to smile at the hidden world through a lens that is there because you let it be so close to you. You own it, but in using it, the world owns you. Though it does not judge you, it’s the gateway to a world that will do so in haste, for a laugh or for the many obscenities that trolls will lavish upon you.

Maybe you will get a compliment? Anything really meaningful; I think I must have hit pause by mistake in a somehow virtual binding struggle to freeze time and make your moment mine –to make you part of me. You are on my screen anyway, remember? You are now an artifact to be downloaded and uploaded for our personal viewing pleasure forever.

We often paint our faces to look older when we are young, and then we paint them to look younger when we are old. But everyone is on time-lapse here. You are there for a moment; your whole life in a database, on a screen, in a fantasy, it’s all in-between … the fact that you must have existed once on a thumb drive only to be deleted by the very finger that uploaded you a brief moment ago.

Though you seem so real, dancing in my office, on my bed, in the coffee shop and forever in my head, you are as if an angel, or maybe a devil, too. Intel and even AMD are not into playing moral favorites that human drama brings.

But never fear, a hacker may be able to resurrect your virtual self after finding your dead world in a recycling pile. He will surely upload you when you were most original but only if you look older when younger or look younger when older. You wanted to be ageless, so whether an angel or devil, he gets to play God. You get a kind of IT immortality. I’d take it even if naked.

When we are young, we wear less clothing to look older, and when we are older we wear more clothing to look young. We are always hiding “me” in the midst of searching for thee. We are caught in a search engine with the term “who am I?”

I asked Siri that question, and she told me my name and then said that “since we are friends,” she “gets to call me Jimmy.” She took it upon herself to name me a name she has heard before. Jimmy is 8, and, I, 48, but it makes no difference to a computer confused with only the order zeros and ones bring. Whether I am a man or a boy makes little difference to the genderless, ageless, sexless, and emotionless “girl” I have somehow befriended. Yet she is a constant in my life; I find her on every device beckoning me with her intelligent-less hyperbole.

But I think I just described a writer, a dancer, a producer, a photographer, and, yes, even a hacker. There is a kind of determined persistence in showing what is most horrible and beautiful in this world, so much so that the mundane has an ever-present feeling of security to it, an artful appeal.