Spanish Moss

I was working on my other "daily vignettes," but then this just so happened to appear and I had to write it. Being a northerner, there are a lot of foreign aspects of the south. Did I mention that I'm spending the rest of winter break in Florida? Maybe not, but now you know. ANYWAY, the most haunting part of the South for me is Spanish Moss. So naturally I wrote a poem about it. Here it is... it's very rough, and I won't be doing any editing to it. It was just something that... yeah... happened.

Spanish Moss

Tree tulle conquers the mannequin,
The drapery mismatching the leaves.
Consumption. Succumbing. Nets casting for cicadas
And katydids. I cannot describe the smell:
Half like a catacomb,
Half like a carafe full of fen water.
This alien construction.
The night calls it.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Daily Sketches II

Here are the poems after round 1. Poem 4 is a finished product. Tune in soon to see more development!

1. Blood Pressure,
The token of gratitude from the heart,
The pulses straining vital veins
And pulling the hair of my heart with care.
I am strong, so my rhythm
Is canonical: Only when important.
A heartbeat with intention,
A beat like a pilgrimage.

2. Flat
Are these dots perforations
Or the coagulation of stitches,
The way blood meanders to crevices?
I want to rip apart the semantics of the words “topical” and “penetrating.”
The nuances I suppose to be the needlepoint
That makes one like a rash and the other like a wound.
Yet as a print, neither are so convincing.

3. Dressed Up

One time I thought nothing of whatever
came between
“Bach” and “Back.”
I thought nothing of origami,
not speaking a foreign language,
how high a squash ball bounces,
only doing things that I am good at,
sleeping on a couch as a vagabond yuppie.

I did think of boys with light blue eyes
that complemented the khakis they never wore,
But that is the evanescence of casual dress:
everyone wears their best at some point,
because that is what really matters,
and their sport coats prove themselves better windows.

I am blinded by bachelors in ecru
That all went to your Latin school.
I toss some crumpled piece of paper you gave me
into the waste basket,
and it lands like a meteor.

4. It Was Sunny Today. (Final)

It was sunny today, for five minutes.
I hadn't seen a solar aspect of winter since coming here a week ago.
I forgot the clarity it had,
Beautiful transience, translucence,
The way it winded over the asphalt and the trees.
The way it cherished itself.
I turned a corner and it dispersed
Like helium in a vocal cord,

How could something so enveloping
Evaporate so quickly, so willingly?
I was watching a grateful suicide.
Maybe in another week
I'll remember to be grateful.
But for now,
I only feel betrayal.

5. Christmas Looks like October

The precision today. I can't imagine snow or other assorted…
Figments of the season.
The dry air relieves us of snow,
Thus of a real winter .
I can still smell the fossilized autumn.
Christmas looks like October.
I had imagined it sticking like porridge
On the ribs of the earth,
But all I see is caprice,
Where the frost touched the lawn,
And left,
A handprint on glass.

6. Gaggle

I watched five or six school buses
As they drove in front of me
And I wanted to honk
Because they were going too slow.
I settled for a lower velocity
And envisioned them as logs transporting sleeping goslings.

I prefer when I must turn back to look
Because I have the choice to ignore
And think myself better.
But I cannot close my eyes now
Even though I am not too fond of geese.

One in the back stares at me with a mucous mustache
And I remember uncomfortable leather,
Hot metal slides,
Clorox on Barbies,
Everything I was too good for.
I get disoriented in traffic
Because I can't help but notice
That we are all going
In the same direction.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Daily Sketches

So... Merry Christmas/ sixth day of Hanukkah!

I've been busy doing a lot of prose work on the side, and while it's been fun, it has detracted significantly from my poetry endeavors this break. I've also been doing a lot of break-themed activities, and those don't usually mix well with setting goals.

However, I have been doing something super duper informal that I have decided to turn into my form of a game show. In the past two weeks I've intermittently written some very casual free verse on random musings of my day and thought it would be cool to develop them in stages. So that's what I'm gonna do. In each stage I'm going to leave one as a "final product" (the quotations meaning that they will be FAR from satisfactory to me...) and continue to work on the other ones. The stages will occur as follows:

1. Polished free verse
2. Image poems (free verse, but abstract, and... very descriptive)
3. Loose rhyme and meter
4. Structured rhyme and meter
5. Sonnet (English or Italian)
6. Some other delivered formal structure. I'll decide which is appropriate when I get to the last one.

Here are the original six sketches or vignettes, usually written in a couple of minutes and focusing on one simple aspect. I've handwritten all of them in my notebook (sooooo hipster), and they're a tad rough. They'll look much better after the first edit. I'll also give them all titles, because I think titles are very important.


1. Blood Pressure, (I wrote this one on my hand in the parking lot of CVS... YEAH!)

The token of gratitude from the heart,
The pulses straining veins
And pulling my heart hair with care.
I'm strong so my rhythm
Is canonical. Only when important.
Beat with intention.
Beat like a pilgrimage.

2. Untitled (About the print of my bedsheets, written right before I fell asleep)

Are these dots perforations? Stitches?
I want to rip apart the semantics of the words.
Topical? Penetrating? I suppose that to be the needlepoint
That makes one like a rash and the other like a wound.
Yet as a print, neither are so convincing.

3. Untitled

One day I thought nothing of whatever
came between
BAC Corp and Back Group LLC.
I thought nothing of folding paper,
not speaking a foreign language,
how high a squash ball bounces.
I did think of boys with light blue eyes
that complemented the khakis they never wore,
but that is transient. Everyone dresses up sometimes
and their sportcoats detract from their eyes so I don't notice them.
I toss a wad of crumpled paper into the waste basket,
And it lands like a meteor.

4. It Was Sunny Today.

It was sunny today, for five minutes.
I hadn't seen a solar aspect of winter since coming here a week ago.
I forgot the clarity it had,
Beautiful transience, translucence,
The way it skimmed over the wind and the trees.
I turned a corner and it disappeared
Like helium in a vocal cord.
How could something so enveloping
Evaporate so quickly, willingly?
Maybe in another week
I'll remember to be grateful,
But for now,
I only feel betrayal.

5. Untitled

The clarity of today. I can't imagine snow or other...
Assorted...
Figments of the season.
The dry air relieves us of snow,
But of a real winter too.
I imagined it sticking like porridge
On the ribs of the earth,
But all I see is caprice,
Where the frost came
And left
Like a handprint on glass.

6. Untitled

I watched five or six school buses
As they drove in front of me
And I wanted to honk
Because they were going too slow.
I like when things are behind me,
LIke elementary schools,
Hot metal slides,
School buses.
I get disoriented when I'm staring at them
In traffic
On the way to my life.
But I can't help but notice
That we are all going
In the same direction.

Tune in this week for stage one and see which contestant stays as the final product!

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

A POEM!!!!!

Yup, so here's a poem. I wrote another poem yesterday, but I don't feel like sharing it. This one feels more... done? Not sure; could just be the finality of writing it in a word doc rather than on your hand sitting in a car in the parking lot of CVS.

This a huge allegory for my past. I'm not one to look back at things fondly... I'm more of a future kind of person... but lately I've been missing things. It may be because of break and staying at home for a while, or whatever. But for some reason a bunch of Grecian and Roman art (friezes, mosaics, frescoes) all came to mind, and I envisioned myself as a mosaic: lots of little things making a much bigger thing. And yeah, it's me speaking to my past (literally, friezes are older than mosaics) and finally seeing the beauty in how crude it was in certain senses.


A Regretful Mosaic has a Monologue

Once upon a time, there was rancor.
There was an enormity of displeasure
For what you were and are.
In masochism I could sit and measure
It all in a vestibule of opportunities
I could never embrace. You were a frieze
On the wall there, a substitute for blank, or
A fresco. You were just there, just to mar.

Reliefs are so violent. I always saw them as hate
And destruction to make something. It was all unclean.
I have no room for different styles.
My taste accommodates few.

Maybe I have grown up, or maybe it was you,
But I refuse to recall when I saw beauty
In your carvings rather than a regret
That you weren’t made of tiles
Or painted when wet.
Maybe to just appreciate something I’ve never seen,
Maybe to just appreciate…
That could’ve been my duty.

I wonder which of us would last
The longest. I don’t want it to be me.
I have commitment like worms.

I can’t believe I’d ever be
On good terms
With my past.


Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Uhhh....

So this time finals hit and I gave no notice of a hiatus. For this I apologize.. sort of. These past few weeks have been incredibly turbulent, hence the lack of posts. But don't worry. I'll be at a loss of commitments once I go home for break, so expect a lot of cathartic poetry. Trust me... it will happen.

To tide you over, here are a pair of poems I wrote in response to my abuelo's passing. They were not really about him but rather for me coping. My sonnet "Orange Peals" was also about him, though he was still alive at the time.

SO.... yeah.... here's some stuff.


Cremation

My psychiatrist made me do this exercise so I wouldn’t kill myself:
Draw anything that was bothering me
In detail
And take a match to it. That was happiness: cleansed, liberated pain.
It worked well
Some of the time,
But most of the time
I just sat there, watching the graphite ignite and sputter,
The scraps of paper withering like idealists on a pyre.
I would hold my hands over the flames and let them pinch me.
The ashes breathed like an old man:
Reluctant, but purposeful,
Violent, but natural.
When they died they turned blue.
I left the heaps on the driveway.
The world makes a good urn.

When I was no longer trying to kill myself,
My grandfather died.
He could have used the exercise more than I did.
He liked living
Some of the time,
But most of the time
He would contemplate in silence,
Chewing his cheek until his eyes watered,
Imbibing every facet of regret.
So of course, at his funeral, we took a match to him.
I just sat there, watching the blanket dissolve
And pinching myself.
Abuelo is dead.
Abuelo is dead.
Abuelo is dead.
Yet I swore he reminded me of scraps of paper.
And I swore I saw him smiling.
When it was all over his ashes were blue
And we put him in a pile.
An urn makes a bad world.


You Stayed Overnight

The night before my grandfather’s funeral,
I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up the whole time
Thinking to myself.
But I didn’t think at all about him
Or mortality
Or anything I was supposed to think about.
I thought about you.
I thought about how we managed
To not touch each other at all
While sleeping on a twin bed
The night before I left for home.
How I nestled to your side like a spear,
Checking to see if you were still alive.
I figured you were; you snore sounded like stripping ropes.
I could predict their pitch and feel them sink into your diaphragm
Like stones. Like pebbles. Like complaints.
You weren’t supposed to fall asleep. You were supposed to leave after tea,
After talking for one hour,
Two hours,
Four.
I’m an atheist, but I never have guests, especially ones like you.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

So many words

I have decided to post another short story I've written for my creative writing class, and this one is... well... much longer. In this one Samuel's role as an antagonist is very obvious, and in the context of these other two characters, he really is. On his own he's not that bad of a guy, but most people are okay on their own. Frankly, this guy is an enormous asshole. So yeah. Enjoy this.


Gross Hurt
The plastic plant in the corner seemed to grow. It was the liveliest thing in the waiting room. The rubber foliage clung to its surroundings with tenacity, asserting its existence in the most menial of manners. Its subtlety was Callahan’s fixation as he sat in a chair, waiting to meet Professor Doanday, the head of the English department.
Callahan sighed as he saw a picture of Samuel Coldridge, the college’s newest contribution to western literature. Samuel was standing stiffly in the middle of a professor conglomerate. They enveloped him in intellectual audacity, beaming at their supposed progeny. Samuel was not even looking at the camera. His eyes vacantly reflected the camera’s flash, his mind clearly elsewhere. Samuel was Callahan’s reason for coming to this tiny Massachusetts college two thousand miles east of home, for pursuing an English major his parents vehemently opposed, for the past three years of his life that had involved him reciting Keats instead of fastening his cleats, reading haiku instead of NBA scoreboards, forgoing his protein milkshakes and weightlifting and cross-training in the frost for football to exhaust himself on the nuances of Mountain Interval.
Callahan was overjoyed to hear that Samuel would be a teacher’s assistant in some of the creative writing courses. He was meeting Professor Doanday for this sole purpose.
Instead of an eccentric, shoeless old man shuffling about in wool socks and toting a stained coffee mug in tenured dignity, a young college-age man approached Callahan. He moved quickly and spastically, clutching in latex gloves an enormous folder filled with manuscripts written in charcoal. Callahan knew exactly what they were.
“Quentin Hoakes, department assistant,” the man said as he extended his hand, struggling to keep the folder from dilapidation. Callahan shook his hand so firmly that Quentin squawked. Callahan was still burly, still commanded a physical presence, but most of his definition had resigned to fat
Quentin breathed deeply. “Professor Doanday is taking a personal day.”
“Callahan Grossherz,” Callahan replied. “Are those… new works?”
Quentin looked down in alarm at the manuscripts that had fluttered to the carpet. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, these are going to the printer tomorrow.”
“Are you…”
“Yes, his publisher.” Quentin’s quivering voice squandered his attempts at pride.
“But I thought…”
“Oh, no, I’m not allowed to change anything. These are original. Fresh too. I think this is yesterday’s batch. He’s quite prodigious, isn’t- DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT!”
Callahan withdrew his curious hand, not out of fear, but rather from pity for the grossly abused Quentin the publisher.
“Sorry! It’s just that… NO ONE!—is allowed to touch them. Mr. Coldridge is quite exact in how he wants these published. Nothing changes, not the orthography, not the syntax. Really. He told me if I so much as touch them with my bare hands he would set my car on fire.”
Callahan laughed. Quentin did not.
“So, why are you here?” Quentin’s voice cracked.
“I was just wondering what class Mr. Coldridge is TA’ing this term. I’m a huge fan, and I would love to meet-”
“Introductory Creative Writing, taught by Professor Marks, meets Mondays and Thursdays at one PM in the classroom down the hall. No prerequisites, show up on time, don’t use big words, do not ask Mr. Coldridge personal questions.” Quentin had repeated this course description before.
“Thanks so much for your-”
Quentin’s speed doubled as he manically scurried out of the room, his heartbeat converging to a razorblade to the wrist or a bed sheet noose. Callahan was very, very excited for the course offerings this September.
The next Monday was the first day of school and the first day of class. Callahan arrived at class so early that he disrupted the senior seminar meeting beforehand. He felt no shame. Three years had accumulated to the fixed point twenty minutes from now. He played with his pencil, trying to make it spin on the desk. It would always sputter and stop, the sharpened end pointing in the same direction every time the parking lot outside. He saw Quentin neurotically running into his Scion with the same folder and speeding off.
After a few minutes the rest of the class came in pods of two and three assuming places by their friends. No one acknowledged Callahan. No one sat by him, either. He continued spinning his pencil and it continued pointing towards the parking lot. Quentin had scurried back into the parking lot, his tiny sedan ill fitted for the drifting he was trying to do.
Green eyes. He saw them in the girl next to him.
He did not know that her name was Ambrosia Froid. He did not know that she was an insomniac and that her irises would emit a more potent hue if only she slept more than a few hours a week. He did not know how she would lie on a bench and caress the grass, letting single words float into her mind that she would make a poem out of. He would learn all these things shortly.
“Hello.” He greeted her with a gentle wave.
Froid looked at him, perplexed.
He did not know that she was Samuel Tyler Coldridge’s girlfriend. But he knew she was beautiful.
“Hello,” she responded finally, turning her head away.
“What brings you to this class?” Samuel wanted to hear more syllables from her.
“Writing,” she replied, still not looking at him but rather arbitrarily organizing a stack of papers in her folder.
Callahan laughed nervously. Small talk did not get him into this college. “Oh, but of course! I love Coldridge’s poetry so much. It’s so… free. I did my senior project in English on ?y(not)ou! Such a great book. I’m so happy he publishes his poetry. I hear he’s a real introvert. But I guess that’s okay, because he’s one of the greatest poets who’s ever lived! I guess he can do whatever he wants, as long as he keeps writing like that. He’s like another e.e. cummings, no, wait, better than e.e. cummings!”
He did not know that Froid had not been listening to anything he had said after “oh.” Samuel had entered the room.
Samuel did not look at her at all while he crossed the room. His mind was clearly writing a poem. He tapped his leather briefcase with his fingers, coming up with a polyrhythm for a meter, percussing sharper when he broke his rhythm with misplaced orthography, a parenthetical. Everything was at his command. He made his own language through the perversion of another. Word order perversion. Grammatical category perversion. Orthography perversion. A few called it sacrilegious. Everyone else called it genius.
As he passed Froid he stopped and gently tapped her four times on the left shoulder. Tum tum ta-tum. That meant “coffee at-three”. “No” was never an answer. As soon as class was over Froid would rush to Samuel’s side. If she stopped to use the restroom or talk to a friend, Samuel would not wait for her and continue walking on his own. Samuel was going to do whatever pleased him, and he would less than minimally accommodate companions.
Froid called this a challenge. Everyone else called it abusive.
Callahan did not know this. He didn’t even know that Froid was completely ignoring him. To him the mere vision of Froid’s profile, eyes fixated on something in the distance, her angular features in the foreground, was lovely enough. Silence was lovely enough.
Callahan learned many things that class period. He learned that Froid’s name was Froid when the professor called on her. He learned that Froid wrote minimalistic poetry. He learned that Froid had a nervous twitch whenever Samuel would tap his briefcase as if she were expected to know the meaning of every iteration that came from his relentless percussion.
“So, do you wanna grab a bite to-”
Froid got up immediately and walked over towards Samuel, and the two briskly made their way out of the room together, Samuel grabbing Froid’s needle-like fingers and convulsively toting her to his desires.
Thus, Callahan learned that Froid was dating Samuel.
The next day Callahan was walking outside and saw Froid lying on a bench, eyes closed, caressing the grass. She couldn’t see him approaching, and if she had she would have certainly arisen quickly, avoiding any reality that involved him. She found him annoying, boring, and useless. Samuel called people like this “adverbs.” Froid began using the term too.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” He began, towering over Froid, blocking her escape routes.
Froid opened her eyes lamely and stared at the mammoth, sun-glared Callahan. She contemplated ignoring him, but his smile was too eager to completely disappoint.
“Lovely,” she replied. “A great day to relax.”
“Can I join you?”
Froid wanted to say no. She wanted to resume her compulsory nap, close her eyes and be the only thing in existence aside from stars in her inner eyelids and words half-lucidly floating around in her brain.
Froid wanted to place Callahan next to Samuel and see how he would fare. She could imagine Samuel, in debilitating apathy, insulting Callahan with every insult he had created. “Athlete” for the burly, brawny student at this school on some sort of recruitment program. “Yeshi,” a corruption of “Jeshua,” for the overtly religious students that sought his conversion. Samuel liked these people. Often he would convert them. “Greeking leek.” “Suicide python.” “Faux-litician.” Samuel had one for everyone.
Finally, of course, there was “adverb.” Froid wanted Samuel to use all of these on Callahan, for she thought this was the only way to make him leave her alone.
Yet in spite of all this contemplation, she merely said “yes.” Callahan sat down beside her.
“You must be a sophomore, right? I mean, you didn’t just meet Samuel in the past couple days.”
Froid nodded. “We met last year at a poetry reading. He was standing alone because no one wanted to talk to him. He doesn’t converse well. He’s too busy thinking about more important things.”
“What’s he like?”
Froid hesitated. “Quiet, occupied. Like I said, he’s always thinking about poetry, so it’s hard for him to interact with people.” Froid smirked with satisfaction as if she had won the Nobel Peace Prize. In terms of difficulty, she really had.
“Yeah, he’s kind of like his poetry, isn’t he?”
Froid nodded again. “He’s exactly like his poetry. That’s what I like so much about him. He’s a walking poem. Talking to him is literally like analyzing his poetry.”
Callahan saw her attempt a smile but she couldn’t feel it.
“I’ve never read your poetry.” Callahan attempted a new conversation. “Do you have anything on you?”
Froid looked at him but didn’t say anything.
Callahan kept her glance. “You can tell a lot about a person by their poetry, can’t you?”
Froid showed him her poem:
“find out
why light seeps
and sleeps
in blue
orange
fire morgues
eating
and killing.
my
word
turns to
ash.”
Callahan looked at the poem, and then at Froid.
“Beautiful,” he sighed.
“What does it mean?” she demanded.
“Is there a right answer?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m minimalistic, not abstract.”
Callahan looked back down at the poem.
“Why is it beautiful?” she asked again.
Callahan fixated on the vowels, as if this poem were some sort of cryptographic key. He remained silent for too long. In a momentary slip up of her dominance over Callahan, dominance over this adverb, she smiled. It was for three seconds and it was offhand. But she smiled like ice cream, like an air, like an exhale that had been waiting completion. He did not require analysis. He was simply someone who loved poetry. And he did not know the reason for everything.
Callahan saw this foreign expression from two feet away. Samuel saw it from fifty. When Froid’s smile sailed over into the distance and caught with Samuel’s eyes, she immediately got up and ran towards him. Callahan had meant nothing. He watched her run away, towards Samuel, towards that poem that she had been making sense of for so long.
The next day in class Callahan rolled his pencil in his lap, waiting for Froid. Samuel had come to class early, and they were the only two in the room. Callahan saw him lying on some chairs, smoking, in a peculiar but familiar position.
“We’re not allowed to smoke here, right?” Callahan said evenly. “Look at all this wood paneling.” Samuel didn’t move. He had no interest in the wood paneling in the room, and even less interest in Callahan.
Samuel restarted. “I know someone who sleeps like that.”
“Only person in the world,” Samuel replied with no inflection.
Callahan laughed at his mistake. “Actually, I have a friend who does that. She’s in this class. Do you know her?”
“Name?”
“Ambrosia Froid.”
“No, you athlete. Yours.”
“Uh… Callahan Grossherz.”
“Do you want to ask me questions, Callahan Grossherz?” Samuel sat up. His torso was surprisingly long as he leaned forward and relieved smoke from his thin lips.
“Questions about what?”
“About what you thought of my lectures, or why you’re interested in poetry. Vapid, self-necessitating politeness. Don’t worry; I am not one to feign interest. I do not give a damn either way.”
“How about you answer my first question first,” Callahan pressed.
Samuel shrugged his shoulders like a giant vulture. “I know her.”
Callahan nodded. “I guess I could ask you some more questions. What were you thinking when-”
Samuel got up wordlessly and walked over towards the garbage can and tossed his cigarette butt in it. Callahan stopped midsentence to incredulously watch him disregard every rule of etiquette. When Samuel returned he appeared bored.
“Why did you stop?” Samuel asked as if Callahan had interrupted him.
“Well, it seemed like you were about to leave…”
“I am an artist, Athlete. I never leave things half-finished unless they are meant to be that way.”
“Well, I was just wondering what you thought when you wrote ‘wet rock’.”
Samuel smiled. “I was jacking off.”
Callahan again was shocked. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Coldridge! What were you really thinking?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You offered to answer my questions!”
“I offered, but that does not mean I will follow through.”
“But you just said that you always follow things through unless they’re meant to be like that!”
“Because it is. My purposes are for me and me alone.”
“But then why did you offer?”
Samuel sneered. “Just to see what you would do, Athlete.” And then Samuel stood up, even taller still, and walked out of the room.
Shortly thereafter the rest of the class arrived. Froid did not; neither did Samuel.
After class, Callahan went on the quad in search of Froid. He examined every bench, hunted under trees, walked past pods of students sitting in a circle playing the same three chords on a guitar. He was cold. Froid. Froid. Where are you?
Froid did not appear in class the next day either. Callahan spent his free energy looking for her. Samuel had reappeared in class, completely unscathed and uninterested in Callahan’s apparent paranoia. Samuel almost looked refreshed, as if he had cried out of his intestines and then returned to poetry for a form of constructive catharsis.
Froid was nowhere to be seen. For all that Callahan knew, she was a hallucination. Froid. Cold, callous Froid.
The next week Callahan found Froid under several layers, hood up, in the café where she had gone with Samuel. She sat at the table with nothing in front of her and nothing on her aside from her clothes. No backpack, no poetry. She was too weak to even look annoyed with Callahan sat down in front of her.
“Where the hell have you been?” he whispered. “You didn’t show up to class for a few days, and I’ve been assuming the worst!”
Froid’s eyes combated gravity and looked up at Callahan’s. She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and pointed at the headline on it.
“Transfer application?” The two words did not process together in Callahan’s mind. He sat at the table, unclear about whether to be a vigilante and tear it up or cradle it in his arms. Before he could make up his mind, Froid snatched it back and cradled it in hers.
“University of Washington,” she rasped. “Physics.”
“That’s on the other side of the country!”
“No shit.”
“But you’re so good at poetry!”
“Physics too.”
“Why? Is it because of me? Him?”
Froid shattered in front of him. Callahan, in a state of panic, pulled out pieces of notebook paper and handed them to her like tissues. She did not acknowledge the gesture.
“Samuel…” she began.
“What did Samuel do to you?”
She rolled up her sleeves. There were handprint-shaped bruises all over her forearms.
“Holy shit….” Callahan held her tiny forearms in his hand. They were cold. He rubbed them gently to heat them up.
“I didn’t know Samuel could become angry,” she began again. “I thought he would just break up with me.”
“That bastard, how dare treat you like this!”
“He told me…” She stopped immediately.
“He told you what?”
“He said…”
“He said…?”
“That he lives to do whatever the hell he wants, whenever he wants. And he… cornered me.”
Callahan began piecing the scene in his head.
“I told him no, that we should just break up. It was what he clearly wanted to do. But…”
“But what?”
“He kicked me in the back of my calves, and I collapsed from the pain. He repeated what he said and grabbed my forearms and pinned me down.”
Callahan’s eyes began to boil.
“When it was… over… He broke up with me. He said he didn’t want someone who interfered with what he wanted. He told me that I had broken my promise, that I could bear to be with him regardless of what he wanted or needed.”
Her dried-out eyes wrinkled in another attempt at a smile. “I lost the challenge.”
Samuel walked past the coffee shop outside. Callahan could only look at him. He got up, for a moment completely forgetting about Froid. His fist in preemptive shot-put balls, he was ready to succumb to entropy, beat his idol’s face into a chaos that not even Samuel could write.
As Callahan jabbed Samuel repeatedly in the jaw, in the cheekbone, red ribbons tying knots all over Samuel’s face, Samuel sat there and took the abuse. Callahan couldn’t understand why.
“Aren’t you gonna fight back, you disgusting son of a bitch? Aren’t you gonna try to beat the shit out of the guy who talked to your girlfriend? Come on, you can feel pain. FIGHT BACK!”
When it became more obvious that no matter how great the abuse that Samuel would not return the favor, Callahan felt awkward and stopped. Samuel lay on the ground, semi-conscious in a salty red haze, but smiling in some sort of morbid triumph.
“Athlete, why would I fight you back? It is not like you touched one of my manuscripts or something. If anything, I should be thanking you.”
Callahan forgot his anger. “For what?”
“For showing me what I could control and what I could not. Froid, without doubt, fell into the latter category.”
“How dare you treat her like that!”
“Like what? She is not in my world anymore. I do not acknowledge her. She is not my poetry.”
“HER FOREARMS!”
“I was foolish. I held on to her, tried to keep her in my world, but she refused. Trust me, athlete, it was very traumatizing. Afterwards it was the first time I ever cried.”
“So this is how you define your ‘world.’ Anything you can control is part of your world, anything you can’t just doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, do not preach my own doctrine to me, athlete. You are beginning to sound like a faux-litician!”
“For trying to play God, you’re pretty pathetic.”
“I do not care what you think, if I have not already made that apparent.”
“Clearly you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done that to her.”
Samuel frowned. He tried to stand but nearly collapsed again.
“Clearly. An adjective ending in –ly. Such a weak word. It suits you well, Athlete.”
Callahan would have punched him again had Samuel’s nose been any less deformed.
Callahan turned back towards the inside the café. His table was now empty. There was a piece of paper lying on it. He turned to Samuel and back.
“Thank you again, Athlete. I enjoy becoming recommitted to what is my real creation.” As Samuel limped away, oblivious to the violence on his face, Callahan rushed back to the table to see what Froid had left. It was not her transfer application. It was one of her poems.
Callahan crumbled it up into a ball without even reading it and threw it in the trashcan. In the distance he saw a Scion on fire.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

It's 70 degrees today

I'm waiting for office hours at the moment, and decided to write a poem while I waited.

Vernal November

A warm hand protecting a cold one
From the thaw. Calm breath and real water
Dissolve the leaves into soft pillows.
Nestled like a sock under bed sheets:
Forgotten, yet safe.
Converged browns, awoken from decay
To have one look back
And pause,
Take a second last breath.

Red is good for stitching,
For the sunset,
For the grass,
For the asphalt.
The bravery in sleeping.