Author: poetryfest

Voice Over: Val Cole

Editor & Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

POEM:

As you’re already aware…
…I’m on a one-way trip.

I’ve been on this journey
For over a year now.
In the end,
It’s just you and your convictions.

I believed Miller,
Every word he said.
He was finally happy,
Finally at peace.

He described contact with a highly-advanced civilization.
Said they knew how to make it all go away —
Every trouble, every sorrow.

Nobody believed him,
And I’ll never know why.

Human nature, I guess?
If it sounds too good to be true,
It probably is.

But I believed Miller.
And my faith was rewarded,
When he sent me,
And only me,
Instructions on how to reach them.

Miller lost his father to alcoholism,
His mother to suicide,
His wife and child to a horrible accident.

He was a deeply religious man.
After all he’d been through,
Who wouldn’t take a leap like this?

And so, I chose to follow in his footsteps.
Back on Earth, I was a corporate man.
The money was good, but everything has a price.

My soul couldn’t take it anymore.
They begged me not to go,
But there’s nothing left for me on Earth.

All that war and fighting,
Greed and famine,
Chaos and crime…
…I’d seen enough, had enough.

It’s not lost on me
That without money,
None of this would’ve been possible.
But all the money in the world
Couldn’t keep me there any longer.

Maybe I’ve been in denial,
Maybe I’m selfish,
But I left my fortune behind to charities.
Using the remainder for this journey.

It doesn’t matter what they do with the money.
It doesn’t make a difference now,
They can’t say my heart wasn’t in the right place.

Where I’m going,
At least I’ll still have everything.
And I’m not talking about material things either.

Can you imagine?

My excitement knows no bounds.
My parents are still alive.
My mother isn’t stressed out all the time,
My father isn’t holding onto his pain any longer,
My pet is still running around,
Living his best life.
Everyone’s happy,
Everyone’s at peace.

And most of all?
She’s still there too,
Just as I remember her,
But healed from all of it.
Pain, trauma, abuse,
Things she endured but never resolved,
Hurt that was there,
Long before my arrival.

It won’t be the same,
But I’m okay with that.
Because when I make contact with them,
Deep down I’ll know,
Just like Miller did.

They’ll free me from my pain,
My grief,
My suffering,
A trinity of torment that refuses to subside.

With their help,
I can build upon the memories
I refuse to let fade,
And I can revise those endless dreams,
Dreams that never came to pass.

Because I’ve finally accepted,
With all my heart…

…That the illusion will be enough.

that sad beige room began to tremble
low rumblings are not uncommon here
tonight though, they are stronger
powerful and menacing in a new way
her pleas and shouts becoming desperate
there’s a thud on the other side of the wall

cautiously peeking out the door I see
his dark figure looming across the hall
fury-filled eyes pierce into mine
breath laced with alcohol he leans in
muttering hysterically about hate and evil
declaring my mother to be a ‘manipulative bitch’

small and scared, swallowed by uncertainty
she lets herself sink under covers
nothing I could do to offer security
except for softly wrapping her in my arms
silently promising to always be around
in the corner, the tv glowed while we held each other

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you for submitting your work. We regret to inform you that your poem, entitled XXXXXXX has not been chosen for our upcoming anthology.

While most rejections come stock-written, we wish to elaborate upon our decision and extend our most sincere apologies; while the tone of your work doesn’t quite fit with our production, it was unbelievably moving! We received several 2-weeks notices from employees as well as a record number of time off requests. The secretary who delivered your work from the printer has blinded herself with a letter opener.

Though I’m sure you’re well aware, your work is very potent! Be careful where you point it next time.

Though it is general practice to encourage further submissions we most humbly ask you to cease all communications with our publication office. Our editor-in-chief blew his brains out in the back and left no note; our interns cited your final line:

“So now what,” in their collective resignation. They have decided to change fields.

As for me, your dutiful correspondent, you will find the attached email, phone, and fax numbers all defunct upon receiving this message. Please refrain from contacting the office as you will see on the local news this evening that we have burned the place to the ground.

We are all shocked and elated that you are still alive “and kicking,” as they say! However, our PR department has chosen to rescind all of your work from the public domain in hopes of restoring the mental health of our team and patrons.

Farewell, poet. Please forget to write.

Sincerely Yours,

[REDACTED]

Thank you, subscriber, for being a patron of House of Bruise Magazine. If you’d like to opt out of future emails please reply “STOP”.

I remember the way you held my hand to cross.
Out behind the barn, moss cast a shadow,
over everything.
A rusty tire swing,
a dirty rug,
bugs in my hair –
in which North was told.
Your granddaughter,
I’m only a year old.
Beetles under rocks,
boxes stacked as mice swarmed.
Back inside,
my crib you rocked,
and while talking.
Low,
soft and slow.
I must’ve drifted off,
papa.

As you moved years later,
no more barn,
no more bugs,
no more dirty rug.
A couple square feet wide,
where you reside.
Still you held your pride.
A headband,
it was cold.

Still your granddaughter,
eight years old.
A duck pond,
your scraped knee,
tears that made the concrete sink.
I’m sorry,
I have to go home,
papa.

Down the road,
moved once more.
Smaller room,
as your independence.
No longer could you go out,
too much risk.
The hand that helped me cross.
If I knew then,
I wouldn’t have let go.
I would have crossed over and over.
My aunt’s house,
on the sofa you sat on.
The hand you held,
the other that plucked childishly
at your yamaha.
I sat and played for you
just how you did,
but I won’t sing yet,
I can’t.
I love you,
papa.

We are here tonight,
People of the Kern Plateau,
I will never know what it means to be lonely,
In the snowy hills of our Queen California with you,
With only the stars exploding in their youth above us.

To find ourselves here,
With the rocky canyons reverberating messages of love,
And the piney pulchritude all around us,
That surrounds the single tear running through the stream
That lines the echoing valley under the red sun of the west,
No gun or death is found here,
Only the breath of those who seek the beautiful,
And those who are not afraid to find it.

Please remind me to sit all through the night,
And wake in the true light of the world,
With a couple pearls in my hand,
And friends who understand the silence.

We had big smiles and whitter teeth. All of us had a vacancy in the eyes.
Flash.
We all knew how to turn it on for the photographer with the Instamatic.
We wanted to be admired, made to feel special, and look good.
We came together for a moment.
The odor of burnt flash cube.
The smiles drop and suspicion arrives.
Then comes awkwardness and regret.
I look at my mother and father and they look as lost as I am.
But the difference between this nine-year-old and these adults is that I am aware of my lostness. I
know there is a long hard road ahead of me.
There will be more Instamatic moments.
More regret.
Flash, and then gone.

From day one the pounds pile on
A consequence from abandonment
Each year more pounds, self loathing, hope forgone
The clothes don’t fit, let’s true x large
Physical Ed a taunt, dress up I hate, my love of self all worn

Self loathing, eat, abandoned, eat, not loved or liked, eat more
The endless cycle ridiculing and defeating all my hope
Of life like all the pretty girls, of dating the boy I adore
So eat some more to numb the pain, until it starts again
The cycle never ending and draining my happiness some more

Why is life this hard, my days a misery
My whole life in this struggle, into my adulthood
More diets than I can count, my attempts making me weary
The worst part yet, attempt and fail, of no success
This weight the years have put on me, the pain and hurt so dreary

I do find love, and it finds me, some men see through the shell
To what’s inside, and love you for your beauty within
My strength and love, my talents too he knows well
He gives me love I desperately need, tries to fill my heart
But I must love myself from within to break this spell

If truth be told some days I am successful
At keeping my disappointments from crowding my mind
But even though I know I must I’m still resentful
The demons that keep taunting me do never quite leave me
More times than not, I try again, yet my attempts uneventful

The struggles are a daily fight for me
To quell the thoughts in my head that stifle
I don’t think it really ever stops or lets me be free
To live my life just for once, feeling beautiful
Not even therapy has staunched my mind, I found no glee

But I’ll still fight it, I have no choice
I didn’t want to always be hurt, suffering the painful
So I must choose to decide to live this out and voice
The torment many like me endure and repress
And even with acceptance or defeat, I still can rejoice

Dearest.

Grief.

Does not go away.

It mutates
In to favorites…

flowers and bees
Perfumes
Colors of leaves

Songs sung and heard
Tears falling

Deep deep unspoken words

Internal yellings
Swimming in oceans swallowing cries

Deep sighs
Over and over
As if the air
Would ever be less heavy
Ever again

Some day they say

Last night, I had a dream,
That I had two penises.
Well, I guess you’d call it
A nightmare—
Which I’m pretty sure
Was in technicolor,
Like the Wizard of Oz.

You’re probably wondering
About all the details,
So, here are the ones I recall…
The two penises appeared
To be identical,
And sat one on top of the other,
Not side by side.

In the nightmare I failed
To determine if I had
An extra pair of testicles—
Likely because I was
So consumed with
The two stars
Of the show,
And time,
Like in most dreams,
Was at a premium.

As you can imagine,
I was trying to find
A secluded place where
I could enjoy
Both penises at once.
Simple things
Like locating privacy
Are always
Far more complicated
In dreams and nightmares.

I ended up in the bathtub
Of a smoke-filled room
At the Days Inn
In Clearwater, Florida

That I was sharing
With a few close friends
I didn’t recognize.

So, as excited as I was
To see if I could achieve
Two orgasms at once
And discover what
That might feel like,
I was equally worried
About being caught
In the attempt.

It seemed like the
Sort of spectacle
It would be hard
To live down,
And that it might
Open the door
To government intervention.
So, I stopped trying
Before I could
Make history.

What was the nightmare
Trying to tell me
About myself?
Probably that it’s been
Awhile since I’ve had sex.
So long that
I’m greedily dreaming
About having not one
But two orgasms
Simultaneously.
We don’t need Dr. Freud
To figure that out.

Would I want to have a second
Penis if granted one
By the powers that be
Whoever they be?
I would like to think not.
I would like to think
I wouldn’t want the hassle,
Or twice the sexual tension.

Although, it might be nice
To have a second penis
Just in case
The first one
Breaks down.
In all the years
I’ve had a single penis,
It’s only faltered once…
Freshman year in college,
When I was new to
Unparented freedom
And running all over campus
Like the neighborhood dog.

My conclusion?
I’m content
With my fully operational
One and only penis,
But I wouldn’t
Mind having that dream again,
So, I can finish what I started.
With a baby around
It’s difficult to
Find the time and energy
To seduce the baby’s mother.

They told me I was free—
as long as I stood still.
As long as I stayed small,
and silent,
and grateful.
“This is freedom,” they said,
with hands full of chains.

They dressed me in flags
that never fit.
Taught me to kneel before the altar
of capitol—
on calloused knees that burned.

I was handed a script
with no voice of my own.
Given silence
and told it was peace.
They taught me to sing hymns
to gods that never heard me,
to pledge to flags
that never sheltered me.

I was born beneath
a ceiling of no—
no room,
no voice,
no questions.

They said:
“This is the land of the free.”
But freedom that must be whispered
is not free.
Freedom with a leash
is still a chain.

And when I asked,
“Why must we bleed for bread?”
they said,
“Because that’s the cost of living.”

But it’s not.
It’s the cost of obedience.
It’s the price of silence.

It’s the toll we pay
for walking roads we did not choose,
under gods we do not serve,
toward futures that do not see us.

I have seen what passes for peace:
the smile that hides the bruise,
the prayer that hides the hunger,
the pledge that hides the cage.

But freedom is not hidden.
Freedom is not quiet.
Freedom does not wait to be invited in.

Freedom does not come
gift-wrapped in red, white, and blue.
It does not wait politely.
It does not knock.

It breaks.
It howls.
It comes with grief.
It costs.

It costs your comfort.
It may cost your kin.
It may cost your peace of mind,
your place in line,
your place at the table
you were never meant to sit at anyway.

But still—
you must rise.

Because there is power in the breaking.
There is mercy in the rising.
There is beauty in the blood
you shed for the future.

Not just yours—
but ours.

For the children not yet born.
For the mothers made small.
For the lovers buried nameless.
For the workers silenced with checks.
For the faith that forgot to be kind.
For the country that forgot to be free.

Stand.
Even when your knees shake.
Stand.
Even when your voice cracks.
Stand.
Even when you stand alone.

Because somewhere—
in the marrow of another aching body,
in the breath of a child not yet born,
in the soil where truth is buried but not gone—
someone is listening.

And they will rise too.

You are not alone.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.

Chains do not break
with prayers alone.
They break with courage,
with sacrifice,
with truth spoken loud
in rooms that beg for silence.
They break
when we refuse to be grateful
for cages with pillows.

They break
when we sing
despite the smoke in our lungs.
They break
when we remember
we were never born to kneel.

So cry.
Let the grief fall like rain.
Mourn what was.
Mourn what could’ve been.
Mourn what still is.

But when the weeping ends—
rise.

Rise like thunder.
Rise like morning.
Rise like your name
was written in freedom
long before you learned to breathe.

Rise,
because the light is not free—
but it is worth
the cost.