I am a small boy
whose heart burns from all the cigarettes
that have been dropped into his stomach.
If I could be human with you, I would.
If I could be faithful for you, I would.
I have eyes like two-dimensional comic book windows,
and resort to wishing on worlds when the sky runs out of stars.
The grown men talk so loudly of the outside world,
speak so quickly in a language so foreign to me.
Hair floods over my mother's temples as a curtain.
"Take me by my human wrists," she says,
"and put me to music. Because the failing chalk-dust skin
around my hands turns into sonnets."
The lemon-souled goddess of the coming night rips through the papers
on which I've inscribed my name.
(Whichever name it may be.)
The ghost stories were always the best, but she does not tell them anymore.
The lace-mouthed damsel has holes in her eyes,
and blinks only to her creator, mindless mister of the melting moonfall is he;
the small boy who marries his pens and makes brainchildren with them.
Pale and sideways, sickly visions entwine and repeat,
are real and then are not.
A small boy of twenty, forty-seven, eighty-three,
I will dress the way I always have,
in my mother's hands, layered in imagination,
adequately prepared for some storm.
She spins me so quickly on my chair that smoke rises out of my nostrils
and words create themselves out of my hands.
It is a solitary vision, now.
A lover breaks bread, breaks down, breaks into your most repressed goings-on.
A lover who can whistle out your favorite work of art.
She is me as well.
I invented her and trapped her in my wardrobe.
And she screams love, love, love through my fingertips, through my nails,
but her ears are stronger than her voice.
She is understanding if not patient.
All is always well in the thunder that never appears.
Through the hole in the mesh of a net wall that distinguishes us from our surroundings.
I am not my surroundings.
My fellow men are physiologists in thick blueblack cloths
that drape us over and mesh us.
All into one life.
I am the small boy who sinks with the sun.
In the parlor the box of marbles
is stuck to the hands of the great purple turtle.
The reptilian toyteaser fusses the knobs,
directs silver spheres to their rightful paths.
Behind the curtain in the easy light,
He delights in the sound of the rumbling roll
of the raw racing runners to rightful paths.
Through tattered tortoise spectacles he watches
dizzily his ancient hands on the knobs
as they turn, revolve the little wooden world;
old as they are, but not yet one billion.
A simple little box engraved
with lines that rhyme a thousand times.
Below I watch a small girl at her pen,
wondering if the people in her drawings are cold
as I, a brunette marble, roll and fall
on my dark mission, falling with
the one who has fallen before me,
into the holes of a square, wooden Earth.
And pushing and pushed against, rolling
rumbling rawly then rising and rising
up and almost touching the glass.
These people are covered in cement on a sweatsuit tuesday.
far away from the sun they obediently orbit.
it is all so easy.
the car crunches backward and your lover,
too exhausted to love
in her constructed blazer,
sitting smoking in the chilly driver's seat
not daring to drive, to feel
destroying the earth that orbits your sun.
coffee stains litter your chest
and you thank her for making you human
though you have no idea what that means yet.
something about free will
on a cracked table, tension under the stars.
she was fair to you, taught you,
slept next to you in a box of holes — dead or alive.
But for now, for now,
we'll scope the sky with little eyes
wanting our silly surprise.
They are talking, taking me somewhere
Fictionbooks, lost of all their consciousness
Third grade, forgotten
Real world, forgotten
Once I learned how to curve letters into one another,
To tune the brain into a new channel,
White noise like the sound of old, dry roses
But I lose my focus
Some day the man who created me
Will draw the house in which
I will raise my children,
just like God.
Samantha Rose Zimbler is currently pursuing her Bachelor's Degree at The College of New Jersey for English. She writes poetry and fiction and plans on pursuing a career in publishing. She has been published in Teen Ink Magazine, and The Lion's Eye literary magazine at TCNJ. All her work can be found on her blog, wordsincursive.blogspot.com.
THE NEW
RULES OF
W R I T I N G
ISSUE:
S P R I N G
2011
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