Judas' Wager

The stylish keeper expected my arrival.
He wore a white top hat, suit, and gloves,
and welcomed me with an amused grin—
(was it some sort of droll courtesy, then?)—
as I tiptoed through a transparent crystalline looking glass.

Two rumpled sheets flew open,
by my flipper hand,
And manifested an old burlesque club;
a veritable circus
enveloped in a forest of sound.

On a squat chunk of wood,
two fat white women undressed like heathens,
tossing their costumes on the ground like
heaps of rags
before a large group of smiling sheep.

Doughnuts were strewn across a long, gold table—
some chewed and spat on,
most licked by a naked woman
wearing wings of mystery,
yet no halo.

A big neon sign flickered in white and blue
behind the stage:
“HAVE”
(two letters were too dim to see)
while two lit slabs lay disgruntled on a shelf somewhere,
seemingly peevish at the victor
of Tic-Tac-Toe.

I looked at him, the keeper, and he at me,
along with his wild mouth of teeth and
never-before-seen, shining jewelry.
And My God—
the keeper made it all clear.

It was patently ironic:
nothing in the air was smelled
(my nose crinkled with regret),
nothing was felt or heard or tasted;
(my finger drenched in chilly retrospect);
yet, I witnessed it all with my windowed face,

and I thought to myself,
“God, get me out of this place,”
but I merely dreamt, and dreamt again
until somebody decided to turn up the jukebox.

---

Made this for my beginning poetry writing class. We had to write a poem based on random phrases that we selected from a passage of a random story. The words I chose:

smiling sheep, lit slabs, heaps of rags, fat white woman, rumpled sheet, droll courtesy, amused grin, stylish keepers, shining jewelry, light-echoing wake, blank and tingling, magic show, white-gloved assistant, forest of sound, doughnut, leash, naked woman, big neon sign, sqaut chunk, veritable circus, jukebox, patently ironic.

I'll pay you to pray

The letter bill told me to pray
and obey
some laws conjured by faith and
imaginary devotion,

but I wait simply;
perhaps for an answer.

Yesterday was bleak,
today was iffy,
and tomorrow seems like a feigned promise--
made in vain.

Eh bien... It's a labyrinth of sorts,
and I'm just a player in this
privy conspiracy.

She wears the perfume

Since this blog is mostly my "poetry blog", I wanted to put "She wears the perfume" here but never got around to it. So I'll just post it now... I want to keep track of all the poems that really capture something I felt (so vividly) at the moment (although I usually jot things down randomly on random canvases). This poem is one of them.

- - - - -


She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.


Finished: Monday, June 23, 2008


- - - - -

There are lots of allusions I've made significant to my past. In this poem, however, the narrator is a friend expressing his/her point of view of me. This poem describes my uneasiness with my faith (as a Catholic) and how "wearing the perfume" is a front, basically. I give the impression that I'm a very devout and religious person, while inside I'm actually having mixed feelings with my faith. This was written around finals week of Spring quarter... when I was very confused about what I truly believed in. But, as my disclaimer says, these were feelings I felt at the time, though I'm still willing to explore more about my spirituality... much more.

[Also, as a sidenote, the poem starts off simple on purpose and expands into more and more eloquent lingo. Like how perfume is emitted (subtly, at first), then inflates with a bolder scent ... like a balloon expands as it swallows helium.]

Going through this questionative stage in my life made me realize just how little I knew about what I believe in. What is Catholicism? And who is God? What has He done for us? Who is Jesus? There are so many questions I have that I initially would not be able to answer, should a "non-Catholic" be inquisitive about my religion. I'm still "semi-moratorium-istic", but I'm searching. And learning.

My super-ego forbids it

this forbidden tango,
the uncoordinated
left-footedwaltz.

one step:
We loved each other.

second beat:
We almost kissed.

third turn:
you stepped on me.

fourth twist:
i truned aawy

fifth step:
i lsot my pcale

My super-ego forbids it,
my id says to LEAVE,
to find another twist-and-turner.
Someone who won't merely
"Carry you
(with
Footsteps
in theSand)."


but,

I want to dance.
I want to tango.

My ego says yes,
my heart says no.


It's paradoxical.


- - - - -

Just to clear up things... This poem isn't about love. It's about making an important decision... And if you caught this, I bolded the "t" in "tango" on purpose.