In a minute there is time

trying stuff out

2006-10-25T00:05:21Z

If it weren't for the one time I sat in the backseat with him, I might never have known.

For years, it seemed, we'd driven to Holt Avenue to watch the planes fly out of the little airport - before it became an international phenomenon - when it was mostly just two-seaters taking off. Mom had a knack for parking at the exact spot along that long stretch of road where the planes’ take-off or landing route went directly over our Mitsubishi Gallant. It was the only time she'd let us open the sunroof all the way. We'd lean back and try to count how many teeny tiny heads we could see in the windows. The aircrafts were so low to the ground, we could see the wings shake a little. The event never ceased to astound us.

I could only giggle, pondering my own 11-year-old existence in comparison to the big, bad world around me.

But my brother - he saw something different.

I caught a glimpse of it in his eyes the night I invaded his usually empty backseat paradise, having been cast aside when my older cousin decided to go with us and claimed my front seat privilege.

While Mom and Michael chatted, I silently watched my baby brother, his mouth agape at the sky above. It was at that very moment that it dawned on me, something I'd known for a while, but hadn't yet figured out what to call it. How to identify it. What name to brand it with.
And maybe I still don't.

***

I take pictures in my mind. I set up amazingly perfect photographs and hit the button, recording the still life into my brain. I mentally pose people and change backgrounds in order to achieve the best possible frame of reference. The lighting is iridescent, almost always tinted with various hues of reds and browns.

Despite spending a great deal of time on the details, the photo very rarely develops the way that it should.

***

When I finally got back from the doctor’s office, it was as if I’d dreamed up the whole thing. The traffic in the middle of Orange County at four in the afternoon, combined with a slew of people who don’t know what a blinker is, was enough to convince me that nothing intense would ever occur, amidst such wholly insignificant abstractions.

But the reality was that it had happened. And while I was awake.
Now I had to deal with the fact that there was something wrong with me. There was a little virus running around inside of my body that I now had to concentrate on killing. Before it killed me.

There were few people I wanted to break the news to, and one of them was Ian. I could already imagine his concerned voice in my head, and wanted to hear it through the inevitable static of our crossed phone lines. Always they seemed amiss – as if our two lines were just not meant to be used as communication. As if our phone conversations were doomed before they even began.

Just like clockwork, I ran into his mother at the pharmacy. She, a woman in her fifties with dark hair and dark circles beneath her eyes to match, carried a plastic blue hand basket containing two tubes of toothpaste, a bottle of speckled body wash, and a small candle from a discount shelf I’d also noticed on my way in. She was in no rush.

When she looked up from the array of cold medications she was studying and saw me coming toward her, she tried to smile, but failed miserably. Her eyes, sad and confused, told me it was a bit more than over-the-counter mishaps that caused her strife.

“I was just thinking about Ian,” I said after a quick hello hug.

“Think harder,” she said softly. “He’s back in jail.”

Our small talk from then on was useless. Our mouths were taut and our lips were pursed. Neither of us wanted to test the limits of the others’ knowledge of the situation, so we left all of it unspoken.

When the pharmacist finally called my name over the intercom, announcing my prescription was ready, it took all I had in me to not sigh in relief. We politely parted, and I made my way toward the legal substances that promised to kill the pain I had yet to feel.

Later, before I could stop myself, I wrote Ian a letter. I knew I’d never send it, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to for a while. But I wrote it anyway, letting the Valium say whatever it wanted to say, and rewrote it three times before finally sealing it into a blank envelope.

Ian,
I have cancer. I’ll tell you my sentence if you tell me yours.
- me

I chuckled as I tossed the envelope aside. It was just like us. Subtle. Morbid. For years, he and I would wax poetic until our writing hands bruised. This time, it actually made sense.

***

Simply put, I wasn’t convinced. I knew he was lying to me again, but if I’d learned anything from all of those police investigation television shows I’d been watching, it was that I had to prove it.

...

The secret is that there is no secret. There’s no secret to dieting. There’s no secret to getting rich. There’s no secret to working hard, having a good job, paying the bills on time, living and loving someone for your whole life.

It’s always simple. Everything starts out easy, and then we get a hold of it and complicate things up so much that we can’t even recognize it anymore. And then we complain that life’s too hard.
Sure, things get in the way. Tragedies happen. But when it comes down to it, you have two choices: take it, or leave it.

Ter ger

2006-05-31T19:12:51Z

Resistance makes the faux energy spill,
melt, sizzle
off of my tongue
and into my cupped hands
where I am staring,
seeking, missing
your touch.
You were right there.
Now, a naked palm.
My head droops.
I dare not reach
or move or strain myself.
Brains drain out of
my hanging skull.
Hands tremble,
fingernails ache, bleed,
and your face appears in my
peripheral vision.
I dare not budge,
lest you run away.
From that to this,
I stare and strangle
you with my tears.
Drown myself in physics and
better planes
where names and symbols erase our humble
existance
and my hands fall ...
fall ... fall ...
open and scarred and
spilling pools of resistance

© 2006

An anniversary

2006-05-15T22:48:17Z

I look for it in your fingers
and in your elbow
and in your funny bone
- If I could see your funny bone -

I search within your joints
and between your hair particles
and underneath your fingernails.

I feel around inside your kidneys
and fondle your lungs
with a stethoscope around my neck,
listening for a clue …
a sign …
a quiver in your voice that says
you love me, but …

A red letter that comes to me in solid brass,
reeking of an age-old stench that reminds me of
antique-bearing women who tolerated men like you.

But I search for you.

I keep my eye out for subtle mistakes
you might make, and that particular way you
look at me without really seeing me.
I take notice of any uncertainties reflected in your stubbly face.

Snooping around, I find your organs
shred up into a million tiny pieces,
placed there by shame and blame and insecurities.
Along the way, I unexpectedly find your heart,
proverbially broken, but mending as I
tickle your fancy
and announce my discovery:

You love me, …

© 2006

shoe shopping

2006-04-07T18:56:39Z

He isn't my whole world.

Just enough to disperse it from its course.
Just enough to shake it to the core.
Just enough to knock me off my guard.

When last he spoke, I listened. When last he screamed,
I cried. When last he criticized.

I catch glimpses of him - when his beady, green eyes
peer out at me from the mirror. In every glance I stumble upon,
I write off my own voice, and give him center stage.

His insistence would have me do no less.
And no more.

When last he spoke, he convinced me he was right.
And I was wrong.

Ugly. Fat. Stretch marks are the epitome of obesity.
Flab is the cynical soul of my own cynical world.
Lately he has noticed the puffiness in my cheeks
and in my brow, and in my pinky toe.
Lately he has noticed the extra weight around my midriff,
around my kneecaps, around my ears.

Lately, he won't shut the fuck up.

I listen more intently. Believing even the spaces
in between his words.

When last he spoke, his voice was just low enough
for me to have to strain to hear him.

But I heard. And he knew I did.

And he relished. While I measured the weight of my tears.

© 2006 Roxanne Hack

Fullerton, CA

2006-03-24T21:21:31Z

Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate the sun.
I hate the wind.
I hate the way it feels when the ground under me shakes.

Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate the ocean.
I hate the way the sand creeps into my sandals.
I hate salt water and seagulls.

Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate crowds.
I hate a traffic jam at noon.
I hate the Gap.

Perhaps I wasn't made for any state,
except of mind. Of affairs. Of chaos.
Perhaps I wasn't made to belong in any county.
To find myself wherever I go,
instead of going somewhere just to search endlessly.
Perhaps I was made to be where I am,
content to not belong -
and belonging by default.

Some people are made for California.
Me, I think I am.

©2006 Roxanne Hack

Back together

2006-03-24T01:51:39Z

Beyond what I think is the border between
what I believe
and what you want me to believe
lies uncharacteristically bonafide excuses
for what you've done.

I barely hear the promises you make.
I hardly acknowledge the lengths you go
when you search for the forgiveness
I keep hidden amongst doubts and
stubborn attitudes and
a lucid frame of mind.

I am not as sensitive as the tears I cry.
They're merely what keep me human.
Beyond what I think is the reason for my
staying and my going,
I see your self-righteousness
and call your bluff.

We aren't what we think we are.
We just are.
Together. Lost. Found. Broken. Repaired.
Absolute. Halved. Solidified. Liquidated.
Loved. Despised. Wounded.
Forever - if not at least a really long time.

©2006 Roxanne Hack

Serenity

2006-03-15T21:54:48Z

A psychotic elitist once told me
'Yellow snow is a sign of life.'
I wondered what kind of life he meant
and got lost in jokes of lemon lime.
My eyes have never seen fog before today.
The kind of fog that comes with clear skies.
Rain came at just the right time.
But never snow.
So, no life.
Just piss.

©2006 Roxanne Hack

a battle for one

2006-03-15T21:54:16Z

Because I can't resist the urge to torture myself,
I ground another stake into my upper thigh.
Hidden beneath clothes and strands of thread I once thought made up my life,
the blood oozes. I don't even try to stop it anymore.
The world swirls around me as I prepare for another
self-mutilating test at just how much I can handle.
A stab. A scrape. A bite. A bruise.
The scars say nothing about the war inside my head.
Proof I'm alive is all I'm looking for. And the proof is there,
red and black and staring me in the face.
I am alive. And this is real.
And battle after battle, I hold myself hostage,
a gun to my own head, wanting silence
and hearing nothing.
Wanting revenge, but hating the word.
Needing solace - and refusing to let anyone in,
lest I scatter my weary brains on the putrid walls.
Because I cannot stop for death,
I breathe a little and try again.
Press pause on the recorder that replays
the words over and over and over and over...
And over
Something haunts me. Pinpointing it is useless.
Screaming is senseless. Crying, laughable.
So I sit in my cell
and take another stab at another hidden body part,
dulling the pain so I can feel it again.

©2006 Roxanne Hack

Conversion

2005-12-30T06:27:31Z

At church one Wednesday night
    - We'd go twice a week, plus a weekly youth group meeting
     where mom and dad taught,
     and monthly adult bible study, where I babysat. -
my pastor said God talks.
He said that it was up to us to be patient
and listen for His words.
I sat Indian-style on my bed for three hours that night.
I begged. I pleaded. I cried for the voice of God
to ring in my 13-year-old ears.
He never spoke.
How many ounces of God are actually in a gallon of vulnerability?

©2005 Roxanne Hack

You and Pastor Tim

2005-06-15T17:45:24Z

And in my darkest moments,
I always blamed myself.
I'd shunned my own name
by denying You and Your good deeds.
In some ways, I was proud I'd made my own decision.
Most ways, I was stubborn.
And in my darkest moments,
I'd simply blame myself.
And always would I fight the battle -- blind or deaf or dumb at the time --
I'd fight until I'd fall,
and then get up and fight some more.
Without Your help, I'd think.
But here I stand, before You and Your capital Yous,
admitting defeat and fighting no more.

This was not my fault.

I met Pastor Tim at my most vulnerable.
I believed every word he said.
When he'd smile at me, I thought it was You.
When he'd laugh with me and comfort me, I saw You.
When he saved me, and helped me save myself -- You again.
And in the sins he would commit, I saw Your fingerprints.
I saw Your red hands on his crimes.
Your eyes saw more than mine, and mine saw enough to know
he was no saint, nor an honest man.
His grotesque habit burns my brain with harsh sadness and shame.
And in his darkest moments,
I simply blamed You.

This was not my fault.

©2005 Roxanne Hack

Eight Percent

2005-04-12T04:27:02Z

The clues are everywhere.
On sofas. On car seats. On that Call History cell phone feature everyone's used to now.
Most of the time, I stumble upon them by happen stance.
99% of the time.
All right. At least 90.
But I don't go looking for them. They just
appear.
As if to say, "Here I am! I fucking DARE you!"
And I hate being dared. I hate being made to look like a
pussy.
Like some weak girl who can't stand her own.
Who doesn't know what the fuck is going on --
or worse, who knows what's going on, but refuses
to see it.
I wouldn't refuse to see anything. Once it's in plain view,
I notice it. I'm not afraid of noticing things.
I have a knack for noticing things.
Sometimes too much.
Often too much.
90% of the time, I notice too much.
They say people have eyes bigger than their stomachs?
Mine are like that. Except it has more to do with
clues
than food.
Food too though. Sometimes. 90% of the time.
I digress.
Did I tell you I found some clues?
In notebooks. In computer folders. In facial expressions.
They're everywhere, these fucking clues.
They smell like shit and make my belly churn,
so I try not to get too close. I usually just
brush my hand over them. Poke at them a time or two --
sometimes three. Often four or five. Six, 90% of the time.
I don't look for them. They come to me.
I learned not to look.
When I seek them out myself, I always come back to
the same thing.
The same conclusion.
That goddamn conclusion is the one I should always come back to.
And I do. You know -- 90% of the time.
I look for others
and I always end up finding
me.

©2005 Roxanne Hack

Little Houses

2005-04-10T00:39:07Z

We slam doors instead of having
actual conversations,
and we sneer instead of explain.
Actions mean more than words anyway.
I am lost in the darkness that has become
my imagination
and my doubts
and my spider-webbed mind.
I am doomed by my initial reactions
and a stubborn refusal to let go.
Your silence overwhelms my sanity
and makes my stomach churn,
as I'm left to wonder what you'd say
if we weren't busy ignoring each other.
In some sentimental, dellusional ways,
I always picture you forgiving me without
my having to ask. And vice versa.
But it never happens that way.
We storm away instead of
apologizing.

©2005 Roxanne Hack

In My Box

2005-03-01T21:41:20Z

I'm self-centered. I think about myself
a lot. My flaws. My ambitions. My intentions. My
self-analytical tendencies. My waist size.
I talk a lot. Often, too much.
About the past. And anecdotes you probably
don't care about. And how so-and-so annoyed me
today and yesterday and tomorrow.
I'm negative. I'm negative about people
who I think are negative. I'm hypocritical.
I change my mind a lot. Except when I fight.
When I fight, I never change my mind. Even when
I've realized I'm wrong. I use the word I too much.
I fret over the number on the scale
while I consume carbohydrates and sugars and french fries.
I'd rather sleep than exercise.
I'd rather sleep than face the world. I'd rather sleep.
I cry too much. And then I save the buckets of tears
for a rainy day, so I can make it rainier.
As if a drought were such a bad thing.
I'm selfish. I assume. I'm jealous. Lazy. I take everything
personally. I'm proud. Scared. Stubborn.
I don't know how else to be but this.
And I dare not try.

©2005 Roxanne Hack

Letters from a Yesterday (aka Corniest Title Ever)

2005-01-19T03:36:23Z

I might have been more lonely.
But what's a knife without an arm to scar?

I could have perched along the highway and counted cars
as they flashed by me, not noticing me, not counting me back.
I could have wandered into empty rooms and filled them
with the grossly intense promises and pleas that fell from my mouth.

In a place where degredation would loom over what made me comfortable
and what made me sweat,
I could have pictured you in shades of purple and red
and I would have never mentioned the state I was in.

I might have cried a little more.
But what's a tear without a place to slide?

I could have searched for meaning in the underworld,
exasperating my senses but claiming my sanity.
I could have listened to my own rambling renditions of what you should be doing
and who you should be loving, and left you guessing about your future.

In a place detailed with my imaginary scenarios and littered with my
fantasy friendships,
I could have marked the spot in which you belonged
and never have tried to move you on my own.

I might have mourned prematurely.
But what's a story without an broken past?

©2005 Roxanne Hack

A Parker Bros. Night

2004-12-07T23:38:18Z

Cramped inside this tiny room,
I watch you hide from me without moving an inch.
I watch what you’re about to say fall out of your lips in silence
and I’m deprived of the actual sound your words might have made.
Your eyes dart back and forth and forth and back
in slow motion
and every time I feel your hand tense slightly, I know
you’ve come up with something good.
You start to sweat at the bridge of your nose,
and those cracking noises you make with your foot
get louder, but are less irksome when I know
you aren’t doing it on purpose.
Your eyes dart across the table we’re sitting at,
and I wish I had x-ray vision.
I get restless. Impatient.
Suddenly I’m more nervous than you are. Suddenly I’m very aware
of what’s about to happen.
I never win the waiting game.
I really never win any game.
So I’m not surprised when you finally turn to me and say,
"Sorry!"

©2004 Roxanne Hack

Music's Groupies

2004-12-07T23:36:12Z

We go to so many concerts, it’s like we’re Music’s groupies –
when, wouldn’t it be easier if we belonged to just one band?

We fuck Music.
We fuck to Music.
Music fucks us.

And we’re blinded by Bass and raped by Rhythm.
And we never let go.

We clap on time
and tap-to-tap-to-
tap-to-tap-to-tap…
our chorus repeats.

The bridge is always my favorite part.

I pity the poor soul who has only one favorite song,
who isn’t aware of the wonder that is

Damien and Elliott
and Beth and Lucinda.
It’d be lonely here
without them.

And concerts. And you.

©2004 Roxanne Hack

John

2004-11-12T00:43:52Z

And isn't it obvious --
The way I chew my nails to bits
and hide my bulging stomach behind my chagrined arms
and never make eye contact...
isn't it obvious?
The way I burn holes into the back of your head
and silently agree with everything you say
and talk about you to people you don't know.
Isn't it obvious --
The way I shift and shake in my childish shoes
and wonder to myself if I'd have a chance
and wonder to myself what it'd take to get it...
and isn't it obvious --
The way fate trips me and my words
and puts crumbs on my shirt and green in my teeth
if ever I'm lucky enough to be noticed by you.
Isn't it obvious?
The way you see right past me
and don't know how my name feels on your tongue
and have never seen me without my glasses on.
And isn't it obvious?
The way you and Mrs. You aren't aware
of my ears on your conversation and eyes on your glances...
isn't it obvious --
The way you and me converse only in my head
and how you refuse to really see me...
and isn't it obvious?

©2004 Roxanne Hack

It Takes Me Longer to Get to L.A.

2004-10-29T01:25:40Z

I got my shirt at Target. My sweater? Old Navy.
    I’ve never even stepped foot in Saks Fifth Avenue
    and I can’t tell the difference between Armani and Jaclyn Smith
    without the price tag attached.

I still changed my clothes 18 times in an attempt to impress.
    I don’t think the mission was accomplished, and even if it was,
    you’d prove me wrong with your saucy sneers
    and overpriced hairdos and nail jobs.

I’m aware of the bulge around my belly.
    I’ve never tried the Hollywood diet
    and I don’t have the time or devotion to exercise hours a day
    and pay someone for pain.

I eat what I like and don’t excuse myself when I’m done.
    Tofu does not taste good,
    nor do plain greens paired with no bread.

I can drink you under the table.
    I won’t act like a 12-year-old with my friends
    the way you do in public when
    you can't handle your $120 bottle of wine

I’ve worked hard for what I’ve accomplished.
    My parents aren’t paying my way through college
    and I still have to put in 40 hours a week at a
    low-paying job I love more than you love your kin.

You can be better than me in your gas-guzzling Expedition, if you’d like.
    My early-90s go-cart of a car can’t go as fast or stand as tall,
    but it’s mine, and I’ll catch up with you at
    the next stoplight.

©2004 Roxanne Hack

Newlyweds

2004-10-29T01:24:25Z

The wedding was over and the reception well under way.
They hadn't let you wear a veil;
At the age of four, I was proof your innocence had long ago been uncovered.
Congratulatory hugs had already dirtied the train of your gown,
so it wasn't worth the effort it'd take to detach it.
You had time only to kick off the heels you weren't used to.
And the groom, just old enough to drink,
in his untied bowtie and wrinkled cummerbund,
had given me his jacket to wear over my pink, itchy dress.
(After all this practice, he'd finally gotten good at
taking care of me.)
I'd chewed on my lacy white gloves throughout the ceremony
so they were useless now (even more than before)
but I kept a firm grasp on my empty flower basket
and waited for you to notice me amidst your guests,
bored and hungry and tired enough to admit I was tired.
I'd already fought off the grandparents who tried to take me home,
and been pinched and made to smile so much
my cheeks hung to my scraped knees.
So we kicked at the stucco next to the steps a while, Cousin Artie and me,
until he got so restless he went crying to Grandma.
Without anyone to play with, I set out to find you in a sea of stomachs and hips.
But then slowly, purposely, with creepy grins on their faces,
each of your guests began to fall to the floor.
One by one, they lay flat on the dirty wooden slats
(that made my little black shoes tap out a funny sound when I walked).
It made it easier to find you and your mass of whiteness, at least
-- everyone sprawled about --
and when I did, you read my eyes and answered,
"It's the Rock Lobster."

©2004 Roxanne Hack