a.j.marek

9/22

From now on, all of my poetry that is published online will be found at: ajmarekpoetry.com I will no longer (or very sparingly) be posting poetry to this page. If you've been following me for a long time, feel free to email me at [email protected] and I can let you know how to stay in contact with me and/or add me on Facebook. I feel as though this is the best option for me at this time. I will not deactivate my Tumblr account but will not be posting new content to this page. Thank you for understanding, AJM

With each pitch we wait on the edge of sofa seats, bar seats, standing in our living rooms for the crack of wood smashing leather, rubber, cork, out over dirt and grass to plastic and metal seats with fleshy five fingered hands and leather gloves catching home runs from twenty somethings in their prime making hundreds of thousands of dollars playing in front of hundreds of thousands of people, where stealing is accepted and a quick eye and a quick hand make the favorite past time of America that we call baseball.

The kids are screaming across the street at the child development center. Two to three times a day starting fairly early in the morning, as soon as the door opens there are tiny lips parting with blood curdling screams filtering through baby teeth out into the air and through my window fan blowing into my room upon my wife and my dog and my cold body waiting for winter when they don't go outside anymore.

Tar leaves my nostrils, forgetting how to breathe again I count back from ten to center my mind on what's before me: air, water, no fire (all of that is in my soul) passion burning like a house fire I set & left for awhile, got a Slurpee and came back to see the firefighters battling, leaned over to a policeman and said "I'm the one." Yes, I'm the one with language in my spine, my vertebrate bending and twisting as I lean forward into the future leaving the past on the floor like a dirty outfit; my skin is porous, soaking up vernacular from laymen and turning it into art - I live for this gentle tide that comes as irregular as a menstral cycle of a girl who just can't conceive, writhing in pain with cramps of temptation and desire, she curls into the fetal position on the bathroom floor - inside her a dream dying to be born to die again.

Strike the wood on wood ring bells of metal chant words with breath in monotone ring the bells again sit breathe inhale exhale feet falling asleep legs too beginner stand up stretch knees hips arms neck sitting again ring the bell better this time nothing falls asleep breathing breathing breathing beginner (Written after visiting and meditating at a zen monastery for the first time.)

balloon with a helium hiss, the same as tires pierced, popped, and losing air.

It's Memorial Day weekend and I've been thinking about how my great-grandfather made it through World War 2 and how if he would have blown up and not his buddy I wouldn't be writing this poem. But then I think about his buddy who was walking on patrol with my great-grandfather and stepped on a land mine and blew to pieces - his great-grandchildren were never born and could never experience life. I envision them walking 10 or so yards apart. Maybe they looked at each other right as he stepped down with an instant surge of fear, knowing that the exact thing he was doing would be his last, that as soon as he moved his foot he would surely die. Maybe he handed a letter to my great-grandfather to give to his wife telling her how much he loved her and asking her not to mourn. I do not wish for him to die but I'm thankful for my life. This poem is for his family. And for all the men and women who died serving this country. Thank you for letting me to be free.

I’ve yet to decide.

I graduated high school six years ago. I don't have Facebook, but every once in awhile I come in contact with someone I went to school with or I hear about them from someone else. It's never the same. So-and-so that you barely knew, maybe only knew their name, joined the army and blew his brains out when he came home on leave during deployment. Or maybe the class clown became a doctor or went to prison. But we were all in the same place at the same time, once. And right now I'm writing a poem about you all in my room in Washington state next to my dog where it doesn't rain as much as people think and where I didn't think I'd ever end up.

It was painful to write this too. I've never had time for the bougie demeanor of some poets. Nothing has changed for years and years. This is art. Don't miss the point of what it really means. I've been doing this for many years now and have yet to find one single reason to listen to the critique of someone who simply views this art through some sort of lens in which words must have form or some kind of pattern in order for them to be worth anything at all. You've got it all wrong. It's not about this or that it's about FEELING. And God dammit if a group of words makes you FEEL then appreciate it, because I certainly do and so do all of the thousands who know my name.

He yells something in Japanese back to the kitchen while reaching down and grabbing a handful of rice. He flattens out the rice and lays green onion, cream cheese, avocado, tuna, salmon; rolls it up and adds some sesame seeds and a little sauce before cutting the roll into eight perfect pieces. In English he tells us that the restaurant ran out of order tickets and for two days used a different kind. Today they got more of the old tickets and everyone was writing in the wrong spots. We each tip him five dollars and he thanks us. We thank him for a great meal. In Japanese he yells something back to the kitchen and they turn the lights out as we leave.

We desire to know the secret things. What people do when they are all alone or when they think they're all alone, etc. But, if they do those things in public, we scoff at them as if we are innocent of any and all weirdness & peculiarities. Yet we are them, through & through, but we can't let anyone know.

I need to belong. I need to fit in. I need the clothes from the brands and the shoes and the accessories and the bumper stickers and the hats to let everyone know that although I may not have a fucking clue about what's going on or how to do or operate or conduct or fix or whatever, everyone just needs to be able to look at me and know that I belong and that I fit in because God forbid I be something different and true to my own desires and interests rather than being part of someone else's idea of how I should be.

When we were young we didn't think it would be this way. Thousands in debt & nothing to show except two tiny fragile beating hearts. I'll take the odds, & you take the even beats, together. When we were young we didn't know it would be this way. It's Sunday. We didn't go to church. I'm sitting on the deck now with an IPA & a book of poems. I quit drinking for four months but with a bachelor party and a wedding coming I figured I could drink again, a little. You're at work, probably with foundation dusting your eyelashes and pain in your feet. I bought you make-up and dinner for your birthday. We grew up 3,000 miles apart. There were many days I spent wondering what my future wife was doing while I was just trying to get by. There were many days as a young girl when you dressed up and pretended it was your wedding. We are taking on the world one day at a time, waiting for the day when we look back at our lucky breaks & stupid mistakes. We live in a time when days seem like an eternity but years seem like weeks, and the little things we thought wouldn't matter made all the difference in the world.

Somewhere in space right now, maybe on the ISS, an astronaut is doing a space walk (or maybe a moon walk) with a gut ache and an urge to shit but shitting in your space suit might not be a smart thing to do especially when you're kind of Dutch ovening yourself while you're hoping and praying that somehow you don't get disconnected from your tether only to float off into the abyss where shitting your space suit wouldn't really matter.