sometimes

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

sometimes I know what to do
sometimes I’m playing telephone with the sky

If you really knew me

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

If your really knew me, you might be frightened, you may be open, you may like me or you may hate me. My life story or the events, experiences, people, thoughts and ideas that make up who I am are probably not all that different than what I may come to know about you.

My name, my age, the people whom I call mother, father, sister, cousin or friend are not all that different from your own. Twenty-six letters of the alphabet and a seemingly endless combination of characters are what we have in common, or at least what we have in common to know the details.

If we could not speak, smell, see or hear we would be left with touch. And then through feeling, I would know what I am, partly, by feeling you. There may be different parts or slightly exaggerated or understated features but what we would know, together, is our experience. Our shared experience of searching, of looking for understanding.

If we had no senses then we would not be. I think therefore I am is true but what would we think of we could not touch, see, taste, hear or smell?

So you know one thing, now, about me, that I sense, that I feel.

If you really knew me you would know yourself. If I knew myself, if I know myself, then I would know you. If you knew me and I knew you, then our singular selves would become we.

There is no unknowing once I am known, once we are known. So let me tell you what I know about you and then you will know me.

You want to be loved. You want connections so deep they pump in your blood. You want to be seen, recognized, and understood. You need not only to be heard but listened to and validated. You need to experience smell, taste and touch but only with a special few.

You are not the ocean, open to all. You are not the mountains, desert or forest that anyone can explore. You, like me, are a seed and we grow with warm soil, cool water under the radiating sun.

If you really knew me, you would know yourself and to know yourself, to really know yourself, is to know me.

If you really knew me, you would still be searching, always searching for truth, authenticity and love.

yin & yang

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

the sweeter the blood
the fatter the mosquito

Yo

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

i’m the yo-yo dangling

Pulled up and down

by a string

tied to your finger

Phantom pain

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

she’s heartbroken
and I feel it too
though it isn’t mine
I feel it too

warriors, wounded from wars that don’t belong to them experience phantom pains from missing appendages. fumbling along, still grasping at body parts that no longer belong to them.

one loss following another
and I feel it too.

for they know not

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

i’m a sinner
by the way you define sin
the way you wash up
Or wash away
is a wack-a-mole
of spikes
smacked bare-handed
by the king of cups
splashing sacrifice
on your forked tongues
bleeding knees
pounding concrete
to the red spills
on the white robe
of the carnival prince

Keep digging

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

reading poetry
is archeology
discovering
something beautiful
but there’s a lot of
fuckin’ dirt

When was the ship lost?

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

head spinning
gasping for breath
between waves
clinging
from driftwood to barrel
from driftwood to anything
that floats
no sun
only clouds
the storm isn’t over
what did he forget?
the rigging
the sails
steering off course
the storm was too much
the ship is lost
only pieces left
to keep from drowning

I hid it

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

buried
in a sunny spot
between the shade of two trees
a treasure

I hid it
you know where it is
I hid it
you know it is there

I never showed you
if I even knew
what there was
to show

I’m digging
between yesterday
and today
for that treasure

I always wanted
you to see it
but I’m only digging
and it’s no longer sunny

always something before and

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

and I haven’t written in a while
haven’t even thought of it
and I’m stuck on coordinating conjunctions
as if continuing sentences running on and on
and I can’t see how the sentence began
and I know
and it’s on the tip of my tongue
and I know
but
another coordinating conjunction
it’s been too long

Falling water

Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And I go to sleep with white noise
it drowns out the leaking shower
and I remember when
you said we should fix it
when it was just a trickle
and now it’s a stream
and I go to sleep with white noise
because it drowns out the falling water

happiness

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I can’t see it directly. Those motes around the eyes when I stand up too fast but it’s there to be enjoyed in the periphery.

like bread crumbs to a pressing thumb

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

on my knees
beard to the floor
begging
for the obsession to stop
stand up
grab the keys
still begging please
and drive my ass to the liquor store

Best Guess?

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Best guess? The algorithm of life is scribbled by a hand trembling with Parkinson’s, guided by a brain swimming with Delerium Tremens.

in a marble

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

That I could
when I am small
squeeze
into the storms eye
of a marble

roll and be rolled
guided
by Newton’s discoveries
guided
by that hand
which bends trees with invisible speed

To look through
swirling globes of color
showing true
the things
all your things
skewed
to the shapes of sense
where
my brain’s waves crash

all your things
blurred into satisfaction
taming your impositions
that I could exist
in a marble

Butt

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

There’s no better symbol of the journey from desire to regret than the cigarette butt.

Hobo

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I hopped on a train
not sure when or why
But it runs winding tracks
Never going straight
Sometimes it stops
Sometimes runs backwards
sometimes full speed ahead
Cars teetering
But I’ve never seen it run
One speed, one direction
Towards home

Play Doh

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’ve found that little piece of Play Doh
went missing around the age of 4 or 5
I found that little piece of Play Doh
stuck somewhere between my
kidneys, ribs, lungs and heart.

I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish
running up my hands, arms
and dancing in my brain
just how I remember it

I found a little piece of Play Doh
given up for lost
I’m not sure how much is left
but I’m running it through my fingers
making fart noises, bubbles and
molding it to the shape of organs

I’m holding tight to a little piece of Play Doh
and my eyes light up
and I can’t see it
but I think it was blue
and I realize, it’s just as soft
as I am

Chipping scabs, touching stars

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

standing on a pile of pain
touching that middle star
in Orion’s belt
where grandpa said he’d be
waiting for me

dancing on floor made of
cracked and splintered bone
skin stretched thin
scarred pink and white
I dance, heals chipping scabs
fingers reaching for the stars

I can forsake you too

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I walk with a limp
two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
my right leg shakes
fearing each step

two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
one sat down, gently
with grandpa’s big smile
and the weight of Orion’s belt buckle

the other
splashing spirits
pressing against glass
shouting “one more”
a spluttering cry

Succorer!
grant me serenity
accepting two devil’s on my shoulder
courage
for these trembling steps
wisdom
to know which foot
one foot at a time

Filmed poem – The heart slaps along

A filmed version of a poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

A friend of mine and I were testing out his new camera rig, playing around with different shots at a park. He took the footage and made the below. What do you think?

“The Heart Slaps Along” Written by Marcus Jonathan Chapman. Filmed, edited and read by Patrick Garrett York.

To the scavenger

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

write as a vulture;
leave nothing
but bone

Decent and good parents

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

On the corner
of Cajon and Vine
sat at a cafe
a family
walked by

The kid
holding hands
with a woman
I’ll say his mother
passed a Porsche
and
while swinging
his free arm
said
“I just saw a Lamborghini.”

His parents said naught
to which I thought
“No, you didn’t
it’s a Porsche.”

30 years from now
he’ll be
walking
holding his lovers hand
They’ll pass by
a Porsche
and
he’ll say
with one arm swinging
“I just saw a Lamborghini.”

And his lover
having had decent
and good parents
will reply,
“No, you didn’t
it’s a Porsche.”

Coffee black

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

coffee
black
like my soul
and other
poorly written
poesy

what is the soul?
nothing

coffee
black
like my lungs

coffee
black
like my humor
like fingernails
like that smoke stain
on the back of my
front tooth

coffee
black
like gunk in the drain
like dog nails
like tires

coffee
black
like letters perched
on invisible wire
chirping of the soul
of nothing

Cajon and Vine

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

sit
under gray clouds
and burnt sky
under waving patriotism
tattered

sit
next to bubbling youth
and bike racks
under manicured palms
weeping

sit
in the shadow of god’s cage
and tides of cars
like rolling waves
disappearing

sit
on the rounded corner
of
Cajon
and
Vine

Made of stone

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Find yourself a house
made of brick
or cement
cinder block, if you can find it

find yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle

when the sun comes
and there is no wind
and the asphalt ripples with fever
sit in the house
and watch yourself baking
getting soft
sweat slapping at your eyes
sweat clumping your hair
twisting and curling on your neck
stare at the unit
cut into the stone
don’t touch it
stare and know your body works
you have walls, a roof
and that is convenience

get yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle

when the clouds come
and the trees whistle
and the specter of breath lingers
sit in the house
watch yourself tighten
sealing in the juices
blood oozes and muds
blood sculpting clay
in the fingers and toes
think of fire
suck down booze
imagine a woman resting against you
but stare
stare at those tight walls
taught as your skin
and know that is comfort

get yourself a house
made of stone
and know what the rib cage
is to the heart

Farting Hillary Clinton’s

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I was caught
between a train, teetering
and a cliff, eroding
hot coals spilled from the tops of the cars
but spot
would block them from searing me
the train passed and I walked back
on the highway
got on the next train and
a girl in a dress
asked me if I wanted to play video games
we giggled all the way to the arcade
I pushed in two quarters
and we
played Farting Hillary Clinton’s
then I woke up to
snoring dogs
and thirst
and the taste of iron on my tongue

Out of living bone

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Make me a phone
out of living bone
Caulk it with marrow
wrap it in tissue
strap it with muscle
give it some skin
            Taught but thin
pump it with blood
valve in some veins
connect it to nerves
massage in a brain
calve in a heart
            some pieces missing
pop in some eyes
maybe some thighs
wedge in a nose
             maybe some freckles
tack on some ears
            oh
            the eyes should have tears
throw on some arms
            and fingers that hinge
toss on some legs
            with toes that wiggle
slap on a mouth
            one I can kiss
call in a soul
            one I won’t miss

Me and Jack Kerouac

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

god and all the other little people
Me and Jack Kerouac
good line
but the first one
isn’t mine

The heart slaps along

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

The heart slaps along
sticking
to hot asphalt
with each rotation

pulling from gravel and tar
with each bounce

spurting ruby and blue
leaving rust in its dust

green shards from broken Mickey’s
orphaned bougainvillea
plastic straws
French fries
bottle caps
abandoned black rubber
cigarette filters
chewed gum
yesterday’s papers
sand
and
dust
stick to it

The heart slaps in a puddle
swelling
with oil, rain and gasoline
stopped

Send it back
spinning and rolling

Pulling from the road
with each bounce

send it
slapping along
wrapped
in flowers and glass

In eulogy with the burst

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And I see
not much more than
string
wet and woven
through bags
pregnant with tea
and bloated
from water and
the bubbles cluster
clinging
to the side of Styrofoam
shaped cylindrical
and the bubbles
bounce
in eulogy with the burst
and I taste their bitter
tears and set down my cup
licking my lips and thinking
not much more than this
and I know
it is everything

And of the toilet brush

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And of the toilet brush
next to porcelain bulb
resting in its holster
all bristles even with the lip
save one
curling up
from the pubis of the brush’s handle
curling up and away
from the toilet brush’s
downward
destiny
curling up and away
from shit
and piss
and vomit
and gism
and I have never seen
a violence
so complete
as that bristle
curling upward and away

Beautiful thing

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’ll see a beautiful thing
and I’ll think
I’ve seen it
I can do ugly

And that beautiful thing
will stay
and then I’ll do ugly
and the ugly thing
will stay

and the more beautiful I see
the more ugly I do
and the more ugly I see
the more beautiful I do

And that ugly thing
will stay
and then I’ll do beautiful
and the beautiful thing
will stay

I don’t want to smoke

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I don’t want to smoke
and I sneak away
to coffee shops
and think about smoking
I drink coffee
read
Listen to people talk
people laugh
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
I close the book
and don’t stare
don’t stare
don’t stare
I finish my coffee
grab my book
head back home
and I read
I think about smoking
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
I stand up
pace outside
get in my car
and go to a coffee shop

Now I have the time

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
of musicians
both living and dead
      Michael Nyman
      Philip Glass
      Alexander Borodin
      Katie Von Schleicher

and I take pride because
I feel what they create
and now I know their names

Now I have the time
to pay attention to my
backyard
the gophers have gone
I killed all the weeds
the wild parrots, escaped
from the pet store
50 years ago, gather
on the power line above
my easement
the Blue Jay’s cocking heads
and hopping
around the gopher holes
finding grubs
And I take pride because
they are part of my lot
and now I know their names

And now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
the names not belonging to me
or to the other one
I have the time to pay attention
because I have only time

I know a great writer

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I know a great writer
but you don’t
her greatness is planted
in not knowing, not
thinking she is great
and I know she is
a great writer
but she doesn’t and
she writes anyway
and I write but
I try not to think of
my standing
my standing over
or standing under the
writing of other writers
and I stand up
and I think of the words
and the words I don’t know
but that great writer writes
knowing nothing of her greatness
and I write but
I stand and go outside
taking off my shirt to let the sun
soak in
and I think of her greatness
and not my own
and she doesn’t
think of me

lazy day with nothing to say

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

lazy day with
nothing to say

the sun soaks
sludge bilks’ thoughts
mudslides smooth
peaks and valleys
to a single plateau

my mind, the sun, un-seeable
a walnut dazed
windows glazed in
snow buried, re:
whites, grays, haze
Trieved to a
Saint slobbering Bernard

Cocoa steams
streams magma flings
in loosening dreams
through the windows
of the sun, sloths
in heat buildup speed
and spew their sperm
soaked thoughts:

slow swimming sludge
obsidian’s cakes tectonics
quake meridians plates

lazy day with
nothing to say

Oh, rolling tongue

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Oh, rolling tongue
thick fatigue
lolling numb
“I’s” and “Me’s”
“Me’s” and “I’s”
“I’s” and “Me’s”
Oh cant reprise

beaded muscle
sweating taste
folding tussle
panicked haste
spit no more
of I or me
but wrap your mass
around a “we”

A sip of marrow

A short poem for a prompt from all poetry: 40 words glorifying violence.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

My eyes glaze, I lick my lips
and dream of your apocalypse
The drooling lust of palm in nail
a beat to hear your soothing wail
a crack of bone and bloody cloth
and slurp of marrow, that milky froth

Inside my chest there lives a cat

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Inside my chest I found a cat
I called it names to which it spat
‘til desperation made me scream
I know not, love, for what you dream
and then it nuzzled, flicked its tail
a cry of love found holy grail
still at my touch, bared tooth and nail
so I stay hid from love’s impale

And Paul

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And Paul
I love you
brother

we want to see beauty
and we’re the same
with different words
so I choose carefully

we met in a circle
sharing our pain
and I could see it
and you could see it
thorns

through cigarettes
and ping pong
cups of pills
we saw the things
that broke us
crystalline

love
family
friends
structure
authority
time not ours
bills
regrets
love
being alone

nothing so abstract
nothing faceless

we graduated
from beeping hallways
and single file lines
to check-ins and check-outs
and broken curfew fines

And we finished our time
maybe got perspective
I went back to work
you went back
to the gatehouse

Then you had a kid
and I got married
we spoke on the phone
about all under which
we were buried

You called
now and then
from the road
I called
once and again
from my home

The kid started school
I got divorced
life felt so cruel
you fell out
and stayed at my house

And we laughed at the news
when we started to drink
and we cried in our shoes
when our egos would shrink

And I had to remind you
kitchen knives were for food

and blood
is too close to the surface
in all of us

And I remembered
how I used to be
and we both agreed
that you should leave

And for years
before nights were done
we talked about
beauty
and you said
we’re the same
and I agreed
but I want to see
the beauty

and Paul
there’s no beauty
in the bottle
we’ve both checked

and Paul
beauty is pain
because we feel it

Until I get to later

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’ll die of exhaustion
tired of being alone
maybe head to Austin
forget to bring my phone

Throw on grandpa’s sweater
we had the same frame
drive until I wanna stop
look for something tame

No clinking brick to weigh me down
to wonder if to smile or frown
just stop for gas in dying towns
give knowing nods to wayward clowns

Stop by the road and find a tree
jot down the words, say poetry
throw my pens and pages in the back
drive off and think of what they lack

Distract away
her ringing words
“I’ll call you later”
later
later
later
later
later
later

And I’ll keep driving
until I get to later

Please

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Please
Don’t take the pills
Changing chemistries
Raising new ills

Those dark shadows
Swirling

Let them feed
Through words
To paper eaters
Devouring

Let them loose
Through color
To open windowed souls
Cowering

Let them twirl
Not suppress
Give them life
Beyond the chest

Let them powder
Through noise
To wax drums
Quivering

Let them dance
Through monologues
To cymbal-ed monkeys
Chattering

Please
Don’t take the remedies
Blessing new enemies
Depressing heart break

Those dark shadows
Swirling

Teddy bear

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Teddy bear
picking seam
wiggling arm
widening hole
Teddy stare

Teddy bear
picking seam
removing fluff
piling up
Teddy there

Teddy roar
nothing more?
Teddy pulling
Teddy folding
Teddy no more

And I want to be the king of my castle

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And I want to be the king of my castle
And I feel like a pauper in my home
And I need to be master of my domain
And I believe no man should be alone

And I want to flit about on empty floors
And I feel the scream of doubt that clogs my pores
And I need cold water to wake me up
And I believe no answers are found in a cup

And I want my friends to know I am here
And I feel my family hold on to a tear
And I need a fresh face without a mask
And I believe no answers to questions they ask

And I want to find words that aren’t in a book
And I feel too much pain will allow me to look
and I need a new name to reflect all these changes
And I believe no pen is worthy of these exchanges

It was the times

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

It was the times
I teased too hard
And
It was the time
After sex
I asked a stupid question
And
It was the time
Before intimacy
I asked a stupid question
And
it was the time
I drove to you
Drunk
And
It was the time
I came over
from the night before
Still stinking of booze
And
It was the times
I went out
“to catch a slice of life”
I said
And
It was the time
At the urgent care parking lot
I shared a cig
With another waiting for his girl
And
It was the times
I couldn’t express
But I wanted to be alone
And
I walked past you
To take out the trash
As if another wall
And
And there is more
And
I write them out
So plainly
Too quickly
And
I feel them
Like paper
cuts

Youthful Beauty

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Youthful Beaty
nods and smiles
at graying experience
the coolness of
sweaters
Jackets
shirts
Sagging in all the right places
Betrays
The pursuit of success
Cleavage shines and rings
skirts high tail
chandelier leggings
locked eyes
loose legs

Meanwhile

Armies of
Scabbed hands
bruised arms
oxygen tanks
vet hats
social security cheques
keep the boat
Floating

The pianist’s fingers bleed
for the raised voice
recognition
of barfly’s and
passersby

Five claps for the piano man
and I write on torn
sheets of a legal pad
trying to understand what I’m doing

Pulling down words

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Pulling down words
In a stream
Follows
Gravity
Mixed
Literal
Metaphor
Reason
Off the rails
Rhyme
Grabbing tails
No meat

I tried to bet the ponies

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I tried to bet the ponies
Like Bukowski
But my math is atrocious

I tried drinking
Like Hemingway
But the loneliness was unbearable

I tried writing
Like Joyce, Miller and Burroughs
But my mind is too chaotic

I tried meditating
Like Cheever
But there’s too much fight in my chest

I tried uppers and downers
Like Thompson
But clarity was elusive

I tried
I’ll try

Forced words

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Forced words
The thing won’t come
The thing won’t happen
Worse
I don’t know what thing is

Forced words
At a casino
Between sweepers
Smokers
Losers
chirps
Winners
Chimes
Losers

Forced words
Because
That fight
in my chest
crawls down
to my hands

it’s shit
the feeling
it’s shit
the forced words

A train not even crashing
No explosion
Just quietly retiring
Off the tracks