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

© 2021 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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

© 2021 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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

© 2021 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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.

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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.

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

The ants are back

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

The ants are back looking for my food
out from their hole in the dirt and weeds
through the gap in the sliding glass door

The ants are back looking for their food
and I don’t see them until they wind
around the trash can and chair legs
to corners un-swept and dots sticky

The ants are back looking for my food
and they are ready and I am not
I say tomorrow, they eat today
my food, their food, the ants go marching
one by one, they are ready, I am not

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

This heart

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

This heart
belongs in a zoo
next to hyenas and baboons
next to lizards and bones
it
thumps boorish grunts
beats, cleaved,
in the curling tines of its cage

This heart
pumps
fossils and weeds
dying wheelbarrows
squeezing out rust

this heart
presses
black coffee
shatters windows
splinters doors

this heart
pulls from barbs
lights Molotov’s
rolls in whiskey and glass


this heart
hisses and smokes

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

Only marrow enough

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I am bone tired
the tongue no longer salivates
there is no roar
in my chest
only enough strength
to listen

And beauty slathers itself
on rusted sheds
cricket legs
a field of dust and weeds

only marrow enough
in my paintbrush bones
to listen

and the beautiful
hums in the fridge
slaps in the leaves
whistles in my nose
wheezes in my chest

My chest
just strong enough
to listen

for beautiful

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

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

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

If you’re lucky enough

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

If you’re lucky enough
You’ll fly to the moon
Through blue flame eyes
Glowing cross the table
And you’ll hear
Louis Armstrong’s growling timbre
I’m in heaven, I’m in heaven.

And if you pay attention
Sinatra will croon
between your ears
I thought of quitting, baby
but my heart just ain’t gonna buy it
and you’ll float over the moon
aiming for those sapphire eyes
twinkling across the table

And if you’re lucky enough
time will stop
and you’ll realize there is only
what is in front of you
and like melting butter
Irma Thomas will drip
in your ears
Anyone who knows what love is
will understand

And if you let yourself go
you’ll bloom in a shimmering galaxy
of golden hair
and Minnie Riperton’s soft melody
will patter in your ear
Kiss my petals
and weave me through a dream

And if you’re lucky enough
you’ll stand still
tethered by a kiss
in a Stater Brother’s parking lot
while the world spins
your body will buzz and hum
and you’ll hold your own song

And if you hold on to it
you’ll write about it
filling pages
with a universe of words
you’ll run out of ink
you’ll run out of words
but those azure eyes
will forever be empyreal

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

And it’s in my chest

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And it’s in my chest
And I think about Blanca
And I think about me
And I think about the dogs
And I never start from the beginning
And the monologue never stops
And I’m trying to fall asleep
And I fall into another line
And I stay awake
And I want to be a better man
And I don’t know what that means
And I keep pushing keys
And my hands grab for tools
And my palms tingle
And every line starts to continue
And I hate it
And I love to hate it
And it’s cliché
And I recognize it is cliché
And I keep pressing down
And I think of a pianist
And I want to make music
And I hate the things my fingers leave
And I make noise
And I clang
And I bang
And I push
And every line starts the same
And I try to scrape the fever
On keys
On paper
On pens
On receipts
On napkins
On envelopes
And it leaves a residue
And I read it
And you read it
And it stains

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

The sky is mottled with pregnant clouds

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

The sky is mottled with pregnant clouds
Contractions of wind huff harder and harder
Trees protest throwing down leaves
And still I stay outside

A cricket plays a solo
A neighbor laughs
My hair blows over my eyes
And still I stay outside

The cup of tea has lost its steam
My skin tightens into untouched dunes
My fingers tighten while they tap
And still I stay outside

Bukowski’s liquor breath escapes his jowls
Love is a Dog from Hell flutters and howls
My little dog scurries from door to lap
And still I stay outside

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

Tomorrow I leave on a road trip

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Tomorrow I leave on a road trip
With my dad

We’ve been to
North Carolina
New York
Just the two of us

In NC
We saw all the green
From a Mustang convertible
Watched Eddie Murphy on screen
Took a dip in a mountain stream
Dad worked in the next room
I saw porn for the first time
I was still a single digit

In NY
We saw mountains of glass and steel
From taxi cabs and walks
Viewed works of art
Ate well
Dad went to a conference
I crossed the Brooklyn bridge
and smoked
I was in my early 20’s

I’m 35
We know each other’s vices
We’re driving to the deserts of the Midwest
We’ll see strip malls
gas stations
fast food
On our way to beauty

I’ll grab my watch
And
Hold its hands

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

I took in a breath of fresh air

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I took in a breath of fresh air
On Monday
And it stayed
In my lungs
Until Friday
Around 4PM

“Hey” she said
Letting herself in

That short word
Never meant so much

“Hey”
The joy didn’t even well up
It all came out in the hug
and
The exhale was sweet

And now I’m closing
my eyes
and breathing in the pillow
she
leaned on

© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.

Liberty, Sweep, Inspiration

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

You’re squinting eyes betray your smile
The mask masks little to a familiar shape
Cigarette smoke dances towards beauty
And I can’t look away

You, the conjuring of muses
Baring a bounty of abuses
Betraying only grace
And I can’t look away

Cages open when you smile
Wings espy strength to fly
Bulges form upon my nape
And I can’t look away

The match you burn
Whispers darkness away
The corners lit
And I can’t look away

When sound escapes your peaceful face
No mask can mask that sweet escape
Swirling cosmos, stars and sky
And I can’t look away

Though day is dying in the West
You raise a sun inside my chest
It forms a smile upon my face
And I can’t look away

White, your name best describes
The happy touch and gentle vibes
A hummingbird darting into our lives
And I can’t look away

True, Beat, Receipt

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Glistening notes of piano
Gentle fingers push
Soft pads whisper thuds
Unnoticed but still true

Bow rips
Sheep guts scream
Bow rips
Audience roars

Mane whips
Sweat drips
Baton grips
Beat apocalypse

Ears receive
Hands return
Hearts deceive
Man’s concern

Arthritic perfection
Irony’s complexion
Gnarled perspective
Left defective

Money for blood
Money for beauty
Money for truth
Money for duty

Honey to drums
Aching for more
Watering eyes
The artist’s whore

Honor, Describe, On

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Masks betray allegiance
Character on display
Grocery
Gas
Work
Home
Play

I/me/it
Refuse to play
Masks, sure
Identity, no way

No privilege in opinions held
Only privileged array
It’s somewhere in the middle
Not black
Not white
Gray

Speculative hypothesis
Speeding ticker tape
Brought to you by Skype
Hairy knuckled apes

Schizophrenic bricks
Seizure flashings
Falling skies
Hypnotize

Politics
Tune in
Choose R
No G
Choose B
The race of race
On color screams

Most trusted
Alternative
Number one watched
Hear it first
Quench your thirst
The truth already botched

Deny, Aloof, Fame

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Crickets
No wind
Move your arm
Feel it swim.

Black swiss cheese
Above the trees
Blinking holes
Moving souls

Words betray
I’m okay
Donkey’s bray
I’m okay

Nature moves
Flashing screens
Breathing mouths
Counting beans

Piles of beans
Flash on screens
Breathing mouths
Become routines

Dying slow
Long goodbyes
Reflecting glow
Attracting flies

Nothing loved
Nothing gained
Straining eyes
Entertained

Wearing masks
Hiding flasks
No more smiles
Wandering aisles

Keep in mind
Distance gained
No more hugs
Distance maintained

Hold the phone
Coming home
Fingers itchy
News so kitschy

One more touch
Finger raised
Swiping screen
Red Blue praised

Square root =
44.94441010849
Year of fear
Drinking wine

Crickets
No wind
Move your arm
Feel it swim

Blue pastel
Above the trees
Sending man
To his knees

Condition, Skin, Waiter

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Slip, drip through cracks. Crocodile flesh the desert floor eats all alive sun baking the heat Venus Fly Trap. Death

Circumstances, existence temporary. Ripping veils kicking, screaming, bleeding, kissing, fucking, missing, sleeping…not waking up. Being

Fingers, toes all in a flurry. Skittering, tittering blurry. Frenzy, quaking and shaking. Sun’s point of view, we don’t move. Waiting

Pain, pangs, sharp, dull. Internal buzzing, humming, thumping, drumming. Moon lathers, shaving, slivering, chiseling, waning. Time

Pain, pangs, sharp, dull. Internal buzzing, humming, thumping, drumming. Moon is full. Love

Surprise, alive, squeeze, squeal. Internal buzzing, humming, thumping, drumming. Moon shaves and grows. Love

Dirt, water, air, fire.

falling stars
waterfalls
choking weeds
blooming buds
browning grass
lush jungle
forest fire
toxic sunsets
fresh air
bleeding noses
Eskimo kisses
Love

Trade, Imagine, Concert

A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

To give one thing for another.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be.
To act with another in harmony.

That is what I want.

To give one thing for another, where both parties are satisfied.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be. A home.
To act with another in harmony and dance without even thinking.

That is what I want.

To give one thing for another, where both parties are satisfied and what they receive is what they return.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be. A home. An existence more comfortable together than an existence apart, even at its most difficult.
To act with another in harmony and dance without even thinking. To carry a conversation while balancing all the tangents, jokes and looks for years and years to come.

That is what I want.

To give one thing for another, where both parties are satisfied and what they receive is what they return. Where they stand up as equals but lean on each other when necessary.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be. A home. An existence more comfortable together than an existence apart, even at its most difficult. Fiercely individual, independent but inseparable.
To act with another in harmony and dance without even thinking. To carry a conversation while balancing all the tangents, jokes, and looks for years and years to come. To pick up where they left off and know they pick up your slack as well.

That is what I want.

To give one thing for another, where both parties are satisfied and what they receive is what they return. Where they stand up as equals but lean on each other when necessary. When the relationship becomes the haven for the individual.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be. A home. An existence more comfortable together than an existence apart, even at its most difficult. Fiercely individual, independent but inseparable. A picture where both stand together in any setting or with backdrop, holding hands and smiling.
To act with another in harmony and dance without even thinking. To carry a conversation while balancing all the tangents, jokes and looks for years and years to come. To pick up where they left off and know they pick up your slack as well. To know that their worst can be accepted because their best is truly awesome.

That is what I want.

And my youth is…

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And my youth
is running out
and your age
is coming
to an end
and our time
together
has been
short lived.

So when my time
comes
let it be
in the embrace
of a hug,
the verge
of a smile
or
that wave of
emotion
that crashes into
a new parent
when they hold
their child
for the first time.

Let it be
in the silent scream
of a shooting star.

The Fool’s Pleading

A short piece. I don’t know.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

The panting dogma of nuns, “O God, God, wherefore art thou God?”

A burlesque bureaucracy.

Earthen gates whisper of conspiracy. They have no plans other than “hold on tight, stick to the script.” Creativity be banished, taken down into the fires of hell where they will be forged with the devil’s brand. Rising as dead souls battling the young. A past that has already traveled and seen fighting against a speeding future. And the present whispering into the ear of tomorrow, “full steam ahead, cowboy.”

The mulling query of Darwins, “O Truth, Truth, wherefore art thou Truth?”

An algorithmic disco.

Where am I to derive the juices flowing from the nut in my skull, its fruit spilling viscous memory and fantasy in the same drop? What’s in my head? Will I be the breath of tomorrow’s baby or the mustard gas of victory’s soldier? Standing in a smoky battlefield, squinting through tears to find a shape like mine. Whom will I become?

The pandering memes of Narcissus, “O Me, Me, wherefore art thou Me?”

A tango of mirrors.

Follow me and I shall follow me. That is the golden rule. Achievement of the cracking of the nut, opening to a seed of nothing. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you only lies. Traveling through the haze maze, the last marine on the beach. The spirit testing my muscle with its fluttering.

Watch the temple crumble in its own skin folding under the coat of gravity. Destruction by the hands fumbling in the dark relying only on memory. Is it where we be or where we are from that twists and pulls at our subconscious minds? Shaping us through the heavy bars of past and future tense, our hands only need to reach out and grasp the memory of cold metal, that taste of iron on the tongue, our memories and all the agony as useless as our blood. Never present.

We survive as animals but live as more. Begetters impossibly tasked with protecting fresh souls. Those tenacious in their duties receiving only resentment as thanks. Push them, gripping at the bars, to the signs ahead. God is the time we have here. Love it. Nourish it. Worship it. Find another life and share it with them, living one and living an others’ vicariously.

The collapsing heart of the writer, “O Wall, Wall, wherefore art thou Wall?”

A decaying waltz.

The lonely freedom of a star in the sun’s sky.

To become un-tethered from the darkness of all we think we know, only to find we’re suspended in a vast emptiness, alone on that island of confidence. Peering over the edge, tilting that careful balance of assurance and sending the mind spiraling down again. Sit in the middle. Creating tethers. Battling the force of emotion, so fast and fickle with its betrayal of memory. The force of wounded spirits capable of wounding. The blind lead the blind, those that can see, stop and look. We cannot help, we can only hope to carry each other. To feel the weight of another is to realize it’s heavier than our own. To love.

I want to cage that spirit living within, but I must sit in the middle.

The echoes of rejoicing muted by the island’s sands. Drowned by waves of realization that we are sound itself reverberating off of infinity’s pretzel-ed pipe.

The muted programming of Eve, “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Would that we could hold hands, screaming forever, licking the juices of that forbidden fruit.

Social Security

A short poem, 2013.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

A little boy sat on a bench in a park,
watching old men play their game. 

One moved his piece,
they frowned and they slouched,
then the other accomplished the same. 

The castles moved straight,
the horses made hooks
as the black and white shapes met their fate. 

The boy slightly shifted,
his gaze never lifted,
as the sun slowly made her escape.

The men’s eyes creased wrinkles
as moves spotted became twinkles
and their hands became part of the pieces. 

The boy closed his eyes,
looked up to the skies
and asked god why this game never ceases. 

God gave its reply
in the form of a sigh
but the men and their game stayed the same. 

The boy shook with cold,
looked back at the old
and decided that he would proclaim:

“I know I’m too young
for all of your fun
but it’s getting quite cold you see. 

My mother is waiting
but I’m still debating
if this is the game for me. 

I wanted to know
before I did grow
who would be left with his king. 

So I’m asking quite nicely
if you’ll play concisely
and finish this game before spring.”

The men gave a chuckle,
one grabbed his buckle,
as the boy cocked his head to the side. 

The old men gave advice,
hoping that would suffice
but the boy sauntered right up beside. 

Without making a scene,
he reached for the Queen
and moved in a line that was straight. 

The old eyes got wide,
the boy swelled with pride
as the man on the right cried,
“Checkmate!”

Sabbath Mourning

A short piece, 2012.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I used to be such a good boy. Making promises to my mother about keeping all my senses away from trouble. Every sight, sound, smell, flavor and texture was a blessing from God. Back when tattooed men were frightening and loud talking women made me angry. When skunks didn’t remind me of smoking and mint was just for candy. When a quarter was more valuable in my piggy bank than in my pocket. Back in the days when guns were made of plastic, bullets out of foam and soda was not a mixer. Back when I only had one face. Now here I am on the other side of the coin. And having seen both ends I know that you need both sides to buy a soda.

I am a man

A short poem, 2013.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I cry
I curl up under blankets with my hands between my knees and feel safe
I squeal and feel my heart bouncing when I see my dog or baby cousin
My body is beautiful with all its hair
I admire my tattoo’s
I take time to do my hair
I enjoy compliments
I have a hot temper
I am confident in changing a tire
I tremble when jumping a car battery
I struggle with expressing emotion
I feign humbleness when receiving a compliment
I cook breakfast, lunch and dinner
I am a man

I was a lover

A short piece from 2013.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I was a lover before this war and don’t tell me that mental pictures created by TV on the Radio don’t have the power to change chemistries. I am weary, sick and scarred from too many battles in the war of who could care less. When Uncle Ben Folds Five times and still doesn’t learn that the house of the Rising Sun never loses. We know then for whom the bell tolls. A sickening ring that continues its echo, repeating its cold brass answer.

It tolls for thee, for me, for she, and for he. And I refuse to continue wincing at questions of christianity (lowercase, improper noun) or other. It’s not as simple as loving my brother. So I shrug my shoulders at religion, at theology, and democracy, my politics apply only to me. I shrug at the dividing notions of this versus that because I wish to see through he and through she before I get to me.

I walk barefoot on the sand to feel the process of my steps. In the sun or in front of the stars. I open my eyes to fill my mind with everything the light reflects. My ears are open to fill something inside that can’t be described. To write is the most frustrating thing because there are emotions and experiences that will never exist in words. The contrast between black shapes on white space.

I was a lover before this war and I already know the ending. The question of my last breath is either sober or whiskey soaked. The continuous monologue in my mind reaches the end of its reel. I am not making sense but its my senses that make me. I don’t wish to Confucius you but the way of the tao (lowercase, improper noun) is better paved than that of christianity (lowercase, improper noun). If christ (lowercase, improper noun) was the way then that way was tao (you know).