by Lundy Burge
Birth of Pong
Copyright 2012 by Mechelle L. Blix
CONTENTS
Birth of Pong
Pilgrimage from Cabin Fever
The Apple Man
Be Sure to Tip Your Minstrels
Alpha is Alpha
Incident with a Dreamer
Strings
The Sky is Falling
Fair Trade
Summer House
Katherine’s Flowers
The Comet
Tuberculosis
The Room
The Coat
A Few Degrees
Thanksgiving
Man Plus One in the Moon
BIRTH OF PONG
P
L
E
A
S
E
(plink!)
S
T
O
P
B
O
T
H
(plink!)
E
R
I
N
G
M
E.
PILGRIMAGE FROM CABIN FEVER
You and I,
And your brothers,
We are going past this fog,
And we are going to find that
Those twinkling things behind it,
Those which we crave to see,
Are really dry, dry days.
So then we’ll use the leaves that fall
In cascades of brown and red,
And sometimes green,
To paint our houses
For when neighbors come over for dinner.
THE APPLE MAN
I first saw him walking
down an old asphalt road
Whose pavement was as cracked
as I thought the bones in his feet had to be
I was the only one who stared
since I was all alone
He was such an odd
handsome man
With an apple, near ripe
for a face
So intriguing he was,
that I simply had to walk up to him
And ask him his name, regardless
of whether I actually cared
From the way his shoulders stooped
I could tell he was surprised
And mildly confused, as he said,
“I do not know.
“I forgot my name
some time ago. Don't ask how.
I suppose these things just happen
every so often.
I just found myself
lost, wandering aimlessly
Blinded like I just escaped
from a pea soup fog
I’ve been walking like this
ever since.”
I felt sorry for
and envious of him
All at the same time
“Do you think you’ll find it again?”
“Perhaps
after I walk around the world.”
I knew it was wrong
to keep him any longer
So I let him go, but followed far behind him
until my legs and mind were too tired
But still continued to watch
until he was swallowed by a hill.
BE SURE TO TIP YOUR MINSTRELS
Nice music from a violin
Just one, alone, played by a kid, or maybe a man, after all.
There was no accompaniment,
No brothers, drums, or clarinets.
There was just a bow helping a mute to sing
A song I’ve heard, although
Asking its name had never occurred to me before.
I liked it that way,
Isolated.
It was probably why I went over to the bench where he sat
And just stood there, listening.
The music swelled up, reared up,
And beat the happiness into me,
Not an easy thing to do, if you had the day I had.
I was impressed, so I reached into my pocket
And pulled out a bill.
Didn’t bother looking at the number in the corner.
The kid or man, whose eyes had been closed, saw it
Or maybe smelled it. It was new, stiff, and those always
Had the most distinctive smell.
He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry,
But I’m just practicing.”
The music had stopped.
My day ruined again, I got up and left.
ALPHA IS ALPHA
“Close it!”
The dogs watch
As their Owner’s
Owner
Passes the yellow rectangle.
After slamming the rotten
Wood door,
As she passes the smaller square,
One of the boys howls.
Noise is noise.
They watch.
They see that their Owner’s green truck
Is in her hand.
One dog with a bad eye whines from memory
When he sees it’s her right, in a fist, holding it.
Another can’t see or smell it,
But still knows
That what’s in the boy’s eyes is hate.
Bone is bone.
They watch.
More yelling from mother and son.
Another boy joins in.
Soft sobs.
A scream-slap-yelp.
All dogs wince.
Hand is hand.
They watch.
Silence.
One dog sings to himself,
Quietly, “Oh evening, spring!
What would I do without your scents!”
Then, a “Where the hell—“
Then, her scream.
All the dogs’ ears prick up.
Fight is fight.
They watch.
The door flies open.
The boy stands, then stomps.
The one-eyed dog chews on a tiny shoe.
He’s in the yard
When he takes a swig from the woman’s liquor bottle.
Blood is blood.
They watch.
He swishes the liquor in his mouth
Sniffs, spits it out.
The singing dog catches the bottle
In his teeth.
The gate slams behind the boy.
Night is night.
They watch.
INCIDENT WITH A DREAMER
I once knew a woman
Not very well
But I could recognize her
When I saw her floating
Higher and higher
I asked where she was going
“Beyond the Moon
The Stars
The Polar Lights!
To El Dorado!
Heaven!”
The witch said
And then
She flew off
STRINGS
During one particularly hot, clear
Summer night, when all the animals had
For the moment, died from heat exhaustion,
In her room, a young, fidgeting woman,
Black hair damp with perspiration, couldn’t
Fall asleep, although she thought that she was
Dreaming, so many dull colors swirled and
Danced before her very tired eyes, a
Lot of blobs and spots that kept her up. She
Turned towards her window, hoping
Looking out at all the night, its dark blue
Silence, might help calm her. But instead, she
Saw the lights, thin, tiny rays that squiggled
All about. Confused, impressed, she got
up,
Walked across the floor, and opened wide the
Window, to be sure the golden lines weren’t
Only dreams, illusions crafted by the
Stars and heat. The lights suddenly swooped in
All around her, swirling all about her,
Piercing clothes, skin, bone, flesh. Nothing hurt, though.
Pain was nowhere here, until, that is, they
Made it to her heart. It started hurting
Very much, then, for the strings, she felt them
Slice and sliver with the sharp precision
Of piano wire, though it wasn’t
Cutting but a burning. Buckled over
On the bedroom floor, she whimpered, softly.
Up and up! The golden strings then raised her.
Once they had her leveled, four feet off the
Ground, they headed for the window. Waking
For a moment, seeing what the strings had
Planned, she screamed, thrust out her arms, and
Fell. A neighbor, eyes glued onto Conan
Heard an awful noise, and thought the cops could
Be of service. Later, morning’s red or
Yellow light was creeping like a slug on
Hospital beds. Doctors met her with a
Lot of smiles when she woke up, saying
How she’s lucky, very lucky, telling
How they were so fortunate to save her
Heart. She could’ve been a dead woman but
Here she is, alive. She nods, then sleeps well.
THE SKY IS FALLING
She sits away from everyone.
Just wants to be on her own.
“Is that such a crime?” she’ll drone
“Anyway, I might as well be alone.”
No, she’s not broken.
At least that’s what she’ll say,
But her green eyes will water when
She turns her head the other way.
Her stars are falling,
And all is gone
Because no one’s calling.
So she just goes on.
Her sky is falling,
And she’s long gone.
No tears for crying.
Just let her roam.
They’ve all been taken from her.
That’s what she’ll see and believe.
She won’t know why, how, or where,
For she’ll be the only one who leaves.
You’ll never see her again, now,
Just the note she left lying around.
She’s got her jeans, and her red hair down.
The bus stop holds her up and on the ground.
Her stars are falling,
And all is gone
Because no one’s calling.
So she just goes on.
Her sky is falling,
And she’s all but gone.
No tears for crying.
Just let her roam.
Just let her go this minute.
You can’t bring her back.
Maybe she’ll get fed up with it.
And then she’ll come back.
But she’ll still say
You don’t understand....
Her stars are falling,
And all is gone.
She won’t hear you calling.
She’ll just move on.
Her sky is fallen,
And she’s up and gone
To find some tears for crying.
Just let her go.
FAIR TRADE
Two writers
Huddle up together
By a warm fire
And liquor bottle
At the heart of their
Pleasant conversation
Is a business deal
Regarding two hostages
“This is a very
Windy season,” says one
“The windiest,” says the other,
“But what does that matter here?”
“Why be so cold?”
Her friend’s hand
Is covering the bottle’s mouth
“In my head, it’s perfectly fair.”
“In mine,” she says to him,
“It’s perfectly clear.
You are a thief
And a genius.”
“It fits and you know it.”
The wind howls outside.
“What I’ve read in the papers
Is that they’re tired of you.”
He steals the bottle
For another shot
“Also, frankly, crudely,
I’m tired of myself.
Plagiarism?
More like symbiosis.”
“You are a genius
And a bastard.”
She hands him the papers
So she can get some from him.
He looks at her title page.
His face shrivels.
“Damn, damn, damn.
You were in this
From the get-go!”
His face is blank, like hers.
Her mouth twitches.
“Don’t think, ever,
That I approve, but
I am tired, too.”
The papers go
Into separate folders
Then on separate shelves
In various bookstores.
They are bestsellers
Everyone can’t put down
All the critics can’t
Shut up about them
“A breath of fresh air!
A bold, wonderful experiment!
Finally! Someone has the nerve
To try something new!”
Two years later
The writers are in
The same spot, silently
Picking at keyboards.
SUMMER HOUSE
The orange creeps
across the grass, caressing
(or smothering)
each and every blade,
whilst I recline, protected,
by a field of plastic lavender.
Here, I expand,
sometimes explode.
My brain turns to paint,
and coats my skull
with a vast array of shades and hues.
Ghastly
or
Zen,
all runs through me as
I glut myself
on words, pictures,
and strawberry licorice.
The orange has dissolved,
decaying into a brackish blue,
which only suits me,
as the white wall blocks
off a muddling world.
Now, I rot, and am numb.
The effects of my whirring
become stilted.
The words stick,
my ideas seize,
and I choke on my
invisible perfume,
for it is night, a time
of desperation and exhaustion,
a time for despair.
It is time for sleep.
KATHERINE’S FLOWERS
A wonderful spring day
A sky of sprite blue
Warmth of the sunlight
Rested on the skin
As gently as a butterfly
Ben smiled
It was his and Katherine’s
Anniversary
25 years, he thought
On this happy morning
Wonderful morning
Beautiful morning
He walked through a field
Laced with a rainbow
Pretty reds
Serene blues
Social yellows
Marvelous pinks
And lovely
Lovely violets
Those, he thought
Katherine loves the purple ones
He gathered the purples
Blues
And pinks
And couple of
Outspoken yellows
A bouquet
Worthy of his sweetheart
And then he walked
Away from the growing Eden
To a place
Where no flowers grew
But were still littered about
In unraveling bunches
About the rocks
Decayed and crushed
Ben came to
His favorite
A slate
Still shiny, letters crisp
Reading
KATHERINE JOHNSON
FOREVER MISSED
FOREVER LOVED
NOW
FOREVER WITH GOD
And placed the wildflowers
Amidst elder petals
And thought
Happy anniversary, darling
THE COMET
Midway between where
My hands were stained
In a mosaic of children’s acrylic
And where I had become
A giant among dwarves
I had witnessed a star fall
A pinpoint of light
A tiny clump of glitter
Miles high, miles away
Drifting gently
Down
So pretty it was
That I took notice
So small it was
That I quickly moved on
Now
That dot has grown
To the size of a quarter
And now it seems
Less innocent
Than before
Now it’s more fiery
Venomous
It gave me great fear
So I consulted the
Magnificent Psychic
Benevolent
All-Seeing, All-Wise
Bringer of a Thousand Joys and Sorrows
Great Madame Sultra de Shartruse
For advice
“It’ll hit you”
She struck bluntly
“Whether or not it’ll kill you
Is another story entirely
And one you’d doubtlessly
Rather not hear”
So now I watch
That glowing softball
Grow larger
And brighter
Waiting for impact
TUBERCULOSIS
As we sit
on the table, engaged
in a back and forth shouting match
with knives for words,
I come to a realization:
The only one who can get my pain in this
heated argument is
one who does not know
what it is
to have
tuberculosis
in the summer.
As we lie
in the chairs, bleeding
from a miscellany
of paper cuts and paperclip pricks,
I come to another:
But what does it matter
to a lady who
has no soul
save for
the one
in her pocket?
THE ROOM
In here, the walls sparkle.
They shatter light and make
Everything dull
The small tiles are neither diamonds nor mirrors
For they do not reflect anything
(Believe me, I have looked)
They merely glitter and twitch as I pace
Around the overgrown pedestal
On the top of which lies
A bed which always collapses in on itself