Musings of JR Simmang

Part 1 3.141592654... He sighed and dropped his pencil and rubbed his eyes clockwise, then counter-clockwise. To be a circle, drifting in endless loops. Part 2 The dawn had just broken before the pot of coffee was ready, timed just right to allow the sunlight to refract inside the urn and then muddle with the steamy, black coffee. He picked up his pencil and transcribed:                   3.141592654... He put his pencil beside his breakfast and rubbed his temples clockwise, then counter-clockwise. To be a circle, transcribed in another circle, drifting in endless loops. Part 3 His desk is farther from the door here than it is at home. It must be by design. The same comforts of home can't be afforded to the workplace. Otherwise, the drive to home wouldn't be filled with relief and wine. It would be filled with other emotions he has yet to grasp. The chalkboards-turned...

Today is the last day of NaPoWriMo. I can't say just how much of a whirlwind adventure this has been. I've met some amazing poets, rekindled friendships, and awoken realization. Thank you for reading. And now, my final poem (maybe) of April: I've been at this now for over two years, and the truth of it is that it doesn't get any easier. I can see it still, plain as day, though I would much rather stay awake than have to relive the moment the sun devoured the Earth. Some have said their nightmares give them the rest they need so as to not have to face the grey skies and black hearts. We won't know what happened. All we know now is the rubble. People turn into animals. Wait. To say they turn into animals would imply that they live under some carnal instinct and natural code. Even in the wild, animals don't eat the dying. Of course, the scavengers do. The buzzards and the vultures, the hyenas, humans. We didn't want to. But we did anyway. So, I wande...

Old man, sitting in your chair stuffed into your corner sifting the cold whiskey and colder ice into your bearded face, you are me I see in your hands the line that made me and the line that forever rest in yours, curled around a forgotten memory, stagnated in a cool pond and allowed to float. It is in this spot, you and I shall remain at odds, housed under the same roof that conjoined us.

Here's a three-fer. I didn't post last night due to having to relax. Sculptors have to rest their fingers. Artists have to rest the same. The same goes for the poet and the writer. So, here are my newest three: a haiku and two shadorma. The Mechanics of Pen and Paper Despite the late hour, my fingers turn and spin out subtle ironies. Into the Dead “In the night, sweep along the east banks of the River Dang. There you will find the man who slaughtered your children.” I crept ’til my fingers felt numb, my heart beat no longer, and when I found him, he was dead in his slumber Story My dad is a man of few words. Mom is quite opposite. She can wrap you into the delicate fibers of our ancient songs.

He went in near the morning, and having left his clothes behind, found the chill meet his skin. He looked down and noticed his stomach, tight, youthful. This thick thighs twitched with every step toward his pedestal. He's admired his hands. When he was younger, his parents would look at his hands and tell him that they would be his great escape. He turned them over in the light, searching for the imperfections. That's what he was trained to, to find the cracks and brittle discolorations. His arms, bronzed and strong, splayed before him. He built his studio to allow the sunlight in whenever the sun was in the sky. Right now, just before the day, the light was golden, raining down in cascading vellum. He stood on the pedestal and let himself be bathed in it. He picked up his tooth chisel and began the delicate process of adding definition. He scooped from his belly, building up from a cast he created of his father. He rounded the corners of his eyes, learning from the ...

Nah, we ain't that close. At least we din't use to be. You see, my family and me, well, ma she use to chase us with a hose, threatenin' us to an inch of our lives, sayin' she would someday make us rue the day we crossed her. Becca Sue, my sis, once broke out in hives she was so scared. And, pa... well pa's pa. But, there's one day of the year, one day, where we all forget about the way Jackie Ray's always breakin the law and how Curly Sam set fire to the barn. That day is the day just after Easter. Weather's usually nice, ain't the usual heater, and we all head north to Billy's dad's farm. You see, there's this real nice lil lake, real nice. You can see straight through to the bottom. Ain't much to do but stare at first. Then, Mildred, Billy's wife, brings out fresh-bake chicken. We stare at the lake, eatin' our fat faces off. Usually, Jackie happs to start some shit, but pa slaps him hard and he st...

This is a simple haiku. The prompt: write an auto poem. When in a state of total control, even the faintest heart quickens.

You let it go on again for far too long, and I can't blame you, because sometimes it's easier to say I hate you and let the doors close for a few hours than it is to turn the phrase just a little more to the center. You and I began this years ago, didn't we?, when we both were perhaps a little younger and a little shorter, but that's what happens as the day-to-day turns us around and around like a gigantic screw. I remember you there, in my lap, singing your own songs and asking me to sing along. Any words would suffice. Any melody would be fine. You would test our limits, you would, sometimes pacing clever little lines in our faces as we traced the little messes you left behind. But, you would always be there, little girl, coming with your knees skinned with hands open and cheeks stained a brilliant red. So, here we are. You and I separated by the thinnest of iron doors. I know that tomorrow, you'll walk from your room, and join us ...

Everyone Wakes and they leave behind a subtle ripple that rocks the boats of distant shores. and they allow one last passage for their loved ones to share forgotten stories. when the light filters in through dusty shutters, and soon the day shakes off its covers. except the ones who don't. *This is a response to today's prompt: "Finish this phrase: Everyone __________, and make it the title of your poem. Write the poem." (I paraphrased.)

Something silly. The prompt was to write a "love" or anti-love poem. I'm still not sure on which side this one falls. L'oeuf We watched the struggle, we did, we did, from our silent vantage point on that seated hill. To date there has never,  no never, not ever, been a struggle so clearly mistook. They chose sides, they did, like we knew they would, like we knew they would. Perhaps that was their first mistake, for no true relationship can be built on unspoken rivalry. Perhaps, they'd be better friends than enemies, for sure, for sure, but part of me thinks that would be a terrible lie. Thus it begins. He starts. Insults lobbed, degradations volleyed, occasionally, he would get caught in her net. Eventually, the baseline is just a memory. Then, after the tete a tete, and they are bruised and sore, so very sore, 15 - 0. Fifteen - love.

Understanding means to plant our feet below the towering others who shadow our quaint, earthly existence.

"Do as I say, not as I do," I remember my father, alone on the porch, chewing his SKOL, and spitting the charred remnants into an old Coors can. I always wondered what it was he tasted. It looked like gasoline, swirling around with little bits of gunk mixed into the oily blackness. But, he dipped. And dipped again. When I was four, I tried to drink some of it, swill it down like I thought he did when he was done. My mother told him that would be the end of the marriage if I did. They divorced anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter much now. Dad quit anyway, and bought a pipe, a nice briar pipe with an old man face carved into the bowl. He bought some vanilla tobacco, which smelled like wealth and bourbon. At that age, I didn't know that, but I do now. He said he would quit at some point. He said that it was bad for him, and more importantly I should never start. He wanted me to be around for a long time, longer than him, but that was pretty much a given. As ...

Some say you build a house where you rest your tired bones. His rocks fall like bricks. The little droplets dribbling down the rounded face remind him to welcome with a jute welcome mat his new friends, inscribed with encouraging words.

In her bed, limitless awaits. The covers are drawn tightly around her cherub face. Long ago, longer than time, her parents demanded she turn off the lights. The shadows consume, They twist and laugh, and spin and bloom. All the while, there she lays thinking of all the little, tiny cherubic ways that the prince will rescue her tonight, how he will show all his charming, wily might, how the dragon won't stand a chance when it is stabbed with his steely lance, or how the wretched queen will bite into her own apple and her face will turn green. The king will be freed from the spell with spell's speed, or how the vacuum of space expanding rapidly, cooly, in front of her face. She'd reach out and touch the surface of such objects as Jupiter, Orion, and the sun. The night, she thinks, is no more than real. The monsters in her closet could do no more to cause it to change and morph like their shadows. Perhaps, she thinks for the very first time, blankets below her knee...

Name it! The madman who burns from the inside out discovers he cannot, WILL NOT!, go about dousing the flame with water refreshing or else find the burn evermore unrelenting. Woe to he, the man who burns inside, for soon his heart will soon decide to wretch itself free from flames everlasting and scorch his lungs and throat and end in his passing. From the outside, it is a pitiable sight. It begins with the glow, the spark in the night, enveloping around him the shadowless light. His flesh becomes ruddy, red, aflush, smoking and steaming, engendered thrush, burning and yearning, an intentional rush. His heartbeat quickens. His stomach sickens. The behemoth awakens. This burn, this fire, this wily flame, it consumes. A flame left to its own devices, left to burn for days, will seek to sustain itself, sustain itself always. It will seek out the tinder, the tenderest spots to burn and to burn and to burn itself hot. Eventually, you see, if the flame is not f...

Sometimes, at night, when the air is just biting enough, I like to sit outside in our Adirondak chairs and wait in silence until the dew covers my legs. It doesn't take that long, especially since the days are so warm and the nights are so cold, like adolescent love or driving a car on empty. Used to be that the dew didn't settle. Mainly it's because I didn't care to settle into a gentle recline and slowly let the flame in me die out until the sun came up and refresh the burn inside. The chiminea splits the chairs. It's this behemoth of clay and smoke, but it's flue is covered and it's easy to light a fire in there. Sometimes, if I feel so inclined, and I often do, I'll pretend I live in it. Barefoot among the ashes, I stare out the open maw into my backyard, counting the petals on the dahlia, trying to decide what color green the grass is today. On nights like these, when the dew settles on my legs, I scrounge around for some dry tinder. Sometimes...

Here's something a little different. It's a short story. I haven't written one in a while. The man at the lunch counter is usually the only one who listens to me when I start to ramble. He takes his knife, serrated for slicing bread of course, saws his way through a tough loaf of rye, and magic happens. "Tony," I say, always thinking to myself that for some reason I found his stereotypical Italian name funny, "every day I order a ham and Swiss on rye, with a little olive oil drizzle and a side of potato chips." He looked up from under his black bushy eyebrows and lack of eyelashes. "And?" I wasn't expecting that question. I wasn't expecting a question period. I stared at him in apparent shock, mouth agape. "And?" he asked again, I suppose because he thought I didn't hear him the first time. "I don't know." He took off his plastic gloves. "Sundays are different." He sighed. "On Sunda...

I can't remember when or where I heard it, but a friend, and I know them, but they told me I was a seed. From which tree I fell, I cannot tell. From which flower I was carried, I cannot say. From which grass that blows in the breeze and browns in the winter, I truly cannot respond. I wish I knew, though. I wish I knew that I were inborn of some greater purpose. And perhaps I can serve some greater purpose still. They say that I am planted, and when I am planted, I stew. I stew until the moment that I become an itch. I become an itch that can't be scratched. Then, I stir. I stir the soil around me causing ripples in the earthen flesh. People who are good enough can see this. They can feel the tiny convulsions underneath the surface. They tell me that I'm fragile right now. That if I were not grasped I would halt. I would never bear fruit. Fruit. That is my purpose is it not? Then again, I don't know whether I should provide shade to a...

At 6:48 a.m., give or take a few, the sun begins its steady climb up and toward the afternoon. I would know, I'm there every day. And when I blink, the sun sets. I wish I could claim to have supernatural powers, the ability to eschew time across space. But, I do not. Unfortunately, it is the simple time and space I live in. My expedited life, compressed into a short passage, held hostage behind doors of electricity. If I could manipulate time, my dream would be to slow it down so I could see the sun crest and fall like the breathing chest of my infant or the hairs on the back of my arms when I embrace my wife. I wish I could see the reds and oranges of the midsummers' afternoon. The changing seasons would awe and inspire. Perhaps, I would finally have time to sleep.

I ventured to peer into the sun at dusk, filtered through the twilight trees. Like that, I can see the outline, perfectly round. I know it's a sphere, but to me, to my terrestrial feet, bound to this ground by toes and heels, it's but a disc, slowly spinning and burning itself from the inside. I'm suddenly not satisfied with my eyes. Though the sun should blind, the trees protect me. I reach out with my hand, for I would not reach out with another, and play with the heat on the pads of my fingers. I imagine a symphony as the warmth threads itself into my hanging tapestry, weaving a story into the lines and lines lines. Propelled by this new sound, I step up into the sky, bouyed by the breeze and the sounds of the road. To set foot on the sun is to become a god. And that is impossible.

Old man Forest sat on his front porch, like he sat for the past 50 year, with cool breeze in his hair and a tune in his ear. He been around the block a few time or more. And he seen the change many a time before. Used to be, he'd say to his kids, the neighbors would mow lawns on Saturday; church on Sunday, go to work on Monday. Used to be that kids would be in school from 8 to 4 and would rush home for supper. They'd do they homework. Moms would do they housework. Dads would do they lawn work, Families would do the hard work. What happened to us? he'd ask, his little whistle squeaking across his perfectly white teeth. Frankly, as I breathe, I am at a loss. It must be an illness. it must be an infestation. Look at them there, staring at blue-light manifestations, He'd cluck his tongue, shake his head, before he continued. I help'd built this country, workin' my hands raw to the roots. I woke at 4. Walked at 5. Worked at 6....

A lot has happened since you left these halls, these unhallow’d, shallow’d, marbled, quiet doors no longer are lively, spritely talks in-walls, Nor has the sun bounced, nor pounced off the floors. Whilst you were here, the gardens simply sang, sang forth the triumphs of your bespoke deeds! Above the roofs the clearest of clear bells rang and birds above the sky flew bright and free! But, you have left behind a shadow. Near to us we find the chill of winter snowfall, though it be closer to June than December. You’ve gone and left the ground a deadened pall. When you return, will the flowers once again untie the air with your sepulchered scent?

I've been doing a lot of poetry writing and reading this month (as if I don't do it any other month), and I've come to several conclusions: 1. Some people think they are poets. 2. Some people think they are poets who are actually really great story tellers. 3. Some people write commentary thinking it's poetry. 4. We have no idea what makes poetry. So, I started thinking about this. What makes poetry? We can take a look at a painting and say, "That's a painting." We can to the same with sculpture. We can do the same with acting. We can do the same with novels and short stories. But, what is poetry? Ever read the epic of Gilgamesh, Beowulf? Those are poems! Poetry has been described as the heart's song. It's been described as the suffering of the human soul. It's been characterized as the truth of life. But, it's none of these and all of these. Poetry is the art of the wordsmith. Like there are the Pollucks and van Goghs, poetry exists...

The old man and me, we was out the other day clearing brush from under the house. We don't want no house fire, not after the McKinley's lost they house 'bout a month or more back. Sad tragedy that. They had three dogs and a son that was lost in that blaze. Could feel it for a mile 'round. But we was under the house, like we usually is, chippin and clearin. Ma was upstairs. We could hear her feet tip-tappin like some giant dancer or that telegraph machine that makes it so's we can talk to one another from across the country. Why anyone would want to do that, I don't know. Ain't nobody there but Yanks anyways. But, she were up there, tip-tapping, dancing like Ginger Rogers, we could tell because that's what she does when she's baking, and dad gets this look on his face. He gets this look like he's just finished painting the barn doors. I look at him funny, and he says to me, he says, "That woman..." and shakes his head. I know ma an...

Physically, I’m all here. There are no abnormalities, no gashes, scrapes, nor bruises. There are no burns, no fractures,  no bites or stings. But, it is here I wait out my days cold and unclothed, devoid of the sun’s rays. It has been a long time hence I had set foot on greenest grass. The bygone days are days of my past and the world has become past tense. Foul’d, I had been painted a villain. I, a villain! An enemy of state! It is a wretched twist and turn of fate that I be shackled and split in twain. My love, my dearest Agnes of Ford, ran from the estate screaming. I, in my chambers silently dreaming, dreamt more of her than of God. It was there, that wind-swept night, that Agnes was found at the bank of the stream, unholy stream, streaming with black water and blight night dances dancing on her head. Her body became the night howl, heard above the deepest bowels of hell and the damned dead. The next morn, whilst I slumbered, the constable ar...

In the Moment of my death, I ponder on things left behind. I wonder where it is I shall go. The arrow pierces lightly. That part I pay no mind. It is the force of will leaving me. I saw him, too, the elegantly clad man in a mirrored wind. He smelled of tiresome hunger. He was weary then. Perhaps too thin. His fragile bones climbed up through his sinew. I shall remember none of this. My body will become rigidly defined as I deliquesce into mud. I am more than I once was. My flesh is your flesh refined. My blood is your blood. We are consanguineous. You eat of yourself.

Necessity: They say she is the mother of invention. Tonight, she is my mother and the mother of creation. In some respects, my brother is the unused wilderness surrounding my perfect eyes and earth. Why bother with that which cannot be wrecked? I see a dissimilitude. There be a stark moment of checked gut and desire. My eyes understood while my lips, quivering, dripped in synchronicity with my mood. My ego, no longer strapped and shipped to the branches of my mind, connect to the deer-blood crypt I long to be in. It is there I can find the finely beating heart of desire. I level my arrow, search for the blind side and let loose my trusted flyer. Tonight I shall dine by the fire.

(Day 5: A Plus Poem) Won't someone stop her talking because sleep is slowly stalking and I've reached the end of caring for algebraic thought. She stands in front of whiteboard not realizing we're all bored, squawking her marker ever forward into the deep and dark mind rot. I've fallen in and out for hours; I've lost all my super powers. I should take lots of cold showers because I'm not feeling hot. Then, she finally ends her barrage of quotients, dividends, and average, and bespeaks her old adage: Subtract and plus not.

(Day 4 NaPoWriMo) Hold that Light to my Cigarette and watch my world become a puff of smoke. Dancing Chantilly lace at the edge of my nose and the end of vision tickles my toes and makes my fingertips buzz with profound anticipation, knowing that every breath I take is a breath that may make me cry. Don't worry. I've done more to myself than to you or another and there's a place in my heart where your smile had been. But, that don't matter now. What matters now is that that hole fill itself with smoke. It don't make me choke anymore, thank the Lord for that. Embarrassing that, having to choke down the dreams of Brando and Wayne. Now, it's a cold comfort, like holding hands in the hospital bed as the last beep beeps and the last rise of the chest is followed by a steady churn in the bowels. So, please. Please, hold that light for me while I breathe in your flame and filter it through black tar so that it sticks to the inside...