Festering in Man
Manifest: what is festering in man?
The strangest incendiary impulses-
My perverted brain is prepared to pull women's clothes off like overripe banana peels;
Though I assure you, this is normal.
My carnal instincts may only be subdued by me doing push-ups, indefinitely.
Manifesting in my body is indomitable envy.
As my expiring mind tickles over my multitudinous undiscovered talents, withering away, In comparison to the glorified newfangled successes; they are surely famed succubuses.
Still I know, manifesting underneath my chaotic tendencies is a thin film of all I adore: The leading conductor of life's tragedy.
Columbus Circle
The gentle right hand of regret woke him in the middle of the night, with his sliding glass bedroom window slightly ajar. Naked and alone between his checkered blue cotton sheets, he lied there in desolation with a cold heart and vacant eyes.The pounding headache he had before he drifted to sleep had subsided, but he could still smell the red Chateau Diana on his breath called "Risk Taker," which was all he could remember from earlier. Above the trees, he could see the crescent moon smiling back at him, as if it were happy to see him awake. He knew he did not deserve the kindness of the moon. It was not the first time he was nudged from his slumber at three in the morning. Something much greater than himself was trying to communicate, but he could never make out what it was. He sensed it was direction or guidance that he was never able to manifest in the context of his life.
With his next breath, deep and contemplative, he peeled himself out of bed and tripped over the empty wine bottle, which slipped out of his hand before he had fallen asleep. Too despondent to react or pick it up, he grabbed his silk burgundy robe from the bedroom door instead and slipped it on as he made his way to the balcony. At 37, Trevor was New York City's foremost real estate agent. His penthouse apartment in Columbus Circle overlooked Central Park and he had amassed more wealth than he knew what to do with. But he was lost. He succeeded at living the life of someone else and felt guilty for being unhappy. As he sat on his balcony in the wee hours of the morning, taking in the view of lush green and city lights, he hoped that the life he was meant to live would start to crystallize in his mind. Until then, he dug into his right pocket for a cigarette and pulled out a lighter from his left.
Old Appearances
I once occupied you.
Lived in your skin,
Manifested in your movements,
Danced in your shoes.
In your flesh -
I found myself
And learned love.
(but)
I began to pour tea
without the spoon.
And my mind became occupied.
And my feet found new steps.
You were no longer on the list
of what I held,
not the captain
or cargo.
(It doesn't take much
To find yourself
A thousand miles away)
Because you were me -
And I was me -
Then I was me -
And you were
Her still.
I could recognize your movements,
your brushes against my skin.
My old in a man I knew.
My love
we did not collapse
no one quit -
You were me manifested in the flesh
and I became different.
I Smell a Rat
"That looks like a classic basal cell carcinoma," my doctor tells me. "I can remove skin cancers, but not in that location, I think you need an ear/nose/throat specialist. There's a visiting ENT who comes once every month or two. Make an appointment to see him."
"I've been removing skin cancers for 30 years, and have never seen one in that location. Maybe it's just an infection. Put neosporin on it 3 times a day for a month, and if it doesn't go away, make sure you see me again. I can't remove it in the office, it will require a 20 minute surgery."
The cancer grows. Two months go by.
"The doctor's surgery schedule is full, but he'd like to see you."
I want this thing removed. I fly to Juneau to see a different ENT. He looks at me and says "You're records say you need surgery, but do you mind if I remove it in the office here?" "That'd be great," I say, glad it will be gone today.
Now he looks more closely, with some sort of scope. "Hmmmm. No, I can't do it here, you need to go to Virginia Mason, to a doctor who can perform Moh's surgery."
Another appointment, another month goes by, but finally I have my cancer removed.
As I tend to my wounded nostril, I realize it's significance.
My husband of 17 years had confessed to me a year ago he had sex with a stranger while he was traveling in another state. He put up a sticky note with a drawing of a rat on it, a rat within a circle, and a big X through it. "No Rats" it reads, loud and clear. Then he bought a small cast iron figurine of a rat, and placed in its paws a small red heart. I was touched.
Nine months later, in January, he called me, again from another state, drunk, sobbing, and confessing again to an actual affair. In February, I noticed a bump right inside my nose. As it grew, it straddled that line between nostril and upper lip. I had to laugh at the cheekiness of my body's manifestation of my marital situation. There it was, as plain as the nose on my face... I smell a rat!
Choose your own adventure
I manifest my own heartbreak,
That much has always been true.
When my ink seeps into parchment,
It's all I have left of you.
As soon as I say I love you,
The universe will take you away,
And darling I want nothing more
Than to ask you to stay.
Spend every morning with me,
Singing in the shower.
I fall in love with you by the minute,
And miss you more with every hour.
Let yourself fall in love with me,
And never second guess,
We have our own story to write,
A future to manifest.
The Crate
“But it’s right here on the manifest,” Professor Jacob Dorr protested, shaking the document as if it would do some good.
“Don’t care,” the longshoreman’s jowls swayed as he shook his head, scowling at Jake. “T’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor.” And that was the final word. The longshoreman turned his protruding belly and stalked away, deeper into the warehouse.
Jake’s eyes narrowed in the dim light, following the obese man waddling away. “Don’t care,” he mimicked (poorly), “but this crate IS comin’ in to yah harbor,” Jake smirked rebelliously. If he had yet been a child, no doubt he would have waggled his tongue at the longshoreman. But Jake was a scientist and above such petty immaturity.
Jake looked around. No one. Not even the pattering steps of the longshoreman off in the distance. Jake was alone, with naught but his thoughts, the crate, and the crumpled up manifest he still gripped in his fist.
Quickly, before he could change his usually-law-abiding mind, Jake wrenched the crate from its stack, plopped it unceremoniously on an empty grey dolly and began wheeling it through the stacks and toward the warehouse exit. As he hurried along, Jake was consciously aware of the thudding of his racing heart, keenly listening for the heavy steps of the longshoreman. But as the exit loomed large, no one stopped him.
Jake hauled the crate and dolly into the night air and up the hill toward the University’s waiting van. Halfway up the rise, he turned and glanced back triumphantly, the adrenaline and glow of his illicit adventure coursing through his system. Jake smirked and stuck his tongue out at the warehouse. “Ha!” he gloated.
“I told you, t’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor,” the deep baritone of the longshoreman echoed behind Jake. Jake turned, startled, and gazed into the angry red eyes of the gargantuan longshoreman standing, imposingly, not two feet away, his cannonball hands gripped tightly into fists.
How did he get here?! How did Jake not see or hear him?!
“But, but . . . “ Jake began, stammering and scared.
“It’s on the manifest?” the longshoreman finished. “No matter. Ain’t comin’ in t’ mah harbor, I tol’ you that already. That crate be mine.” He reached out and grabbed Jake, squeezing and crunching into Jake’s shoulderblades.
“Nothin’ comes into mah harbor without mah say-so,” the giant whispered, “And no one leaves mah place without mah permission,” he trailed off . . . .
The graduate students huddled in the idling van, anxiously awaiting the return of Professor Dorr.
A large man trundled up to their van and rapped aggressively on the window. “C’aint park here, s’private property,” he growled.
“We’re waiting for . . . .” one of the grad students began.
“Don’t care, get out of here,” the behemoth scowled at them and turned away, pushing two crates on a battered gray dolly off toward the warehouse in the distance.