Thought Police - a prose poem

An apology is inadequate,

because an adequate apology

has yet to be invented.

            It’s a sad truth realizing what you had known for a very long time, and allowing yourself to not just take a chance and move on to help yourself.  Because, you had found a moment in your life where everything seemed to be going alright.   But, you know that you love to write but that you can’t quiet your mind enough, many times to sit down and write, you knew that hyperactivity was there, and that your mind went to a billion places all at once, and you knew there were things that could help that, but dammit you figured, I’m an adult I can control my own brain.   And sometimes you could but then the depression would hit, and suddenly, what you knew so sure you could control is unmanageable.   Feelings of inadequacy seep into your blood, and you don’t want to confront your weaknesses, because for a minute there they are maximized, and magnified.   It’s then that people who you trust, and can be strong for are subject to your weaknesses.   Then the pain starts.   You want to talk it through, figure it out, kiss the wound, bandage it up.   Now one problem has piled on to another, and as much as your mind wants to move on it is dragged back as if by rubber bands, that are still latched on to that moment of pain.   So you attempt to move on despite that resistance, because you know you are stronger than that.   All the while, like all the other whiles throughout your life you know that there are people to talk to, medications to prescribe, but you can handle this.   You know that just months ago you were in ownership of your life, but that was before your mind was in ownership of you.   That’s when the irritation and the anger start to seep in, and the rubber bands still hold on tight, demanding an apology but you are adding more bands as you run your laps.   Hyperactively you react, wishing you could control your tongue, tripping up over its folds and landing flat on your face, but tripping up the other in the process.   You know you don’t truly feel that way, deep inside you know you are okay.   You lost some of your stability, your inadequacy increases tenfold, but you can’t say all of it out loud, because its your mind and you can control your own mind.  You say these things to yourself knowing full well that there are people who can’t control their own minds, not all the time, and a depressed anxious mind in a whirlwind of hyperactivity is a mind that is just at war with itself.   You attempt to focus tighter, but there’s so many things that you have to apologize for and make up for and you’re going to get it together, and instead of pacing yourself like you know you can do you let it run rampant, the thoughts on the march against your will, and the resistance to them is barely even there, when it should have been a great wall, with a manageable gate.   It’s hard to focus on the everyday by then as the pull of the rubber bands makes you dig your legs into the dirt, and you want to work on just being, and just being there, and being present, but you feel you need to make it up, solve the problem, talk it out, reason things, but your mind is in no place for reasoning.  And you make promises, but maybe you won’t be able to keep them, but you sure as hell mean them.   All the while help is whispering right around the corner, but that would be more money, that would take more time, and you don’t feel you have those right now, but you can get a hold of it if you just quiet your mind.   Then a string of storming thoughts, chasing the line back and forth like a fish on the hook, working on solutions from point A to point C, vocalizing what you think it could be that’s affecting you and thinking if you share it out loud its going to help the other know how to handle you.  but you know its foolish, and then a moment of clarity you think you found.  A good feeling, a phone call, and a clusterfuck, and you are on fire.   Consumed with a hellfire that burns your throat and you need to put it out, so you accept it.   And you suck it up, through that irrational fear and you setup an appointment to get a grip on yourself, and you know its in your head.  It was just piling on, and it wasn’t fair to the other, and then well, life can’t wait for you to get your shit together, life is moving, life is constantly in motion.  Then the gunshot, the last barbs of emotional hurt spewed up out of your visceral gut of pain, its acidic and it has left its burns, but you hope eventually there will just be scars left.  So, you made it there, dead in the dirt, groaning against your own stupidity, and knowing you could have fixed yourself, and admitting that you should have fixed yourself a long time ago.   Then you have an appointment, so someone drags you up, to the door and you sit, and you are told what you already know.  Depression, hyperactivity, knowing the answers and still not being able to grasp them, and suddenly you’ve found it, a way to get rid of that problem.   Too little, too late, you guess, for now, but it wasn’t just the other that was affected but your own self-worth, and your own self-loathing, knowing that you did have a handle on things and you knew the answers but you needed this.   So, there’s a bit of feeling better, because you know your academics, occupation, activities have needed this holding hand, but the other is burned by you, and the other is burned by you and people can stay on fire only so long.

An apology is inadequate

because an adequate apology

has yet to be invented…

Time Machine - a poem

Time Machine

Hopped, skipped and jumped into the driver's seat
and gunned it to eighty-eight hoping for  fresh start
on a freshly plotted stretch of road.   Morphing
through the ever after, back to the far thereafter,
an expectant mother gives birth to her second baby
boy.  You see it's you and you want to fix the outcast
little problem child before he can continue on
become an outcast little leach, and you don't know
just how to go about executing yourself.
Jump back into the thing-a-ma-jig and tag your friends
on Facebook posts and hope one day you'll get out
of High School whole.   Half the time spent drifting
through dreamscapes in the day time, elbows up
on little tables, and doing little test, fill in the bubbles
with number 2 lead.  Standardized in every size,
then run on back with the wheels of a vehicle
and rush to wake up sleepy infant brother but you will
undo the deed of being you, and you'll still
contemplate the truth sayers because you feel
guilty you are you because of tragic Valentine
Day, and give a wink and ruffle to your three year
old self as you skip ahead to jumping backward
into pool of your cousin's aunt, and remember
schoolyard acqauintance getting head stuck in bike
rack pretending to be horse as you and the rest of
your class marched inside.   Take a slight turn to lecherous
relationships early on in your 20's, and bleed a little
again for the sake of the bleeder, but don't let her lick it
up with her forked tongue.  Take a detour during the mids,
and meet a sweet lady, who just can't seem to keep it together,
and try and try and try, too many times, thrice you cry,
and thrice its finished.  Be alone, but most importantly, break
another heart, be there on the sidelines, and
realize so many things are not connected but so many
other's are, and assure a terrified twenty-one year old you
that it is okay to schedule an appointment, and spare
some people the frantic babble of your mind, with a swallow
and a chug of a small glass of water.

A Song for the Morning - A poem

A Song for the Morning

Often, dew of morning leaves sits quaint on bent stalk

waiting to be crystallized in the morning frost.  A desert

sparkles its ice under a rising sun not yet realizing

it will return to liquefying as the star stares more

into the earth.  The beams of light drift across

breathless space, tagging Mercury and Venus

before kissing the atmosphere and tonguing

its way through.   Ice begins to thaw, and summer

continues to persist through the winter morning.

It takes moments to forget that snow wanted to grow

from dirt and grass stems, that ice begged to exist

amidst the brightened June, hugging to an evergreen

friend bent in a relaxing breeze.   Morphing back to droplets,

the dew dips and falls from the top most pine,

to tiniest dandelion, and impact in whispers against

the ground as the sun fondles the earth.  An army

of water seeps into the ground, through the soil,

is gobbled up by roots, succulent mana for the stems

before some of it eventually escapes.   A catacomb

beneath the dirt, a river plucked and stolen from

by animals and plants of all shapes and sizes,

forgetting that they could be hard, the dew, the stream,

the army of water dreams of ascension, a place in the heavens

forgetting they will be showered back to the earth,

but maybe some anticipate this return with satisfaction,

because for a second they blanketed the earth

in crystalline desert.

Annual Mother's Day Poem (2018)

Dear Mom,

There are some who bemoan those who write the same

ole’ same ole’, as though one should move

on to new ideas to jot down in pretty-rhythmic patterns.

As though the whole of existence is never stuck upon

singular thought.

But, I will never stop thoughts of you helping me up,

holding me long enough for a feeling of the earth

again.  Maybe I’ve relied on you too much, over these years,

but it’s a comfort to know you were there.

I’m never afraid of letting you know what you’ve meant

and my heart breaks for those who don’t get to continue to say

because tragedy struck them hard.  I’m thankful

that you’re here, and I know that if I lost you today

I would have an orchestra of songs:

Our memories in my head.

Homeschooled me in the first grade, emphasized

my alphabet, and got me caught up on words so I

was addicted to them.

I’d sneak a string cheese at Hazekamps,

thinking you were letting me get away with it,

till years later but you gave the empty wrapper

at the checkout counter.

How you brought home tomatoes, and with a little

reluctance let me have the last piece even though they

were your favorite.

Fighting for me back in fourth grade when I was afraid

of new teacher, even though I had to stay in class you had tried,

and it turned out fine.  I chose same teacher for next

year too.

Times when I begged – pushed by big brother

– and you gave in more times than you’d wanted.  You

should know that I’ve always been grateful

that I even had that chance

to bug you.

You’ve Got Mail, with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan

that you loved to watch, sweet and happy endings

I grew away from, but you should know I’ve always loved

that movie because of how much you did.

Or how I – well we all - spy you crying at movie sad spots,

we turned our heads like the Exorcist to see

if you were streaming tears,

which nine time out of ten,

 you were.

It’s a cliché, to say you were my first number one

fan, still hold that title even if my words have a little bit

more cursing than before.  I’ve admired you and the everlasting

support you’ve shown to all of us, and maybe I’m a bit too close

but I look around and I say – despite critiques of your parenting style

 – that you did alright.

Detractors and critics say you did this wrong or that,

and how maybe we relied on you too much, but I don’t

think anyone has the answer fully, I don’t think anyone

can claim the best route, but your road was and is full

of unabashed support and love.

Only regret is that there was one less of us in this world

to know what a wond

POEMS from Winter 2018 Semester at GVSU (in chronological order)

An Apology

by Aaron Ponce

There’s an issue with my erection,

all sad and mangled after

attacking the serrated knife

of a former lover.  Rippled

biceped shaft took control

and pulled me into controversy.

When it started, it was

observation that beckoning

thighs desired a meeting

of my fingertips.  Body

language requested of me:

let him take control.

I moved from my cock-

pit and allowed my junk

to have that which he asked

Dick directed my palms

to squeeze at delicate

flesh, after all, once upon a time,

I’d slain that dragon with

brisk and swift strokes.

Subservient to the direction

of my blood flow. I offered

him reinforcement.  On

her lips, a negation to be taken

back to initial surrender

of my insistence.  Phallic decree:

not request, demand.

Genital intuition pressed

on her like a bitch.

Steak knife clattered by her

hand.  I was only along for the ride.

A flailing hand, and filleted

man meat.  My king, my sultan,

my presidente, assassinated.

Bespeckled in bloody fluids

I suffer for following instinct.

Disfigured, for a few minutes

of action.

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The Trouble with Immortality

by Aaron Ponce

I am a cel imprisoned on inescapable

canvas.  The ACME guinea pig:

Wile E. Coyote.

My life consists of being constantly

smashed, crashed, and re-hashed. Driven

less by hunger – though my cravings

for beep-beep birds is insatiable - I am

ordained through etches and paints to carry

out acts of violence involving: missiles, anvils,

boulders, wrecking balls, rocket skates, earthquake

pills, TNT and axel grease - directed

toward a mound of bird seed.  ACME misfires.

Unable to scream for release because they muted

my vocal chords.  No Mel Blanc to rise from my

throat. A cartoon pup preordained through photographed

flip book to suffer through a string of Merry

Melodies.  My song is appetite with never

a taste to quell.  Seems a shame to waste

a beautiful mind on shorts, five minutes

before the big picture shows.

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Self-Slaughter

by Aaron Ponce

Keep the angle clean. 

A forceful press.  Piece sails

away.  Severed. Essential

to rip it up before it rips on out

through the causality of accidents

existing at the bottom levels of visual

acuity.  A metal vice.  Pincered. Cut,

cut, clean cut.

Teeth chatter. Necessity nibbles

at malignancy.  Jagged products,

roughed filaments.   Held. Pushed

by tongue.  Ejected by lips.

Sandpaper corrections on

skewered angles.  Illusion

of flushed convex.  Given time,

eventually-essential to be cut

clean again.

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Hero Journey

by Aaron Ponce

Great responsibility is what the stories tell us.  All

my machismo and power to be aptly applied in the due

diligence of saving the world.  It is more accurate

to assume, despite super speed, vision, or strength

I’d still resign myself to a quiet corner ignoring

my call to adventure.

As fires burned, phone would be off the hook.  Cozied

up in lounging chair, just me and cape draped over

shoulders.   Security to mask anti-social

alter-ego.  I’d lift sofa with one powered index

finger, locating a hidden remote control - required

to adjust television set.

Suppose it manifested as control of fire or ice.

I’d have to make my way to north pole to calm

my constant fever or just cozy up on the equator

to bring stillness to all my shakes and shivers.

No amounts of icebox or furnace powers would

change much of anything.  No, this world would go

on with or without me just fine.

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Dear Mister Spacey

by Aaron Ponce

            I’m curious if you know the sort of

damage you do to the people who’ve

            been touched by you.

When disgusting producer went down

            in flames I hardly thought you’d leave

a trail of fumes too.

            Accusers pointed fingers, first the one.

You were a usual suspect, pulling

             that trick that you were a devil who

didn’t exist.  A charming one.

            Fooling me like Lester fooled himself

in that stupid, little, life.  Revealing

            the gore left over by your sins.

I suspect your infamy won’t upset

            your artistry, for what you did will

always exist.  You left a permanent record.

            Now I am that Glengarry Glenross stooge

begging: will you go, will you go,

            will you go?

Sure, you commanded our attention

            as a boss for Baby, and earned points

of sympathy as a Hollywood Jack.

            But, it’s those charmed interviews

where I thought your reserved qualities

            aired admirability. I wasn’t paying attention.

Now, it’s toppled, not your house

            of cards but mine.  One of my last vestiges

of innocent idol worship.

            Seems all the money in the world

couldn’t save your face.  Not even

            your gagging attempt at coming out.

I’m curious if you know the sort of

            damage you do, to the people who’ve

been touched by you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

How was the Show

by Aaron Ponce

She wondered it quietly

aloud in her head.  In

the head. What had been

on the stage at that moment.

Had she ever been paying

attention?  Eyes directed to set

dressings. It was just an idea.

Like him.

An idea on a stage,

audience swarmed, admirers

and detractors. An actor.

Red flower, she had no

care to name it.  Red, slippery

drapery that had hidden

a stage.  Then exposed.

Her back was stiff

as she watched them.  Him

too, stiffened. Imprisoned

in her hoop skirt.   His coat,

up and around him. Had the show

been worth the time?

 “Well, beside that Mrs. Lincoln,

 how was the show?

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These Weary Walls

by Aaron Ponce

Intimacy is making secrets, hushed whispers.

No one overhears the naked kisses to no-no parts.

No one needs to know what my breath on the nape

of your neck did to you, but you. As years go by

and physical fingering points to faded memory,

there is still a reflex.   Each new lover taken, each

new lock keyed to breaking, each new secret emanating

from nervous laughter. No one needs to know that there

was a joke in the curve of your spine, or the shape

of your mouth.  Things that spread smiles, and when

 bodies collided sent canned laughter through the pit

of my stomach.   It wasn’t loud.   The laughter. It was

a quiet sort, that said look at how ridiculous we are.

Old keys left the rust where they had laid comfortably

degraded by the sweat from pores so minute we only know

they exist because of our secret.  Kissing good- bye with

the knowledge of the night, but speaking it not into

the bright, until prompted, and thus prompting a return

to your thigh.  Seemed silly.  Was silly.  Comedic.   A joke

no one wants to see, but that’s where the sweet-spot lies.

Tripping over ourselves that first time, and guiding you

with giddiness, seemed it’d be for the rest of our lives.

Seemed.  Silly.  Is silly. Heard the crowd explode with

cheers.  Waited for you to take your bow and collapse into

the pillows, like clouds, and me, there like a familiar wind,

holding you as a breeze for fear of breaking you.   That’s

the secret no one tells. The no-no parts a thanksgiving

but the whispered hushes the feast.   We, me, and you’s,

those needles in the cushion.  Ready to cut, ready to bleed,

ready to mend.  No one needs to know what your breath on

the nape of my neck did to me, except for me.

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Writing for Writers

by Aaron Ponce

Go ahead and bleed all over the paper

but then squeegee it up into a nice straight line

and then, why not, just for shits and giggles,

arrange the splatter pattern into a nice

dot-dot-dot.

A little messy,

take a rag that you’ve used before

and smother the life until it smears the page

in more neutered shapes.

I’ll hold my hand over your mouth.

You can breathe, barely.

The point is not to kill,

but to appreciate.  Life

is the hardest way

to contemplate this mess you’ve made.

Sure, you are getting light headed,

a clouded fade in the eyes, but

stop making excuses of absent explanations

for why you bled so profusely.

I invited you to bleed on the paper,

but you made a mess

on the walls.

--------------------------------------------------

Finger Kisses

by Aaron Ponce

There is a point when touching turns to trouble

when whispered wants of willing fingertips

beckon beautiful bewilderment best described

as caressing causality carefully transcribed on neck

sides.  Each digit defining demands as they draw

letters spelling specific sensibilities beautifully.

As index and middle meander movements under

chin to tip up face for forlorn frowns to be remedied

with sweet kisses constructed cleverly with lips.

Thin topped partnered perfectly with protruding

bottom that is fully fancied for friendly pecks from

my own.  Then time takes to turning and want

is left to hang haphazardly in between me and beauty

as goodbyes guide grinning grievously back to reality.

Touching fingertips slide slow and silent off chin

and necklines naked, now need coats for drive home.

Appendages apparent with sadness soliloquy silently

in the spaces suspended before us, kissing again

as a bookend to a story with multiple intermissions

of monologuing fingertips.

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Ode to Customer Service

by Aaron Ponce

Looky-loo wants their discount too. An impulse shopper

shitting on some poor sap at the end of day.  Coupons

expired and demanding redemption.  Taking up time

of entire team.  Lights go out on overhead, manager

turns keys, so-and-so throws a fit. 

Infantile at five-foot-nine, “We’ve wasted their time.”

Go ahead, get red faced and stomp in place.  The liar obvious

by the breadth of their stupid story. We don’t give two shits,

but if you treated us as human beings.  You claim,

“You’re raping me with these original prices,”

while using coupon from previous Christmas time.  Manager

steadfast, accepts the abuse blast. I am high,

as bullshit request is denied.  Old threat delivered,

“I’m never coming back in here again,” and all around the world

a collective of customer service representatives beg,

“Promise?”

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Applying to Burger King at 19

by Aaron Ponce

I have paced the kitchen twice already,

run several laps around the house,

kept my thumb hovered over green

call button, five minutes now.

My fifth attempt at trying.

I whisper from script floating

around in head.  I’ve revisited, I’ve deleted,

I’ve revised.  Another breath for hovering

thumb.  Third pace across the kitchen,

I push with tap, place phone to ear.

One ring. I wait for darkened screen

to turn back on.  I push big red

cancel and I am right back to where I began.

            I make a sandwich,

            I take a piss,

            I watch a movie,

            I have a nap.

New lap through kitchen,

marathon just starting, thumb

over green button, I’m ready to call,

just give it a breath, a moment, make it two, three

four.  I grit my teeth, get pissed off, how fucking

pathetic can you be, I say I am,

I say I was, thumb goes down in fury,

ringing, hand shaking, swallow

nervousness.  Voice says:

            Hello.