Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Suburbia
So after basically 3 months of not writing a damn thing, I was sitting in psych class, watching the Dead Poet's Society. About halfway into it, I started to feel an itch of inspiration, so I begged some paper and a pen off a friend and started writing, I wrote about a dozen pages of assorted free verse, and pulled this one out of the scrambled mess tonight. I like it. Formatting it on here to match what I have in word is a pain, so I'm going to just let you guys know this isn't quite the set of funky line breaks I was forcing all over the place in this mother in the real word document, but it's close. I hope my University doesn't expect me to write anything classier than this, because it probably won't happen.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I'm rather fond of this.
So I went to admit weekend at Davidson right, and met a cool guy and we wandered off into this coffee shop and stumbled upon a folk concert! So there I was, with a new friend, the best latte I have tasted, submerged in the style of music that my neighbor Conor Oberst frequents! What could be better? Naturally I had to write a poem. Input, please!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Amplified Evening"
Folk vibrates through fringe coated with dust
as coffee doubles my burn,
worth it because of quality.
Pretension, perhaps, saturates the roasted air.
The best seat in the house is by a
stranger / friend
learning more about me than I ever care
to tell-
past written words give me away.
A bittersweet shiver reminds my contented core
that...
this can't last.
Things aren't for sure yet.
It's fear:
the future may not be this,
but it's comfort:
it will be some other deep flavor
of the sublime.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
This blog is collecting dust...
I was going through my computer, scrounging for things to use for the two stories I'm writing right now, and I found this thing and decided to post it so this blog feels used (in the good way).
I wrote it for this English thing (i forgot what the assignment was but whatever) and I'm thinking of submitting it to my school's literary magazine (or whatever it qualifies as).
Department Store Surrealism
I’m relatively convinced the universe is hollow. That it is the absence of matter encased in a giant shell, like a fragile egg drained of its yolk and white and put back into the carton—a ruse that is supposed to sustain a family of four, or a generation, or an era of time but never will.
Physically that is not true. The universe is not empty. I know that because there are people here. There are people everywhere—dripping from the walls and climbing out the floors, crawling jaggedly down the sidewalks and rotting in the congregation. They’re clawing at the painted wood door and the polyester carpet while I’m barefoot and drowning in taffeta and lace and price tags and corset wires and invitations and seating arrangements. They’re foaming at the mouth to congratulate me, to taxidermy and preserve me at this exact moment. I am not quite a robust stag, rather a stricken bride. I cannot run in my white heels. I cannot hide behind my lace veil.
The attendant knocks on the door; she huffs and puffs and asks me if I have a proper size, if I like the color, if I’d like to try another style.
But the size is right and the color is fine, the style is okay. Thank you for asking. It’s just the mirror light is too bright. There I am, only pockmarks and dimpled skin—a topography map of some distant landscape, like Mars perhaps—scars and marks stretched across a broken skeleton. Yes, I say, the dress is fine. I forget to say the light is not. I forget to say the awaited night will not be.
They will throw me into a pyre. Or leave me at the altar, nail me to the floorboards and keep me as a sacrificial prayer piece. Oh dear gods, they’ll say over my diet thin body, please don’t make me her, with her size zero dress but no one deserving to share with.
And the attendant says she likes this dress; she says that many women do. I am many women. I am too many women. I am alone in a dressing room with the shadows licking at my ankles through the space at the bottom of the door. But when I open the door the attendant’s face is mushy, like fondant or gum paste, a wedding cake in the rain. She is tired and worn. So am I. Sadly, so will the dress.
I tell her I like it too, but that’s not the issue.
I wrote it for this English thing (i forgot what the assignment was but whatever) and I'm thinking of submitting it to my school's literary magazine (or whatever it qualifies as).
Department Store Surrealism
I’m relatively convinced the universe is hollow. That it is the absence of matter encased in a giant shell, like a fragile egg drained of its yolk and white and put back into the carton—a ruse that is supposed to sustain a family of four, or a generation, or an era of time but never will.
Physically that is not true. The universe is not empty. I know that because there are people here. There are people everywhere—dripping from the walls and climbing out the floors, crawling jaggedly down the sidewalks and rotting in the congregation. They’re clawing at the painted wood door and the polyester carpet while I’m barefoot and drowning in taffeta and lace and price tags and corset wires and invitations and seating arrangements. They’re foaming at the mouth to congratulate me, to taxidermy and preserve me at this exact moment. I am not quite a robust stag, rather a stricken bride. I cannot run in my white heels. I cannot hide behind my lace veil.
The attendant knocks on the door; she huffs and puffs and asks me if I have a proper size, if I like the color, if I’d like to try another style.
But the size is right and the color is fine, the style is okay. Thank you for asking. It’s just the mirror light is too bright. There I am, only pockmarks and dimpled skin—a topography map of some distant landscape, like Mars perhaps—scars and marks stretched across a broken skeleton. Yes, I say, the dress is fine. I forget to say the light is not. I forget to say the awaited night will not be.
They will throw me into a pyre. Or leave me at the altar, nail me to the floorboards and keep me as a sacrificial prayer piece. Oh dear gods, they’ll say over my diet thin body, please don’t make me her, with her size zero dress but no one deserving to share with.
And the attendant says she likes this dress; she says that many women do. I am many women. I am too many women. I am alone in a dressing room with the shadows licking at my ankles through the space at the bottom of the door. But when I open the door the attendant’s face is mushy, like fondant or gum paste, a wedding cake in the rain. She is tired and worn. So am I. Sadly, so will the dress.
I tell her I like it too, but that’s not the issue.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Poemzzz
About The Circus Horse by Marc Chagall
There's only one place to start--the middle, of course--a place for starting near the end of the middle because in the middle of the muddled and muddy rainbow dirt of the circus ring there's this horse wot's been labelled with yellow paint balls and on the horse a whore in a child's prancing, dancing dress, so the whore looks like a cute wedding cake wot's turning into a dress, and she's reaching with muscular triceps for men with much larger biceps prancing along the power lines that hang and sizzle in the orangeorange sun that rides on the back of the side of the side-back of a fire-breathing pig wot's smoking a pipe and getting so big so big the painted jester dances a jig with his calves rippling with lemon, lime, and apricot spots while the creepy old fellow in a Louis XIV gown with grand old Uncle Sam stripes tries to tell you that yu're extra nice and wouldn't you like some candy, little boy?
Vapor Pressure
I'm all twisted up in here
coiled up on myself in here.
The kettle tin, my dear, is boiling my skin
till it peels off like old wallpaper.
You set me here on the stove
and let--inside the Litte Brat's kettle--me boil.
The kinetic transfer of energy--with ever-increasing entropy--
excites molecules of H2O, yields greater vapor pressure,
causes more molecules to fall up from the surface of the water puddle in the middle of the kettle.
In short--I boil inside these walls of branding tin
and my guts bubble and swell--
my lungs and thighs swell
I'm a runner on the line, feeling swell--
Let me out, with a whistle,
please
Let me burst screaming out of the
twisting, searing kettle tin walls
into the
miserably cool kitchen air.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Fall
This started out as a fun little narrative experiment, but than I started taking it seriously and it turned into a story. Anyway, it's probably completely incomprehensible, but feel free to try and dredge some sense out of it if you want to/have lots of free time.
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To the Schoolgirl he was a glittering bomb falling off the edge of a cliff composed entirely of steel and glass that jutted out of the bowels of the city at an angle--a ramp off of which the bomb propelled itself before it caught in the light of the setting sun before descending once more among the towers.
The Businessman, on his way home to another pile of peevish financial reports and new recommendations, thought him a horsed messenger, trampling the spires of the city towers before being brought down upon them with the faintest of thumps.
The Schoolgirl had been about to step onto a bus, quarters rubbing between her fingers, ready to be deposited and converted from Spare Change to Bus Fare. With half her shoe in a puddle of mud-slush, she had paused with the other half of the city as he threw himself from the cliff, the tower, and achieved--for that singular frame of attention--notoriety. And as he fell, picking up speed then sticking at terminal velocity before sticking himself on the spire of the Thomas Building, her imagination raced to catch up. It caught hold of one possibility and another, discarding each in turn as she settled herself in the empty seat at the back right corner of the bus; none were satisfactory.
As the bus rumbled her home, the Schoolgirl contemplated her nonconformity to escape from contemplating The Bomb, found it difficult--the braided links run through her French cuffs looked like bombs, perhaps...Perhaps she ought to dye her hair a nice shade of olive. But The Bomb looked to have been wearing an olive perhaps scarf. The Schoolgirl blinked and uncertainly reprocessed herthoughts she initiated recollecting the events The Bomb’s detonation preceding and I am becoming startlingly confused. There was a--a Bomb--it was, perhaps--that fell “she said to herself before lapsing into silence, watching billboards roll by the windows.
Pausing long enough to buy a newspaper from a raggedy boy with an increasingly hoarse voice, the Businessman wondered how long it would take the police to cordon off the top of the Thomas Building. The news in the paper was old by several hours, nothing as fresh as the brewing commotion incited by the falling horseman, and the Businessman decided that he may as well join the throng; it would spare him from fabricating interesting events for a constantly interested wife for a few hours at least.
As he was waiting for a taxi cab, the Businessman was confronted by the twin sirens of a shoeshiner and a sweetshop, both of which snagged his interest with their seductive wails while creating a sharp color dichotomy. The Black Witch was the more demure of the two, familiar, certain, perhaps less satisfying, while the Rainbow Witch had only entered his awareness during his last few years of searfaring through the Marvelous City of Dis as his children demanded increasingly exorbitant candy tributes. Eventually our valiant Wayfarer/Businessman exchanged three rumpled dollars with the Rainbow Witch for lollipops while placating the Black Witch with assurances that he would return Tuesday next week for a proper shining.
Boarding the skiff that would bear him safely through homeward-bound channels, the Wayfarer/Businessman contemplated with satisfaction the prospect of completing a poem on which he was working. Briefly his thoughts were interrupted by the molten droplet trail that consideration of the Horseman’s plunge onto the Thomas Building dripped across his consciousness, searing holes through his plans. The Distressed Writer/Businessman brushed aside the scalding bits of iron as they rapidly cooled and resumed his pleasant fantasy of the mighty Investment Banker-Poet Laureate’s easy retirement to Cuban cigars, scotch, and Keats.
“Hello Sarah”s greeted the Schoolgirl as she stomped her feet clear of the snow and grime that seemed drawn magnetically to her shoes as she had walked from the bus stop to her house. She returned the “Hello Sarah”s with an indistinct grumble as she nearly cracked a floorboard dropping her backpack. With further sulk building across her mood, sedimenting, layering with thin strips of indifference, the Schoolgirl informed her mother that a bomb had gone off at the top of the Thomas Building as she was getting onto the bus this afternoon, and that certainly was interesting.
But I didn’t mean--no, no--that’s not really what happened. And she bit her lip till it nearly bled, confused by her own uncertainty, and confusion became the freshest layer of silt over her mind. Silt can build just as it destroys, and with this murmured she wandered out of the kitchen to harass the TV away from her brother for a few hours before the inevitable specter of homework claimed the rest of the evening.
Yet the bomb stayed with her as she watched advertisements fry themselves into the back of her eyes, and she couldn’t help wondering if someone had been killed. No, someone had to have been killed--I saw it happen--I saw the bomb go off.
“There wasn’t any bomb on the news, Sarah,” the Schoolgirl’s brother commented, still nursing a screeched ear and a mild afternoon headache
She knew and she didn’t that that was the case of things, that there wasn’t a bomb in the literal Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! sense of the sense, But there isn’t a better way of describing it, you know?
Of course he didn’t; she didn’t make any sense. “Why the fuck do you talk like that?”
The brother was, like, totally unaware of her uniqueness as a human being and she, like, wasn’t going to take any more of his crap--you know? “If he wants to be a little drone, he can do as he pleases, thank you kind sir--” but it was a lielielie (and yet not)--because-- “Because I don’t know--I the story I can’t out get it--get it out! She was so certainly a special, unique snowflake--she was certain.”
And she made no sense whatsoever, and was rather stupid and pretentious. The brother thought, anyway.
The schoolgirl sighed and informed her brother that he was an idiot and that I want you to go away right now! She was having a difficult duration of twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t the right sense of weighing things either. Damn.
Mrs. Albatross was a great woman of a bird, with her nurse-esque hat sprouting a head from underneath it--a strange egg that continually emitted squawks and vexing questions. Mrs. Withers-as-her-real-calling-by-others-goes spouted another squawk from her egg that walked something like, “Alright, Sarah--why don’t you tell me about the kind of day that you’ve been having? You went to school today--didn’t you? Did anything interesting happen?”
There was a bomb that went sailing away, away, away andthat’sallshecouldremember, but that was yesterday/perhaps. Sheputherheadinherhands’causeherbrowwasburningburningburninganditbotheredhersoyesitdid.
“Have you had any tests in the last few days? You mentioned that your history teacher--Mr Andrews, was it?--had been giving you a hard time, because you couldn’t focus...” The albatross flapped closer to the schoolgirl and awfully frighted she
I--I--I--
“Sarah...”
Sigh, sigh--she sighs and sighs but the words won’t come out because they’re stuck--and they both know it.
Resettling upon her nest, Mrs. Withers shuffled through notes of hers--sweet and sour and we’re going to have the Pinot Grigio with it, aren’t we? or that wouldn’t fit so well--the schoolgirl chuckled at her impositionedfabrications. Impofabritactions. Fabricatimposits. Nonsense really; just a moment of clarity, for me, but she doesn’t know that, so what should she know? She’ll tell mother and father, and they think I’m messed up anyway...
“I’m worried about your stress levels, Sarah--and so are your parents...”
And in a drunken stupor we’ll dance ‘round the kitchen table, empty bottles and plates waiting to eat up our shining faces--t’will be most grand, darling--yes theschoolgirlthoughtherselfclever,forherimpofabricationsthatwerealmost true.
Mrs. Withers didn’t like this part notonebitthankyou, where she would try to make She recount things, tell things, story-tell. “Something must have happened that was interesting.”
A bomb, already-- “I saw a bomb fall on top of the place--the--the--”
“Sarah, you know that there aren’t any bombs falling, or even around here, in the first place...”
“The fall...”
The schoolgirl contorted yes she contorted because it hurt--hurthurthurt--to try to get the things inside of her switched over with the things outside of her. Togetthestoryout--anaxetocutthewolf (No, that was not the correct reference, not the thing she was looking for.)
“Sarah, I don’t understand--axes? Wolves? Bombs? Dear, I’m afraid you’re going to need to be a little less...symbolic.”
There of course were not symbols that the schoolgirl could use to turn a symbol world into a symbol of the symbol world that the non-symbol world could understand so there wasn’t any point trying She thought that the Albatross was rather silly trying to cross the inner and the outer like that because it hurt too much to be worthwhile No No No it was better to just curl up and wait for things to be over You didn’t need to tell your story because no-one was listening, never But I should try maybe because the Albatross is nice on sunny days. Cloudy ones too...
She’s nice all the time (her job, after all)
“The schoolgirl stands up, prances about the psychiatrist’s office (Number Fifteen-Twenty-three on Maple Corner in the Grand City of Dis, office of one Maybell Withers, MD, aged fifty-thee, recently contracted by Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent for the purpose of alleviating perceived excesses of stress in their elder progeny of the female gender [occupation: student]) and knits her fingers apart as she attempts to formulate a semi-comprehensible account of what she herself did not properly understand...so she said...” I was getting off of the bus and I was so confused, still am confused--
AtwhichpointtheAlbatrossbecamesorelyvexedyeteagertohearthestory:
“Start at the beginning, the beginning, dear--”
Oh, the beginning, yes. “I got on the bus, to go home.” Except it was before that, what whatever. “Just a bus of the city variety--two dollars, one way home but no way out--oh, no that’s against what I was trying to say.”
Mrs. Withers with a sigh “Try and get it out, Sarah--try as hard as you can--I think this is important, more important than we realize--whatever it is that’s going on, whatever block you’ve developed...” said.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round and we roll through town and the bomb falls down...”
Mrs. Albatross flapped squawked and Ireallydon’tseethepointifyou’renotgoingtotakethisseriously--
Oh, you are so silly, Mrs. Withers girling twirl hair her as this she said. Down onto the Thomas building.
! The Thomas Building! The suicide on the news !
Squawk flap gasp the albatross thought
Yesyes the bomb did fall on the Thomas Building and I fell all the way--no, the bomb was watching me fall--but--
Clickclicklclick went ten thousand thoughts all at once and Mrs. Withers couldn’t click to think--think to click--”Um”...
Air traffic control: we are having a major breakthrough
I copy that, Houston--we are experiencing communication failures on a grid-wide basis.
“We fell, he fell, hell fell apart and I don’t know where to start this, now that I’ve ended. And I am one very upset schoolgirl, having been unable to relay this simple eventful happening, and indeed, ‘tis vexing to not be able to hear what you want others to say, but that’s not it at all--not at all. “Well, damn.”
My brother is a real prick, you know. “She thought also,” You certainly wouldn’t know about that, though--just worry about your wine selection for the evening, how well dressed your beau/man/trophy/dildo is. A well dressed dildo indeed.
and i am so am so am so sorry for the bomb fell and blew my story to bits so i’m so sorry you see i couldn’t agree more with your vexation for i am sorely vexed as well and it’s not just my brother’s fault actually he had nothing to do with it for once it was just this bomb that fell and blew apart apart apart something i’m not sure what but it was important.
“Dear, darling, please slow down, this is all too much to properly process, if you please.” The albatross polished its egg with cloth sprouting from its wing for the purpose of blowing the noses of one and/or wicking away sweat time mannerly in. “So you saw a bomb--a man--fall onto the Thomas Building?”
“And then I found twenty bucks.” Not really, it was quite a blast to see it go off, leveling everything the eye could see. Not really, of course, but in the more metaphorical, burn down your mind like the metaphorical Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! bomb sort of way.
“It’s not funny, saying things like that--about blowing up cats and all.” And the albatross was quite indignant. “But really, Sarah, there was a man, and he killed himself by jumping onto the Thomas Building from the--oh, what was it now? I can’t quite recall...” And the albatross repeated a question, to which the schoolgirl had the kindness to supply and answer.
You can tellmeastory yourstory storyany pleasejusttryoncemore.
I-I-I-I-can’t--because--I-can’t-get-the-words out. The girl was sorely pleased. Because--it’s because I am a very special snowflake.
And the albatross was lightly vexed. Sorely, no--light--the lights, bring them please. And the albatross was thereisnopurposetothisIcan’tmakeheadsORtails
And much the session will proceed like this.
“I really am, sorry, but I think she may have experienced some sort of...breakdown, though I couldn’t for the life of me find a fairly fair cause of it, though a calamity it may certainly constitute.” And dear God what was she saying?
Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent blinked till incredulous lizards leaked from their eyes. “What on earth are you trying to say, Mrs. Withers? You’ve told us over and over, there’s nothing wrong with her on a fundamental, psychological basis...”
“I am sincerely certain that she’s lost her ability to vent pipes filled with pressurized steam that constitute the inner dialectical workings of her primary persona--” And the albatross the Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent thoroughly confused.
The businessman concerned himself with finding a dining establishment, having decided that he had little and less interest in returning to his castle, so the Knight Errant/Businessman ordered his minister of travel to conduct him by various ways and roads to a pub of the local variety, a Watering Hole to which he attached himself with some frequency, exchanging scrolls of battle tallies and new reports of old lineages with fellow men of chivalric character. And yet the Knight Errant/Businessman had certain motives not pertaining to the usual sustenance of life to which the general water-filled holes are assigned--rather, he endeavored to ensnare certain damsels of loose character, who positively glowed next to his own depravity.
With such thoughts upon his mind the Heathen/Businessman entered the Underworld through a main door of heavy black oak and immersed himself in Sin and Smoke. Infernals bounded about him in liquid deliriums, prancing their satanic rites and jabbering in tongues the Bewildered Heathen/Businessman could barely comprehend. The Tender of the Floodgates inquired as the nature of the pleasure that the Heathen/Businessman was seeking upon that evening, to which the latter replied:
“I am in need of certain refreshments of the warming variety, the nectar of the Gods as some are given to calling it--this nectar being the finest of the scotch variety, a delicacy of these local barbarian lands, and one of its more redeeming qualities, amidst all of this uncivilized rabble.”
Rather flabbergasted, the Tender of the Floodgates supplied the pleasure in question in a glass chalice of diminutive stature, stamped upon the bottom with the fine heraldic crest of its maker, and muttered that “Mr. Jakes ‘as lost ‘is bloody marbles. Good God, I couldn’t make ‘eads or tales o’ that load o’ rubbish.”
Settling himself upon a narrow cot in the corner of the Barracks, the Verbal Soldier/Businessman proceeded to sniff and occasionally imbibe his daily ration while looking darkly at the members of his platoon. For a time the Verbal Soldier/Businessman embarked upon the task of drafting a detailed report of the day’s combat through the woodlands of his cerebellum, drawing up a complex network of figures that he sincerely hoped HQ would be able to decipher without an excess of difficulty. The going was slow at best, for his rations failed to satisfy the anxiety that he faced at the prospect of another excursion toward the main camp to resupply and rest as he had not been on the best terms with the brigadier general for the past several weeks. Adding to his difficulties was the inconvenience and incoherence of the scouting reports that he had received, which constituted the bulk of the day’s findings. Indeed, he himself found them devilishly hard to decipher, and converting them into a pleasing report by which they might be conveyed to the army at large was a task that he did not feel himself qualified for, and yet he persevered.
The Verbal Soldier/Businessman set aside his report and began to compose a short, entertaining ditty for his soldiers, rather bawdy and certainly nothing he would ever want his commanding officers to catch a glimpse of, but something that ought to raise morale and which may even be suitable for pushing him past the impasse that he seemed to have arrived at.
Half an hour later, as the main scouting parties were preparing to depart once more, a messenger of the female gender entered the barracks and went unnoticed by the Verbal Soldier/Businessman, who was occupied by the inquiry of an orderly as to whether he required further rations, to which the fellow in question replied in the affirmative.
Having failed entirely in his composition of a Virulent Spell, the Warlock/Businessman quaffed an excess of a bitter Potion which did little to repair his foul mood, though it did bring about a fit of coughing on his part that rather perturbed his Assistant/Overseer, who offered once again to bring further rounds of the Potion in question, which the Warlock/Businessman politely declined between heavy gasps. The Warlock/Businessman, upon regaining some modicum of his former composure, noticed the entrance of a slim Damsel (Potentially Though Not Certainly In Distress) and set about immediately toward the goal of corrupting her.
“Why, my fine, young salmon, would you care to sample the various baits of this fine establishment at my expense,” the Warlock/Businessman inquired and garnered by way of response a raised eyebrow.
“Um...What the hell?”
The Warlock/Businessman’s scrying spells indicated a level of disorientation that in turn propagated itself within his plots.
Executing a positional realignment, the Damsel sent the following message to the Warlock/Businessman’s Assistant/Overseer through traditional acoustic channels: “Is he...?”
“Oh, he’s, well, I don’t rightly know what’s up with ‘im tonight...He’s always a bit odd--fancies ‘imself a poet, ‘mong other things, though I couldn’t right give ‘im that distinction. Still, Mr. Jakes is a decent enough fellow. Certainly wouldn’t kill ya to pick up a few drinks on ‘is account...”
Deciphering the encrypted transmission, the Damsel settled herself onto a chair opposite the Warlock/Businessman and contemplated the Potion set before her by the Assistant/Overseer.
“You are a rather fine fur coat, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Warlock/Businessman began before snagging upon the marshy bottom of the river.
“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” The Damsel removed with surgical precision a minor tumor protruding from the cotton exterior coating her arm. “So...”
A disturbance of the normal downstream flow of the Thinkers’ oral waters occurred for some moments, whereupon the Warlock/Businessman launched a rocket armed with a nuclear payload with the intention of intercepting and destroying the aforementioned Disturbance before it incited a Calamitous Disaster.
He began in the following manner: “At the outset of my voyage through the arteries of this Human Warren, I encountered a rather peculiar specimen of--well, I don’t know well rightly what it may have been--”
“Whoa, buddy--cut the syllable count, maybe?”
The aforementioned disturbance was initiated once more, but in repetition, the Warlock/Businessman attempted an explosive intercept of the Asteroid/Brewing Calamity in question.
“A Horseman, all enwrapped in gilded armor and flapping, crimson banners, stood upon the peak of a great mountain and raised his lance once with a yell before plunging from the peak and sundering himself upon another below.” The Warlock/Businessman called a timeout to allow his players to recover before the next offensive flurry, only to be thrown suddenly into defense by way of a sudden turnover near the blue line:
“That’s interesting. Would you mind getting me another drink?”
The sudden parry and counter thrust performed by the Warlock/Businessman was to the effect of “Certainly”, which the internal computations of the Damsel found the integrative summation to be I might as well keep mooching off this guy, even if he is bat shit crazy.
“So anyway, you were saying--what, some guy on a horse fell off a building and landed on another one? That’s...a little odd. It wasn’t on the news or anything.”
“By ‘horseman’ I have crafted a carefully structured haiku by which I mean to laboriously haul across many miles the dream-prophecy of ‘Gallant figure, beaten down by higher powers wishing constantly for his demise and against which he cannot hope to attain by final victory, but by struggling onward in such a noble yet fruitless quest he attains a certain Immortality which none, not even the Great Destroyer of Nations and Mountains, can wrest from his grasp--”
“I don’t follow. At all.”
Having been stymied in his efforts of gallantry equal to his subject, the Painter/Businessman set down his brush and inspected the canvas upon which he had been working. The Painter/Businessman thereupon entered a mood of incredible foulness as he stood upon a promontory and observed a small vessel of enjoyment beyond the bounds of the Infernal Emotional and Social Contract slip quietly over the horizon.
“I really think I should be going...”
Throwing himself in one desperate, final effort upon the spearhead of the enemy advance, the Doomed Hero/Businessman murmured, “No, I must make a final try, I must make you see the emotional underpinnings of this collage--No, this poem--No, that’s not what I am intending to weave.”
“Look, would you cut the fucking poetics already--I mean God, you’re so strung up--”
“There was a horseman and he fell--”
“This is ridiculous; I’m out of here.” And the Damsel/Rocket shook loose its moorings and rose on a cushion of combusting hydrogen and oxygen toward the stars, sheets of ice cascading from its sides.
“--he fell and dashed himself upon a Spire of--of--of--”
Twinkling in the night sky, the Star/Damsel flashed for a single brilliant moment and then vanished into the blackness that overwhelmed the Heart of the Doomed Hero/Businessman.
And the Businessman read various newspaper clippings reporting a stunning defeat on the Emotional Front which drove him toward a familiar birdcage, as he often was in the evening.
And the Bartender watched him stumble out the door, fouled up by his usual weaknesses. Polishing the bar with a soft cloth, he caught the headlines of a few newspapers left by long-gone customers on chairs and table tops:
Historian Suicide! Read all about it inside, b13!
A stand--or leap--for history; Death follows!
Thomas Building proprietor to sue family of the deceased!
Advertising agency renting building Distressed by bad press!
“He just wanted the real story,” claims Grieving Widow!
The Bartender tossed his polishing cloth into a bin and threw the abandoned newspapers in the trash, pausing momentarily on a final headline:
Teen singer/idol Alicia Monsoon claims songs “Don’t need less story, more feeling”!
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To the Schoolgirl he was a glittering bomb falling off the edge of a cliff composed entirely of steel and glass that jutted out of the bowels of the city at an angle--a ramp off of which the bomb propelled itself before it caught in the light of the setting sun before descending once more among the towers.
The Businessman, on his way home to another pile of peevish financial reports and new recommendations, thought him a horsed messenger, trampling the spires of the city towers before being brought down upon them with the faintest of thumps.
The Schoolgirl had been about to step onto a bus, quarters rubbing between her fingers, ready to be deposited and converted from Spare Change to Bus Fare. With half her shoe in a puddle of mud-slush, she had paused with the other half of the city as he threw himself from the cliff, the tower, and achieved--for that singular frame of attention--notoriety. And as he fell, picking up speed then sticking at terminal velocity before sticking himself on the spire of the Thomas Building, her imagination raced to catch up. It caught hold of one possibility and another, discarding each in turn as she settled herself in the empty seat at the back right corner of the bus; none were satisfactory.
As the bus rumbled her home, the Schoolgirl contemplated her nonconformity to escape from contemplating The Bomb, found it difficult--the braided links run through her French cuffs looked like bombs, perhaps...Perhaps she ought to dye her hair a nice shade of olive. But The Bomb looked to have been wearing an olive perhaps scarf. The Schoolgirl blinked and uncertainly reprocessed herthoughts she initiated recollecting the events The Bomb’s detonation preceding and I am becoming startlingly confused. There was a--a Bomb--it was, perhaps--that fell “she said to herself before lapsing into silence, watching billboards roll by the windows.
Pausing long enough to buy a newspaper from a raggedy boy with an increasingly hoarse voice, the Businessman wondered how long it would take the police to cordon off the top of the Thomas Building. The news in the paper was old by several hours, nothing as fresh as the brewing commotion incited by the falling horseman, and the Businessman decided that he may as well join the throng; it would spare him from fabricating interesting events for a constantly interested wife for a few hours at least.
As he was waiting for a taxi cab, the Businessman was confronted by the twin sirens of a shoeshiner and a sweetshop, both of which snagged his interest with their seductive wails while creating a sharp color dichotomy. The Black Witch was the more demure of the two, familiar, certain, perhaps less satisfying, while the Rainbow Witch had only entered his awareness during his last few years of searfaring through the Marvelous City of Dis as his children demanded increasingly exorbitant candy tributes. Eventually our valiant Wayfarer/Businessman exchanged three rumpled dollars with the Rainbow Witch for lollipops while placating the Black Witch with assurances that he would return Tuesday next week for a proper shining.
Boarding the skiff that would bear him safely through homeward-bound channels, the Wayfarer/Businessman contemplated with satisfaction the prospect of completing a poem on which he was working. Briefly his thoughts were interrupted by the molten droplet trail that consideration of the Horseman’s plunge onto the Thomas Building dripped across his consciousness, searing holes through his plans. The Distressed Writer/Businessman brushed aside the scalding bits of iron as they rapidly cooled and resumed his pleasant fantasy of the mighty Investment Banker-Poet Laureate’s easy retirement to Cuban cigars, scotch, and Keats.
“Hello Sarah”s greeted the Schoolgirl as she stomped her feet clear of the snow and grime that seemed drawn magnetically to her shoes as she had walked from the bus stop to her house. She returned the “Hello Sarah”s with an indistinct grumble as she nearly cracked a floorboard dropping her backpack. With further sulk building across her mood, sedimenting, layering with thin strips of indifference, the Schoolgirl informed her mother that a bomb had gone off at the top of the Thomas Building as she was getting onto the bus this afternoon, and that certainly was interesting.
But I didn’t mean--no, no--that’s not really what happened. And she bit her lip till it nearly bled, confused by her own uncertainty, and confusion became the freshest layer of silt over her mind. Silt can build just as it destroys, and with this murmured she wandered out of the kitchen to harass the TV away from her brother for a few hours before the inevitable specter of homework claimed the rest of the evening.
Yet the bomb stayed with her as she watched advertisements fry themselves into the back of her eyes, and she couldn’t help wondering if someone had been killed. No, someone had to have been killed--I saw it happen--I saw the bomb go off.
“There wasn’t any bomb on the news, Sarah,” the Schoolgirl’s brother commented, still nursing a screeched ear and a mild afternoon headache
She knew and she didn’t that that was the case of things, that there wasn’t a bomb in the literal Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! sense of the sense, But there isn’t a better way of describing it, you know?
Of course he didn’t; she didn’t make any sense. “Why the fuck do you talk like that?”
The brother was, like, totally unaware of her uniqueness as a human being and she, like, wasn’t going to take any more of his crap--you know? “If he wants to be a little drone, he can do as he pleases, thank you kind sir--” but it was a lielielie (and yet not)--because-- “Because I don’t know--I the story I can’t out get it--get it out! She was so certainly a special, unique snowflake--she was certain.”
And she made no sense whatsoever, and was rather stupid and pretentious. The brother thought, anyway.
The schoolgirl sighed and informed her brother that he was an idiot and that I want you to go away right now! She was having a difficult duration of twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t the right sense of weighing things either. Damn.
Mrs. Albatross was a great woman of a bird, with her nurse-esque hat sprouting a head from underneath it--a strange egg that continually emitted squawks and vexing questions. Mrs. Withers-as-her-real-calling-by-others-goes spouted another squawk from her egg that walked something like, “Alright, Sarah--why don’t you tell me about the kind of day that you’ve been having? You went to school today--didn’t you? Did anything interesting happen?”
There was a bomb that went sailing away, away, away andthat’sallshecouldremember, but that was yesterday/perhaps. Sheputherheadinherhands’causeherbrowwasburningburningburninganditbotheredhersoyesitdid.
“Have you had any tests in the last few days? You mentioned that your history teacher--Mr Andrews, was it?--had been giving you a hard time, because you couldn’t focus...” The albatross flapped closer to the schoolgirl and awfully frighted she
I--I--I--
“Sarah...”
Sigh, sigh--she sighs and sighs but the words won’t come out because they’re stuck--and they both know it.
Resettling upon her nest, Mrs. Withers shuffled through notes of hers--sweet and sour and we’re going to have the Pinot Grigio with it, aren’t we? or that wouldn’t fit so well--the schoolgirl chuckled at her impositionedfabrications. Impofabritactions. Fabricatimposits. Nonsense really; just a moment of clarity, for me, but she doesn’t know that, so what should she know? She’ll tell mother and father, and they think I’m messed up anyway...
“I’m worried about your stress levels, Sarah--and so are your parents...”
And in a drunken stupor we’ll dance ‘round the kitchen table, empty bottles and plates waiting to eat up our shining faces--t’will be most grand, darling--yes theschoolgirlthoughtherselfclever,forherimpofabricationsthatwerealmost true.
Mrs. Withers didn’t like this part notonebitthankyou, where she would try to make She recount things, tell things, story-tell. “Something must have happened that was interesting.”
A bomb, already-- “I saw a bomb fall on top of the place--the--the--”
“Sarah, you know that there aren’t any bombs falling, or even around here, in the first place...”
“The fall...”
The schoolgirl contorted yes she contorted because it hurt--hurthurthurt--to try to get the things inside of her switched over with the things outside of her. Togetthestoryout--anaxetocutthewolf (No, that was not the correct reference, not the thing she was looking for.)
“Sarah, I don’t understand--axes? Wolves? Bombs? Dear, I’m afraid you’re going to need to be a little less...symbolic.”
There of course were not symbols that the schoolgirl could use to turn a symbol world into a symbol of the symbol world that the non-symbol world could understand so there wasn’t any point trying She thought that the Albatross was rather silly trying to cross the inner and the outer like that because it hurt too much to be worthwhile No No No it was better to just curl up and wait for things to be over You didn’t need to tell your story because no-one was listening, never But I should try maybe because the Albatross is nice on sunny days. Cloudy ones too...
She’s nice all the time (her job, after all)
“The schoolgirl stands up, prances about the psychiatrist’s office (Number Fifteen-Twenty-three on Maple Corner in the Grand City of Dis, office of one Maybell Withers, MD, aged fifty-thee, recently contracted by Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent for the purpose of alleviating perceived excesses of stress in their elder progeny of the female gender [occupation: student]) and knits her fingers apart as she attempts to formulate a semi-comprehensible account of what she herself did not properly understand...so she said...” I was getting off of the bus and I was so confused, still am confused--
AtwhichpointtheAlbatrossbecamesorelyvexedyeteagertohearthestory:
“Start at the beginning, the beginning, dear--”
Oh, the beginning, yes. “I got on the bus, to go home.” Except it was before that, what whatever. “Just a bus of the city variety--two dollars, one way home but no way out--oh, no that’s against what I was trying to say.”
Mrs. Withers with a sigh “Try and get it out, Sarah--try as hard as you can--I think this is important, more important than we realize--whatever it is that’s going on, whatever block you’ve developed...” said.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round and we roll through town and the bomb falls down...”
Mrs. Albatross flapped squawked and Ireallydon’tseethepointifyou’renotgoingtotakethisseriously--
Oh, you are so silly, Mrs. Withers girling twirl hair her as this she said. Down onto the Thomas building.
! The Thomas Building! The suicide on the news !
Squawk flap gasp the albatross thought
Yesyes the bomb did fall on the Thomas Building and I fell all the way--no, the bomb was watching me fall--but--
Clickclicklclick went ten thousand thoughts all at once and Mrs. Withers couldn’t click to think--think to click--”Um”...
Air traffic control: we are having a major breakthrough
I copy that, Houston--we are experiencing communication failures on a grid-wide basis.
“We fell, he fell, hell fell apart and I don’t know where to start this, now that I’ve ended. And I am one very upset schoolgirl, having been unable to relay this simple eventful happening, and indeed, ‘tis vexing to not be able to hear what you want others to say, but that’s not it at all--not at all. “Well, damn.”
My brother is a real prick, you know. “She thought also,” You certainly wouldn’t know about that, though--just worry about your wine selection for the evening, how well dressed your beau/man/trophy/dildo is. A well dressed dildo indeed.
and i am so am so am so sorry for the bomb fell and blew my story to bits so i’m so sorry you see i couldn’t agree more with your vexation for i am sorely vexed as well and it’s not just my brother’s fault actually he had nothing to do with it for once it was just this bomb that fell and blew apart apart apart something i’m not sure what but it was important.
“Dear, darling, please slow down, this is all too much to properly process, if you please.” The albatross polished its egg with cloth sprouting from its wing for the purpose of blowing the noses of one and/or wicking away sweat time mannerly in. “So you saw a bomb--a man--fall onto the Thomas Building?”
“And then I found twenty bucks.” Not really, it was quite a blast to see it go off, leveling everything the eye could see. Not really, of course, but in the more metaphorical, burn down your mind like the metaphorical Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! bomb sort of way.
“It’s not funny, saying things like that--about blowing up cats and all.” And the albatross was quite indignant. “But really, Sarah, there was a man, and he killed himself by jumping onto the Thomas Building from the--oh, what was it now? I can’t quite recall...” And the albatross repeated a question, to which the schoolgirl had the kindness to supply and answer.
You can tellmeastory yourstory storyany pleasejusttryoncemore.
I-I-I-I-can’t--because--I-can’t-get-the-words out. The girl was sorely pleased. Because--it’s because I am a very special snowflake.
And the albatross was lightly vexed. Sorely, no--light--the lights, bring them please. And the albatross was thereisnopurposetothisIcan’tmakeheadsORtails
And much the session will proceed like this.
“I really am, sorry, but I think she may have experienced some sort of...breakdown, though I couldn’t for the life of me find a fairly fair cause of it, though a calamity it may certainly constitute.” And dear God what was she saying?
Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent blinked till incredulous lizards leaked from their eyes. “What on earth are you trying to say, Mrs. Withers? You’ve told us over and over, there’s nothing wrong with her on a fundamental, psychological basis...”
“I am sincerely certain that she’s lost her ability to vent pipes filled with pressurized steam that constitute the inner dialectical workings of her primary persona--” And the albatross the Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent thoroughly confused.
The businessman concerned himself with finding a dining establishment, having decided that he had little and less interest in returning to his castle, so the Knight Errant/Businessman ordered his minister of travel to conduct him by various ways and roads to a pub of the local variety, a Watering Hole to which he attached himself with some frequency, exchanging scrolls of battle tallies and new reports of old lineages with fellow men of chivalric character. And yet the Knight Errant/Businessman had certain motives not pertaining to the usual sustenance of life to which the general water-filled holes are assigned--rather, he endeavored to ensnare certain damsels of loose character, who positively glowed next to his own depravity.
With such thoughts upon his mind the Heathen/Businessman entered the Underworld through a main door of heavy black oak and immersed himself in Sin and Smoke. Infernals bounded about him in liquid deliriums, prancing their satanic rites and jabbering in tongues the Bewildered Heathen/Businessman could barely comprehend. The Tender of the Floodgates inquired as the nature of the pleasure that the Heathen/Businessman was seeking upon that evening, to which the latter replied:
“I am in need of certain refreshments of the warming variety, the nectar of the Gods as some are given to calling it--this nectar being the finest of the scotch variety, a delicacy of these local barbarian lands, and one of its more redeeming qualities, amidst all of this uncivilized rabble.”
Rather flabbergasted, the Tender of the Floodgates supplied the pleasure in question in a glass chalice of diminutive stature, stamped upon the bottom with the fine heraldic crest of its maker, and muttered that “Mr. Jakes ‘as lost ‘is bloody marbles. Good God, I couldn’t make ‘eads or tales o’ that load o’ rubbish.”
Settling himself upon a narrow cot in the corner of the Barracks, the Verbal Soldier/Businessman proceeded to sniff and occasionally imbibe his daily ration while looking darkly at the members of his platoon. For a time the Verbal Soldier/Businessman embarked upon the task of drafting a detailed report of the day’s combat through the woodlands of his cerebellum, drawing up a complex network of figures that he sincerely hoped HQ would be able to decipher without an excess of difficulty. The going was slow at best, for his rations failed to satisfy the anxiety that he faced at the prospect of another excursion toward the main camp to resupply and rest as he had not been on the best terms with the brigadier general for the past several weeks. Adding to his difficulties was the inconvenience and incoherence of the scouting reports that he had received, which constituted the bulk of the day’s findings. Indeed, he himself found them devilishly hard to decipher, and converting them into a pleasing report by which they might be conveyed to the army at large was a task that he did not feel himself qualified for, and yet he persevered.
The Verbal Soldier/Businessman set aside his report and began to compose a short, entertaining ditty for his soldiers, rather bawdy and certainly nothing he would ever want his commanding officers to catch a glimpse of, but something that ought to raise morale and which may even be suitable for pushing him past the impasse that he seemed to have arrived at.
Half an hour later, as the main scouting parties were preparing to depart once more, a messenger of the female gender entered the barracks and went unnoticed by the Verbal Soldier/Businessman, who was occupied by the inquiry of an orderly as to whether he required further rations, to which the fellow in question replied in the affirmative.
Having failed entirely in his composition of a Virulent Spell, the Warlock/Businessman quaffed an excess of a bitter Potion which did little to repair his foul mood, though it did bring about a fit of coughing on his part that rather perturbed his Assistant/Overseer, who offered once again to bring further rounds of the Potion in question, which the Warlock/Businessman politely declined between heavy gasps. The Warlock/Businessman, upon regaining some modicum of his former composure, noticed the entrance of a slim Damsel (Potentially Though Not Certainly In Distress) and set about immediately toward the goal of corrupting her.
“Why, my fine, young salmon, would you care to sample the various baits of this fine establishment at my expense,” the Warlock/Businessman inquired and garnered by way of response a raised eyebrow.
“Um...What the hell?”
The Warlock/Businessman’s scrying spells indicated a level of disorientation that in turn propagated itself within his plots.
Executing a positional realignment, the Damsel sent the following message to the Warlock/Businessman’s Assistant/Overseer through traditional acoustic channels: “Is he...?”
“Oh, he’s, well, I don’t rightly know what’s up with ‘im tonight...He’s always a bit odd--fancies ‘imself a poet, ‘mong other things, though I couldn’t right give ‘im that distinction. Still, Mr. Jakes is a decent enough fellow. Certainly wouldn’t kill ya to pick up a few drinks on ‘is account...”
Deciphering the encrypted transmission, the Damsel settled herself onto a chair opposite the Warlock/Businessman and contemplated the Potion set before her by the Assistant/Overseer.
“You are a rather fine fur coat, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Warlock/Businessman began before snagging upon the marshy bottom of the river.
“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” The Damsel removed with surgical precision a minor tumor protruding from the cotton exterior coating her arm. “So...”
A disturbance of the normal downstream flow of the Thinkers’ oral waters occurred for some moments, whereupon the Warlock/Businessman launched a rocket armed with a nuclear payload with the intention of intercepting and destroying the aforementioned Disturbance before it incited a Calamitous Disaster.
He began in the following manner: “At the outset of my voyage through the arteries of this Human Warren, I encountered a rather peculiar specimen of--well, I don’t know well rightly what it may have been--”
“Whoa, buddy--cut the syllable count, maybe?”
The aforementioned disturbance was initiated once more, but in repetition, the Warlock/Businessman attempted an explosive intercept of the Asteroid/Brewing Calamity in question.
“A Horseman, all enwrapped in gilded armor and flapping, crimson banners, stood upon the peak of a great mountain and raised his lance once with a yell before plunging from the peak and sundering himself upon another below.” The Warlock/Businessman called a timeout to allow his players to recover before the next offensive flurry, only to be thrown suddenly into defense by way of a sudden turnover near the blue line:
“That’s interesting. Would you mind getting me another drink?”
The sudden parry and counter thrust performed by the Warlock/Businessman was to the effect of “Certainly”, which the internal computations of the Damsel found the integrative summation to be I might as well keep mooching off this guy, even if he is bat shit crazy.
“So anyway, you were saying--what, some guy on a horse fell off a building and landed on another one? That’s...a little odd. It wasn’t on the news or anything.”
“By ‘horseman’ I have crafted a carefully structured haiku by which I mean to laboriously haul across many miles the dream-prophecy of ‘Gallant figure, beaten down by higher powers wishing constantly for his demise and against which he cannot hope to attain by final victory, but by struggling onward in such a noble yet fruitless quest he attains a certain Immortality which none, not even the Great Destroyer of Nations and Mountains, can wrest from his grasp--”
“I don’t follow. At all.”
Having been stymied in his efforts of gallantry equal to his subject, the Painter/Businessman set down his brush and inspected the canvas upon which he had been working. The Painter/Businessman thereupon entered a mood of incredible foulness as he stood upon a promontory and observed a small vessel of enjoyment beyond the bounds of the Infernal Emotional and Social Contract slip quietly over the horizon.
“I really think I should be going...”
Throwing himself in one desperate, final effort upon the spearhead of the enemy advance, the Doomed Hero/Businessman murmured, “No, I must make a final try, I must make you see the emotional underpinnings of this collage--No, this poem--No, that’s not what I am intending to weave.”
“Look, would you cut the fucking poetics already--I mean God, you’re so strung up--”
“There was a horseman and he fell--”
“This is ridiculous; I’m out of here.” And the Damsel/Rocket shook loose its moorings and rose on a cushion of combusting hydrogen and oxygen toward the stars, sheets of ice cascading from its sides.
“--he fell and dashed himself upon a Spire of--of--of--”
Twinkling in the night sky, the Star/Damsel flashed for a single brilliant moment and then vanished into the blackness that overwhelmed the Heart of the Doomed Hero/Businessman.
And the Businessman read various newspaper clippings reporting a stunning defeat on the Emotional Front which drove him toward a familiar birdcage, as he often was in the evening.
And the Bartender watched him stumble out the door, fouled up by his usual weaknesses. Polishing the bar with a soft cloth, he caught the headlines of a few newspapers left by long-gone customers on chairs and table tops:
Historian Suicide! Read all about it inside, b13!
A stand--or leap--for history; Death follows!
Thomas Building proprietor to sue family of the deceased!
Advertising agency renting building Distressed by bad press!
“He just wanted the real story,” claims Grieving Widow!
The Bartender tossed his polishing cloth into a bin and threw the abandoned newspapers in the trash, pausing momentarily on a final headline:
Teen singer/idol Alicia Monsoon claims songs “Don’t need less story, more feeling”!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Lost
I wrote this for English class and I actually ended up liking it a decent amount.
People always believe that
after a while
it's next to impossible
to get lost in a familiar place.
Even in the dark, they say,
the twists and turns of your house,
your home,
remain clear.
Even when you've gone for a while
it doesn't matter
because it has simply become
muscle memory.
So when Harry stands in his kitchen
unable to recall
the way back to his room
or even his front door
after 50 years
(has it been 50 years?)
in the same house
with the same fixtures and flatware
with the same woman
He deosn't call for help.
He stares at the floor
while swallows sing outside the kitchen window
and tries not to curse
every god his mind has held on to.
Because he is lost in his house.
Because he has lost his home.
People always believe that
after a while
it's next to impossible
to get lost in a familiar place.
Even in the dark, they say,
the twists and turns of your house,
your home,
remain clear.
Even when you've gone for a while
it doesn't matter
because it has simply become
muscle memory.
So when Harry stands in his kitchen
unable to recall
the way back to his room
or even his front door
after 50 years
(has it been 50 years?)
in the same house
with the same fixtures and flatware
with the same woman
He deosn't call for help.
He stares at the floor
while swallows sing outside the kitchen window
and tries not to curse
every god his mind has held on to.
Because he is lost in his house.
Because he has lost his home.
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