8/18/10

The Wholly Visible Man
By William C. Burns, Jr.


There was this kid
Who was born in the last century
And he was wholly visible
I mean you couldn't see his internal organs
or anything like that
But you could see his thoughts and passions
They were literally written all over his face
His mother noticed it first
When she breast fed him
she saw rivers of satisfaction coursing his face
She saw tornados of anger encircle his arms
Saw oceans of flight churn his running legs
Saw needles of hate slide down his fingers
toward his sister
His mother took him to a doctor
Before his dad might notice
And he referred her to a specialist
Who referred her to another specialist
Who told her
"That's the damndest thing I've ever seen."
"What can we do?"
"I have no idea."
Rumor has it that they removed vestidule wings from his shoulder
But there is no supporting evidence
His mother home schooled him
She made excuses
She tried makeup
Tried etiquette classes
Tried hypnosis and fortune tellers
His mother later ran off with the circus
To live with gypsies
We will not go into the difficulty
His condition presented when he tried to date
Think about it
His every whim and fancy in full view
What self respecting girl would want to see all that
He completed a college degree in interactive art
With an minor in microprocessor interfacing design
They built an entire new wing
On the proceeds of his patents of the sensu-sound theatre systems
He changed his name
And retired into seclusion
disappearing from the public eye


The Chameleon Effect

The young girl said
"How do you do that?"
He said
"You can't see me."
She said
"Yeah you're right there
and there and
you are very hard to see
I agree
But there you are."
And she laughed
He turned and tried to walk away
But she caught his arm
"I just want to know
How you do that.
Can you teach me?"
"I doubt it."
"It's a neat trick."
"Don't you need to be some other place?"
"Nope."
And there they stood
for the better part of an hour
"Does your mother know you talk to strangers?"
"Nope. Besides you aren't a stranger.
I see you here almost every day.
What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name
What's your name?"
And for perhaps the first time
He looked into the eyes of another
And found humanity
"Finton
Finton Silverwryn."
"That's a nice name
My name is Natisha and I'm seven years old
Everybody says I look more like I'm nine
but I'm seven."
"Natisha
How do you see me?"
"I can't see you straight on
But if I look at the edges you are knida blurry
You come here to this bench almost every day
And you look around
I remember when the fat lady almost sat on you."
"Natisha most people never see me
And the ones that do don't like it."
"Oh
I like it OK
Besides I'm just a girl
And no one sees me either.
Ut-Oh I hear mom calling,
Bye."
"Bye Natisha."
And for the first time in forty three years
Finton felt something akin to . . .
Well he didn't have words for it
He only knew that he would miss Natisha
And he did
As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance
He showed her that he could become invisible
By becoming one with the world around him
He would let the sunlight flow through my heart
He would let the wind course his hair
He would open himself to the setting sun
And at night
If he focused really hard
He could become the tiny points of light




A Whisp of a Girl

It took a whisp of a girl
to teach me love

Me
a man
Twice her age
And millions of years older
in Spirit
In Truth

And yet . . .
And yet
this child
She has touched
my inner heart
Beneath all the scars
Within the scream
within the silence
between the stars

How could a hand
so pale and thin
How could fingers so
long and delicate
How could eyes
so fragile and brown
Dig through this filth and
Find the man
who owns my soul
Telling him
a tonal poem
Singing him
into existence
Bringing him to light

Many are the mysteries of this world
From the pyramids
to the fetus
And many are the things
I do not understand
But I will take up this moment
this strange glittering moment
Found here in this desert
by her gentle hand
And with it
I will fill my chest
with breath
then song
And if the Day passes
into Night
And the sky
goes limitless with stars
Then tomorrow's sun
will find me singing
To a whisp of a girl
who taught me love
A girl with hands so pale and thin
Fingers so long and delicate
Eyes so fragile and brown
Singing . . .
Singing me back
into existence



Tsunami

Before the Tsunami
There comes a terrifying stillness
Before the wave comes a time when the Sea
is drawn back
Like the blanket of your parent's bed
Revealing many strange . . . things
Things wriggling in the sand
Before the Tsunami
There comes an out-rush of the air
Before the wave the wind leaves the land
like exhaled breath
Whistling through tattered palm fronds
Singing a hissy whispered song of . . .
Death
And then comes the sound
Like the end of the World
And if your stupid enough to run down the beach
where the waters have ebbed
You will see the Sun in the heart of the Wave
It will of course
be the last thing you see
You see
Even little girls have to grow up sometime


Life in the Twenty First Century

There are many mansions
in the Land of Electronic Ghosts
There are many ways to get there
and many ways to leave
But there is always room
for you

There are shape-shifters
in the Land of Sport Utility Vehicles
Men and Women at all stations
all dimensions
And you never really know



Careless

She was more than a little . . .
casual
Had a way of leaving her smile
in strange parts of the room
And you'd find it there
and think
How'd this get here

Was it her plan
to let the ghost of her perfume
Become entangled
with time
in this room
Or was she just a little too . . .
careless

Listen
No
Listen
Do you hear that
Echoes of her whispers
In the torrent of noise
we call Life
Lingering here
like footprints
leading into the desert



Voyeurs

It was one of those really
uncomfortable moments
At the end of the play
When all the actors
came from behind the scenery
And lined up
along the lip of the stage
facing us
They just stood there
Staring . . .

Now up to that moment
We had been nameless gods
hovering in the quiet darkness
Untouchables
looking for . . .
Well we were looking for
A little entertainment
a moment's diversion
An amusement
Perhaps
And that was fine
As long as they remained
up there
inside the invisible walls
playing their parts by the rules

But now the house lights were on
And here they were
real people in make up
lined up along the barrier
Staring
at us
And we
the voyeurs
now revealed
Making uncomfortable eye contact
with the same people
We had been watching





The Moral Lesson
of The Curious Girl and the Beautiful Bird

A curious girl
Saw a bird
And caught it
But when she put it
In her beautiful cage
It thrashed madly about
She said
Just give it time
And it will calm down
But the beautiful bird
Grew evermore frantic
Breaking both wings
And bleeding from the mouth
She lifted its twitching body
Withdrew it from the cage
And threw it up in the air
Hoping it would fly
But it plummeted to the sidewalk
Twitched and screeched something
Perhaps a prayer for its own soul to God
In broken bird song
She refused to cry
And she goes about her days
Pretending everything was OK
Because the Truth
Is always just too painful to embrace,
which is kind of a shame
because if she would face the truth
there would be a purpose to all the suffering.
And the bird . . .
The ants and worms
Ate the remains







Finton's Lament

Finton sits at a table
An empty table in an empty room
the color of a pewter sky
Finton holds a wineglass
that might have been filled at some ancient time
But now cups cobwebs

Finton says
"The true nature of Love
is something I don't want to talk about
Which means that its probably important"

He says
"Its just a bunch of chemicals . . .
I mean its just a chemical reaction
When you react
to that . . . well to anything really"

Says
"There never was any real Magic
Just an evolution of revolutionary
neurotransmitters
Those brainless neurons might as well be
peeing on each other"

Finton sits at a table
Silent in a silent house
somewhere on the west side of town
Finton examines his wineglass
Sticks his finger into the glass
to dig out the cobwebs

Finton says
"The real question in any tragedy is this . . .
Did either of them have any real choice?"

Finton stands
Upends the table
Leaves by a door

The wineglass doesn't survive



Lonán

Lonán is one of those old testament kinda girls
Who can quote the Law
back and fore
But never really understand the Heart of it
Just not enough justice in all that 'forgive and be forgiven' for her
You know all those really rotten people getting off Scott free
just didn't work for her

Lonán wants the World to end
Because that is just the way it should be
Look at all the Chaos and Crime
That Cathulu thing
That's the way its gonna be
you just watch
Better you were never born



When Finton Met Lonán

They were two people with holes in them
And in the man the hole was the shape
of the super model genius that he would never meet
And in the woman the hole was the shape
of a fairy tale father
(or was it an abusive father, you can never really tell)

Finton could change his shape
by changing his mood
Lonán found this amusing
and even changed herself on occasion
Through the creative application of makeup





Thoughts On Facade

Sometimes I'm not nice
I've got to ask
Is there anything behind that mask?

I mean the facial expressions are first rate
But they never quite seem to sync up
Always a second late
or a moment early

I don't know if it's true
That women feel
they must change themselves
When they take that huge step
And while some seem to start out further from the brink
There are often cracks in the facades

It's not just about the facial expressions
It's about the natural language of your movements around the room
The way you always try to hide your hands
When you're doing anything real

It's not just about your natural language
It's about the Facade
The way you try to pretend when we're having an ordinary domestic quarrel
And that you are incapable of defending yourself



Lonán Departs

You know this was fun
Fun for a while
But now
its so . . . so . .






Troubled Dreams

The ivory Madonna
dressed in black
Fine pale pages
trimmed in jet

I have no dreams
But to open her
read her
Know her in every sense

The nubile
snow-flake princess
Vapor seed
from another place

I have no hands
But to touch her
melt her
Mixing her with my tears






Rescue Me

"Natisha
What's going on?
Do you realize that its 4:37 in the morning?"

"Rescue me."

"What?
Yes . .
What?"

"I want to see what are you feeling."
she offered
He knew better

"I-85 won't take you there."
he answered
"In fact I don't think
you can get there from here."

She looked down
scuffing the dirt
"I am not a tourist," she chided

"Look,
Take exit 32,
Hang a left.
You can figger it out from there."

"Rescue me."
She said

"I'll be there in a half hour."





Finton and Natisha
at the Bob Evan's Restaurant

She was a small,
broken angel in my hand
I wanted to take her
into the sky
to see the World
as a marble
a ball
and all your troubles,
are down there
and from here
they look so small
if you really get bored
you can zoom in
for a quick peek
to satisfy your curiosity
but up here
they can never
touch you





Natisha's Lament

Finton
I should not have told you the things I did
You were asking me about your worth
And I just couldn't believe it
I mean is it possible that you don't know

You should know
I shouldn't have to tell you
Its just what I said
I'm sorry it made you mad

Ancient history, right?
I'm not sure I agree with myself
Still thinking




Stripped

Careful
We are so careful
Careful to unravel all the daily threads
Of our tattered sleeve
So that we may cut through the flesh
And speak to each other
The bones of our soul
With a clear sincerity
You cut me
With your keen desire
Making a cavern
A hidden haven of love and affection
I mold you
your flesh
To match the whim and whirl
Of my adolescent yearnings
Frightened
Artful beings
Certain in the inner truth of us
at last
For we have seen ourselves
Stripped of the flesh
One cradled in the other



to Take It Up Again

The illness passes
The tolling bell in my head
is silent
And all that has passed
Amounts to nothing
None of this is real

Is this my strength
That my weakness passes
And I am too stupid
To learn
That I repeat my nonsense



finis

As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance


- - -
To date I have been published in over one hundred hard copy small press magazines including Star*Line, The New Press Literary Quarterly based in Flushing NY, South Ash Press, and Slug Fest Ltd.
I also have close to one hundred on-line publication credits, including The Morpo Review, Quantum Muse, Disquieting Muses, Fashion Finds Fashion Magazine, Gravity: A Journal of Online Writing, and Terrain: A Journal of the Built & Natural Environments.