Chronicles: A Deviation

For me, high school began halfway through my sophomore year.  I founded my online journals, started writing poetry, and talked to people other than my best friend Tom.  That was also when I met Lucy.  She was my sweet, sweet reason for online journals and poetry.

Lucy showed me how to channel my emotions into scribbles and writings.  Lucy showed me how to smile.  How to laugh.  How to cry.  Then Lucy showed me how to give the look.  How to kiss.  How to take off a bra with one hand.  Lucy even taught me the Starburst trick.  I started asking questions later.  I didn’t like the answers.


Lucy was a lollipop,
so sugar-sweet and round;
a candy store obsession that
would turn my life around.

Lucy was a lollipop
(her wrapper came off quick),
it seemed that all the boys in town
already had a lick.

Lucy was a lollipop
that hardly cracked her shell,
but once she opened up I was
a victim to her spell.

Lucy was a lollipop
because, you see, the lass
was sugar-coated but still had
a large stick up her ass.


Alright, fine.  Maybe I still hold a little grudge.  Maybe she was my first girlfriend, but I was her thirteenth boyfriend.  Maybe that got to me.  Maybe she called me an immature cockface.   Maybe I called her a cuntfuck whorebag.   Maybe we didn't break up on the best of terms.

Maybe Tom was right when he said I was better off without her.  That she was killing me from the inside out.  That she didn't have the stability I needed in my life.  Maybe.  

I guess.

After Lucy, time passed quickly.   The break-up was followed by months of depression and terrible writing.  I turned to Tom, still a year away from his first major relationship and subsequent heartbreak.  When they were passing out brains, Tom thought they said drains and got himself a sinkhole.  

        His advice was more sophistry than wisdom, but it gave me a post to lean on.  Soon I was a junior, and I needed a girl in my life again.  Attribute it to instinct, media pressure, overactive libido, whatever.   Hormones schmormones.

A wise man once said that as a two-headed creature, man never had enough blood to keep both running at the same time.  I didn't really want a girl, I wanted a female body.  Personality optional.  Desperate, I asked out some bodies.  Two bodies, to be exact.  

The first was Alison.  I can’t paint a verbal picture of her.  Every Jane Doe gets a poem, even the ones that shouldn't.  Subjecting Alison to the same process would be blasphemy.

It was the day of the leadership seminar.  A nearly-bald man wearing a toupee taught me how to stop caring what others thought of me.  Leave my comfort zone.  Focus on my objective and grab it.  Right when I got home, I called Alison to ask her out.  I left my comfort zone and dove right in.  

She picked up.  I said hi.  I asked her out.  She said no.  I mourned for a full fifteen seconds before moving on.

All I had to do was ask out some other body.  Distraction comes to mind.  The next one said yes.  Her name was Amber, and she certainly had a body.  A face to match it, too.  She was everything I didn't care about. Charming. Gentle.  Loving.  Emotional.  She had a way about her.  Undeniable beauty.   She filled my senses with all those stupid clichés and that trite pretentiousness you wish you could avoid, but just can’t escape.


I looked tonight at your eyes, two jewels set in the softest ivory.    I saw two reflections, lunar and glowing, that danced with pure wonder in an angel's eyes.

I listened tonight to your voice; by these ears, it seemed to me a bittersweet harmony of life and love juxtaposed and open to strike a chord – certainly major – for this was no minor moment of angel's whispers.

I smelled tonight the sweet rose that bloomed so late this rapturous spring.  An intoxicating scent that no bottle could hold, no man could resist, simply a combination of beauteous distinction and an angel's aroma.

I tasted tonight, oh, what a flavor.  I savored this night a zest to my mouth – sweet honey to my soul!  As if a wretched mortal, as I am, could sample ambrosia and nectar together.  Oh I have been sublimely blessed by angel's lips.

I touched tonight my voyage's maiden and held her close to my blushing heart; parting as it were defied.  Sweet sorrow, I know not the location nor the destination back to the moon, lunar and glowing.  I do know that the last of love I saw on this very night was my beautiful angel's wings.


We broke up over a misunderstanding.  I didn't know what a healthy relationship was.  She didn't know what a third date privilege was.  

Tom might have been upset with me.  Maybe he wanted some body.  Maybe he wanted her body.  Maybe he called me a backstabbing bastard.  Maybe we didn't talk much after that.

My best male and female friends were gone, and with them, my conscience.  I soon discovered the joys of promiscuity.   Friends with benefits.  Strangers with benefits.  Commitment was not in the picture anymore.  I rode along for a few weeks, then Laura found me.   She opened my eyes a bit.


Laura was a motormouth who spoke vehicular symphonies;
she squeaked and squawked and spoke so much -- her cackles were cacophonies!
her lips were full (from overuse), she chortled even when we bopped,
but then she moved to college, lost her telly, so we simply

stopped.


Yes, she was annoying.   Even she will admit it.  However, she had a come-hither smile and a wonderful set of breasts.  She was my employer, in a way.  She showed me the positions available, and I made sure to the fill the openings.  

Commitment was not in the picture, and neither was Laura after two eye-opening weeks.  During the third week, I discovered other joys.   One was Kate.


cherry blossoms shade
your moonlit porcelain face —
a night built from dreams.


Kate.  Her name makes me sigh.  We spent a week in each others’ arms.  Watching movies.   Watching each other.  Listening to each others' heartbeat.  

I never dared kiss her.  There I was, full of masculine confidence, but my lips never touched hers.  Her hands, yes.   Once her cheek.  Those lips, though...I couldn't bring myself to do it.  Some treasures are better left to those who deserve it.

The other joy was a whimsical gal named Lizzy.  Never a drag.  Wonderful dancer.   Incredible kisser.  Fluffy, watery eyes.   Auburn sun-streaked hair.  Gorgeous as can be.  There was a problem, though.  Lizzy was not a bright girl.  

When they were handing out brains, Lizzy thought they said Easter and forgot what she was doing.


There once was a girl named Lizzy
who set my heart in a tizzy;
my girl, so dear,
then found some beer,
and wound up with Tom getting busy.


I confronted Lizzy.  It was a shame to break things off.  For a few weeks, she had kept a naïve smile in my face.  It was over in minutes.  It was surprisingly harsh on us both.

A wise man once said that the best part of the breakup is the makeup.  Needless to say, Lizzy and I found it in our hearts and in our pants to forgive each other.

Maybe I talked to Tom afterwards.  Maybe he went after me with an empty beer bottle.  Maybe he broke it open on my shoulder.  Maybe he tripped in a drunken stupor just before my left foot caught him squarely in the ribs.  Maybe we called it a draw.

Life was a controlled frenzy.  Work and school always managed to throw a wrench into things.  Lizzy and Kate kept my gears greased, though.  Everything ran smoothly for a few more weeks.  Late October was the only bump in the road.   Kate wanted to date.  

So then it was just Lizzy and me.  

Go ahead.  Call me heartless.  The way I looked at it, whatever didn't kill her would make her stronger.  I was helping her.  That’s what I told myself.

A few days later, and it’s a sopping November day in the football practice field with Alison.  We were a guy and a girl, friends.  The clouds bent from pressure.   Sputtering rain was everywhere.  It was as if a great thumb was holding the end of some celestial hose, jiggling from time to time to let the bursts out.  The whole sky could give way at any moment.

We traded stares, smirking and looking down to pull grass.  Then her smirk bent, her face contorted.  Suddenly Alison's voice exploded into sobs and showers while she confessed her love for me.  She shuddered with each clap of thunder and I held her fragile in my arms.  There we were, the new king and queen of Nature's Ball.  We smiled rainbows and took our bows.  Together.


The creatures of the night have taken a pleasant face to start this Danse Macabre.  Fireflies flicker about us as we sway to the rhythm of the other night owls.  A few drunk crickets join in during the chorus.  They always forget the words, but no one ever seems to mind.  Our feet are springs, our arms are wings.  We jump and fly around, our robes doing a ditty in the wind.  Our kingdom is alive, darling, and you are my queen.    Soon a cold shrill from the trumpet of the night will send us to our separate quarters.  For now, just let this moment live.  Let me hold you in my arms and eyes, so that my memory may never let go.

But these standstill times will surely be swept into motion once more.  The tide-steady progression will wash us away.  I ask that we may be taken together then, and the sun may shine on us as one.  And in our shrinking shadows, those creatures will once again put on their guise while they mourn the leaving of their dear royalty.


Things with Alison were heavenly.  We reinvented witty banter.  We scoffed at the stupidity of the world.  We cuddled silent under her oak tree for hours.  It took a full ten days before I even noticed it.

We hadn't kissed.

I was fine with it.  She would come around.  We had play fights, pillow fights, tickle fights.  When Alison was tired, she'd fall into me and hardly ever let go.  Ten more days of joy went by.

We hadn't kissed.

No sweat.  If she was a lesbian, I would have discovered it by now.  She was mine.  My Alison.  My Queen Nimbus.  My woman of wax.  We went to the movies a few times.  She always found the best spots to make sarcastic remarks.  She'd regally dance from my car to her front steps like a leaf in the breeze.  It was a sight to behold.  Ten days later.

We hadn't kissed.

We broke up after forty days.  We never kissed.  The night we broke up is still foggy in my memory.  A wise man once said that things end as things begin.  Wise men always seem wise, but they never tell you how to deal with a month and a half of sexual frustration.  

My coping method was simple.  Her name was Veronica.


he stands and walks then stops and runs
through straight and narrow (twisted fates)
he checks and slows then sighs and goes
she sits and taps and thinks and waits

he wonders/ponders: sink or swim
he slides his hands he grabs his skin
he races stumbles breathes then stares
he wants no sinner just the sin

you're slow says she i know says he
the dynamite is firmly packed
he winks she hops he steps (-she drops-
her eyes her hair the shades -the act-)

please close the door (your eyes) says she
oh no i'll shut them hard say he
his sight then night and void of light
she lets him feel what he can't see

red lips like jigsaws slip then lock
red hearts beat fast but (not) afraid
he feels she squeals this time reveals
white lovers turn a darker shade.


If you didn't pick it up yet, things went quickly with Veronica.  It was a matter of perspective.  Alison found bliss in my embrace.  Veronica found bliss in my jeans.  She had searing eyes that burned through me.  She had smooth but powerful hands.  For the first time, I wasn't in control of the relationship.  I liked it.

A wise man once said that you can't hurry love.  Well, maybe it was Phil Collins.  The point remains.  Veronica wanted more than just benefits.  She wanted a title.  I was having fun fooling around, but her eyes burned my lips shut while her hands threw me against the wall.  I had to make a stand.

I told Veronica that I couldn't be in that kind of a relationship any longer.   It was starting to wreck my sleeping habits.  It was also leaving marks that were very hard to cover up without a wide array of turtlenecks.  Veronica asked me to reconsider.  I asked her to let us go our separate ways.  Veronica begged.  I stood firm.  Veronica kicked me in the groin.  I yelped.  

Maybe it was about time.  Maybe I was asking for a good one-way Rochambeau match.  Maybe what goes around comes around.  Maybe my karma caught up with me.

So here I am.  Single.  Friendless.  Clutching an ice pack.   Reproductive organs and ego both badly injured.  I don't suppose a moral is anywhere in sight.  Irony, yes, but no moral.

For me, high school began halfway through my sophomore year.  I founded my online journals, started writing poetry, and talked to people other than my best friend Tom.  Looking back, it was the journey that mattered.  A wise man once said that everything you have, you carry with you.  All I have is an icepack and a voicemail from Alison.  Excuse me, I have a call to make.