I broke my ink pen, while listening to The Cure, while shifting positions on my bed, while writing this poem. I didn't like the song, which made me believe that I didn't like The Cure all the much to begin with. Maybe just a couple of their old songs. I liked Love Song a lot. All in all, they were no Duran Duran. Someone is bound to agree, most are ready and willing to disagree, though. Skip to the next song.

As I shifted from lying to sitting, I had my pen between my right---no my left, thumb, index, and middle finger. I can't write while lying---lying down, I mean. I lie, fib, and bullshit all the time when I write. But I sit up to increase my awareness and so The Cure doesn't put me to sleep.

I am a little disappointed about the pen. It was a damn fine pen with silver in all the right places. My thumb, index, and middle finger broke it in half. Not quite. . . it kinda just popped open. I can twist it back, but it won't stay. This might as well be Purgatory with the way I'm twisting this thing. My expectations are soaring. Click.

If I hold it together, quite literally, hold it together. . .
It won't fall apart, quite literally, fall apart.
It's a mantra that The Cure could have sang about.
Duran Duran could done a better job.

"I can't really say when I started thinking about the world," says the old man in the thick fur hat. He looks like a friendly Van Gogh. He chews whatever it is old men chew and sits back in his seat. As the world passes by through the windows of a bus, I half listen and half stare at the drizzled scene. It has been raining for two hours. I have been on the bus for three.

"I imagine it was around the time I got married," Van Gogh goes on to say. "Back when I was in love, that was before the war, you know." I do not know. But I can imagine. Love and war, both very timeless. The old man in the thick fur hat pulls on his ear. I can also imagine that part of it is missing. Back when good friends quarrelled over paintings. It was before a war.

"We didn't know if we would see each other again. I was leaving. . ."
I nod in agreement, though there isn't anything to agree to. "We make plans, you know." That I could agree with. I nod again. "God doesn't agree with our plans." He shakes his head and tugs on his ear, still. "I saw a lot of things. I didn't know if I'd get back to her."

"And after the war was over?" I ask. Van Gogh smiles knowingly and tilts his head back against the headrest of his seat. "After the war. . ." he sighs contently. "I came home to find her hanging clothes in the backyard. She was breathtaking." I pull my gaze from the window towards the old man in the thick fur hat. "I snuck up behind her and kissed her neck."

The particulars don't interest me or maybe they do. I enjoy seeing such a happy man. He laughs. "They don't call it the baby boom for nothing." I share in his laugh, though I don't understand what absence does or how hanging laundry goes. "The world was turbulent then. I thought about it a lot." That I could agree with. I nod again.

On the train to Calcutta

I caught a disease, it mimicked malaria, but I'm not a fool. It was love.
I was sweating and and my heart raced. I could barely talk, but what does
that matter when you can't speak--- what do they speak in Calcutta?
Shit if I know. I didn't take my immunizations for love. It gives me the
shakes and the tremors and the sweats and the deliriums.

The black men in Chicago would love you.
Oh?
Yeah, you'd go over pretty well.
Like prized beef in an auction.
You know what I mean.
I'm afraid I do.
They holla at anyone.
Yeah?
Yeah, I saw this real fat black girl get on the
train with a bucket of chicken once.
Oh Jesus, a bucket of chicken?
I'm not kidding. I watched this guy
give her the look.
The look? You sure he wasn't just hungry?
He was checking her out. Like I said, You'd
go over pretty well.
I know where I'm going on vacation.
Yeah.

All I wanna to do is sit where the
smokers sit and eat french fries. I
try to be very nondescript. I do.
"I like Junior Whoppers."
Sorry?
"I like Junior Whoppers."
Oh.
"Looks like you got a picnic going on."
Yep. Just finishing up actually.
"Mmh." Tobacco pouch is pulled out. "You wanna hear something funny?"
(Silence)
"Do you? Do you wanna hear something funny?"
Sure.
I got burnt real bad on my back.
the other day. Sun burn, you know?"
(Nod)
"So my aunt says I should take a bath
with tea bags. Tea bags! I don't know,
something about the tannin helps burns."
That's true. (But why would I give a shit?)
"So here I am sitting in a bath full of
tea bags, feeling like a damn fool. . .
but dammit if it didn't work! Tea bags!
What do you think about that?"
That's something.
"Tea bags!"
Well good luck with the burn. Have
a good day.
"All right."
Nondescript.

Refugee Inspired Pants

A friend of mine owns dancing pants, his
tailor told him so.
I own a pair of refugee pants, no one
told me this, I'm just socially aware.
With no home and no ambition to find
one, I'm satisfied with their wanderings.
Dancing pants? Those are fine, if not practical.
What will they do for me?
Can they save me on the road, on the streets, on the benches, on the dirty trains, on the small tuk-tuks, on the cargo hold of a ship, on the dark forest floor of the sweating jungle?
My refugee pants are kept together and will not
lose their wits. Not under the foreign scorching sun. Not below the canopies and the stars.

My Greatest Fear

My memory is leaving me---or
I just don't respect it enough.
I've written things in haste while listening
to angry chick music, listening to Joni
Mitchell, listening to Al Green, listening
to that springy child prodigy show off,
Mozart.
I don't remember what I wrote.
And then I write it again the exact
same way.
Pound would say that's just bad writing.
That I've only got one good poem in me
and I'm writing it over and over in
mediocre ways.
I know the words, I've written them before.
I laugh the same way when I wrote
them down the first time.
My memory is in cahoots with my
sanity and they are laughing at my
madness. They shake their heads
as Joni and I search and grasp for
that one good poem.

Portrait: My Devil

"Sometimes, how something is done
makes up for what is done."
And sometimes that works in the
reverse. Should there ever be a
need for my assistance, I want you
to know that I'll be there, but my
terms will be laid out in full, just
as I expect to be paid: In full.

Sometimes there is something that
must be done and sometimes it
doesn't matter how it gets done.
Should you ever need me to be
the doer of that something,
I'll do it, just don't concern your-
self with the minor details of
how it was done.

"Untitled" for good reason

What if my name were no longer
Charish Halliburton? What if i
changed it or just never introduced
myself to anyone ever again? Who
am i without a tangible identity?
And is an identity ever tangible?

There's that girl. What girl?
How would they answer? i've
always wanted to know. What
other identities do i have that i
don't know about?
What do they say about Charish Halliburton?

American Girl

She digs mass produced things like
children and beef burritos.
Things that can be bought and sold
like souls and stocks and sofas.
She's bartered her sex and her
toaster oven for the people of her
community. Leases her life out
for pennies on the dollar, buys all
things she never needs. She's a
perfect consumer and projector.
An exceptional piece of work
manufactured by her exceptional
fore-mothers. God bless, she says
on ocassion. God bless beef burritos!

Simple Man's Music

Drip-drip.
Pitter-patter.
Ping-ping.
That's the only thing I see and hear.
It's distracting as all get up, this sound
of simplicity. This is the kind of music
a simple man
revels in.

Create, Don't Find

I'm not located somewhere that warrants
my search. I don't need to be found,
I'm right here.
I need to be continued though, built upon,
and expanded. I'd like an exploded view
of my being to be put on display.

Nothing to say, now

I didn't have anything to write about
because there was nothing worth
writing.
I could have written anything, but
you know that's not my style.
At least on appearances only, I've
got you believing that there's
method mixed with my madness.
I could have have written about
my madness. It would have been
honorable to tell you about it.
But that's not how I work,
I didn't have anything to write about
which is fine, because you can't keep
this creation shit turned on all day.
You'll run down the batteries and
won't be able to use it in emergencies.
You want to be able to get it up, later,
don't you?
Besides, bullshit, that's not my style.

Absence

Elevators have gotten larger
I've lost a considerable amount
of weight.
About one hundred and sixty three lbs.
And one hundred and fifty three weren't
even mine to begin with.
I don't trust/like thieves and shape
shifters.

But back to those elevators. They've
gotten considerably larger. They
move slower too. When an presence
within is missed . . . it is truly missed.
There was an unsafe feeling before, but
it was mixed with excitement.

Now,
it's a feeling called dread---sprinkled
with loneliness and slight. When
the wave of nausea sweeps though,
not even peppermint tea is a levee.
I talked about this didn't I? Remember?
That's why I don't consume with
the same fervor as before

There is an absence in the elevators
and a one hundred sixty three
absence in my body. . .
both are truly missed.

Windy Skirt

That is not going to work, I tell myself as we stare into the closet at a white, flouncy, cotton skirt. It will work, myself tells me.

If the sun is just right, it'll be
fine. The light will bounce off of it
and combine all the things in the
world right below your waist. Who
could ask for more?


If the wind is just right, it'll be
fine. The sly winds of the east and west
would co-mingle at a two mile an hour
breeze that lifts the hems above your
knees. Your thighs are caressed and your
hands move fast. How would you like that?