Birth of Pong

Birth of Pong

  Copyright 2012 by Mechelle L. Blix

  CONTENTS

  Birth of Pong

  Pilgrimage from Cabin Fever

  The Apple Man

  Be Sure to Tip Your Minstrels

  Alpha is Alpha

  Incident with a Dreamer

  Strings

  The Sky is Falling

  Fair Trade

  Summer House

  Katherine’s Flowers

  The Comet

  Tuberculosis

  The Room

  The Coat

  A Few Degrees

  Thanksgiving

  Man Plus One in the Moon

  BIRTH OF PONG

 

  P

  L

  E

  A

  S

  E

  (plink!)

  S

  T

  O

  P

  B

  O

  T

  H

  (plink!)

  E

  R

  I

  N

  G

  M

  E.

  PILGRIMAGE FROM CABIN FEVER

  You and I,

  And your brothers,

  We are going past this fog,

  And we are going to find that

  Those twinkling things behind it,

  Those which we crave to see,

  Are really dry, dry days.

  So then we’ll use the leaves that fall

  In cascades of brown and red,

  And sometimes green,

  To paint our houses

  For when neighbors come over for dinner.

  THE APPLE MAN

  I first saw him walking

  down an old asphalt road

  Whose pavement was as cracked

  as I thought the bones in his feet had to be

  I was the only one who stared

  since I was all alone

  He was such an odd

  handsome man

  With an apple, near ripe

  for a face

  So intriguing he was,

  that I simply had to walk up to him

  And ask him his name, regardless

  of whether I actually cared

  From the way his shoulders stooped

  I could tell he was surprised

  And mildly confused, as he said,

  “I do not know.

  “I forgot my name

  some time ago. Don't ask how.

  I suppose these things just happen

  every so often.

  I just found myself

  lost, wandering aimlessly

  Blinded like I just escaped

  from a pea soup fog

  I’ve been walking like this

  ever since.”

  I felt sorry for

  and envious of him

  All at the same time

  “Do you think you’ll find it again?”

  “Perhaps

  after I walk around the world.”

  I knew it was wrong

  to keep him any longer

  So I let him go, but followed far behind him

  until my legs and mind were too tired

  But still continued to watch

  until he was swallowed by a hill.

  BE SURE TO TIP YOUR MINSTRELS

  Nice music from a violin

  Just one, alone, played by a kid, or maybe a man, after all.

  There was no accompaniment,

  No brothers, drums, or clarinets.

  There was just a bow helping a mute to sing

  A song I’ve heard, although

  Asking its name had never occurred to me before.

  I liked it that way,

  Isolated.

  It was probably why I went over to the bench where he sat

  And just stood there, listening.

  The music swelled up, reared up,

  And beat the happiness into me,

  Not an easy thing to do, if you had the day I had.

  I was impressed, so I reached into my pocket

  And pulled out a bill.

  Didn’t bother looking at the number in the corner.

  The kid or man, whose eyes had been closed, saw it

  Or maybe smelled it. It was new, stiff, and those always

  Had the most distinctive smell.

  He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry,

  But I’m just practicing.”

  The music had stopped.

  My day ruined again, I got up and left.

  ALPHA IS ALPHA

  “Close it!”

  The dogs watch

  As their Owner’s

  Owner

  Passes the yellow rectangle.

  After slamming the rotten

  Wood door,

  As she passes the smaller square,

  One of the boys howls.

  Noise is noise.

  They watch.

  They see that their Owner’s green truck

  Is in her hand.

  One dog with a bad eye whines from memory

  When he sees it’s her right, in a fist, holding it.

  Another can’t see or smell it,

  But still knows

  That what’s in the boy’s eyes is hate.

  Bone is bone.

  They watch.

  More yelling from mother and son.

  Another boy joins in.

  Soft sobs.

  A scream-slap-yelp.

  All dogs wince.

  Hand is hand.

  They watch.

  Silence.

  One dog sings to himself,

  Quietly, “Oh evening, spring!

  What would I do without your scents!”

  Then, a “Where the hell—“

  Then, her scream.

  All the dogs’ ears prick up.

  Fight is fight.

  They watch.

  The door flies open.

  The boy stands, then stomps.

  The one-eyed dog chews on a tiny shoe.

  He’s in the yard

  When he takes a swig from the woman’s liquor bottle.

  Blood is blood.

  They watch.

  He swishes the liquor in his mouth

  Sniffs, spits it out.

  The singing dog catches the bottle

  In his teeth.

  The gate slams behind the boy.

  Night is night.

  They watch.

  INCIDENT WITH A DREAMER

  I once knew a woman

  Not very well

  But I could recognize her

  When I saw her floating

  Higher and higher

  I asked where she was going

  “Beyond the Moon

  The Stars

  The Polar Lights!

  To El Dorado!

  Heaven!”

  The witch said

  And then

  She flew off

  STRINGS

  During one particularly hot, clear

  Summer night, when all the animals had

  For the moment, died from heat exhaustion,

  In her room, a young, fidgeting woman,

  Black hair damp with perspiration, couldn’t

  Fall asleep, although she thought that she was

  Dreaming, so many dull colors swirled and

  Danced before her very tired eyes, a

  Lot of blobs and spots that kept her up. She

  Turned towards her window, hoping

  Looking out at all the night, its dark blue

  Silence, might help calm her. But instead, she

  Saw the lights, thin, tiny rays that squiggled

  All about. Confused, impressed, she got
up,

  Walked across the floor, and opened wide the

  Window, to be sure the golden lines weren’t

  Only dreams, illusions crafted by the

  Stars and heat. The lights suddenly swooped in

  All around her, swirling all about her,

  Piercing clothes, skin, bone, flesh. Nothing hurt, though.

  Pain was nowhere here, until, that is, they

  Made it to her heart. It started hurting

  Very much, then, for the strings, she felt them

  Slice and sliver with the sharp precision

  Of piano wire, though it wasn’t

  Cutting but a burning. Buckled over

  On the bedroom floor, she whimpered, softly.

  Up and up! The golden strings then raised her.

  Once they had her leveled, four feet off the

  Ground, they headed for the window. Waking

  For a moment, seeing what the strings had

  Planned, she screamed, thrust out her arms, and

  Fell. A neighbor, eyes glued onto Conan

  Heard an awful noise, and thought the cops could

  Be of service. Later, morning’s red or

  Yellow light was creeping like a slug on

  Hospital beds. Doctors met her with a

  Lot of smiles when she woke up, saying

  How she’s lucky, very lucky, telling

  How they were so fortunate to save her

  Heart. She could’ve been a dead woman but

  Here she is, alive. She nods, then sleeps well.

  THE SKY IS FALLING

  She sits away from everyone.

  Just wants to be on her own.

  “Is that such a crime?” she’ll drone

  “Anyway, I might as well be alone.”

  No, she’s not broken.

  At least that’s what she’ll say,

  But her green eyes will water when

  She turns her head the other way.

  Her stars are falling,

  And all is gone

  Because no one’s calling.

  So she just goes on.

  Her sky is falling,

  And she’s long gone.

  No tears for crying.

  Just let her roam.

  They’ve all been taken from her.

  That’s what she’ll see and believe.

  She won’t know why, how, or where,

  For she’ll be the only one who leaves.

  You’ll never see her again, now,

  Just the note she left lying around.

  She’s got her jeans, and her red hair down.

  The bus stop holds her up and on the ground.

  Her stars are falling,

  And all is gone

  Because no one’s calling.

  So she just goes on.

  Her sky is falling,

  And she’s all but gone.

  No tears for crying.

  Just let her roam.

  Just let her go this minute.

  You can’t bring her back.

  Maybe she’ll get fed up with it.

  And then she’ll come back.

 

  But she’ll still say

  You don’t understand....

  Her stars are falling,

  And all is gone.

  She won’t hear you calling.

  She’ll just move on.

  Her sky is fallen,

  And she’s up and gone

  To find some tears for crying.

  Just let her go.

  FAIR TRADE

  Two writers

  Huddle up together

  By a warm fire

  And liquor bottle

  At the heart of their

  Pleasant conversation

  Is a business deal

  Regarding two hostages

  “This is a very

  Windy season,” says one

  “The windiest,” says the other,

  “But what does that matter here?”

  “Why be so cold?”

  Her friend’s hand

  Is covering the bottle’s mouth

  “In my head, it’s perfectly fair.”

  “In mine,” she says to him,

  “It’s perfectly clear.

  You are a thief

  And a genius.”

  “It fits and you know it.”

  The wind howls outside.

  “What I’ve read in the papers

  Is that they’re tired of you.”

  He steals the bottle

  For another shot

  “Also, frankly, crudely,

  I’m tired of myself.

  Plagiarism?

  More like symbiosis.”

  “You are a genius

  And a bastard.”

  She hands him the papers

  So she can get some from him.

  He looks at her title page.

  His face shrivels.

  “Damn, damn, damn.

  You were in this

  From the get-go!”

  His face is blank, like hers.

  Her mouth twitches.

  “Don’t think, ever,

  That I approve, but

  I am tired, too.”

  The papers go

  Into separate folders

  Then on separate shelves

  In various bookstores.

  They are bestsellers

  Everyone can’t put down

  All the critics can’t

  Shut up about them

  “A breath of fresh air!

  A bold, wonderful experiment!

  Finally! Someone has the nerve

  To try something new!”

  Two years later

  The writers are in

  The same spot, silently

  Picking at keyboards.

  SUMMER HOUSE

  The orange creeps

  across the grass, caressing

  (or smothering)

  each and every blade,

  whilst I recline, protected,

  by a field of plastic lavender.

  Here, I expand,

  sometimes explode.

  My brain turns to paint,

  and coats my skull

  with a vast array of shades and hues.

  Ghastly

  or

  Zen,

  all runs through me as

  I glut myself

  on words, pictures,

  and strawberry licorice.

  The orange has dissolved,

  decaying into a brackish blue,

  which only suits me,

  as the white wall blocks

  off a muddling world.

  Now, I rot, and am numb.

  The effects of my whirring

  become stilted.

  The words stick,

  my ideas seize,

  and I choke on my

  invisible perfume,

  for it is night, a time

  of desperation and exhaustion,

  a time for despair.

  It is time for sleep.

  KATHERINE’S FLOWERS

  A wonderful spring day

  A sky of sprite blue

  Warmth of the sunlight

  Rested on the skin

  As gently as a butterfly

  Ben smiled

  It was his and Katherine’s

  Anniversary

  25 years, he thought

  On this happy morning

  Wonderful morning

  Beautiful morning

  He walked through a field

  Laced with a rainbow

  Pretty reds

  Serene blues

  Social yellows

  Marvelous pinks

  And lovely

  Lovely violets

  Those, he thought

  Katherine loves the purple ones

  He gathered the purples

  Blues

  And pinks

  And couple of

  Outspoken yellowsr />
  A bouquet

  Worthy of his sweetheart

  And then he walked

  Away from the growing Eden

  To a place

  Where no flowers grew

  But were still littered about

  In unraveling bunches

  About the rocks

  Decayed and crushed

  Ben came to

  His favorite

  A slate

  Still shiny, letters crisp

  Reading

  KATHERINE JOHNSON

  FOREVER MISSED

  FOREVER LOVED

  NOW

  FOREVER WITH GOD

  And placed the wildflowers

  Amidst elder petals

  And thought

  Happy anniversary, darling

  THE COMET

  Midway between where

  My hands were stained

  In a mosaic of children’s acrylic

  And where I had become

  A giant among dwarves

  I had witnessed a star fall

  A pinpoint of light

  A tiny clump of glitter

  Miles high, miles away

  Drifting gently

  Down

  So pretty it was

  That I took notice

  So small it was

  That I quickly moved on

  Now

  That dot has grown

  To the size of a quarter

  And now it seems

  Less innocent

  Than before

  Now it’s more fiery

  Venomous

  It gave me great fear

  So I consulted the

  Magnificent Psychic

  Benevolent

  All-Seeing, All-Wise

  Bringer of a Thousand Joys and Sorrows

  Great Madame Sultra de Shartruse

  For advice

  “It’ll hit you”

  She struck bluntly

  “Whether or not it’ll kill you

  Is another story entirely

  And one you’d doubtlessly

  Rather not hear”

  So now I watch

  That glowing softball

  Grow larger

  And brighter

  Waiting for impact

  TUBERCULOSIS

  As we sit

  on the table, engaged

  in a back and forth shouting match

  with knives for words,

  I come to a realization:

  The only one who can get my pain in this

  heated argument is

  one who does not know

  what it is

  to have

  tuberculosis

  in the summer.

  As we lie

  in the chairs, bleeding

  from a miscellany

  of paper cuts and paperclip pricks,

  I come to another:

  But what does it matter

  to a lady who

  has no soul

  save for

  the one

  in her pocket?

  THE ROOM

  In here, the walls sparkle.

  They shatter light and make

  Everything dull

  The small tiles are neither diamonds nor mirrors

  For they do not reflect anything

  (Believe me, I have looked)

  They merely glitter and twitch as I pace

  Around the overgrown pedestal

  On the top of which lies

  A bed which always collapses in on itself