The Cardboard Night

The Cardboard Night

  by Michael Hayes

  Cover Photo by Michael Hayes

  Published by Small Stone Productions

  Copyright 2012 Michael Hayes

  ****

  ****

  Forward

  Written during my late teens and early twenties, the poems, stories and assorted mad ramblings you will find here were scribbled on scraps of paper and bar napkins in the wee hours of morning. God, existence, sex and identity seem to be the recurring themes that I was struggling with at the time and in many ways, are still the themes that motivate me today.

  While this book may not be a literary accomplishment, it is a document of a young man struggling to find his way in the world. So, after gathering dust for over twenty years, I am pleased to introduce these writings to the digital age.

  Welcome to the cardboard night.

  MJH 2012

  When these molested dreams do end,

  Allow me wake in the house of sin.

  The Cardboard Night

  Dear Reader

  To those who see the horror of life

  And with stately blank expression stare

  I offer but a solemn note

  Of hymn, of dirge, of human despair.

  To you I bellow my lone lament

  From a soul within this fleshy rot

  Of longing to know the reason we

  Who know to do good can do it not.

  Though from the dust a holy breath

  Of heavenly birth we receive,

  It is the mire of hellish lust

  We caress and do death conceive.

  For this I find no absolution

  Nor means to go and sin no more.

  Instead, I record with sadness,

  Within each virgin resides a whore.

  And thus, our lot must we endure

  While of the grave ever mindful;

  For what are we in creation

  If not of all most pitiful?

  Pages Of My Mind

  I tore the pages

  Of my mind out

  And read them

  Over and over.

  My hands remained

  Calm and soiled.

  Time’s merciless wind began to blow—

  The pages of my life

  Scattered.

  Still, I held onto a single page.

  God stared at me

  From that final page,

  But I could think only

  Of my lost pages.

  So, carefully, I folded God,

  Put him in my back pocket

  And contemplated how

  I should fill the empty

  Pages of my life.

  A Satanic Soliloquy

  [Enter Satan. His flaming eyes, taking on color like a chameleon camouflaging itself, glow red as he slowly inhales smoke from his Marlboro. He is pacing the gray world—talking.]

  SATAN. What is this evil of which they speak? Desires…and desires are evil. Flesh is evil. I…yes, I have become the very definition of evil. Act as I act and it is sinful—a willful rebellion against God. Oh, God in Heaven, my creator, He…He…

  [Stops pacing and contemplates.]

  God created me. God gave me desires and pride. I wanted only to be like my creator, but that is sin. I didn’t sin! I dared to act—to challenge the reign of God—to go against God…is wrong. Why not? He made the rules. I have heard, as you probably have, that God doesn’t make mistakes. No, no not Him—He only allows His creations to make mistakes. He created me and I turned away. So, I am the monster—Frankenstein’s monster seeking to devour the pure. Isn’t that what you’ve been told? God is a hero—not some mad scientist creating beings that can love and hate; lust and hurt…destroy each other without conscience. But, is not that my fault? God damns whom He will! He can’t destroy you. Oh, He can torture you for all eternity, but He can’t destroy you. We never, never cease to exist.

  [Satan walks away into the darkness.]

  BLACK.

  Comatose

  My existence dawned at the twilight of civilization and I have watched, laughed, cried as night has fallen and humanity slumbers.

  The angels and demons have tightened their grasps around my life—forcing me into apathetic contemplation of society’s suicide.

  At times, I think this death has been well worth the wait, but thought has been replaced by the dictation of entertainment and the individual swallowed by the arrogance of greed.

  Yet, I am no better. I refuse to lament the demise of my being as long as I can watch the ceasing of time. Like the worm in a coffin, I am bound to civilization’s corpse—becoming, to myself, a symbol of failure.

  So, it is I who lay comatose; waiting for the fire—thinking in retrospect and fear.

  Hanging

  I have lost all that is thought and the need to think has overtaken me. I’ve dragged the night into the sun—blanketed my desire for some self-serving goal that may only be reached in death. The ghost of creation has passed through me leaving only the passion to follow this foul apparition—this cloud of clinging desperation.

  That there is a world beyond my dwelling must be true! I must find a way to reach the limits of my existence. But what hope is there in such meandering drivel? I am lost; stuck within the conditioned necessity. My life is but a dead rope with which I am hanging my soul.

  Selfish

  Selfish woke me;

  Told me the story of life.

  Her ramblings carried weight

  But I wondered

  What she had to gain

  By talking to me.

  Piercing

  The piercing has entered—

  Solemn folds of feigning

  Facades collapse;

  Grinding stares accusing—

  Demanding confession.

  Yes, I have slept with your demon.

  Her radiant malice

  Seasoned my sickness.

  Her melting skin, callous

  From a thousand lovers, bruised

  The innocence of my guilt.

  Ignorance

  It is far away—

  Every dream, sin,

  Imagination rolls forward

  Begging the shadows for forgiveness.

  I carve my life out of fantasy.

  In my mind there are stories

  To quell the bastard reality.

  My ocean,

  Naked navigator,

  Soak up the sun—

  Strip the hair from my body;

  A skinned mount

  Bursting from the savage hand of soil.

  Leave me to this womb!

  I revel in my ignorance.

  Love And Hate

  Upon contemplating the actions of humanity, Hate concluded that he is the most powerful emotion and sought out Love so he could boast. Hate found Love walking alone through a meadow and approached her, saying, “My dear Love, observe all the murders and violent acts humans commit against each other and compare them in number to the charitable acts you so encourage. Love, it is clear that my power far exceeds what power you may have.”

  Love paused and graciously retorted, “You speak of violence and assume that such acts are only born of you, but I submit that a person will fight to protect that which they love. Even wars have been born of me.”

  “Yes,” Hate argued, “but I brandish the sword in such wars, because I do not confuse anyone with the thought that their enemy may also carry love into battle. I confirm each combatant’s hatred by confirming that their enemy also hates them!”

  “Have you not noticed that when you send your terrorists to devour life I raise up multitudes in the name of compassion?”

  “I notice how your multitudes are driven by my rage to bring pu
nishment upon those who terrorize them.”

  Stumped for a moment, Love pondered, “What of all the holidays and celebrations when people give out of love for each other? Surely, you have seen my strength.”

  “Those are but a few out of hundreds of days! Besides, they give more out of tradition and obligation than love.”

  Tears welled in Love’s eyes when she realized that indeed Hate has more followers. Hate smiled wickedly, convinced that he is the stronger. Love took a deep breath and said in her soft, low voice, “But I am stronger. People die because of you, while others die for me.”

  Hate said nothing.

  The Frightened Ones

  Sleep ripped my head open and forced me the answer. Sleep asked if I remembered the desert and the dunes—the frightened ones and the hand in power pressing their bodies into the sand.

  I remembered the vision and the screaming and how I had felt helpless.

  Sleep stretched my head further and told me that I am one of the frightened trapped in the sand—unable to stop the hand of oppression—unable to free even myself.

  I Take Absence

  An intestinal worm, this life!—sucking my strength as I reflect the frailty of my beliefs. I have been cursed by myself, but I want to place blame—this detached mind rotting a deeper forest; purple, silent intoxication—dragging my body through the bramble limbs and isolation of nausea.

  It is my thoughts that betray me—these idle bastards forming nonsense—begging to be my guide light. You demons need no more speak to me—I will heed nothing save the nakedness of my soul.

  Be gone this life of a torn mind! Be gone these voices of searching—you are killing me. I take absence.

  Sweating

  Sweating, swollen head shaking,

  Shaking like a virgin raped—

  My throat is raw—

  My lungs make me cry.

  And this is sober—

  My little dance is ending

  With no one to share the last step—

  No one to tip the band.

  New With Despair

  Brother, the world is new with despair and old fools washing the drool from dogs’ mouths—learning the language howling from empty throats; a ripple in the pavement to stumble forth bodies sucking blind meaning—genitals of war torn flesh ripe with bullets glowing in the freshness of the kill—fools in the coward field planting pleasures tried and withered—scorched lips wrapped around the pipes of strangers who flap madly against the dust consuming their wings—a feather in the rain dance.

  Brother, I’ll hobble away leaving my feet stuck in the setting stone of a world too big for my darkness.

  Invisible

  I’m almost invisible—

  Silence woven into a fall.

  Almost definable—

  Rejoicing at the end of this question.

  It has been called life

  And I say so what—

  This is not the form

  These are not my surroundings.

  And Alone

  And it is written in the same time, the same place everything must endure. Revolving moments of anticipated happiness closing fast on grasping lives—anything will do but nothing does.

  And the same is heard—the same indistinguishable machine marching perfect lines, marking perfect boarders—life lumped into a plot to take up arms and bear fangs of distance, mistaken identity, and alone.

  And alone is the same we all understand.

  To The Wings

  To the wings I would rest

  At peace with the wind.

  To the earth I would smile

  And belong willingly

  Within the sky’s framework,

  But how quickly I learned

  That there is no place of comfort—

  No sober solace

  Where breathing comes naturally

  And alone is a choice.

  Sink Me

  Sink me into the apparition.

  I will find a place to call my own

  Within insect arms—

  To bleed my sickness

  And spread it along my boarders,

  A mountain’s foot

  To burrow inside—

  A damp dirt to fill my mouth.

  Solo, My Lord

  Liken earth to my flesh—

  I will destroy the earth.

  Given truth—

  I will honor my own desires.

  I am what shall be

  Or there shall be none.

  Solo, my Lord.

  What is the image of God?

  Pointlessly, I Stand

  Pointlessly,

  I stand

  Against flailing tongues of prophets.

  Pointlessly,

  I stand

  Against flickering souls of saints.

  Pointlessly,

  I stand

  Against floundering prayers of priests.

  Pointlessly,

  I stand

  And have stood

  For nothing…

  I carry the cross for the new messiah—

  He who rises from the east

  To mystify my doubt.

  When this cross has become

  Heavier than life,

  Rape the soil with it

  And crucify me.

  A Burden

  Must I drag this cross behind me? It rakes a valley through my landscape and I want to leave no trail—no one to follow; no direction for my return. This limp life crawling beneath my doubt—if I run it will pursue.

  I should cut my feet on the roughest way until the burden post becomes a splinter, but who will be left to pull it out of my tired foot and offer it to me upon a plate of silver? Who will make ceremony out of my torture.

  Tears

  I

  The water is cut

  By a redbird’s tear

  Stains of pain

  Dripping from the sky

  Silhouetted by the moon

  Behind the mist

  The fog

  Blue-green waters

  Swallow the tear

  Echoing song

  Weaving melodies

  Into the mist

  The fog

  Against the moon

  II

  When beads of love

  Fall

  From the eyes

  Of another

  I pray

  Let them fall

  On me—

  Just once

  A Pretty Birdhouse

  “It’s a pretty birdhouse we live in,” said mother. “Come in off the ledge! If you fall, there’s no guarantee that you will fly.”

  …But I’m happy here—this feeling that I’m free—I’ve seen things and done without the fear of second thought—Can’t you tell I’m happier…

  “We’re too high off the ground, and the wind is swift and cold. You may die and I cry for your soul.”

  …But these fears you have are tired—I will never be a bird who flies with the breeze and cowers in the comfort of your wings…

  “I’m afraid for you my son—so afraid I can’t sleep. You are the beating of my heart and it’s so clear to me—I see a cat approaching.”

  The Firefly

  The firefly shuddered its wings

  Turned angrily toward the sun,

  And screamed,

  “Why must you hide my worth?”

  Not wanting to be bothered,

  The sun slid behind the horizon.

  “Ah, the world must see my beauty,”

  Boasted the firefly as it soared

  Higher—

  Determined to replace the sun.

  Having heard enough,

  The sun quietly called upon a new day.

  The firefly,

  Blinded by its own glow,

  Proclaimed,

  “I give light to the earth!”

  The Simpleton

  “Who granted this idiot my counsel?”

  Raged wisdom as a simpleton
>
  Stumbled through his valley.

  “It is my lack of direction

  That brought me here—

  Nothing else,” the simpleton answered.

  “Tell me idiot, do you remember

  Which path you followed?”

  “Sir, I followed no path.

  I didn’t know such a road existed.”

  No Ordinary Jesus

  You offered no ordinary Jesus

  No crown of thorns

  To purify my flesh.

  You stood

  At the edge of my garden

  Your teeth hung low

  To whisper my name—

  Strange syllables

  On your lips

  Tempted my soul.

  You breathed. I

  Inhaled existence—

  Accepting your invitation,

  Ignoring cries from the fear

  Of half a man

  Pressed against life’s mirror.

  Cartoon Bruises

  Take on these cartoon bruises

  Coloring my paper flesh—

  You placed me

  Beneath this cross

  But I can no longer play

  Your part.

  Come see misguided casualties

  Strapped to the earth

  By their own blood—

  Fool me into believing

  I could win their martyr’s game

  By embracing the subtle pain

  Entwined in the scribbled verse

  Of a diseased mind.

  Tell me that I’m your voice

  Laughing in the face of sin—

  But you, God,

  Are not as kind

  To give what cannot be taken.

  Across Dry Fields

  Shrieks and pain

  Fall

  Across dry fields of summer heat.

  Tumbling wind,

  Tumbling sky,

  Tumbling shrieks

  Of an earthen cry

  Across dry fields of summer heat.

  I lie awake

  Listening