Archive for March, 2013

March 30, 2013

Underneath The Pavilion

pavilionvintage

Contains explicit language

In the park adjacent to my childhood stood a pavilion – a structure affording scenic views; used for pleasure and relaxation.

The Pavilion was built in the 1920’s. Its wooden structure withstood the elements: summers packed with drunken softball players, winters scattered with pot dealers, coded carvings left on railings and tables and doors and walls by young graffiti lovers.

I remember the fun my Brother and I had hiding underneath it, peeking through the floorboards above.

On humid summer nights, during softball games, Mothers and Fathers escorted their Children to the concession counter to buy treats: popcorn, ice cream drumsticks, soda in the can, peanuts, cotton candy. We would poke the bottom of patrons’ feet with popsicle sticks, making the kids cry who were too young to rat us out.

Sometimes I would hide there alone. That was when I learned things.

On a crisp fall night while the park was empty and everyone was at the football game across town, a Boyfriend took a Sister into The Pavilion to fuck her in a bathroom stall.

On a blustery winter day, when the trees had no leaves, she told him she was getting an abortion. She never told anyone.

On a mild spring morning before Mothers took their Children to the nearby playground, an unmarried Uncle met his gay Lover of whom he never spoke. He never told anyone.

A Son met Penthouse magazines hidden in a garbage can. His right hand met his shaft.

A Daughter met a Stranger who ruptured her hymen.

A Husband met his Mistress.

A Cousin met another Cousin.

A Niece and a married Couple.

A Nephew and a Neighbor.

A Brother and Sister.

A Father a Daughter.

Uncle Stepson

Second Cousins

Aunt

Wife

Mother

Grandfather

Grand-

daughter

Dog

Underneath The Pavilion, I learned about the structure of family.

March 24, 2013

Winter Blue

The winter of my youth was always blue and vacant.

Dim and neglectful, the sun veiled his secrets,

Forgetting about me – the summer boy.

Instead, the moon was my blue sun.

Funny that the moon shines brighter on a winter’s night,

Than the sun on a winter’s day.

In the day snow is tinted in a powder blue.

But at night the blues are richer, quieter, lonelier.

On those nights,

I would stand in the middle of a field,

A baseball field hidden underneath the snowdrifts.

I stared beyond the thinning film of boyhood into crisp constellations of midnight blue.

I searched to see where my whys would go.

I thought they would find their way to the sun,

Where he was warming the faces of other lost boys like me.

I waited for an answer in the winter blue.

As I looked back at my juvenile footprints in the moonlit snowpack,

Bordered in a blue so restless,

Formed by the weight of my precocious feet,

The unsatisfied prints deepened with each returned why.

Moon, Konishima 1922 (PD-1923)

Moon, Konishima 1922 (PD-1923)

TreeHouse Arts

For the Artists, by the Artists

Archetype

Where one writer and observer of the human condition shares what she's reading, writing, and thinking...

At The Wellhead

Soundings From a Protean Aquifer

%d bloggers like this: