Author Archives: parmanifesto

Dye

Posted on by

The week before Easter the rain descends upon the city. It gathers everything in its toothless mouth and gums until everything is glop. Across the street from our house, in a tree, there is a pale plastic bag hung on a branch. It looks like the shroud of a ghost. It sags as though it once carried something heavy and now is empty.

The local newspaper’s website reports that publicly funded food assistance is a fraud. Some recipients sell their food cards for cash. Some for drugs. The newspaper subscribers comment about what should be done.

A detective knocks on our door and warns of a young man in a dark hooded sweatshirt who has been abducting young women and assaulting them in abandoned garages. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” He asks. I look around the neighborhood. “What is out of the ordinary?” I ask.

At Bible Study the children attempt to dye eggs and succeed in dyeing their hands; it looks like they have strangled rainbows. With water and soap they rinse and wash and rinse and wash but the stains are still there.

The week after Easter the rain descends again upon the city. Most of the bag is gone; a few tattered strips are the only evidence of it. Something must have carried it away.

Children of God

Posted on by

Even as a child I hated children. I saw them as messengers from Satan. He planted mockery in their moist minds and it bloomed out of their mouths and I kept that vile bloom in a vase. I grew up changing the water, giving it fertilizer, keeping it alive. Until as an adult I hated children.

Then God asked me to move into this community house, in a neighborhood swarming with children.

“God!” I laughed, “You are so funny.”

“I am,” He replied, “But now I’m serious.”

God has a sense of humor, but I have no sense, so often he is reduced to a running joke, which runs me over until I understand.

“God!” I shouted, “I’ll move in. Are you happy?”

“I am,” He replied, “Now do it.”

So I did. I took things down and put them up. I lifted things up and set them down. I sat down and I stood up. I thought, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know why I’m doing it.

And the children came unto me. Loudly.

Actually, they came unto a weekly bible club. It’s led by my 4 housemates, who in personality and/or appearance resemble a Doberman Pinscher, a Border Collie, a Golden Retriever and a Beagle. They make a good team.

I am the Chihuahua. At every child’s squeal, my eyes bulge and my body trembles.

This week the leader is talking about how even though Jesus was God, He washed the feet of people. Even those He didn’t like. Even His enemies.

The leader requests that the children remove their socks. After reveling in a theatrical ecstasy of disgust, they do. He takes old ice cream buckets and fills them with water. His big hands lower their little feet into the water. Their squeals sound different.

“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say, but none of us hear me.

I watch and wait. I wait and watch. Long, longer, too long, long enough.

“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say again.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone left,” The leader says.

Sadness settles around my heart. Something was opened for a moment, and I didn’t enter it. The children did.

Exorcise

Posted on by

In the locker room at YMCA. (Chase those singing villagers out of your head.)

An awkwardly arousing wrestling match of sickening and exciting starts in my stomach at the sight of male flesh exposed everywhere – some of it arranged in piles, some in wrinkles, some in slabs, some in shapes. But really, there are only two categories: The men who should never take their clothes off, and the men who should never put their clothes on. And this man, who can’t take his clothes off or put his clothes on around those men.

But shoes – I can do shoes. Unlace, loosen, but not remove. I am not even making sock contact with that floor. How absurd it would be to have athlete’s foot and not be an athlete.

Belt – I can do belt. Unbuckle, slide, brandish. Just try to challenge my manhood, just try. I’ll wrap this belt around your neck so fast  – unless you’re into that – in which case I’ll beat you over the head with my iPod. It’s a 20G. The fucker is old and heavy. You’re not into that, are you.

I’m warily eyeing my pants when I realize this is like the nightmare where I haven’t studied and there’s a test. This metaphor is shrewder than any Shakespearean heroine. I haven’t been in a locker room since HIGH SCHOOL – that crock-pot filled with fear and seasoned with hormones.

My High School had a Young Men’s Christian Association. Not affiliated with the national organization, they focused less on being Christ and more on being an ass. They excluded me to identify them. I identified me by their exclusion. It wasn’t a fair trade. But I got out of there. And I got in here.

I’m thinking about all of this and still looking at my pants when I think I should look up. I do.

None of the men are looking at me.

Border Services

Posted on by

(The America Canada Border Crossing at Blue Water Bridge. I drive the car into a booth. The BORDER AGENT is an Aryan Archetype with a mole that accentuates his perfection. He has progressed beyond politeness and is exempt from eye contact.)

BORDER AGENT: Why are you visiting Canada?

ME(A schoolboy happy to know the answer): To see a friend.

BORDER A.: What’s this friend’s name?

ME: Brant. (Pause. Amiably American) I don’t know how to pronounce his last name.

BORDER A.: How did you meet this friend?

ME: Through couchsurfing.

BORDER A.(Disgusted with humanity): Through what?

ME: Couchsurfing? It’s an online network of travelers who stay with one another when they travel. (Does this sound suspicious?)

BORDER A.(This sounds suspicious): Have you ever met this person before?

ME: Yes. (That is a lie! I just lied!)

BORDER A.(Resembling a Doberman Pinscher): When?

ME: A year ago. (I lied AGAIN!)

BORDER A.: Where?

ME: In the states. (I LIED AGAIN!)

BORDER A.: Where in the states?

ME: In Milwaukee. (I can’t stop pulling lies out of my mouth! I’m like a magician with a colored scarf!)

BORDER A.(With deeply internalized rage): Take this paperwork and pull under that blue canopy.

ME(If I don’t take the paperwork do I have to pull under the blue canopy? Taking the paperwork): All right.

(I pull under the blue canopy and promise the car that nothing is wrong, but it can feel my sweaty palms on its steering wheel; it begins to panic. BORDER AGENT 2 and 3 arrive; 2 searches the car and 3 asks all the same questions, adding a few of his own.)

BORDER AGENT 3: Step out of the car please. (I do.) Is this your car?

ME: No, it’s my mom’s.

BORDER A. 3: Does she know you have it?

ME(No. I told her we were going to the zoo, but instead I stopped at a street corner, snatched her purse and kicked her out. She’s probably wandering around offering her wedding ring to strangers for a ride): Yes.

BORDER A. 3: Do you have your own car?

ME(I also have my own middle finger. Would you like to see it?): Yes.

BORDER A. 3: Who has your car?

ME: My mom.

BORDER A.3: So you switched cars.

ME(And we switched minds. I’m her right now.): Yes.

BORDER A. 3: How long is your stay in Canada?

ME(You tell me.): Until this Monday.

BORDER A. 3: When do you go back to work?

ME: Tuesday.

BORDER A. 3: Which Tuesday?

ME: This Tuesday.

BORDER A. 3: Well it comes every week. (Huffy and handing me paperwork) Take this to the inside office.

ME(Are you sure I shouldn’t shoot myself first?): All right.

(I enter the office and walk towards the roped line when I am interrupted by BORDER AGENT 4.)

BORDER AGENT 4: Just come up here.

ME(But I love roped lines. Ever since I was a kid.): All right. (I hand him the paperwork. He asks all the same questions and adds a few of his own.)

BORDER A. 4: How much money do you have?

ME: $9 in quarters.

BORDER A. 4(Laurence Olivier doing Shakespeare): $100 IN QUARTERS?

ME(Disoriented): No, $9?

BORDER A. 4(Disappointed): Oh. (Victorious) How are you going to pay for anything?

ME: I have a debit card.

BORDER A. 4: Oh.

ME: Yeah.

BORDER A. 4: Do you live with your parents?

ME: No.

BORDER A. 4: Who do you live with?

ME: My roommate.

BORDER A. 4: Oh. (Handing me the paperwork.) Take this to the agent outside.

(I exit the office and hand the paperwork to BORDER AGENT 3.)

BORDER A. 3: Thanks. Welcome to Canada.

Solong

Posted on by

“Do you have–”

A karaoke bar in Milwaukee is more likely to have an AA meeting than this song. The part of my ego is overplayed by a Fop, who raises a handkerchief to his nose, ready to whip out a fan when the answer is no. But before I finish asking he starts answering:

“Just write it down.”

Effrontery from a karaoke vendor! Fop and fan flail like an injured bird; painted lips prepare for a reproach. Steady, alliteration. Steady, ego. Steady, hand. Just write it down. We do. After viewing many vocal achievements of skill and shamelessness, the vendor finishes answering my question:

“OK, now here’s Ben, singing ‘This Train Don’t Stop There Anymore.'”

They have it! Now I have to do it. Those resigned piano chords trudge towards a beginning. While I am singing, I do not imagine Elton John, or Justin Timberlake playing Elton John. A screen displays the lyrics, my biography:

I used to be the main express / All steam and whistles heading west / Picking up my pain from door to door / Riding on the storyline / Furnace burning overtime / But this train don’t stop / This train don’t stop / This train don’t stop there anymore.

It was east, not west, but everything else is right. I was uncommon; by thirty I was going to be “pretty f—ing amazing.” A creature believing it could recreate itself.  My Own Private Id raced through a dark tunnel of desire.

When I said that I don’t care / It really means my engine’s breaking down / The chisel chips my heart again / The granite cracks beneath my skin / I crumble into pieces on the ground.

Broken, chipping, cracking and crumbling. This is how a Sculptor creates a sculpture. I’m not scared.

The song is over. Everyone is staring. Returning the mic to its holder, I step away from the screen.

Fuck off, we’re full.

Posted on by

The words are displayed across a map of the United States, like a gang tag on a brick wall, declaring turf war. Justifying this crass indictment of immigration are some helpful facts about what other countries do with unwanted humanity: imprisonment, execution. I shake my head in shame for the author. I know better!

I know I am no better.

Joseph and Mary knocked on one door. “Fuck off, we’re full.” And another. “Fuck off, we’re full.” And another. “Fuck off, we’re full.” And finally, in a stable, she gave birth to God’s son. Animals had more respect for Jesus than men.

The poor knock on our door. “Fuck off, we’re full.” Ex-offenders. “Fuck off, we’re full.” Homosexuals. “Fuck off, we’re full.” And Jesus is knocking.

Correspondence

Posted on by

To the voice of my first and second childhood:

I have never written to an author.

Suddenly I’m reminded of that scene in Sleepless in Seattle – have you seen it? Meg Ryan is composing a letter (with the assistance of Rosie O’Donnell) to Tom Hanks and she begins it by saying, “I have never written a letter like this in my life,” and Rosie says, “that’s what everyone writes at the beginning of letters to strangers.”

So my opening lacks originality. But, as C.S. Lewis says, “no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

So I must simply try to tell the truth.

Your writing has uncovered parts of me that have not seen sunlight for years: mystery, purity, creativity, possibility…all considered spare parts once we reach adulthood. You make it clear these are the only parts worth saving.

When I finished reading The Changeling tonight I started crying and couldn’t stop, just like Martha. I suddenly felt as though someone knew me and was saying my name over and over, each time with more love than the last.

I hope I haven’t embarrassed myself, or you. I just had to tell you.

Ben

P.S. I can’t imagine how many letters you receive of this kind, but if you ever want to see how you influenced one of your fans, watch my poetry reading: https://parmanifesto.wordpress.com/poetry/

—————————————————

Hello Ben,

I loved what you wrote about “uncovering parts of you that have not seen sunlight for years.” And I found your poetry intriguing. I can understand why you related well to Ivy and Martha. Thanks for writing.

Zilpha K. Snyder

Remaking

Posted on by

To the introvert, the mirror is the window. I stand before it this morning, looking out on my landscape.

Feathery auburn firmament. Two small oceans of pale blue, surrounded by white sand. One gigantic shell on the right side of each ocean. Two tunnels leading into blackness. A canyon of supple crimson, protected by faint yellow boulders. The terrain is inflamed and pockmarked.

Sorry, but I’m the only local, so I do all of the complaining and all of the listening.

Most mornings, I call in the planes, which dust the landscape with a beige powder that forgives most of the topographical flaws. But this morning I am tired. I don’t care what the tourists think anymore. No, that’s not it. I remember who made it.

Any Kind

Posted on by

She always seems to be posing for an Edvard Munch portrait: the splash of startled agony on her face, diluted milk skin, bowed slender appendages.

The roommate and I have often wallpapered over her personhood with explanations: mental illness, physical illness – so intoxicated with the fumes of our rational paste that we forgot our own illnesses. We are afraid: of her, for her, of ourselves, for ourselves.

Today (like every day) she is sitting on an office chair on an outdoor patio, near the front entrance of the apartment building. Just what is her occupation? Bouncer? Secretary? Gargoyle? I smile and say hello, as I do every time she is in her office. In response, her eyes widen like Malcolm McDowell in the eyelids-forcibly-pried-open part of A Clockwork Orange. Or Gloria Swanson in any part of Sunset Boulevard.

I am about to flee the scene of the kindness; I am about to close the thick curtains of disregard over my glass block sympathy; when her hand rises into the air like a periscope. Her mouth opens to reveal a dark graveyard with evenly spaced tombstone teeth and it says, “are you going out again?”

Doorman! That’s what she is. I didn’t know. “Oh,” I stammer, “No. Well, yes. In a little while.”

She leans towards me. “Would you buy me some cigarettes?”

“Oh,” I walk towards her, “yes.”

“I’ve been jonesing for a cigarette,” she says, trembling towards her concept of a standing position, then staggering like a zombie grandmother into her apartment. She reemerges carrying some crinkled bills. I ask her what kind.

“Menthol 100s.”

“Oh. What kind?”

“Any kind.”

Later, I walk to the closest gas station and ask for Menthol 100s.

“What kind?” Asks the clerk.

“Any kind,” I respond.

“I’ll get you the cheapest.”

I am on the way back, when I see a squirrel running away from another one that’s not moving. I walk towards the one that’s not moving. He is dead, laying on his belly, appendages outstretched in every direction, just inches from the curb. So perfectly preserved; he must have been stolen from a taxidermist. Eyes like dark frozen lakes, reaching for something beyond his grasp. I look up and see the first squirrel run up a tree.

She is waiting for me on the patio. I hand her the cigarettes and recount, “he said these were the cheapest.”

“Thank you.”

Pause. We are uncomfortable, but we can’t move. I feel my voice sneaking out of my mouth like a teenager out a window. This is how it sounds: “I’d like to be your friend.”

She lights a cigarette. “I’d like that.”

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

Posted on by

St. Paul convicts by way of confession. He’s like Scorpion in Mortal Kombat, throwing his arrow of truth right into my heart, pulling towards him, and then uppercutting me. But in the name of God, not revenge.

I understand why he’s upset; he’s celibate.

I know how upsetting it is. All of that extraneous sexual energy is redirected into my personality, which decides to form a color guard, with flags flailing with flamboyance, airblades slashing with wit, batons thrusting with independence, sabers stabbing with superiority.

But when the crowd goes home, I am alone. That pagan skeleton inside of me starts to dance. How sexy can it be without being sex? he asks, and his distal phalange screeches on the blackboard as he writes the equations:

(interesting person – only interested in their body) touching over underwear + kissing with tongue = delectable, forgivable

(seemingly nice person – never met them before) taking off shirts/pulling down underwear x groping organs until they orgasm = incredible, despicable

Expressions, identities, constants, variables…The math can’t explain my actions, or solve my regret. I am on the ground. I am bleeding from the heart.

Then St. Paul is at my side, offering a hand, saying, “And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me.”