The Greatest Storyteller

       
Parting the beaded curtains        
       
crowned with a top hat        
wearing a red satin bathrobe        
walking with a cane        
       
she made an entrance        
that rivaled a certain        
chocolateer upon his candy        
factory's re-opening        
         
Gentlemen,        
you are in for a real treat today        
but before entering this establishment        
allow me to give you a taste of        
what is to come        
       
She undid her sash        
revealing a suit of skin        
tailor made by God        
fitting snug over flesh        
       
let the robe fall        
kicked it aside        
       
and        
       
the mouths of forty men        
standing behind the velvet rope        
dropped in awe and shock of        
her brazen nudity        
       
Take a picture, Boys        
---it will last much longer        
       
The more observant of the group        
were quick with camera phones        
       
Unlike other gentlemen's clubs        
you're allowed to take all the        
photos and videos        
your heart desires        
here at Sketchers        
       
We want you to share your        
experience with the world        
       
Her walking stick        
gestured in its grandiosity        
almost took out a ceiling lamp        
       
Our girls        
have nothing to be ashamed of;        
they've signed contracts, agreeing        
to having images of their bodies        
distributed across the Internet        
       
And it makes for good advertising        
       
Now,        
here are the rules        
       
You do not touch the girls        
EVER        
       
You do not speak crudely to them        
EVER        
       
Violate these two rules        
and you'll never        
EVER        
be allowed back in        
       
Got it?        
       
The men nodded emphatically---    
some out of genuine intimidation        
       
Okay, then        
Walk this way        
       
She removed the velvet        
rope from their path        
and led them on a journey        
through a bright interior        
whitewashed walls starkly        
contrasting with the        
flesh of her backside        
       
Upon entering        
one of four doors        
       
they were greeted with two        
completely nude women        
who swayed to slow music        
a blonde with fingers laced        
behind the neck of a brunette        
whose hands first clasped on        
her partner's waist        
strayed to dimpled hips        
slipping further to cradle        
creamy buttocks        
       
A redhead sat freckled        
naked on a pedestal        
staring longingly at the ceiling        
       
Surrounding the three ladies were        
       
glass jars        
stuffed with paper currency        
on modest tables        
       
easels with sketchbooks        
       
podiums with journals        
       
and the most comfy looking chairs!        
each complemented with wheels        
for easy relocation to more choice        
perspectives around the models        
       
Layla will change her pose        
every fifteen minutes        
       
Shannon and Lila        
will dance together        
every third song        
from a random playlist        
       
If these girls        
don't pique your interest        
feel free to explore        
our other three rooms        
       
Use your time wisely        
and be sure to handsomely        
tip the ladies        
       
When the hour is up        
I'll escort you to the back entrance        
       
... for your convenience, of course        
because we know how men can get        
too easily aroused ...        
       
before ushering in        
our next group of guests        
       
A waitress will come around        
every twenty minutes or so        
to take your drink order        
       
The sketchbooks and journals        
are yours to take home if you so wish;        
please pay for them on the way out        
Feel free to bring them back        
on your return visits        
       
Any questions before you begin?        
       
"What are the journals for?"        
       
For writing down your thoughts        
should the beauty you witness        
inspire you to pen poetry or song        
       
And that's when one fellow        
snorted in derision and        
couldn't keep quiet any longer        
       
"This is it?        
Seriously?        
We each paid        
twenty-five dollars        
to stand around        
doodling stick figures        
and writing limericks        
for an entire hour?        
Sheesh, this place is ...        
ridiculous!"        
       
Their hostess circled about        
in her approach, conquering        
as she divided him from the pack        
touching him lightly on the chest        
with the tip of her cane        
       
What you paid for        
is an opportunity to        
admire these women        
       
without being judged by society        
I might add        
       
She gave him a slight poke        
backing him up on his feet        
       
without being pressured into        
giving away more of your money        
in exchange for the fading        
memory of another human being        
dry humping your scotch drunken        
crotch in a forgetful lap dance        
       
Again, she poked him        
and this time he almost        
stumbled ass over tea        
kettle        
         
and perhaps walk away        
with a drawing or        
an English sonnet        
       
something you can be proud of        
by which you can fondly        
remember this experience        
       
And with a final prodding        
he was backed up into        
a hard object --- the faux        
Greek column upon which        
parked was the redhead        
       
Layla turned, reaching        
to clasp his face in her hands        
staring him straight in the eyes        
       
Will you not immortalize        
this body before you?        
       
she asked sullenly        
       
Will you not honor me        
this day I made myself        
vulnerable in the flesh?        
       
There was an indescribable        
sadness and longing in those        
eyes that melted the man's heart        
       
He found himself blindly stumbling        
towards the nearest sketchbook        
muttering,        
       
"Yes, YES, I see it now!"        
       
She reinstated her pose        
Once again, stone        
       
"Andromeda chained to the rock        
waiting for Perseus to rescue her!"        
       
And so began with the        
grand opening of Sketchers        
a new era of female objectification        
that manifests itself every so often        
throughout the ages whenever        
men have spent centuries        
denying themselves what they        
truly desire        
       
to have beauty in their lives        
and worship it        
       
Profitable day at an end        
the hostess said goodnight        
to the last shift of models        
locked up the building        
and headed to her car        
       
where she was approached        
by the man whom she poked        
with her cane        
       
amusing prop that it was        
       
"Thanks to you        
I'm starting to bruise"        
he said        
       
and then asked        
"How long are we going to        
keep up this ruse?"        
       
She threw her arms        
around him and planted        
a loving kiss on his lips        
       
Darling, men have been        
fooling themselves on and off        
for Millenniums at a stretch        
with notions that the        
body of a woman        
can't be appreciated        
without some series of        
hoops to jump through;        
that it must be in a sexual context        
that it must be secretive        
that it is TABOO        
       
So, the way I figure it---        
       
what's a few more        
days of deception        
going to hurt them?        
       
   

          
Minding his own business          
John Brown found himself staring down          
the business end of a sawed off shotgun          
         
A potato sack drawn over his head          
---didn't know where he was taken---          
never even had a chance to run          
         
Hung from a cross with his own belt;          
at his feet stripped bare of shoes          
fire set to methodically stacked wood          
         
In the Autumn chill of twilight's veil          
as his flesh burned and melt away         
screams came from the makeshift hood          
         
His remains were discovered the day after          
by children on a shortcut through the corn          
Suddenly cut short was their laughter;          
they had never seen a dead body before            
and here it was when        
        
the legend of Johnny Scarecrow was born          
         
Minister Wilkins said a prayer          
Widowed Ida Brown shed many a tear crying,        
Black folk shouldn't have to die this way!          
         
Sheriff Anderson knelt at the crime scene          
whispering into the victim's charred ear,          
The law will make those sons-of-bitches dearly pay!          
         
Wilkins somberly closed the leather bound Bible          
his only earthbound treasure          
saying,          
Leave it to the Lord to deliver justice               
for they will know the mighty hand of God          
and burn as John did in His displeasure          
If I promise anything, I promise you this          
         
Onward into evening          
sundown marked another wooden cross          
being firmly planted in the ground          
         
Figures in white garb gathered          
in celebration of one less black man          
living in their town          
         
And the Klan mocked        
the memory of John Brown          
         
They lit the cross, laughed          
and danced around the flames          
shouting with great pride,          
White Power!          
         
That's when a lone figure          
suddenly appeared to the mass          
and Johnny Scarecrow slew them all          
in the midnight hour          
         
Razor sharp sickle in hand          
borrowed from Farmer Parker's shed          
he decapitated their pointy hooded heads    
left and right          
         
As they scattered like rats through the corn          
this demon with a potato sack on its head          
killed them all one by one in a single night          
         
---slaughtered them in a fury of vengeance          
as they ran panic stricken for their lives          
not even with the tiniest sliver of remorse          
         
They shot him with their guns once or twice          
even stabbed him with their knives;          
at some point he was trampled by a horse          
         
The----            
That's not how the story goes!          
Little Billy Fitzimmons angrily groaned          
Campfire glow illuminating his friends' faces          
         
He was saying, Everyone knows---          
when something in the woods behind them moaned          
sending the children running home at breakneck paces          
         
And the legend of Johnny Scarecrow grew          
around many more campfires throughout the years          
handed down from one generation to the next of kin          
         
Who killed those Klansmen?  No one knew          
Youngsters speculated among their peers          
 
while one man lived onward with that sin          
         
Years later on his deathbed          
Tom Anderson asked Minister Wilkins          
to be present for his final confession          
         
Before he uttered a single word          
just then life fled his body          
Wilkins sighed --- said a final,        
Amen          
         
Clenched in the Sheriff's hand        
         
---a bloodstained potato sack---          
         
evidence    
disappeared from the investigation      
never to be found;    
same as the sickle          
now hanging in Wilkin's barn          
         
The hand of God was something to be feared;          
Justice delivered just as promised          
           
and that's how the legend of Johnny Scarecrow          
became another yarn          
       
       
   
 

Rolling out of bed with crusty eyelids,
beginning to traverse the darkened midnight halls.
I head to the bathroom,
going to take a piss at god knows when.
The roof creaks and cracks against the harsh winds among these old walls.
I turn on the light and my eyes start burning too tired to notice the shadow behind me lurking.
it lingers reaching out for me.
"I don't have time for this," I say
and swat it away.
Head back to bed and rest as I'm brain dead.
leaving the shadow behind to contemplate its faults.
I am now just another disappointment in this somethings eye.
The tall dark figure that stretched up the walls in the shitter is now just a shadowy quitter.
Heading home to a cooked supper,
announcing it just left its job,
to chase his passion of being a painter.
All because I was too tired to be fainter.
My bed is more important than a fear of being a shadows dinner.
So next time you see a specter in the mirror, just shrug it off without terror so it can go home and make life-changing decisions over dinner.

Goliath, the paranoid dyslexic ephelant
Was stomping through the forest one day,
Taking a stroll down the trail in the woods,
Minding his business going about his way.
But in that spaced out peanut brain of his,
He did not notice an anthill in the road,
He stepped on it not becoming aware of,
The destruction he had just bestowed.
An army of ants came out of the flattened hill,
Mad as hell screaming "let’s go to war”
He'd destroyed their home and didn’t notice it,
It’s time for payback like never before.
So the next morning all the ants,
Climbed up the branches in the trees,
Waiting for Goliath to walk down the path,
To jump him and bring him down to his knees.
And sure enough Goliath came strolling,
Unaware of the danger waiting ahead,
An army of homeless angry ants,
Was about to drop an elephant dead.
And so they all jumped on his back,
Flying through the air like the 101st division,
Punching and kicking with all they had,
Sure that they would accomplish their mission.
But Goliath started wiping them off,
With his trunk like he didn’t care,
And all the little ants started falling off,
Plunging to the ground falling in despair.
And the ants knew they were defeated,
Lying down beaten on the forest ground,
Suddenly they all noticed one little ant,
Hanging on to Goliath’s neck still not down.
And they all noticed, it was David,
The smallest puniest ant in the hill,
Almost unconscious, holding on for dear life,
And it gave them all hope and chills.
And the ants started screaming “choke him,
Squeeze him with all your might,
We believe in you David, you can do it,
Wake up and don’t give up the fight.”
And David rose to the occasion,
Summoning all the strength he could,
Strangling the giant with his hands,
Believing that he could (and he would).
Goliath started to feel a little jab,
Somewhere on his neck he couldn’t reach,
And started panicking running now,
It was David stuck to him like a leech.
In his panic Goliath kept looking back,
Not noticing a tree branch ahead,
Running now as fast he could,
Not paying attention he hit his head.
He got dazed and dizzy knocking himself out,
Out cold falling to the ground,
It didn’t matter how, but he did it,
David had brought the giant down.

I am the one they feverishly hide.
​A disgrace of respected loins,
behind fashioned walls inside.
​Born with limbs that withered in
​the womb of shame, birthed uneven legs
​that limps and lames. My mother
shown pity and hints of care, but
her face as she looks away... in obvious
​regret and all things unfair.
The higher born of old families rooted in
​Victorian mansions as I.... is where
​you can find little rooms as these well hidden
​where we, the unknown lived and most often died.

A small window facing a wall was my only view,
​along with tree tops of pines as they hopefully grew,
​but never outside, a wish of non sense I sagaciously knew.

The mute maid, with head bowed would service
my chamber pot but once a day. My ankles swollen
from bed irons that chain me to these
wooden floors where my dirty bed roll lay.
As a child I recall the chains being much heavier than I,
perhaps more than the burden my parents
endured in their everyday lie.
The bricks that forced me in, also allowed me faint
pleasures of my family I'd hear, but not I and why?
​because I am grotesquely ugly,
in admittance I sigh....
​I don't believe my siblings knew of me at all.
​Could they love me as I love them, if in their
​innocence they saw?.... no... in sibling love,
let them keep their unknown names and perfect
​faces distant beyond my darkened hall.

Father rarely visited my imprisoned and stench
stained room. When he did, it was always in routine
of drunken rage. My back bared obediently awaiting
its doom. Accompanied by whips and sticks of wood,
I'd crawl into my mind where I was at my prettiest
and took his hate as best I could.
​When inebriation played its tired part...on my
floor he'd sometimes lie in sleep. Beside my father
I coiled and softly place his arm around me, without
sounding a single peep. Beneath hateful hands of pretend,
I'd fall in thankful feels of weep.

​I had no fantasies or dreams to escape to in the
contorts of my mind. Impossible...how could I?..
if not seen or known of anything beyond my room
to remember or rewind. Insanity played its cruelty
on me from time to time, but it was a welcomed
friend aside from the roaches and rats that
accepted me in my filth and grime.

​The awaited day is here that I no more fear.
Alas, father speaks a kind word and breathes...
" The snow is falling do you see it forming on the
​branches of tree?"..... "yes father"...
a first kiss on my head, when his angered reflection in
​my window I see... as he swung his merciful
hammer to end his disappointment in me.

“Use the darkness of your past to propel you to a brighter future.”          
~ Donata Joseph          
     
I         
The pepper box sits in the garden  
corner with marigolds and baby breath;      
its contents are empty—    
like we are of Life            
when Death comes for tea.    
     
It was once full of seeds      
that grew to burn our tongue      
when eaten;      
but, there was a satisfaction in the heat—      
an accomplishment, growth      
from the inevitable harvest.   
     
That's life: a big bang of experience    
burning from emptiness.            
           
II    
The first time I remember him      
beating her senseless    
was the second that fear          
unpacked its suitcase in my mind;    
     
it demanded silence—      
and, because of its enormity      
I allowed it to take my voice;      
I hid instead, feigning sleep    
despite her screams.      
     
The night he almost drowned her      
I became a banshee; a screech owl      
in the hallway  
outside their bedroom door—    
            
He locked her out, and himself in    
with me—I was 12.      
   
III.    
Trust is a fragile thing    
when betrayed by a god;      
we shrink      
into someone we're not—      
and a lie becomes more important      
than lives truth will destroy.      
     
We grow    
from circumstantial belief—            
are patterned by environment      
face bitter choices      
or acts of forgiveness.      
     
The silence took me;    
but, I chose to be submissive    
because of embarrassment.      
   
It wasn't me  
who eventually delivered her      
from his fists and feet.            
   
IV    
Death had enough;    
sent his emissary to inflict    
five years of suffering upon her—      
bone decay that gnawed    
through her body    
as a beetle on a basil leaf.      
     
In his eyes, every new tumor    
and destroyed nerve ending            
became a bruise he had inflicted—      
until she was nothing      
but a mangled mass of guilt-stained sheets.             
           
V.    
Guilt is a funny thing,    
but not really;      
his life became Vodka    
over rocks, wasting away—    
he played reel-to-reel tapes      
sent to him in Vietnam;    
her voice sharing what she cooked    
and how we were doing. . .    
over. . .          
and, over again.      
     
VI    
My teens mimicked her life—    
four years of fists, dominance      
and psychological control    
by my first boyfriend;      
it was all I knew—    
the repetitious pattern;    
a circumstantial silence of truth.            
           
He almost killed me    
a few times;         
friends intervened once—         
he tried to beat them too.      
     
I don't know where the courage          
to stab the silence came from;      
to scream and claw          
when life is being choked      
from your throat.      
     
Maybe it was a deeply instilled belief—    
the same that never allowed            
me to succumb to alcohol, drugs     
or sex when homeless.            
           
VII    
Years later    
when I was a wife and mother,    
I would ask myself            
if the reason I had submitted      
to such horrendous behavior          
was because I loved him so much;      
or hated myself worse.    
   
It's always the latter—    
we accept what we feel we deserve    
until we've had enough.      
     
It's a good question    
for each individual woman    
who is silent about abuse    
to ask themselves.      
         
VIII    
I was strong,  
chose forgiveness      
so that I could live    
without the pattern    
desecrating my children.      
     
But, sometimes. . .    
     
I like to think it was even more      
than strength—maybe magic;            
like the butterfly    
that landed on my finger    
in the garden today.          
     
I still flinch from time to time      
as though an abused animal      
that's been adopted by the Universe—    
maybe from a shadow, sound;            
or, unexpected touch to my skin.      
     
Abuse washes over your body          
before you ever see it in your face—      
and isn't over until you call it by name.    
   
I wanted the memory-bite    
lest I forget—    
so planted my seeds    
before they died in the box.        
        
There's a burn  
regardless of our past   
if we empty our contents;    
 
its name is Love.    
~