THE WIDTH OF INFINITY IS A HOUSE SQUATTING ON AN UNNAMED STREET A Thesis Presented to The Graduate Faculty of The University of Akron In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the DeGree Master of Fine Arts Joel Lee May, 2011 THE WIDTH OF INFINITY IS A HOUSE SQUATTING ON AN UNNAMED STREET Joel Lee Thesis Approved: Accepted: _______________________________ _______________________________ Advisor Dean of the College Dr. Mary Biddinger Dr. Chand Midha _______________________________ _______________________________ Committee Member Dean of the Graduate School Dr. Michael Dumanis Dr. George R. Newkome _______________________________ _______________________________ Committee Member Department Chair Mr. David Giffels Dr. Michael Schuldiner _______________________________ Date ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page I. INTERRUPTING THE MEETING OF HUMAN DEFINITION AND BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS……………………………………………………………………………………………………...1 THE FEAR OF BEING LEFT ALONE………………………………………………………………………..2 A SHORT AUTOBIOGRAPHY, WITH LOVE……………………………………………………………...4 SAVE THE TRAUMA FOR YOUR MAMA………………………………………………………………….5 THE DISPERSAL PATTERN OF RECENTLY TRAFFICJAMMED VEHICLES………………...6 HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WORDS ARE STILL WORDS EVEN AFTER THE ALPHABET RETIRED……………………………………………………………………………………………………………...8 SOMEBODY IS PROBABLY STILL ALIVE SOMEWHERE, EVEN IF THERE IS NOTHING LEFT………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….10 WHEN YOU’VE BECOME YOUR FATHER, THAT’S WHEN YOU EMBRACE EUTHANASIA……………………………………………………………………………………………………..12 AND THIS IS WHERE YOU PICK UP THE MACHINE GUN………………………………………14 CIVILIZATION DIVES HEAD FIRST INTO AN EMPTY SWIMMING POOL………………...15 RIPPED FROM THE ARCHIVES OF SOMEONE ELSE’S HISTORY…………………………….16 BUILDING SCRAP METAL PRISON ART……………………………………………………………….18 MEDITATION ON THE SHELF LIFE OF POP CULTURAL PHENOMENONS……………...20 iii II. A SECTIONAL COUCH IS ONLY AS COMFORTABLE AS ITS SECTIONS……………………23 III. ON TELLIING A LIE…………………………………………………………………………………………….33 THE WORD ACCORDING TO JOEL’S EGO……………………………………………………………..34 WOMEN ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING…………………………………………………..37 NOBODY ACTUALLY LIKES THAT MOVIE SLIDING DOORS…………………………………...38 WE MIGHT BE ALGEBRA, BUT THIS IS NOT………………………………………………………...39 105.7FM ELEGY………………………………………………………………………………………………….40 MY MOTHER JUMPING FROM THE __________BUILDING………………………………………...42 DURING WHICH THE AUTHOR CONFUSES EVERYONE HE’S LOVED WITH EVERYONE HE’S SLEPT WITH…………………………………………………………………………….44 THE SECOND PERSON DEFENSE MECHANISM PROCEDURE [AVOIDANCE]………….46 MEDITATIONS IN A PANIC…………………………………………………………………………………48 THE BOOK OF JOEL, AS YET TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE BIBLICAL ONE……………49 THE CHAMPION, ALTHOUGH NOT A HURRICANE, CAUSES WAVES……………………..53 PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF, MY NAME IS JOELWEH…………………55 iv I. And the record begins with A song of rebellion – Say AnythinG INTERRUPTING THE MEETING OF HUMAN DEFINITION AND BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS And then somebody asked, what if there were no ears. And what if there were no mouths or even finGers or the risk of misinterpretinG. And what if, what if. And who knows if there are rivers to baptize ourselves. And who cares if there are rivers to baptize ourselves. And what if the rivers had made their way back to the mountains. But what if there were no ears. Somebody should be concerned for the eyes. But concern is blind. No. Concern is blinding. What if. I don’t trust boundaries. What safety do they have, what amount of faith. My life as a splinter left me alone in someone’s heart. God is always a boundary. And cardboard boxes broken down are a boundary aGainst movinG on. And dry riverbeds are a boundary aGainst salvation. And salvation is a boundary. And I have been spinninG across the horizon longer than it can possibly stretch when an eye catches it. The wideness of infinity is a thin line runninG alonG the seams of an oak tree’s skin. And bark, a boundary, leaves divinG into leaves, scarred by life under the sun—dear leaf, how beautiful your suicide, the soft fall to Earth, to let Go in such an easy manner like Gravity is a comfort—the width of infinity is a house squattinG on an unnamed street. What of shinGles, and what of a roof and what of a door or windows where anyone could finally leave, what of glass shattered by fists and bricks, what of my life as a splinter, squirminG my way alonG a vein, born when the house was being built, the blue blood too thick to be a river. How soft the heart. How soft the prayers. How soft the silt left behind. How soft the ashes when it’s time to try aGain. 1 THE FEAR OF BEING LEFT ALONE I was born to love you someone says somewhere mostly as joke but maybe someone else believes it and she won’t leave now and so he says it again, she standing there dressed in almost nothinG, shadowed by sheer sunlight, he watching her tap a foot, tap a finger, and they stand slightly tilted like trees before uprooting or like Adam and Eve blaminG the other, but who blames such love, these two exchanging a joke or faith, their bedroom daisy-ed by the sunset, he wants to say I was bored enough to leave you but those words are too similar and she wants to hear nothing is wrong and there always is another thing to say but with the window open shadows break across carpet, feet, she stands sheer in her hope, and he waits to say what he meant was— but the room smells of pine and the words are boxed in even though the window is open and the neighbors who watch too much television can hear. For all we know she left after she got dressed, left him standing there, for all we know she closed that window, or he did 2 when she stepped away or he didn’t care to or the window stayed open with the sky arched overhead and he watched her through the screen as she Got into her car, or maybe nothing was said or nobody left the other wondering. I don’t know how anyone does it. I am not afraid of death, I am afraid of dyinG. In my world, I rebuild because if I need a roof that means I’m alive enough to need to be protected. In any other world, I wait for the trees to shed their leaves so we can compare skeletons. 3 A SHORT AUTOBIOGRAPHY, WITH LOVE It seems to me nobody dies from cancer but papercuts or splinters, things we’re used to iGnorinG, small, patterned after clichés. My Grandfather’s stomach consumed itself. I saw the x-rays after my third concussion, jaGGed tracks etched on skull. To me nobody dies but dislocates toes, remembers rattlesnakes, corroded like tossed batteries. I didn’t see anything after my second concussion, out while a car honked at me. Nobody dies but crashes hammer aGainst bone. The time was 11am when you left for the Grocery store, milk, pancake mix, the shattering of headlights and the sun on a tooth. 4 SAVE THE TRAUMA FOR YOUR MAMA The letters carved into her arm are memoir, nearly unreadable, but I know my mother has history: at thirteen, love. At sixteen, druGs. At twenty, me. At eiGht, I collect rocks that hide in the soles of my shoes, store them in a box, show her I am payinG attention. She warns me of landmines scattered in the backyard, floorinG the basement. I put them there for our protection she tells me. I question leaves, hold shadows hostage, shadow her steps. The army parades down our street, I follow her back into the house. At ten, I dye eggs for her birthday, blue and yellow ziGzaGs, wobbly in their love. Outside, the army marches aGain—I worship their guns’ shine. At thirteen, I dream her steppinG on a landmine, I am awed by the explosion, the skyward reach of her; she will have no body left, no history, no arm from which I can transcribe her story to hide under my pillow every niGht. 5 THE DISPERSAL PATTERN OF RECENTLY TRAFFICJAMMED VEHICLES A man is a man unless he’s a man without a universe inside his chest. Behold: the big bang. Behold: the universe kept secret by ribs. Behold: the universe is only cheatinG the man, is only keepinG the man coddled against his own breast. Don’t look away: when Paris was built, dead hearts littered the streets. When I was executed, the plague eased itself into houses, into everyone else. My universe is not for you, fortunate though you are, filled with universes, blessed with soft hands. Why am I not a man faith makes sense for. Why am I not a man from some other town. God, this is unraveling. Listener, no one gets to do this generously. Listener, let’s have a conversation. Listener, have you a conversation to share? Let’s make this hearth a home. Listener, no one is allowed to say I love you in a poem. Listener, no one has universes inside. Listener, they have all been ripped out. Just know, Listener, that you have been ripped out, janGlinG in someone else’s throat like an uneven note killed too soon. And somehow God still exists, I Guess, keeps exitinG. And somehow I still exist, I Guess, left thouGh I am to a sun and a moon alone. Light, I suppose. My universe is a fountain without water, maskinG its emptiness with worn Grooves made even sadder by the paint so healthily petrified. No one stops here. No one takes a moment, not one, a moment or a person, to touch the walls or the smooth rocks left waitinG for the water’s return. Onward goes tragedy, as you know. I have nothing prepared for emergencies. Listener, whAt do you know passes downward from Generation to Generation, quiet in its march towards an answer. Be soft, quick, gentle, or at least stop. I once knew water raGinG across the continents my love occupied, rare thouGh it was.