“I used to be an athlete,”
is what I think in the shower
looking down at myself.
Strange to know a past
hidden from everyone.
I was walking alone
when I started to feel better.
Perhaps I thought of you
reading my last letter:
your shock or your disgust
keeps you quiet. You don’t know?
I was your borrowed view
behind the gate, the wall of leaves.
“This is the last string
you attach to me,” I say
and let bleed what bleeds,
having been touched
on the surface.
*Soren Stockman is currently getting his groove on in Italy. He reads this, tell him how much you love and miss him.
Showing posts with label Soren's Goodies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soren's Goodies. Show all posts
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Michael Excerpt #3
(February 1974)
I look at myself, my face. Bumps sprout around my nose as I watch, and I can feel the thin layer of sour white shift when I push my skin. I dim the lights in the bathroom, watch in the mirror as the room darkens. It never gets cold in Los Angeles, but last night I slept with my comforter and my sheet, and I writhed my legs until they felt their blood. Something hot underneath all that.
This dark mirror again. I raise my hand slowly just to see it move, interpret the gesture. It feels personal when I meet my eyes. My mouth hangs open slightly and I see my tongue. I run my nails over my chest, watch the fingers swoop and circle. I don’t say anything. What would someone else think of this? I wait for the touch of my fingers to root in me, to forget touch is happening. I go to the closet and I get my stand-up lamp, and I bring it into the bathroom next to me. This is when I examine my face, turning my head to the right forty-five degrees in order to follow the line of my cheekbone. The line travels crookedly up, a little puffed and rounded. Then it bends back in for the dip of my eye socket and back out again. I turn my head left. My eyelashes poke out of the line, into empty space. Trying to study myself without locking my eyes to their reflection, I move the lamp around my feet to the other side. The light changes my face, and I move in and out of it slowly, tilting and nodding my head.
Prickles of hair stubble my soft cheek, and I hate the razor. Don’t think about it. I get so close to the mirror that I can’t see around myself and I squeeze the bumps on the bridge of my nose. They sprout white and black, like disease in a ruined place. I find the flat places on the right side of my nose. I squeeze every dot I see, though some of them won’t come. I get as many as I can, especially around the corners of my nose where the oil seems to breed. The left side of my nose. I count every pimple on each cheek as my fingers absently graze my chin, prodding and pulling. Then I use force, and urge the skin together on two sides of a blemish.
*Soren Stockman
I look at myself, my face. Bumps sprout around my nose as I watch, and I can feel the thin layer of sour white shift when I push my skin. I dim the lights in the bathroom, watch in the mirror as the room darkens. It never gets cold in Los Angeles, but last night I slept with my comforter and my sheet, and I writhed my legs until they felt their blood. Something hot underneath all that.
This dark mirror again. I raise my hand slowly just to see it move, interpret the gesture. It feels personal when I meet my eyes. My mouth hangs open slightly and I see my tongue. I run my nails over my chest, watch the fingers swoop and circle. I don’t say anything. What would someone else think of this? I wait for the touch of my fingers to root in me, to forget touch is happening. I go to the closet and I get my stand-up lamp, and I bring it into the bathroom next to me. This is when I examine my face, turning my head to the right forty-five degrees in order to follow the line of my cheekbone. The line travels crookedly up, a little puffed and rounded. Then it bends back in for the dip of my eye socket and back out again. I turn my head left. My eyelashes poke out of the line, into empty space. Trying to study myself without locking my eyes to their reflection, I move the lamp around my feet to the other side. The light changes my face, and I move in and out of it slowly, tilting and nodding my head.
Prickles of hair stubble my soft cheek, and I hate the razor. Don’t think about it. I get so close to the mirror that I can’t see around myself and I squeeze the bumps on the bridge of my nose. They sprout white and black, like disease in a ruined place. I find the flat places on the right side of my nose. I squeeze every dot I see, though some of them won’t come. I get as many as I can, especially around the corners of my nose where the oil seems to breed. The left side of my nose. I count every pimple on each cheek as my fingers absently graze my chin, prodding and pulling. Then I use force, and urge the skin together on two sides of a blemish.
*Soren Stockman
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Michael Excerpt #2
(December 1969)
“Michael,” my dad growls, “remember the spin.” He stands at full height, and reaches for my hands. “This is the big time, you understand?” His hands dig into mine. Seconds pass, he almost smiles. His eyes get big and I shuffle backwards, remember how he looks with his belt in his hand. I put my hand over my face and hold it in. The green room at the Ed Sullivan Theater has three mirrors with three bright lights above each one, and a silver table with bowls of M&Ms, all the different colors.
The nice lady with the headset took my brothers and my dad and me up the elevator. She told me this place used to be called “CBS-TV Studio 50,” but they renamed it for Ed Sullivan. She blushed when she said it, and spoke low, as though it were her private joy. I was thankful. I said, “That’s nice,” and smiled so that she would know I was happy for her.
I try to stay on the other side of the room from my father, but after everything he says or does, he finds me like he’s forgotten something. He tells me every octave I’ve missed over the past four months of rehearsal. Tells me not to be nervous even though I am not nervous. That I have a gift and I have to use my gift. He wants me to do well, but the want stays inside a tangle of wire.
“LIVE” blinks across the televisions in the green room, and I see him. Ed Sullivan. He wears his hair shaped just so. He was running late today so he didn’t get to meet us before the show, but the lady with the headset assured us that he is very much looking forward to speaking with us. She also said that Ed Sullivan absolutely dies for our music. I didn’t know what she meant, so I smiled at her. There is a commercial break. Adults dressed in black usher us onto the studio stage. The lights come back up. Ed Sullivan says, “Here are five brothers.” He stutters a bit when he says, “They are a sensational group.”
I take two steps to the microphone and feel my body go hollow. I’m inside, and I buzz against the walls. Every instance of movement, even breathing, lifts against this gentle weight. I say and we toasted our love during milk break, just like I’ve said the words hundreds of times. I am so anxious to sing, but the silence makes the buzz louder. I look back at my brothers. The piano spills a couple of notes that float toward me. We become shapes that do not think, and I know that we are going to show something hidden. We are like a picture of a clothesline as the clothes billow. So one day, and that was Monday, I stepped up to her and I said. The line finishes itself before a drum snaps once. I take a breath where I’m supposed to, and I open as far as I can. I let everyone hold me, except they hold me with love because they really know who I am.
-Soren Stockman
“Michael,” my dad growls, “remember the spin.” He stands at full height, and reaches for my hands. “This is the big time, you understand?” His hands dig into mine. Seconds pass, he almost smiles. His eyes get big and I shuffle backwards, remember how he looks with his belt in his hand. I put my hand over my face and hold it in. The green room at the Ed Sullivan Theater has three mirrors with three bright lights above each one, and a silver table with bowls of M&Ms, all the different colors.
The nice lady with the headset took my brothers and my dad and me up the elevator. She told me this place used to be called “CBS-TV Studio 50,” but they renamed it for Ed Sullivan. She blushed when she said it, and spoke low, as though it were her private joy. I was thankful. I said, “That’s nice,” and smiled so that she would know I was happy for her.
I try to stay on the other side of the room from my father, but after everything he says or does, he finds me like he’s forgotten something. He tells me every octave I’ve missed over the past four months of rehearsal. Tells me not to be nervous even though I am not nervous. That I have a gift and I have to use my gift. He wants me to do well, but the want stays inside a tangle of wire.
“LIVE” blinks across the televisions in the green room, and I see him. Ed Sullivan. He wears his hair shaped just so. He was running late today so he didn’t get to meet us before the show, but the lady with the headset assured us that he is very much looking forward to speaking with us. She also said that Ed Sullivan absolutely dies for our music. I didn’t know what she meant, so I smiled at her. There is a commercial break. Adults dressed in black usher us onto the studio stage. The lights come back up. Ed Sullivan says, “Here are five brothers.” He stutters a bit when he says, “They are a sensational group.”
I take two steps to the microphone and feel my body go hollow. I’m inside, and I buzz against the walls. Every instance of movement, even breathing, lifts against this gentle weight. I say and we toasted our love during milk break, just like I’ve said the words hundreds of times. I am so anxious to sing, but the silence makes the buzz louder. I look back at my brothers. The piano spills a couple of notes that float toward me. We become shapes that do not think, and I know that we are going to show something hidden. We are like a picture of a clothesline as the clothes billow. So one day, and that was Monday, I stepped up to her and I said. The line finishes itself before a drum snaps once. I take a breath where I’m supposed to, and I open as far as I can. I let everyone hold me, except they hold me with love because they really know who I am.
-Soren Stockman
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Some Thursday Poetry
Dumb Ruminations
When the light goes on
he folds paper he loves
hearing about ulterior motives
after the moment has passed
the metal skull clicks
the light goes off
From outside the door
he sounds like Velcro scraped
across brick the scratch
of fire across his face
you have waited for him
it has been your secret
deep in the air he travels
you fall like ashes into his ocean
Solitaire
you wave your hand
like crab apple trees
taking the wind
little weights swinging
sometimes in circles
but back and forth
a ring of light gold
around your finger
holds it there
until the solitaire
twinkles even at you
looking back at you
sometimes in circles
-Soren Stockman
When the light goes on
he folds paper he loves
hearing about ulterior motives
after the moment has passed
the metal skull clicks
the light goes off
From outside the door
he sounds like Velcro scraped
across brick the scratch
of fire across his face
you have waited for him
it has been your secret
deep in the air he travels
you fall like ashes into his ocean
Solitaire
you wave your hand
like crab apple trees
taking the wind
little weights swinging
sometimes in circles
but back and forth
a ring of light gold
around your finger
holds it there
until the solitaire
twinkles even at you
looking back at you
sometimes in circles
-Soren Stockman
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Michael
So raw I stick to the black floor that is one mile thick and I get all the coins under the first inch with my little nails, little because I pick at them. The dark room flashes purple like candy; always candy colors: purple and pink and blue and red. Women close their eyes as they dance, and I see them go into themselves, go far away. I know parts of their bodies hang loose above me, swinging down when they close their eyes. It is fun to crawl.
The air is heavy, pushing the floor down. The floor heaves like someone’s chest as they sigh, the people wander and creak the floor while I’m crawling to the other side of the stage. The stage is at the deepest part of the room furthest from the street. There’s a stick to the microphone, someone touched candy before they sang in it. Someone touches my shoulder, leans low over me, and says “Sugar, you know you can sing to me whenever you like.” I look at her eyes. “Sugar, I can feel you when you sing, I want you to imagine me. Just think of me and I’ll be there, okay?” She holds my shoulder still. Her eyes shine out from the candy colors on her face and I know her eyes will always see me, and when her face is dust her eyes will still be there, but I don’t look at her anymore. I look for more coins to give my dad so that all of us can leave.
I keep crawling and then I feel her eyes on me, warm then hot, feel her wanting and then her need, feel her begin me. On my knees, I use my pocketknife to carve a quarter from the corner. The first things I see when I turn around are her hands. She holds one with the other, all of her inside herself, protecting. I feel her on my shoulder, feel her touch me and I shiver. Now her eyes still shine, they sweep the floor as though for me. She puts the back of her hand lightly to her cheek, and her weight on both hips. Her eyebrows raise, she tilts her head up to the ceiling and back down and that’s when she notices me. She flinches away, heaves her chest, walks hard and she goes cold, won’t look at me. As my clothes sag and clink I stand against them and back towards the door, waiting. She won’t look at me. What did I do.
-Soren Stockman
The air is heavy, pushing the floor down. The floor heaves like someone’s chest as they sigh, the people wander and creak the floor while I’m crawling to the other side of the stage. The stage is at the deepest part of the room furthest from the street. There’s a stick to the microphone, someone touched candy before they sang in it. Someone touches my shoulder, leans low over me, and says “Sugar, you know you can sing to me whenever you like.” I look at her eyes. “Sugar, I can feel you when you sing, I want you to imagine me. Just think of me and I’ll be there, okay?” She holds my shoulder still. Her eyes shine out from the candy colors on her face and I know her eyes will always see me, and when her face is dust her eyes will still be there, but I don’t look at her anymore. I look for more coins to give my dad so that all of us can leave.
I keep crawling and then I feel her eyes on me, warm then hot, feel her wanting and then her need, feel her begin me. On my knees, I use my pocketknife to carve a quarter from the corner. The first things I see when I turn around are her hands. She holds one with the other, all of her inside herself, protecting. I feel her on my shoulder, feel her touch me and I shiver. Now her eyes still shine, they sweep the floor as though for me. She puts the back of her hand lightly to her cheek, and her weight on both hips. Her eyebrows raise, she tilts her head up to the ceiling and back down and that’s when she notices me. She flinches away, heaves her chest, walks hard and she goes cold, won’t look at me. As my clothes sag and clink I stand against them and back towards the door, waiting. She won’t look at me. What did I do.
-Soren Stockman
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