Story
Maskerville
The Maskers of Maskerville wore many masks
No one knows who they are, no one ever asks
They have masks for sleeping and playing kazoo
For singing and dancing and eating lunch too
They all wear masks when they work and while they play
They have a mask on at all times of the day
One Masker of Maskerville named Maskerson
Who took pride in his masks and pride in his fun
Had a thought to himself, yes, a thought you see
He wondered, “What would it be like to be me?”
So he pried off his mask and screamed a great cry
With passion of heart and a flame in his eye
He threw down his mask, let it fall to the floor
Felt afraid and confused, exposed to the core
He felt the breeze on his face, sun on his skin
And thought to himself that this must be a sin
Yet he smiled and jumped, so happy and free
“Look, look!” he shouted to all, “it’s really me!”
One masker did look, he said, “Yes, very strange,
I’m not sure what it is, but there’s been a change
I don’t like it, maybe try another mask
With tons to choose from, it is quite a small task.”
Maskerson frowned as his heart sank deep inside
And without his mask, there was nowhere to hide
So he sat on a rock and he cried and cried
Feeling so alone with no one to confide
Other Maskers walked by without any sound
Masks on high-held heads, not as his, on the ground
They scoffed and they glared, passed with looks of detest
His real self was different than all of the rest
Of the masks Maskers wore, hiding their faces
At all of the times, in all of the places
He saw in the distance a small Masker child
With extravagant masks and hair oddly styled
She glanced around to make sure no one could see
Then wondered, “What would it be like to be me?”
She walked up to Maskerson, stared a long time
Wanting to follow but scared it was a crime
So after much though, she walked away very sad
Remembering Mom’s words: what’s different is bad
Maskerson got up feeling very confused
But glad to be free of the masks he once used
He took a long walk, to a stream he soon came
Where he saw the reflection true to his name
His face was pale and bleeding, drenched in dried glue
He thought to himself, “Well, this just will not do!”
So he scooped up the water into his hands
And watered his face as one waters the lands
It was cold and refreshing, made his heart smile
So he came back each day and stayed for a while
After many days passed, he looked once again
At the stream where his old reflection had been
When he looked at the water, he jumped in fright
For what he saw now was quite a different sight
His scabs were all healed; there was color in his face
And all the dried glue did the water erase
He was gleaming and glad, refreshed and all clean
And no greater mask would have ever been seen
So he walked to town by the great Kazoo Hall
Where he was stared at with amazement by all
“Where did your mask come from? I just need to know!”
Cried a middle-aged Masker, awed by its glow
“But that’s just the thing,” Maskerson said with glee,
“I’m not wearing a mask, this is the real me!”
The Maskers all whispered—there now was a crowd
Then one stood up and protested very loud,
“I saw him one time on that rock over there,
With scabs on his face and dried glue in his hair
You’ll end up like that if you follow his lead
If your mask comes off you’ll regret it indeed!”
They whispered again, causing such a great roar
When Maskerson saw the small child from before
She stood on a table for all to lay eyes
Then ripped off her mask to ev’ryone’s surprise
There was cringing and gasping, the crowd in shock
When the young, strange masker child began to talk
“I know this looks bad, and it did for him too
But scabs can heal and you can rid of dried glue
There’s a stream I watched him wash in every day
With its water imperfections wash away
So I don’t know about you, I know there’s fear
But my hope is stronger, and the choice seems clear.”
With that the small child stepped down boldly and firm
And her braveness began to spread like a germ
One other ripped off his mask, then two, three, four!
And on went the cycle ‘til there was no more
They all ripped off their masks and walked to the stream
And after some time, their real faces did beam
They never wore masks again, no one did hide
They knew who they were without masks as their guide
The Maskers of Maskerville wore many masks
And so do we all until one person asks
Is there more than the mask, more than we can see?
What would it be like for me just to be me?
poetry
Knock, Knock
Knock on door.
I answer.
Paper, he asks.
I give.
Paper, he puts
on window.
Lights, gone.
I feel
cold tiled floor
on back
through cotton
shirt when, shit,
bench and bodies
slam down,
I scream;
he screams,
Shut up;
kiss me,
bony knuckles
leaving big, black stain
on my soft skinned chin.
Paper muscles,
origami bones
bent,
opened,
handled
by hands
not my own.
Jesus,
he says,
will use this
for your good.
Sunday.
I feel cold wood
of pew through
cotton skirt.
Preacher says,
Jesus is the
Knock on door.
Waiting.
You must answer—
Will you? he asks.
I can’t.
Will you? he puts
on music.
Lights, gone.
I hear
voices echo
beside, behind,
slamming off
benches and bodies.
They sing;
I see
Jesus—
Paper muscles,
Origami skin
opened,
beaten,
handled
by hands
not his own.
Jesus—
He says,
It is good.
Monday.
I feel warm wool
of throw on couch
through nervous
cells on fingers.
There’s a
Knock on door.
But I’m tired
of benches, bodies,
bruises, origami’s,
Paper bones,
hands unknown
upon me.
I don’t answer.
Mess
How can sweat be cold and war be civil? And
if heat rises, why are mountain tops so damn
cold? We refuse to tolerate intolerance but insist
on falling down if we ever want to grow up.
Good decisions come from experience,
and experience comes from lots of really
bad decisions.
I am nowhere, which is somewhere; and I
am somebody who is nobody else.
Life is full of order, but lilies in
meadows are not all the same height. And each
wave crashes on different lengths of shore.
So while you comb through life remember knots
are sometimes dreads which is sometimes called style.
Elegy
Innocence—
smell of soil, moonshine, pansy,
sweet pea, marigold—bright, bold peony.
Multiplication tables,
the only thing hard.
Known world never any
bigger than the yard.
Board games, cold pops in the sun;
grass-stained knees, dirty jeans,
jelly beans, ropes spun.
But friends were imaginary—world plain playing pretend
—sand castles slippery sloping through puny fist.
You didn’t know Jack and Jill like I do.
There never was a pail of water.
Just broken people with a mess
throwing pieces at each other.
Jack fell down but he survived,
He let Jill die for Gin and Whiskey.
The moon shine shined and shoved down throat,
The games we play now are risky
So I’ll remember you in my head,
but I can’t keep you in my gut.
Because you’re dead in bed instead of me.
Liver wrecked, lungs smoked, breast choked,
Innocence—your throat stoked and stuck in raging rut—
only God knows why
and only God knows
by what
spoken word
What is justice? The first time I heard this question was at seventeen over chocolate chip pancakes in New York City. See, that's what happens when you get a bunch of philosophy university students out to brunch––first there's mimosas and maybe some punch and a munch and then a hunch that maybe Glaucon and Hobbes weren't just a bunch of idiots. Maybe they were onto something when they said trust no one is willingly just, just expelled or compelled to be just cuz they must and I'm like, "Woah. I don't know." I had never read Plato or Rousseau. I just wanted to eat some fricken pancakes. Maybe justice just is what it is.
I thought I could leave the question when I left that school, but five years later I'm drowning in a pool of polls, interrogations, inquisitions, over personal allegations, nation's positions, over this question: what is justice? You'd think I'd have a better answer by now.
Five years later I've read Plato's republic three different times, and I've survived at least three different sexual assault crimes. And there's all these people telling me what I did or didn't deserve, screaming at me to report, I heard them crying justice must be served; and all I could think was, what is justice?
See these guys they were rapists who thought like Thrasymachus, claiming justice meant might was right even when I couldn't fight or flight and I was frightened by their tight gripped spite. And I mean, all these people telling me to report, and might isn't right, and they might be right, but it just feels like another fight that I can't win. I don't even want to live in my own skin, much less put it all on display on a report and in court and I can't sort through all of this right now. I mean tell me how this is justice––to sit on trial for a year and have my story ripped apart by lawyers only for my attacker to get three months in jail. There were two eye witnesses on that case, how did it fail?? You're telling me this is justice, but it just isn't. It may be some abstract sense of justice that makes you feel better, but it isn't justice for me; it doesn't make me free. It just makes me feel stuck. And for what? One year of tormenting me for three months of what you call "just."
See I'm not in denial. I just don't want to file. I just want to eat chocolate chip pancakes and not go on trial.
Have you ever considered that there isn't a whole lot of justice in our system? Have you ever considered that the only thing more just than the judgment of a perpetrator is to not cast judgment on a victim? Have you ever considered that the debate between what is just and what is right has been a fight for thousands of years between men that are older and white?
Sometimes I'm tempted to follow footsteps of modern thought, thought that says justice is not a real thing to be sought, but is taught to control and minimize the amount of brutish agonizing pain of men's natural state; oh humanity and nature––they just aren't great. But at the end of the day I still think the ancients had something worthwhile to say.
See the ancients didn't think that justice was decided on by a jury filled with citizens or family or friends filled with fury. The ancients didn't think that justice was decided on by you or your vote about whether I should have been wearing that coat or covered my throat that was choked and I smoked so it probably provoked what he stroked but I don't know how I could have known what I know now.
You say by not reporting I am acting like a victim. You say by not reporting I am losing my credibility. You say by not reporting I am inhibiting justice. But what the fuck is justice?
You obviously never read the end of Plato's book. At the end of The Republic, Socrates says, look, justice is probably just the practice, the quickness, of being able to mind your own damn business.