Category Archives: This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

NSFW contains adult language, Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Metal

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Rose petals bloomed along the thin straight line on my inner thigh, where no one could see. The thorn that drew them was taken from my father’s medicine cabinet, by a hand that never yet had to hold one to my face.

I love the metal. I love the fineness of the grind, the glint of the edge, the coolness of the steel. And it was a double bond. That edge helped reconnect me to a body that my mind wanted to escape. Each crimson petal a chance to feel, again. The steel converting emptiness into somethingness. Pain as a pathway to the corporeal

I met him at a party. His metal attracted me, made me want to be close to him. Septum, PA, nipples, fraenum and a few more, all perfectly placed. All making him seem powerful and free and beautiful.

He gently took me by the hand, down into the basement, and whispered, “I’d like you to feel something.” At first, it was the kiss of his leather on my back, and then, the feel of his hand making it hard for me to sit. And always, I would kiss his metal. And always, I would feel something more.

This time, he showed me his blade. So similar to the one I knew when I was younger, but this one was in his hand, and that I trusted completely. This time, the straight lines bloomed with rubies. Precious gems that would never wilt. And he drew them out with a gentle but commanding hand. In that passionate moment, he repaired the damage I had done before. I was reconnected the way I never thought I could be. As he finished placing his mark, he put his metal on my lips, and, in gratitude, I mixed the rubies with pearls.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Transcendental Transaction of Touch

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Please. There is an emptiness, that can only be filled by the texture of skin, and the thrum of circulation, and a warmth that is not my own.
Yes. Here I am, not with an emptiness, but an openness to meet you where you are, and to share in your hunger.

Please. The last time? I cannot account. Fluids were exchanged, but hearts were not.
No. This is not how I think about us. That is not what we are to each other.

Please. But last night, you…
Alright. yeah. ok..

Please. It aches, inside, where you are not.
Maybe. Let’s see how good you can be.

Please. Even in the lights and noise of the city, it is too dark and quiet, here, alone.
Let’s talk. How much do you have to spend?

Please. We never do, anymore.
Not now, I’m tired.

Please. You are so beautiufl.
Yes. I love you.

Please. I am lonely.
No. Loneliness looks bad on you.

Please. You are so good at it.
No. You are not.

Please.
Yes.

Thank you.
Our pleasure, shared.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Timepiece

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I love the clock in the mantel of your breast. It ticks with an organic precision, which is not precise at all. Time flies in moments of anger and excitement, but when you are content and at peace, the flow moves slowly. I love the ticking of this instrument, and I know it well.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

My days are measured by 1000 clocks. I hear the clicking of their mechanism, occasionally the whoosh of their gears, and sometimes the sweep of their second hand, as it counts down to nothing. Some, I have heard race too fast to count, as their first seconds of life begin. Some, I was the last, ever, to hear. Some, I knew, would not take long to end, as the rhythm became broken. It is the measure of their lives.

Tick tock. Tick tick tick tock.

But yours is the measure of my life. The joy, the wonder, the peace, the fear, the love. With every tick, our life is built. Each tock, our love grows to entwine us. In every hour and every precious second, it is the rhythm of our dance, the meter for the orchestra of our experiences and our plans. It is the metronome for the student, humbled in how much he has to learn, yet excited for the beauty that is now open to him.

Tick tick tock tock.

If I could no longer hear that sound, then time will have run out, for me, too. For 20 years, 630 million seconds, I have lived to your rhythm, danced to your meter, sang the song of your prosody, and I pray to run out of numbers before I stop counting its precious beat.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

five weeks of walking to his place

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He he lived in that yellow apartment house just between the liquor store and Get the hell off my property Lady.

Week 1: it was a left, a right and a left. There were a few shops and houses that I had never noticed. A newly painted grand Victorian, fronted by a garden newly cleared with some small plantings just getting started. As I crossed the street toward the house on the corner, I could hear Get the hell off my property Lady yelling at some kids in the side yard. My palms were sweating. I made it to the front step in 23 minutes.

Week 2: beautiful day. On the quiet part of the second street, there is a small craftsman, with a porch draped in ivy. The porch swing was still gently rocking, with two steaming cups of coffee and the half finished crossword on the table in front. I glanced up, just to see the bedroom curtains drawn. My hands were fidgety. I got to the front step in 21 minutes.

Week 3: the out of place cape, across the street from the Victorian, has some balloons and a table just at the edge of the yard. One part of the table cloth says congratulations, Pat and Stoney. I cut through an alleyway. Get the hell off my property Lady was glaring at a couple of teens coming down the sidewalk. My hands were warm. I got to the front step in 23 minutes.

Week 4: in the alley shortcut, the lawn chair captain was finishing his fourth beer in the six pack. He was glaring at a cluster of sparrows on the guy wire to his house, as they fluttered over to a nearby tree. His BB-pistol next to him. They’re not the birds from the movie, you know. He said, “yeah, but they could always turn on ya without warning.”  A car pulled away from the space right in front of the building just as I arrived. I stopped off at the liquor store to get a nip. My hands were shaking. I made it to the front step in 24 minutes.

Week five: the garden in front of the Victorian was cleared again, just after it finished blooming, like it only had a short purpose, and then was discarded. New starts of different plants are already sprouting. That car was parked in front of the building, but no one came to claim it. I ducked into the liquor store for 2 nips. They burned going down. I went around the block, again. My fists were tight. I made it to the front step in 32 minutes.

I waited 12 minutes, but there was no answer. As I started to walk back home, I heard a voice. “cheer up, young man.” It was Get the hell off my property Lady. The flower she held out was just past its prime. “here, it’s from my garden.”

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Hospital corners

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Hospital corners still in his nightmares.
Crisp white sheets folded with precision.
scent of sanitizer.
Single flower petal, under the table.
Card that says “I love you”, stranded on the top shelf of the closet.
He remembers the empty room, that was once so crowded with family and tears and prayers.

But now it is not empty.
Someone new.
No family.
No tears.
Torn coat.
Detox.
Hospital corners, now a respite from the cold rain.
A safe place for tonight.

And he doesn’t think to say another prayer.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Winter scene with dragon

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A winter trek up rocks and hills, the crystal trees were calling
The ice and snow and chilly breeze brought hemlock needles falling
But after going round the plot. our energy was flagging,
We happened on a chilly copse, well guarded by a dragon.

Those of his kind stay very still, guard all within their realm
Ensuring all the woodland creatures safe, while at the helm.
We circumnavigated on the ledge above his fields,
And watched him from a distance, safe, our walking sticks were shields

But as the sun began to sink to just behind his shoulder,
there I saw, within his eyes, that he was getting bolder.
A glow of gold, a flash of red, he seemed to gather fire,
but then, he simply smiled gentle warmth upon his shire.

I’m sure that he caught sight of us, and knew we weren’t a threat.
So he went back to silent sleep, the sun began to set.
So on we went, down icy cliffs, our footing not quite sure,
And while he dreamt of fiery days, his charges sleep secure

Humor, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Which zodiac sign are you?

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I got platyhelmenthes, the flat worm.

Originally identified by the ancient Babylonians, platyhelmenthes represents a single neuron life. Most of your activities are guided by chemotaxis, the attraction to low grade, usually chemical, stimuli, and the concentration of non-sentient drama in the unexamined life. Ancient sailors used platyhelmenthes to guide them to no place in particular, and it allows you to drift aimlessly in the doldrums of your college roommate’s spare bedroom, where your inability to move forward could be justified by watching Dancing with the Stars, but not really. In approximately 2500 BC, platyhelmenthes was eliminated from the zodiac, when they realized it was only a result of a bad calculation, that they kept repeating. Kind of like that guy you woke up with. Again. You are most compatible with the Blue Ball Lizard, which stormed out of the zodiac, in 2433BC, after being told what blue ball actually means. your lucky number is 555-2143. but you knew that, already.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The physics of us

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I believe in the three laws. You can’t win, you can’t break even, you can’t get out of the game.
1) Love is neither created nor destroyed, just changed form, or moved from one place to another. 2) The net insanity of the universe is alway increasing. 3) And you can never achieve what you truly want in a finite number of steps (also known as ‘ever’).

I was on my own eccentric orbit spending short, warm times in the company of others. Then drifting off to my own, well proscribed course. Those with years of observation could predict my return, but most didn’t bother.

We joined by Diffusion limited aggregation, that same mechanism that forms dust bunnies. Brownian motion, or the random walk, brought us together as we happened to be in the same place at the same time: that party at the Martin-Colson’s. You stuck to my most outreaching surface, and I to yours. We were held together my some electrostatic attraction, but mostly by the reduction in entropy of our whole lives and when delta S is less than zero, that’s something I hold onto.

For months, we were a canonical ensemble. Not doing exactly the same things, but in the aggregate, our lives behaved like a relationship. We responded to friends and changes in the environment as if we were truly together and one complete system. Those who understand us well, could predict us both, but not each. We wanted to get there, but never quite could.

Nova didn’t take long to happen. The accretion disc of your hobbies and needs and friends and family and habits and quirks, constantly poured onto my surface, heating me up. Only to finally ignite in a stellar fire. Not the warmth of the hydrogen helium cycle, but the bitter, rapid, ashy fire of the CNO. The explosion was dramatic and could be seen from great distances. I blew off all the outer surface – you, friends, job, family. And when the tempest cooled, I was denser, a little colder, and returned to my eccentric orbit.

Since love is neither created nor destroyed, you found your other, and your new passion is exothermic, radiating heat to the stars. And I, alone, balance the equation.

NSFW contains adult language, Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

I know these things

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I know the look of rejection. It is the back of my best friend’s head as he tells the laughing football team about what happened last night, when I trusted him just a bit too much, and said just a bit too much. It is the look in their eyes as they calculate their new advantage. Opportunities for street cred, for violence without consequence, for an option for when their girlfriend says “no.” It looks like “I would have been better off alone.”

I know the taste of a fist. It is of tractor grease and dust from the corncrib and mud from the hog lot. It tastes of the way I looked or something I said or something I didn’t need to say. It is the salt of my tears and the iron of my blood. It tastes of “I deserve it”.

I know the feeling of boot in my kidney. At least that’s where I think the kidney is. Maybe if I had been paying better attention during biology class. Maybe If most of the pages of the loaned textbook had not been stuck together with spits of chewing tobacco. Except for the parts about female reproductive anatomy, which were stuck together with something else. And whether you consent or not, that something else, you do not spit, or you feel a boot in your kidney. It feels like, “my first time should have been gentle.”

I know the smell of a party. It is tobacco and sweat and marijuana and alcohol. Whiskey on beer, never fear. It is the scent of a circle of men, with piercing eyes and curling fists. It is laughter and hatred and the inevitability of my blood. It makes me see my life flash fast forward from zero to zero. It smells of “why do I do this to myself?”

I know the feel of my name. On slurred lips and hops scented breath. The aerosol labiodental fricative, the aa, ee almost diphthong common to my hometown, the voiced velar plosive, the short i that is almost a Schwa, and the hard, liquid t, spit like he’s firing a nail gun at me. Faggit. Faggit is my name and it is a powerful name. And it makes me shake, deep inside. I will feel the power of using it as a weapon, too.

I know the sound of a threat. It comes in a deep voice that should be a big bear of a man, who would wrap me completely in his arms and tell me everything will be ok. Instead, it is an invitation to dance. “Come on boy. Just you and me. And my buddies. And my baseball bat. It’ll be the last dance of your life.” Every night, when the bars close, the phone rings and he repeats the invitation, and every night, I decline.

Until tonight.
“Bring it on, fucker. Let’s get this over with.”

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Field Tender

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It is not the field you thought you’d tend.
The soil is hard to read,
and the harvest, hard to measure.
You’ve seen so many gardens end,
Leaving you in your need,
With only you left to treasure.

But this is the field that’s yours, today,
and constantly, it blooms.
With hearts you gently till.
You bring your trowel and you stay,
Until deeper soil subsumes
The weeds with loving skill.

You are an extraordinary gardener,
With a soul that finds its way
To that which needs you most.
You and the field become a partner,
In the sunlight of summer day
Or the dark eve of winter frost.

And from that love, we grow,
lift above the earth and spread
Our leaves, full and alive.
And this is a field you didn’t know,
Flowers for joy, grains for bread,
Where those who love you thrive.