Tuesday, January 26, 2010

A Summer Storm in mid-December

A Summer Storm in mid-December

This fissured nightscape
is framed with Sweet Jasmine
scented humidity
and the clamor of angry clouds
full of searing ice-water.

The clouds, as hot and cold
as our contorted hearts,
swell with impatience.
Eager to vomit churning winds
that will split us like brittle trees.

And the sky,
scabbed with sullen clouds,
irate and drunk, squats
to empty her bladder on the sidewalk
and on the heads of houses.

This storm, long brewed,
fermented silently.
Now ripe, she jealously
consumes all light,
holding the celestials hostage.
She smothers twinkling dreams
and chokes hopes that would normally gleam
like white gold on the onyx sky.

And in turn,
the stars feign death.
Fretting not,
for even powerful downpour
cannot dampen dreams
forever. And behind
the fuming clouds
the stars still shine,

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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Stasis (A final prayer)

Fog fills the space behind these drying eyes
as empty cries and silent sighs
fill these lungs.
Familiar songs are sung but these ears are drowned in doubt.
Soul shouts but mouth can only muster
measly mumbles as this numbed skin
soaks in token broken dreams and flimsy promises.
As uncertainty singed sinuses
tatter and freeze this tongue.

Thus I come to you,
Heart in hand, hope silently seeping
between these fingers, giving in
to flawless skin,
majestic, milk chocolate eyes
and the bounty of those cotton candy
pillows that hide that sunrise of a smile.

I pray you appreciate
the boundless peaks and valleys;
the nooks and alleys that I provide
and feel the sigh as our lips tenderly
collide and all in all know it’s
all worth your time. So confide
in me that your heart is mine
and what’s mine is yours.
So I implore your patient,
soothing touches to clutch
me tighter, and ever more.

(c) Dwight Duren, 2009
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Monday, December 28, 2009

Yea A play... (A Rush of Blood to the Head)

A play

A Rush of Blood to the Head
Dwight Duren

Woman 1

A Bar/Nightclub
Friday Night

Will and James both work at the same firm. Will works in the marketing department where as James is in IT. They have had a hard week at work and they are enjoying a night on the town. Will is dressed sharply. James is dressed in “safe” clothes: not poorly dressed, but not up-to-date fashion, and slightly oversized glasses. They arrive at the club and set up at the bar. Loud, popular club music is playing.

Will: J-Dog! What’s been good my man? What you get into last weekend?

James: Oh, well nothing much. I tinkered around with my radio controlled model cars. That was fun for a while, but then my batteries died and I had to stop.

Will: That’s what she said… (Laughing)

James: That’s what she, hunh?

Will: Oh you’re shitting me right? You never seen the office?
(James looks intently, puzzled)

Will: Oh – uhm, wow. Err -- Yea, I guess you just dropped a deuce on me. Yup, right on my forehead. Like “sploooot”… Anyways, what you havin’, bro?

James: (pause) I guess I’ll have a Mai Tai

Will: A Mai Tai?
(slight pause)

Will: Sure thing. (to bartender) Hey I’ll have a Patron, chilled, and make sure you strain that joint good, I don’t want no lil bits of ice in it. That’s gonna be straight, no chaser. Oh yea, my buddy is gonna have a Mai Tai.
(Will pulls out a crisp $20 bill from a money clip)

Will: (to bartender) Keep the change. (to James) I don’t recognize this new cat. I hope he knows how to hook up a drink. I fucking hate when there’s ice in my tequila.

James: Yea, I know what you mean. I’m the same way. Except with my crystal light, I like when the powder sticks on the ice. It’s like a slurpee, but with oddly shaped cubes of –
(Bartender slides drinks over to Will. Will thanks him with a nod)

Will: Uh, yea. (An attractive female passes. Will nudges James) Check out the yams on that chick

James: Yams? Like, tubers?

Will: Hold my drink, stand back and watch ya boy in action.
(Will follows the woman onto the dance floor, out of the scene. James turns to lean against the bar. Every so often he sips and stirs his drink. A few moments pass and a female approaches James)

Woman 1: (audibly inebriated) You should buy me a drink.

James: No thanks, I already have one, see? My buddy just bought me this one. (Points to dance floor)

Woman 1: What are you, some sort of deceptacon? On the down-load?! One of those, uhm, metrosexuals?

James: L-O-L. Do I look like a robot? (slight pause) Don’t answer that. (He chuckles slightly)
(Music fills the silence between them. The song fades then a new song comes on.)

Woman 1: It’s my sooooonnnnnggggg! Finally! I was waitin’ for an excuse to be out. Hey, Weird Al what’s-your-face – don’t chop nobody up tonight.
(She leaves; James waves at her back, smiling.)

James: Thanks! You too! T-T-Y-L! Bye-eee! It was nice talking with you! (James raises his voice as she gets further away. Will returns)

Will: Alright J! I see you, homie! Who was that?

James: You know what, I didn’t even –

Will: Dude, forreal, you shoulda seen the WORK I was putting on with her. Thank God for cell phones. If it won’t for this lil number here (holds up phone) I wouldn’t know what to call her when she’s serving me breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. But I would remember that cherry lip gloss she had on. Hey, you still got my drink, son?

James: Yea, it’s right –
(Someone bumps James in the back, James splashes some of his drink splashes on Will)

Will: Shit, this is a $300 shirt! Fuck, man!

James: Oh gosh, I’m sorry Will. You didn’t see – someone careened into me and –

Will: Oh man, don’t sweat it. I was gonna take this shit back to Nordstrom anyway. I’mma go assess the damage in the bathroom. Besides, I had to take a leak, anyway. Be right back.

(Will turns and heads to the bathroom. James puts the drinks onto the bar, grabs some napkins and wipes his hands. James then turns and heads for the bathroom as well. Will is a few lengths ahead of James. Will enters the bathroom first, James enters a few seconds later. The bathroom is smallish, 2 urinals and 2 stalls. Both urinals are separated by a short privacy wall and are available for use. Will walks up to one. James pulls up to the other available urinal. Will unzips his fly and tilts his head back)

James: Hey man, I never thanked you for the –

Will: Holy shit, man! What are you a fucking ninja?!

James: Only on Thursdays (James laughs and turns his head to look at Will.)

Will: (Will looking ahead at the wall) Shit man, you almost made me piss on my loafers.

James: (Still looking at Will) Nothing peachy about soggy bread.

Will: Soggy bread? (Will does a double take noticing James looking directly at him) Dude, man, you’re my boy and all, but I’mma need you to… You know what, nevermind.

(Will zips his pants back up, turns, and walks into an open stall. The toilet seat can be heard being knocked down onto the commode. Will, still clothed, sits then grunts)

James: You know you shouldn’t force it. You may want to lay off the dairy too and eat more whole grains. My grandma buys these individually wrapped prune things I –

Will: Thanks Captain Wikipedia, what do you do, moonlight as a proctologist?

James: That’s what she said!

Will: Ok, so my boy is a booty-ninja and he ruins perfectly good jokes.
(They chuckle)

James: So man, what’s the secret? How does one get to be like you? Do you have a book or something?

(Will lets out another grunt. Will makes a fart noise with his mouth, then a splash noise)

Will: Oh man, I’m gonna have to lay off the Chipotle.

James: Hey, did you hear –

Will: J-Dog, your killing me. I’m trying to concentrate on dropping the kids off at the pool.

James: Oh, my apologies. Should I head back over to the bar?

Will: Yea man, you better hurry. (grunts) I had guac. You probably shouldn’t inhale much more of this mustard gas anyway. (makes a fart noise)
(James washes his hands and exits the bathroom. A few minutes pass and Will joins him back at the bar.)

Will: Phew man, that’s much better. You know what they say, hot on the way down, hot on the way out. (Will chuckles)

James: I’d rather not talk about your poop-scapades.

Will: Well what’s got your man-tees in a bunch?

(Will playfully punches James’ arm. James ignores him, stares at bottles behind the bar)

Will: Oh, is it – is it because I’m fucking your mom? Look J-Dog, I didn’t want you to find out about it like this. We were gonna tell you. You know she really likes it when I –
(James suddenly strikes Will, knocking Will to the floor unconscious. The music stops)

James: My mother is a saint! God rest her soul! You marketing jerks are all the same, putting people down. So self absorbed, we all know you’re just insecure! (James looks down, notices a spreading puddle around Will’s legs) yea, you peed on more than just your loafers, ha ha! You may be able to take those designer jeans and designer underwear with the skid marks back to Nordstrom, but who’s going to take that shattered ego back!? Yea, good luck getting a new one of those you – you - butt head!

Bartender: Hey man!

(James turns to face the bartender)

Bartender: Up top buddy! (Bartender raises his hand for high five). That dickwad has been coming here for years and he still swears I’m the new bartender. I’m the friggin’ owner! He once tried to pay his tab with expired Kroger coupons. Then when we told him we don’t take no coupons, he told us his waitresses was a hooker, started humping her leg like a Boston terrier, saying “you can do this to her too! She my best girl! She love you long time!” And get this, he was SOBER! Yup, dry as a saltine in the Sahara! But Lemme tell you what happen after he drunk–

(Will, still unconscious, lays on the floor. A waitress erects a wet floor sign over Will. The woman from before approaches James; James emphatically gives her "the hand". The bartender slides James a drink. The music starts back up and the party continues)
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untitled (idk)

Brewing storms, monsoons of sorts,
Contorted heart and empty thoughts
Bridge the fissure in this serene nightscape.
Naivety, you see, as the stars could be
twinkling dreams, drunken hopes
or a sign that these sights in skies
have sighed years ago, so why strain your eyes?
Because concerns concerning contrite
time only gives glaring sighs as she
shares useless things like thoughts of why and we
which are worthless when I never fully
gave in.
And neither did she.
Thus dampened grief festers
since wants and needs seldom meet
And clearly, something was missing.
Thus I thrust, wrong foot forward or what, to
Starboard, port or whatever goes towards
This broken levee flanking former coddled dreams;
their ebb and flow following the pouring skies. While these
shielded stars, obscured and viewed like
behind grubby glass, defiantly shine and fret not
because this storm too shall pass.
*that was therapeutic* Read more!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Cobain of my existance (old poem)

To My Heroine,
You: daintily as graceful as an off-white
pigeon posing as a dove. Your love,
Mercury, an exhilarating rush
Of ever changing toxicity,
Your varying viscosity clogs my veins.
You: a dirty needle, a musty syringe.
Me: naïve, addicted to the rusty pain
Of letting you pierce my system, again
And again, and I gain nothing.
A fleeting shot of adrenaline,
A final pop, a funneling from the heart
Into you: a shit stained sieve
storing my wasted affection. You: part other lover
and part bowel infection.
You: the delicate tulip, nourished by me:
the manure.
You’re an irresistible skewering, a delightful sin.
I send this gift, plain page, marred
with your black tar, to you,
My Heroin.

its an old one. felt like i should post it now. :). Read more!

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Old Poem: Moon in Cancer: A Reprise

Here's an old poem that I originally wrote in HS and revamped for class.

Moon in Cancer: A Reprise

(My tide abides a waning Moon
who wishes to forget me.
While I trek through
these starry seas with a new

I reminisce:
Your incense,
still strong, seething through my heart.
Your jaded eyes
still singed into my mind.
Your sweet, sweet tyranny
still stirs my very soul.
Your name, (Luna)
still dew upon my lips.
Alas, I reprise to a time where bliss
reigned from the skies:
sorbet tears from the Sun.

I press on through the pitter patter of weeping.
Smiling, listening to the wind’s whirling whelps,
Because blue skies weren't always so blue,
Nor I confused.

I could sift through
Crème Brûlée hued
sand which seemed to be siphoned straight from you.
And daydream with a burning desire,
Lit aflame by fireflies,
Of our own Bermuda nights
Framed with apricot skies
Accenting the rising Moon, these celestial seas,
And blue-black, clear waters.
A tropical asylum,
And an isolated we.
Where I'd sow your fields,
And wander in your emerald greens...

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Tonight I Can Die (Fiction)

Ok, here's a story I wrote for my creative writing class. I ensure you it's fiction and I am not crazy. Lol. With that said...

Tonight I Can Die

The first time I tried to commit suicide, I wanted it to be something cool, preferably with fire. Yeah, going out in a blaze of glory, that’d be sweet. Like, maybe I’ll plow my 600 horsepower, fire engine red M6, with the camel interior, of course, through a Dunkin’ Donuts or a McDonalds or something. Can’t be nothin’ lame like choking on a marshmallow during a solo session of the “chubby bunny” game or some shit like that. I always thought I’d die young. But to make it cool, you gotta do it yourself. Besides, you always remember your first.

I gotta make my exit honorable, you know, like an episode of Maury Povich. So there I am, standing in the bathroom wearing a silk robe, the kind the emperors in those import movies wear. You know, the ones where the kung fu warrior’s mouth keeps moving for like 15 seconds after he’s done talking. It’s a sentimental robe that never really fit until now. She’ll be happy to know I was wearing it. Using the back of my hand, I smear my skin’s oils across the fogged mirror. The humidity squeezes my lungs like a boa constrictor. I wipe my forehead with a washcloth and think: is it condensation or nerves? The combination of water vapor and my yellow, felt Spongebob slippers make my toes stick together like I’ve just waded through the Everglades. You’d probably wonder why a 20 something is running around in floppy cartoon slippers. Ask me if I give a shit. This is how I want to go out.

The tub is finally full. You know, warm water really gets the blood flowing. Oh, and it gives you options. I could play “Marco Polo” with my laptop or I could dredge an irrigation canal across my ulnar artery and form the Red Sea. Another swig of Henny spreads a wildfire through my chest. It’s fleeting, but it’s the warmest my heart has been in years. Leaning over the faucet, the sink seems to totter like a 10 foot skipper caught in a waterspout. Then I eye my silver single blade razor. I bet it’s made in Asia, just like this cheesy ass robe, those shitty ass movies, and 99% of the shit we buy. Too bad it’s too small for hari-kari, but it’ll get’er done. My fingers shiver as they probe the razor’s bumpy ridges. Then I look in the mirror: She stole your balls too, hunh?


“Baby, why you so quiet?” I said.
“Oh, nothing.” She responded.
“Well,” I started. “Can’t be nothin’.”

She paused, allowing white noise to fill the 300 miles separating us. My skin grew clammy and started to itch. I fought the urge to kick off my black sheets. I really wanted to feel a recycled breeze numb my skin. Something that felt like a grapefruit grew in my gut.

“Just tired.” She answered.
“You,” I paused. “You need me to let you go?”
“Well, maybe. I guess.” She suggested.
“Fine...” I paused again. “Love you.”

Gazing out the window, I noticed a street light’s amber hum fizzle out. Maybe soaking up the dew on the grass would soothe my skin. Maybe looking for Orion’s belt, kinda like we did two summers ago, would help too. Crickets accented my iTunes: I think -- that - it’s brain-less/to a--ssume that - mak-ing chang--es/to your - wind-ow's view will - give a new per-spect-ive…
My esophagus felt thick, like I just swallowed a handful of mothballs. Breaking the silence, I cleared my throat.

“…I’m sorry, what did you say, babe?” She responded.
…I don't mind re-strict-ions/or if you're - black-ing out the frict-ion/It's just an es-cape it's -- over-rated, anyways...


It’s hard to believe that it’s been seven months since the break up . Back then my intuition served me well, but MySpace gave me proof. You think you know someone after three years, right? Maybe if I were 15 years older and made ends meet by swabbing toilets. Come to think of it, that probably wouldn’t be enough for her exquisite tastes. I’d probably need a kid or two and a live-in baby momma. Unfortunately for me, I was full time college student who slaved full time as a technical analyst. Oh, who am I bullshitting? I was the whipping boy for the noble class of the technologically brain dead who treat computers like nuclear fucking reactors. These days, I drifted through class and waded through the same redundant crap working nights. Instead of plowing through homework, I snuck on the internet to pass the time at work. Shit, sometimes I’ll go take a shit just to get off the goddamn phone. Speaking of the devil, guess who I ran into yesterday at a stoplight on the way to work?

“Take down my new number.” She said.
“O..k…” I said. Scratching something into an old receipt, I prayed I couldn’t decipher it later.
“When’s the last time you had a hair cut?” She asked.
“Damn,” I responded. “Can’t remember.” I eked out a constipated smile.
“Well, call me sometime, ‘kay?” She said.
No, I won’t. “Sure thing,” I lied.

Driving to work I think about all the “shouldas.” Like, I shoulda told her how I could give a rat’s ass about her. Or, I shoulda reminded her how I missed her calling me “moocakes.” Or, I shoulda mentioned how I know she’s still fucking that lame. Or, I shoulda explained how I’ve been trying to throw away that scrapbook she made. But what I really shoulda told her is how karma’s a streetwalker clad in crimson knee-high boots and boy is that bitch burnin’.

“Thank you for calling the helpdesk. My name is Lloyd,” I recited. “Is this Page?”
“Listen, Dee-wayne…” She started.
“Uhm,” I interrupted. “My name is Lloyd.”
“Floyd, you said?” She asked.
No you stupid shit. “Lloyd, my name is Lloyd, ma’am.” I responded.
“Well look,” She replied. “I’m having a major problem. Someone named ‘Daemon’ keeps rejecting my emails and I demand to know why! He doesn’t even know me!”
There’s no way these ass clowns have college degrees. “Ma’am,” I sighed. “Give me the email address you’re typing…”

Loosening my tie, I could smell salty sweat starting to stain my collar. The clock, a dirty aquarium shade of green, read 7:00 p.m. sharp. My grayish-blue chair squealed as I slid further into my cubicle. In between typing, my hands fidgeted about the frayed faux-leather armrest, shedding off volcanic slate colored snowflakes. I turned and examined my neighbor’s desks, full of happy family photos and trinkets from recent vacations. Then I turned back to my coffee stained cubicle, glancing at my two pictures. The first one, I’m wearing a shiny paper cone on my head as I delightfully survey a white sheet cake. There are six burning candles. My friends and my family all look intently, awaiting my approval. The icing is blue, my favorite color. The other picture is of us celebrating our second year together over pasta and cheap wine. White Zinfandel was her favorite. The picture is wrinkled and bent; I found it a few weeks back under my computer. I glanced back at the clock. It looks even slimier than before; charcoal colored hyphens, looking like Bacillus subtilis in a Petri dish, formed the time: 7:06.

“Mondays are the worst.” I said. Using a ball point pen, I started picking at grey dust bolls in my computer’s air vents. The passing janitor parked his rolling trashcan beside my desk, brining the scent of processed onions and used mustard packets with him.

“Tell me about it,” Pablo responded.
“Have you seen the boss-man?” I asked.
“Nah,” Pablo said. “Think he’s gone.”
“Word,” I replied. “Ever feel like you’re spinnin’ your wheels in horse shit?”
“Yea,” Pablo stated. “Take a bath and then write. Gotta get that stink off you and out your head.”

Then he left without saying anything else. Relieved he didn’t investigate further, I pressed my right shoulder against the cubicle wall so my back eclipsed the computer screen. I peered over the cubicle: the coast is clear. You know, you really shouldn’t use the same password for everything. Judging by the Sprint picture mail, they were definitely still fucking. Maybe I should post them for every Dick, Tom, and Harry to pleasure themselves to. No, I decide. I have to fuck them both. Two hours passed and then my phone rang.

“Who is this?” I asked.
“How could you forward those…” her voice cracked. “My parent’s? My Friends? My Pastor?”
“This call is being monitored and recorded…” I responded. A smirk infiltrated the syllables.

Then, ironically, the line fell dead. Just as my smile started fading, my adrenaline kicked back in. “The internet is monitored too, you know?” A lump formed in my throat as my supervisor’s silhouette filled my peripheral. “Pack your things and hand me your badge.” He said. Without blinking or a word, I handed him my badge and headed towards the cavernous hallway.

“Don’t you want your pictures?” my supervisor asked.
“Chuck ‘em.” I responded.

Outside, the sun warmed my newly liberated skin. The trees, their limbs overflowing with dull fool’s gold and bloody crimson, waved to me in the breeze.


“Nope,” I announce. “Still got ‘em!”

Fortifying my proclamation, my left hand goofily fumbles to cover my crotch. The mirror is more silver than white now. My neighbor’s dull wall thumping accents my blaring speakers: So you lost your trust/and you never should have/No, you never should have…

“Lemme start the webcam,” I say. Stumbling over to my laptop, I nearly bring the towel rack down as I catch my balance. But don't break your back/If you ever see this/But don't answer that...

“Hope you enjoy the show, Hoe.” I slur.

In a bullet proof vest/with the windows all closed/I'll be doing my best...

“Pablo said,” I start. “But I’mma switch it up: Let this be the last pain that you make me suffer. And these the last words that I dedicate to you.” The consonants running up each other’s backs like a crash at the Tour de France.

And suddenly, the rocking stops. My buzz is gone. The music fades out. With a steady hand, I click record.

For once and for all, I’m able to look into the mirror and objectively rank my wounds. My pupils, as wide as jasmine flower bulbs at witching hour, struggle to focus on the camera’s grayish lens. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back. On cue, the next song comes roaring in: Oh misery, come marshal me in/No better place for me to begin/I’m coming in from out of this rain/the time has come to wash you away…

And the blood falls to the floor like dew to the pasture.
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