“What Two Items of Interest”

What two items of interest,
diseased and rattled, like gingivitis and two halves of a walnut
scatter themselves across the attending tide,
fading into the morose caterpillar, crawling
sylphlike, birdlike, hungrylike.

When I wonder about these two
like rifles screaming bullets,
chasing skirts of Muslim women,

standing there
with an eyeball and a paperclip
in my hand.

It’s where I am with my leg open
skin pulled back as a book cover
with contents spilled out and these words,
ripe like whispers swimming in the folds.

“The Aftereffects of Microwaving Chicken”

The aftereffects of microwaving chicken:
oranges run over by trucks,
insides splitting in softball over-the-fence fashion
when you were eight and thought you’d be Mickey Mantel
or Joe DiMaggio, that guy from that song on my Simon & Garfunkel CD
you gave me for Christmas how many years back?
When we saw two boats collide up on the Eerie,
and two herons mating in a river of blue and white,
a condom wrapper flat against the sand
seeping into the keyboard of a laptop
invented a decade ago.
Jesus didn’t come
when we thought he would.

*again, this is part of a short story… but this is just another section of it. Short story is in the process of being editted*

I see a woman whom gravity has done wrong.
Parallel ski slopes slide down her chest
and come to points somewhere in the middle.
I think she’s missed her bus.

Another moving billboard skeeters past.
Only, the grandma-woman this time
has grown a bulbous mustache
and her eyes are the size of plates
with horns growing out of her head like Satan himself
was staring at me eye-for-eye
or soul-for-soul.

Somewhere in Clifton, Cincinnati,
Catcher the Spirit-Smasher arranges teacups.
There is the one with Princess Diana and Prince Charles
on their wedding day
that his Nana bought him at a garage sale.
“Don’t touch this. I hear-ed it might be worth somethin’. Probably more than yer life,”
he said, holding out to her the blue and white treasure.
Except, on Di’s face is a mark;
it looks like someone tried to erase her.
And then there’s Charles,
unblemished and
grinning like the Cheshire fiend.

Sweat glistened my skin
like moss did my tree stump.
And there’s Catcher the Spirit-Smasher
who says I can’t because he says so.
And doesn’t give a hot damn
what I am—
if that is happy,
or depressed.
And if I were what I am,
which I don’t even know,
other than Virginia Blu,
would my words be fewer?

Something like hot cement hits my nasal cavities
and I reel backwards,
into the stop sign.
Then the little man beckons me forward
while my bare-feet argue
angrily with the baking sun beneath me.

-Chels

I heard the bus brakes cough like a sneeze,
as they farted out hot air
against the backs of my legs.
My skirt caught in the wind
like I was Alice from Wonderland,
and I was a falling cupcake. Only,
I stood on the corner of Clifton and MLK,
wondering when the next stop was
or when I would hear
a sneeze again.

Catcher the screamer yelled.
He said.
I said.
Well, I won’t tell what he said.
But, he said,
“Take it off.”
And I said,
“What?”
Then he grabbed hold of me and
speared me with his javelin to the bed.
Now I’m getting gassed.

Only, instead of coming face-to-face with the bus,
I found myself back-to-back with it.
So then I started praying,
“Lord Jesus,” I said.
And then I stopped
when my thoughts were interrupted
by a moving billboard,
advertizing God-knows-what
with some grandma-looking chick,
unblinkingly staring at me
like some punk kid
I felt like punching.

My stomach kind of threw up in itself
when Catcher the screamer yelled.
So I went for a walk down Clifton Ave.,
and I stopped at a bus stop.

-Chels

*written as part of a short story… the text is meant to be sporadic, but the format will not let me post it in such a way*

*Third poem in series of Judas Iscariot and Pontius Pilate -Chels*

JOHN’S EYES

We and The Disciple Whom He Loved knew Him
face-to-face. He was the beginning, coming as the Word and
going as flesh. How could the world reject Him?
How could they fail to recognize Him? There were signs. There were so
many.

We are limited, yet the two who graced that holy face were
infinite. There was that all-seeing nature
we shall never possess within His deep sockets, Undying,
Soft, beneath His wide gyres, ever-rotating—
unionized.

Swiveling across that face, we present to
the Disciple Whom He Loved a view of the gloriously
Seen. It is not the Unseen here that puzzles,
but that which Is. That foolish nature of human beings to
have and to hold.

We could say that we are the Disciple Whom He Loved’s sight but,
truth is, he is blind like us. Unseeing and
black, led to shelter by hands of competent Strength yet weary
of that step. Is it going to be the last? Then
what? If we fall, He’ll catch.

Falling is a scary verb. It tumbles out
our lips, wriggling like a fish, jerking for that elusive breath,
catapulting us upwards, blocking our light.
Sending us into black, and we press the panic button. Beep!
Hello? Hello? Jesus?

“Don’t leave us!”
We scream and Brain clicks on,
transports the message through the caves,
down the tunnel, and into the pumper.
Suddenly there is the constriction. But the
Ever-life in us, pulsating, sings a song of calm.
And the Disciple Whom He Loved is moaning,
finger-licking the memories left, for it is finished.
Those words, ever-moving, on loan to the world.

*I have constructed a series of poems written as dramatic monologues, which means that we– as the audience– happen to overhear them being spoken. This is the second in the series (the first one is “Judas Iscariot’s Lips,” which was published on the site a while ago if you scroll down). Lastly, what you need to know about this series: The poems are written from the perspective of these peoples’, or characters’, body parts (all the people are from the Bible). For instance, this poem is not from Pontius Pilate’s perspect; it is from his Heart’s perspective. Pilate is not speaking, his Heart is. Likewise, with “Judas Iscariot’s Lips” it is not Iscariot speaking, but his Lips. So I caution you all to read with that in mind. Also, the third poem, “John’s Eyes,” will be up shortly. Happy reading ~Chels*

PONTIUS PILATE’S HEART

I hereby declare:
This is my signed confession.
We killed the king.

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

He issues no response.
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.
“Art thou king of the Jews?”
lips, the beings attached to the face above move.
Silence is His response. No, that it is.

It’s a confession He has yet to utter.
And I am screaming,
shooting blood up
and down,
left and right,
forwards and backwards.
Di
ag
on
al
ly

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

The Jews say He must die,
and I constrict.
I find no ground to charge Him
but the walls—they echo.
Crucify. Crucify. Crucify…
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.

I remember it well.
Governor was meant as a privilege.
And—still—I strain,
the stress, the severity
lies in the Lies
or maybe the Truth.
I do not know, you see.

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

So here is my confession:
I killed the king.
I did it. And I tremble.
I did it, and I quiver.
We wash our hands—
red on our fingertips
and in our eyes.

For what is Truth?
I will tell you.
It is in the beat of my drum.
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.
In the strings that I strum
and in the air that is my power.
But what is Truest here
is what I surely do not know:

Art thou the King of Jews?
They claim Caesar is king,

so we sit down,
and we build a sign.
What we have written, we have written.
THE KING OF THE JEWS
, it says.

I KNOW WHY THE CROW WILL CAW

I know why the Crow will caw
—the crow will caw—
he will caw in Chicago next to his cousin, the Dove

I know why the Dove will coo
—the Dove will coo—
she will coo in New York City
where she searches for food
next to her companion, the Robin

and I know where the Robin flies,
why she sings, and why she cries
and when she falls
—when her wings cease to beat—
she sings no more
—no more will the Robin sing—

a caw is heard in the distance
and the Crow, he freezes
—his wings sputter to a stop—
and no more does he caw
just like the Robin, who sang

and I know where the Dove rests
—she rests in the park next to the bench—
and the worm escapes her, for her mouth is suddenly slack
and her wings will not wave
—she cannot leave the ground—
suddenly her coo is heard no more
just like the Crow, who cawed
and the Robin’s song
no more will they be heard

I know when it rains and pours
the Robin will offer her jacket—brown-speckled—
and the rain will fall
just like the Crow will caw
and the Dove will coo
rain will start to fall
and the Robin will offer her jacket

somewhere above she sings
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects some
but many are hit
and then they fall
and no more might they sing
their coats—speckled are they—now thrown in the ring

they fight a battle
against an invincible foe,
yet they lost long ago,
so they throw in their jackets—speckled-jackets—
and, the Robin, she sings a song
—a prolific song—
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects what it can,
as she sings from Heaven above.

–Chels

*This poem was published in a journal sold to raise money to help find a cure for the AIDS disease. The hyphenated areas are meant to be echoed when read aloud.

THE BOOGEY MAN

They say I am your imagination
—the liar beneath your bed,
behind closet doors.
I am a creature
and folklore has sent me to beseech you
“Come here, my child,” I say.

My body is illustrated by you—
hot tamales glaring
muscled sweetarts rolling
laffy taffy tongue snarling—
gobbling—boys and girls.

You lie there
—vacant—
cotton candy dreams shining,
tumble-weeding in your mind.
I can see it in your twitch,
behind your lemon drop eyelids.
I’ve heard it—your assumed purity—
blowing bubbles in your scream.
I cackle.

Beneath your night breath
you groan,
eager to escape this nightmare
that is me.
I send you goose-bumps that trigger a shiver
and pray you never learn that

I am your Pinocchio.

And so I draw the shadows near my breasts
—facades soaked in fool’s gold—
while you rest unaware.

The tip of my finger slithers across your face,
as I lean in.

I whisper, “Wake up!”

-Chels

JUDAS ISCARIOT’S LIPS

I am crusty,
flaking with each lie.
Our face is masked,
and I do not unveil our untruth.
We sit next to him—
the one I betrayed,
and I continue to scald him—
to cut his skin—
as we pretend.

In hours, it will be over.
The daggers I cover have dulled.
An innocent man will be nailed upon the cross,
and Death will stalk him there.

He breaks bread.
Pieces of the crust speckle his beard
like dying embers against the patched earth.
And his wine—it splashes over,
painting splotches of fallen stars on the table top.

I wonder at his serenity—
surely, he cannot know
of our dissipated friendship.
And I wonder,
whatever should I answer
if he were to ask—
if he were to say—
That I know.
I know what you’ve done.

I am gritty,
tougher than the calloused.
He walked on water,
cured, lepers and the blind.
Fool! Can’t he see?
We bring him Death.

The three kings brought him:
gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

And so I spit acid.
Soon it will be over.
We have sparred, and we have won.

Yet—

in his lips
— in his eyes—
he knows of my betrayal—

Shh! He speaks.

-Chels

Thank you for visiting this website! My name is Chelsie Bryant, and I am a sophomore at the University of Cincinnati (if you have not seen the About page, check it out to learn more!). As an English literature major with a track in creative writing: fiction, I am looking to become a published novelist. This website exists primarily to promote my writings; however, there may or may not be a few postings here and there to chronicle my journey through the university’s English program and my life here as I discover who I am. I would also like to issue a big thank you to my friend, Brandon Schamer, who has created this website for me!

-Chels