Caleb Orion

You stopped by this morning. I know you did because the label was peeled off the milk, and I found it in the trash with your fingernail markings all over it.
And when I’m off to work, I come home and the pillow is flipped. I know you sleep there, and I keep it flipped when I go to bed at night and smell you, that last dying hint of musk.
And you left your palm print against the refrigerator door, as you leaned against it to open the trash compactor.
I know you were here this morning while I slept, and when I stalked from the living room into the kitchen and back through the bedroom, I could feel your ghost drifting through me.
And I’m also in love with you.

This afternoon I walked from the house to the park. Last time I talked to you about it you said it was such a long walk that you didn’t think I could do it. I’ve never been very active, but I wish you had more faith in me. Maybe you do, and I don’t see it, perhaps it was a warning. I don’t know. I don’t know much. I don’t know. Maybe.
The walk beat me down, and when I got back I fell against the door frame and my stomach hurt, but not from walking. My stomach hurt because I miss you. You never say hello, and you never leave a note. You are just here when I am asleep, or if I am gone. I don’t call out sick or come home early for fear that you may be angry with me.

You left hair on the comb and I picked it out and set it aside in a drawer because it’s almost you. And I started brushing with your toothbrush. The bristles are harder than I like, and it makes my gums bleed a bit every time. They get sore and bleed. I get scared of my own blood when I see it, but I keep brushing because you said the hard bristles make your gums stronger. The bleeding, you say, is good. I keep brushing because I miss your teeth.

I wrote you a poem when I got home from work yesterday and it was gone from the refrigerator door when I woke up, and that’s how I know you were here.
I sent you a letter in the mail and it never came, so that’s how I know you go through the mailbox. Your bills never show up, your credit card statements never arrive, your million dollar winning envelopes stopped coming.

I still inhale.

I found the pornography you keep under the bed, and flipped through the magazines and masturbated to the photographs inside. People were touching each other in places I couldn’t reach on my own, and you loved to look at them do it. I cried when I came and I didn’t bother putting the magazine away before I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I was under the covers in my bedclothes and I think you did it because the magazines all were gone. Even the one I had masturbated to was missing, and I want to find your new hiding spot. I want to see those people again, with their lips and tongues and their faces masks of pleasure, dying.

I want to see you one more time. You never show up, but you always pat me on the head while I sleep. I know because my hair used to never be matted when I woke up, it would always be everywhere.
I want to touch you one more time, and maybe do to you those things you seem to like. Maybe give you that part of me I never gave to anyone. Maybe kiss that spot on you that hasn’t ever been kissed. I’d like to do that to you, and have you do it back. Maybe you’d like it too? I don’t know. No. No nevermind, I can’t do that, you don’t want it, do you?
That’s why you hid the magazines.

I’m sorry.
I should never have gone through your stuff. It was stupid of me. I was just feeling so lonely, so fragile, so scared.
I was feeling so out of sorts. My head hasn’t been in the same place it normally is. Can you forgive me? I know I found the magazine. I know I should have left it where it was, and never touched it, never looked.
I know I should stop sleeping in your bed.
I know I shouldn’t brush my teeth with your brush or keep your hair in my drawer.
I’m so fucking sorry, it’s so fucking hard.
Where are you?
Please.
Please come back, I don’t know what to do. Don’t go.

I sometimes like to reattach the label on the milk, hoping you’ll take it off again, but you always wait until I buy a new one.

There is
What I want to do
What I should do
What I shouldn’t do
And what I need to do
And I know that
Either/any/all/many
Of these options would
Be pleasing to me

But overall
What I actually may
End up doing is not
Any of these things
Or at least, not all
Of them.
I may end up just doing
One,
And at least that will
Be enough

Eventually I may come
To find whether that
I have made the right
Out of all the possible
Or that maybe I have
Made the wrong out of all
The possible.

Oh well,
This decision will
Affect everything, and
I accept that responsibility.
It is My future,
My past,
And My present.
And that decision,
This decision,
That need and desire
This which will be fulfilled
And that which won’t.

These moments are mine
My moments
I am my own God.

Anne gasped.
He was almost inside her and she felt a dull pain, hard throbbing like a pressure gauge too tight around her arm. In stress she felt the muscles contracting and the pressure increased. She wished he would move fast instead of slow like she had asked.
But then he was in, and he said so, but she knew.
He moved only in small prods, aware of her clenching jaw and her sharp noises and her hand pressed against his pelvis. She didn’t even realize it was there, that she was pushing him away but also letting him in.
There were motions, movements, waves and seas and tides. She felt him squeezing her arm, tighter for a second and then for even briefer it was as if his soul had disappeared. He returned and his grip released and for the first time since she had unhooked her belt she looked him in the eyes.
He forced a smile, he was scared of some accidental nature. She tried to smile back, and felt around for her underwear.
He had it in his hands the moment her fingers touched the sheets, and for the first time he knew her.
And she could feel him still, and that part of her he had touched still burned, maybe even itched, and it was uncomfortable. She rubbed herself, but it was internal.

And then it was clearer, like a solution being run through a centrifuge.
She felt his heart beating though he stood against the door jamb, pulling at the prophylactic, trying not to upend it onto her carpet.
She could smell glycerin and latex. She could smell sweat, and then behind that something sticky. Sweet. Something solid was there, obvious in its nature, a smell that held steadfast when even the tributaries of water beaded down her bare skin.
And then that night, her head in profile against the pillow, she lay awake with that thought in her head. She twisted under the covers, knots and pretzels forming around her. Her pillow held reservoir for his scent, the soap he washed with.

The next day he called her cell phone, he jumbled the words. She said sure and soon enough she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, going ninety down a twisting forest road. The tires gripped the tarmac, and everything swayed in the turbulence they left behind.
He pulled up to a stop sign, using his left hand to shift the car, not wanting to let atoms be atoms between their palms. They were off.
The car descended into a valley, and at the bottom he turned onto a dirt road. Rocks and gravel clicked and thrummed against the bottom of the car. She could feel the large pieces striking below her feet. He drove slow around a few pot holes, taking time to make sure the ride was smooth.
And then they arrived at the lake. They were the only ones there. A rope swing hung out over a large rock. A few bottles and cans lay near a fire pit like used wet dreams. Roots curved in and out of the earth where weeds no longer grew from being trod on.
He grabbed her arm before she could run on ahead and tried to kiss her. She pulled free, and giggled towards the water. He got towels from the back seat and followed her.
The water made goose bumps on their skin.
They swam naked in the lily pads, tugging at each others limbs and holding their feet above the soggy floor. He gripped her around the stomach, feeling his fingers dip in and out of her belly button, his hand following her patterns and shapes. She swam away, enjoying the sun above and the warm pockets underneath. They could have fallen asleep forever.
Eventually they sat in his car, the doors open, their underwear too wet to wear. They didn’t speak much, but he wanted to touch her skin. He ran a hand along her leg and closed his eyes as the wind blew past them.
Then he turned the key and they left.

They went to his house, watching for figures in the dark windows before lurching into the entryway. They hung up their underwear in the sun and they made sandwiches.

He drove her home, his fingers lacing between hers. They played music loud, the windows open, dusk air flowing across their skin.
They arrived at her house, navigating the descending driveway. They got out of the car and he walked her up the steps to her door. She hugged him goodbye and he kissed her on the forehead. They held onto each other as if this was the last time they would ever be together.
And then she disappeared into her house.

On the way back to his car he stopped to pick at the rust that was forming along the wheel wells. The black paint chipped and stained his fingers.

Summer ended. Fall arrived. As fall ended, the wind picked up. Daylight grew scarce. They saw less of each other. Everything grew cold.

He leaned against a pillow with his arm around her. She leaned against him, holding one of his hands in hers. Her fingers traced the wrinkles and lines on his palm. She ran her index finger along his lifeline.
He felt the air between them, layers of molecules bricking up between the fabric of their clothes. Atomic weight. She felt him urge to free himself. She felt the urge to run away, herself.
There was a dull pain, throbbing in his stomach. There was very little excitement left in their cause. They no longer felt rebellious, and there was nothing they could die for.
He eventually pushed her off of him. She looked up in dismay.
She asked him about friends, about life, about love and future.
“There is only one thing that’s important,” he said.
There was a pause.
“What the fuck does that mean?” she asked.
“Read the title of the story,” he replied. She went back to the beginning of the short story and read it.
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. There is absolutely no point in looping back to a title just to make some sort of statement or point. Just say, ‘Hey, at least we tried, baby, but it’s over.’ Stop being clever. Anyway, we’ve been broken up for what, half a year now? Get over it already, move on, find someone new. You couldn’t say goodbye then, when you really wanted to, but when I said it, when I put it out there that we should part ways, you fought it. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Just say it, just say it’s over.”
“Ok. It’s over. We tried, but it’s not working out.”
“Good, the door’s right over there.”

Here is your face
Solid and soft
I’ll cradle it in my
Fingers, and sorry
About my rough hands
They work more than
You might think.

Here is your grip
Strong and gentle
And I’ll slip
My fingers through yours
And the cracks in my
palm will match
Yours.

Here is your love
Good and bad
It makes you you
You know.
And I’ll take it.

This is a song I wrote with a friend of mine, Nick Perry (he recorded both guitar lines). It’s based on a couple chords from a song I wrote, but it’s pretty much his composition from my standpoint, the guitar line is the centerpiece and everything else sorrounds it.

The drum kit is handmade using boxes and something I found to simulate the noise of a ride cymbal. I don’t have $300 for a cheap kit, certainly not $500 for a decent kit, but I do have a few bucks here and there for this. For the snare sound, I filled a pizza box with rice, and hit that. The bass drum, I had to tape and rubberband a sock around the end of my drum stick, and hit it against a syrup box from those soda fountain machines.

There’s no lyrics, but it’d make a good intro to some other song. It’s sort of 50s. You can download a copy here.

You’re like a “wind in the willows” kind of person
And by that I mean
Windy, breezy, easy,
(like easy-going)
but not sleazy(ZZYY)
And with willows you kind of like to just
Hang out
And maybe you’re often found near a river … — …
Where moles ride by in boats, making friends,
With toads. (But not in moats, this ain’t no rhyme time)
Do you make friends with toads?

Here’s the second half of the poem:
You’ve got it made, like really made
Washing-machine-swisher-made, like
Koolaid-cool like Dennis Quaid
Get the switch? It’s a bait for your mind,
So don’t forget, yeah yeah yeah!
And here’s a kicker,
I won’t drop oil in your river,
So sopping soaked seals, struggling to breathe,
They’ll be safe, you’re safe, safe like
Milk
Unless someone’s allergic, then it’s not safe.
So, that’s probably a bad
Simile.

Ok, here’s the third half:
Just kidding, the poem ends
Here.
^ The poem ended up there.

‘Twas written long ago in ancient tongues,
That buried deep, ten thousand ladder rungs,
There sits the dusty widow’s single tear,

Guarded from all trespassers who near,
By a beast with eyes the deepest black,
If you cherish life you’d best turn back,

But forward someone soon will charge,
And past the beast a room so large,
Covered in diamonds of each hue,

Enter slowly, for if you,
Handle any diamond there,
With your fingers laying bare,

You will set the gas on,
So keep walking along,
Through the diamond room and,

Into some ruined,
Hall where you will climb,
To a door by vine,

In some small space,
Webs catch your face,
At the exit,

You’ll see it,
On a stand,
With your hand,

Take hold,
Be bold,
Then go,

Low,
Run!
Run!

A song I finished a couple weeks ago, it was something I’d been sitting on for a while, the first few seconds at least. I didn’t know where to go with it, but then I magically knew what to do, and so I made that super abrasive bit in the middle, which really stands out, I think. It’s purposefully a very dirty song, from a decently dirty mind. No lyrics, just music. Dirty, grungy, meaty, electronic music.

Inspired in part by ZZT’s Lower State Of Consciousness (the original Munich version) and also by Aphex Twin’s Windowlicker EP (a disc that, of late, has made every day I’ve ever had into a dancy, bouncy, fun-filled day), I tried to make something that was reasonably enjoyable to listen to, but also unbearable. My next electronic song will probably follow a similar pattern, but I’m looking into more use of my voice, but not through singing.

Also: Download here.

Do you remember
What we said that day
That cold cold
Day
of Hot Hot
summer
When the sand crept
Beneath our toes
and the Children laughed
and I frowned and
Tried not to cry
but there was
A huge Pain
in my stomach that felt like
Train Wrecks
and I couldn’t hold my food
Down
Do you Remember
What we said that day
What we said about
us
I do
I remember the
Fried Dough
I remember the
Park
the
rocks I hit
my Head on
and wishing I were dead
Every second of that day
Wanting to let go
Of all that clam chowder
I tried to eat
The clam chowder sometimes
Spits back up at me
Even though it’s
Long digested
Its reminder
Is still
Physically
There
Waiting to
Come back
Up
When I will let it.