fell into heaven

the TV looks like a window
and the ceiling looks like a door
and the wall looks like a feeling
that i never wanted before
and the floor looks like a border
that is holding me from knowing
that the window looks like a wall
with a mural that's always showing
a world that looks so dead
but lights up with life and lies
painted on the passing cars
speeding by...breaking ties
and the door looks like a hole
calling me to go outside
running after all my chances
to break and not abide
to all the rules and traffic laws
that try to guide me through the street
through molecules  and perfect flaws
refusing to admit defeat
the street looks like a movie still
a film noir love affair
the corner store looks like a girl
a femme fatale with bleeding hair
her lips look like a flute of wine
crashing to the floor
her neck tastes like a tremor
of a lions final roar
her line that curves to the ground
looks like an open heart
that shadows me so i can bare
the light that breaks apart
all the lies that let me be
a hero and a dreamer
making love to empty air
that looks like i believe her
when she tells me that i look like
every second that she dreamt
when she was just a girl
and shook herself
with the tempt
of the fantasy
that some man would be
the answer to her dreams
and for a night
i may be
every truth
she ever deems
to be what she wanted
before i disappear
and look just like a wall
that's sprayed and tagged with fear
and though i look like i am hiding
i am only standing still
in the middle of a world
that is out for the kill
and though i walk away
i never really left
I'm still lying on the couch
holding tight to a theft
that occurred the night before
when she stole what i believed
and turned it on it's head
with no chance to be relieved
forcing me to face
everything that i see
as being something different
then what i thought was me
the TV looks like a window
and the ceiling looks like a door
and as i trip and fall
through a vacant floor
i see that she is watching
and leaps into the air
we blow up like independence
without a single care
of what anyone is seeing
or what we seem to be
just see that we're alive
and maybe even free
and as we come together
she tastes just like the sky
breaking open crashing planes
that just won't say goodbye
and maybe I'll keep dreaming
and maybe she was real
and maybe I'm a homeless man
just looking for a meal
but maybe pixilated
liquid courage
is so true
and maybe I'm hallucinating
metaphors
of you
and maybe I don't know
who i am anymore
because TV looks like a window
and the ceiling looks like a door
but maybe that's the way it is
the way it's meant to be
that nothing's what i thought it was
and I'm not really me
and maybe that's just what you meant
when i tasted all your tears
your mouth became a window
and ceilings disappeared
and all the worlds came to an end
and all illusions were true
in that hour of hell
i fell into heaven
and she looked
like
only
you

remembering the dancer

he woke one relentless summer morning
sleep walking in a flashback dream sequence
facing a photograph of a distant dancer
and fantasies of galaxies
far far away taped to his teenaged walls
that he once put his fist through
in hopes of breaking through
to an understanding between himself
and his broken family.

at the time he wanted to know
if he cried when he was told
about the coming divorce,
because at 18 he no longer
remembered what happened to the
color and temperature of his eyes
when he was told at 5, 6, or 7?
and so he now wanted to feel
what he thought he never felt.

then after being told to clean up
the crumbling hole and dust that clouded
the scene like some semi-artsy yet
very commercial british film
director would have staged
to make this bloody dirty rebel
moment pretty and moody and palatable,
he absolutely left the moment behind
unclean, and walked to the mall
to catch a bus to catch a train...
to catch another train,
and they would all be his cohorts
in this runaway story.

he didn't call
to tell them where he was.
he didn't call to warn
his destination.
he just ran.
and held onto his
pulsating hand
that now only had this
in mind...
to touch that dancer in the photograph
who moved with the only
truth he really wanted on that day.
a giving up of the past that only offered walls
for him to test his reluctant man-hood on
and enter into her modern world that
could set his past aflame and start new
like that bird did once...the fiery one?
enter inside her and let her teach him
how to dance as he never knew before.
he only danced in visions of posters of
starlets that he didn't even have the courage
to put on his wall.

but the dancer was real
and running to her,
and entering her for the first time,
and finding himself for the first time
far far away from a life of them knowing
where he was, who he was, even when he was,
was all he wanted.
he was at last starting his life,
and running to her
and away from the definition
of himself though the eyes
of his parents past.

he and the dancer
drenched and lying together
in the end of one world
and the beginning of another,
sid vicious crooning MY WAY
through the humidity
that thankfully
wouldn't let the moment
dissipate....
he reached over
and found a pencil and paper
and sketched a self-portait
with a cool hat and beard.
neither of which he had...
but he knew it was a picture
of a man he wanted to be
one day.
then as he reached over
to enter the dancer again
and remind himself
of this new world
and the freedom
of running away from
selves to other selves
who have a right to start over,
he woke alone
24 years later
to other walls
that were empty,
and he leaned over and
sketched another picture
of himself
and taped it on the new empty wall
then blasted sid vicious screaming MY WAY,
and thrashed, and danced, and punched new holes
in walls that he didn't want anymore...
and he rested on the floor quiet and wet
and remembering
and letting go...
and remembering

did i say that already?

hey you.
though i don't know who you are
as i watch outside my picture window
and you walk your fifth mile
starting your new year's resolution a few days early
pay no mind to me
because I have to write something down
as I promised myself I would
and for this moment
you will be my muse.
you are everything I could dream
want desire love and expect
with no expectations of course.
excuse me while i walk in your path
following, hoping to step outside myself
and say hello.
it's a simple thing really.
I will jog for a moment to
catch up with your journey
and try to smile and ask you
who you are.
and you will say you are very busy right now
but here's your card
and I will spend all day and night
wondering what any of that meant
and the next day I will
find inspiration from free songs
on the internet
that i will pretend
is a record player...
and feel the need to write a thing
that may almost resemble a poem
and I will write it
even if it doesn't seem like a poem
I will just write to write to write to
maybe discover a new version of
a new split second of a thing called
me...and maybe a thing called you
and then I will suddenly
remember that when I saw that muse
walking past my picture window
she was not really there
it was not even yesterday
that i imagined it..but today
right now...just so I could write
one more thing
that might be a poem
that might open me up
that might encourage me
to enter the outside
world today
and find a
real muse.
a woman
a moon
a morning star
a perfect cup
of coffee
or even
just a fortunate
run of green lights
on the boulevard
telling me it is now time to go.
or maybe a woman.
did i say that already?

a beginning #2 (the record store)

Once upon a time 
there was a woman who...no wait...
there was a girl 
(we will call her that because that's how 
this woman liked to describe herself, despite 
her 48 years of life) 
who walked into Jack's 
record store 
on broad street. 
Even though the record store 
was now filled with compact discs, 
this girl found her way to 
a secret corner where Jack still 
sold actual record albums. 
As the girl flipped through the albums 
she seemed to come to life. 
Not that she was dead...
but maybe dead-ish...
and as she held The Clash's Combat Rock 
in her hands and turned around 
to approach the cashier it was as if she traveled in time. 
For one glint of a moment 
she had the chance 
for a do-over. 
Then she walked out of the store 
onto broad street, 
and i followed...
oh
yes,
i forgot to mention 
i was there. 
This is not 
a third person story, 
it is a first person story...
and my name is Jack.

a beginning #1 (that night)

it was dark. 
the man held 
on to the tree 
for dear life. 
Holding on 
for survival. Or that's 
what it seemed like as I watched 
him...or tried not to watch him, I should say...
on that one summer night
that I always wish never happened...
always wish i could forget.
A night that showed no signs of the
impending storm that already existed,
but only in the man's mind...for the moment.
I wanted to speak to him, and let him know that everything 
was going to be okay, but as the 
moments quivered past me, i found 
myself walking, and then running away. 
Running home...because i began to believe 
his reality more than mine.
I hoped i would never see him again, 
but that proved not to be the case at all...
as even that very night, as i slept in my 
one room apartment overlooking the ocean 
in which i spent my youth baptizing myself 
in it's waves, there was a rapping on my window...
and it was not a raven 
or a dream.

christmas eve in california

someone asked me to send them a picture
of what christmas looked like in california
and all i could do is say it looks the
same as everywhere else...
a woman on the corner
with a sign
asking for
milk
for
her
children
and car after car
driving by
in a hurry
to not miss
that last
sale
for
that
last
stocking
stuffer
that
is
bound
to
make
all
the
difference.
each
one
moving
along
blinded
by
a
rationalization
called
distrust
and
watching
out
for
their
own
and
what
i chose to do
is between me and the sky and the street that guides me
back to wait for santa claus, alone, with a glass of
cheap wine, and the hopes of at least getting
a note that will say...maybe next year.
and that will be ok for now.

april may money love prayer

many many years ago in
a far away land
a man named
jesus
was
born
in april or may
or so
and
i really
wish
that
one guy
who ruled an empire
didn't feel he had the right
to move that birthday
just so the celebration
of light returning
with drunken heathen howls
would be saved...
if he had left it alone
maybe i could have been ready by april or may
this coming year.
but as it is
i am in a far away land
myself, alone
in a large cold house
that is not mine
watching and feeding
a cat
that i was told
might very well
die on my watch
and
dreaming once again
as i'm prone to do
of falling deep
and dancing
with records spinning
scratching classic versions
of some word that i think
is pronounced love
and then  i see a shadow
leaning
on the wall across
the epic room
that i sit still in
and remember i was
told that shadow
would be mine
when i found
a job
a home
a love
i think that's it
no
that's not needed
in this world
just money and a roof
then the shadow and the furniture
that caused it
would come with me
and i could send for you
my petit princess
that i left behind
a few months ago
in another far away land
and we would dance
and parade
down the street
searching for treasures
and conquering pirates ghosts and other monsters
singing carols we can't remember the words to
and meeting hello kitty spiderman and a charlie chaplin
on the boulevard
who hears voices and speaks to them all as we would
just watch and i would tell you he has invisible friends
and you would laugh and say so do you...
but for now I will just miss you
and be sometimes furious
that his birthday was moved
to here where i sit with no lights
or trees anyway, and know I could
have been ready by april or may
as i attempt to rest and try to
believe in a jesus
that could
prove to me that
love is more
important than
money and
roofs
and then put
his damn
birthday
back
where
it
belongs
amen

photograph of a lover (an unsung song)

waiting on the north end shore
for summertime to die
see you taking photographs
of an empty sky
yet a glare of something more
comes alive in your eyes
angels falling begging you
to show them how to fly
let me in your photograph
killing all my lies
let me in your photograph tonight
 
I turn away to face my plan
and taste the salty mist
submerge my mind and say goodbye
to hardened emptiness
drift away to hurricanes
whose eyes condemn all this
but underneath i lose myself
deep inside your kiss
let me in your photograph
dear stranger dont ask why
let me in your photograph tonight
 
a ghost of me will follow you
stealing rings from carousels
let me carress your camera lense
I'll live again and kill my hell
to be inside your photograph
i'll keep your secrets..never tell
did you take my photograph
as i silently began to yell
let me in your photograph
so i might never die
let me in your photograph tonight
 
let me in your memories
when someday you'll look back and see
a photograph of a lover
that was almost meant to be
 
let me in your photograph
with angels as they cry
let me in your photograph tonight

new name

I long to live in a land where the language is not my own.  

Where I find myself back at birth, 

searching for words to express my heart’s personal truth.  

I am an expatriate from the adult I have let myself become…

an adult I choose to leave behind.

I’ll become the foreign land around me, digging my soul 

into the virgin soil…or more likely I am the virgin, 

digging into love and life growing out of the same 

ground as the prickly flowers that have been calling 

to me from the background of my so-called nightmares.

I am talking to strangers…to God…and a wild lonely 

creature with scales and wings that crawls onto my 

chest and breathes a new world that tingles and 

dreams in and around my lips and tongue, letting 

me taste a future that may even be my own.

Looking around me I see a desert filled with 

the ghosts of passions that are just waiting 

for me to say the word that will let them be 

born into this ugly world where they long 

to feel the pain…but maybe they will also feel 

the thrill of “we shall overcome”.

Looking around me I am overcome with nothing…

and by nothing I mean that from this day I crawl 

forward into my new land with no name, 

only tattooed with a path that fell before me 

to attain peace in my spirit.

I will learn the new language in my new land, 

where soon I may be given a new name 

that is not so new.  It has been branded on me 

since valleys slept in native manifestations 

of vision quests where the future was as clear as 

mountaintops dusted with clean crisp snow, and 

rivers flowed forward; never dreaming, always moving. 

And moving, always moving, I will reach the majesty 

of a waterfall, where behind I will find my true name 

carved on the wall of an ancient cave…and echoed 

in a whisper through drops of water, a word 

I have never heard, 

in a language 

born of destiny.

searching for christopher zoë (one version of me)

My Name is Brian Richard Gaskill.  When I was in High School…maybe junior year, I changed my name to Christopher Zoë.  This was something that was born in creative writing class.  It was a “pen name” I guess.  Eventually though, I started to sign all my papers in all my classes this way.  This practice didn’t go over too well, yet some of the teachers actually went along with it…for a little while.

The name Christopher Zoë had the meaning, as I read it in some baby name book, “whimsical and humorous with flight and freedom”.  I was a moody son of a bitch who was terrified of people and living in general (I have only now almost 20 years later just started to change…I stress “just started”).  The name was a goal.  A goal of returning to the spirit that I just knew had to be inside me.

Later I found out Zoë is a feminine name…but I didn’t care.  Besides when I Told my mother about the whole thing, she looked at me semi-shocked/confused/amazed, and went on to tell me that if I had been born a girl, she was going to name me Zoë.

I was Born Brian Richard Bernotas.  Bernotas is a Lithuanian name.  But since my father is half Sicilian and my mother is mostly Swedish, I usually leave the Lithuanian out when asked about my heritage.  I suppose I enjoy the dramatic dichotomy of Sicilian/Swedish…the fire and passion mixed with the cold and lonely.  Granted these are probably only cliché’s formed by my limited uninformed pop-culture attacked American mind...Still I think it represents me well…for better or worse.

When I was about seven years old, my parents divorced, both of them re-married, and my mother’s husband adopted me.  I think because my father couldn’t afford to send child-support, though I have since been told it was more complicated than that (isn’t everything?).  Anyway, then I was Brian Richard Gaskill.  The weird part is, when you are adopted, they change your father’s name on your birth certificate…like your real, or first, or biological, or whatever father never was.  But he was.

I saw him on every Sunday, and then eventually for full weekends, but only once, maybe twice a month.  One day, on any given weekend, I was in the park with him playing basketball or softball or football…or any one of those sports that I gradually grew to not really care about (though for some reason I still LOVE sports movies), and he was standing about fifty feet away from me with his back to me.  I wanted to get his attention.  I was about to call out to him, when something happened.  The word “Dad” just would not come out of my mouth.  Eventually I just decided that I didn’t want to see him or his side of my family at all…I was about thirteen or fourteen, and it was all too much for me.  By the way, I didn’t call my mother’s new husband “Dad” either.  He told me I didn’t have to, so I didn’t.  So, final tally?  Two fathers…no dads.

By the way, my middle name?  Richard?  It comes from my biological father’s brother, who I think died after only being alive for a few months.  I’m not sure what that has to do with anything…I just don’t like it.  It can’t be good karma, assuming I believed in such a thing…which starting today I just might.

Look the thing is, I don’t really know who I am.  I mean who really does?  But anyway, my past, my name, the meaning of it all, the connections it all has…none of it is really helping.

I do know that for a few months, a long time ago, I was Christopher Zoe.  I gave myself that name.  I was knighted by a king that lived inside my own heart.  This Knight was meant to go on many adventures and quests…searching for pleasures, and answers, and the inevitable pains…and so on.   But instead he was told by the world around him, even by me, that he must hide away in my heart.  He was told he was nothing but a figment of a weird boy’s imagination.

I’m not sure where this knight is today.  I’m not sure I can travel far enough, or dig deep enough to find him, but I do know that’s what I should be doing.  From this day on I will be searching for Christopher Zoë.  He may even go by a different name by now, so I will have to remember to keep my heart open wider than my eyes on this quest

He May even travel by the name of “Donavan Mungo”…In honor of a lion that came to school with me my entire senior year.  Most tried to tell me Donavan was a puppet…but I knew better.  And I know in my heart that Christopher knows the truth too…for he had the heart of a lion.