The Cardboard Night
by Michael Hayes
Cover Photo by Michael Hayes
Published by Small Stone Productions
Copyright 2012 Michael Hayes
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Forward
Written during my late teens and early twenties, the poems, stories and assorted mad ramblings you will find here were scribbled on scraps of paper and bar napkins in the wee hours of morning. God, existence, sex and identity seem to be the recurring themes that I was struggling with at the time and in many ways, are still the themes that motivate me today.
While this book may not be a literary accomplishment, it is a document of a young man struggling to find his way in the world. So, after gathering dust for over twenty years, I am pleased to introduce these writings to the digital age.
Welcome to the cardboard night.
MJH 2012
When these molested dreams do end,
Allow me wake in the house of sin.
The Cardboard Night
Dear Reader
To those who see the horror of life
And with stately blank expression stare
I offer but a solemn note
Of hymn, of dirge, of human despair.
To you I bellow my lone lament
From a soul within this fleshy rot
Of longing to know the reason we
Who know to do good can do it not.
Though from the dust a holy breath
Of heavenly birth we receive,
It is the mire of hellish lust
We caress and do death conceive.
For this I find no absolution
Nor means to go and sin no more.
Instead, I record with sadness,
Within each virgin resides a whore.
And thus, our lot must we endure
While of the grave ever mindful;
For what are we in creation
If not of all most pitiful?
Pages Of My Mind
I tore the pages
Of my mind out
And read them
Over and over.
My hands remained
Calm and soiled.
Time’s merciless wind began to blow—
The pages of my life
Scattered.
Still, I held onto a single page.
God stared at me
From that final page,
But I could think only
Of my lost pages.
So, carefully, I folded God,
Put him in my back pocket
And contemplated how
I should fill the empty
Pages of my life.
A Satanic Soliloquy
[Enter Satan. His flaming eyes, taking on color like a chameleon camouflaging itself, glow red as he slowly inhales smoke from his Marlboro. He is pacing the gray world—talking.]
SATAN. What is this evil of which they speak? Desires…and desires are evil. Flesh is evil. I…yes, I have become the very definition of evil. Act as I act and it is sinful—a willful rebellion against God. Oh, God in Heaven, my creator, He…He…
[Stops pacing and contemplates.]
God created me. God gave me desires and pride. I wanted only to be like my creator, but that is sin. I didn’t sin! I dared to act—to challenge the reign of God—to go against God…is wrong. Why not? He made the rules. I have heard, as you probably have, that God doesn’t make mistakes. No, no not Him—He only allows His creations to make mistakes. He created me and I turned away. So, I am the monster—Frankenstein’s monster seeking to devour the pure. Isn’t that what you’ve been told? God is a hero—not some mad scientist creating beings that can love and hate; lust and hurt…destroy each other without conscience. But, is not that my fault? God damns whom He will! He can’t destroy you. Oh, He can torture you for all eternity, but He can’t destroy you. We never, never cease to exist.
[Satan walks away into the darkness.]
BLACK.
Comatose
My existence dawned at the twilight of civilization and I have watched, laughed, cried as night has fallen and humanity slumbers.
The angels and demons have tightened their grasps around my life—forcing me into apathetic contemplation of society’s suicide.
At times, I think this death has been well worth the wait, but thought has been replaced by the dictation of entertainment and the individual swallowed by the arrogance of greed.
Yet, I am no better. I refuse to lament the demise of my being as long as I can watch the ceasing of time. Like the worm in a coffin, I am bound to civilization’s corpse—becoming, to myself, a symbol of failure.
So, it is I who lay comatose; waiting for the fire—thinking in retrospect and fear.
Hanging
I have lost all that is thought and the need to think has overtaken me. I’ve dragged the night into the sun—blanketed my desire for some self-serving goal that may only be reached in death. The ghost of creation has passed through me leaving only the passion to follow this foul apparition—this cloud of clinging desperation.
That there is a world beyond my dwelling must be true! I must find a way to reach the limits of my existence. But what hope is there in such meandering drivel? I am lost; stuck within the conditioned necessity. My life is but a dead rope with which I am hanging my soul.
Selfish
Selfish woke me;
Told me the story of life.
Her ramblings carried weight
But I wondered
What she had to gain
By talking to me.
Piercing
The piercing has entered—
Solemn folds of feigning
Facades collapse;
Grinding stares accusing—
Demanding confession.
Yes, I have slept with your demon.
Her radiant malice
Seasoned my sickness.
Her melting skin, callous
From a thousand lovers, bruised
The innocence of my guilt.
Ignorance
It is far away—
Every dream, sin,
Imagination rolls forward
Begging the shadows for forgiveness.
I carve my life out of fantasy.
In my mind there are stories
To quell the bastard reality.
My ocean,
Naked navigator,
Soak up the sun—
Strip the hair from my body;
A skinned mount
Bursting from the savage hand of soil.
Leave me to this womb!
I revel in my ignorance.
Love And Hate
Upon contemplating the actions of humanity, Hate concluded that he is the most powerful emotion and sought out Love so he could boast. Hate found Love walking alone through a meadow and approached her, saying, “My dear Love, observe all the murders and violent acts humans commit against each other and compare them in number to the charitable acts you so encourage. Love, it is clear that my power far exceeds what power you may have.”
Love paused and graciously retorted, “You speak of violence and assume that such acts are only born of you, but I submit that a person will fight to protect that which they love. Even wars have been born of me.”
“Yes,” Hate argued, “but I brandish the sword in such wars, because I do not confuse anyone with the thought that their enemy may also carry love into battle. I confirm each combatant’s hatred by confirming that their enemy also hates them!”
“Have you not noticed that when you send your terrorists to devour life I raise up multitudes in the name of compassion?”
“I notice how your multitudes are driven by my rage to bring puni
shment upon those who terrorize them.”
Stumped for a moment, Love pondered, “What of all the holidays and celebrations when people give out of love for each other? Surely, you have seen my strength.”
“Those are but a few out of hundreds of days! Besides, they give more out of tradition and obligation than love.”
Tears welled in Love’s eyes when she realized that indeed Hate has more followers. Hate smiled wickedly, convinced that he is the stronger. Love took a deep breath and said in her soft, low voice, “But I am stronger. People die because of you, while others die for me.”
Hate said nothing.
The Frightened Ones
Sleep ripped my head open and forced me the answer. Sleep asked if I remembered the desert and the dunes—the frightened ones and the hand in power pressing their bodies into the sand.
I remembered the vision and the screaming and how I had felt helpless.
Sleep stretched my head further and told me that I am one of the frightened trapped in the sand—unable to stop the hand of oppression—unable to free even myself.
I Take Absence
An intestinal worm, this life!—sucking my strength as I reflect the frailty of my beliefs. I have been cursed by myself, but I want to place blame—this detached mind rotting a deeper forest; purple, silent intoxication—dragging my body through the bramble limbs and isolation of nausea.
It is my thoughts that betray me—these idle bastards forming nonsense—begging to be my guide light. You demons need no more speak to me—I will heed nothing save the nakedness of my soul.
Be gone this life of a torn mind! Be gone these voices of searching—you are killing me. I take absence.
Sweating
Sweating, swollen head shaking,
Shaking like a virgin raped—
My throat is raw—
My lungs make me cry.
And this is sober—
My little dance is ending
With no one to share the last step—
No one to tip the band.
New With Despair
Brother, the world is new with despair and old fools washing the drool from dogs’ mouths—learning the language howling from empty throats; a ripple in the pavement to stumble forth bodies sucking blind meaning—genitals of war torn flesh ripe with bullets glowing in the freshness of the kill—fools in the coward field planting pleasures tried and withered—scorched lips wrapped around the pipes of strangers who flap madly against the dust consuming their wings—a feather in the rain dance.
Brother, I’ll hobble away leaving my feet stuck in the setting stone of a world too big for my darkness.
Invisible
I’m almost invisible—
Silence woven into a fall.
Almost definable—
Rejoicing at the end of this question.
It has been called life
And I say so what—
This is not the form
These are not my surroundings.
And Alone
And it is written in the same time, the same place everything must endure. Revolving moments of anticipated happiness closing fast on grasping lives—anything will do but nothing does.
And the same is heard—the same indistinguishable machine marching perfect lines, marking perfect boarders—life lumped into a plot to take up arms and bear fangs of distance, mistaken identity, and alone.
And alone is the same we all understand.
To The Wings
To the wings I would rest
At peace with the wind.
To the earth I would smile
And belong willingly
Within the sky’s framework,
But how quickly I learned
That there is no place of comfort—
No sober solace
Where breathing comes naturally
And alone is a choice.
Sink Me
Sink me into the apparition.
I will find a place to call my own
Within insect arms—
To bleed my sickness
And spread it along my boarders,
A mountain’s foot
To burrow inside—
A damp dirt to fill my mouth.
Solo, My Lord
Liken earth to my flesh—
I will destroy the earth.
Given truth—
I will honor my own desires.
I am what shall be
Or there shall be none.
Solo, my Lord.
What is the image of God?
Pointlessly, I Stand
Pointlessly,
I stand
Against flailing tongues of prophets.
Pointlessly,
I stand
Against flickering souls of saints.
Pointlessly,
I stand
Against floundering prayers of priests.
Pointlessly,
I stand
And have stood
For nothing…
I carry the cross for the new messiah—
He who rises from the east
To mystify my doubt.
When this cross has become
Heavier than life,
Rape the soil with it
And crucify me.
A Burden
Must I drag this cross behind me? It rakes a valley through my landscape and I want to leave no trail—no one to follow; no direction for my return. This limp life crawling beneath my doubt—if I run it will pursue.
I should cut my feet on the roughest way until the burden post becomes a splinter, but who will be left to pull it out of my tired foot and offer it to me upon a plate of silver? Who will make ceremony out of my torture.
Tears
I
The water is cut
By a redbird’s tear
Stains of pain
Dripping from the sky
Silhouetted by the moon
Behind the mist
The fog
Blue-green waters
Swallow the tear
Echoing song
Weaving melodies
Into the mist
The fog
Against the moon
II
When beads of love
Fall
From the eyes
Of another
I pray
Let them fall
On me—
Just once
A Pretty Birdhouse
“It’s a pretty birdhouse we live in,” said mother. “Come in off the ledge! If you fall, there’s no guarantee that you will fly.”
…But I’m happy here—this feeling that I’m free—I’ve seen things and done without the fear of second thought—Can’t you tell I’m happier…
“We’re too high off the ground, and the wind is swift and cold. You may die and I cry for your soul.”
…But these fears you have are tired—I will never be a bird who flies with the breeze and cowers in the comfort of your wings…
“I’m afraid for you my son—so afraid I can’t sleep. You are the beating of my heart and it’s so clear to me—I see a cat approaching.”
The Firefly
The firefly shuddered its wings
Turned angrily toward the sun,
And screamed,
“Why must you hide my worth?”
Not wanting to be bothered,
The sun slid behind the horizon.
“Ah, the world must see my beauty,”
Boasted the firefly as it soared
Higher—
Determined to replace the sun.
Having heard enough,
The sun quietly called upon a new day.
The firefly,
Blinded by its own glow,
Proclaimed,
“I give light to the earth!”
The Simpleton
“Who granted this idiot my counsel?”
Raged wisdom as a simpleton
<
br /> Stumbled through his valley.
“It is my lack of direction
That brought me here—
Nothing else,” the simpleton answered.
“Tell me idiot, do you remember
Which path you followed?”
“Sir, I followed no path.
I didn’t know such a road existed.”
No Ordinary Jesus
You offered no ordinary Jesus
No crown of thorns
To purify my flesh.
You stood
At the edge of my garden
Your teeth hung low
To whisper my name—
Strange syllables
On your lips
Tempted my soul.
You breathed. I
Inhaled existence—
Accepting your invitation,
Ignoring cries from the fear
Of half a man
Pressed against life’s mirror.
Cartoon Bruises
Take on these cartoon bruises
Coloring my paper flesh—
You placed me
Beneath this cross
But I can no longer play
Your part.
Come see misguided casualties
Strapped to the earth
By their own blood—
Fool me into believing
I could win their martyr’s game
By embracing the subtle pain
Entwined in the scribbled verse
Of a diseased mind.
Tell me that I’m your voice
Laughing in the face of sin—
But you, God,
Are not as kind
To give what cannot be taken.
Across Dry Fields
Shrieks and pain
Fall
Across dry fields of summer heat.
Tumbling wind,
Tumbling sky,
Tumbling shrieks
Of an earthen cry
Across dry fields of summer heat.
I lie awake
Listening