the po~et 17 (outloud)

Professor Shaffer had become an established poet and was gaining national attention. He had received an invitation to read his poetry at the Miami Art Institute. He invited his students --hoping that Jack would accept.

When he announced the event in class she immediately became excited. It would be an opportunity for her to see him in his element.

That afternoon she dressed carefully, she wanted to be youthful and alluring. Her skin looked like a toasted honey comb and her hair black and shiny was pulled back. Driving there that evening, she couldn't help but think about how gorgeous he had looked earlier when she saw him in his suit.

She could hear her heart pounding she couldn't remember the last time she was this excited. She found it hard to understand and even harder to explain why and how she felt about Paul. Their worlds were so different the classroom was the only thing they shared. Even there she wasn't on the same level he was, he was the professor she was a mere student.

She was hoping that night would be special that maybe in the evening sun he would see past all of their differences. That he would see her as a woman, a woman that wanted him.

Jack felt him as he entered into the room. As he walked down the marble staircase, his body moved like a god, the sun hit his eyes and the blue was deeper than any hue of blue she thought could be found on earth. At that moment no one else was present their eyes took them to unlawful impermissible places.

He spoke to her sensuously saying her name. She loved to hear him say it the symbols that represented her sounded so different parting his lips. She often imagined how it would feel whispered in her ear falling onto her pillow. He made the rounds and spoke to the other attendees and then he came and stood by her. She had never seen him outside of the university's campus. She wanted to touch him, she wanted to lock her arm in his, she wanted to kiss his lips before his words left them.

She followed him like a lost girl into the reading room. She sat next to him and she felt as if air had become extinct--wind no longer filled her lungs. Just the need to be near him. While the first poet was reciting her work, she was dreaming of him, untying his tie and removing his jacket in a secret room there that they would have to scavenger out.

They had to change rooms for his reading. She found a seat that would allow her eyes to roam his body. In class she couldn't help herself neither did she resist the temptation to admire him.

Paul was confident that evening claiming the time as his own. He was in his world a place he had carved out for himself. You could hear it in the weight of his voice giving strength and meaning to his words. He was funny and bright--poetically walking on water. She had read every line of his that she could find and she soon found herself reciting along with him, no one else was there, it was the place where she found him. In his literary world, between lines meticulously weaved, she fell in love with him, his ideals, his words--now spoken outloud.

the po~et 16 (lost in his jungle)

Jack has conceded that she loves Paul. She loves the way his shoulders are broad and his waist is narrow. The way his back, butt and legs all meet displaying the length of his lean body--long, ready to be climbed.

She swung from his lines like tree vines in a jungle . Consumed in his literary world, anxiously anticipating where his words would take her next. Once she entered she knew that there would be no exodus and she didn't look for any. She wanted to be lost with him. Stranded in a place where the only meat necessary came from within, where the dampness of words satisfied the thirst and their meaning clothed the skin.

the po~et 15 (eulalie--maybe?)

Like Poe he writes of an unknown woman and Jack has convinced herself that he is speaking of her. Sometimes she fits the description, other times she is unsure--leaving her feeling unworthy of such devotion. Too afraid to speak to him she changed the order of her day. It was foolish to her how she had memorized where he stood and where his feet treaded. The orchestrated path he took, his daily routine, even the deepness of his voice. All memorized, for the opportunity to see him as he passed. She was sure he had figured her scheme out by now, but she was not aware that he enjoyed the unexpected encounters. She thought she would have to draw back not to appear to be in need of mental intervention. It was becoming increasingly clear that she could and would not have him. His scholarly repuataion was all he had and she was sure he would not succumb to such deviant behavior--even if he possibly did find her attractive.

Rules--the road sometimes isn't a straight line. Nothing is as clear as it was the day before. The guide is asleep and the map is outdated. Death creeps in along the way robbing of the pleasures meant to be celebrated in the cool of the day. Mourning doesn't get any easier. What's lost can't be replaced and if it could--would it be new?

She promises herself to wait until rules were no longer an obstacle they would have to overcome.

the po~et 14 (on the thrashing floor)

As she looked out of her kitchen window that morning it would seem that the sun was taking it's time rising--as if it called in saying it would be late. That set the tone for the day.

She had wanted to roll over and see his bearded face and allow her hand to roam his body checking to see if her touch would get the response she was hoping for. Instead he wasn't there, his words would have to suffice. She was reading his work as if he was reading the words to her, picturing that look of self fulfillment as he is amazed at what has been extracted from his soul.

Even though she believed there was no hope of having him, she loved him. She had never kissed him, never made love to him. She knew little of his past and was always surprised when he unrobed himself through limited clues.

In her mind she had convinced herself that they could heal one another, they could cover one anothers nakedness with a quilt. One that would block away the past and keep them warm through tomorrows nights.

Around mid-afternoon over a lonely lunch she realized between the lines on the ink stained pages would be the only place she would ever have him. She knew it wasn't real in the tangible sense of realness, but it was a common place. It was the place where he left a part of himself, where he was not ashamed of the ideals that resided within. And whenever he entered there he left a piece for her on the thrashing floor.

the po~et 13 (when light pierces the darkness)

Paul is unaware of how she feels. She has managed to elude him--until now. He soon discovers her hiding place. He could feel her but couldn't see her. She had been able to be near him without his knowledge. When he found out his heart sank down into the soles of his shoes, but the realization of her carefully navigated steps gave him hope.

The forces of nature have a way of bringing things together. One must write them down and speak them into existence. A law proven when light pierced the darkness. Sometimes his world seemed darkened longing for who and what he did not have. It was devoid of form.

That night he whispered a secret prayer for it to be so. That he would soon feel her body in his arms and that the words he wrote of her would soon part his lips, land and kiss the outside of her ear.

the po~et 12 (bathsheba)

Whenever Jack sees him her lungs become disabled, collapsed, non-functional. The air becomes tepid and thick. These feelings suffocate trapping her words at the top of her throat leaving her tongue only to mumble mindless babble. Torture, but his image like a relief pattern carved into her memory justifies her suffering.

She's still not prepared to see him even though she was hunting him down tracking his scent hoping to see his shadow. But when she sees him her body contracts--as usual. Her intestines weave into a knot making it difficult for her to move forward. She wants to run and hide, she wants to talk to him, she wants to touch him, she wants to kiss him, tell him she's in love with him, she wants to follow him to wherever he's going, instead she just smiles and says hello--stupidly.

Bathsheba posed seductively for David. Some say he fell on his own sword. I believe exaltation didn't seduce him. It was the silhouette of Bathsheba bathing, waiting for him to come and take her.

the po~et 11 (the 4th of July)

Her internal humidity has made the air thick. She's having a hard time breathing. Her heart beat is irregular. She is sure that the experience is new. Her body feels vibrant as if life has just begun. He has indoctrinated her--into what she isn't sure. She has never been attracted to anyone like him. Uncertain of the rules, she finds it difficult to know how to express how she feels, but she is sure that this wasn't going to fade away. She thinks of how she feels when fireworks fill July's night sky or when the sun kisses the earth good night. The possibility to live outside of herself and have control excites her.

Unfortunately she can only dream of being with him and work up the courage to approach him. This is only permissible in her dreams. The episodes are continuous. She allows them to take her places where she hasn't been able to find an entrance into. Places outside of the body where the ground has no gravity and the air consistency elates the senses. She prays no one discerns the unfolding drama playing out behind the curtain. It is her secret world and one she is not prepared to exit.

the po~et 10 (ask and ye shall receive)

Paul decided that evening after dinner that he would pen the manner in which he would approach Jacquelyn. He didn't want to leave anything to chance. The quarter was wrapping up and so was his time. Yes, it was unethical for faculty to date students; however, pretty soon she would no longer be in his classroom.

All along he had offered her help with any assignments and she had repeatedly turned him down. Today he had conjured up a new plan. He would pair the class into groups and they would only be required to attend when their group met and he would pair her with a student who never came class. Brillant! he thought, he would be alone with her at last.

Just as he had planned it out, it was. She arrived to class and her partner did not, genius! They talked, they laughed, they looked at one another. He was mesmerized by this woman.

Paul Shaffer had decided that he wanted Jacquelyn Brooks and for once in life he was going to have just what he wanted.

the po~et 9 (flamenco dancing)

Jacquelyn had noticed before that Professor Shaffer and her were close in age. She immediately found him to be intellectually stimulating. She also noticed that he didn't wear a wedding ring.

She quickly dismissed the sudden surge of feelings that were fighting to overtake the stance her mind had taken. She had repeatedly told herself, "no men, no relationships"--well at least not right now. She had finally concluded, "keep drawing from the same well, you'll keep getting the same bitter water."

She wanted a man that would satisfy her until she wouldn't thirst again. One that would love her so completely that her soul would be fed continuously and the wanting would cease. The wanting to hear words whispered in her ear while they made love, the wanting to hear that she mattered to him.

She wanted a man that would let her be herself or whoever she felt like being that day. Maybe a Latino woman from Spain dressed in a red ruffled regalia flamenco dancing for him while he sat and sipped wine. And when the music stopped he would then pour the wine on her and lap it off her breast.

the po~et 8 (rediscovery)

Jacquelyn felt Professor Shaffer watching at her. She wasn't sure what to think at first. She had decided to return to school to rediscover herself. She was undergoing a life alteration and didn't need anything or anyone to hinder her transformation. She was on a self proclaimed tour of discovery. The journey she had found to be a hard task and one she aimed on surviving. Armed with the fortitude of a mule, she walked the campus at Miami not knowing what would be next.

She had given up on finding the love she often read about. She refused to shed tears for fear it would be an admittance to failure. Maybe love wasn't for her, maybe she was to be like Tristan and Isolt, destined to sing a sad song.

Humming the melody in her sleep, when she closes her eyes in search of a vision. It is there, in her secret place--she sings.

the po~et 7 (glowing in the dark)

The end of summer storms brought a strong wind and disabled the power and darkness covered all around. The town completely shut down which meant classes would be cancelled. He immediately regretted not being able to see her. Sometimes he would look at her name written by his own hand in his grade book--Jacquelyn Brooks. It tasted sweet on his palate.

He lit candles and gathered his flash lights. As he sat under the glow of the candles, they flickered her image on to the walls and when he closed his eyes into his bed.

the po~et 6 (falls canvas)

The Valley is beautiful this time of the year. The summer's dry weather has produced a masterful array of colors lining the road way like a canvas. It's now mid-term and he hadn't been able to escape the feelings that he has begun to have for her. At night her almond colored skin is all he can envision when his eyes close and when his head recesses to his pillow he imagines himself whispering good night to her.

During class he walks by her constantly forcing her to notice him. Sometimes he forgets that he's lecturing before the class and looks as if he is only speaking to her. She becomes the only person on earth, the only person he is concerned with, the only person he believes could understand him.

He had concluded that when he graded her work. He was impressed with her abilities, but almost reluctant to believe it possible. Not questioning her skills but rather the way she spoke to him through the words. She understood how to use language. How to use it to express what the mouth too common to deliver. Printed words that will survive when everything else around it has become extinct. Words that will live and breathe each time someone reads them. She knew it, and he knew that she knew it. It was with this discovery that he realized that he had willed her to him and she had come.

the po~et 5 (the woman)

It was the first day of the Fall quarter. Paul was an English Professor at Miami University. He loved teaching, but mainly he loved teaching students who took their education seriously. He enjoyed his summer breaks, his short sabbaticals when he re-grouped for the next quarter. This is when he wrote the most and filled his mind.

He always took a heavy work load to prevent the emptiness from overtaking his life. He opens his office, it had been closed since June. Everything was just as he left it. The small space overflowed with books similar to how his study looked at home. He briefly overlooks the names of the students in his first class and leaves to begin the new year.

When he opens the door to his class the majority of his students are already there. Standing at the printer in the middle of the room was his vision manifested right before him. At first he was puzzled, he didn't expect her to come to him so soon. Then he was upset because she was his student.

She took her seat right up front. He anxiously called the role trying to guess which one belonged to her. When she finally responded to a name he called he smiled. The words rolled off his tongue like he had been waiting to taste them.

He wishes for the next class when he will see her again.

the po~et 4 (morning revelations)

The morning light comes as a surprise. He has evidently fallen asleep in his study. He lifts his weighed down head from his pillow of dreams. Underneath a puddle of droll was his list of wishes. Declarations of a life he not only desired but one he now believed he deserved. Too many times he had only written about people and their dreams coming true. About the philosophies he had read in his many books. Now it was time for him to use words to create a life for himself, to develop himself a character, the self he always wanted to be.

First on his list was a woman. Paul loved women. He had read over twenty books about women. He had his share of romances, mainly with other intellectuals. Those who were Science majors and spent most of there time training rats.

Now he wanted a different type of woman. Someone exotic and funny. Not an air head but one that enjoyed life and could appreciate the beauty of writing. He hadn't realized he wanted this type of woman until he thought about it.

Now he would command the universe and all of it's forces to bring her to him. And he would know her when he saw her.

the po~et 3 (no more toast)

Everyday starts the same for Paul Shaffer. His neatly pressed clothes already strategically hung in his closet. His toiletries lined in order of use. Nothing ever out of the ordinary, he had a routine, a regimen. For breakfast he would always have two pieces of wheat toast and a half a glass of orange juice.

Paul was good looking without trying. The amazing thing was he didn't know it. Although he wasn't athletic (exhausted from his parents continual insistence for him to become the next Larry Byrd) he was tall and lean. Reaching middle age his hair was handsomely graying at the temples and his body movement was sleek and intellectually sexy.

Tonight he would be bothered more than ever about being alone. Time had passed too quickly and he had spent a majority of it reading. Reading about forgotten ideals and philosophies that shaped the way humans saw the world intrigued him. But tonight the thought of not sleeping alone sounded more appealing.

He goes into his study. The study he has proudly built over years of devotion to the written word. Language, communication vacuum sealed in the bounded volumes. His library was his child and the words on those pages had provided many nights of comfort and companionship.

Tonight he writes about love. About falling in love and being loved. Tonight he makes up his mind not just to write what he desires but to write it as if it was true. The poet would become a prophet.

the po~et 2 (coat of many colors)

A coat of many colors the kind worn by dreamers. Not the khaki one that he wore year after year. One that foretold of kingship and dominion. The one cloaked by one's father as his trembling hand anointed the head and spoke prophetic words--that coat.

He had the dreamer part, but the the rest resided there too. The exploration of the patterns in the sky only took place when he wrote. The telescope in the corner of his untamed office was just a nagging reminder of his fears.

The fear of every and any thing that prevented him from breathing. From even tasting the sweetness in the water. To feeling the dampness in the air. The fear that kept Paul Shaffer bound to a life washing him away into the landscape. Not beautiful as with water colors, but rather pitiful and half erased.

the po~et 1

The ordinary is what was expected of him. The China pattern for his life picked out like that of a bride--predictable. Even his name wasn't anything he thought he could be proud of, Paul Shaffer. The Paul Shaffer's of the world were shuffled around and looked over. No reason to be chosen even for the worst of teams.

To him the sun looked the same everyday and even when the moon looked discreet, half covered with heaven's quilt, it still didn't phase him. His destiny, to have an epitaph that read "Paul Shaffer, laid to rest." Rest from what? He would ask himself. Not one single day marked an adventure. Not one held any significance tangible enough to hold in the attic packed away with the Christmas decor.

Unless you counted the words that he spoke unto paper. Parchment paper, handwritten, penned by him at night when he permitted himself not to follow the maze he had been trained for. Rather to go off course, be someone else, to smoke, to laugh out loud, to take off his glasses--to choose a new pattern.