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.