A video of my poem, Beyond the Pillar of Hercules. Written, edited and performed by Marc Alexander Valle. All photos from pixabay.com
Category: Unpublished Work
Nebe Nabe Veru ©2017 by Marc Alexander Valle
Jorge lied on the lawn face down, shirtless, feeling the funny feeling on his skin, thinking about how cows can eat grass but humans can’t, the sun blazing on his back. No parents home to say otherwise. No crying little sister. No older brother to call him weird.
And then the orange light shinned on the grass. He looked up as high as he could. A red orb floated before him. He froze. It approached him. His body shook. It hovered in front of him.
“Nebe nabe veru,” it said.
And the images flashed before his eyes:
His mother cut by the broken glass he forgot to pick up, cursing in Spanish.
His future wife.
His future children.
The catastrophic collapse of the world market.
His divorce.
His older brother’s incarceration.
His baby sister becoming a nun.
His mother’s final days.
His father’s heart attack.
His mother cut by the broken glass he forgot to pick up, cursing in Spanish.
Everything went black.
. . .
“Jorge. Get up,” his father said.
Jorge stood up, clippings covering his body.
“What are you doing?”
“Tanning,” Jorge said.
“What?”
“I saw it on TV.”
“On TV? Do they wash dishes on TV? Cause you’re grounded. Two hours we let you stay home and you can’t do abything around the house like we said?”
He peaked around his father. His older brother, David, stood smiling at him.
“Next time you go to church with us.”
“Damn it!” His mother walked onto the back patio, foot covered in blood. “I cut myself, Manny.”
. . .
Jorge and David sat in the hospital waiting room.
“Why you gotta be different?” David said.
“What?” Jorge said.
“All you had to do was go once and say it’s not for you. You think I believe in all that stuff?”
And then he thought about his brother’s future arrest, the wrong crowd that led to it, the drugs, the stealing, the lies to his parents and then the life sentence.
“You want to go looking for crawfish?” Jorge said.
“What?”
“At the creek. Remember we used to do that?”
“Crawfish? You’re thinking about crawfish?”
His brother stood up and started toward the bathroom. “You’re weird.”
Delicacy (Second Draft) ©2017
Words and image by Marc Alexander Valle.
The boy looked down at the worm, squirming on the backwoods trail. A ray of light illuminated its dark-pink hue and a warm breeze hit his face.
“Eat it,” she said. “I’ll kiss you.”
“No,” he said.
“Then no,” she said.
But he had wanted to kiss her all summer, floating in the deep end of the pool, bumping her hand at the movie theater as he reached for his soda, lying on the grassy field with the late-morning sun warming him enough to feel a sense of bliss.
He looked back down to the trail. The worm kept squirming and picking up dirt.
“It tastes like nothing,” she said. “Go ‘head.”
He thought of candy, then reached down and picked it up. He could feel the worm’s life force as it wiggled and expanded on his palm. “Candy would be pointless,” he thought, “It’s too fleshy.” He imagined roast chicken instead.
“I’ve done it,” she said, “You won’t get sick.”
He popped the worm in his mouth.
He could feel it slither and contract.
The dirt turned to grim.
He attempted to limit the bug’s movement by controlling it with his tongue, the texture feeling like raw salmon, the taste reminding him of runny eggs.
He swallowed it and closed his eye. It slide down his throat quickly. He could feel it move. And like everything else he ate, the feeling disappeared just before reaching his stomach.
He opened his eyes and looked to her.
“Yuck,” she said.
He stepped forward and closed his eyes again.
His lips touched hers. But he felt nothing in return.
He held the kiss and waited for her to reciprocate. But he felt nothing in return.
He stepped forward and moved his face closer to hers. But he felt nothing in return.
He could feel nothing but dead lips, hear nothing but the cicadas and crickets chirping. Just the dead lips and live bugs and the hope of something in return.
She pulled away and jabbed his stomach.
“Gross,” she said, “I’m not kissing bugs.”
As he held onto his gut, crunched over, he could see her walk away down the path and out of sight.
The pain spread across his abdomen and he wasn’t sure if he needed to go to the bathroom. He could hear the birds singing and an animal moving in the brush. Sweat began to break out from his forehead.
He had to go home now. If he was late for dinner one more time, he’d be grounded.
Rays of light disappeared as a cloud rolled in. A cooler breeze hit his face. He inhaled a deep breath then let it out. He stepped forward onto the path.
Then he wondered what boy he’d get to tell first.
The Promise ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle
Words and image by Marc Alexander Valle ©2016
They followed the jet as far as they could.
“You know time is slower up there?” Baskin said.
“Yeah?” Vinny said.
“And when he lands, we’re gonna be older than him.”
“Really?”
“That’s what my teacher said.”
The jet disappeared into the distance.
“Baskin, where’s it go?”
“A secret base. No one knows.”
“You wanna keep going?”
“No. Hangman’s on tonight.”
They turned home.
Neither said a word.
Vinny’s head pointed down.
Porchlights turned on. Fireflies danced. Streetlights flickered.
Neither said a word.
Vinny’s head pointed down.
“Tomorrow, Vinny.”
“What?”
“We’ll follow it tomorrow.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, fartface. I promise.”
“Cool.”
They walked inside.
Phenomenon ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle
*A poem that I wrote 10 years ago. Also the image is mine, taken this year.
Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share
except the scent in the air
that represents something
running our life in the ocean
despite this great notion
that we are all one
sitting inside a small sun
that’s void of emotion,
exploding
inside of our hearts,
thinking how life really starts
without a beginning
and without our proud sinning
which makes us real hard
apart
from the fact that we gasp
as we run real, real fast
on our toes
and come to respect all our lows
in the past
fast
and curt when we learn
from this yearning inside of our mind
that we tend to remind
ourself in concern
firmly, but curtly like a flower
since we’ve only the power to blurt
all that works
like when we say in these hours,
“Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share.”
The Bargain by Marc Alexander Valle ©2015
A piece from 10 years ago. I don’t see myself publishing it as I don’t feel that my work from back then is strong enough.
The Bargain
If what you see is what you get
and what you feel is what you fret
then what you’re dealing with is death.
Right?
But first,
I will say it twice
that karma is the weight of the universe
wearing a mask called ‘your life’
that knows there is no worse
than living on the blade of this knife
that is a gift or a curse
hanging on the roll the dice.
Second, back to the top:
The human heart’s yearning can not be stopped.
Why?
Cause we are who we are cause we are who we are.
What more do you need to see the stars?
The ones beyond the wrath of Mars.
Is it possessions you need
or to see someone bleed?
Is it to want what you watch
or is it a life without a blemish. . .a blotch?
Is it a dignified name?
Maybe to drive your foes insane?
Is it to justify your grudge?
To justify the verdict of who ever you judge?
And is that all we’ve got?
A complex knot,
non-stop
saying how life is good with a lot?
Maybe.
But let’s suppose, just supposing,
that we were meant to go neither fast nor slow,
wisdom is loving what we’ve yet to know.
Let’s suppose we are toy soldiers
to gods, who push feathers and boulders.
And gods are merely metaphors
for a meaningful life when the weather pours
the world’s illusions after begging for more.
That would mean, greed is betrayal.
It’s what you decide to become when you fail.
to set sail
on the sea of your dreams. . .so you bail.
But this is what you call a hypothesis
and I am just an obnoxious twit,
who still believes that a Superhero-type God exists.
So I am not looking for converts.
Believe what you must and what you feel works.
But if you take any heed to this unproven theory
Then there is one more thing that I want to state clearly:
Choice is an extension of individuality
that, of course, comes with its own duality
where the world says, “I am your life’s totality,”
and the true self whispers gallantly,
“Know your heart and you shall know reality.”
by Marc Alexander Valle
Mixed Media Artwork by Marc Alexander Valle
Ghost by Marc Alexander Valle ©2004
This is a poem I wrote in 2004. It’s my own lyrics to John Lennon’s Imagine. This isn’t my best work, but I’m not inclined to post my best as I might want to have those more recent pieces published one day.
Ghost
Knowing that you’re never here
makes life hard to bear.
You are the one that sees things clear
even though you’re not there.
You are the one I dream of.
I find you anywhere.
Knowing that I’m torn apart,
I’ve had to make my due.
You sit inside my broken heart
and that will have to do.
You are the one I think of.
If only I could find out who.
In my eyes you’re a hero.
You know everything I should.
You make all the tears go
and you see I’m understood.
But this dream is so heavy.
If I could give it up,
my life would be so ready
to be lived and won.
You are the one I know of
that sits above the sun.
Why must I let these years go?
You are only my pain withstood.
Cause I’ve never let my fears grow
and I’ve done the best I could.
by Marc Alexander Valle
Mavthewriter 