Mav The Writer: The Lost Years

There’s a time in my life that I cannot write about. There’s no story there that would be of interest to my audience. I even get bored, thinking about it. From my teens to my very early 30s, I neither acted upon nor reacted to the world.

I did my thing. I wrote in various mediums, I went to karaoke twice a week, I read my work at open mics, I had my artwork in a gallery, I went back to school and earned my degree, I experimented in photography, and I worked various low-paying jobs with colorful people. But for the most part it was my lost years. I took no risks and barely ventured out of my comfort zone. I hardly dared to ask out females, fearing what they might have thought of me.

Is time ever really lost? Does the brain collect and process data and turn it into wisdom no matter the circumstance? And do movies, books, and music count as life experience?

I got into a shoving match in second grade, and it’s one of my sweetest moments. Some kid bullied my best friend on the playground. He was high up on himself, because all the girls followed him around during recess. I cursed at him and pushed him to the ground. All the girls came after me and yelled at me. The bully stood back up and cried. It felt good.

The world acted, I reacted, and in turn I existed. Beginning, middle and end.

We grade our lives on curves and our view of ourselves is rich with self-talk rebuttals.

I see no good in those years except that it makes my story different.

To excavate our lives for a happy ending can be a brutal endeavor, but a necessary one if the left foot is to move in front of the right and the right foot is to move in front of the left. I still can’t write a lick about that era.

A Bellow in the Hanging Garden by Marc Alexander Valle

Yes people, my head is beautiful!

This is a poem that I performed at The Ice House in Bethlehem, PA on Tuesday Muse. Thank you for inviting me Cleveland Wall and Lynn Alexander

Check out mavthewriter.com

Hour of the Muse by Marc Alexander Valle

I’d always play with those bugs that curl into balls. They called them roly-polys. I’d dig them up in the dirt and touch them with a small twig so they could roll up. I always wondered what it would be like in that ball, only seeing myself in shafts of light. Was it warm in there like when I’d stick my head into my winter jacket? Does he feel untouchable in there, safe and sound? Can he fall asleep?

I’d cover my entire body with the blanket at night so the zombies wouldn’t see me. If I can’t see them, they can’t see. This bed sheet, my midnight steel.

I’m a grown man and now believe that nothing is free from harm. Not my body. Not my life. Not my world. Not my dreams that can turn into nightmares right before I wake and throw off this thin bed cover.

But I still cover up completely even if it’s for a few seconds late at night, trying to fall asleep, and I wonder what all the boogeyman fuss was about. And maybe that was the Universe’s evolutionary plan with those roly-polys. Like the ancestor to the roly-poly lived in a world of bigger bugs, predators, boogeymen, and the only ones that survived were the cowards that curled into the ball.

I lie in bed waiting to feel dozy. Two hours will have to do. Just two hours.

When I wake, I will shed this bed sheet one more time to meet the day that will always arrive regardless of my fears, or what childhood I had, or how strong my daddy was, or what goals I’ve planned or failed to meet.

Just two hours. A few hours will have to do.

by Marc Alexander Valle ©2019

 

Inquisition: A Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

I played with toys until age 13.

Are they just friends?

Maybe until 14, just a couple times.

Do you think she’s cute?

I had a younger friend. That was my excuse.

Does she like him?

I was good with toys.

Does he like her?

I could conceive complex scenarios and cinematic dialogue.

Are they talking?

I had a lot of toys.

Are they going out?

I’d line them up and just look at them.

Did they kiss?

I asked my therapist why I was doing this while others were maturing. She said, “Is that really any of your business?”

©2019 Marc Alexander Valle

Seed: A Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

You have to bleed it out. Art, truth, beauty.

Art.

Craftsmanship and hard work are effective, but it’s not what the body needs.

The mirrors of self-reflection reside in the gut, the solar plexus, the basement.

I used to fear the basement of my parents first house as a kid. It smelled of 100-year-old walls. I could touch the damp air with my fingers. For whatever reason I walked down, I always came running back up, imagining a zombie giving chase. I’d slam the door behind me.

You have to let it bleed. Art, truth, beauty.

Beauty is the circle and there are no shortcuts.

I once took a shortcut to the park with some friends through an abandoned factory lot. I walked on a steel beam pretending that I was 100 stories up in the air. My brother told me to get off. I kept walking, laughing. I tripped and fell on the next beam. It took a chunk of skin on my leg.

I thought I was going to die, it hurt so much. Blood poured down to my white sock and made its way down to my sneakers.

You have to let it bleed out of you. Art, beauty, truth.

Truth is the slow burn of the universe and the universe is a cold joke where reality uncovers itself at the punchline.

I once brought a dirty joke book to my sixth grade class. I showed everyone, thinking it would make me look cool. The teacher found it on me. I had to explain why I had it, and when he questioned me, I cried. Two girls in detention saw my tears, and I turned my face in embarrassment.

You have to bleed it out. Art, truth, beauty. It doesn’t even really like you or trust your humanity. But it needs you. And if you trust all three enough to let it pour out of your wounds, you’ll be rewarded with a feeling of pride, like you did something special. And we all need to feel like we’ve done something special. Even if it’s forgotten. And we will be forgotten. Right?

©2019 Marc Alexander Valle

The Cloud-eater by Marc Alexander Valle

Reality is a conversation with yourself.

That’s how I was going to start the poem. I became inspired to write it while I was waking up. I had to use the bathroom quick first. It was going to be my greatest poem. By the time I got to the computer, I forgot what I was going to say.

Reality is a conversation with yourself. A conversation full of narrative threads and spider-web worldviews.

I won’t have to worry about being fast enough at age 80. A machine will be in my head with a connection to the future form of the cloud and all my past thoughts will be at my disposal. I will write my great poem.

Reality is a conversation with yourself. A conversation full of narrative threads and spider-web worldviews, born from the fire of existence.

I’ll go to bed that night and have the best sleep of my life and have a dream better than all the dreams I’ve ever dreamt. I’ll revisit old memories intertwined with old fantasies that will turn into new adventures. I’ll get to use all of my collected knowledge to solve riddles and puzzles and unlock the greatest mysteries of the world. Did Socrates exist? Who was Shakespeare? Where was Jesus during the unrecorded years? I’m not sure if I’ll ever wake from that dream that night. No one ever really knows with those sorts of things.

© 2019 Marc Alexander Valle

Hero with a Thousand Bits by Marc Alexander Valle

I only ever met one kind of prophet in my life.

The older kid at the arcade that could beat the game in a handful of quarters.

He took us to the promised land of closing scenes and end credits.

I met him again today.

He’s bald and fat and has four girls in their teens.

They just kept playing on their phone as he asked what topping they wanted on their pizza.

I wanted to tell those kids that games, like those on their phones, filled a store-sized room at the mall.

That their father could dodge bullets, high kick thugs, out run cops, fight off aliens, save the princess and come back to life before his mom came to pick him up.

All the kids and teens in that room stood behind their dad, holding their breath and cursing in between.

The Indiana Joystick of flipping burgers.

But every now and then he’d get a day off from the hamburger stand, and fulfill his obligation to show us the way.

He exited the pizza shop with his girls and pulled a parking ticket from under his windshield wiper.

Not enough time on the parking meter.

He ran out of quarters.

Marc Alexander Valle ©2019

The Santa Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

(Feedback is welcome)

The Santa Poem

My brother told me that Santa doesn’t exist. He showed me where all the gifts were stashed. G.I. Joes were everywhere. I felt a thrill throughout my body. Finding that Santa doesn’t exist is a double-edged sword. Your childhood is almost over, but now you have the advantage in gift begging. You can manipulate your parents into getting you what you want, and now you have someone to blame when you don’t get it. I’ll probably lie to my kids about Santa if I ever have any. When they find the gift stash, I’ll still lie to them. One Christmas, our dad made us leave a can of beer for Santa. He said that he wanted to see if Santa would drink it. The can was empty in the morning.