Tag: spoken word poetry

It’s Always in the Corners (Latest Draft)

I let him hit me. Not punch me and not “I let him” as in “Sure! Go ahead and hit me” but I let him hit me. He’d push my head with an open hand. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. He’d hit me more than I’d like to admit, and sometimes I even told myself we were really friends.

Some time ago, I started to believe that it began in Algebra class, and that I was Tourette’s-and-facial-tic-free until I sat in front of Axel Sidezski that sophomore year of high school. I don’t remember having or feeling the tics before then, and for years I felt shame for knowing that I let him do that. It took many more years to begin to understand why I did. 

I googled searched Axel the other day, asking two questions: Is he still the same? And is he doing better than I am? I searched for 10 minutes, and I only found white-page profiles of other Axels. Nowhere could I find that parted, reddish-blondish hair. Nowhere could I find that smirk. 

I made a promise to myself long ago. I told myself that I would write things and create things of immense beauty. I told myself that if the Axels of the world ever came back, I could do one thing better than they could, one thing no person can take away. 

Is he still the same and is he doing better than I am? 

I don’t even think he’d remember my name.

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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.

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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.”

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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

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Deep Thought by Marc Alexander Valle

Deep Thought

by Marc Alexander Valle

She told my co-worker

that I was just in deep thought

after he asked why I don’t talk.

Deep thought.

So often labeled ‘quiet’

Deep thought.

that I started to get used to it.

She said that co-workers referred to her as a ‘dolt’

when it came to judging character.

But maybe she just needed a euphemism.

Like ‘deep thought’ for ‘odd’,

or ‘good-natured’ for ‘dolt’.

But I never said anything.

I was in too deep of thought

to realize that I should.

Published in Lehigh Valley Vanguard on 6/29/15

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