Soliloquies and Interludes of the Interior Zombies

First Soliloquy of the Interior Zombie

Beware proximity. The odor's not
my fault, but if you come too close,
you'll think of death and dog shit, mixed.
Subtly, in a stench I have to bear
each day. My nostrils haven't yet
grown used to it. My outward shape's
as normal and pinkish as your own.
My inner shape must be
a ruin of organs, dead or dying.
But do come close enough for me to hear.

I'm not an exterior zombie, like
the ones in books and video
who shuffle along in groupthink,
moaning for brains
that always seem to be
the pretty ones holed up inside
a farmhouse decrepit as the hoard
approaching, dropping bits of body parts,
but never detected by the smell
so much decomposition certainly
would generate. I guess the writers
have but sight and sound to horrify.

Decay like mine is all interior
and inaccessible as infection.
First, that's what I thought was wrong-
infection in the sinuses, or something
festering in the lungs or bronchia.
The antibiotics didn't help.
My stench persisted. Now,
I just accept the thing I am.
I feed its hunger for despair
and sorrow, bitter disappointment, rage,
and panic. Not the collective stuff
of news- it's individual dismay
that keeps this shell intact. Any fool
could keep his outward shape
were news the nutrient.
Interior zombies must be stealthy things
to get the beauty of it- human anguish- hot.


Second Soliloquy of the Interior Zombie

I search for heartbreak everywhere.
In part, to feed my hunger and sustain
the look of health I need to work,
but also in the hope of noticing,
by sight or smell, another of my kind.

I haunt decrepit bars and pawnshops,
cash my checks at CashAmericas,
borrow against my old Corolla's title,
then pay it off, at TitleMax.
I fake small medical emergencies
at CareNow and NextCare.
Parkland and Baylor wouldn't let
me play my game in their ERs.

My day job as loan officer helps
my maintenance but not my search
for another who hovers, unobtrusively,
and listens. Maybe I'm unique. Perhaps
I'll never find a friend or mentor,
a protégé or partner. I'll keep watching,
though, nose to air, for someone or something,
also dead inside, and coolly aloof-
yet patient and solicitous- as I.


First Soliloquy of the Second Interior Zombie

I eat the sorrows and calamities
I find around me. Skin that once was tan
and envied pales with every meal
I take of pain that others cry and whimper.
Every story leaves a spot of brown.
My freckles multiply in perfect circles
evenly spaced across my body, each
new mark adjusting all the others in
a pattern. What have I become? A page
from someone's horrifying book?

The sour smell that marked my transformation
won't subside. My friends must wonder
why I keep my distance now. They call
less often. They're too polite to ask me why
I shun them, why I never lunch or club
with them these days. They leave me, one by one.

My own suffering leaves no marks. My skin
grows pale. So pale, it's almost luminescent
now. My hair, once wavy, chestnut brown,
hangs straight and darkens. It's become
a fine but lustrous anthracite. I'm Goth,
but clueless why. I never asked for this.
It's not a fashion choice. It's just what I've
become- this pale and spotted text of pain.


Second Soliloquy of the Second Interior Zombie

Before the change, my tastes were safely mainstream-
Pop inflected country, dancey pop,
melodic alternative rock. The mixes in
my kindergarten classroom ranged from Disney
songs to upbeat show tunes, happy Beatles,
Motown classics. Suddenly, I found
Baroque, romantics early, middle and late,
and early moderns before they lost both song
and dance. My children were surprised at first
but soon were humming Bach cantatas and
requesting favorites from Rachmaninoff
and Purcell. Learning improved. Behavior, too.
Even Justin, whose religious dad refused
the recommended Ritalin, would calm
when dinosaurs enacted Rite of Spring.

As parents watched my skin grow paler, hair
go raven, and demeanor change from pert
to smiling calm, they started to complain.
The seasoned leader of the kindergarten
team observed my work more often. She
remarked “ Puccini arias? For five
Year olds? An interesting choice. But not
what our McKinney parents think is best.”
My principal arrived to watch the day
we drew to Rimsky-Korsakov and Brahms.
Scheherazade did not enchant. She jotted
notes and smiled her faint professional smile.
Next day, she asked me in to chat. She told
me parents were concerned. I'd either joined
a cult or coven, started drugs or worse.
They'd talked to members of the board at church
and in the supermarkets. Change was needed,
now. My classroom should be “relevant.”
My contract wouldn't be renewed and could
I please collect my things this afternoon?
Paid leave of absence through the end of May.

I could but didn't want to fight. I'll miss
the kids and how they grow each day. I am
accustomed to estrangement. It's my closest friend.
I'm frugal and resourceful, though, and I'll
get by. I started working, nights and weekends,
seven weeks ago. I saw the ad-
I can't remember where, but wrote it down:
Apprentice needed. Must apply in person.
Call first, though- you'll need some clear direction.
Resolution Bar and Grill. East Dallas.
214- 328- 2169.
Direct, but enigmatic, too.
I started work the Saturday I called.
Despite succinct, impeccable directions,
A to B, I almost missed it. It's in
“A shadow place that time forgot”, as Bob,
my master barkeep, aptly puts it. Time
and city services, too. A beautifully lost
and timeless place, the Resolution Bar.
And Grill. And random-find museum, loft,
piano stage and studio. Eclectic
only starts to cover it.  A place
apart, outside, beyond, and back again.



Third Soliloquy of the Interior Zombie

In search of bars with bitter stories
In the neighborhoods surrounding Baylor
Dallas, I'd turned from street to darker street.
A door appeared and light outlined a man.
I wasn't lost. The figure waved and lit
a cigarette. Its burning end was all
the light left after the door swung closed again.
Except my headlights. But the dark just ate
whatever they could throw. I parked against
the curb and walked towards the cigarette
to ask the smoker where I was.
                                                  “Hello,
I'm Bob. You're lost. You need a beer? Or are
you more a Scotch man? Poets start in fifteen
minutes. You've got time to get a drink
and find a seat.”
                         “I'm lost, indeed. Is this
a club or restaurant? I need to get
my bearings. Scotch is good.” He shook my hand.
An architecture showed itself. The lintels,
columns, bricks and glass emerged as if
from hiding. Resolution Bar and Grill
appeared above the door.
                                         “I asked for Revolution.
They were out of V's, I guess.
The seventies were just a blur. I didn't see
it ‘til I'd paid and they were gone. I'm glad
they screwed it up. The wrong name seems to fit
this better. Single malt or blend?”
                                                      Inside,
the bar was books from russet-toned
terrazzo to the pressed tin ceiling sprayed
A semi-gloss sky blue. The lighting kissed
The books, all shapes and sizes, neat and clean.

I saw her tending bar. Her face was like
the moon framed by blue-black sky.
                                                          “This man
is lost, Elizabeth, and needs a scotch.”
“Elizabeth's my middle name. My dad
still calls me Jessica. I'm on the fence
myself. I'll answer, either way. Glenmorangie
or Dewers?”
                    “I'm really cheap. A nameless blend
is fine.”
             “It's two bucks either way. I'll pour
Glenmorangie. With ice or neat? We keep
Things simple here at Resolution Bar.”
“With ice. I'm Michael, by the way, though Mom
still calls me Mike. I fell off on the Michael
side myself  this year.”
                                     A slender man
in starched white chef's clothes swung the door
I guessed led to the grill and joined us.
                                                               “This
is Bill, the grill in Resolution Bar
and Grill.”
                   She set my scotch and napkin down.
Bill nodded, lifted the counter leaf and walked
toward the dozen patrons joining Bob
around a tiny stage. Stage left, a grand
piano. Right, a podium and mic.
“It's time, Elizabeth. You read tonight.”
She frowned and grabbed a yellow pad
then followed Bill toward the stage. I left
a five and joined the rest with glass in hand.

“ Elizabeth, our brave apprentice, joins
the usuals tonight. Be kind, or drinks
will be six bucks tomorrow, retroactive
on the unpaid tabs I'm holding. Cheers.”
He then began to read a poem by Yeats
I still remember hearing read aloud
in senior English class at Jesuit,
To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing,
with a faint, effective, Irish brogue.
Three poets followed with their newest work.
Polite applause from every table set
with pens and pads. I did the math.
At three drinks each, two bucks a drink, I came
to bankruptcy at least ten years ago.
But now, Elizabeth (and Jessica)
arranged her pad and cleared her throat.
“ I never read a poem, not assigned,
before this year and certainly never tried
to write one. It has been an interesting year.
I'll read the only two I've ever written, now.
Remember, six buck drinks tomorrow if
you laugh or boo. I hope I will improve
before we read next week. I've caught your bug,
though, and I have no choice but write again.”

             The Unfamiliar

The cat has lost her white
and lustrous fluffy fur
and in its place she finds
a short straight charcoal coat.
She doesn't have clue
why this has happened.
She didn't choose to change
but did.

Her brothers now regard her-
and her mother, too-
as something odd.
They will not groom
nor tumblechase her down the hall
in short, dark hair
nor lie down near her for a nap.
They are not cruel
just estranged.

She hides among the shoes and boots
inside the master walk-in closet.
She comes out shyly
only when the hunger
or the litter box compel her.


           All Within a Middle Name

She was Ashley once
but now is Katherine.
Ashley was a lovely girl,
involved but not engaged
despite the sparkling ring.
Katherine is engaged
but not involved.
Her hands are bare
except for tiny brown tattoos
you'd miss without a practiced eye.
Ashley's bright tattoo
fluttered just below her shoulder.
Katherine has a moth.
Ashley's face was loved by sun
and bronzed with even, healthful tones.
Katherine's loves the moon.
Ashley was beloved by all.
Katherine is suspected.
Katherine never chose the change.
The change chose her.

A silence, first, and then I stood and clapped.
In ones and twos, the others rose as well.
She smiled at me as if to say “You know me.”
Bob congratulated her, then shouted
“Open bar! Next Saturday's piano night.
Perhaps by then Elizabeth will learn
to play so we can listen instead of stare,
awaiting magic fingers on the keys.”
Elizabeth then led me on a tour
Of Resolution Bar and Grill's Museum
of the Random Find, Piano Stage
and Studio, and pointed out the stairs
that lead to Grand Reception Mezzanine
and Lobby of the Resolution Lofts-
apartments occupied by Bob and Bill
and tenants yet unnamed, lost and needing home.
“I've heard that all of this was bought or built
to launder money from an accidental
drug deal back in 1970.
You'll help me get the story out of Bob.
It's bound to have a tragic twist at heart.”
She stroked the ring of spots around my wrist.
“I'll bet that these each have a story, too.”