A Place Called Elysian Fields

“Oh, I see. I understand.”

The defeated response is mundane,
The “story of my life” that is always said with a weak smile,
And a shaky voice that I hope they don’t notice.

I’m really trying not to fall apart,
Because I don’t see and I don’t understand,
And it hurts a little more every time
When the answer is, “No, thank you, anyway.”

**

“What do you do for a living, honey?

Wouldn’t you like to know
So you could arrest my dirty ass
And lock me away for eternity?

I see it in her eyes and everyone else’s’
That they think my job is probably
Sleeping with their loving husbands,
And being the home wrecker that I was born to be.

**
“Haha! Don’t you have a corner to stand on?”

And aren’t you just a library
Of brilliant comebacks and
Deductions for the common idiot?

I could say I don’t give a shit,
And that it doesn’t hurt at all,
But man, would I be lying my ass off,
So I always just walk away.

**

“Wow, what a fag…”

They laugh and sneer at a poor soul
And laugh harder when the guy tells
Them to “Fuck off,” while I hide and watch.

The leader, he’s the beautiful one
And, if it were possible, I’d like to
Brush aside his black hair and look into
His green eyes and say, “Please love me.”

**

“Some never find it. Never.”

I wonder if I’ve found “it,”
Or if I even know what that
Special, exclusive “it,” really is.

Some kind of happiness?
I like to pretend, once in a while, that I might
Find it with Mr. Blue Eyes, and that he might
Turn to me suddenly and say, “You. Are. Beautiful.”

**

“Home is where it is, honey.”

Home is in the eye of the beholder,
Because the place I should call home,
Has never been just that.

Mother can’t see her own fingers,
Brother gets a look a death in his eyes
Every time he sees me, and father…
Well, father can’t look me in the eyes and call me son.

**

“Don’t rely on anyone to make ya happy.”

Ain’t that the truth, Mister?
But that’s where the irony
Is rich and tickles me red.

For I’ve tried trust and hope, and
All I’ve ever gotten is
Matching scars, painful aches, broken bones,
And blood out my ass. Oh my.

**

“It’s all a joke, kid. All a joke…”

Says my broken mentor
Whose addiction is a bottle
That loves him almost as much as he loves it.

He claims love is a joke,
A complete waste of time,
All the while spreading my legs
And loving me until I gasp and shake from ecstasy.

**

“Have you ever really been kissed?”

I think, once upon a time,
I might have almost loved someone,
To the point that every touch mattered.

And I think, possibly, that
Every time we kissed, there
Were those initial electric shocks,
And yes, even violins majestically soaring after.

**
“Fuck kid, what a body.”

Violins don’t exist anymore, not with
Men who have disgusting, vile mouths
That are not even good for sucking me.

A risk is hardly what I’m taking,
Because if eating a decent dinner
Means having to let morons fuck me,
Then it’s okay, the violins can wait. Really.

**

“The park is always alive! Always.”

The violins have no mercy,
Because it is when I’m alone now,
That I hear them, and man, do they hate me.

My bush and I cuddle close and let the crickets
Lead a triumphant sounding orchestra,
While the pain in my ass grows a little
More with every whiny violin hum.

**

“Won’t you sing a little louder?”

The leader with the black hair
And blue eyes always comes back
To the park at night, and sits at the swings.

He sings with a crystal clear voice,
While I hide in my bush, hearing the violins echo
And wishing he could sing “Silly Love Songs”
Just a teensy bit louder.

**

“All we have, finally, are the words.”

Pain, tears, betrayal, laughter, hunger,
Hunger, hunger, but hunger for what?
Sad words they are.

I climb out of my bush and watch the
Startled boy turn around, and
All of a sudden, he’s watching me, too,
With his careful blue orbs, and I step closer.

I want to believe he won’t
Turn me away with his awful sneer
And cruel laugh, while I
Try my best not to cry at his cruelty.

I want to believe everyone,
Mother, father, brother, was wrong
When they said I of all people would
Never find it, never possess it.

I’d like to believe that the slow
Alien-like smile on his face
Is a sign o f hello, and not the smile
Of one who will retell his experience to friends.

I gulp, and watch as the boy’s
Mouth moves to form words.
“Hello,” he says at last.
Hello, won’t you play that violin again?