11/16/97 (Third November Song)

11/16/97 (Third November Song)

At 5:06 p.m., you first drew the first protesting breath,
Outraged by the sharp slap, the bright lights,
And the indignity:
Dangling wet and naked among strangers.

At 5:18 p.m., I followed curiously to investigate,
And left the warmth, the liquid darkness,
Urged on by your cries:
Our pattern for life in the bright new world.

My best memory of us: pounding down the beach,
Two of Neptune’s colts. We would collapse at last,
Your laughter in my ears as we grappled in the sand.
Hearts slowing, breath returning, you would rise, stretch,
And assume the royal voice, suddenly mock-English,
Fluting out the edict: “We insist on being happy . . . . .”
Then the wink and nudge: “It’s work, but it’s soooooooo worth it!”

I didn’t know those words would be emblazoned on my heart,
Still spurring me on from day to day
Without you . . . .

You were joyous above all things, so I honor your memory:
I insist on being happy.
It’s work . . . .

But in those moments after gritted teeth and tears,
When peace descends
“Sooooooo worth it!”

=================================
c. 2000 Todd Eliot

Sacrament

Also posted in "Todd Surfs LB CA"

Sacrament
(for Marcus)

You would rise to take your place in line
Solemn as I never saw you
And seem almost to glide
Past the rank on rank of pews.
As you went up the aisle, your face
Seemed elsewhere, your eyes, downcast
Focused on someplace other:
Past the time and place,
Beyond present or past
Or future to a place where the three
Found themselves as one in union --
In a perfect moment removed from time
Or space or any human thing.
Sharing the communion
And turning after bread and wine
With brimming eyes,
Your voice lifted to sing:
My brother.


=========================
c. 2000 Todd Eliot

Through the Looking Glass

Through the Looking-Glass
(for my brother on Ancestor Night)

Marcus, my twin, in the mirror:
Always shining, older, stronger, fairer, –
Running a little way ahead when we were
Children on the beach;
Under the glass, living on beneath its
Surface – still playing hide and seek.

Every morning sun
Rose after a bitter dawn –
I woke again from dreams of us,
Knowing you were gone.

Time continued in its course:
One second became a minute; hours,
Days, weeks, months … learning to stand,
Dream, wake, cry, and crawl across the sand.

Still, Mum and the Da and I would
Joke: about the newest rebel angel –
One with ruffled wings, crooked smile, and
Never quite on time (with the halo always askew).

Each time I glimpse you in the mirror
(Less often underneath my changing face),
I know we'll sprint along dream-time beaches
Once again, laughing, and your voice singing
That you're with me -- as always -- racing just a step ahead.

=======================
c. 2001 Todd Eliot

Trompe l'Oeil

Trompe l'Oeil
(for my brother on Ancestor Night)

I saw your dancing ghost tonight
Among the swirling crowd
And the jumble of street revelers
Beneath the pulse of colored light:
A glimpse of gilded hair
Shaken off a steaming brow,
A deep spark of jade
Flashed from eyes that met mine
For an instant
And a gleam of smile
For a moment
At the Masquerade.

And I, disguised,
A shambling leper zombie
Propelled myself forward on sticks,
Pressing for a clearer sight
Before the crowd could shift
And you'd be lost again.

Lurching toward you
A foot or two stripped away the charm:
The paint so artfully applied
To shade away twenty years;
The bronzing over slack white arms;
The boots to change the height –
All conspired to fool my eye
With a cunning trick of the light.
Not you, then, no,
Nor ever is,
Nor ever will be again.

And I, disguised,
A weeping jester zombie –
Laughing fit to die
At the ways of the heart
When it tricks the eye –
Propelled myself away on sticks
Down the Promenade.

===========================
c. 2002 Todd Eliot

Muzzle

Muzzle

On paper, the words flow:
Streaming all the colors of me
Full-spectrum as they go
Eddying onward, thrashing into foam
As they collide with something
Beneath the surface - something below,
Where the deep black currents roam
Unstayed by any other thing.

The sunlight's sparkle and gleam
Off rainbow shards of froth
Dazzle-dancing on the stream,
Distracts me from the dark below
With bright-winged flittings to and fro.
I delight in teeming surfaces of things,
And love the darting, sweeping shallows.

In my mind, the images flood:
Lives and times all sinking down
Monochrome as the mud
Slumbering, the black silt compressed
To stone by water and time
While seasons pass above; flowers bud
To bloom and stand undressed
And freeze beneath thick winter rime.

Something, sure, will stir
This darkness, then roil the quiet
Muffled under snow-white fur
Mantling layers of ice above, to show
Some spark of light to glimmer and grow
With the passing of seasons and dance of time
To melt the sluggish quiet here below.

Quick with the words and let me fly, then: I am young,
And nothing hinders nor stays me
As my bright words sail forth on the page --
Till a stranger’s question comes and my mulish tongue
Locks up my lips and betrays me,
And my slumber is broken by rage.

============================
c. 2000 by Todd Eliot

11/16/97 Fifth November Fragments

11/16/97Fifth November Fragments

RECONSTRUCTION I

Some things we can easily reconstruct
Examining the evidence and facts:
From the one set of tire marks we deduct
The direction and speed of the impact,
From the dry condition of the asphalt
We rule out the weather being to blame
As a factor, nor was there any fault
In the brakes of either crumpled frame.

Blood alcohol levels of the bodies
Clearly demonstrate it was Driver A,
Impaired, who crashed headlong into Car B.
From the positions where the others lay,
We are sure one brother died instantly
Of a massive insult to head and brain,
In the lap of his twin. Mercifully,
We know the other remembers no pain
And was unaware of his sibling's death
Until he woke from unpleasant dreaming
(So he terms his coma), took a deep breath,
Saw his mother's face, and began screaming.

Examining his chart would seem to yield
A hopeful prognosis: he can now talk
(The aphasia was perhaps a mere shield
For the psyche), though he will never walk;
Although we cannot be completely sure
Of no improvement in mobility,
It is likely (because there is no cure)
He will accept his disability.
His mental faculties show not a trace
Of impairment (from this we can deduct
His stammer will improve). His fractured face
May prove more difficult to reconstruct.

==========================

c. 2002 Todd Eliot

Life with Long Hair

Marcus and I had always had rather longish hair, worn to collar-length in back, shorter in front. If our bangs hadn't been trimmed, they would have touched our chin.

Today, I came across a photo of the two of us playing in a park near the beach. We were about seven or eight, running about in shorts, and our hair was almost white. We were what they call in the South "tow-heads" (a term that confused me until Mum explain that "tow" was a kind of flax). And she only took us for a trim about once a year, as she fancied the look. She'd been a child of the sixties.

In our graduation picture, we're sporting what I think they called it a bi-level cut. Marcus joked that it was perfect for him, since he was bisexual.

I was not. I am gay. And when I was being bullied about being gay, Marcus outed himself as bisexual before I could tell him that what my tormentors were saying about me was true. We were sixteen.

By the time we were in high school, our hair had become a basic light blonde.

We once dyed it, just to see the effect. The Da came home to find Marcus with raven, blue-black hair, and me with a deep chestnut. He wasn't angry, but he did say that it brought out the Bengali in us. We bleached it out again to something approaching our natural color later in the summer, using lemon juice to restore our highlights.

A few months after high school, we were hit by a drunk driver. Marcus was killed, and I was pretty much out of it for a while. My hair continued to grow, of course, but I'd decided not to cut it. I'm not entirely sure of the reason. Perhaps I'd become accustomed to it.

I know that long hair can be a great shield when people stared. It helped to conceal the right half of my face, which had been badly scarred. The bones of it hadn't quite set right, which meant I later had to undergo having it re-broken in order to restore it to a semblance of itself.

And when I looked in the mirror, seeing Marcus (of course), it was easier to have the image softened by the veil of my hair. And my hair continued to grow.

I gave various reasons for not cutting it: I liked the look, it made me distinctive, it challenged conventional stereotypes of masculinity, and it was mine, dammit.

And it was a tribute to my bro.

Eleven years after the crash, I decided that since my hair was long enough, I'd donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for cancer patients, children, and others who have no hair. Since Locks of Love require that the hair not have been chemically treated, and be at least a nine-inch length, I qualified. I had it cut November 16, 2008: the anniversary of the crash.

I did it as a tribute to my bro.

I've realized, as time has gone by, that something that began as a defense mechanism and developed into an dearly-cherished affectation had become useful to others.

My hair is now below my collar again - almost to my shoulders in back, and (if not held back) reaches my chin in front.

I've come full circle.

Who knows, if Marcus had lived, we might have diverged in our hairstyles, as we did in our religious and spiritual lives. Mohawks, mullets, crew-cuts, buzz-cuts . . . endless possibilities.

But for now, I like being able to do pony-tails, French braids, fish-tails, Legolas braids . . . and I even braided blue ribbons into it when Brian and I hand-fasted.

It is what it is, as Life is - and so it goes on growing.