The Gift

I am everything

inside this box,

felt lined,

blood red

lacquered mahogany,

fancifully etched

by some careful hand

with images of swirling demons

beneath

a veil of mist.

You have the key,

but you dare not open the box.

You the disease,

You the cure.

Pandora,

I am what's inside.

But you can not look;

only cherish this box:

intricately carved,

polished, finished to a high gloss

that blood red hinting

at depths and depths.

You have the key;

you have the box.

I am inside--

patience.

You the disease,

you the cure.

Thanksgiving

Sometimes, at night, I put on a bandanna, to keep the hair out of my eyes. It's getting long in the front, and I think I look like Justin Beiber. It gets in my tea when I'm drinking it, and hangs in front of me when I'm eating cereal, so little flecks of milk get into the tips of my bangs. Once, at a concert, the music was too loud, and I didn't have any ear plugs, so I chewed a stick of gum until the flavor went out of it, and split it in half, formed two little balls of gum, stuck them in my ears to keep them from ringing the next morning. But my hair stuck to the gum, and I kept picking at it, wishing it would go away and wondering if anyone could tell it was there, and so I took the gum out and stuck it under the seat at the theater, and figured a little tinnitus was better then a lot of gum in my hair.

I could wear a hat, but I think the bandanna makes me look like David Foster Wallace, and I like that about it. My girlfriend doesn't know who he is, but that's ok--she's a scientist, and I'm an artist, and we keep each grounded. She reigns me in when I tend towards the solipsism that Wallace had warned of, and I try to get her to let go a little bit when she gets scared about what's going to happen after grad school.

That's about as ironic as the bandanna, and any comparison to DFW, because fuck if I know what I'm going to do with my life, and I'm terrified all the time.

Most of us are. We sat in my girlfriend's parent's living room and smoked and talked about our lives and what we were doing with them, and the machine that we were feeding, with little bits of our soul, day after day, so that people with money we can't even begin to fathom can accesorize their toddler's bathroom with brass knobs and silver trinkets and catered holiday parties for their fancy parents and their fancy friends and their fancy co-workers.

There were four of us. One was over the east coast entirely. My girlfriend and I were over the city. The fourth didn't know quite what she wanted but it wasn't this. What did we do? It's not like it was advertising, or finance, or law or medicine--nothing like that. Those are the kind of jobs that might suck the life out of you, a little bit, but at least you could count on a "return on investment."

I wanted to make that kind of money. I daydreamed about it, and there was a yearning, as long as I can remember, to have those brass-fixtured doorknobs and toilet fixtures, to have a view of central park from the top of a building, to come home to an impeccably kept house, to a staff and a wife that didn't have to work but could sit on boards of various charities, to have dinner on the table by eight and to summer somewhere ending in a "ton." I've always been honest about that.

I remember lying in bed with an ex-girlfriend, one of those times when we were trying to be intimate, her prying things out of me that didn't want prying, and I reluctantly offered, "well I do have class issues," and she looked at me and almost laughed before saying, "Hon, you have a Great Gatsby tattoo. I know you have class issues.

But we weren't there, none of us. I had one friend, maybe, that was almost there, but he was as stuck and miserable and perplexed as the rest of us, said it was a means to an end, that at least he could travel, but dammit if he didn't make it to the gym every night, the simmering resentment of long dinners with clients, of ties and blazers and wool pants and starched shirts and cocktail after cocktail, well he'd literally explode. He didn't even enjoy drinking anymore--the only time he drank was to win the trust and faith of anxious millionaires.

For all we cared about we did, we might as well be making widgets and sprockets, but we longed for a hula hoop that might set us free. Anything, really, anything at all.

We sat together, close, on the big soft red couch, with blankets, and the big soft red leather chair, and the paisley recliner, with crystal glasses brought out for the occasion, some nice pinot, some sparkling cider. One of us was knitting, and talking about how work was literally killing her. I shared the story about the time I ended up in the hospital, cellulitis of the knee brought on by too much work and not enough sleep.

I had just watched a documentary on Woodstock -- then and now, and when I closed my eyes, I could see Yasgur's farm, and the pond, the rolling hills in the distance and the second growth forest, and imagine a little house and two little offices, and a garden, where we could live and work and play.

Nora, sitting next to me, knitting, wanted to move to California.

Sheila thought we should all go into business together--just all pick up and move, and I don't know, buy some land, and she and Nora could run a hardware store, and of course Lee and I could cook for everyone (have you tasted her key lime pie? It's incredible; it literally convinced me to marry her). It sounded a lot like the Hog Farm Commune but it was probably just because I was stoned still, and had just seen a film about it.

I said I couldn't really see myself leaving the east coast. Aren't family and friends important? It was the day after Thanksgiving, and I was feeling grateful to have had my family and Lee's family at one big long table and all of the talking was a group effort and as much as her mother and my uncle could get on my nerves on occasion, they were family and wasn't it nice to be a part of, to contribute in small ways and big ways?

Sheila said that if we just went, maybe our families would follow us. And I closed my eyes and there were the red woods, and the ancient first growth forests, moss over everything, ever green, and soft trails not like the rocky trails of new england, and the constant drizzle that if you thought of it in a certain way seemed to feed everything, all the time.

But New England, and my sense of place--I was born here. Can you imagine? Lee's mother grew up on the west coast, and she grew up on the east coast, and there is nothing that will ever change that fact for them--do we really want out children to have a completely different frame of reference, a shared set of childhood memories we'll never ever be connected to?

Whatever we do, we need to work for ourselves, I said, on our terms. There was a general nodding of heads, Nora knitting next to me, Sheila curled up in the chair across, Lee blowing out the candles on the mantle that had burnt down over the last hour or two. Something that means something.

I'm leaving my job in a month or so. And I'm terrified, because sometimes it seems like a certain level of financial stability is the most important thing there is. But I've been reading and writing and thinking about reading and writing, and if making less money means there's more room for that, then I'll be that much happier, and I'll have that much more energy to give and I don't know, I'm crossing my fingers and maybe it'll be ok?

Nora nodded, her scarf was twice the length it had been when we sat down and she agreed that the happiest of our friends was the one who wasn't making much money, but doing the projects that he was interested in and sooner or later he'd probably be light years ahead of all of us because he got such an early start.

Are we that old? We are. The children that we knew when we were in high school, that seemed so much younger then are graduating college. Our friends are getting married. I'm getting married. And soon we'll be thirty, and when someone says they haven't talked to so and so in years, I can conceive of that, as much as I can conceive of not talking to so and so for as many more years, or seeing him briefly but not again, and losing touch over time, ten, twenty years from now, when maybe, finally, we'll be doing something that feels right.

It was getting on one thirty. Nora got up to leave. Her coat was on, the yarn in her bag, we hugged goodbye. We walked Sheila to the guest bedroom and Lee and I brushed our teeth together in the bathroom, washed our faces and crawled into bed. We slept through the night and into the morning, woke at ten to coffee and toaster waffles, a new day.

That evening, I walked my parent's dog, through the fallen brown leaves of the park, listening to them rustle over my boots as we walked. The trees were empty finally. It's almost December. It wasn't dark just yet, but would be soon, and the conviction of the night before was almost lost, but turning the corner I held the leash and smiled, remembering that once, the night before, I knew I had everything I wanted, and in that moment I still did, and would again.

the place

the place

that friday in class,

the year the city shook,

and buildings fell like cards

from the sky,

the stop motion cinematography

of it all,

we sat in class

full of joy and fear,

shaking with the anticipation

of our afternoon release,

the beer run, the paper cups,

2.5 days of freedom.

three beers in,

we sat on the bench

outside the skateshop,

darkness falling over the city above,

alone in our sunken reverie,

hidden, mostly, occassional glances down,

but otherwise ignored.

i looked up

to see the stone wall,

the rising iron gate,

the roof, just low enough to reach,

remembering trees

and molded rock walls,

hexagonal steel and playground’s rubber mats,

of climbing and hanging,

running across the courtyard

my feet on the ledge,

arms pulling up,

legs reaching out,

one hand on the roof above,

and the graceful heave.

the roof was empty,

black tarry segmented waves,

undulating for seeming miles,

and there, at the far side,

stacked bricks on pallets.

i touch them,

and loosening one from the top,

look out over the side of the roof,

see them laughing, smoke rising above them,

the weight of the brick in my hand,

the white of it leaving me, arcing pattern,

tumbling through the air,

shattering on the ground below,

too drunk to aim at much,

the energy of that lonely rooftop,

the secret place within

the city around us,

and nothing but laughter

at the swirling pieces,

scattering at their shocked feet,

hiding,

silent, shaking laughter.

That place stood empty

for so many years,

and finally,

transformed by time,

reoccupied,

I stood in that same courtyard,

full of circling newness,

a roof top no longer ours,

only to look up

and wonder at the loss.

Charles Imbelli 
2010

the house

 second draft, minor changes.

the house

there is a house on fire.
white, horizontal beams,
smoke curling over expansive green
the sound of lawnmowers buzz buzzing
stop for a moment to watch the flames
rise.


this fire
has been years in the making.
it built up from within the walls,
unnoticed for so long,
the white paint
showing no indication
of the fire within
until 


fire born from cold
silent dinners
resentment simmering
subtle explosions
of pure rage
an eternity of contempt
surfacing
beams smoldering from within
and the paint begins to peel,
blistering,
bubbling,
square inch
by square inch
and reaching the corner
where wall meets ceiling
falling in sheets to the floor,
the carpet goes next
singed at the edges
and then unstoppable.


he drinks alone now.
the den
with the picture window
the fire closing in
on him
and follows her path,
there on the hill,
by the tree,
smoking cigarettes
and watching 
this final burning.


she walks the perimeter,
where lawn meets wood
past gentle slopes of leaf litter
and grass trimmings
and down to gravel
to asphalt
to mailbox and car
and up again,
leaning against the tree,
smoking cigarettes
and watching
this final burn.


it’s finished now,
the eventual blossoming
the blessed conflagration
that made an end,
but no phoenix rising
and no revelation.

just this:
a woman, smoking,
watching the charred remains.
a man, drinking, 
sitting among them.

Charles Imbelli
2010

Alder Lake

Was it Alder Lake, or Balsam?
No, neither: Balsam creek, which led to Alder Lake.
Car camping. Except the parking lot was too far,
so we hiked in our cooler, our food, our tents and sleeping bags,
stopping every ten feet of the almost mile to make minor adjustments
to the weight that strained with every step,
the straps of two messenger bags
across my shoulders couldn’t be less suitable
for the task at hand. Still, we were camping:
with food enough for a battalion of hungry bureaucrats,
beer enough for two--the new york department of city planning
is hungry, and thirsty.
it’s september.
the leaves have just begun to turn.

that afternoon, i watched three of them swim
in the cooling lake, from the point
where i could still just barely touch the bottom,
out and away, nearly half way across
a straight line the shortest distance between two points,
campsite beach and trail head
(if only we could have rowed our coolers
of coleslaw and beer).
i tread water for a bit,
try to swim towards them, but ten feet and i’m winded,
so i swim back to shoulder height and stand
the sun at my back and the three swimmers
treading water at the halfway point.
i walk back to the shore,
stepping over mud and leaf rot,
onto stones, large and round,
smaller too with sharp pointy bits,
and stand shivering on the spit,
grass rock and wildflowers,
drip dry in the sun,
and then dry myself with a borrowed towel.

at camp, we work to build the night’s fire.
before we swam,
there was gathering of logs
of branches and twigs
and not one but two half trees,
one six inches across
and one ten,
both taking three men to carry through the camp site.
we were prepared for a siege,
we would take down anything in our way
with two hands and found battering rams.

they fell to the ground
and then began the hard work,
yeoman’s work, of sawing,
of chopping--we had a saw and a hatchet
and took turns with both.
worked over the standing remnants of one stump,
until  he hacked at log looked like
a pencil suspended over the ground.
took flying kicks, waiting for the satisfaction
of the crack, the thumping drop of wood on forest floor.

the bear rope was strung directly over our campsite,
between tents, from tree to tree. we stood beneath it,
wondering how to move it.
there was an attempt to scale the tree,
but ten feet up the first man dropped to the floor again,
and i gave it a go, wrapping my forearms tight around the trunk,
my legs wrapped around the trunk, the edge of my boots digging
into each side of the tree, legs up, arms up, legs up, arms up,
the bark scratching into bare forearms until i was there,
twenty feet up, feet dug in, one arm holding the tree,
and untying the knot with my other, then
holding one loose end, i let myself down,
thin lines of blood from tiny scratches
that still show nearly a week later.

we sawed logs and scaled trees and built fire from scratch
into a roaring blaze that lasted through the night and
into the morning.

that night, we were the first to bed,
half stoned and curled together on the forest floor.
“you just have to show off, dont you?”
she stated more than asked, and I smiled shyly,
because it’s true and we both know it.
“any time anything even remotely masculine is going on,
you’re right there,” she says.

and I shrug and I tell her she can’t possibly know
what it is to be a man shorter than most,
in a world where height and width is power,
and I was told at ten that I couldn’t play catcher,
because I was too small.
had she ever been lifted kicking
and placed in a garbage can?
and she wonders at the push ups
and the chin ups and the arms in the mirror,
wonders until she reluctantly concedes that maybe
it’s not such a bad thing, this desperate proof
that i’m strong enough and smart enough and ballsy enough
to climb a fucking tree and untie a rope with one hand,
and do it again on the other side of camp.

rare moments these, when other men can watch
and wonder at the speed and strength,
outside the city, on alder lake,
where boys can be boys,
and are, these last days of summer,
precious moments,
waiting,
before the fall.

charles imbelli
2010