Art and Poetry by Chris Dankovich

AMEN
by Chris Dankovich
(for Holly)

Had I been asleep for a thousand years, my
mind a God where my vision was void, and color

settled into lines as my sky birthed a smile and
the sea looked at me in that way that I love.

And the clouds and the waves made the
castles in the sand I had made look like

I stood on the Earth looking at the moon after
climing to the moon and looking back, and soon

the tides pulled in and time itself washed away.
Then the next day lasted my entire life

and the Sun came out after I had created the night.
And the rays were like veins whose pulse I

could ride like the wind across the afternoon sky,
holding on to the heartbeat to know I’m alive.

A thousand sunrises (or almost half-a-million by then)
couldn’t rival the dreams I see in your eyes,

as though I had died a thousand years and risen at the end
like a prayer that finishes with God and begins with Amen.

MEMORIAL
by Chris Dankovich

Two moments really worth forgetting.
The feel of beige shag carpet through

my fingers, like fur, not hair; the ground
below me as I crawled to the TV

a good boy. Weekend cartoons, but it was
Monday in the Summer and we had cable.

The other, the toilet seat lid, also beige,
down, as I sat stoically with pants up, shower on.

Eleven years old and I liked Lauren, but that’s just
a peripheral memory acting as a placeholder

without bearing here. I stripped down, saw my
stubby body in the full-length mirror, then

looked through the blinds at the sky. No why.
But both times, I thought, “Why

do we remember one moment or the next?” I vowed
to remember these stupid moments, deciding never to forget.

These moments… yet I forgot the miscarriage
for years. And I forgot Mrs. Three was kind to me.

I remember blue food-coloring made my birthday
cake bitter. Yet I only just remembered how her eyes glittered.

LIFE
by Chris Dankovich

Life.
Sometimes I’ve felt it not
worth living.
All of our accomplishments add up to
nothing in the end.
Legends die, generations pass,
names are forgotten,
cities are destroyed, stars burn out.
And once it is gone, it is as if
it had never occurred.
People forget us while we live;
some are memorable from beyond, but do they know it?
Some make a more lasting change, but
that has to do with circumstance.
Life is not fair — children
damned from birth, and great things
are destined for
horrible people.
Love dies, and the worst you can do to others
isn’t even physical.
Deprivation, lies, starvation,
abuse, bad memories and suffering.
And then I witness:
a sunset against terraced clouds, and
I forget what I was just
talking about.

THE WIND
by Chris Dankovich

(for my little birdy)

By my window, on a perch,
an angel and devil converse.
About what, I do not know,
but I watch them walking to and fro.
All of a sudden the wind starts to blow…
grass bends over and it grows cold.
I watch as the two of them shake hands,
and they scramble away when a tiny bird lands.
I can not hear what they were saying,
but I can hear the little bird singing
sounds that sound like lullabies,
interspersed with more sorrowful cries.

On the perch I lay some pilfered bread
in the hope that she’ll land again;
but instead I see the little men
coming back and closing in.
As they speak they point to me,
ignorant or ignoring that I can see.
And what they say I still don’t know,
but as they leave the clouds come low,
dark and roaring, rain starts to fall;
out on the perch I hear a familiar call.
Seeking shelter from the rain,
my friend nuzzles against the window pane.

The lights flicker as we bear the storm;
hands pressed against the window, trying to stay warm.
(“Her” a designation, without cause I give…
just one that I’m more comfortable with)
Roaring thunder silenced by quieter songs,
laughter and whispers all along.
Dark fades to night, then brightens to day,
but with the sunshine, the little bird flies away.
I put my face to the glass but I can’t break through
to reach into the sky and fly away too.
Then I look down and next to the dew,
the devil speaks lies and the angel an equal truth.

And I rage against the invisible wall,
raising hell against them all.
Thunderstorms from my soul I scream
while lightningbolts storm my dreams…
though the storm has calmed and the little men backgrounded in blue,
in my haste I curse the little bird too.
And in my storm I rage and cry,
fury against what’s gone by.
But my assaults against the air
neglect to injure what doesn’t feel or care.
Walls unmoved by my strengths laid bare…
tears open eyes that can only stare.

No matter how much bread I lay,
the little bird stays away.
The devil and god continue to speak,
though it’s not their words I any longer seek.
I let the gods lay and do what they do,
along with the forces of nature and the animals too.
For I am determined to build wings of my own
and will not stop until I’ve flown…
but Summertime wings melt in the Sun;
if I can’t fly then I will run
away on land or in my mind…
if not now, then in time.

And if my feet fail me then I’ll stand by
and build a tower to the sky
(look the angel in the eye
even if I’ll never fly),
standing taller from the demon
beneath my feet, maybe even
see my friend

-the tiny bird- yet again.

The Elevator

by Chris Dankovich

I just woke up from a dream I had about you last night

We rode up in an elevator, ever so slow, looking out at the light

From the sun setting on clouds kissed red from its glow,

You, as I imagine you now to be, and I as I am now.

It´s been 8 years, over half as many as we were alive back then

When you were a girl who was a woman, and I a boy who thought he was a man,

And I held you in my arms but never made another move

Because I knew for you to be close I needed nothing to prove to you

But to be something more I might need to be something more

Than I could have been then, so we left it there.

Back to the dream: we stood mere inches away

And you lifted me out of the dark in the same way that you always would do;

And then the dream did what dreams always seem to do:

I ask if you´d let me buy you coffee, which you did, and we were back on the rise

In the lift as the sun set and I looked into your eyes

Just like I did with the paper pictures you sent me until I was almost 19 years old,

That spirit that kept me company on the wall by my bed while you wrote me your soul.

Five years have passed since the last picture and eight since I last heard you speak;

You were older, and stronger, but still wore those summertime freckles and mischievous smile

And your voice still echoed like an angel ready to cry.

While in the dream I followed like a disciple at the Last Supper

Every word that you said,

I lost the meaning of your words this morning while I was lying in bed,

Trying to call your back to me with my eyes closed, arms around my pillow, but instead

My eyes adjusted to the dark, for the sun hadn´t yet risen like it had in the dream

And I reconstructed, relived, something that had never really been,

But which I held on to with all of my heart,

And we were together again after 8 years apart.

I smiled in the dream and I smiled for real

And I felt the same as I used to feel around you.

You smiled like the waning moon smiles at the stars

And I pulled you into my arms as you held me in yours.

Not even God with a crowbar could pry us from one another

Then only our heads parted so we could gaze into each other.

I was nothing but my lips as I kissed yours and I was nothing but our kiss.

When I woke I cried and prayed and hoped and wished

To go back 5 minutes and not even 8 years

Because 5 minutes ago I loved you and 5 minutes ago you were here.

And though I told myself that none of this really happened,

That feeling didn’t fade.

Even in our dream we must breathe and so our lips parted,

The air in between us as gentle as when the kiss started.

I looked at you and you looked at me,

And we were all each other could see.

Then the elevator chimed and you walked out the door

I let you fade away just like I did before (in real life).

That´s when I woke up, looking around, knowing you´re not there,

I closed my eyes to find you, to bring you near again.

Because I would give up anything real

To have one more moment with you

To do whatever it is you do

With one moment with someone who saved you.

Social Darwinism

by Chris Dankovich

We live in a nation

that has incarcerated

one percent of its population.

In many major cities, everyone,

or at least a relation,

has experienced this directly.

We, as a nation, spend significantly more

on incarceration

than on education.

Who we are as a people is reflected.

Our children deserve more.

In a war of “us” versus “them”,

the vast majority of them”

have used or sold drugs.

A commodity fuelled by desire, one to

which the majority of Americans have

at least once succumbed.

–Is a law democratic when the majority of those

under it have consciously chosen to break it?—

Too often we’re reminded of it being “us” verse “them”

But can we call it a solution when

“Them” will become “Us” again later on, and do it again?

When will we tire of seeing our money

and our people

wastefully spent?

There is a strength, bravery, and compassion

that exists in the hearts of Americans

that is conspicuously absent in the rhetoric

and demagoguery of tow-the-line career politicians.

Instead of spouting off about problems, blaming others,

or sticking to answers that have failed, let’s try another…

Can we try to solve the problem instead of just complaining that it exists?

Here’s an attempt

(and you may disagree, but

at least can we try something different

than those things which have already failed?):

Maybe a different kind of social Darwinism instead of

institutional Darwinism is what we need.

If those who can’t handle their drugs, like those

who can’t handle their liquor,

break the law, THEN we lock them up tight, or

even better. . . so the light in their life doesn’t

die, but merely flickers –

“We, the law-abiding citizens of this land,

carrying on the tradition of order, ancient and grand,

forged from the wild, tamed by mind and by hand,

Do solemnly banish you, sentenced to exile,

for actions our elected officials have deemed to be vile,

to try your survival out in the wild.

Do you think that a society

can exist consisting

of people like you? If it can,

do you think that you can endure?”

“To the first I believe so…

To the second, I’m sure…”

And for the rest…

put them to the test:

put the violent to work

for those affected by their crimes.

Have them do something good

instead of wasting their time.

Locking a dead man, or one

who might as well be,

in a box for 50 years

is a waste of money .

No rehabilitation, and no restitution—

Is that your solution?

Any solution has to be

better than that .

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

Surely a nation that can

make magic happen

can at least attempt

to figure this out.

We’ve put men on the moon

and the power of the sun in a box,

but can’t do better than

putting men in a box?

About no other issue

is so little thought through

or done.

So our children don’t fail and fall down,

falling all the way to the bottom,

let us give them more

than that.

Nine Haikus

by Chris Dankovich

Introduced myself,

But tried to be extra smooth–

That was a mistake.

The sound of hair cut–

Now that I know I look good.

I walk with swagger.

Stopped relationship

I had with crazy person.

(I learned from that one)

Dot on the ceiling

Minutes passed contemplating

Ноw did it get there?

Juice drips from my chin.

Flavor explodes in my mouth–

The taste of a plum!

My back stiffens up.

The weight is tremendous, but…

I accomplished it!

Dandelions nude.

Tendrils, having lost their fur,

Search around, confused.

Phone 1-800

You will not be charged for call

But, no help given.

Was watching TV.

Suddenly an hour passed.

Don’t know what happened.

Apology

By Chris Dankovich

What can I say to the person

whose love I’ve abandoned, betrayed?

It makes no difference that it

happened so quick–

in the fire of a moment

that’s destined to last

forever as the echo of death

of a connection that was a pillar of my life.

I never meant it so,

but how far can intentions go

into Hell to retrieve a mutual soul?

And will it look back before it gets out

and be forever trapped–

or become like a wraith, undead,

trying to eat us alive?

“But why?” I imagine

you asking in this imaginary conversation

(pain in your eyes, anger at me–even though

this is a hypothetical fantasy).

And why is the question I’ve

been asking myself over and over;

as if finding the answer would

convince you somehow to return to my life.

Why? is easier than answering what

I was thinking, or else Freud would

have found himself out of a job.

What if I could go back to when

this occurred and begin anew?

But despite all my prayers,

God won’t grant me a second attempt

at seconds or years…would you?

This is not an apology, though

it would be that too

if I ever spoke to you again–

but I’ve no magical spells

to resurrect what’s gone,

and I’m afraid if I did

I’d merely open up wounds

of how you were wronged.

Instead I write a eulogy

to what I’ve lost and may have been.

A speech I must give, even if

you won’t forgive

so that at least I won’t

sin again.

And to answer that reason why–

in that moment I didn’t put you up as high

as you earned your place to be…

A mistake I’ve learned from now

and will not make twice…

If we see each other in the afterlife

may it matter there that

I’ve tried to make things right.

(But is that enough in this life?)

Then I will wait until the fates

will turn back time

and I could make the mistake not once,

and only then will I no longer merely say

if only I…

Written 2010

***

(Untitled l)

By Chris Dankovich

If I could see you again,
what would I say?
Would I break down crying
like I did so many days?
Since you’ve been gone
I’ve grown stronger
and weaker
and more of the same,
so very different
you wouldn’t recognize me by name.
But while I’ve changed
for the better
or worse
more than can possibly be,
would you be the same
as you used to be?
Did my tears implore
as they fell to the floor?
Did my prayers have the strength
to climb Heaven’s stairs?
Heaven –a place
I never thought you would go…
You believed you’d stay on the Earth
and walk to and fro,
over and under,
through and below.
But I don’t want to believe
I sent you to Hell
though you stole my soul.
I want to give you an n-th chance,
but not because I need,
and certainly not earned
by any one of your deeds.
Instead it was one of my own
that gave you this place
and brought this face
to tears for you.
So if in this place
–my heart–
I could see you again,
I now have begun
to know what I would say:
Nothing.
I can only pray that you’re in peace,
and I will remain silent
to keep it that way.

Diaspora Redux

I have lived longer in the

place where I am

Than anywhere I have ever

lived or been.

So how do I determine

where I am from?

Where was I born?

In a place where I spent

merely two days.

Then I lived out my childhood,

living as a child in every way.

I spent half of adolescence

somewhere else.

The latter half of it and adulthood

another place where I became myself.

Were I to travel back to the first three

they would look foreign to me.

So where can I say is

where I am from?

Were I a hood in the city

tattooed “East Side–

Do or Die”

on my eight arm at twelve years old,

Single-parent mother; father the gang, the streets, the road;

Transported, transplanted to a new city, its West Side–

Or rural Slovak, sent to live with his Grandparents

At ten in a new village with new customs and new clothes.

–What then?–

An army brat, with a twinkle in his eye–

Does he have to lie?

A teenage runaway, pregnant by the former love of her life,

leaves the child at a fire-house station;

the child grows as he bounces through foster care,

no one in relation,

no place to call home.

What is home? Do you merely live there?

A place to run away from like that girl who if

forced to stay would tear out her hair?

A structure of brick, wooden frame, but devoid of a soul?

A nomad, feet never on the same land again,

sleeping in animal skins stitched together around a pole?

–Do weeds have one, or do they simply grow?—

Is where I am from where I feel most at home?

Can I say that I’ve never been from anywhere yet?

But “from” is definitely past tense,

Suggesting arriving is part of a specific mission.

If I refuse to give an answer, then will you

look at me with suspicion?

Walking Dream

It’s night and

The walk is closed.

If you are found on it now

you may be shot.

Brown brick structures surround me,

impeding my foresight, but

at least the sky is free.

To my right, the ground gives way

to a flexible wall guarded

by 10 million little soldiers

armed with bayonets.

In the sunset they are a silver waterfall,

but now natural illumination gives way

to artificial moonlight that

reflects itself in innumerable glimmers

on miles of woven ductility.

It’s quiet: a whole city sleeps

dreaming visions far removed in

time and place.

Here

Here we meet again

At a place we’ve never been,

In the doorway of the home

Where I never lived.

I trigger one alarm

As I enter the back door

And I stand waiting for

The security company to call

For confirmation or report.

While the sirens

Were going off in my head

A knocking, though gentle

To go to the mouth of the house.

I walk to the door

And I open it up – –

In you walk wearing

A black dress hidden up top

By a black sweater with buttons on front.

It has red accents

That match the colour of your hair,

Above green eyes I have, that stare.

Though our gaze locked

I can’t believe that you’re there- –

My eyes are telling me you are

But my mind isn’t prepared:

For the first words to come out of your mouth

That you’re so glad that I’m here.

Here…

We are

Standing together

After so many years.

You look like you, older,

Not old, just more mature:

Unexpected but appropriate

For memories exist to make us aware

Of how things could be.

Your billowing lips

thin out, not to ??, but to smile

and we embrace, you holding me

tighter than I can hold you for a while

(until I am sure)

Then I pull you as close as I can

Before I lift you into the air.

I set you back down

And swallow a tear

I have seen and felt you – –

Proof that you are here.
And you speak to me
With words that show that you care
But by the time I accept
It all as real, you disappear
When I open my eyes, but I blink
And your image is there –
Why come to me
After so many years
I ask, but I know these are words
That you’ll never hear

Here…
You are
Here…
I am…
Here…
In this land, in this air
Here…
just for ten seconds
lasting ten minutes,
felt for hundreds of hours
remembered for years

If nowhere else

and never again…here.