The Bouquet
By: Dylan Lenz
The tulips in the corner
with soft pedals, with
light peach flights, and
rotten bulbs.
And the vase,
the one that used to hold
every strand
of your interest
Wilts
In
the
slow.
Decline
of
aging floral arrangements.
Forsythias
By: Dylan Lenz
I came to it because the gold had caught my eye,
I knew it made the air sweet.
I stayed to watch the birds wash in the shallows.
I came for flowers to give to her,
I drank tea and ate honey,
I found fallen feathers,
I rested.
I knew the sun set sometime.
I did not recall when.
I had lost time.
I felt the air grow cold.
I remained.
I longed for her to return.
I slept and then awoke to crickets.
I returned to the house with empty hands.
I left because Lydia called me.
A Chorus for Stella and 5th St. Hotel Rooms in Champaign Illinois
*** A revised poem for CRWR 260.
In Illinois I’ll get drunk
Do champaign in Champaign
With Pollyanna and assorted TV guests from my childhood
They’ll leave and she’ll stay,
Naked,
I hope,
But I know that orphans, champagne, and televisions are liars.
Bookends tie off dog-eared mid-century shit.
John Berryman remains
With Bob’s Tarantula, and while Polly undresses
I notice she’s really Stella because of the small black tattoo on her hip.
Thin,
Fog burns,
Myself now paranoid, I recall how I had made for the river:
Oh the spilt ink
On my hands.
Oh Stella still
On my mind.
Oh my dick
6.4 inches but I don’t know how big it gets when I come.
Of if I could
Just see into them as I come.
Stella is my favorite
I love her. But don’t tell her that. Please!
Champagne escorts always
seem so Instrumental.
Ornamental.
Industrial, somehow.
Hardened flesh, so soft as it bows over Stella’s hips and breasts.
And Bear-Sterns,
That short sale from $66.48 to four dollars eleven
Is still buying me nights with Stella and her conversation.
I pick her up and tell her she’s Polly,
Light,
More fog,
I undress her, finish, and fall asleep.
A Chorus for Stella and 5th St. Hotel Rooms in Champaign Illinois.
By: Dylan Lenz
In Illinois I”ll get drunk
On Champaign in Champaign
With Polyanna and assorted TV guests from my childhood
They’ll leave and she’ll stay,
Naked,
I hope,
But I know that orphans, champaigne, and television are liars.
.
.
Bookends tie off dog earred mid-century shit.
John Barryman remains
With Bob’s Tarantula and while Poly undresses
I notice she’s really Stella because of the small black tattoo on her hip.
Thin,
Fog burns,
Myself now paranoid, I recall how I had made for the river:
.
.
Oh the spilt ink
On my hands.
Oh Stella still
On my mind.
Oh my dick
6.4 inches but I don’t know how big it gets when I come.
Of if I could
See into them as I come.
.
.
Stella is my favorite
I love her. But don’t tell her that. Please!
Champaigne escorts always seem so instramental, ornamental, and industrial somehow.
Two jobs each and a degree most often.
2008,
Put them,
On the street.
.
.
And Bear-Sterns
That short sale from $66.48 to four dollars eleven
Is still buying me nights with Stella and her converstaion
I pick her up and tell her she’s Polly.
Light,
More fog,
I undress her, finish, then fall asleep.
Postage Poem.
The Writer.
I do not fear God.
Not death.
Nothing. Keeps me awake.
If I die what is left of me? Nothing.
If those that loved me forget me? Nothing.
If the memories fade? Nothing.
What is left? Nothing.
So I write at this window. I leave my name. My words. Myself.
If they burn the books? Something.
If they burn the living? Something.
Through this window. Something.
I will not be. Forgotten.
Editing Your Work:
So you have just finished your fiction workshop, or submitted an article, or just let someone read your stuff. Perhaps they liked it, perhaps they told you all the things they liked about it. Perhaps they misunderstood the beginning, the middle, the end. They make suggestions. Some understandable, some redundant. One suggestions suggests you rewrite the entire thing from another perspective and start using “I” statements. You cringe because you don’t really want to spend six more hours rewriting. This is your child, a direct creation of you, a manifestation of self. My advice is don’t fret, relax! Literally & Figuratively. Give it a few days then look at the suggestions again. If you still don’t like what they have to say - screw ‘em. It’s your story, though you may want to fix the grammer errors you missed, either way.
Dylan Lenz
Birds On the Lawn
Birds On the Lawn
By: Dylan Lenz
Virginia Lyon lived at the end of Baker Drive in the house her father built. It was a handsome house, white with black shutters and black roof, and a bright red front door to greet the guests that never came. The lawn was well groomed, ordered in long even cuts while cedars lined the white picket fence that separated her yard from the neighbors. A lone oak tree adorned the right corner of the yard; her son had planted it in his youth years ago.
Virginia Lyon lived alone. Her husband John had passed away years before, and her children lived up in Ohio now. They never called anymore. So Virginia was left to dwell with her vices, taking a special interest in the garden that happen to consume half of the backyard.
The garden was kept like the rest of the household, well-ordered and organized with great care. It was home to vegetables, berry briers, and to some of the finest Roses and Tulips in town – come summer time. The garden could only be entered through a large white arbor in the middle, which at dawn, with the dew just right, made it shine like the gates of Heaven. Or so Virginia Lyon thought.
Each spring Virginia would plant her garden, and each morning Virginia would sit in the arbor with a cup of coffee and a pellet rifle and pick off the birds that would intrude on the fruits of her toil. Years prior she employed a scarecrow to save her garden from the birds, but only found it gave them a roost to watch from while their fellows would rob her briars. Later she tired firecrackers, but that just sent the neighbors dog into a fit and caused an unfortunate conversation with Todd – the homosexual across the street – and eventually one with Sheriff Bill Henderson. Virginia then tried a slingshot, but the sling was too hard for her eighty-seven year old frame to pull with any accuracy, so she bought a pellet rifle. It was lightweight, deadly accurate, and seemed to do the trick, as long as she left the bodies in the yard to ward off the other birds. Yet each spring they returned. Virginia figured they told one another about her garden. Birds after all were terrible gossips in her opinion. Why else would they need to make such a constant noise? She often thought.
This spring was worse; for with it came a new addition: a woodpecker. Each morning just past dawn when the sun would just touch the steel lip of the chimney, the fellow would peck and drill, waking Virginia long before she intend to rise. The woodpecker made its nest in the old oak out front at first. So Virginia hired a man to cut the tree down. However the bird came back each day. So instead she planned and kept a pen and page on the nightstand to write when he would arrive and when he would depart each day. After a week she was ready.
Virginia woke before dawn Monday morning, long before the neighborhood would rise and made herself coffee and filled a thermos. She dressed in light cotton slacks and an old plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled tight. Then went outside and set herself down in the arbor with a direct line of sight to the roof of the house, and loaded the rifle.
Virginia thought of her children as she waited, of her resentment for them leaving after her husband’s death, leaving her alone. She pushed them to the back of her mind and poured a second cup waiting on the sun. As it rose she heard it, softly at first as he pecked the neighbor’s smokestacks flying from one to another. Soon he would arrive on her roof and she would have to be quick. She stood setting her feet apart for a solid stance and brought the rifle to her shoulder. The bird landed on her chimney and began to make the noise that woke her each day. She took aim, let out a slow breath, and squeezed the trigger letting the rifle crack; and with it the bird fell to the lawn. It made one attempt to right itself, shuddering in a quick fit as life left it, then it lay still.
Virginia was triumphant. She put a cigarette to her lip, lit it, took a long draw and let the smoke escape slowly. She loaded a second pellet into the gun and walked towards the bird with a slight swagger and her cigarette hanging loosely to the left of her mouth. She put the barrel of the gun to the bird’s head and pulled the trigger once again then picked it up by the left leg, walked across the street, and tossed it over the hedge for the neighbor’s dog.
Virginia felt at ease the rest of the day. She worked in her garden without the unwelcome guests that usually frequented the berry bushes, and by noon had worked up quite an appetite. She went in, made herself lunch, and called a neighbor to join her for coffee. They declined, but she made the most of it and finished a book she had been reading, watched the evening news, made herself dinner, and went to bed excited about the prospect of a full night sleep.
The next morning Virginia woke up to the sound of her doorbell. It was early still, near seven-thirty, but she was satisfied to be caught up on her rest and headed downstairs to see who was at the door. It was Todd.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” He asked as she opened the front door. They had never gotten along. Most likely because Virginia got drunk one Fourth of July and called him a queer in front of the neighborhood. After that she couldn’t get away with even using weed killer on her lawn without a call to the Sheriff.
“And what would that be Todd?” Asked Virginia with a sly smile as she added a cigarette to her lip and lit it in front of him.
Todd opened the plastic bag he was carrying and showed her the mangled remains of the woodpecker.
“It’s a Red-Cockaded. You can’t kill them Virginia they’re endangered.”
“Who says I killed it?”
“Don’t give me that, I know you killed it. Every morning I see you shooting at birds until noon.”
“Prove it Todd.” Said Virginia.
“I’ll have to tell the Sheriff about this Virginia.”
“Goodbye Todd,” Said Virginia blowing her cigarette smoke in his face as she closed the door.
“I’m reporting you this time.” Said Todd through the door. “And quit smoking, it’ll kill you.”
“I’m eighty-seven Todd, I’m on borrowed time as it is.”
Virginia didn’t give another thought to Todd that day. She went about as she typically did. Outside she went and sat in the arbor. She waited. No birds came. She went back in the house and paced waiting for the phone to ring, for the mailman to come, for the newsboy to drop off the paper so she could scan the obituaries. It was only times like these she noticed her children who never called. She was stubborn, and refused to call first. She pushed them from her mind, and went about doing the menial jobs requisite to maintain her household. Around four o’clock the Sheriff’s car arrived at Todd’s house and the pair of them walked across the street. When they knocked Virginia went to the front door but did not open it. Instead she sat underneath, smoking while they waited.
“I know she’s home.” Said Todd.
“And you’re sure she did it?” Asked Sheriff Henderson.
“I asked her this morning.” Said Todd.
“She said she shot it?”
“Well, not exactly, but she is shooting birds everyday out back.”
“Unless you saw it there’s nothing I can do.”
“But she did it.” Pleaded Todd. “We both know she did.”
“The woman is almost ninety years old Todd, just let her be.”
“You’re not going to do anything?”
“You know we’re not going to do anything.” Said Henderson matter-of-factly.
Virginia smiled from her spot on the floor, happy with herself for avoiding Todd. Once she knew they were gone she stood and picked a new book from the bookshelf. She took the book and her supper with her to the arbor and sat in the fleeting light. She looked out at her garden and smiled at her pride. At seven-thirty Virginia Lyon went to bed, she fell asleep with the book in her lap, glasses on, fully dressed.
"Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It’s like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying—only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers."
- F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, The Last Tycoon
Letters
Concerning the Death of Benjamin Mills
By: Dylan Lenz
March 4/1989
Dear Sara,
It has been some time since we last spoke and I have been wondering how you have been. How are you? What have you been doing these last few months?
I have been trying to keep busy. Work has been hard and I have had to let a few people go. Outside of that I have been trying to write and am working on a longer work, although confidence wanes every week and I find it harder and harder to keep going. I fear that the book is going nowhere, that I don’t really have an ending for it.
Do you recall that house we visited in Michigan last year? I was thinking back to that weekend and you. I remember your hair; you had it cut with bangs. I loved that haircut on you; I don’t think I ever told you that though.
I went out with my friends last weekend and we met a group of photographers who mentioned Nole and his work with the city. From what I hear you and your team are doing quite well and should finish by next month. I am very excited to see what the finished project is. If you would send me a few photos you have taken I would enjoy that very much.
As you know the school year is coming to an end and I hope to be able to see you again. I know that for me to come all the way to New York to see you would be foolish with my finals so close, but it would be nice nonetheless. Los Angeles is quite warm this time of year and I’m not used to it.
Anyways, all is well with me on my side of the country. I hope to see you this summer when I come out to work for the summer.
Yours,
Benjamin Mills
…
March 12/1989
Dear Benjamin,
I can’t believe that people are talking about the book we’re putting together. I know that Nole is quite well known, but I didn’t think this project was quite as well known as it is. Nole is such an amazing photographer and I really am excited to work with him further. I have included a few photos that I took and that will be included in the book series. I’m very excited about it. Enjoy them.
I’m sorry to hear about work, but you had mentioned before that running the law review was going to be a difficult position. I know things will work out with the staff.
Thank you for telling me about my hair. It’s strange not seeing you for so long, my hair has grown out and I’m thinking about cutting it short again before summer. New York can be quite humid, or so I hear. I think we should make our way to Michigan again this summer and see your parents. We missed the holidays this year and I think your mother would like to see us again soon.
I can’t wait for you to be here with me. This is an astounding city and I’ve already become acquainted with the best deli’s and restaurants in my neighborhood.
I love you.
Sara Anderson
PS – Send me a clipping of that article for the Dept. of Public Works you were writing last month.
…
March 20/1989
Dear Sara,
Your photos are amazing and are on my fridge until I can buy frames for them. You are amazing. I’ve included that article. The Herald ended up buying it from me and ran it on the front page of the ‘Community News’ section.
Your letter reminded me to get myself a haircut and I’m looking through a magazine now so I have something to show the barber. What do you think of a Mohawk? Think I could pull it off?
I think your right about my mother. I called her the other day and she asked about you and said that your parents want to have us all come visit in the fall. Let me know what work is like for you and I’ll try to figure the trip out if we decide to go.
Also, Happy Birthday! I know that this will probably get to you a week early so I figure that early is better than late.
Love you,
Ben
PS – I’ll try and call your office on your birthday at 6pm and we’ll talk then.
…
April 9/1989
Ben,
I’m sorry but I’ve been very busy these last few weeks. Nole has us in Harlem working on the book. I know you tried to call the office on my birthday, but they threw me a little party and no one was really answering the phones.
I’m going to call you tonight but just wanted to send this off to you.
Sara
…
April 10/1989
Dear Sara,
I would like you to know that I’m okay now with what happened with you and Nole. I’m glad you found someone who is a little more right for you. I won’t lie and tell you that I’m not devastated by what you told me last night, but I think that you deserve better than me sometimes and maybe this is who you deserve.
I want you to know that I always will love you, that you were my first love and that the few years we had together have been the best of my years so far. I wish you the best, but I ask you to not write me, or call me, or try to contact my in anyway. I love you Sara Anderson, but I don’t think I can forgive you just yet.
Benjamin Mills
PS – I would like the ring back.
…
April 16/1989
I’m sorry Benjamin.
Sara
78 Word Short Story (Esquire Submission)
Curse Your Branches
At birth Adam killed his mother so his father left. Adam lived with his grandfather, but his grandfather’s hands wandered, so Adam decided to leave at eighteen. Adam met Kate at a bus stop in Kansas; she was his father’s age.
Adam moved in with her. He gave her a child. He worked and met Carla. Adam was only twenty-five, and Adam fell in love. Adam left one night without a word or note, just like his father.
100 Word Short Story
A Love Story
They were born on separate sides of the country in similar homes in similar towns. They met on a sidewalk in Chicago at a red light. The fell in love quickly and were married one weekend in Paris. They had four children all of whom were not without their own problems, though they loved them anyways. The lovers worked, saved, and then retired to travel. The argued, but made up often, even in old age. At eighty-nine she died first with him going later that same year. They were buried next to one another, forever in love.
(Source: dylanlenz.com)
From: Adoration
By: Dylan Lenz
“In those fleeting moments before the sun would rise and set the eastern wood on fire and cast long thin shadows over the field of the birch trees that lined the back edge of the farm, I would smile at my mother. She would see me to the door, kiss my forehead, and then turn my shoulders to pack a few odds and ends she had found around the house into my canvas backpack. Today it was two pears from the tree in our wood, a spool of wire I had left on the table, and my pocketknife that I had spent the previous hour trying to find. She would pull the drawstring of the bag and close the clasp then lean against the back door until I had my boots tied. I would standup to kiss her cheek, swing my rifle over my shoulder, and then move to leave without a word. Quietly my mother would open the door a moment and let me out without letting the autumn air in.
We lived northeast of Ketchum, twenty minutes past the sprawl of the city where the farms lined the westbound highway that would take us to Boise in a few hours to see my brother who was studying agriculture, if we chose to drive out that way. We lived in the middle of the state, just under Sawtooth - but if you stood tall on the top of Berger’s Hill, and if the sky were clear enough from the July heat, you could make out the Teton’s to the east and see Yellowstone. At least that’s what my father had told me, though I had never climbed to the top of Berger’s Hill to see the Rocky Mountains.”
(Source: dylanlenz.com)
