Immortal Clap

clap if you believe
romance isn't just for the naive
fairytales weren't created to deceive
they were for those who can retrieve
childhood desires and fantasies
the truth beyond the world we falsely perceive

if you think you know it all
you don't know nearly enough

down rabbit holes we will fall

things may never be as they seem
it all means nothing
if you won't let yourself dream
far far away is not a stupid destination
lose everything to imagination
use a golden loom
transform criticism and doom
let magic fill the room
Reality is more enchanting
than you assume

Opposition exists in every size
They will tell you fairytales are tragic lies
Not to let your heart be compromised
They look on with poisoned eyes

Grown cold
Infinitely Old
"Grow up,"
they will scold
Forgetting every secret ever told

Youth is wasted on minds so predisposed
to become disenchanted
who want believers to be recanted

The debate will commence
discard the nonsense

dissect the frog
bury the lamp
burn the flying carpet
lace fairy dust with Anthrax
demolish the castle
pillage the kingdom
rape the maiden
shatter the slipper
drain the well
damn once upon a time straight to hell

in their defense
they want something real
fairytales are delusions
is what they feel
a non-existant dessert to
unsatisfactory meal
oblivious they say
are those who get carried away

is it childish to have faith?
to possess ideals?
to live in a place where true love exists?
is it human to resist?
deny emotions and insist?

Poison my apple if you must
Speak of love versus lust
Tell me I'm mistaken
That it's a philosophy to be forsaken
You can't kill my pixies
not now or ever
I will clap forever

My Pain Is Stronger Than Your Pain

I know what it feels like
to have nothing
I know what it feels like
to lose everything
I know what it feels like
to suffer
I know what it feels like
to be heartbroken
I know what it feels like
to lose a dream
I know what it feels like
to be betrayed

Does it matter
if I was born
rich or poor?

Does it matter
what I scored on my SAT's?

Does it matter
if I paint?

Does it matter
if I write?

Or is pain
just pain?

Why is your pain
more valuable

more real
than mine?

Getting Past the Circus

She giggled to herself quietly. What had made her think such a ridiculous idea? She would have better luck finding a Black and Jewish lesbian Republican. So she settled the notion and stored it on the bookcase in the furthest-back part of her mind, forgetting her secret hope that he would change. Things eventually went back to the routine she was accustomed to: work, friends, nights snuggled up with a book and even the occasional date. Laughing over dinner or coffee with an attractive young man. Time well spent, she supposed, but she would most likely go into another fit of giggles contemplating "forever" or marriage. Marriage seemed as practical as purchasing a Victrola; an outdated contract, a world over before she could ever be a part of it.
Her generation was one of shallow obsession and commercialism. They fell in love with a new must-have gadget (cell phone, camera, mp3 player, computer and so forth) only to toss it aside for a newer, sleeker model several months later. What chance does a girl have in a world like that? What is the morale of a generation that is entirely dependent on having the newest, hottest, most-expensive gizmo? Old is obsolete, depleted of all value. How can they understand the concept of forever? Not exactly a word one comes across often in a manufacturer's guarantee. So, she resigned, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and silently said goodbye to fairytales.

Clenching her fists, she fights the fits of passion. Yet somehow that first heavy teardrop cascades down her cheek and it's too late. Her tear duct warden has been overthrown and they come out together in droves. Her fists have stopped fighting and she lets go. For what feels like a lifetime, she sits defeated. Should she throw in the towel? Forget hope, honesty or love? Is the world a place of only pain and cruelty?

Deep in the recesses of her eyes was an orange flicker. A sudden impulse as if she had just been caught ablaze. "No, " she told herself, "It's not over yet. As miserable as I will ever be, at some point I will once more be happy again."

It's a curious thing that the knowledge of life situations are temporary causes such conflicting reactions. In one scenario, she is torn by heartache that nothing lasts, not even love. In the next scenario, she is relieved that her pain will soon come to an end. It is no surprise that people are full of contradictions but perhaps that is merely because their behavior is a reflection of life itself.

The thought she tried to tuck away began to itch in the back of her mind. He was everything she despised: simple minded, arrogant, intolerant and selfish. His virtues were practically non-existant and his vices endless. He was wrong for her and she knew it.

But what if she was right for him? The one to show him unconditional, selfless love. She was about to laugh at herself again. For far too long, she had tried to break into the vault guarding his heart. Many times, his total disregard and lack of respect made her doubt the vault held anything more than empty space. She wanted someone who would do all the things that she would have done for him: take care of her when she was sick, spoil her with gifts when they could afford it, take her places and spend time with her family and friends. That nonsensical dream that he would wake up and realize that she she was his for the taking if he would change, drove her mad.

Her love was for someone who didn't exist. He would never be the man she deserved or wanted. This realization was a great disappointment. She had been certain that it was love and now, all of a sudden: she wasn't sure. How could something so real become fake in a matter of minutes? She had held a ripe fruit in her hands and bitten into hard wax. She was a child at the circus, eyes focused on the man in the glitter suit in the center ring, unaware of the deception and trickery. Her experiences had been a cheap con. All that wasted time was a shiny, sparkling succession of lies.

Heat built up under her eyelids, her body stiffened with anger, she had been a fool. Was the anger more concentrated on him or on herself? After all, she had been stupid enough to allow the hoax to occur. "Love." The thought made her sick. The itching subsided as did her interest in the matter. She now only felt slightly nauseous. The thought that had been earlier placed upon the bookcase was now tossed into a wastebasket in the depths of her mind. No time to dwell on such things. She had grown sick of illusions. It was then that she promised herself not to pay any mind to the ringleaders, despite how charming they might appear. It was her new quest to stray from distraction and seek truth. A new chance to find something real that wouldn't leave her in the dark looking for the trapdoor, hidden mirror or strings. Something that didn't leave her with the taste of wax.

Jason Kronenwald
has a series of portraits entitled "Gum Blondes"
www.gumblondes.com
All his work is done on plywood
and painted entirely out of gum!

plastic
people
painted
in
bubblegum

simply brilliant.

Fairytale Testimony

" I was locked in my room,"
She claims

Beautiful Peasant
wants special treatment
claims she didn't get
a fair chance
to try on
the glass slipper

there will be a royal hearing
later on today

Footman told us
in an exclusive interview
that he
had already stopped at her address
and was told she had stepped out.
he "did his job
is it his fault the girl
nor her foot was not present at the time?"

"That's my slipper,"

"No.
It's property of the
royal court, young lady,"
the Queen corrected.

In other News...

Custody Hearing is
also in effect

a little man
who refuses to be identified
is expected to be in court later today
because a
maiden promised her first-born son in exchange
for his services

we are told
his business is gold
why he wants a baby
we're not quite sure.

Other legal matters...

The three little pigs
are pressing charges against
the Big Bad Wolf
for
trespassing,
obstruction of private property
and
attempted murder.

" He can't huff and puff his way in court. Justice will be served,"
said of of the three pigs.

Miss Muffet is said to be opening a new line of restaurants, not recommended for the lactose-intolerant or those afraid of spiders.

more news to come... stay posted

Past In My Pocket

Slender figured child, dance to the music that roars over the sirens. Pose for the camera, as a marriage comes undone. Sticky spray saturates strawberry blonde hair in a dark auditorium. Others her age, nearly four, only know this world of lip gloss and pageants. She envies them, they do not live in a home where a pillow is the only way to drown out the screams and threats of the night. She is caught on the threshold between dysfunctional and traditional Americana. Appointments written in crayon: ballet recitals, swimming lessons, modeling auditions, beauty pageants, sleepless nights as heated voices shake the little dark room and mornings of broken glass on the living room floor from a recent conflict. Beer cans and marijuana joints adorn almost every room.

The descent was devastating. I was obliged to adapt to a distorted world prematurely. As Alice, I had found myself surrounded with people who I could not comprehend. Like any nightmare, everything was beyond my control. I gazed into the mirror of facades. From the exterior, I was young, innocent and attractive. Deep within, I was far from all three. I was tainted by madness and hysteria. Withered with age, my young heart acquired infinite internal scars from all the broken promises.

Crashing plates and confusion in the other room. Locked in my improvised sanctuary, others call the latrine, I confided in my sketchbook. Pens scratched lines of fury and anguish expressing distress in methods a child could not find a way to articulate. Tension and tears deluged the sketch pad, which expected to see colorful and simple drawings only a child could create. For what felt like centuries within that tiny room, I would scream into empty pages the pain that no judges, while studying my petite frame in the spotlight of the auditorium, ever noticed in these blue eyes.

These same eyes cannot recall as vividly the now yellowed mental photographs of my youth. I was a memory bank then, a simple journalist. Captured moments stayed within me until a time when they could be analyzed. All the scribbles, took a new, more sophisticated form: language. Personal and passionate poetry plunged forth and danced among the lines on the worn, dog-eared composition notebook. The abstract notion of bottled sentiments, of feelings that cannot be fully expressed, became a concrete element. It was in my hands, a collection of powerful poems that reflected all that I had ever experienced.

Tens of thousands of drawers stacked with journals and drawing pads, fifteen years later, I am in many ways still that complex woman of four. My past is a dark, heavy one that I carry in my pocket. However, my methods of communication have advanced in numerous ways. I can speak and write as a means of expressing my innermost thoughts. A sketch book is a loyal counterpart, that is no longer a necessity but my choice to have as company. The pen no longer pierces the pages for that emotional release but glides gracefully and passionately along as words flow eloquently off of a noble tongue.