ANTICHRIS_

By Christopher Stoddard

Xmas ‘02

My Eastern Bloods
Drive cars with iced hoods.

I sit West with iced eyes,
Adding the times Christmas lied.

My emotions been busy
Hanging Ornaments of Ornery.

I decorate my isolation
With this seasonal sensation.

My Eastern Bloods learn
The failure my life earns.

I sulk West with a glassy gaze,
Wrapping Disappointment on the holidays. 

Xmas ‘08

Another (green) day in the (red) way
And I’m doing the snow play;

I’m the one true hooray
For our kind.

And our festivities
Are infested recipes;

They’re just tasty treats
For the cookie-cutter creeps

And the seedy needy.
Happy holidays—you to me.

By Christopher Stoddard

I don’t need your brushes.
Save your voice for the radio.
Give your dance to the crippled.
Lay your clay in the sidewalk.
Nail your wood with some savior
And use his blood for the ink in my pen.
I am a writer.
I will explain your paint.
I will draw words for your mouth
And line messages ’round your legs.
I am your dead brother,
Her missing lover.
I am a chameleon
Caught in vowels and syllables,
And you say me how you want,
And I’ll be what you want to be.
You can’t hang my memories on walls,
But you can keep them to yourself.
You can’t twirl my messages,
You can’t mold my mind,
And you can’t die for my sins,
But you can remember them.
I’ll make sure you remember them.

By Christopher Stoddard

Sometimes I paint ugly things in this cave, and it makes me question my talent as an artist.  Sometimes I realize striking imagery in this cave using brilliant colors that give lasting impressions similar to those found in the flashback-eyes of former LSD users.  Sometimes I paint nothing.  Sometimes I run out of ink and can’t afford to purchase anymore, so my cave spins in relentless circles like a manic merry-go-round, never stopping to spit me out.  Sometimes I spit in this cave.  At times, I vomit and defecate, ejaculate and urinate on the walls of this cave.  I use my bodily waste to paint pictures of you, and it makes me question my talent as an artist.  I know that my living in this hollowed rock is supposed to lead me to a more profound compassion for humanity.  It’s not about finding creative ways to malign others, but sometimes I cry in this cave then become angry.  I paint with red then. I paint over the rainbows and the lips and the money.  I paint with more red.  If I add blue then it turns to purple. I bruise in this cave.  Eventually, the purple paint fades in this cave, and I feel better in this cave.  I’m no longer angry in this cave.  Sometimes I sleep in this cave and dream of a fantastical cave.  In the dream, the ceiling of this cave is an ivory white, comparable to the inside-center of an elephant’s tusks.  Then I tear the tusks from the elephant and blood showers over the ivory like a burst water pipe.  The blood spews from the elephant until it’s nothing but a gray, wrinkly mass of empty leather—a bodysuit of sorts. I cover the inside of this cave with the elephant leather.  Sometimes it smells like rotting flesh in this cave.  I use Febreze® in this cave. The scent doesn’t neutralize the odor in this cave, it just deodorizes it for a bit, so when the air freshener wears off in this cave, it again smells like rotting flesh in this cave.  Sometimes friends visit this cave.  They greet me at the door then walk around and examine my work, admire the abstract pieces that hang on the walls, drip from the ceilings and fragrant the air.  Sometimes they vomit in this cave, sometimes they run far away, and some wait right outside of this cave until I’m ready to come out and join them.  No one actually lives in this cave.  No one requires this cave.  Except me.  Sometimes lovers visit this cave.  They walk in and fuck me against the walls of this cave and tell me how beautiful it is.  Sometimes I give them a tour of this cave, explain the meanings of my pieces, leaving nothing to misinterpretation.  Sometimes they get frightened in this cave.  Sometimes we fight in this cave, then they leave and I fight with myself in this cave.  When I fight myself, I superglue full-length mirrors against all the walls of this cave and scream at them while I run in circles as if I’m in some spooky funhouse. Sometimes I smash all the mirrors in this cave and individually paste each shattered piece onto the ceiling and in the cracks and crevices of this cave, so there appears to be diamonds in this cave.  Sometimes I’m rich in this cave. I use the money to pretty-up the outside of this cave; the outdoor decorations make the inside of this cave more appealing.  Sometimes I eat in this cave.  Sometimes it’s humid in this cave, and I drink the drippings from the ceiling in this cave. I consume the rocks in this cave, the paint in this cave. Sometimes I paint over everything in this cave using black ink.  With darkness, I cover my work in this cave.  Sometimes I hate this cave.  Sometimes I murder in this cave, but I always come back to life in this cave. I survive in this cave and paint about my experiences.  Sometimes I paint ugly things in this cave, and it makes me question my talent as an artist.  Sometimes I realize striking imagery in this cave using brilliant colors that give lasting impressions similar to those found in the flashback-eyes of former LSD users.  Sometimes I paint nothing.

by Christopher Stoddard

Dear [INSERT NAME],

Thank you for returning my call. Your voice sounded alive, like before this darkness. The baritone in it reminded me of the fun phase and when we fell into something we never acknowledged. I recall your kitchen counter and what we made on it; we realized that everything delicious isn’t edible.

We met during one of my costume changes. What I wear now is similar to how I dressed back then except I’m more wrinkled or wiser or bitterer and hardened or guarded.

During the conversation, you reminisced about the hours we’d wasted on cartoon marathons and uncut-coke hangovers and my mouth. I miss those things, too.

But since you’ve been gone, I’ve replaced each minute with Busy, whatever form I can get my hands on—I read, school, toil, scribble, slobber, snort and pet away the day.

We’re a handsome pair, my newfound love and I. These two years I’ve spent with Solitude have evolved my soul’s needs. Like a bum orchid, you waited too long to bloom. As for me, I’ve been cocooned and only know how to be alone now.

Your voice took me back like a song from my youth. A warm fuzziness ran through me, through me and then returned to the past.

Behold this incomplete me with hollowed black eyes and a creased smile. This is all I’ll ever be. I’m sorry to have contacted you and lifted your hopes. I know you’re struggling with living, looking for a reason in me. But to me, you’re just an old photo album that I dusted off and used and closed again.

Best,
[INSERT NAME]