Read: PJ Metz
피제이 메츠는 현재 부산에 거주하는 30세 나이의 플로리다 올란도 출신 선생님입니다. 그의 계획은 2017년도까지 한국에서 가르치다가 올란도에 고등학교 영어 선생님으로 돌아가는 것입니다. 그는 고등학교 때부터 재미로 글을 썼지만 관객을 마주한 행사에서 그의 작품을 공연한 것은 최근에서의 일입니다.
PJ Metz is a 30 year old teacher from Orlando, FL currently residing in Busan. His plan is to teach until 2017 and return to his job teaching high school English in Orlando. He's written for fun since high school, but only recently began performing pieces at live events.
A Decade Under The Influence
For the night I took
our mutual friend to bed
The day after I had asked you for a date;
For the warning bell I didnt ring
But instead muted with a pillow
Stained with her lipstick and mascara-
For the stories I told friends
About what my hands did to you
And the shape of your lips on me;
For what we shared in a dark room
Only big enough for two people
That I shared with everyone else-
For the time I told you I felt held back
and didn’t know what I wanted
That cold February 20th;
For March 15 when I came back with rules
And an idea that I could be with you
If I were allowed to be with other people, too.
For scheming to earn another chance
And hoping to perform a grand gesture
To make you reconsider leaving;
For Ignoring your heart and thinking only
Of turning your thoughts backwards
So you couldn’t move on-
For every lunch I spent staring at your lips
And laughing nostalgically about “us”
While you wished you hadn’t answered the phone;
For wearing “You Deserve Better” on my sleeve
Like it would change your mind about him
Never realizing it was about me-
For “I was just in the area” miles from home
Awkwardly hoping to see your smile
and only hearing an exhausted sigh
For a kid so out of touch with reality
That he thinks he’s moved on because he made
It from the bar to someone else’s mattress-
For every time I thought my happiness
Was your responsibility
For all the nights I made you think
I needed saving
For every phone call spent begging
And making you the lighthouse on the shore
For “Can I come over,” At four in the morning
once a week
For the years I tried to keep you tied to me
Using string, thread, rope, steel, phone cords, and hooks
For the weight of me around your neck
To bring your shade of blue in line with mine
For the 20 year old who never said it
For the messages I shouldn't have deleted
For the decade it took to write this
In The House My Father Built
Across columns across centuries a cross hangs
opposite you rotting at the bottom
from years soaked in floodwaters
that rose and fell inside the forgotten church.
The smell of ancient incense and recently blossomed mold
Careen off every pillar and pew.
Streaming light finds paths of glory
through broken stained glass and
The holes of animals seeking sanctuary.
A pained face on the cross promises still
To grant empathy manifested
as grace best displayed on a weighted rosary around
Your neck, thin as a thorny rose stem.
A chandelier of empty candle holders has
Beamed o’er hymnals and Congregations
seeking the light of God and finding
the heavy guilt of temptation,
Swinging now with the wind and discarding
Flakes of gold paint to the floor
dusted and scarred with time.
The altar on a high stage has peered down at
sinners hidden behind Ruby, Amethyst, and Pearl;
at unknown saints painted with layers of Earth.
It’s shadow is thrown over
A marble fountain that bragged through the years
of being witness to outright lies of the holiest orders,
And grace’s greatest mysteries.
Enveloped in the inverted light of the altar,
the instrument of salvation -lies- hidden by
the box from which it is offered.
All these instruments play songs fading in and out from time and
The confessional booth - empty now, but once,
with a screen between us, caught in two worlds I sat -
To tell what you already know, Father.
To tell what you’ve already heard, Padre.
To tell myself again and again it’s ok
to play for a bit.
To skip stones on the steps of the Vatican
And laugh with the Lord.
The Cage With No Corners
I saw a Cockatoo with its wings clipped try to fly at my aunt's house.
I wanted to help it, but my Aunt said it's for the bird's well being. So I watched it struggle, and flutter, and sharpen its beak in its round cage.
Yesterday I walked along a road I always walk and noticed for the first time flowers springing out everywhere. My head has been buried since February counting the steps to my subway station and 11 hour a day job. And looking up suddenly presents me with a row of struggling yet successful flora. Pink and white and red and yellow pushing rocks uphill and finally breaching into air.
I saw a Cockatoo with its wings clipped try to fly at my Aunt's house.
I wanted to help it, but my aunt said it was to keep us safe. So I watched it Struggle, and flutter, and sharpen its beak in its round cage.
In a city metro we keep to ourselves, the isolation of looking different and barely speaking the language heightened by the obscenity of eye contact or smiling. Row after row of silent bodies in the chairs where I am squeezed between a woman upset that I am next to her and a balding man displaying his frustration with me through spread legs.
I saw a cockatoo with its wings clipped try to fly at my Aunt's house.
I wanted to help it, but my aunt said that the bird was an asshole and tried to bite her work friend during dinner the other night.
So I watched it sit still, and drink water, and sharpen its beak in its round cage.
Each step is another nail, each moment rising is another let down and I trudge upward with dread and misgivings about the whole damn affair. I came here for life and truth and now six days a week I entertain children with repetition and language games. I am standing at the foot of my last set of stairs. The cold slowly melts off of me and my jacket becomes too warm. I walk upstairs and into the office to Look up and see four corners of the ceiling and a smiling teacher says, “I have coffee for the office. It’s too cold today!” The warmth caresses my hands and my nose giggles at the smells rushing into it and I smile. In the thirty minutes before class, I smile while looking through pictures of my students.
I saw a cockatoo with its wings clipped try to fly in my new house.
I wanted to help it. So I watched it flutter, and drink water, and eat snacks from my hand in my living room.