Imported Poems

Any semblance to real persons is purely coincidental - LMAO.

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Phoenix Fallon Savage, daughter of Dimitri (“Doc”) Savage and Banana (“Nana”) Nut Savage, had always considered herself the paramount luftmensch of her brood. Every one of her relations was blissfully married for the first time, while she was the victim of a shotgun wedding and, unfortunately, a year later, a shotgun divorce. Moreover, the majority of her kindred showed a proclivity toward abbreviations like MD., PHD and so forth, and some had collected so many of these, they could not remember them all. She, on the other hand, merely had a B.A. in Literature, and was certainly among the least educated of her family. Given the great promise of her school years, her academics and her scores - specifically, her verbal score - on standardized tests, she was by all accounts an impressive underachiever, but there was little she could do about it. Her efforts to earn her livelihood in marketing writing had made her subject to several layoffs, while her stint at the hospital had caused her to have a nervous breakdown. Now at 39 years of age, she rented a small room in a humble home, and when she wasn’t working as a stocker at Malwart, she fancied herself a sort of Steppenwolf, a reclusive eccentric whose sole task was to understand humanity through the art of suffering.
It was a night just like any other night - except tepid and clear, with a gentle zephyr playing in Weeping Willow‘s hair, the kind that usually precedes a storm - that Phoenix made her way through the Malwart parking lot to her car and began her drive home. As she traveled her mind sojourned to far-away places, to limpid lakes lapping California cliffs, to mossy caves neatly tucked between sea crags. She thought, too, of the treasure of solitude, of life outside the social system of finance, government and politics, and of the beauty of bare wilderness. What would it be like, she wondered, to live in the taciturn acquiescence of nature? To love God for his creation, and not the synthetic collaboration of man?
For some time now she had felt a growing alienation between herself and mankind, as if she was self-actualizing at the expense of her humanity - or what she perceived it was to be human, based on the thoughts, predilections and behaviors around her. She found herself constantly at odds with the “driven, narcissistic, image-oriented” society which celebrated the artificial at the expense of authentic. Worse yet, she had never managed to connect to the religionists, for whom life was merely a diurnal struggle against the mundane, or the perfidious hypocrites or the Pharisees, whose sanctimonious self-perception made them perspicacious judgers of everyone else. In fact, she often questioned her own existence, wondering for what purpose she had been created when, in fact, she had no place within the context of the universe, but the answer always eluded to her. It was these thoughts that whirled about in her mind as she pulled up into the driveway
Grabbing her book bag and purse, Phoenix had just exited the car when she got the distinct impression she was being watched. Jostled from her thoughts, she looked around, peering deep into the dark abyss between the trees for signs of another presence, but found nothing. “Paranoid”, she muttered to herself, and slamming the door shut, started towards the door. Again she was struck with the strange sensation, and again she turned and peered about her, but found no source for her fancy. She had just begun her trek for the second time when the feeling struck her once more, but this time she knew her inkling would not be disappointed. Turning around slowly, Phoenix met with a figure - a slender male approximately 5’10, with large, wild blue eyes and curly, short dark brown hair. Although he was dressed in black, his white, luminescent skin shone forth like a beacon in the darkness. For a brief second the two stared at each other, and then everything went black.
When she awoke she found herself lying on a double bed in what appeared to be a small hotel room. Beneath her head, a blood stained pillow rubbed against her cheek. Realizing she had been taken captive, she shot up and stumbled towards the door, but not before her assailant entered the room. Dressed in black dress pants and a white dress shirt, he cut an impressive figure, although the mere sight of him made Phoenix’ skin crawl, so that she backed away into the closest corner.
“Ah, you’re awake.” he twittered striding over to gaze at himself in the mirror. Grasping the black tie on the bureau, he began to fasten it about his neck.
Phoenix suddenly felt impelled to vomit.
“Don’t worry, that’s normal.”
Huge tears welled up in her eyes, cascading down her cheeks. “Who are you?” she whispered.
Ceasing his tying efforts, the stranger turned to look at her. “You must be joking.”
Phoenix stared at his face. Yes, he did remind her someone - so much so that the thought had already occurred to her - but it was impossible, quite literally. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are,” she offered apologetically.
The young man turned around and proceeded with his tie. “I’m surprised. I thought someone with your background and knowledge would certainly know - you DO know,” he interrupted himself, turning to stare at her once more. “You certainly DO know who I am. Your mind was an open book to me. You know EXACTLY who I am. In fact, you worship me.”
Phoenix burst into tears again. “But that’s impossible! He’s dead.”
“Do I look dead to you? Oh ignore me. You’re right; I’m quite dead but I’ll be damned if I lay in that vault for another two hundred years. It’s cold and humid and smelly. Not at all appropriate or comfortable for me.”
Phoenix would have laughed if she had not been so frightfully afraid of death. “How…I don’t understand. You can’t be him. You’d have to break the laws of physics and all sorts of things!”
“Girl, why is it so difficult for you to understand that people rise from the dead? Your Jesus did.”
“I know, but he was God and you’re not, but you’re not him either. Oh, I don’t know who you are?! Are you going to kill me?”
The stranger completed his tie, then winking at her in the mirror, turned back around towards Phoenix. “Well I was…I confess, initially I thought of you as a short snack between the airport and my hotel, but after a few sips I realized you were so much more than what you appeared to be,” he said, then paused to think. “In many ways you remind me of Caroline, which could get you killed or save you depending on how I’m feeling at the moment. Physically she wasn’t my type and neither are you - but your mind, like hers, is rich in imagination, and in many ways more valuable than the longest hair or smallest waist.”
“How is it possible…” Phoenix began weakly, “that you are standing before me? I cannot mistake the eloquence…I know who you are …but it is impossible.”
Walking over, the gentleman sat down beside her on the bed and then kissed her. As he pulled away he gazed deeply into her soft hazel eyes. She could deny it no longer. “Byron…”
“It took all that just to convince you. My, what a skeptic you are! Your reason and intuition are constantly at odds with one another. It’s a wonder you can get out of bed in the morning.”
“So how is it possible?“ she spat out. “You were embalmed…and why are you here? What is it want with me?”
Byron snorted. “Embalmed! Do you think I would tolerate the removal of my brain?! No, I was preserved through other means,” he sneered, turning up his nose in aristocratic posturing.
Phoenix stared at him in disbelief. “That is an old wives’ tale…it’s literary folklore.”
“Stoker and Polidori were right. It was during one of my trips to Greece. A young boy I took to bed turned out to be some sort of living vampire. He saved me from death, just as I have saved you to serve me.”
Phoenix felt a lump in her throat, and heard her heartbeat quicken in her ears. “But I’m alive!” Reaching down, she felt for her pulse.
“Of course. I need a living connection between myself and society. You are going to educate me on contemporary culture, and assist me in modernizing my verse.”
It was Phoenix’s turn to snicker. “I might as well be dead then,” she lamented bitterly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. You see, I’m wretchedly outdated. My words are too large; my sentences are too long and my ideas don’t support a political agenda. I’m grossly, grossly unfashionable.”
“But I’m the greater talent,” he countered.
“And that is why you shall be the greater failure,” she answered. “Here, let me recite for you a few of our greatest poets.” Looking at the ceiling, Phoenix struggled to recall the words.:
“A woman’s Body at auction!
She too is not only herself—she is the teeming mother of mothers;
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.”

“That was written by the greatest American poet of the 20th century,” Phoenix said, then paused for a response.
“Bah!” Byron demurred, “but certainly they aren’t all that tragic.”
“Oh, but let me recite to you another famous poem - one that was heralded as a major breakthrough in modern verse:

“so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.”

Sitting quietly, Phoenix waited for Byron’s “Bah”, but to her surprise he shot up and began pacing about the room, running his fingers through his thick, dark brown ,curly hair. Abruptly ceasing his stride, he sat down quietly beside her and then grabbing her shoulders, shook her passionately.
“I’ve not the time nor disposition for these games,” he muttered through clenched teeth, and she sensed he was restraining himself from greater violence.
Phoenix burst into tears. “I’m not playing games!” she declared. “I’m serious!”
“Well certainly the English…”
“…the English are much better,” she agreed. “You’d like Oscar Wilde…he’s your better half: witty, funny and brilliant.”
“Thank-God!” Byron sighed, releasing her.
“And Dylan Thomas…he was Welch. Oh, the English have many more, but Byron, England is no longer the world power; today, it’s America, and society looks to America for it’s standard, and the standards here are very low. Most people read - or prefer to read - on a 3rd or 4th grade level.”
Lowering his head, Byron pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “So what shall I do?” he lamented. “Shall I compromise myself? I can’t; I won’t.”
Phoenix placed her hand on the tormented man’s shoulder. “No. There is one thing you have going for you though, one thing that might mitigate the literary ridiculousness of the day, and that is you’re Byron. If we came up with a plausible heritage for you - you, more than anyone else, know about your possible illegitimate children -we could portray you as Byron’s legacy - the next “Lord Byron”. Americans really like a good story.”
“So do the English,” he added, then looking up, gazed at her with his big, blue eyes. Phoenix smiled to herself. Certainly this was the look that melted so many women, and shed so many dresses. “Very well then. Where in this very large expanse shall we go to establish me as the next Byron?”
“There is only one place in America,” Phoenix answered, “Where both looks and talent marry into fame, and that is Los Angeles.”
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