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Breakfast at Noon

2011-10-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

This morning at breakfast, next to me, sat two mid-40's women. They chatted casually about life. The restaurant is located within an affluent area of the north side of Chicago. Its aesthetic is humbly demur, cute-chic; idyllic brunch option for this neighborhood. It is set up grocery/cafe style. Small tables, barely fitting two human beings, squeezed next to each other. Strollers everywhere. Children being talked to as adults, withholding equality. The patron demographic is the same. But with this sort money and need for relevant posh vanity comes a certain degree of depth. Two inches is depth too, you know? The woman next to and across from me is the main instigator of their earnest banality:

Halloween is just so overdone now. What happened to the door-to-door days when I didn't have to listen to every bored housewife's monotonous tragedy. I wish I were a Dad! I would get to go out with my child. It'd be much easier. How is Andrew doing now? Will he be okay being out with Mark? or is that still an issue? I hope not.

She continued in this nature for several minutes, with the lesser interested one, directly beside me, sorting through the ideas. There is no tone of exasperation or overdrawn shrill, they are merely talking, very seriously, about how annoying Trick-orTreating has become. I have sympathy for them. Not pity, but sympathy. They care so much because they have nothing of import to direct their attention. They long for passion and love their families and their comfort, so they fixate on the social implications of Halloween being on a weekday this year. The one next to me, she cares, but at a distant. I think she knows that they are discussing something somewhat useless. Her affirmation is just involved enough to propel the other further into the subject. But she is certainly not asking questions. And I'm fairly positive she knows I am listening. I haven't moved in a few minutes and my chicken sausage patty is not that riveting.

A gaggle of children follow behind their Mother Goose. They appear to be Italian geese. All dark featured, olive skinned, inherited from their father.Three boys clad in school uniform, private school, khakis and white polo shirts. The lone little sister is in pink tights and tutu'ed. They all gather, long-faced, around the cupcakes and pastry section, but Mother Goose is here to purchase expensive locally made olive oil and a wine bottle with a trendy label. By her approach to the labels and vague wondering stares she knows nothing of wine. Merlot or Pinot? need not be asked. What is the sweetest? and will this impress them? are the only questions.

But who am I to judge? I am the guy, sitting by himself, way too into his breakfast, staring around by himself. I am overly contemplative and writing. Before I came here, when I was hungry, I sorted through all my previous patronage to find a “cute and good” place to sit and eat and waste time before I went to the gym. I'm no different than the woman next to me, or next to and across from me. I've got too little to do and too little to care about. I actually spend most of my days trying to care about more. I'll finish my breakfast quickly now and move on to something else.

A How To Guide on Ripping Your Heart Out (so no one else will)

2011-01-03T22:38:00.000-08:00

Welcome! Today is going to be a painful and interesting class, so let's dive right in! No pun intended...Well you see its a pun because you'll be plunging your hand into your own sternum in a matter of moments...No? Okaaaaaay!

So everyone stand over a tarp. This is to keep the blood from flowing all over and making a gross congealed mess. Good. Feet shoulder width apart. Deep breath in. Exhale....Good.

Step 1: Feel what is aching inside you.

Feel the itch.

Good. Think about it deeper.

Feel all that is pushing and pulling beneath the surface there

We are going to get at that tonight. Right now.

Feel the pain that emanates out that you can't get rid of

This pain is most often visualized or described as weight.

How much does your pain weigh? Clearly you can't lift it anymore because you're here.

Good. Feel it growing under your skin.

Now take your fingers, hold them together flat.

Some call this a knife hand. I think Karate or something.

Make them nice and strong and stiff.

Place them just to the left of the center of your chest.

Good.

Now scratch the first layer of skin back.

It stings. We know.

More is to come! Get excited people!

But this is hard too.

Dig.

Deeper. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Like a little mouse! Little little!

Nice.

Bring up one flap of that skin

Take it between your fingers and peel back.

Its a thin piece. So be careful not to break it.

And if you don't have a flap yet, take that nail, curve it down and try to slice.

And again, between the tips of your finger, that skin, and PULL!!

Not like a bandaid. Bad idea. Quick is bad here, people! Quick is bad.

Great, this is an open wound. Good Work.

Step 2: Now that you've done that, start burrowing a hole there.

You should feel the blood on your finger like the zest of a tangerine.

It might sting. A lot.

Keep going.

Keep scraping back. Scratch deeper.

There you go. Keep pushing your finger down, like a drill.

Circular, burrowing motions help. The muscle is easy tissue people. Rips like kleenex.

--Oh, we have a few falling behind...Or quitters. They are quitting. That's fine.

HEY DONT MIND THE PEOPLE LEAVING!

Just keep focused. They left because reaching into themselves is too hard.

It's not for everyone. Im proud of you. Keep going.

Step 3: Yes, this is just the third step!

About now you are going to come across something hard.

Like oak. Like an old branch.

This is your rib.

Don't be deceived, it no longer bares leaves.

So break it.

Reach one tiny finger behind it and begin to pull forward.

It will be strong at first, but as you pull harder its rough bark will snap off into small shingles. It will come off like loose pieces of dry wall falling from a hole.

Good.

Now two quick things:

1: Don't stop.

Keep pulling back.

Eventually it will snap

Underneath the frail pieces is the core.

This is stronger. Its fresh. Its the trunk of your bone.

The sap is underneath, so it is sticky and young.

This is the strength you didn't know you had.

This is what got you here. To this point. The strength in your bones.

Break it.

Go ahead.

2: Right now you're in a lot of pain.

Look at yourself--!!

--Or don't if you think you will pass out

But you should be in a lot of pain.

You've got your finger an inch deep in under your skin.

In your chest!!!!

You are leaking blood like a bad, old dam.

Your wrist has a literal stream coming down, staining your shirt.

Its like watching a ruptured juice box.

No! For God's sake don't pull your hand out!

Because if you do, you won't like what comes out.

So it's gonna hurt.

But you are following instructions well.

It hurts because you've punctured your self.

Im proud of you. You're going deeper into yourself than you ever had.

That is hard. Good job.

Step 4: That feeling of not breathing its gonna last a whole lot longer

Its like some one is stepping on your chest.

Smothering your diaphragm until it looks like a wasted, useless balloon.

Its gonna stay this way. Shriveled-like.

So lets keep going.

BY NOW you've definitely got to be about ready to break those suckers! YEAH!

So lets take a deep inhale; dig your fingers an inch deeper,

Wrap them better around those two or three ribs.

Get a good handful here.

Good. Inhale. Now on the exhale YANK as hard as you can.

Out and Upward.

Now upward gives it a better break and keeps it from the lungs.

AAAAAANNNND GO!

…

Okay. Okay. Good.

Now I see you've pulled your hand out and blood is literally pouring on the floor.

Sooo, I want you to quickly stick your hand back in there.

Quickly now.

Good.

And now you're no longer breathing really.

Your throat has closed itself. Because its pissed.

You've just broken your own ribs back. Your body is going to be mad.

We're gonna keep going.

Step 5: It looks like you're bleeding less. Which is good. We need to see this next part.

You're going to lift your sternum now. Yeah, that big bone in the middle.

Lift it like a car hood. Good. Also keep that flap of skin back.

Can you feel the air rushing in around inside you.

Your insides are actually feeling things now! EXCITING!

The air feels cool and crisp. Its swirling around your lungs.

Not in. But around it. Its nice, huh?

Now that, kid, that's breathing!

Step 6: Now reach in.

At this point you should be able to feel a small rhythmic tremor.

Yes.

That is your heart.

That is what your heart beat actually feels like.

Its probably sharper than you thought it would be. More abrupt even.

But it's really strong, isn't it? Yeah. That's it.

See, you're stronger than you thought.

Step 7: Now this next part stings.

You're probably tired of hearing me say that.

But push just a little deeper and find where the pulsing is coming from.

It shouldn't be too far.

Feel it?

Now feel how far the pulse goes.

What I mean is, find the distance the heart expands out after it contracts.

Good. Feel out where that is. Everyone's is different.

But find the width and stay just outside where the wall extends.

You might feel the Aorta bump up against the pads of your fingers.

It's like mini high-fives!

Step 8: Now once you have a feel for that, see if you can find the rhythm.

Find the contractions of your heart. Find its pace.

Now bring your hand, very lightly, very gently closer in around it.

Now pulse your hand with the pulse of your beating heart.

But be very careful, this is the thing that keeps you alive after all.

Feel that? Good.

Now it should feel like you are pumping your own heart.

You're sending blood out, streaming it through your arms and legs and lungs and brain.

Good.

You have your life in your hands now.

Step 9: Now listen closely.

I don't want you to pull it out or change it.

I know that is how the class was described, but listen to me and do as I say.

Don't move it. Don't adjust it. Don't play with it.

You are feeling its natural rhythm.

Just hold it.

Keep your hands clasped around it and feel that little monster move.

Hold it.

Its beautiful.

This is the thing that keeps you alive. What powers you everyday.

Do you feel how beautiful each slight movement is? The machinery of it?

The liveliness to it too though! Its like churning inside.

Do you feel how gorgeous the music it beats out as it drums inside you?

Do you feel the beauty of it? Do you hear it?

This is you. This is yours.

This is the beautiful muscle that is grinding away in the depths of you.

In the darkest places this little gem keeps going. Knowing its own worth beneath all this blood.

You've just now gotten to it.

It's pretty, isn't it?

Thats you.--

Feel it again.

Don't take it out. Don't change it. Don't do anything.

Just hold it.

Feel it move.

Know its rhythm.

Memorize it.

And let it keep going.

Keep It

2011-01-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

Keep the faith, Child

All in all keep the faith

You'll see the struggle in your own bare bones

thirsting in the desert of your chest

dry sandy blood

gritting and teething its way through your veins

Child, keep the faith

When you can feel the hot water wanting to cleanse you---

WAIT.

Its not good water, Son.

Its not.

Its empty and keeps you coming back for more

Son, look closer at the water being offered

I dont care how cracked your lips

How dusty your tongue

or the salt stick of your skin

I dont care,

Look closer at the water child.

It will not save you.

That water, she is dangerous

She is offering to quench you

but not take the desert out of you

She is a fucking wavy mirage image, Son.

watch the heat rise off her bare shoulders

and full lips

Boy, those lips are wet, but not full of grace

Child, keep the faith in the desert inside you

It burns and scorches,

chars the walls of your heart

but Child, only you can turn that into something better

Not the water. Not her.

Careful Child.

Keep the faith

The sand between your toes will stay

and the grind of dirt in your teeth may be forever

But its better than thirst her water will inflict.

Keep the Faith, Boy.

Your desert is long and scarring.

Keep the faith as you walk

I dont care how burnt your feet

how red your face.

How dry the throat.

Keep the Faith.

Ill be there for you.

At a distance.

But dont drink the water, Boy.

Dont drink the water.

Where I Was

2010-12-14T22:34:00.000-08:00

You never took my breath away

but I took my own to give to you.

Do you know what I did for you?

I did what only God can do

I parted my ribs,

grabbed all skinny skin and muscle off this ragged thing

tore at myself

ripped out lungs

pulled at bone till it cracked with a snap of my fingers

I pulled for you

and I gave you what only God really gives.

Do you know what I did for you over and over again?

Because this body can only handle so much snapping it turns out

I didnt know that.

But my body did.

So do you know what I did for you?

Because my left shoulder aches from carrying you

My fingers have no skin from wiping your leaking tears

My feet barely walk for the miles I chased after you

My lips crack from all the dry kisses we had

My stomach couldn't swallow all the frustration so Im doubled over

All of me shakes to the ground

disassembled on my accord

At most, I gave you my best

At least, my best even if it paraded my worst

I gave you a home

I gave you a heart

I gave you a way away from yourself …

So.

Well.

So, keep it all.

Just keep it.

I've got more some of me somewhere.

What He Meant.

2010-12-13T22:47:00.000-08:00

“It's okay. No one knows what the hell they are doing”

This was his way of comforting her. He thought it was a great idea. By equating her position, her existential problem, with the rest of the world she would find company. And in company there is relief or comradeship. Or something that would at least help. Yes, this was a good idea.

“Horse shit! A ton of people know. You do. What bullshit! People know what they are doing”

“Not true”

“Well you fucking damn well seem like you do”

“Okay...Okay”

It was a not a great idea to comfort her this way. Though his philosophical speculation may have been accurate it was poor in counsel.

She was experiencing so much. Doubt dressed her everyday and a cloud, convoluted as it was, left her mismatched and she flapped about. Poor thing. Her situation grew more grave everyday. She buried herself further down, below self speculation. She didn't seem to be coming back.

He tried something else, “It turns out you can't do both, can you?”
“What?” she retorted

“You can't find clarity by adding more stuff. More clouds, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I guess. Kind of. What do you mean?”

What did he mean? He asked himself. In his head. God knows if he said it aloud there might be hell to pay. What did he mean? He sat, thought the thought one more time--

then he walked out. He left her there, in her deepest need for relief. The fidgeting of her hands was like trying to ring the doubt from her clothes. Maybe she could squeeze hard enough, she could twist the cotton, make it bleed out all the feeling she had. Get rid of it, get rid of it, she thought. She was a mess. And what did he do? He left her. He took all his stuff, all his clouds and left...

Her hands stopped and she stared at the air he was just occupying only a few heartbeats earlier.

What? she thought.

In between the echo of his steps down the hall he thought, That's what I meant, right? I meant that more clouds means more confusion and when I see myself, at least in there, in that room, in that time and space, with that person I am a cloud. That is how I see myself to her. Or in relation to her, rather. So I am a cloud. That is what I meant. Right?

It was too late to question; the hallway no longer held the bouncing sound of his footsteps. He had released them to the city street, filled the sidewalk with his shoe clacking now.

Sure. That is what I mean. Sort of....God, she's beautiful.

She was a Dam

2009-09-03T02:00:00.000-07:00

I didnt edit this! yikes.

----------

The way she unraveled was magical. The whole process worth watching. Truly a work of scything furry and fists clenched ready to punch whole troves of air. She, tooth and nail style, fought every bit of herself. –Why are you so strong? Why do you want this so badly? Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. She was strong. She could never see herself in this position. Ever. She knew better. Well, knew she could be better (was better) than slinking to the floor like a loose dress, wrinkles stacked on each other, offering the full give up. Her chest was bear-hugging itself. She couldn’t move her lungs past her ribs. All was heaving with spectacular confusion. The walls of her tiny bedroom pulsated, shuttering her eyeballs and causing her whole face to scrunch. Was this an actual physical pain? No. She had trained herself to fend for herself and push past sadness. For years she had accepted it all. She dealt with all. She was a grownup trouncing around with openness and patience and a stellar heart. No, no. This couldn’t be heartache. No way. Something else. Maybe heartburn! Hahahaha…The thought of her heart scorched and toasted by a spicy salsa or lightly burnt on the edges by a heavy meal was much more appealing. Not to mention the imagery lent itself to a few brief moments of distraction. Her legs now felt the pull of gravity. She fell to her lavender sheeted bed, the temperature matching the cool color tones of her comforter. What the hell? This was laughable, being this week. Okay, it wasn’t being this weak, but really feeling so deeply like this. And especially about something as silly and as small as this. How is it possible? The bed swallowed her now. Or she wanted it to. Take me away. Just for a bit. This is so…ridiculous.--

Trevor Maylor. 6th grade. That little prick. He tried kissing her once before and she avoided it. The toss of her head made a perfect hair slap in the face. But she could not avoid it this time. They were by the vending machines after school. She just wanted a Sprite. She didn't want to kiss him. So she told him. Loudly. With wild gestures and verbal ridicule that only a 12 year old girl with mountain sized self-dignity could produce. And what did he do? He grabbed her and kissed her anyway. His big wet lips, much bigger than hers, right on her face. Right smack dab in the middle of her mouth with force and gusto! It was warm and she felt the smash of faces. His little prick nose smooshing her adorable little one. Yes Yes. –

“no!”

And in an instant her first kiss was stolen by a little boy with more freckles than hair in his armpits. That was not the way she wanted it to be. No this way. Not so…gooey. Why? Why did he do that? Why would he think it was okay to steal what was not his? What a little prick! So little!

She actually ran away. One of the only times in her life she ran away and not into the trouble. But this was different. This was truly personal. This was deep. This was her first damn kiss and it was stripped away. She was so exposed and violated and destroyed. She heaved. She scraped the air around her, desperately trying to gather oxygen for her lungs. Her ribs, like fingers or tree roots, began to wrap themselves around her heart---

Was the blackness getting lighter? Is that possible? Her room was now more visible. Everything had a slight tint of blue. or Gray. Grayish blue and splatters of black. The only warm color was coming from the light post 20 feet outside her window. With the blinds open her face was lit in slats, giving her a mysterious and movie-like quality. She liked that. Maybe she could go sit out at the lamp post. Sit under it. Just to the left of it. And someone could see her from her window or from about 20 feet away and take a picture and say ‘that looks like a movie. Man, that girl must be troubled. She must be going through it’ She could be noticed like in a movie and all this heaviness would make sense. These dramatics would be justified by the scenery around her and the simple mood the misty light set. Her real loneliness exposed under a lamp post at night. How cool. Stop. Stop it.

This is a problem that can be felt and solved. She was certainly not a robot. She felt. Oh, did she feel. She had trained herself to feel. Feel all that passed in front of her. Strangely enough, she always felt, but never lost control. Never wanted to scream. She had nothing to scream about. She made sure she had nothing to scream about. There is nothing to scream about. She wasn’t losing it. No. She was feeling it. She was feeling the loss. She was feeling her loneliness. That is all. He didn’t mean that much. Really? He meant a lot. Don’t say otherwise, please. Okay, he did mean something, but not enough to cause a whole earthquake. She sat up and pressed her back against the wall her bed was positioned against. It cooled her whole body. She leaned harder, letting her skin stick---

What would he look like without hair? He’d still be cute. She told herself that he would still look really really cute. Oh no, maybe he would have a peanut shaped head. Or worse, it’d be pale with a giant divot. Could she still be attracted to a man without hair? He was supposed to have hair! that’s why God gave him so much of it. He obsessed over it. Hair everywhere! He’ll look good… Hopefully. Oh no, She’s going to call him peanut head or insult him or something. She'll be dating a peanut head. It's not bad! The first time he walked out of the bathroom without hair, he stood in the doorway, tremoring between laughter and tears and anger. He still looked good! a little off. But very good. But God, that was a huge peanut head---

She hung her head between her legs and slouched the slumpiest slouch. All her memories were falling right here, between her pajamas and on her bed. Oh my God! Her laugh filled the whole room. It cut through the darkness with a warm bright smoke. It echoed and danced off her open closet door and drummed back to her. That felt good. That laugh came from a good place in her body.

The boy she loved was slipping away. And no one had control. Not even him. A sickness. A disease. A growing wedge between him and the rest of the world. All was lonely. Just the mass in his lungs and his mind and the smallness of his body. Oh boy! What fun, he often thought. What a picture, she often thought. She was trying to comfort the inconsolable. For the next few months she would push, with full strength, towards the unobtainable. There was only loss at the end of this race, but she ran into it anyway--

Stop it. Just stop it. I can’t do this.

Can’t do what?

All this. The story telling. I feel like we are missing the point or something.

But this is what is going on. This room. This moment.

Exactly. One moment, all revolving around me. I don’t want that.

That’s kind of what you need.

No. No more crying in a room. No more beds eating me or London-in-the-fog-lamp-post scenes.

But that’s what’s happening.

But what about the story? How should I remember him?

As he was, of course.

Which way is that?

Broken. Small. Weak. A champion of all giving up.

What about before the inevitable?

Broad, sturdy, surprising, witty.

I can’t do both.

You have to. You absolutely have to.

I’ll never heal will I?

That’s too loaded of a question for me.

How? You’re my conscious. My overseer.

Yeah, but not your fortuneteller. I can only narrate.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Narrate away.

She gripped the sheets with white knuckles

Which actually looked gray because it was dark and all that other descriptive bullshit, right?

Excuse me?

Yeah. Why try to hide the obvious? I’m a broken dam. I’ve been letting you out in slow increments and now you are threatening to burst me open. Tear me beyond rebuilding. You won’t even leave me two bricks. Ill become a giant basin, holding all the troubles I’ve been stopping. So why describe it with so much dribble and staunchness?

Because I am more articulate than you and you can’t tell a proper story.

Bullshit I can’t.

You can’t.

Yes I can.

Now, right now, how do you feel?

Pissed off.

Wrong. You’re not angry.

Shit yes I am. You can’t tell me how I feel. I’m irate! You have no control over that one, narrator lady!

Can I say something?

Yes.

You’re right. You’re pissed. You’re furious. No God, no living person, no food, no friend, no parent, no one can ever tell you how you feel. Nor could ever, ever make you feel better. You are miserable. An absolute and positive disaster. You know how I know? Because I see you. I see past what everyone else sees. And I am not saying you are a mask or a cover up. No, you are genuine. Really genuine. But everything you have stockpiled behind those ribs is threatening to split out and splinter your body. Sweetie, you’re done for. Absolutely done for. Maybe you did it to yourself. I am not quite sure. But I do know that you are missing something. In all your togetherness and all your ambition and all your quest you are dying. And for the first time ever we are seeing this monster, this lack of something, come spewing out. You’re falling, honey. I can’t shake you and wake you up to it. I can only say that you are finally there. And I could tell you how to change it; lend you exactly what you needed to fix it. But this time, I don’t think it is about adding on. It’s not about putting the icing on top of the cake. Or whatever the hell that would be. I think it is about peeling away what’s on top. He’s gone. Well, going. And if you remove whatever business or personal wellness you have on top of your heart you might be able to deal with this. Take what’s inside and blindly give it up….

….

….

….

….

She sat there in silence. Puzzled.

Huh?

What?

I’m not sure if I got a single thing you said.

Hm. You may not get it.

Then help me.

No, no. I don’t think that is a good idea. I’d rather let you go on your own.

My own?

Yes.

Like how?

Like this--------------------------------->

The annoying second conscious left the room. Walked right out the door like it were a real person. It didn’t slam the door or anything. It just kind of softly closed it. That was a more lasting impact. To slam the door would have showed impatience or anger and would have lost the point. But instead, it was a gentle walk out, leaving a lot of room for correctness---damn.

She folded her legs. Indian style. Or criss-cross-apple-sauce or whatever was politically correct now. She didn’t really care either way. It was a way to sit. And from here she thought about him. Thought of all the fairytale moments. All the kisses on the forehead. All the bald head/penis jokes. She melted away into all the warm thoughts she had of his controlled and purposeful hands. Or his incessant need to open every door for her. The road trip to visit her family that consisted of lots of car radio musical ballads. She thought on all these things and her feelings of loneliness ran away. Far far away. Nowhere to be seen. So far that the small, flea like specks that were their figures had disappeared. Almost as if they never existed. All her troubles. All her pains of seeing him skinny and frail. All images she ever had of holding his hand. All plans she had secretly made. Or at least thought in her head. All the times she thought of him when he wasn’t around. All the times she was sad that he was leaving and there was no way in hell to stop it. All the times she watched him shave his head in the mirror or she shaved it for him. All moments spent in the grocery finding the right flowers that wouldn’t make him feel like a sensitive little girl, but he would still really enjoy. All the times they went out to dinner after he was diagnosed and every time they ordered the same drink because for some stupid reason they liked the same beer. Every chance they got to kiss when he was in the hospital. All the times he won her that stuffed animal, the one at the state fair, the one he got from tossing a softball in the titled basket and he said he was made for carnival games and she laughed and was so stupidly proud of her stuffed rhino and the man who had won it for her. All those times. All the attempts to play the right song at the right time because he loved music and the mood it set and she wanted to set it for him. All the finger playing across the table. All the jokes about her giant apple cheeks and how she had an apple orchard for a smile. All the compliments he ever gave her after he was sick, because, quite frankly, he had no reason to lie at that point. He became a truth teller. So all the beautiful and hurtful things that amazing man, that incredible and passionate and loving man every said to her. Every last painful memory that she could conjure in those few moments, all tiny, puny thoughts of his pain and her pain and all the pain that had swirled, linked, chained and bonded them together, all of their shared heartache, all of it slipped down the drain of her mind…all of it. All of it. Every drop of it…...

…..

…..

….

….

Do you want my help again?

Yes. Please, yes.

She cried. Right there. In her bed. She cried.

Just finish it. Finish it the way it should be and not the way I want.

I don’t know what that should be.

Yes, you do.

I don’t. I mean it.

End with me collapsing into the pile of rubble you always saw me as.

Yeah. I should. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?

the beginnings

2009-08-11T01:10:00.001-07:00

These are just bits i started. and might finish.

---

He thought his soul looked more like a snowball than anything. It wasnt gaseous looking. Not a jelloey substance being inside lit white. It wasnt rippling or pulsing. No no. Not his soul. It did not look like how anyone had described it ever before. His soul was crisp. Unsoiled. Perfect and circular. So why was he looking at it? This seemed so unjust to him. Why now? What did he do?
---

She often imagined she could fall asleep in God's palm. To rest her head on the pad just below His pointer finger, curl up with his thumb and let the deep gorge of the hand engluf her creating unending security. Tonight her eyes swallowed the black of the room like a drain. She ripped wrinkles into the sheets with her ringed hands, her pulse sent shockwaves through the matress and heaved her stomach. She was nervous for what was to come.

---

Father, we typically gather to pray for healing or miracles. Tonight is no different.

Thoughts on Doing Laundry

2009-07-24T00:41:00.000-07:00

It had been 6 hours 23 minutes and roughly 14 seconds--15 seconds-16 seconds--since the laundry had been rescued from the dryer. The batch had gone cold. It was colorless. Whites dried at a low temperature and left to cool further. Michael, being neglectful, felt bad for the wrinkled v-necks and collared shirts. The underwear he had no sympathy for. They did not need to be presentable. He had no one to present them to. Not right now. The idea of pressed underwear was amusing. He began to sort, he in the chair, underwear and socks piled on the ironing board. Shirts (collared, long sleeved and all else) draped over the back of the chair waiting to be hung lightly.

Beside him sat a styrofoam container containing scrapes of refried beans, fragments of Mexican rice and two shreds of lettuce. The Taco/Burrito Palace. Michael had been seven nights in a row to the small food joint. Six of them alone. One with the father of a friend. The place reeked of foreign joy constantly. The light was always a warm, open and noticeably yellow. There was never any obnoxious music, not the cliché mariachi that often seemed to make fun of Mexican music rather than be it. No, it was always the rising and falling inflections of sports commentator excitement from the television. And when the right thing was ordered the best sound was ssizzzzzle of the grill.

Going there was Michael’s way of visiting a different country; his way of leaving. He sat among two Mexican policeman and the passing of white drunk people looking for booze food. But the only people that stayed for longer than 15 minutes were Michael and the two men in uniform. They watched soccer games together. Michael never thought much of soccer, but viewing its fast and enduring pace in this place made him excited. He made eye contact with the other two whenever there was a near miss at the goal or when the smack of two running bodies sounded. He could be a soccer player. He was always athletic. It was strange; he was not a work out junkie, just genetically blessed he guessed. Michael could always keep up with others, maybe even be faster, not stronger, but definitely just as quick. He could do it. This was the kind of thought Michael often had. He could forsake the years of schooling and job training and simply go into another field. Age was no issue. It would be a matter of money and finding a specialist to train him. Things like this didn’t seem easy, but he thought he could do them. Really do them. Be good at them. He could learn to juggle the soccer ball. He learned to correct his two left feet and danced the salsa in a Christmas Eve service at church once. Or maybe basketball. It would take time, but if every day were spent in the gym, specifying mechanics and sharpening instincts then there would be a chance to make a career out of it.

Ssi zzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle.

The television flashed shots of screaming fans. These people were nuts. A baby dressed in a demon costume. How does that happen? Pan out to the mother wearing a devil mask and dressed in shadowy dark robes. Oh. Never mind. The players moved with electric grace and spun the white ball with ease. He wondered how the ball curved like that when they kicked it? He could do that. He could bend it like Beckham. It would take some time, but he could do it. Maybe it wasn’t being a soccer player but rather, emulating one. He could do that well. He emulated writers in high school. Wrote poetry like E. E. Cummings. This one time he emulated Gene Kelly in some play he performed in college. He could emulate confidence when he needed it, patience when the situation called for a cool head. He spent half his damn life emulating his older brother. He emulated the perfect boyfriend role for six years of his relational life, pleasing the others and never actually able to be himse-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle. Scoop.

The place was always friendly. It was more of a heaven than a palace. They should rename the place. It was a safe ground for all those wanting to escape. You could come here to get away from bustling streets or bickering mates, gargantuan assholes hitting on you at bars. You could run towards well flavored chicken and authentic flour tortillas. Michael was escaping. This sharpened him, sprung everything good in him, relaxed him. Michael sat for an hour each night among Spanish television shouts and sideways glances. That’s all he did. He didn’t have to think about her--or about his feelings. He especially didn’t think about where he was going in the future or what job he needed or what apartment he was supposed to move into next. And this was his problem. So many-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. “Dos Quesadillas, amigo”

Not for Michael. He was a taco kind of guy if that makes any sense. Tonight’s game was Mexico versus Hungary. Are you serious? Hungary? This is a tad ridiculous. Is there really no small way to escape this, God? He didn't want to watch this game. Tonight’s order would be to go. The selection was met with a crooked eyebrow from the register Mexican twin. The cook Mexican twin mirrored his registered brother when he stuffed the order into a large paper bag with the accompaniment of Michael's two favorite salsas.

"Hasta manana, cabron," the register twin hollered at Michael as he left. He knew he was not really anyone's cabron.

Michael passed seven bars on his three block walk to the palace. The way back was always worse. There was something about colorful lights inside tinted windows and globs of gyrating bodies that promised Michael something he half wanted. He didn’t look down on or despise that life-style. He wanted to partake in the ritual of it all. The shirts and the flirting and the drinks. It just didn’t seem like one hundred percent him. He felt that was a life style that took real commitment. A dedication he was not willing to put forth. Not towards that anyway. Some of it looked really fun. Michael often wanted to be inside the bar, talking to new people and smelling sweet liquors. His mind was constantly on other things. Well, really it was one thing that lead to many things that caused reflection on a lot of other things. All these things. Subjects. He often referred to them as problems. A term that most of his friends told him to ignore. It was their way of keeping him from himself. The walk back consisted of drive-by flirting with girls in his head. Tonight a girl who took an extra long drag on her cigarette was the subject.

-Hi, girl standing outside of club that I would never really go for, but still wouldn’t mind talking to.

-Hey, boy strolling by club that wants me but would never have a chance because we just don’t really match.

-I know someone prettier than you.

-Ouch. Why would you say that?

-it’s not your fault. She’s all I can think about.

-Tell me you won’t think about me later tonight.

-I won’t think about you tonight.

-Have a good night, boy.

-You too, girl. Sorry it couldn’t work out.

-I know you have something better than me.

Tonight he abandoned the laundry and was now going back to it.

Socks. They never evoked any memory. Not really. This is how he treated laundry, like a big sack of memories that he could reach into, pull out something warm, not visited often and could be accessed for entertainment. Each handful brought out a story or a person. He began this game when he folded clothes for his mother. He made chores exciting that way. Sweeping became hockey and mowing the lawn was like painting with light and dark shades of green. Laundry was about memory and story. Socks, however, were tug-of-war fights with his childhood dog and not much more. Maybe winter. Double socks in the winter. But this was something to do. Folding, smoothing, cleaning up his life in small ways. Pairing socks was like figuring out his problems. A search for the match required work and thought. And always the answer. The beauty of chores, the solving of problems. So Michael folded. Grabbing each item, finding a memory and folding it up in his mind. The white collared shirt with a gray windowpane pattern. This was a dancing shirt! A wedding, a hardwood floor and 200 other bodies packed together, celebrating the love of two people. Strangers to most except themselves. This one had to be folded with pizzazz. So flare it would be. Michael grabbed each sleeve at the end, draped it against his body, held it close in the best slow dance position. Faces pressed closely at the cheek, hands cupping each other that feels like spooning for palms and tummies securely fastened to each other; everything resembling intimacy. And he swung that shirt in one complete circle with show and flash. The circumstance was the dance. It was about the closeness and the feel of 70 percent cotton, 30 percent silk blend. The umbrella whoosh of the unbodied cloth. And then the dip, oh the dip. What a dip! The neck line and collar simply falling open, succumbing to the music and mood and irresistible partner. Thank you for this dance, good sir. Whoosh, whoosh, slip, slip. The shirt and memory and wood floor now folded and fluffed ontop of the pile of others. Daydreams and basketball games, car rides, late night dinners and Christmases all crisply compartmentalized into squares and buttons facing up.

Blue sock. Two black socks. A match.

A white shirt with a vintage MTV logo on it. Hand-me-down. Fake big brother. Guitar lessons. Quitting guitar lessons. Love for fake big brother. Love for real brother and fake big brother being together.

Other blue sock. Whoosh. Match.

Oh my. Tie-dye shirt. Whoosh. Flip. Flip. He’ll ask for no memories from that one. Just a weird night of outdoor grilled food, bad movies and a strange attempt to fit in.

Get back here. Last black sock. Final Match.--

--And the sweater. A dark grey cardigan sweater. He wore it all the time. Over t-shirts, v-necks, collared shirts if he wanted to dress it up more. It was a comfort article. Bought with hesitance, but now kept forever on his shoulders. It was his, but he wanted to give it to her. It was one of those ridiculous couple things that he actually did buy into. He felt more like a man if she wore his shirt. He would never want to lay claim to her, he just wanted to be with-

Whoosh. Flip. Pause.

Too many things. Too many. He gave it his all, but he couldn’t shake the thought of her. It was hopeless. He knew he was hopeless. He held it half folded hoping he would only half think of his feelings for her. He hated how he thought of her. The first ceiling-glances of his morning were filled with her. A stroll downtown was with her, she’d pop in while washing a dish and eating a peanut butter and jelly stood no chance. She was in Hungary and he was just left hungry. There she was. The most beautiful monster curling up the back of his neck, stroking his mind and holding his chest. Did she know this? No. Should she? Probably not. This was not her fault. It was all his things. All his moments. Damn, this sweater. Damn this goddamn, fucking sweater. It was caught in his throat. He wanted to curse his damn throat. For seven months his throat had stopped everything from fully entering him. Or coming out. He couldn’t smell the commercial, homey smell of laundry because of his throat. He couldn’t discover things, couldn’t find the answer to his past, couldn’t cry about his own life because of that throat. There was something in the way. A block. A giant roll of socks holding up his throat, refusing to let him go. And now this sweater was weaving itself into his skin. He wouldn’t be able to shake it. The cotton could overtake his flesh and loop itself around his stomach. He wanted her to ask for it. He wanted her to say I love that sweater and the way it looks on you and I bet it would be too big for me but I would love to know that I own something of yours and I would love to look cute in that and see the look on your face when I put it on. I want that. He wanted her to say something like that. He wanted that because of all these other things caught in his throat. He wished he could throw it all up; rip out his tongue and anything that ever lied. Stupid laundry and all its stupidness and its ability to make him feel stupid things. Just come out. Please. He wanted to get rid of every moment he felt not good enough or wrong. He wanted to finally prove it. Find the one, biggest thing going on in his life, solve it and prove to the rest of the world that he was allowed to be there. He was allowed to live and exist and influence and love and drink coffee and teach and talk to others. He wanted to shred his own heart and throw it deep into the darkness. Anything that stirred down there could eat it and he would never have to see those problems. How can you love and hate yourself? He could build himself a new heart because all these things were too much for him. They were too much. He could say farewell to the overburdened, trying too hard heart that clung to a sweater and the wonderful her. He never wanted to get rid of her, just the things that surrounded her and polluted her. The things she didn’t know about. Probably shouldn’t know about. The things in his life that made him completely and utterly him. To be these things and be wanted seemed like too much. For anything.

Whoosh. Flip. Whoosh. Drip.

Damn. There it was. Part of the sleeve was a darker gray. Now two parts—three. Three splattery circles he hadn’t seen in a long time. A shiver rippled through him like walking outside at night without a shirt. It hit him right in the back of his stomach, where his spine was. Damn, that throat.

Whoosh. Flip. Folded.

It was on top of the stack and now it was staring.

So Michael stared back.

All the comfort he wanted lay beside him, fully eaten and watching soccer. And the things near him were folded. It was one night of many, again, left up too late and searching for too much. He felt so vague. He felt like the soft edges of all his cotton shirts. Rounded, barely defined, worn. They could only know their potential when dressed. Maybe he overreacted. He did that from time to time. He was getting better though. He sat staring in all his strangeness and vulnerability. The night passed three, the sweater still on top and he slept without putting away his things.

"Stay. Don't run" said the Man

2009-06-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

this one is a tad long.

----

The boy hadn’t made a decision. He was standing over the bed with shaking hands. The man came into the door frame quietly. He put his right hand up on the frame and spoke lightly.

“You running? Because your bags look packed from here.”

There was no response from the boy.

“It’s alright if you go. No one expects you to stay around here. Not your family and especially not your friends. We all understand actually. We may not know it perfectly, but, kid, we understand. We want you to be safe. We want you to be okay with all that has happened and all the choices you have made”

The boy was quietly kneading wrinkles into the edges of a shirt in the suitcase with his fingers,

“You’re such an optimist. And eternal optimist and lately we’ve all noticed some of the sadness. You are down on yourself more. What happened? Is it something we did?”

The man knew it was not his actions this time. He spoke and came to realizations at the same time.

“Kid, we love and support any decision you make. It seems like its been a rough year or more for you and in a way none of us are really aware of, at least it seems. And God knows we definitely miss you. But you are not the same. We used to force you to grow up. And now you have taken it upon yourself, haven’t you? You grew up so fast and took on such change at lightning speed, huh? You now actually don’t know where the time went. We are so sorry. I know it’s no comfort, but we didn’t know what we were doing and you seem like you got a much smarter head on those shoulders. Something at least clicks a little better with you. Kid, we miss you and we know you could go, but I think I want to tell you to stay. Stay for a little while longer”

The boy’s face turned up in surprise. His eyes widened with sadness and question.

“Maybe you should stay. I know its dark where you are at and I know the insecurities are much brighter here, but it might a good place to just stay. You’re tired. Your eyes tell more than your soul now. They show us dark ovals of sleepless night due to homework, worry and daydreams. There is a flicker deep, deep beneath those grey circles. You’ve done this sort of facing the hard stuff very quietly for a long time. You didn’t victimize yourself, you just pushed it. And we see it’s beginning to crack, kid. We see. And now I am here to tell you that you are stronger than you know. You’re definitely stronger than us. And it is what we put you through that made you this way. Your pain gave you that tenacity, that edge that we loved and feared in you. And kid, we thank you for never giving up on us. We probably should have been screamed at and slapped around and we sure as hell would have deserved it. And kid, we thank you for staying there.

And this is the benefit of staying. It will get you closer to that man you want to become. I think you will get there if you stay. I’ve heard your dream of a man with patience and smart and genuine and a little goofy and loving and found success without compromising his compassion for others. A man of extreme influence and tells stories the right way. That man, I tell you, kid, that man is coming. But you cannot run away to him. He is being shaped here. We see it. I don’t know if you can, but we can. And right now before you is the choice to keep creating this man. Do not wait, kid. Do not choose next week or tomorrow to get better. You have to lay down the foundation for what you will become now.

I know you want to run, but stay please. Let your heart get broken one more time. Find the joy in your darkness without giving into it. Search around here and tire yourself out one last time. At least for a bit. You’ll be back up at the fight soon. But right now, stay, kid. Stay here and feel it all”

Finally the boy cried. He wasn’t sure why entirely, but he didn’t need the explanation. Not this time. He was growing up and going through it. He smiled and with jolted laughter he shook off some of the tears. He was an optimist and kept his heart bright even through all the uncontrollables and unknowns.

The Man wasn’t sure what to do now, so he left as quietly as he entered.

"You mean the slightest bit" she said

2009-06-14T02:27:00.001-07:00

he was looking down and she was looking down on him

"There is always something smaller and always something bigger. It's nature. It's the way things are. And you need to learn this quickly. My boy, you are fighting a battle you will not win. And you must find the comfort in losing. Fast. That heart of yours might have to close back up for awhile. You thought it was safe, but I'm telling you, you didn't matter. I am sorry to be the one to break it to you and it is probably ironic that i am, but i am. You, my boy, are nothing at this point. Maybe sometime later, when you grow up, you will be, but now, right now, in this moment, you are not. You do not mean as much you think or want. Maybe in three months, or a year or five years you can finally pass over that hump, but until then, my boy, you are nothing. You mean the slightest. The littlest bit. But definitely not enough to stop someone in their tracks. Maybe not even enough to make them hesitate. And deep down inside you know that i am saying this out of love for you. And i mean it. You simply want that meaning. Boy, you do not matter that much. They will make fun of small things you say. Things you thought were jokes shared privately or in companionship. They will not care or budge at your feelings. They will talk about you with little feeling. But my boy, that is the way it is. And here is your strength. You keep going. You willingly, because it is your choice and you know it, you willingly present yourself everyday and offer what you have and make your small request and, you, knowingly, will get shut down. You do this. You keep doing this. You already know the hurt of it. You already know the fear of it. They don't. They don't see your side. And they won't. They will not change it seems. Maybe in the future, maybe three months, a year or five years from now they will. But remember, right now, in this moment, they do not see you and you do not matter, but you must, in this moment, now, keep going. I trust you. And I see that great strength in you. You smile genuinely and I am proud of you for that. But keep going. My boy, do you understand?"

he did. he confirmed his understanding by shaking his head yes. He also acknowledged his shaken state by not making eye contact. He thanked her. She paid for breakfast because she said that was her job and felt like she hadn't been taking care of him lately. Then She left.

rock and stroll

2009-06-13T21:51:00.000-07:00

"You said that you believed in me
And would burn for your beliefs
I watched you burn
Burn for me"

-rainer maria

----

i like the way we walk next to each other

of the hundred things, i choose this one.

whether i'm goose bumped from a too-damn-cold may

or may(be) we are barely swiping backs of hands as our arms swing

either way, on any day, when our feet are talking the rest of me bounces a little more

and almost always we saunter to different rhythms and strides

but it causes little strife

so i find myself walking turned to the side with you

like story telling to children by children

we stop to act things out

or for you to practice your balance beam act on flower bed curbs

its where we talk the most

its where i let go the most

its where we discover the most, i think.

and its where i see you the most

backlit by a sun setting and the night air turning your skin darker blue

stepping next to you is simple.

its a skipping waltzing

or fumbling for thoughts like a kid thumbing through his pockets for little toys

every time we touch the littlest

its simple

its something

its walking

----

"I could have set you free
But I watched you burn

I could have set you free"

"I won't" He said.

2009-05-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

I was lucky/unfortunate enough to hear part of this conversation in starbucks when I went to get my usual, always-burnt, grande drip coffee. She clearly was not understanding this poor fellow. I extrapolated for the middle, but I caught the first and last, and some random words in the middle. I can't believe i wrote about these poor people. I'm such a creep.

------

“You have no idea why I exaggerate!” he said with a smolder. He was on a small breaking point. But maybe it was too early to break. It probably was.

“It was, like, two weeks! Calm down.” she punched back specifically.

Too late, it was too early for this, but it was breaking quickly. “You liked me! you never goddamn said it, but you sure as hell acted like you did. For a year you acted like it! So I went off of that. Can you blame me? And now, now, you want to know what I’m thinking now?”

She didn’t. Her eyes were big. (this is where I began to order. So here we go!)

“Well, your goddamn ignorance lies in how goddamn selfish you are. And the worst part is, I know you aren’t! I know you aren’t. I hear how you talk to your dad. Or your friends. You’re there for them. And it is everything that I admire about you that I can’t goddamn stand. Your raging ambition presses you towards independence. And what your intelligence seems to miss is that you can have someone that simply listens and goddamn cares. You either can’t comprehend or just refuse to see that maybe, maybe I can be there for you with no responsibility or obligation. Its not so goddamn hard to tell someone how you are doing. To just open that goddamn heart that I have been waiting so long for. I’m asking you do it simply. Not complicated. Not vomiting. Not committing. But for a few minutes think that maybe I do fit into your plan. I can support it. I can even make it better. Imagine that? Making it better. You can go off and do what ever and you can just goddamn be there with me. I’ve got my own stuff, but I think about you. And...I just...I think this is where we differ. I feel like you have something so inhumanly incapable of committing to me because of your preconceived notions. I won’t stay. I won’t. I’m good. And you’ll miss me. You’ll miss me because I was patient and I actually did care. I held you in a way that had purpose and meaning and I let you know how much I cared through a hug. A simple goddamn hug. I was always careful and held you as something precious. Even though you didn't and still don't think you deserve it. But I did. It was unexplainable, but I did and do care for you. It was only your own goddamn shame that kept you from seeing it. I am all these things that you admired but couldn't find the goddamn courage to get past your stupid feelings and say it! You couldn’t”

There was a pause. (I walked by to leave. At a slow pace. And I got the last line)

“I won’t stay. Because I’ve tried, like you asked me to, and it still didn’t work, which is your fault. I want to stay, but you aren’t letting me.”

(I walked out)

The bell on the door jingled. It shook her from her confounded thoughts. She felt empty. She had underestimated him.

He kept sitting there. And I wasn't sure why. Maybe he lied. Or maybe he needed to say it and threaten her. I'm not sure. I walked out.

"Remember that?" She said

2009-05-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

its jumbled. grammar isn't my strong suit. sometimes i picture my brother and sister like this...kind of. sis, you may be more ridiculous and j you may actually say something different.

------

When she started she had such expectancy and joy!, “Do you remember the time we jumped on the trampoline so much the lemonade in our belly’s jostled and made us sick, and we could only collapse in grumbled laughter, and hold each other as the springs still gave way to out bodies? Remember that?”

He was across the table from her. He was very quiet. He certainly did not make eye contact. He kept his gaze down at the work in front of him. The corner of her mouth turned up with a laid back ease, still enjoying the memory.

“Remember the first time we walked around my neighborhood to look at Christmas lights? You brought me hot chocolate and a pack of candy canes because you knew I liked the taste of real peppermint better than the packaged stuff. You even found those ridiculous little marshmallows. Which you ate a lot more of. Throwing them up in the air, trying to impress me with how many you could catch in your mouth”

Still the top of his head was all she saw. These were beautiful moments in her life, lasting memories. And he penciled away. She cocked her head a little to the left and her smile became tense in the corners.

“I remember when you tried to write me that song on the piano. You were so bad,” She watched for a reaction “You plunked and laughed your way through it. Wildly throwing your hands in the air and then back down, your head cocked back for emphasis, banging out the chords. All of it to make me laugh because the notion that you would write me a real song might have been too much so soon. So you made references to our first dates and my trend of being fashionably late and how terrible I am at talking on the phone. Then you would throw in a line or two about my smile really being your favorite part because it implied so much. Or how much better I made you or something like that. You were such a dork then. Still are” She even tried a little shove here. Nothing.

Her intent was now aggressive, “Remember when you spilled your stupid coffee all over my mom the first time you met her. I don’t know why you were still holding it. But I know you couldn't blame it on nerves. They were always going to love you because I—” here she trailed off, “—so I know you weren’t nervous”

The man of course remained silent.

“Remember the argument you started last night? Remember how you were wrong and over thinking everything? Remember how awkward you felt because I didn't know what to say and I sat there waiting for you to make the realization finally. Remember how you are always the second one to know what’s going on and how I feel about you?”

She finally stopped. Now it was his turn. His head came up and his smile implied he had been holding something in and it was that last comment that truly got him. He sighed and looked at her holding her breath. He knew exactly how he felt about her.

“...Now you know how it feels” His smile was full. And wry. And playful. He had got her. Finally. Her mouth dropped open just a bit. She gasped inwards, bit her lower lip and slapped his arm with a scrunched nose and embarrassed cheeks. Her face was warm and she knew how she felt too.

"Just enough" said the rain.

2009-04-27T21:40:00.000-07:00

He walked at a pace that meant he didn’t have to be anywhere. But it was raining. He walked differently than anybody else around him. A few times the local bus splashed by offering a seat and a break from being wet. Each time he denied the hospitality. He wanted the rain. He walked with his hood off and his jacket open. His hands even swayed outside of his pockets. The rain was an ally. It wasn’t dramatic, just constant. It came down just enough to make him feel awake and weigh down his hair. The rain and the man were determined to wash away winter and begin a spring. Even if it came at the expense of darkness and dampness. Again the man felt God was alive and wanted him to have fun. This walk would not free him of his doubts or worries nor would it grant him wishes or uncover deep truths nor would it make him feel better. It would allow him to feel just for a few blocks. 14 in fact. 14 blocks of being alive and wet and more in tune.

"This is not an underestimation!" he said

2009-04-20T23:24:00.000-07:00

They were out to coffee (actually outside too. most likely in the sun) and he held his cup with both hands. Her cup simply sat on the table. She would drink it when she needed to. He used his to gesture. Especially when he was in the middle of this great statement:

“Every time I see you I forget how pretty you are because these daydreams of mine can never quite match up. And this is not an underestimation! but rather the reality of who you are is far more appealing than any made up fantasy this man (referring to himself cleverly) can imagine. And I know you can’t take compliments. (the next statement he says because he thinks he knows her) Not well anyway . So I pray you don't see this as unspecific flattery that can very rarely be trusted, but as a conviction that maybe I should take up less dreams and enjoy more true images that lay before me. like the way I swear our smiles happen together and—”

She said, “You say too much sometimes” with a smile

“Ouch” he says with a good mix of hurt, sarcasm and an attempt to smile through his rejection.

“I promise I’m flattered” A moment goes by.

“Well sure, but you could at least let me say it,” he throws out like a small kid.

“Believe me I know it. I knew it the first time you spent all your energy listening to me”

That’s not good enough for him. She smiles. He sulks. She smiles more and does not look away from him. Her look dares him to make eye contact. If he did it would be too hard to keep his grumbly way. She does not falter. He laughs at her and then himself.

"Please don't be" she said.

2009-04-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

this is a dream i had a long time ago and i wrote it down recently and so i wrote it down again here.

---

They could see the darkness in the bedroom better than they could see each other. It was the fourth hour they had been talking and one of them was feeling like they needed to say something.

He said with great earnest: “—I can be perfect for you. I can boyfriend-song-and-dance better than all of them. I can be perfect for you”

She stopped for a moment with her mouth just barely open and breathing. Then turned quietly and quite deliberately: “Please don’t be. I never asked that. I never asked that because I know where that, that, feeling comes from. I know why you are telling me this. Please, don’t be scared of me. I can see you are. And don’t be scared of me please. I’m pretty tiny and you’re bigger (she smiled here because she knows she is funny and a little cute). Dream of the good times we’ve already had. Not the worry of something not working out. Not the worry of something that never got a chance to develop. Not the fear. If you’re gonna think of me, then think of the time we heard the birds chirp for the first time. Think of the way I scratched your back lightly with my little fingernails. Think of the time you listened to me tell stories about my father at the pool hall. Don't be afraid of me. I fear you too. But a relationship based in your fear and your compensation is not a relationship I want to be apart of. I would, however, love to be apart of you. Don’t exaggerate me. Don’t. Don’t dream me. Keep me in your reality and the ten feet in front of you and the sharpness of your dropping eyes. Please don’t fear me. I don’t want to be apart of that. Be apart of me. we’ll figure this out. It won’t end how you hoped, dreamed, loved, but we’ll find a way. Just listen to me and tell me. And remember me for who I am, not how you felt about me”

He understood her somehow. He shook his head, “I know. and I promise you I can—”

“No,” she interjected, “I don’t want to hear what you promise”

“Then at least hear that 4 times tonight I’ve been afraid of you,” the suddenness of his own voice caught them both off guard, “Terrified of what you thought of me and what’s worse is I know that you should mean nothing to me because I don’t know you. But you do. You do. Maybe I’m crazy. But what I see in you is someone calm and explosive. Someone I don’t know. Someone with great courage who can sit in a moment and not have to think her whole goddamn way through it. It’s amazing. To me anyway. And I’ve been trying to find the best way to impress you or flirt with you or make you smile. Like I need to make you laugh, ya know? To make you like me. And I know how I should be. I know myself. I know you’d like me. I know I could be kind enough and strong enough and smart enough for you to be proud of. I know I can. I know that you’d like me”

“Don’t prove it. It’s so ridiculous. Just sit with me please and don’t worry” she consoled with an undertone of frustrated urgency.

He saw her eyes and the grey outline of her thick hair. He shook his head shortly from side to side knowing that no matter what he said it would be forced and if he kissed her now it would seem silly...And there it all was! All that he was thinking, stopping him from sitting with her. So he stopped, slumped down to her pillow, reached for her hand and sat for a moment. Kissed her shoulder as a thank you and put his head down. She bent over him and found his mouth, pressed her lips to his without much effort and with eyes closed. And there he felt her lips stretch out like arms into a smile. He let out a breathy laugh and let the full weight of her head rest on his chest where he kissed the top of her head and they forgot how they fell asleep.

love me like I'm (unfinished)

2009-04-08T01:06:00.000-07:00

love me like i'm

gonna hurt you later on

love me like a too short hair cut;

the one you knew shouldn't have happened

the one you were always nervous for

love me like snowmen melting

love me like grapes love the vine,

grab and hold on to me until you're ready

and big

then you'll be plucked and i'll be left without the beautiful part

love me like birthday cards,

read me

check me for money

laugh at my song and punch line

hear my endearing thoughts

then discard me

if i'm lucky i'll end up in your keepsake drawer

love me like I have no ambition,

and you have to wake MY lazy ass up every morning

be the first to dream and chase and insist and tell the story

love me like rhyme schemes,

like really pretty, but too much is like, really annoying

love me like a week old band-aid,

soon your body will learn to scab

and you'll pull me off real quick

we'll both hurt less

love me like burning hemp fields,

getting the air and everyone around really high

but leaving ruin on the ground below

love me like a puzzle missing 6 pieces

love me like you have no tomorrow with me

And i will love YOU like waves to seashells

I'll work you over and smooth you out (but keep all your natural colors)

I'll make you clean and hold you deep inside my chest

wavering and washing in warmth.

crack my ribs and (unfinished)

2009-04-08T00:49:00.000-07:00

crack my ribs and

set this golden hummingbird free-

soaring out dangerously-

spreading its wings of kerosine-

infecting and flaring the night with its tearing light-

shouting at the darkness

"go away

go away!

leave him alone.

leave this boy alone!

he MUST know what it means to be protected"

in dew time the sun will (unfinished)

2009-03-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

in dew time the sun will

lift itself from the sleep many

fight against

it lavishes over the early desert

with pearly blues, lilac purples and orangey oranges

Love came to me (unfinished)

2009-03-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

Love came to me last night

dressed darker than I often see her

She was upset with me

demanding i stop the heart collection

i began 6 years.

i told her i had nothing but caring intentions

honest, selfless motives to only adore those children of Hers

"Darling, you're backwards.

and you often find your destination first"

Love came to me last night

and found pity on me.

Side by Side

2008-03-10T01:53:00.000-07:00

to my beloved brother who has changed me outwardly a hundred times and taught me a million unspkoen lessonss. To you, i say thanks.

second and lastly born
doomed to willingly follow in shadows
honored to stomp in footprints
because i know the trail is heading towards breathtaking
we walked side by side
for 16 years your legs were longer
i was never meant to keep up, but i tried
i ran full sprint next to your strolling stride
soon you veered right
i stumbled left
but we still walked parallel
close enough to talk in fact
this is the path of brothers
most paths cross
some fork
others look like figure 8’s
ours is boring
we are unpredictably certain
you are always there when my eye misses the rock, but my foot meets it
you have two arms to rescue this faller
and yet, more valued than the safety net
your secure hand grasping these gritty, brown palms
careful of the fresh scrapes
and sometimes you go further than expected
you cry for my wounds
gather the tears in your bowl shaped hands and wash these cuts
sometimes it stings

and we can’t drink your tears, because we don’t like the bitterness
so we’ve always packed provisions
your bag stuffed with courage for two
i shared sandwiches and humor
we were always prepared but never boy scouts, just cubbies.
during the rough nights, when the cold, divorced air clung to our lungs
and we couldn’t seem to get the pain out of our hands
we made a fire that melted it all to our backside
and we opened up and warmed the inside
our conversations were sometimes staring up,
dreaming of stars the arizona skyline smothered with purple hands,
but we’d reflect on the sunsets
orange and pink whispering hope for tomorrow
those nights we pitched tents
played cards by firefly light or the glow of a Suns game
brother, we needed that tent.
we deserved that tent
God gave us that tent to protect us from the violence outside

and now 3,000 mile apart we walk shoulder to shoulder, still talking
sometimes less often, but you’re still right there
i feel you when i pray, watch a baseball game or give advice
and we will continue because experience has carved out this path
etched out side by side futures in life-like dirt

so may we walk side by side today, brother

Dear Sun,

2008-02-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

Its definately not finished, but its there.

---

dear Sun, do you need more light?

Lately you seem three shades darker than I remember
Dear Sun.
Sun, I’ll give you my strength
If you’d like to use this recycled blood
call me
send me your address
and I’ll ship you some light
Its time someone helps you
let me know what I can do
Turn off your fire
Close the shades
Trying being cold
Take some alone time
Travel a bit
Spin to the furthest corner of this galaxy
where only lost stars go to find themselves
Sun, don't worry about the rest of us
I'm used to being the center of the universe anyway
I will reach into my stomach and take out
What is most powerful
I'll place it on one finger and spin it
And this little light of mine will divinely rule for you
You set me on fire once.
I display the scars cowardly.
You torched each rib with a lighter and hairspray
Sk-inflamed
My vessels were orange
I glowed
did glow
needed to glow
please, Sun,
let me break dawn in half
and I will set evening perfectly in place each night
Your heart looks different than mine
but they are of equal sizes

Dear sun, come to me
I want your orange vanilla cream-cicle to drip itself backwards
spit up on the clouds
They will be happy to accept the mess
Even display it with a buzzing neon light
glowing it for this private showing

Dear Sun, thank you for being constant

Date Me!

2008-02-05T01:01:00.000-08:00

Loneliness is a beast
Purring broken glass into my ear; Spitting orphans behind my heart
And with this gargoyle perched in my room at 2 a.m.
I write this poem for you

If you are out there and you like what you read here
COME DATE ME!

Find a spot and wait for me
I’ll bring you flowers
A lone lily
To keep me from my lone-lily-ness
This is no silliness
My viens replaced blood with salt water
And it burns, my arms burn, my legs burn
My soul burns for you
Yearn for you
I have concern for you
It is in your best interest to date me!
I will take care of you
It’s what I was made to do
My father’s fists against my face
means silk fingers on your cheeks
Cruel words
means I, verbally dressing you in soft encouragement
the color of your eyes to make you look pretty
My brother never giving up on me
Means me never giving up on you
Darling, my heart shredded for you
Cut into little kid cut outs holding hands
And I’ll be great with kids!
I can father with a broken heart
With one hand to catch our child when disappointment scrapes his knee
The other firmly resting on the small of your back as we watch him grow up
Get out
And wrestle with his own monsters
Baby, sweet heart, darling
I’ll call you whatever you want
Sweetie, sweet cheeks, sweet pea, honey bee, pumpkin pie
My, my cherry blossom!
Anything you want. After all, I did write this poem for you
And you and you and you
And that’s the other thing
I won’t cheat on you. I’m a one woman man
You on the podium of my life
I’ll parade you around
Throw confetti, celebrate who you are
Makes band horns blast ballads to your name
Giant balloons of our kissing heads!
It won’t be in that “you’re on display for your boobs and ass and hair” kind of way
But in that “you’re on display for your laugh, your individuality and your honesty” kind of way
I will never objectify you
But I do like brown hair, c-cups and a good character
BUT that doesn’t matter; I’ll flatter you either way!
Anyway, DATE ME!
I know your question…
And yes, I am well endowed…
With kindness, thoughtfulness, the ability to listen
I have a huge… heart
Giant capacity for compassion
Good Lord, I am well endowed!
I’ll make you feel like your words matter
Your thoughts sentimentally valuable
Opinions precious pearls

So please…date me.
Because for me, this poem is cathartic
A way to get it out
Take the small child and put him in the yellow stage light
Shine some passion on him till he sweats
I’m always self-deprecating
Fabricating my faults to the size of skyscrapers.
Ya know, I wrote a love poem for that special one
just once
And one time it ended
So here is a blanketed one for you and you and you and especially you
Wrap this around your shoulders like an extra set of angel wings that you lost when you were born
And let it warm the thump-thump machine inside you
For I will sit on top of my building
holding hands with a gargoyle
Who is simply teaching me the anatomy of hearts
So when I come back down, I won’t need you to stand firm and affirm me
I will simply and wholly and unconditionally value you.

love(me)ly

2007-12-26T00:26:00.000-08:00

You will be loved dearly, my dearly beloved

You will be loved under
trees

with leaves downside up dripping
rain

d
r(ain)
o
p
s

on
your naked baring toes, thighs and arms
my dear lovely, love me dearly
and
I will be Lo(in)ve with you.

winterland

2007-12-25T23:27:00.000-08:00

Instead of burying loved ones in graves of dirt
Let us place them in pits of snow
6 feet of crunchy, crunchy snow
Can a funeral really get any colder?
We can barrow the tears of goers and put them in trays.

There are two outcomes:
1) the burried drown in what they already are and all they ever were
OR
2)it melts and any life left floats to the surface and pops in bubble form reminders
Dirt is too immovable. It's too permanent and so lasting.
Snow is a memory keeper
a form of legend preservation
So, please keep me whole
and bury me in snow.