Monday, December 26, 2011

whisperings

as she lay asleep in my lap
i whispered secrets in her ear,
things i'd dare not utter
if she were fully awake.

perhaps her subconscious mind
was able to record all i said,
and will reveal to her the truth
through intuition and dreams.

until that time comes,
i remain ever hopeful,
that she'll reciprocate my feelings,
and say them back some day.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

h(u)ma(nity)

a young man sits in his city loft,
worrying about a girl he likes.
a hardworking immigrant says goodnight,
kissing her four already sleeping children.

a rich businessman dines at a fancy restaurant,
complaining to the waiter about his meal.
a foster child cowers under his sheets,
hoping his new mom isn't angry tonight.

a pregnant teen worries about her baby,
questioning if he'll have a father.
a middle eastern housewife receives beatings,
for looking at a man in the market.

a troubled poet tries to find the words,
pondering whether to tell her how he feels.
a small boy clutches his stomach,
wondering if he'll make it through the night.

a very ordinary person looks for answers,
trying to make sense of their life.
a separate person lives miles away,
asking the same exact questions.
the fog rolled in
like an obtrusive guest,
blanketing the harbor
in its thick presence.

lamps flickered
like summer fireflies
as their ship arrived,
just barely late.

its horn bellowed,
drowning out the
rhythmic sound
of water slapping the dock.

where this ship was going,
was not as big a mystery
as what they would do,
once they got there.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

prompt: igloo bright

Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, Mitch would head into the attic, grab a huge trash bag labeled "Christmas" and march into the backyard. His wife, Sandy, would hear him first, banging his way down the stairs, and see him next, the huge bag slung over his shoulder like Santa with a bag of toys. Rolling her eyes, she'd say "Oh for pete's sake, babe. Again? This year?" To which he'd reply "Of course! This year, next year, every year!"

Dumping his cargo on the lawn, which with any luck was lightly dusted with snow by now, he'd carefully unpack a giant, inflatable igloo. Patches of masking tape covered puncture holes -- accidents from when the kids were little. Now they were grown up. No longer asking for power wheels. No longer excited about an old, beat up igloo.

Shaking those thoughts, he proceeded to blow up -- all by himself -- the large igloo, which, despite his family's reluctance, he'd wager would still comfortably fit all of them. When he'd given all his lungs could muster and the sky began to spin due to his lightheadedness, Mitch sat back and admired his work. His wife decorated indoors, baked cookies, did most of the Christmas shopping. This, though, this was his.

He continued to reminisce as he adorned the fluffy abode with bright, fat, colorful Christmas lights. His wife, of course, liked white lights. Mitch preferred blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Even purple, orange, magenta. A shining beacon he bought after their second child was born. Each year they used to get a small tree, pack all their wrapped gifts beneath it, and spend the night inside in sleeping bags. When their oldest reached double digits and heard in school Santa wasn't real, he wanted to stay in his bedroom Christmas Eve. Not wanting him to be in the house alone, Sandy slept indoors, too. The next year their youngest followed suit.

Still, Mitch set it up, every year. Lights intertwined, flowed, and danced, their bright hues bouncing off the white snow and creating a smorgasbord of color. His work almost done, all that was left was to affix the family's guardian angel Christmas tree topper at its summit. While normally it would be meant for a tree, it had looked over his family since the days they'd slept inside the igloo.

Mere days from Christmas, tragedy struck in Mitch's neighborhood.

A family down the street, the Donahues, had lost their home when a faulty space heater started a fire in the middle of the night, which burned their house to the ground. Members of the community pitched in to help them in any way they could -- new clothing, food, gift cards to replace all their damaged housewares and furnishings. Mitch knew Daryl was a contractor and work was slow. The family couldn't afford to stay in a hotel for weeks, and the closest family was more than ten states away. Daryl couldn't do that to the kids mere days from Christmas. Mitch also knew he was too proud to stay for free at a hotel or accept patronage. Even at a time like this. There'd even been rumors they were sleeping in Daryl's work van.

Mitch hatched a plan. He invited the Donahues over for dinner on Christmas Eve, under the pretense that they'd host next year to appease Daryl. During dinner, Mitch jokingly mentioned the fun the kids used to have when they were little, sleeping out in the igloo on Christmas Eve night. Daryl's kids, while only a few years younger than Mitch's, still very much believed in Santa, and thus squealed, begged, and pleaded with their dad. "Please, dad! Please! Can we?" they asked him, their eyes full of excitement. "How 'bout it, Daryl? For the kids?" Mitch asked.

And so it was with a huge grin and a skip in his step that Mitch led the children, bundled in some old winter coats and sweaters Sandy had found that their own children had stopped wearing long ago, out to the fluorescent, shimmering igloo. The kids' mouths made perfect "o" shapes and their eyes widened, their pupils reflecting the light of the vibrant, colored bulbs. Scampering inside, they huddled into their sleeping bags, and, after being assured Santa could get into the igloo, they fell asleep.

Mitch awoke the next morning to the sounds of excited laughter. Donned in his pajamas and armed with only a cup of coffee and a quizzical look, he made his way to the backyard. The door to the igloo was open, but he could see inside. There, underneath the tree inside the igloo, were piles of presents. And from the look of his barren fireplace hearth, they were his own children's presents. That's when he heard: "Here, Santa left this one for you, too!" as he saw his oldest son hand over his own Christmas gift. A few tears began to freeze on his cheeks as Mitch stood back and admired his magical, brightly lit, inflatable igloo. His gaze lead him upward, to the solitary guardian angel, sitting atop the makeshift dwelling, as if to bless all of those within.

Monday, December 05, 2011

evidence surely exists
of the love i felt for you,
though it is not the angry texts
or torn bedroom curtains.

it is likewise not my car,
with "whore" scratched in the paint,
or the hole still in my wall,
that at the time was inches from my head.

nor is it the scars on my arms,
the tattoo on my shoulder,
or what you temporarily put in my belly
late one saturday night.

the real evidence is on my cheeks,
and countless used tissues,
an unwanted physical reaction,
just when I thought the pain had stopped.
when we were together,
i was always chasing her,
struggling to keep up,
and not be left behind.

so vivacious, and alive,
she did not slow at all,
forging onward like a hurricane,
while i was the rain in her wake.

after running for so long,
i worried she'd never stop,
to let me catch back up,
panting, out of breath.

and so, while risky,
i continued after her,
praying her outline on the horizon,
would get just a little bigger.

solitude by the window

i stare out onto the street
as cars drive by, their lights
ever so briefly illuminating me,
solitary, like a ghost.

i lean my forehead on the glass,
feel the night air invading
through a tiny crack,
and close my eyes.

i pull my feet up
and hug my knees,
wrapping a blanket around me
like armor, for security.

i refrain from inner thought,
of the pain residing there,
and instead gaze out the window,
easy to see through, unlike my heart.

Sunday, December 04, 2011

cafe acting

she walks in the shop,
puts down coins with a clink,
turns to tell the owner,
"something strong to drink."

scanning tables she sees,
a man busy with work, distraught,
and another in the corner,
alone, with his thoughts.

she approaches this lonesome man,
trying to gauge the signs,
she asks if he is free,
to help her with her lines.

she says in just under an hour,
is an important casting call,
so if he didn't mind,
to just read the lines for Paul.

but he betrays no expression,
his lips don't ever part,
"here, just take the script," she says,
"I'm the lead, I'll start."

"Paul, I'm so sorry,
this isn't what I'd planned,"
to which the man replies,
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"It isn't you, I swear,
I've just become distant,
and that detached feeling,
is all that's consistent."

"Ok," says the girl,
"now I go to the Loo,
come back minutes later, and say,
"I'm sorry you never knew."

"I don't understand," the man says,
pain lingering in his eyes,
to which the girl responds,
as her character slowly cries.

the man looks on, perplexed,
as she wipes tears with her sleeves,
"I'm sorry Paul, I have to go,
a kiss before I leave?"

"no," the man utters,
as he blankly stares,
"and a wrap," said the girl,
easing out of her chair.

"well, I think I've got it, she says,
but I must jet, I'm late!
you were such a huge help, thanks,
like a natural, you were great!"

then a woman exits the bathroom,
and walks up to the lonesome man,
"I'm sorry you never knew," she says,
and still, he didn't understand.

"Listen, I've got to run,
a kiss before I go?"
but the man sat still, silent,
numb from head to toe.

Friday, November 18, 2011

for young children in the middle east
gunfire is just like popcorn being made,
not something to cause great alarm -
just another sound in the night's cacophony.

for the school children in the cities,
tanks, not buses, now roam the streets,
a presence of great military life
looming over their lives each day.

exploding buses and marketplaces on fire,
constant chatter about intruding foreigners
from uncles and older cousins,
inevitable martyrs for a cause kids can't understand.

is it any wonder how, when raised in such a place,
with warfare corrupting a childhood
otherwise spent in school and with family,
hate and misunderstanding define their existence?

by our supposed action of freeing this generation,
are we in fact dooming them instead?
raising them in a culture of prejudice and violence,
and expecting them to be something different?
with mostly excitement
and a dash of trepidation,
i visit the nearby flower shop,
hoping to find something i'll like.

greeted by aisles of blossoms
and hanging florets,
i realize making a choice
will not be so easy.

browsing, i find some i like,
some i don't, and some i might.
i take particular note of a few,
to which, for whose reason anyone can say, i am drawn.

then, with the ignorance only
an amatuer flower shopper can muster,
i lean in close,
and smell.

Monday, October 31, 2011

a thought

when she's sick, he likes to take care of her,
but she really just wants to be left alone.
he'll get home from work and go lie down with her,
asking her how she's feeling, rubbing her back.
she secretly wants him to leave her alone,
at least for just right now, since she isn't feeling well
and would rather get through this by herself.
but, she lets him lie down with her, and spoon,
and rub her back, because she knows
it will make him think he is being caring
and giving her the attention he thinks she wants.
he loves her enough to want to let her know he's there for her,
and she loves him enough to let him, even if he'll never know.

waiting to be called

something like thirty or forty guys
were crammed into that room,
all in nothing but speedos and robes,
waiting to be called.

"number thirty-eight!" a man yells,
and another dude walks behind the curtain,
leaving the rest of us to pick at the food,
left out on cheap tables like a kid's party.

some men are tweezing or shaving stray hairs,
styling their hair in the mirror and whatnot.
others just cross their arms and keep to themselves,
trying to keep it up using the stacks of pornos left out.

others apply a self tanner that inevitably
ends up creating an orange powdery substance
that, mixed with dorito cheese, coats the floor
we're all walking on, barefoot, waiting to be called.

"number eight and eleven!" the voice yells.
the guy next to me plops his copy of Jugs down,
looks at me, smiles, and says "guess i'm up"
before disappearing behind the curtain.

homecoming

his clothes were folded out before him,
impeccable, recently washed, no creases.
a stark contrast to the dirty heap
he used to keep under his bunk overseas.

he began to dress with the type of precision
one can only get from years of service,
of being expected to drop everything
and do what one was told.

his shoes were black, shining, spotless,
not crusted with the blood of a local
whose head he'd been commanded to boot
because he'd tried selling gay porn to the C.O.

the gloves he wore now were white, immaculate,
covering the scars and calluses that mark
countless interrogations of foreigners,
of young boys and their mothers, innocents.

fully dressed, a man of honor, he draws his gun,
each part cleaned mere hours ago, also perfect.
he pulls it up to his temple, a sort of mock salute.
finally finding himself on the receiving end, he pulls the trigger.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

at last

as if refusing to put in the effort,
the rain fell lazily, slapping the house
like a defenseless person
trying to fight off a bully.

my sister called and said you passed,
while i contemplated a world
in which you didn't exist,
and how you were gone, at last.

that morning i'll always remember
as the day i finally realized,
that you loved me enough to die
and let me move on with my life.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

whatever it takes

you live a certain way,
subscribing to a way of life,
volatile and fleeting,
never fully appreciated.

but to care for another life,
to put such weight upon you,
changes you fundamentally
and alters your path forever.

to give up all illusions,
when nothing else matters,
your very purpose of life,
to do whatever it takes.
when it happens, you first notice
changes in how you see the world,
the subtle effect of colors
or the beauty of the sound of laughter.

with time, you begin to see
the intricate strings connecting us
and become a master at plucking
them to produce harmonious emotion.

eventually, if you are lucky,
your entire perception of life
will morph into indistinguishability
from what you knew before love.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

will you?

there's two versions of you.

there's the person that you are, and the person that you want to be.

you might think that to go from one to the other is a fairly easy process. that you can make a list of all the things the person you want to be does or is, and simply accomplish those things.

yet who we are is quite often the result of years of patterned behavior and ways of living. disrupting such activity is quite the challenge.

in fact, trying to change in to the person you want to be is usually a very painful, strenuous process.

your mind will trick you into continuing old habits.
your heart will keep you tethered to ideas or people that are harmful.
your body will scream in pain if you break it down to make it stronger.

so from where, then, can the driver of change originate? the will? perhaps, if such a thing indeed exists. yet what it is, anyone can say. willpower is, quite notably, undefinable and varying from person to person.

for what do you do when your brain tells you stop, your heart tells you to keep going, and your body tells you no more? what force within you enables you to do so? logically reaching a decision is the easy part. acting on it requires mustering vast quantities of some vague, unknown force that pushes us -- compels us -- to keep going.

it is this capacity, perhaps, that gives us all the capability to reach our fullest potential as individuals. to stare our faults and shortcomings in the face and resolutely accept the challenge of overcoming them -- of refusing to be a slave to our own selves.
i lie on my side, unable to move, while nat king cole's "unforgettable" plays over the PA system of the asylum.

the worst thing about straight jackets is the itching. well, one of the worst.

i'll hear this song at least five or six more times as it loops on the burned cd the receptionist puts on every night to calm us down.

when you can't move, the only thing you can really do is think. well, the sane ones that is. the ones like me. we can still think.

i don't really think much about how i got here. i think about the time i have left, and how i'm likely to spend it. i try and figure how many more times i'll listen to the song if i had to stay here until i die.

there's a bit of a running joke in here -- that if you aren't crazy when you come in, you sure as hell will be when you get out.

the joke being that you'll eventually get out.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

why i hate sundays

i've always hated sundays, but i couldn't tell you why. maybe it comes from my days of being in school, where sunday marked the last day before another week of class. or perhaps from working, where it marks the end of freedom -- another weekly grind looming.

but no -- even during the summer, or when i have monday off, i still hate sundays. it is usually a day i sit around and do a lot of nothing. and doing nothing gives me time to think. and thinking makes me realize what i don't like about myself, about my life. it gives me time to ponder where i'm headed and then realize i have no idea. it lets me mull over all the things i'd like to do and how i -- at least on sundays -- lack the motivation to do them.

i especially dislike mid to late afternoons on sundays. you know, the three to five o clock period. when the day hasn't decided if it wants to check out yet and night is just around the corner waiting until it does. sunday night carries with it heavy inevitability. monday will mark the beginning of normalcy. a return to work and/or school and the realizations of all the topics i had time to think about the day before.

i hate sundays because they shine a mirror inside of me -- forcing me to look at who i really am. whereas other days of the weeks i can preoccupy myself with life, or friends, or hobbies, on sundays a switch is turned in my mind and i am constantly finding myself in a never-ending sea of self reflection. a constant reminder that i haven't reached my full potential as a person, and i've got a long way to go, which really isn't that different for most folks, i'd guess.

i'm just constantly reminded of it.

and that's why i hate sundays.
i close my eyes,
take a deep breath,
and say "i am me, i am me,
and that's all that i can be."

me -- such a tiny, fragile thing,
barely a whisper in the cosmos,
yet with everything to gain
and only my life to lose.

i keep my eyes shut
and ponder how small
my worries truly are,
how small i truly am.

yes, let it wash over me,
satisfaction from knowing,
that i am me, i am me,
and that's all i'll ever be.

a collection of first stanzas to poems never written

i see it all around me
like some forbidden fruit
whose juice runs down
the cheeks of others
but must never touch my lips.

---

i write so i can forget
how much you mean to me,
how long i've desired you,
and how unknown you truly are.

---

each fall i scramble
to find warmth,
before all doors close
and winter comes.

---

i grow bored of imaginings,
machinations of the mind.
i yearn for something to touch,
real, and pulsing with life.

---

i can barely believe i've found it,
after searching for all this time.
it is true what they say,
that if you wait, it comes to you.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

i ran up to my apartment,
not wanting to keep her waiting,
grabbed the sheet off my bed
and hurried back downstairs.

i guess it was our third real date,
and after dinner i asked
if she wanted to go to the park,
and she said sure.

with the stars above us,
we stared, we talked,
we enjoyed periodic silence.
eventually i took her home.

i told her the sheet was
for ants and the like,
but really i wanted to smell her
as i went to sleep that night.

hazy

suddenly, we're ballroom dancing,
and i'm spinning, twirling,
with a person i barely know,
but am already falling for.

when the song ends,
we smile nervously.
i reach out and tuck a
strand of hair behind her ear.

my chest explodes as i
realize this is what i've
been missing all this time,
just before i wake up.

Sunday, October 02, 2011

chimera

most my family calls me crazy,
my brother says i'm dumb,
and the doctors say i'm
a catatonic schizophrenic.

i'll go numb for hours
and not even realize it.
then turn around and
bounce right off the walls.

they -- the doctors, that is,
say i am really two people.
that in the womb my egg
swallowed hers up or something.

it confuses me -- all i know
is my hair has different DNA
than my skin and blood,
and that parts of me -- aren't me.

so i have a twin, living inside me,
occasionally making an appearance.
now if only i knew who is the fun one,
and who is the zombie.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

red dress

we're sitting on the plane, waiting for takeoff, and she nudges me with her elbow.

"look at this," she says, pointing to a magazine spread of models wearing, to my eyes, nearly identical red dresses. one of those "who wore it best?" pieces.

"which one do you think i'd want to wear?" she asked. i look at the photos. most of them are pretty short, one is strapless. all of them are red, and i have no clue what to say.

"come on," she teases, "just pick one."

she knows i hate these types of games. like if i really loved her i would know her particular desire for a certain dress. like i actually think before i point at one at random. like there's some facet of her that i have deep understanding about.

sometimes i'll get it right. others i pick the one she really hates, but usually it's just somewhere in between. i don't think it's fair that she does this to me. constantly reminds me of how boring and stale i am. how i desire to forge a deeper connection.

i don't say any of that. i pick the dress on the left.

"yea, that one's OK," she says.

"but not the one i love," i hear in my head.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

happier than me

she sits in her minivan
in the back of the parking lot
of the local chinese place,
eating her food alone.

she takes up the whole seat,
her stomach doubling as a
table for her Styrofoam tray
filled with unhealthy food.

i think she is the epitome
of loneliness and depression.
i wonder what her home looks like,
messy, barren, and small.

then i realize two things,
first, that while i'm fit,
and though i have a good job,
i'm just as lonely as she is.

second, that despite her appearance,
i really don't know much about her,
or what her home may look like.
indeed, she could even be happy.

Sunday, August 07, 2011

struggle

at first i had some hope
that they would know me,
utter my name, see my face
and ask how things are.

now, though, i have no
expectations, no hope
that they will recognize me
or even realize that i'm there.

the pain of this disease
is worse than that of death,
for it afflicts the living
yet takes life all the same.

and for me? i go out of love,
what little love is now left,
the small amount i muster
when staring into those blank eyes.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

sleep eternal

these past few days i've been visited
by old friends and family alike,
offering words, for what else is
there to offer to a dying man.

this -- the act of ceasing to be,
it's something we ponder about
in our youth, questioning what it
will be like to finally reach the end.

some of us older folk take to it
easier than others -- some, like me,
never really come to terms with it,
knowing full well there could be nothing after.

if you've ever fallen asleep,
and thought about the very act itself,
becoming aware of how you close your eyes,
drift away, only to open them hours later...

that is what i feel now, as i close my eyes
with my family all around me,
both of us with our questions,
wondering if i'll open them again.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

adventure

people look at me and think
reckless, wanton, foolish.
sprinting through a journey that's
apparently the reason for living.

yet i was not born this way,
nor did i change overnight.
it was a slight, gradual change
whose origin anyone can say.

others' concern becomes trivial
and the risk always outweighs reward
when you can't think of it being so bad,
even if something goes wrong.

why is it the young are
so eager to die, and
forsake an unknown future,
bountiful happiness unforetold.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

buried in a mass of blankets,
a giant fluffy heap.
it was just cold enough to make
wrapping herself in all of them plausible.

the darkness of night and
sound of rain's pitter patter
provided a tranquil haven
where she could feel protected.

the sound of cars and people alike
splashing through puddles was only
interrupted by the thunder following
the lightning that lit a largely empty room.

using streetlight from the window,
and with the calming rain
and warmth of blankets as companions,
she began to read.

sand castle

he held a miniature sand castle
in the palm of his hand,
a tower shooting straight up
and magically held together.

suddenly it begins to crumble,
and all his efforts to stop it
are met with clumps of sand
falling through his fingers.

now damaged, he questions
salvage versus acceptance.
risk utter destruction of a thing,
or redefine beauty for its sake.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

raindrops

my chin rests on the windowpane
as i watch the droplets race down,
some in a fierce dive lasting seconds,
others in a slow, methodical march.
i reach my finger out to touch one,
and realize i'm on the wrong side.

Friday, June 03, 2011

i reckon that i'm down to
my last couple of days now.
my bones, my heart,
everything feels heavy.

the tears are less frequent,
but they still fall on my
hands, wrinkled and sore
from a lifetime of use.

the good times dance
with the bad, happier times
intermingled with sadness,
an overwhelming nostalgia.

and so now i weep.
i weep because if
given the chance,
i'd do it all again.

and the waves roll in

and the waves roll in...
and carry me away
to an island where i sit,
alone with my thoughts.

stranded, left to contemplate
how i ended up here.
memories plaguing me
amid tormenting silence.

then one day,
when i wake,
the island is gone,
a return to normal life.

sometimes a few days,
and others maybe years
i get some small relief,
before the waves roll in...

Sunday, May 22, 2011

hunter gatherer

we were much better off
dying to simple illnesses,
starvation, and wild animals.
such deaths were quick.

now we die slowly,
of stress and disease
from pressures and foods
that once never existed.

before we used adrenaline
to avoid being eaten.
now we use it at work,
at home, with no release.

the sun regulated our bodies
when we lived outdoors.
the cool air helped us
get a good night's rest.

now we sit indoors,
staring at monitors,
even in our beds,
before we toss and turn.

we have slowly, piece by piece,
created a world where we live
longer and longer,
unhealthier and unhappier.

freedom used to be intrinsic
with the human experience.
now we pay to get away for
a couple weeks of the year.

our group roles used to keep
many others alive, and
now our deaths go unnoticed,
a sense of community shattered.

we are all hunter gatherers,
living in a complex world
to which our very beings
have yet to adapt.
we often forget our human capacity
for discovery and exploration is infinite,
and when we ruminate on better times,
we limit how much we can experience.

for while things right now may have been better
at a particular point at a particular time,
they may still yet be even better
in a future you are too blind to see.

yet resign yourself to a depressed state
and you close yourself to change,
accept a steady-state of stagnancy,
and spoil your gift of life.

cd nostalgia

returning to this place of disappointment,
i reflect on how far i've come
and how i managed to forget you,
only to have the memories flood back.

the painful, self-destructive thoughts return
as my chest tightens and i recall
how i thought i loved you,
the warped reality i convinced myself of.

even now, when i know it wasn't real,
i wonder if you ever return here
and think the same thoughts,
or if you've simply moved on.

Monday, May 09, 2011

vilify

they were the bad aftertaste
to an expensive bottle of wine.
the disappointing reality
of lofty expectations.

not a promising dream,
but the noise that awakens you.
the thunderclap that follows
every strike of lightning.

a favorite song played
one too many times.
a scented candle that
slowly makes you nauseous.

and yet i wonder if there was more,
something beneath the surface,
that even now, looking back,
is waiting to be uncovered.

exile

i've searched for years it seems,
for that fundamental difference
that makes connecting to others
something more than second nature.

neither friend nor family can
fill the void created by a lack
of human understanding and
an unwillingness to try.

how seemingly unimportant
a single life can seem,
when we feel all alone
even while surrounded.

Monday, April 25, 2011

i would

Let me start off by saying I do not know who you are, but I love you. Some unshakable part of me has always loved you. And it always will.

I would do anything in my power, and try my hardest if it were not, to bring happiness to your life. Whether as a result of my own actions or simply by giving you the space you need to discover it on your own. I would vow to fully support you in your pursuit of your own life's goals and dreams, encourage you when you want to quit, and be there if you fail.

For if life caused you to hurt -- physically, emotionally, spiritually -- I would be there if you needed me, or wait patiently if you did not. I would understand that some things in life are personal journeys, and would not force my own feelings of wanting to make things better on to you. I would simply be there for when you were ready, and trust you would find me when you were.

I would trust this and more. I would put my emotional and spiritual well-being wholly into your hands, and trust for you to tend them delicately. I would, in turn, treat your heart and love the same -- with loyalty, respect, and care. I would believe that if either of us broke that trust, we would love one another enough to forgive certain mistakes, learn to grow together from the wisdom gained by the experience, and be all the happier in the end for it.

I would be with you to the end. I would love you fiercely at first, coming to know all there is about you of the mind, the flesh, and the intangibles that truly define you. Later, I would realize there is much more to you than I ever imagined, and take joy in knowing the rest of my life will be spent unraveling the beautiful mystery that is you.

I would love you completely, yet without smothering you. I would always be there, trying my best to be exactly who you need me to be, whether that is a pair of ears to listen, a pair of hands to fix, or a pair of arms to simply hold. I would relish in performing those small acts of love that at the time go unnoticed, but then are later realized and thus made all the more special.

I would.
I would.
I would.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

while you were sleeping

i took a finger and traced it from her
chin, down her neck, all the way
across the curve of her breast
to just below her knees.

rubbing the goose flesh from
her arms, i pull her in closer,
as if to somehow protect her
from creatures of the night.

she stirred lightly, heavy eyelids
barely parting, mouth curving
into a smile before making
a contented "hmm" sound.

i traced the shape of her lips,
this time barely touching,
twirled a wisp of her hair,
and kissed her ... on the ear.

break the glass

i wake up at 3 or so in the morning,
abruptly -- blurring the lines of
dream world and reality -- of
consciousness and sub-consciousness

i exist on the fringe ... unable to fall asleep
despite being mentally exhausted, my mind
sprinting without rest, as it does when i'm asleep,
flashes of images i cannot ignore.

the line separating real from unreal,
the veil keeping both worlds apart,
has ceased to exist in my head,
and i cannot stop its momentum.

i cannot shut the stream of sensory details
off in my brain ... cannot purge my mind
of faces, places, haunting and ethereal,
refusing to let me sleep.

not even writing about it -- acknowledging
its presence -- makes it go away.
the opposite of a dream you forget upon waking,
it is one i cannot seem to shed.

even now, the flow of subconscious thought
grows clearer, more detailed, making
my perception of real thought indistinguishable
from the fleeting scenes of my dreams.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

click

she cuddled up close to me,
burying her head on my shoulder,
letting out a few deep breaths
to mark the end of another day.

i clicked on the lamp.
"god, not again," she said.
"sorry honey," i said,
"you know it can't wait."

i turn on my laptop and
quickly hammer out the
poem brewing in my head
before it is lost like a dream.

i finish and click off the lamp.
"done?" she said playfully.
"yes, i should say so," i said.
she lay an arm across my chest.

her body is so comforting,
her quiet presence soothing.
and she is willing to share it
even though i make her wait.

i lie in the dark and think,
her patience, her caring,
that is true love, at least for me.
i laugh a little, and click on the lamp.

our father's house

i sat in an empty pew
in an empty church,
fingering the cover of the
leather tome in my lap.

he came and got me
in his robes and all,
smile on his face,
he took me downstairs.

then i did things
in the name of the lord
that you never hear about
during sunday's sermon.

years later, i learned,
that he was no holy man,
just a sick, broken fool,
like oh so many others.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

this is not a happy story...

This is not a happy story.

In fact, it is quite the opposite.

Those seeking something of a lighter tone should look elsewhere.

In fact, I might highly recommend no one at all reads this story.

For it is not a happy one...

-------------------------------

The darkness surrounded him. He didn't know where he was, or how he got there. The floor felt cool, smooth. Stone?

Where am I? he thought.

Someone lit a brazier and his eyes adjusted to the scene. He was in a cell. Three stone walls -- the fourth a row of imposing iron bars. Someone opened the cell and gave him water. Then they extinguished the brazier.

Darkness. Again.

How long it stretched he could not say. Perhaps hours, perhaps days. When someone came by and lit the brazier again, they had another person with them. Or prisoner? They had a sack over their head at any rate. The "guard" flung the prisoner in the room and snuffed out the brazier.

Seconds stretched into minutes stretched into an uncomfortable period of silence. He was wondering if perhaps this other person was dead, their body unmoving. Yet he could hear their teeth chattering, and finally the rustling of their clothes as they moved to sit against the wall.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. He heard a sharp intake of breath, an indication he startled his cellmate.

"Where am I?" a quiet voice asked.

A girl, then.

"I don't know", he said. "Who are you?"

And they talked. At first about why they were there, which, given the circumstances and their general ignorance of the situation, quickly ended.

They sat in darkness, slowly growing to trust one another and talk more about their lives instead. While they slept a guard would put food and water in their cell. Even the light of the brazier seemed a lifetime away for the boy now.

Naturally, the two grew close. They huddled together at night for warmth, falling asleep to the sound of one another's breathing. When they woke, they had no concept of time. They would simply start talking once more. Their entire world, the darkness, the cell, and each other, went on for days.

One day, the guard did not come while they were asleep. And he did not have food and water with him. Instead, he entered the cell. Grabbing the girl by the wrist, he dragged her from the cell, the boy too dumbfounded to move or speak.

Where are they taking her? he wondered.
Wait! No! Sto--- But they were gone.

He cried that night in silent, racking sobs. When he woke, he was alone, save for the darkness.

A few days later, the guard returned with a prisoner who had a sack on their head. He threw them into the cell, finished off the weak fire in the brazier, and left.

"What did they do?!" the boy asked.

"W-what?" a meek voice answered.

It was not her. It was another girl.

And so they talked. She had many questions about why she was there, of course none of which he could answer. They sat in silence for as long as two people alone in the darkness can. Then she began to talk. Asking questions.

The boy relented eventually. It took longer this time, but he opened up, as he did before, and held her close at night to keep her skinny body warm. She was growing close to him...

Too close... he thought. And he thought right.

For one day, the guard returned, again with no food or water. The boy succumbed to a fit of hysteria, standing between the guard and the girl. Who were these people? Why were they doing this? These were questions he could not answer, and thus he acted on impulse.

The guard struck him down, took the girl by the wrist, and dragged her out of the cell. The boy, beaten and unconscious, at least did not cry that day.

When they brought the third girl, the boy was deranged. Broken within. The boy was not receptive. Indeed, for a few hours (or days?), the girl may have even thought herself alone in the cell. If not for a cough from the boy.

"Is someone there?" she said.
"Please, can someone help me? What is going on?!"

She, like the others, initially panicked and sought answers. Why was she there? What would they do to her? She had heard other girls screaming on her way in, what was going on?

Yet the boy knew what would happen if they grew close. His heart could not bear it. Not again. He remained silent and slept alone in a corner of the cell. Yet the girl would not comply.

"Please, tell me what's going on," she said through sobs. She begged him daily to speak to her. To give her the human contact necessary for people to avoid feeling like lost creatures.

And still the boy remained silent. The silence, the darkness, continued. Though the girl wept nearly every night, it was on one day that her sobs woke him from a faint sleep. Reverberating off the walls, it touched something inside him. Something he could not ignore. And so he crawled over to where she lay, and wrapped his arms around her.

"It's OK," he said.
"Everything will be OK."

The boy could not sleep that night.

He still did not speak much, only providing her the comforts of human touch, of knowing one is not truly alone even in such a hell as this. Yet, for all his silence, the girl was determined to speak enough for them both.

She spoke of her life before she was taken. Of her parents, her friends, her dog. Apparently, she really loved her dog. The boy smiled at that.

"And then, one time, my dad was looking for hours, only to find he was under my bed the whole time!" she said, a tiny giggle escaping her lips. A foreign sound in the darkness. One that was not a tiding of happiness, but foreboding. That night, the boy grew increasingly worried.

When he woke, the boy was breathing heavily, anxiously. The girl's head gently rose and fell in tandem with his chest, her ear pressed up against his heart. He began searching with his foot, trying to feel for the bowl of water or dishes of food. He searched desperately, hoping with what little was left in him that they would be there. That the guard had come while they slept.

And then he felt them with his toes. Relief hit like a thunderclap, then spread through his being like a flood overtaking the land, encompassing everything in its wake. The girl woke and touched his lips.

"You're smiling," she said.
"I like how that feels. You should smile more."

The pair would come to spend almost all of their waking days in constant physical contact with one another. Other than their voices, it was all they had to assure themselves they were not crazy. They were not truly alone.

Time in the darkness had reached a point where it was no use guessing how long it had been. Perhaps many months, perhaps several years, there was no point guessing. Every day the world to them consisted of three stone walls, a row of iron bars, and each other. Until, of course, the guard appeared one day, his face solemn in the flickering light of the brazier, his hands empty.

The boy woke with a start, sitting up. Shapes and shadows ... angles. Seeing the guard standing there, seeing the light of the brazier. How long had it been? His brain frantically tried to remember how to make sense of the images. He glanced down to the small lump of a person, rags wrapped tightly around her, her head in his lap, the light illuminating a tangle of brown hair and the side of a very fragile-looking face.

The guard took a step forward. Fear swelled through the boy, threatening to paralyze him as the guard made his way toward them.

No, the boy thought.
Not this time. Not this one!! Not her!!

He unceremoniously threw her to the ground and lay on top of her. Not in a warm, caring embrace, but roughly, reaching his arms around her waist and locking his fingers together. She started to scream, terrified of the light, the commotion -- an abrupt shift from her normal reality. Then terror overtook her, and she fell limp, and whimpered.

The guard tested the boy. At first a modest prod with his boot, then a swift kick to his side. The boy grunted, but did not relent. He would not. Not this time. Even though something within him had broken from his past encounters, it was slowly being rebuilt, and was now harder than ever. It was through sheer force of will he withstood the blows of the guard, determined not to let go.

The guard eventually left, but still the boy held on tight. The girl began to cry in earnest. She forced herself around, and with the brazier's light, turned to look at the boy. Their gaze met for the first time, locked on to one another. Eyes dancing madly in the brazier's firelight, they took each other in completely in that moment. All that they had shared until then was a fraction of what they learned as they gazed deep inside one another. They had, at that moment, found peace at last.

And a short-lived peace it was.

The guard returned with three others this time. The boy lasted as long as he could, but eventually he was separated from the girl, and the last he saw of her from his swollen eye and blurred vision was her foot as she was dragged down the hallway, out of his vision, before the light was stamped out once more.

The boy hurt. Physically, he was sore, of course, but he hurt on a much more profound level. He was broken again, and certain he was beyond repairing now. There would be no recovery from this. No more girls. He would not go on. That, at least, he could control. He crawled into the corner of the cell, and closed his eyes.

--------------------------------

The darkness surrounded him. He didn't know where he was, or how he got there. The floor felt cool, smooth. Stone?

Where am I? he thought.

Someone lit a brazier and his eyes adjusted to the scene. He was in a cell. Three stone walls -- the fourth a row of imposing iron bars. Someone opened the cell and gave him water. Then they extinguished the brazier.

Darkness. Again.
a bit of suffering is good
every now and again.
a reminder that our lives
are not really about us at all.

for what is a life with no pain,
or hurt, or sorrow?
could we ever be truly happy,
amid constant gratification?

such events snap us back
to a world, a reality,
where our complaints,
our worries, are trivial.

yet care must be taken,
else the darkness consumes
all that we hold dear
and good in the world.

indeed, 'tis a necessity,
and yet, so is recognition,
of how a life not spent living,
is not worthy of living at all.

Monday, April 11, 2011

daddy's little girl

a rogue strand of sunlight
fights through the curtains,
falling across my neck
as i lie face-down on the bed.

i hear the sounds of waves
crashing against the beach
and the huff and puff
of someone behind me.

i smell the ocean air,
mixed with cheap motel
and the scent of sweat,
alcohol, and other fluids.

i see people strolling
the boardwalk outside,
and the television reflects
a pair of thrusting hips.

i taste the drugs
still on my tongue.
and they are bittersweet,
filled with regret.

but i do not feel a thing.
neither inside nor out,
and at least -- for this --
i am thankful.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

she was always in love with other men
and came to me when they broke her heart.
i smoothed her hair and rubbed her back,
doing my duty, playing my part.

you could say i was her only friend,
the only man who didn't kiss her.
i didn't ask her out on dates,
and didn't buy her liquor.

perhaps that's why it hurts so much,
knowing deep down how i feel.
that she needs me more as i am,
and not as another heart to steal.
i woke to a grey sky
and a rain that came,
then went, darkening
the bark of trees.

i lay with my eyes
opened, staring out,
my heart a mirror
of the scene outside.

i did not stir that day,
not even to eat
or pick up the phone
to seek comfort.

my eyes closed,
and i dreamt,
and i woke,
and the sun was up.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

semester abroad

our meeting was entirely happenstance,
the kind that happens in movies
that leave your heart aching, and mind racing,
"that never happens in real life."

but her smile was like a warm wall,
always halting me where i stood.
i would often get lost in her eyes,
and she would do little to help me get out.

and even though i was only visiting,
i quickly fell in love with her oversized sweaters,
matching colored wool socks,
and tea with her family.

we had lots of time to talk,
high "petrol" costs meant
everyone rode the bus --
unless it was a special occasion.

and it rains a lot there, you know.
but we didn't mind
being stuck inside.
we had each other -- in more ways than one.

afterward, the only sounds were
the soft sound of her breathing
and quiet noise of the radio news,
talking about pileups on streets i didn't know.

when it was time, she drove me --
yes, with her car -- to the airport.
my shoulder was ripe for crying on then,
i had done most of mine alone the night earlier.

of those final moments,
i do not remember much.
only the final words she said,
lyrics from her favorite song:

don't forget me, i beg,
i remember you said,
sometimes it lasts in love,
but sometimes it hurts instead.

Sunday, March 06, 2011

pressed up against me,
on such a cold night,
cocooned within my arms,
it's hard to tell her no.

and though embracing her
leads to complication -
and ultimately sadness -
i do so time and again.

perhaps it is the warmth
of another human body,
or maybe it's the comfort
of knowing i'm not alone.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

i will never be content
with what i have
or where i am,
where i am headed.

i will always want to be
somebody different,
with another life
that is always out of reach.

all i really want
is to stop wanting
a different life
and to accept the one i have.

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

i told her it was my first real date
and could tell she was shocked
by the look on her face
and how she immediately glanced
down at her phone.

checking the time, maybe?
counting down the minutes?
i wonder if it's over before it started
when she changes the subject.
i'm nice -- i laugh, i smile, i be myself.

she says she has my number
from the dating site and will call me.
something in her voice tips me off,
and i know i'll never see her again
except in painful memories.

i try not to be pathetic, pitiable,
and instead to keep my chin up
and say tomorrow's another day.
if only i haven't been saying that
for the past 10 some-odd years.