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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.