how to cope

to call it a bombshell,
would be a misnomer.
for it causes prolonged anguish,
and not merciful obliteration.

indeed, i would much rather,
be blown to tiny bits
than suffer from within,
slow, and agonizing.

my head keeps spinning
as an imaginary vise
presses on my heart,
getting tighter with no reprieve.

it plays over and over in my head
like a song you can't stop singing,
a habit you can't seem to break,
a past you are helpless to change.

while i am a thinking man,
there is no logic here,
no hope of understanding,
just simple, real, hurt.

curse

forgiveness can be so hard
with such a heavy price,
so i turn the other way
and bid another future adieu.

i've lost count how many times
this sinking feeling has emerged,
slowly unraveling the threads
holding my patchwork heart together.

i wonder if i'm the cause
since after all this time,
the common denominators
are my bad decisions - repeated.

to refuse what is good for me
time and time again,
in favor of something familiar
like pain and sorrow and despair.

to catch a butterfly

to catch a butterfly,
can be a challenging task.
for, oh, how they flutter,
swiftly, to and fro.

chasing one is futile,
always out of reach.
wild, desperate grabs
yield nothing but air.

yet one can extend a hand,
motionless, like stone,
and, through patience,
attract the creature.

for that which is sought,
does not wish to be captured,
but to choose of its own accord,
the heart on which to alight.

you've been fluttering like a fairy,
around and around my heart.
wondering if it might be worth it,
to have yet another fresh start.

to try again once more,
and play this dangerous game.
which has the power to heal,
and also the power to maim.

sensing this i proceeded,
in a slow, methodical advance.
for i was also a bit unsure,
if i should take the chance.

yet i am so very glad i did,
for it's been entirely worthwhile,
every time i hear your laugh,
and every time i see you smile.

the future can be a scary beast,
full of unknowns, it's true...
which is why i am so grateful,
i'll be taking it on with you.

i'd like to file a complaint

by toy factory standards,
humans simply wouldn't do.
much too many imperfections,
with a large percentage of defects.

entire lines of humans
are oblivious to worldly issues,
stuck in their individually
wrapped, plastic boxes.

they turn a blind eye to
the baby doll models
that come into the world
skinny and malnourished.

meanwhile, others are created
with a sense of entitlement,
and will whine -- and whine --
long after their string has been pulled.

sparkling wine chilled in the fridge
next to three filet mignons that
i bought earlier that morning
in anticipation of a celebration.

two new thermoses were for
the morning after, washed,
rinsed, and set to dry, for the
coffee for our early morning trip.

an hour or so spent cleaning my place,
placing candles in the bedroom,
setting two plates, two wine glasses,
and preparing the food we'd cook.

my unbridled eagerness,
a harbinger of disappointment,
when my perfect world,
finally met reality.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.