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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

every time

probably the hardest part of our breakup
was the fact that we lived in a small town.
it wasn't the gossip -- although there was plenty of gossip.
no, it was everywhere we'd gone together,
and the fact that every time i went some place
i was reminded in some way of you.

every time i went to the diner,
by myself, with family, or friends,
i'd glance over at our booth in the corner,
recall joking how you no-so-delicately
smothered everything in ketchup
and remember the taste of your mouth afterward.

every time i'd go to see a movie at the drive-in
all i could think of was the smell of your car,
mixed with gasoline, popcorn, and smuggled beer.
i'd get so cold sitting there in the car,
and then remember the blanket
we used to huddle under to stay warm.

our old high school is probably the worst.
it's what i drive past every day on my way to work,
and is a bitter reminder of happier days.
i constantly ask myself what i did wrong,
only to remember those words you said:
"it's not you, it's me."

was it, really?

it's always ridiculous looking back
at the heart-breakers, the what-ifs,
the could-have-beens and happily-ever-afters.

you almost laugh at the silly things
like first and last name combinations
or what you'd name your children.

at the time you're so engrossed
and often drowning in a sea
of potential love and harmony.

yet when you finally surface
it isn't despair -- but relief --
that the future is still yours.

even now

even now, i enjoy the smile
that has changed so much,
yet somehow looks the same
as the day you were born.

i still can't resist you,
even though i try.
and gone are the days
when tickling actually worked.

seeing you hurt, inside or out,
is in some ways more painful
than feeling pain myself,
or having my own heart broken.

even now, as a grown woman,
with your head in my lap
and tears on your cheeks,
i love being your father.

stomach and chest tighten
deep breathing to no avail
nerves and fanciful what-ifs
swimming around in my mind

i will them to pass, to go away
and leave me at peace again,
but anything worth having
often comes at a price.

it won't go away, none of it.
the feeling under my solar plexus,
the thoughts that belong in dreams,
the future i'll never have.

half covered in blankets
with one foot on the floor
i watch the fan wobble and whir
and the bare light bulb flicker,
turning a coffee table of empty beer bottles
into a flashing display of color.
i rub the handgun across my forehead
like i've done so many times before,
contemplating a decision
i know i'll never make.

it's nights like these
i remember all the
fucked up things about
my life and who i am,
why i'm still alone
and entirely unfulfilled
with the course of
where i'm going and
where i've been.
completely unsatisfied
with my life thus far
and wondering if
it's possible to erase
who i am and start
as someone better,
start as someone i
might even love.

italy

we went to italy together,
both in our 20s,
wanting to see more of the world.

our hotel overlooked
the venetian canals
packed with tourists.

at sunset we'd stroll
through golden streets
bustling with activity.

we made love,
mostly in the afternoon,
when the heat made us lazy.

we enjoyed the art,
paintings, buildings, food,
mostly in silence.

it was in those moments
we shared something great
that we can never get back.

pieces

as a young man he yearned for love
but was never blessed by its embrace.
not knowing why it eluded him so,
he slowly closed his heart to the world.

harbored behind stone walls
that served as a layer of thick armor,
he gradually forgot his loneliness
and the longing for the forbidden.

years and years passed by,
with never so much as a dent
in the impenetrable fortress
he built around his soul.

imagine a man who never thirsted
go centuries without so much as a sip.
then on a particularly warm day,
years of thirst crashed on him at once.

such was the effect on his heart
when his invincible shield that
he thought was his protection
shattered to pieces at last.