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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.