the arrangement of words

Impression

2012-01-10T14:36:00.000-08:00

You left a print, not a story.

Beauty paints an impression,
a thing pressed into the soul,
not a time-line of events.
I bear your mark, your print.

Despite my dark nature,
I have in me small lights . . .

and you are there.

memory games

2011-10-28T10:02:00.000-07:00

I would say I'm sorry.
Given the chance,
I would say I'm sorry.
But that's because it's now.
In an hour, maybe even a few minutes,
I won't care.
I will emerge from memory
numb again to past decisions.
But right now--
these minutes of aftershock
from a triggered sense,
the sound of a song we claimed "ours,"
or a letter I found
with a picture of you--
I would say I'm sorry
and ask you for a second chance.
I'm in the past.

Not for much longer . . .
I'm re-reading now,
fighting the urge to edit, now erase.
And now laugh--
"He wishes the past different!
As though his wanting now
could be his wanting then!"
I chastise the me of five minutes ago,
chastising the me of five years ago,
a fool to play with time.

2011-06-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

trickle down blood
trickle down rain
embrace the curse
of living in pain
the sanity
of going insane

nothing consoled

2011-06-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

When in love's pain,

there is
nowhere to go
nowhere to be
nothing to say
nothing to free
your soul from suffering.

It's drifting in space with claustrophobia
or motion sickness from the earth's spin.
It's freezing at 100 degrees Fahrenheit
or burning at the other end.
It's death by wanting
yet forced to live each moment more.
No search can end the suffering
nor find the right in every sore.

If at least it were the noble thing
If at least I sensed some glory
If at least I were the martyr king
in some heroic story

But it's none of these,
not ev'n at least.
In simplest terms it's boring.
For sits the man restoring
nothing by his sitting
and nothing by his spinning
of the harshest words--
the ones meant for his ridding
of the pain.
Not even rain
can drown his sickness whole
and leave him sleep, that peaceful role
of happy men, of kings extolled.

The suffered sits, nothing consoled.

before their time

2011-03-23T14:16:00.000-07:00

those first tulips
early to the season
pioneers of spring
the sacrifice of unborn colors--
will freeze to death before they see it

they die for living too early
for being passionate
wearing winter down
they fall in final gusts and flurries
before daybreak

then was I born
awakened to sunlit seasons
alive upon the graves of seers

walls

2011-03-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

The walls are tumbling faster now
and I watch, hands empty and dry.
I hear wind and rock,
the grind and tear of ancient layers of wisdom.
When it falls I may look at it for a long time,
stare at the words that no longer exist,
the feelings that no longer are.
And turn and walk on.

The Many

2010-12-02T11:31:00.000-08:00

We don't want pity
we don't want answers
we don't want you to fix us

We just want to talk
to say it
so that it's said

We are not famous
we are not photogenic
we are not gorgeous or handsome
no one follows us around
we have blemishes, big ones
our hair is falling out
there are red marks on our face
we age
we stumble
we fall
and no one knows
no one writes about us
no one follows our existence

We are the normal
the many
never the one
the idolized
We do the idolizing
the wishing
the wanting
the dreaming
and we wake up normal

Someone said love ourselves
spend the time learning our worth
our own brilliance
our own smile
but when we stand there with our groceries,
our same as everyone else food,
those magazines stare at us
and we're not enough

She doesn't love me
he doesn't like me
There is always someone more exciting than us
and we can never love ourselves enough to make up the difference.

bring me the cold

2010-10-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

Bring me the cold.
The anger in my bones is warm.
Too warm.
It needs a rival.
It needs the Northwind and her delegates
piercing deep,
blinding the intake at my eyes,
deafening and suffocating the inlets at my face.
My soul is hot and seeks a challenger.
Bring me something worthy of fight,
of reaching fires within.
Bring me something that will make me smile,
something that meets the blaze in my eyes
and releases the will inside me.
Bring me the cold.

restless

2010-10-25T18:52:00.000-07:00

To touch a small piece of the world
then another piece
and so on
until I touch all the colors
and all the spaces--

is to be a small piece of it.

Until then,
I am the smallest piece of nothing,
uncounted by the whole,
unknowing and unknown

restless for the rest of the world,
unsatisfied with unknowledge,
unsettled by the satisfaction of here,
my search is for deeper colors
and deeper shapes.

Give me Nepal and Tibet,
Samarkand and Baikal,
and let me change the way I see
by the memory of things seen.
Create me anew
with things already created

sameness

2010-10-25T18:34:00.000-07:00

I wanted it to work,
wanted something to crack my hardened routine of sameness,
wanted life to take a sudden turn,
to pivot away from the familiarity of me.
I wanted something different than being single
just for a little bit, just for a moment.

But I missed the train to somewhere else,
the gravitational pull to someone else's orbit.
The close encounter spun my world
with the energy of magnets barely escaping attraction,
and I spin wildly readjusting to former orbits of sameness.

luxury

2010-04-20T09:34:00.000-07:00

Friendship--

that permanence of peace,
that trust forged in trial,
that security for secrets,
that last laugh at adversity,
that comfort of consistency,
that depth of devotion,
that faith when failing
and light when losing--

is a myth.

Friendship is a luxury
as permanent as pearls
and dependable as diamonds.

There are no candles after dark.

homecoming

2010-04-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

i get tired of being me,
of not being what fits you.

i spend my time away, fitting,
preparing a new mold to step into.

but the new structure is never ready,
and forces me home.

and when i'm home,
i weep, and never want to leave.

i get tired of not being me.

2010-02-12T17:39:00.001-08:00

I've lassoed the moon and let it go,
I've ice-climbed in a thaw,
I've sun bathed in blackness,
and walked free an outlaw.

I've sung in muffled halls,
I've crushed diamonds with coal,
I've eaten liquid things,
and cauterized a soul.

I've eaten hunger,
I've run on empty,
I've slaved for freedom,
and starved on plenty.

Some people lose,

Some people win,
Some are confused
And many give in.

When opposites reflect,
and good men kill,
don't forfeit your honor
for something you feel.

new heat

2010-02-04T08:47:00.000-08:00

Some nights are wombs,

nine months of waiting for sound
on new strings

new-born from the old things,
and soft like the new beings

just hatched from the shell.

I worshiped my frozen ways, counted on yesterdays,

those with the vacant rays—all light the same.

Each day that same morning light, ripened from oversight,
coated my throat with night—drunk I became.

And soon light was empty, bare; shine of the devil’s glare,
I lay beneath despair, writhing in pain.

Nine months in a dark cocoon, wrapped in my linen tomb,
I broke the ninth full moon, screaming my name.

New heat from the morning star, beams shot in golden bars,
I stood without a scar—Hope was my name.

I bathed in the morning dew, dressed in the morning hue,
All this in front of you—birth has no shame.

This one beam I waited for, one spark to light ten more,
Ushers me through the door, time and again.

And I hope for tomorrow:
It too could be new if I part with today,
let go of the manna I’ve hidden away.

floating grass

2010-01-26T22:01:00.000-08:00

The need to reach out to someone, anything
is quieted by the emptiness, the no one.
When you never give back,
your outlets decay
and grow elsewhere.
Like a candy machine asking no coin,
they've sold every ear that listened,
every piece of sincere caring,
every scrap of wanting you to be happy,
for nothing.
Your coins were never theirs to keep;
you bought their love for nothing
and investing nothing, saved nothing
for today,
for the need for someone today.
With nothing sweet to abate your need
to feel understood,
you wander through meadows of floating grass--
a bed of squandered roots--
seeking something unspent.

My fortune useless,
I wander the sties and stalls
for somewhere to sleep.

light rain

2009-10-22T21:24:00.000-07:00

raining crystal
shards of light jumping
exploding into crowded black
isolated governments of sharp
pieces of energy
petrified fire
white lines with no halo
no glow
but sharp edges between opposite
ideas that spark

2009-10-17T10:53:00.000-07:00

It is the time I spend alone most favored and most hated.
Not all at once, but separate bliss and terror.

valor

2009-10-14T23:28:00.000-07:00

keeping things
even from yourself
riding on the high of self-justification
of sour grapes
of self-assurance

ride it like the setting sun
ride it triumphant into darkness
embrace the cold
you still burn from bitterness
you independent furnace.

ride it as long as you can
be happy you have something to burn
you will need it traveling sunless
or suffer feeling what's really heating you:
nothing.

the sum of parts

2009-09-25T09:32:00.000-07:00

I wanted to learn.
But things I learned were shattered by feelings.
Knowledge was tested by joy and pain,
two teachers with new ideas, with new knowledge.
Knowledge came into me and fought its own.
I learned and unlearned the lessons of living,
admitting it was all true, though all in conflict.
I knew less and less the more I learned.

Knowledge was a shattered picture,
and none of the pieces went together,
a puzzle of oddly shaped parts
and no answers at the edges.
Knowledge was plural and unsympathetic to its parts.
I stared at the pieces, all crying for validation
and could do no more than admit their existence.
I couldn't discard or embrace one over the other.
I knew nothing singular.
I had no title or definition for all the pieces that made me.
I lived in a constant struggle for finality, for definition,
for one meaning.
But I was many,
and torn to pieces as I learned each one.

Steve, Jess, Sara

2009-04-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

When I had the best, even the worst was gold.
The blizzard that turned our faces white
and froze the tops of our feet
only made us warmer.
The smell in that hostel made us laugh.
Money was paper; ice was water.
I couldn't be made to realize a frown where I saw it
or a sigh when I heard it.
Loneliness was an ancient word; yearning--even older.
A language lost to time.
Fatigue was a peaceful lure; neither dream
nor reality could be told apart.
I was safe from fear
because I couldn't lose.
I had them,
And they were everything.

slate

2009-04-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

I get sick when I remember.

My stomach churns the undigested pieces of you, the pieces you forced into my mouth, the jagged slate of your affection. I choked while you smiled. How could you smile? You saw my throat convulse. I bled into the napkin you provided and forced appreciation. "The bad is good for me" you made me say a hundred times like sitting in at recess writing lines. But the bad was bad for me. My poisoned blood was foreign to my veins. I almost died.

But I didn't die. I was saved by mirrors. I saw the person I once knew, the one defined by me. It's not your fault I believed you, believed I was something else . . . for you. It's not your fault I avoided mirrors. I let you own me, but I missed myself. I never should have left me; I should have left you. I should have taken care of myself. I should have loved myself enough to be alone.

But I believed a lie
And I get sick when I remember.

half lit

2009-04-06T22:02:00.000-07:00

Blue notes from a half lit heaven
Blue wood to hammer steel
Vibrate in a blue root-seven
Two notes to make me feel

the party

2009-03-29T20:06:00.000-07:00

lively music
raucous sound
wishing washing smiling clowns

sprinting to
racing fro
shouting things you think you know

eating fast
getting done
searching for the next thing fun

looking far
farther still
missing everything that's real

The Weather

2009-03-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

The weather. It's come to that. I guess it was bound to, sometime. The interesting thing is how long it took.

It was always strange to me how some relationships played out differently than I expected. But the expected will always happen, unexpectedly. Time and circumstance are the only unknowns. The rest are constants. And always more constant than I'd like. I will lose her, even when I don't at first. Someday the only thing we'll talk about will be the weather.

I knew this would happen. The moment I crossed that line and turned to watch the ground split behind me, I knew. But things happen fast when you don't know the future. And I turned around to face the sun and forget the canyon. Then sunshine dimmed, but promised to light the way. But how could it light the way? What sunless night has substance enough to guide me? What natural laws did I really think to change? The darkness darkened all around me the gaping whole I would have to cross. And I waited for the sun to rise again. But it didn't. It never does. I had to descend, then rise again myself and make our worlds worlds apart. From so distant she asks me how the weather is, tells me she is shining again . . . without me. "Without you" is all I hear. But I am tired from the climb and haven't lit the sun again in my world. Her words hurt me.

I wanted to hurt her because she hurt me. If only I could be sure she was the last to suffer, to pine for the former, to reach for what's no longer there--then I'd be happy. But not really. But kind of. Because my power to hurt is the inverse of my power to heal. And everyone needs to heal someone, just as much as they long to be healed themselves. But I had no power to do either. To discover this absence is to lose what it feels like to be alive. The bottom dropped out of my world and I scrambled to stab something and hold on to the grip of my knife . . . or I would fall for the hope that love would catch me somewhere else. I let myself fall. And the knife too.

But landing is as rare as sunlight during rain. Love is sparse and floating all around me like moving baskets in the sky. I've tried to catch one, to time my fall just right, to angle gravity. But it doesn't work. I close my eyes and hope that fate is real.

songs

2009-03-10T21:08:00.000-07:00

would you come for the music
for the ideas
and the smiles when we do something
no others would
would you be in the shapes
in the colors
of ideas we talk about
would you sing to me your song
a different one
than all the ones before
would you hold me in your gaze
but not too long
would you make me run
but not too far
would you bring the world
but not too close
but close enough I travel to you
travel with you
travel in you
'til I see the new colors
the new shapes
the new ideas
and the new music
would you write me with the notes
and wash me in the sounds
Make me sing the new song

retribution

2009-02-05T15:31:00.000-08:00

I should pay for what I've done

And she will make me pay it.

For each time I concealed a gun

she will make me pay.

I should lose what I hold dear

And she will make me lose it.

For every sadness, every tear

she will make me lose.

I should fear deep loneliness

And she will make me fear it.

For all the apprehensiveness

she will make me fear.

I should feel the pain she felt

And she will make me feel it.

For each touch stolen, each touch dealt

she will make me feel.

miss someone

2009-02-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

motivation to stay active, busy, focused--

miss someone.

miss someone so much it hurts to stand still.
so much it hurts to leave any of your faculties alone
to inflict the pain they want.
so much the dagger of a deadline cuts shallow
compared to the axe of absence.
so much you fear the moments of rest
or the loose wandering before sleep.
so much you focus, you focus, you . . .

you still miss someone.

just bones again

2009-01-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

old again,
not young.
It's youth that surprises,
youth that comes and goes,
youth that makes you anticipate its leaving.
But age is constant,
it's always there beneath young feelings.
If you are feeling young,
don't worry
you'll get over it.
You'll feel your age again,
you'll be in pain again,
you'll ache again, you'll cry again,
you'll be alone again.
I don't worry about the next time I feel young and free--
that's the doggy-treat I might get if I'm a good boy--
I worry about finishing the treat.
I worry about feeling hungry again,
feeling my situation again,
feeling my nothingness again,
feeling the truth again.

Happiness is the meat,
sadness--the bone.
and you can gnaw on that forever.

falling

2009-01-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

I'm falling out of context
I'm falling out of line
I'm moving into reflex,
sporadic all the time

At first I had the memories
At first they drove me on
At first they gave me Sundays,
made right the things gone wrong

But summer turned to autumn
And winter followed fall
The distant sun was handsome,
but silent, cold, and small

Then lifeless all the pictures
Then lifeless friendly words
Then lifeless all the fixtures,
the constant things, the cures

For nothing saved me from this
And nothing held it back
No memory could have barred this,
the emptiness, the black

If you can't feel the sunrise
If you can't feel the sea
If you can't feel your friends' cries,
not even ones from me

Then sit still for a moment
Read Galway’s poem, Wait
Feel swept inside the current
of hope that wills your fate

At the Bus Stop

2009-01-17T16:07:00.000-08:00

At the bus stop
I hate the bus I missed
And curse the one not come,
But welcome the wait
And in it the time to feel.

The Harbor

2008-12-16T16:27:00.000-08:00

The boat ran aground.
I wanted it to.
The rudder snapped in half.
I wanted it to.
The oars split in pieces.
I wanted them to.
The boat started to sink.

But I couldn't let her sink.
I had to scoop madly at the water,
furiously bind the oars and rudder,
wrench the vessel free of land,
continue floating on to somewhere.

I'd rather sink
and finally land this ship.
The unknown harbors at the bottom
wait for me.
If only I could breathe down there.
If only I could breathe.

being

2008-11-19T20:16:00.000-08:00

Who cares? I keep asking. But the page doesn't answer. Who will you stimulate? Not me, for one. And not most people. But the few who live off this madness. They're mad! All of them. And they ask me to reproduce it. Why do they live off it? Can't they feel anything simple anymore? Does it all have to be so convoluted, complex, compressed into tiny spaces unseen by mere mortals, but "fun" for those academics so washed with the language of fine matter that nothing gentle interests them anymore? Yes. Because they own me, and they've lost the power to be caressed by mortals. They are the masters of argument, and I can't argue to their liking. The servant who can't prepare the tea just right is unreliable, yet unreleased. He is hired to fail. Oh, I'll get my justice when I'm the master. I'll devour my heirs, their embarrassments will repay me. I'll shoot down all the idiot notions of clowns like me . . . as soon as I'm not a clown. At least, that's the thought I should be having because that's the thought that will drive me to madness--the happy state of masters. But I can't think. I can't understand the words on this page. It does not feel like life to me. It leaves no space for being.

My Last Crush

2008-11-14T13:04:00.000-08:00

She makes the sunrise
And I was there to see it.
I held her face in my hands
until it burned my fingertips.

She makes the sunshine
And I was there to see it.
I played during the light hours
and ran to her with every smile.

She makes the sunset
And I was there to see it.
I was the purple hue fading
between her and the growing cold.

She makes the starlight
And I could barely see it.
I held her face in my eyes
until frozen tears shattered it.

She makes the sunrise
And I was not there.
I was making the rain fall
And she was standing in it.

My First Crush

2008-11-07T15:52:00.000-08:00

If I could turn you into sunlight's ray,
you'd yet be with me when so far away.
The dew on every flower'd reflect your face,
but alas, without such realness and such grace
as has the moment rare and soft with you.
Me thinks I shall not want for sun, but you.
--May 2003

I wrote this for someone a long time ago. My first crush after the mission. See how simple it was to love back then? How new and harmless? My words are as innocent and free as they are naive. There is something childish about them, so lost in what I'd found, so simple in what I needed. And now when love is the prison I can't seem to escape, I wish for the first crush again, when love was a candy store, and I knew nothing of cavities.

2008-10-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

I walk at night on streets lined with my solace.
The homes and trees and street lamps are my friends.
When I've the road alone at midnight
I think the things that make amends.

the difference

2008-10-17T15:18:00.000-07:00

You hiked a mountain.
How long can you sit at the top before you stop feeling?
The greatest moment is the first.
You begin descending the moment you arrive.
It is the difference, the sheer difference
between a nearly conquered foe and a conquered one
that makes you feel.
And for one moment, you are alive.

But life is borrowed, then returned.
It isn't yours; it isn't earned.

You seek for pain to feel the difference.
A "high" has no where to go, but down
and a "low," no where but up.
Will you experiment with lows?
...to feel the difference?
or claw the air for matter still to climb?

circles

2008-10-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

******built to
***are*******be
We************broken,
**again.******and
****built****broken
********to be

pheonix blood

2008-09-06T23:28:00.000-07:00

If only you could see me now,

could see the flashes in my eyes
like slashes deep in purple skies,
the golden streaks, the piercing cries
from cutting blades . . .
the new sunrise

You wouldn't have called me wasted.
You'd have stood up and you'd have faced it,
the storm that then erased it,
the care we started with.

But from your eyes once giddy
came eyes that burned whole cities
to the ground.
My world turned upside down.

Then left you did to find you'd rid
yourself of phoenix blood,
the stuff you left in ashes,
the stuff they call true love.

And now when I am coming out
renewing hope, doubting doubt,
I feel the flashes in my eye,
but this time birth can't make me cry.
I am the apple of my eye,
not you, not her, not girls plus guys.
I've unlearned romance, unlearned why.

If only you could see me now
back when our youth knew how.

For Sara, because she listens

2008-09-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

I need to find you again.
You were the sweet bread
I ate before my meal--too early.
And now the plain bread is too plain.
My taste buds know the difference.
They can't be fooled for lesser things than you.

For Jessica, because she's there

2008-09-01T14:28:00.000-07:00

Sitting on a lonely chair
atop four floors of memory,
I sit at night among ghosts.
I watch them run from door to door
across the roof-top.
They play the night games I once played for real.
I won't play them again the same--
the people are gone who taught them to me.
And with each leaving, left a ghost to play
unfinished games.
I am the last to leave
and sit alone in the shell of past happiness.
I wish you filled the hollow places,
the emptiness that haunts ghost faces.

setting

2008-07-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

Life is full of good-bye's,
each one more potent than the last.
And each compounded to the rest
like new weight on a heavy heart.
Anticipate it, adjust to it if you must.
Brace yourself for the emptiness that weighs.
But don't close too early.
Don't say good-bye before it's time.
Don't lose before it's lost
or surrender what's not yet taken.
For those you lose are also losing you.
They count the seconds left
like sunset seconds of a favored day.
And wish to see the setting till it's done--
the ending brilliance, the parting sun.
It isn't losing when you've won
a past of memories.

Though stars are all that's left of light,
the stars do not appear till night.

Running

2008-05-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

I'm following the sun.
If I can run fast enough,
I'll keep it on the horizon.

my shadow spot

2008-05-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

I loved you too passionately then.
Now time has calmed the rage
and waves are ripples splashing
gently on my mind.

You were the noon time sun then,
too hot upon my skin.
I sought for shadows,
wanting shade to shield
my sun-burnt heart.

Too many feelings then.
But now the potency is faded
into starlight--
the lingering warmth
of sun's last breath across
the space connecting us.
The dust from stars
is really dust from you
still restless from you leaving.

I feel them draw me
from my shadow spot
to feel them in the open air--
the air you used to breathe--
and give me clearer pictures
of your beauty then.

I could not stare at sunlight then,
but love to gaze at starlight now--
reflections of your splendor.
It is your fading warmth
that captivates me most.
The twilight view more interesting
to painters.

Lead me to fading shores
where dying embers of past suns
remind me of past beauty best.
These are the moments full of rest,
the ones when love is gently pressed
into my heart.
And I concede at last to start
believing love could be an art
of mine,
if not confined
to summertime and heat stroke.

It was the heat that broke
my spirits then,
But twilight now has made me friend
to lovely pasts, and you again.

important

2008-04-29T02:12:00.000-07:00

I'm important.
No, you're important.
Everyone is more important
than me.
But I'm important
when I'm better than you.
Homogeneity devalues me
to nothing.

important=valuable
valuable=better than things of little or no value
better=uniquely valuable
uniquely valuable=singularly important

important
special
unique
are wasted in generalities.

All my carnal eyes see is comparison.
The world only makes sense in good vs. bad.
I'll never survive in heaven.
They say everything is good there,
And everyone's important.
I'll be nothing.

2008-04-28T06:25:00.000-07:00

If someone is to be blamed for changing
the dynamics of our friendship,
it isn't me.
I'm still single.

Heartbreak (for "Million Dollar Baby")

2008-04-24T01:57:00.002-07:00

It was heartbreak that did it.
It was the break that did him through.
A heart was meant for breaking, for breaking . . .
The pain which is seen with tiny eyes inside.
A broken nose doesn't hurt too bad,
But break the heart, the soul,
The unseen backbone to it all,
To existence--
That is what did him through.
Stabbed with an immortal blade,
These wounds will never heal
And he will never come back to us.
We break and break and break
And cry until the tears come and wash us.
The sweetest water that ever washed our garments.
And tears will save us,
But what when the well runs dry
And we are broken again with no water
To heal?
Life holds its appeal
Only to the brokenless.
Because my arms won't move if hers won't.
She without limb; now me without heart
We are the same.
And death follows.
We are built to be broken
And broken to be built again,
But his heart was rent the last time
And he held nothing in his hands.
Life's blood ran out his soul
Like water drains through bullet holes.
The devil took his heart and wept over it in hell.
Misery loves nothing.
It's just misery.
And the devil weeps forever without tears.
His worst burden is the immortal blade
The Lord gave him, and he breaks the hearts
Of man until they can not mend themselves.
The irreversible pain is sent to him forever
And the broken man to God.

It must be so
For there is no answer to the broken hearted down here.

--June 2006

Becky Joe

2008-04-13T04:27:00.000-07:00

Can your trouble really outweigh the joy of a back scratch? Who can drown the perfume of a flower or the rain upon your face? Nothing can. Not a heartache or a doubt. Not a C-grade or a D. Not a famine or a drought. Not the man you fear is better, nor the mock you feel for failure. You are the King of every moment and the Queen in every mirror. You were not made for moments, but moments made for you. You are the topic of every line and the subject of every play around you. You do not play supporting cast in your existence. You are the star, so every flower was grown for you. And every snow flake the blessing of your eyes. The world is yours. Not you the world's. Of all things you are most gifted, for you can choose the curve of your mouth and move of your hand. And God risked everything to make it so. The riskiest of His creations, you have all power to choose your smile or frown. God wills your smile, but allows your frown. For your freedom, He risked your heaven or hell. And He wills you to Him with all He has. All God Has. God has it all, but you. Until you choose Him. How it must pain Him to allow you NOT to scratch your back or smell fresh mango or taste big snow flakes or see wax melt, so that you can choose it. Because you hardly ever do. You choose to worry it might all be gone someday. And what if it is? If it's gone then you must be. For alive, you have it still. And dead, you have it still. Get used to the happy flowers here; in heaven, they're everywhere. But if you can't see it here, how will you know it there? You've only learned to spot trouble, so when there is none, you will be confused and empty, with nothing to worry about and no idea what happiness is--no idea what you're experiencing. But what of the bad? Can a man simply live ignorant of trouble and still grow into a man? No. But you no more need to seek out pain to know it is there than a fish needs to seek out air. Trouble waits past every stroke. And trouble may kill you, but don't beach yourself before you're beached. Don't miss the rainbow scales upon your skin. Take all the pain and breaks and loss and blow them through your arm hair. Billions of sensors on your skin wait to make you feel them. Don't wait for trouble to pass first. Make trouble wait for you. Your feelings are otherwise engaged. You are feeling the hair move on your arm.

then

2008-04-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

don't look at a picture
at a book
at a word
at a mark on a page
and see anything
really anything

don't hear a song
hear a note
hear a sound
hear a noise from inside
and listen
really listen

don't ask me for the words
for the notes
for the anythings of somethings real
how could it exist for you
if it doesn't

I can't give you that

is not

2008-04-09T07:48:00.000-07:00

Why talk.
Why speak your mind
When not
Inside of one.

Why voice the thing that isn't
loud enough to know.
You can't forgo
the speaking of what's not.

It isn't not.
The same unspoken thing,
the not alive and not existing,
erupts the inner walls resisting.

But talk to let it out?
Expose the thing unliving?
Reveal the unrelenting
pounding of still air?
It isn't fair.
To feel so much of nothing.

Forgiving

2008-03-30T06:38:00.000-07:00

Give me an unloved heart.
An unheld hand,
A friendless part
in life's great play.

Send me forgotten books.
Works out of print
That no one looks
at anymore.

Make me the starving child.
Neglected soul
left to the wild
earth writhing.

But let me love. Don't take
from me my needing
wanting, pining
heart--
the pilot flame
that lets me start
my life again.
If I can feel
my fire of living;
If my heart loves,
I am forgiving.

tiny hands

2008-03-14T07:18:00.000-07:00

Do it for tiny hands.
Those fingers grip mine
when swinging the little person attached.
Those fingers hold mine
when pleading for the smile I have.
Those fingers stroke mine
when nothing's left to do but stand.
They're always in my hands.

Because my hands are strength.
Because my hands are love.
Because my hands can heal
the wanting from your little frame.
Because you trust your world through mine,
And see the start and end of time
in every moment just as kind
and full of hope as ones behind
the ones you're in.

You are the reasons I still am,
reminding me no reason can
give justice for my lingering soul,
so bent on hell from lost control;
But you--the reason part and whole
That I'm allowed new youth at all.

Then look at you and feel you mend
my damaging, weakening, reckless trend
of growing old.
Who could have told
me standing there, I'd be so bold
to live again?
--rebuilding soul with tiny hands
And making heart feel young again.

Don't Worry

2008-03-12T05:09:00.000-07:00

Don't worry the man so distant.
He's only real that way.
Don't give of yourself unassisted.
Your guide, he's not, nor stay.
You'll only fall when resisted,
And feel your world something twisted.
He's worried sick that you've missed it--
his need to go away.

2008-03-05T04:39:00.000-08:00

You can't think
But you want to.
You can't feel
But you need to.
You can't wish
But you seem to.
Not knowing anything,
remembering,
experiencing,
foreseeing,
anything.

She believes in fate,
He believes in will,
You believe in both,
Not making sense of it.

It's supposed to make sense--
You should feel reason.
Of course it doesn't make sense--
That's life.

Life is up to you.
No one will do it for you.
You aren't yours.
You didn't do it--He did.

Work like it's all up to you.
Pray like it's all up to Him.
Be glad to be totally confused your whole life,
Split between a straight and bent neck.

You shouldn't be confused.
Don't you read the Good Book?
Good people aren't confused.
Pretend for now,
I'm sure you'll be good someday,

When you don't think so much.

I want to be good,
but I want to think.
Why is good so unreasonable?

2008-02-27T05:12:00.001-08:00

It wasn't right. Tom never healed completely after the surgery. A surgery he never should have had. Where's the nobility in giving up a part of you if the void kills you? Tom was perfectly healthy. It wasn't his accident--it was his brother's. And if it had happened before medicine considered itself advanced enough to transplant body organs, back when nature had more power to play its hand, Bill would have died and Tom would have watched helplessly. But nature was forced a different turn. Tom didn't even think about it. As soon as they told him Bill needed a kidney, he gave his. There was no question in his mind. If something was good and possible, Tom never thought about it. Good and possible always meant one thing: do it. But it wasn't Tom who would have to live a lifetime cursing the consequences of doing the possibly good. It was Bill. Tom's month-long deterioration after the surgery and eventual death drove deep the resentment Bill harbored for being alive. He knew he should have died. He was living with a dead man's kidney in place of his own--a dead man who had at least seventy healthy years left to live, had he not unwittingly given his kidney to his brother. And Tom was the better man anyway. Like Tom's unquestioning instinct to combine good and possible, Bill never questioned which one of the brothers was the better man. The world deserved Tom for longer, and it would have had him too, had nature not been crippled.

They said Tom would be just fine, that transplants of this sort happen all the time and both parties live out remarkably fine lives. Tom didn't live anything remarkable after that. And all anyone could tell Bill was that Tom's death should inspire him to live out a remarkable life for the both of them now. But Bill only felt like spooning Tom's kidney out of himself each day he awoke and remembered Tom should be alive and him dead.

Cupid

2008-02-13T09:06:00.000-08:00

Those cupid trends...
gave me a girl who pens
my love in lines she bends
to compensate for ten-
-dencies of men
she wishes other.

Follows the cut that ends.
Not still at least just friends.
Love breaks, time mends,
but never sends
more sugar.

we part

2008-01-25T07:36:00.000-08:00

The dark ages of our friendship begin.
And the repercussion of only a few words.
An ounce of closeness spoken
and now we pay with darkness.
Two may silently know it, never say it,
and thereby never leave it.
But one word out loud to the other
and a fine is required.
The debtor will never escape the debt
till paid in blackness--
the severance and destruction
of words' creation.
Word is bond.
And bonds must break
the man it is.
For bonds are not between two men,
but the men themselves,
so that breaking is the physical tear
of hearts,
not snapping of sticks between.
How then could two persons torn apart
ever heal together?
For one is the void in the other.
And both can never be the same again--
the same person.
They must be two.
Had we never spoken those words
we had never been closer to one than two.
But loosed our tongues we did
only to lose them now in silence.
We have no means to say,
nor where to say it,
But emptiness--our only balm.

the frozen chords

2007-12-23T21:05:00.000-08:00

Abby plays her muted trumpet

to the soft piano patter.

Seth sits the baby blue grand

and James sits his armchair close.

Dad savors dark chocolate--

a by-product of caroling to

thankful neighbors.

Mom wishes he wouldn't.

She dreams of growing old.

Becky laughs with old friends

new with her mobile,

and old friends are the music

Seth is playing,

so chatter brings the warmth.

There is a book in Mary's hand,

or does she write to Joel?

She can not last each task alone

and loves them both in turn.

Now Abby plays the keys

and Seth, the strings with horsehair.

I listen to the rain outside,

but in my heart it's snowing.

Only the man packed firm of snowflakes

can match the warmth I feel.

He stands within the music

of the frozen chords--

the ones standing still in time.

Though time will move and pull and stretch

young faces 'till they're old,

stand bold

like frozen chords--stand cold

against time's bidding.

But older chords still young enough to play

are never cold,

nor ever without meaning.

The snowman is my frozen chord

of ageless warmth,

And as such warmth already,

never melts.

I am surrounded by the glow of

life in snowflakes.

twilight never night

2007-12-19T09:50:00.000-08:00

This is the way to be.
With friends who are the friends
you know, now know again;
with motivation for your laughter--
not obligation;
with recollection of the past an aid--
not lifeline to your smiles;
the presence of your doing--
not wanting for past doing and past love.

Live in me now!
For the friend in me now!
But will you go away?
Not just as far as yesterday...?
Please live in me for longer past my leaving.
Then shall I want for little,
but the twilight never night.
So put in me the twilight
for when I fall from sight.

why words? people like pictures better anyway

2007-12-08T16:16:00.000-08:00

for instance: do I need to tell you this is Russia? or that it's beautiful?

when it rains, it pours

2007-12-08T15:03:00.000-08:00

Don't ever tell someone you are doing great, that you are 'back on your feet,' that you are finally in forward motion again. If you do, it will rain. And when it rains, it pours. And no amount of tread or grip will keep you from losing your footing again. You are the lie you thought was truth.

But see the lie as such and you'll begin to dry the land again 'till tread and grip convince you of the truth--that you can stand again. But don't say it. Don't tell a soul. Somehow the rain knows and waits the challenge. The floods will come, disolve the sand you thought was stone, and bury you with waves. The sand takes years to turn to stone. That's why you're choking helplessly; that's why you're floating out to sea.

Mother Russia

2007-11-26T13:16:00.001-08:00

Would you not also want to return?
To where snow and ice and lonely soviet tracks
feel like glow?
Where something so dull and bleak, were it placed
anywhere else in the world,
sparkles and entrances and steals you
and becomes you!
Where something embedded with so much pain
calls to every thing you are
so that you can not let it go,
like an abused child who loves her father deeply--
more deeply and with more tears than you will ever know?
Who can evade the yearning
for a homeland you do not have,
but feel it deep within you all the same?
It is Russia I tell you!
It is the harshest land, the cruelest home,
but the one all lands call mother--
Mother Russia.
And who does not yearn for Mother?

red ice

2007-11-24T16:41:00.000-08:00

Don't tell me I'm great and that everything is ok.
You don't tell me that without your own agenda--
Patronizing me like you're creating me;
feeling the warmth for yourself after thinking you tucked it around me.
But I'm not warm by you
or anyone who thinks they own me through charity.
I'm the owner of fireless sticks
I'm lashing into rafts.
You too would look sour at the gentleman
who looks down upon my pile of sticks,
then smiling with pity discards his cigar
into the wood for igniting.
And thinking he's done his good turn,
turns away
with fake warmth in his heart.
He might as well have sprinkled salt in a fish bowl
for thinking the goldfish in search of the sea.
And what a grotesque thing
for the gentleman to turn away smug
with his virtue, with his selfish gratification at being selfless,
while the fish chokes in his last drink.
You burnt my sticks to ash,
But the blaze you saw in my eyes
was not warmth and blessings piled up in store for you.
It was coldness and ire--
red ice
for the gentlepeople who won't think like a fish,
who won't think like a man building rafts,
who won't think like the child in the ghetto,
who won't think like the man addicted,
who won't think like the prostitute in debt,
who won't think like the younger or the older or the other who is different,
who won't think like anyone else.
How lonely never to think when giving.
And can you really be giving when your ultimate goal
is to feel good from it?
Feeling good is a by-product
when the product is good.
But the raft is burnt and the fish is dead!
Will you turn to look?
Or do you fear what you might see?
or how it might make you feel?
But if you think too much you might be a hypocrite,
so don't think too much.
Your conscience can't get you if you keep it ignorant.

We are not Fools

2007-11-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

We are not fools--the ones who cry.
The fools are those not wondering why
or how or where the meaning's gone . . .
or when the devil silenced song
that played a life in gripping tones.
But life is memory still unknown
'till now, when watered cheeks are all
that's left reminding us of all
we had and all we were and all
the life we can recall
in yesterday.
Give me the fool who cries this way
And I'll show you the one who'll pay
the price for living happy then,
then stand to pay the price again.

Here's a tip . . .

2007-11-12T10:41:00.000-08:00

So I'm at ward choir practice right? Choir director lady pulls out the Christmas music and the first piece is "Lo How a Rose." Everyone starts to whisper to each other.

"Isn't this the Castleton's song?"
"Yeah, this is the one the Castletons sing when they carol at our house each Christmas."
"They come to my house every year."
"Whatever, they come to my house every year."
"They first came to our home in 1995--haven't missed a year since."
"That's nothing. They started in the 80's at our place and we always give them fudge."
"They hate your fudge."
"Whatever, they hate yours!"
"We don't give fudge. We read Luke 2 with them each time and have an impromptu testimony meeting."
"How could you hold a testimony meeting? You don't have a testimony!"
"Your dad works in a bar."
"Your mom works in a bar!"
"Lets see how loud you scream when I pull your hair."
"Stop touching me!"

The whole room soon fills with shrieks and punches and threats of poisoning each other's Christmas fudge. The choir director is new to the area and is bewildered by the scene. In desperation for what to do, she spies the Castletons grouped together smiling and cheering on the upheaval--the look on their faces showing they regard the whole affair as a complement. She yells for them to do something. They don't. So she jumps on the organ, makes sure every key is down and floors the pedal. Everyone stops and covers their ears. After laying off the organ, she stares horrifically at the choir to convey the question, "What on earth is going on!" Everyone looks at the Castletons in response. With broad smiles, slant postures and arms resting on each other's shoulders, they all turn to Joe . . . except for Joe. He's responsible to assess damages and deliver a verdict and he knows it. He takes the toothpick he's been chewing out of his mouth and examines it before responding. His week-old scruff, long curly hair slicked back into a would-be mullet, and large poke-a-dot tie, say most of it before he does. Without looking up he calmly says, "You're new right? Here's a tip," then slowly lifts his head to smile straight at the choir director, "Don't try to sing our song."

The ward choir will be singing "Rudolf" instead . . . with choreography. Call now to reserve your place on this year's Castleton Caroling List and receive two years for the price of one. Just say "Joe is funny" when you call, and we'll stay for fudge at your house this year! Restrictions apply: no nuts, raisins, or cranberries in the fudge. Your right to an encore is immediately forfeited upon the discovery of these dilutes.

Until Nothing Means

2007-11-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

Until nothing means anything anymore.
Until I spill the liquid running the machine,
Until I scream.
I won't go for a while.
I used to run over things, through things.
Now I watch.
I'll scream.
None of this means anything anymore.
I want to mean something--
Can't.
"Too many metaphors," he says.
"They get in the way."
So what if I don't want you understanding what I'm saying?
If you starve on gaps, go back to the boring stuff.
I didn't create all the mysteries.
Communication was born clothed.
It only lies to you if you want.
You can want it to be true if you choose.
And anyway, I don't care what you want to make it mean;
I mean something of my own,
And I'll change it how I want.
Burden to you.
I can't carve the toy soldier you imagine;
So take my words instead and carve what you will.
Words are like clay anyway.
You make them what you want,
But let me keep the original.

by popular demand

2007-10-31T16:43:00.000-07:00

eyelids droop
babies poop
make sure you eat
lots of soup

party hard
cake is lard
Abby says to
stomp the yard

Happy Birthday
Annielle

emcee

2007-10-27T21:18:00.000-07:00

"Thank you all for coming to my birthday party."

Remember that one time when Rachel asked me to emcee her wedding reception and I pretended it was my birthday and everyone laughed except for grandma who actually believed me and started thinking what she could give me for a birthday present and ended up slipping me a twenty in the food line with a wink that was supposed to say it all and I thought "it all" was a tip for doing such a snazzy job at the mic all night and then I found out by eavesdropping that she meant it as a birthday present and then I spent it on root beer right away so I wouldn't have it to give back to her once someone told her the truth but then Rachel got all ticked off at me and said I was like ruining her wedding and pretty much her whole life by being a jerk to grandma about the money and the one thing I couldn't live with was ruining Rachel's whole life so I offered grandma one of the root beers and she got mad and threw it in the trash but it missed the trash and broke on the floor next to the table holding the wedding cake and dad slipped on the root beer and knocked over the cake and then I thought for sure I had ruined Rachel's life except that everyone burst out laughing when they saw dad with cake all over his tux and in his hair like he had just aged thirty years and grandma put her arm around me and laughed and cried and laughed and cried until Rachel started laughing and crying too and started messing up all her make-up from crying and got mad again?

Yeah, that was a good time. And I don't even care that Rachel says that will be the last time she asks me to emcee her wedding reception.

James

2007-10-26T18:12:00.000-07:00

If I felt for every man what I feel for you
If I wished for every man what I wish for you
If I loved every man with the love I have for you

What a grand thing I'd be!
What a Saint I'd surely be!
How alive my world would be!

fourth-person

2007-10-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

"I'm funny. And great honks, people like me!" That is not what he said. At least, not out loud. But everyone needs a phrase to get their adrenaline pumping when they're about to draw all attention to themselves, so that is what he thought. Then he stepped up to bat. And by "to bat" I mean, "to do," a reckless thing. And "to do," with the exchange of a few letters, is "to boo," which is what the crowd did. And "to boo," when said instead of read, sounds like "taboo." And taboo is exactly what he committed when he stepped up to the plate and spit his beef jerky cud all over the umpire's cleats. Needless to say, he struck out. The ump called strike three on a ball way outside and as high as the bleachers. He had expected as much after misplacing his jerky on the ump's shoe, but he still felt a bit mistreated. And then, as if an instinctive reflex to his deflating mood, he suddenly thought, "I'm funny. And great honks, people like me!" His self-confidence restored, he marched back to the plate and spit the rest of his cud onto the umpire's cleats. The big man wasn't humored. Nor did his following actions demonstrate that he liked his assailant. The batter spent the remainder of the game in the locker room re-arranging the laces on his shoes. There comes a point in every one's mad rush at life, driven by pure adrenaline and reckless confidence, when the individual turns against his assumed friend--that "go get 'em tiger!" mentality--and the abuse begins. "I'm not funny. Stop saying I'm funny! You lied to me. People don't laugh with me, they laugh at me. Didn't you hear them! They think I'm an idiot; they don't like me! And who says 'great honks!' anyway. You're retarded!" The abuse would continue, except that the individual doesn't put the blame on himself--he puts it on whatever that thing is that keeps telling him he's funny. He blames something else for the way he feels and becomes certain that all he has to do is stand up and walk away from that nasty mean thing that keeps lying to him. The person is fully confident he can do just fine on his own now that he's severed ties with that . . . that thing. But the difference is only that he starts speaking to himself in first-person, instead of second. He really hasn't severed ties with anything. But on the illusion he has, he begins to rebuild the confidence he just took a sledge hammer to. "Tell me I'm funny and then watch me get laughed at! I'll show you funny! I'll show you what kind of a rock star I really am. And you won't get any credit this time, it's all me! Because gosh darn it, people like me!" Soon, though, he will forget to focus so exclusively on the thoughts firing around in his head and he'll slip back into second-person, especially just after doing something good. "See! You are funny! I told you you were funny. Did you see the way that guy laughed? Dang straight you're funny--don't you let anyone tell you again you aren't funny. And people like you!" But he'll do something inappropriate again. Just give him time. And when he does, it's back to the bench in the locker room to abuse the lying, deceitful, bag of mean tricks, evil, dumb, hate it . . . thing!! And then the mock trial, sentence, and severance party. Before you know it, he's back on his feet and recklessly experimenting with life again, driven by the same adrenaline he hates. But what happens when the man figures out what he's been doing his whole life? That he's been fooling himself in order to preserve himself? And what's the harm in a little hypocrisy now that he knows, if the result keeps him moving happily through life's ups and downs? I'll tell you the harm. He will one day hate hypocrisy, hate himself, and have no where to turn. Too tired of running away from himself he will take full responsibility, take all the abuse and stay seated on that locker room bench for a long while. He may sit there an eternity . . . or he may get up. But what gets him up this time? That is the question. Is it the first-person, the second, or the third? Or can he live without narrating his life at all? Who's the narrator anyway? And who said it was a mere "person?"

Words

2007-10-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

I hate words.
They won't serve me.
They won't be wielded by my abrasive hand.
Like bad children they scatter when their
father calls them and rebel the worse at
attempts to tame them.
They mock me, serve not my meaning to others.
They know me and laugh that no one else can.
Disguised as portals to my soul they attract,
then turn to armored walls and attack
the guests I wanted.
Deceptive as sour milk in baby bottles.
You'll never know the poison until your child screams--
the one inside you wanting good milk.
And part of me dies to see it so.
I lash out at the words:

You putrid things!
I asked for good, for sweet, for life.
You gave them knives.
And left the dying cries
of children in my ears.
My wanted meaning disappears
Just like my unseen, unheard tears
at hidden words you changed to mean
your putrid things!

And in response, the words laugh loud
to keep the truth from listening crowds
who wait for words
to tell my heart.
As if the words
obey my art--
the art I am.

But I'm like you and hear them only.
The words I write will disobey me
once on the page--
Like children sent from God to earth
to show the world His love and worth,
not wars to wage . . .
But that is all they do from birth.

Yet, does the Father stop creating?
Cease His constant renovating
of our souls
When we evade the knowledge given
and shun the caring He has bidden
us the share?

But I'm no Father,
nor have I children
but bastard words I've found and driven
into lines.
Like mines ill-placed at times of war
my words deface what I'd adored
when writing.

Now nothing's more inviting
than to hate those words.

Bueford Day

2007-10-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

The twentieth day of the tenth month. Rare is the solemnity of an event observed with as much black clothing within the LDS culture. Funerals, where one would usually expect a sea of black to represent the congregation, are adorned with more light and color in this culture than in others. And why should it not? These people believe life isn't really over at death--that separation from loved ones is only temporary and ice-cream isn't as bad for you up there anyway, so the dead are probably having a much merrier time of it than we are. There is one catch to this idea of temporary parting: it only pertains to things with living souls--not vehicles you became emotionally attached to in mortality. The Castleton's big old Dodge Ram van isn't going to make it past the pearly gates . . . no matter how many times we unloaded all our emotional drama onto its steering wheel and dashboard. The gas guzzler just isn't going to have an immortal soul no matter how hard we cried and prayed for its survival during those last splutters and coughs of exhaust it exhaled in the desert. We won't see "the beast" again. And all the "fun times" we had almost falling to our deaths through the make-shift floor boards at sixty miles per hour are just going to have to remain memories with no opportunity to relive the moment. Even the fact that we gave Bueford a name won't carry him over to the next world. Bueford is dead, and will be even when we're dead. So, why all the black clothing? Because we became so darn attached to something without a soul that now we have to mourn its loss each year--the void never to be refilled. Of course, I filled it a long time ago with NASCAR, but Becky wouldn't join me because she likes having a good reason to wear all black once a year. None of us can ever resist doing everything Becky tells us to do when she asks with that quiver-lip thing and the waterworks. So, I still wear black once a year on October 20th and hang my head and look really depressed in photo shoots. Here's to old rusty metal and make-shift floor boards: We miss you Bueford.

the arrangement of metal, rubber and plastics

2007-10-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

James' motorbike--when words don't work anymore, James' moterbike does. Thanks James.

Cold Collar

2007-10-16T10:51:00.000-07:00

it takes more to freeze

than an icy blast seize

at your blood.

it takes a warm breeze

stripping naked with ease

heart's defense against "please

let me in."

it takes giving keys

to the one asking "please"

and false safety in birds and in bees,

so that when the maid leaves

you're exposed, and you freeze

from the lonely ice seize

at your blood.

This man says it

2007-10-11T13:55:00.001-07:00

I was going to give everything.
Everything.
No, I was going to give more than everything.
That was the secret.
And then, when I thought I'd given even more than was humanly possible,
I was going to reach back somewhere inside myself,
like the best race horses did,
and find whatever it is on the bottom line that makes a champion,
and was going to give it that.
And I'd win.

--Jesse Owens

Forced to Live

2007-10-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

When in the lover's pain,
There is nowhere to go
nowhere to be
nothing to say
nothing to free
your forlorn soul from suffering.

It's drifting in space with claustrophobia
or motion sickness from the earth's spin.
It's freezing at 100 degrees Fahrenheit
or burning at the other end.
It's death by wanting,
Yet forced to live each moment more.
No search can end the suffering
nor find the right in every sore.

If at least it were the noble thing,
If at least I sensed some glory;
If at least I were the martyr king
In some heroic story.
But it's none of these,
Not ev'n at least.
In simplest terms it's boring.
The plot is worth ignoring,
For sits the man restoring
Nothing by his sitting
And nothing by his spinning
of the harshest words--
the ones meant for his ridding
of the pain.
Not even rain
Can drown his sickness whole
And leave him sleep--that peaceful role
of happy men, of kings extolled.
The suffered sits--nothing consoled.

. . . is not to care

2007-10-07T19:27:00.000-07:00

To use the thing,
wring out the being
on pretense of your loving;
Then shun the shell,
the dried up well
when nothing's left for drinking;
And blame it first
for unquenched thirst
instead of blame your leaching;
Like eating seeds
for hating weeds
and time required for sowing;
Yet eating 'till
you're hungry still
and hate the plants not growing . . .

. . . is not to care.

. . . is not the rare
and cultivated loving
of real friendship.

For care's the seed
and love the reed
grown from the ground befriending;
And when reeds die
new seeds fall nigh
and prove care-full beginnings.

But you ate seeds,
your passion--reeds
of nothing worth devouring
now that famine's come.

look-alike singles

2007-09-30T17:43:00.000-07:00

So I'm thinking and thinking, staring at the carpet, when mutton chops over there calls out to me, "Hey Robin! Dude, I haven't seen you in a while. How's it been man?" My first impulse was to reply that I hadn't seen him in a while either, and that in fact, I'd never seen him so why was he calling me weird names that only made me think of comic books. But I didn't say it. Instead, though knowing there was no one to my left, right, or behind, I made obvious glances in all directions to give the man ample opportunity to figure out his mistake. It didn't work. "Robin, what's up man?" I looked him straight in the eyes this time and waited as long as I dared to give him one more chance without seeming rude. Unfortunately, he still felt at home with his long lost friend, Robin. Suddenly, I wanted to be funny to help out a bit. "Hey Batman, nice chops. Is that the new disguise?" I thought the words, but managed to conquer the impulse to say them. Funny was not going to be appropriate right now. "I'm afraid you have the wrong man, sir." Those words never developed sound either because I thought them in a British accent and everyone knows that an American trying to sound British always comes off sounding condescending, unless he has taken classes, and I had no classes in British diction, so I left off.

Thoughts and memories flash through the mind much quicker than it takes to write them down, so I still hadn't reached the rude point of my staring when I recalled a time several months ago when I caught a young man smiling to himself as he took a picture of me with his cell phone. Suddenly realizing I noticed, he explained I looked exactly like a friend of his and he just had to send my picture to his friend to show him. Now, a few months later, I have Batman staring me in the face for what seems like minutes, completely convinced I'm his sidekick. We finally reached breaking point and I gave in. "Sorry man, I'm not Robin." "You're not? You look just like him!" "Apparently," I replied. The man turned to the side to let me know he considered the conversation over, but remained gazing in disbelief at my profile. I pretended not to notice.

What is it with me and look-alikes? Is there really more of me out there somewhere? Different human bodies walking around, filling some agenda I don't know about, but ultimately connected to me through looks? What are my other lives like? Am I cool, clumsy, stupid, in a rock band, married? Well, at least I can be sure I'm not married. Marriage is completely about looks, and if one look-alike can't attract the opposite gender, the others certainly can't. But what if one of us does find a girl who wants this look? Is all lost for the rest of us? Are we all in a mad race to find her first? It would seem so, I thought to myself as I walked toward my car and in frustration rummaged my pockets for my keys. My thoughts had begun in light-hearted humor, but had suddenly become solemn. What ever would happen to me if I never found a girl who could love me beyond all the look-alike GQs out there, beyond all the Peter-priesthoods out there. What if no girl ever saw through all the crowing roosters and gorgeous peacock feathers of a billion look-alike suitors to where I was, to where I stood singled out as me and not as my feathers. And the girls who did see me were just the ones who took random stabs at the masses, just happening upon me like happening upon Robin. I couldn't be reconciled to that. And what if she did come and I was too stupid to see her--just her. What would I have to live for? What would make me smile? But then I did smile. For in the wake of no one, there is always some one--and no look-alikes. There is only one me. And I'm the luckiest person alive because I already have me forever. There can be no mistaking that, and no divorce either.

It rained all the way home. And I had me and I smiled.

2007-09-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

Come sit on the swing of my childhood

And listen to the stories that made me

the fish of '98

2007-09-27T15:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just have to say goodbye, no matter how much work you put into preserving the thing. Such was the case with the fish of '98. Nearly ten years ago on a day filled with appreciation for free fish, an assortment of salmon and trout lay strewn all about the lawn undergoing a rather unsightly gutting and chopping process. The end of the road for these gutless, headless fish was a plastic and paper wrap labeled "Salmon '98." I say "end of the road" to mean they never managed to aspire to a nobler presentation, like the one they might have enjoyed on the dinner table. The sparkle of fine china, the wine goblets, the adornment of parsley and basil and lemon-pepper, the honor of resting on silver platters--none of this was theirs. They did, however, make it to the compost pile ten years later when the deep freezer in the basement finally gave them up. Today, on a day filled with tears and remorse, the ten-year-old assortment of salmon and trout lay once more strewn all about the lawn, this time undergoing the rather laborious process of scraping and tearing the papery-plasticy-fishy wrap of '98. (The reason here for the term "papery-plasticy-fishy wrap" is necessary only because the chemical process which occurred to create the mesh of the once separate and individually named materials of paper, plastic, and fish, eludes me. The single material derived from the interwoven mesh of these three, I believe, has not been named. Or either it has, but from lack of foreseeable commercial value the patent lawyers were never summoned. Whatever the hindrance, I know of no better way of describing the substance than papery-plasticy-fishy stuff, for it was all one). The material was laboriously scraped from the frozen flesh and discarded to the waste bin. The fish of '98, which stunk even while still frozen, were bedded down in a three foot hole in the compost pile. Apparently fish are the only meat edible to compost piles. Two days later, the earth was hot above the buried flesh. Dad was excited, and well, he had to be. He needed to replace his disappointment at not being allowed to fry up some of the fish and test its salvageability. Mom, with financial motives to keep him alive longer, firmly dismissed his motion and he was forced to find fulfillment in the chemical experiment going on under ground between overly ripe fish flesh and dirt. Two days of fish-strewn-lawn in ten years and three days of night-watch duty to make sure dad wasn't still trying to salvage the fish, and we all slept content that the deed was done. The fish of '98 were dead.

Epilogue: One hour later. Mom filled the deep freeze with pork.

She Won't Come Easy (guitar lyrics for Rachel)

2007-09-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

I know a little girl
She walks at night above the stars you see
She skips along until the song of 'good die young' makes others sleep
She sees so differently, life's melody is harmony for her

She--she won't come easy,
she'll make you wheezy if you try.
She--she hums along
with the love of life's song running pure in her veins
She--she knows no reins but the Carpenter's.

I'd give that little girl
full breath to say the things and walk the way you won't
You've never walked that way, your two feet--wheels on track that someone laid.
She sees so differently, life's railroad is the toll road others take
--------------------------------------

I asked this little girl
what love is like.
She said the moon is bright, not light;
the stars are real, beyond the steel
of starry eyes.
Love sees so differently, Love's truest form out runs the storm of hate--
that mood cheap lovers have once they create
cheap love.

Love's real beyond the daffodil,
beyond the words that poets steal
to write true love in lines.
their love never defines
more than the wedding chimes
can do when ringing in the sound of love,
the call of love;
no gall of love can they foretell,
no tears they see at wishing wells
years down the road
where love unloads
its coins to pay for passage
through the pain--
the pain that is the love of old,
back when the chimes swung ringing,
and all the friends stood singing
of a new love born.

But later torn
the lover wishes she had seen
past starry eyes, the mean-
ing shown on glassy mirrors:
reflection of the stars above--
the real ones, like real love
so far away
through light years pay
of cold and dark and empty
space--
the years that etch their trace
since that first plunge
into the breathless silent night
until, thank God, we feel the light
of perfect love.
It isn't here, but up above.
But still starts here, that seeking of
real stars.
---------------------------------

I know a little girl
who walks at night above the stars you see.
She--she won't come easy.

2007-09-20T12:32:00.000-07:00

Ben, do you remember when I lost my favorite hat in Hawaii and started crying in the airport, and you felt so bad for me you bought me a hat in one of the unreasonably expensive airport stores?

Well I remember, and I think of it every time I hear Hawaiian music. You have always been my older brother, but at that moment you were truly my big brother. For that moment not a single particle of you was reserved for any other role.

You were all--big brother,

and that mine

And I remember.

Remembered

2007-09-18T16:28:00.000-07:00

For the moment you were real.
But the moment was just that--

a moment.
Yet you are worth the past
And I remember.

letter to jared

2007-09-18T14:35:00.000-07:00

Jared,
Last Monday eve while watching a group of mature adult women abandon all reason, self-respect, and vitality, over the image of a burp cloth and "huggies" water sausage, I was prepared to assume my naive position--virgin and barren--as the one to which my ultimate sanity would be in debt. Your wife's baby shower served my intentions of matrimony as hypothermia serves to save a man attempting to sever his spinal chord. I slept well the nights that followed. Tonight, though, I will not sleep so soundly. An announcement I just read on a Washington DC singles listserv has brought again the beat-stick out of me and I currently attempt to disassociate my skull with the rest of me. Jared, I would wait the filling of 10 billion diapers in the terrible company of baby shower guests before I would have myself less than horrified by the manner of this man's speaking. The aging bachelor is sick, and guts himself with shallow and gay speech when he supposes otherwise. I pray I stand yet the middle ground, if still there be some between married and fool. You will kiss your wife, I'm sure, and bless the child she carries when you read what I'm about to show you.*

*Being myself unacquainted with the individual whose writing personality I slighted and having, therefore, no grounds on which to request his permission to reprint his material, I refrain here from reproducing the same, though I in no way withheld the same from Jared, he being one individual and responsible and you being many and irresponsible by nature of your number. It is enough to explain the individual's "manner of speaking" as expressing an over abundance of fluff, gaiety, exuberance, and disconnect with all sense of reality and authenticity. And all this was spent on the topic of Frisbee hour.

Captian of a Soul

2007-09-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

I want to write, to bleed and know.
I want to have another go
at yesterday
when things less grey
distilled upon my mind
the kind
and clear,
the things ev'n-tide made disappear.
Give me the solid, the bright, the true,
Not misty wonderings of what to do.
The ship went down
I should have drowned,
It would have been the noble thing.
But I jumped ship
Only to rip
And tear my very being.

(To E.E. Commings: If any horcruxes were created as a result of this tearing, they were unintentional and therefore unknown to me.)

Bridges burnt

2007-09-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

To hurt no more--
No of me, but of others.

A friendship had so healthy and tender
Leaves in us a will to remember.
But friends, instead we hurt will say:
I won't recall that bitter day
When love was pain
And I held shame
For ever going beyond the point
Where bridges burn and none anoint
The ashes to reverse, but time.

And time, the bridge, it does restore
For those once pained to cross back o'er
To happiness and joy and friends
Whose longed for friendship lends
A closeness worth remembering.

And I, the cause of so much hurt;
The builder of bridges, which must be burnt
For closeness' sake,
I'm feeling raked
Over embers of pain I caused,
Over burning coals I lodged
In hearts
Of those I loved.
I would quit this post to which I'm tethered.
I would seek a friend remembered.

Oh, to hurt no more--

Cracked Wood

2007-09-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

How could I steal the love from those hands?
So much love.
How could I leech their tenderness--
Extract the softness into my own
when I, though I tried,
could never return the same.
Her affection was new stain
on cracked wood.
My cracked heart
sucked her love dry
with nothing but random surface lines
to reflect the stain--
the lines of my skin
no longer cohesive enough
to bear resemblance
of a love touch.
I struggled to blend the lines,
frantic to reflect her love
in eyes of solid mirror.
But the lines stayed cracked and gaping
while stain flowed through like water.

She's someone's beloved daughter
And I, an unworthy lover,
Make way for someone other
than me.

Letter to Joel

2007-09-02T18:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Joel,
You are the coolest Castleton by far and I am 2nd. Seth and Abigail tie for 3rd place. Everyone else ties for 4th and last place. I just thought I'd let you know how the standings sit with your departure. A little while ago, Ben campaigned to try and move ahead of Seth and Abby in the number three spot, but he didn't get enough votes due to unethical bantering in his campaign song. If you ask me, he was mostly riding on the good looks of his vice president, Emily, and charisma of his campaign manager, Denison, to pull him through. His lesson learned, he will campaign with a different approach next time. I'll keep you posted on any change in rankings while you're away, though you don't need to worry about losing your #1 spot for at least 2 years--full-time missionaries earn an average of 13 points per day compared to the 2 or 3 points a non-missionary usually maxes out on. Also, I'll follow the progress of your favorite WWF wrestlers and let you know if "The Undertaker" finally gets beat by "The Sheriff," as you predicted. Good luck learning Italian. I still think it's weird they're sending you to Japan speaking Italian.
Love,
Joe

p.s. Jared can wakeboard left handed.

cakes

2007-08-31T16:06:00.000-07:00

If all were deaf but to speech
And blind but to features
If all lacked touch but the physical
And smelt nothing without air

If front teeth said it all
And hair color changed meaning
If fingernails told truth
And freckles proved poor markings

If wind turned you to sand
And water turned you earth
If fire turned you to ash
And coldness turned you ice

And you were yet inside all these . . .

I'd have you still
I'd have you still

No Words

2007-08-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

Write it down

2007-08-29T19:46:00.001-07:00

Once here today and gone tomorrow--

My being comes and goes with time.

The glee, the joy, the pain and sorrow

Are songs I borrow.

The moments they're attached to vanish

And so will they live just as long.

Those names and dates remembered famish

When all the blood's gone.

So write it down with more than writing.

Arrange words in just such a way

That let live on your time and meaning

Far past the day.

Captain of a Soul

2007-08-29T18:44:00.000-07:00

The ship went down
I should have drowned
It would have been the noble thing,
But I jumped ship
Only to rip
And tear my very being

Ben, Before Breakfast

2007-08-29T18:25:00.000-07:00

Ben wakes, checks his competition in the mirror, and sets out to beat it. The shower, hair gel, breakfast of champions, and hot iron for today's choice of business casual: light pink, heavy pressed--all unite to form Ben's five-star front. He finds the mirror again to prove himself. About this time, Ben's younger brother and only successful side-business (he pays rent) shuffles into the open bathroom door, blinks at Ben, and offers an approving nod to his own reflection in the mirror. Ben, presently flustered with his seeming inability to just once look better, faster than his reflection, turns to Joe and, after a quick glance at the tie-dye t-shirt he is sporting, says, "For example, I would never wear a shirt like that." This picks up, as if seamlessly, the conversation the two brothers began the first morning after Joe moved into the basement, and carried on in like manner every morning thereafter. Joe smiles, admiring Ben's contemptuous expression, and retorts, "And neither would your reflection, it appears, which explains why you're still standing there, unable to out-dress such fierce competition. Ben doesn't respond, but remains standing there, a look of almost fatherly pity for the rebellious son etched on his face. But Emily and the two toddlers have moved into position at the breakfast table and Ben leaves Joe to wink at his bearded complexion in the mirror.

color

2007-08-06T07:08:00.000-07:00

Haven't you seen death?
or at least the shadows of it?
Haven't you felt famished?
or at least the hunger in it?
Haven't you been homeless?
or at least the vagabond of it?
Haven't you wondered
just for one moment
why it's so hard?
You relate in at least the smallest way to the extremes of art,
So why not dream?
Why insist the color bland or the topic dull
and call that reality?
and call that living?

There is color in the anguish of man.
Why bleed grey?
Blood is deeper Red than you've ever seen.