"Change Is Not an Event"

Be it by the process of growing up or just forgetting, in some way our magic spins away, shallowing the places inside where the extraordinary color of laughter hides. Sometimes, I think I hear my name whispered as a warning; only it is often behind me, or uttered like someone passing me by is urging me to change direction. On the coldest days, when the grey wind drapes the brittle world inside my head. I can hear the whispering tones of an unsettled audience, hushing one another in anticipation of my demise.

"Every Day"

Somewhat nowhere,
slack in a chain.
The machine that pulls,
shortens poverty.
Supposedly I walk,
I breath,
I retire,
from a greater cause.
Who's cause is it?
Mine?
Yours?
This death is slow,
convincing,
seductive.
Escaping poverty means?
I leave the earth behind.

"Too Much Too Soon"

I watched the saddest man in the world while he watched me. Intent and terrible, ailing and willful, he finally cried for more than himself. With all his weightier plans resigned, his fruitless gambles had broken him. Fallen like an empty wish, his secret hopes had silently become an immovable regret, painting hindsight with all he'd left unsaid.
When his children needed food or shelter he complained about politics, incessantly studying inequality while practicing neglect. An idealist with no follow through is a fallen hero of sorts, a babbling madman whose followers, in the end, doubt only themselves. In time, he may bury this legacy with more lies and new children. Yet, those that bear his name feel the foreword of their fabric bears an envious tone. Small and pitching, slow and sullen they hate the world as cynics do.

"Coming to"

The truth is a delicate thing, pointed yet easily dulled, fixed yet giving. If it hurts to remember the past, we lie, coloring it to our advantage. The finer details we forget, if only to console ourselves. To walk this hidden way darkens the shade, separating us from true kinship. Like the orphans of lesser gods, we walk between two worlds, ashamed of our humanity while withholding the power that might save it.
There are many things that bring a person to feel powerless over their life. Too many traumas strip a person's dignity, causing them to internalize a reality where all love has conditions. If you can never deserve the benefit of kindness, every outstretched hand becomes a threat, regardless of its intention. If the threat is real, people's reactions vary. Some fight while others sing, alike in that each hope to find peace.
In between the heart of revenge and creativity there is a common artery, the tumbling insistence of regret. Often, those that flee carry the misguided guilt of abandoning the struggle while others stay and suffer. This is the way the past tampers with a person's future; worrying you sick that if old pain catches you in the present, it might incapacitate you. Or perhaps the contrast between past and present might expose the most human parts of a person's nature, proving the existence of all we've chosen to ignore.

"Remembering What Being Is"

They were my shield,
in the event of catastrophe;
They promised;
Withheld sick promises;
Beat black the more sensitive child;
He felt more than his sisters,
sacrificing for their sanctuary;
In small lit passages he prayed,
in the dark thick hum of bedtime;
As my mother shut out the light,
beneath the summer sheets,
I sang private congregations;
A magical boy mind,
heard Cicadas like choirs,
taming frowns that sank my spirit;

Don't Wait

Today is the day,
a long acceptance sometimes brings;
True regret,
just shy of hate,
no human can amend;
This sad sort of passing time,
tears at the brighter side of what memories remain;
Whether I live one more year or a hundred,
I beg what powers be;
Please save the bashful boy;
He grows violent in isolation,
bathing in the unmentionable consequence of all he's left unsaid.

"Pleases and Thank You's"

Changeling of a boy,
restless rocking;
White skin,
thin and whining;
A quiet place,
no listening lends;
No school for peace,
they march the child,
too young for war;
Clenching carpals,
a strangers cross,
no soldier can abide;
Risen is the killer;
His beginnings,
a violence of abandonment,
his father must admit.

"The Way of Wishing"

I scripted my life long ago in the language of  "less obvious observations". I was the sort of child that folded his view of the world into metaphors. In this state of fanciful grandure I thought in the form of impressionistic reflections. "Pretend like" , the two most frequent words in my vocabulary, I pontificated on daily in monologue-ish intonation. I swore with fervor I could travel in time, talk to animals, and move objects with my mind.  Kept awake by the alleged powers of my magical boy mind, I lay pleasantly restless in bed searching the pungent noise of summer midnights gloating at the possibilities. 

Above my headboard, my prize possession hung. It seemed to hover of its own accord neath the A/C vent, suspended twelve inches from the ceiling by transparent nylon fishing line. It was an inflatable Snoopy vs. the Red Baron biplane. This was the type of novelty you won at traveling carnivals for winning the ring toss or knocking the teeth out of a plastic clown with a water gun, which indeed I had. Struggling to sleep, I proudly scanned it from trim to tail each night. Eye to eye with Snoopy, I practiced mind over matter by focusing and defocusing my eyes.  Forcibly fogging my corneas became the channeling potential of locomotion. Every hint of the plane's movement validated the existence of my special powers. More so, the secadas humming outside my window endowed these moments with chimeric intensity.

After several minutes of grasping air like a "sorcerers apprentice", I chose respite from dissappointment in the form of closing my eyes. In case my powers didn't work instantaneaously I rationalized perhaps there was a gestation period for the metaphysical. Maybe you had to first imbue the subject then wait as your creation takes form?  I remembered seeing Angela Lansbury have this same problem in "Bedknobs and Broomsticks."  So I waited. Daring to squint a peek at progress, I opened my eyes to see Snoopy spinning slowly counterclockwise. I had done it!! I was the first person in the documented history of humanity to move an object with their mind! I had indisputable proof!
I reproduced this ceremony and its results night after night. For a while, it was glorious basking at the top of the world with the proven might of telekinesis. What next befell me I have just recently understood.
 
Unbeknownst to me, my parents were approaching divorce. A six year old has no comprehension of the subltle silences that grow between adults. After a typical day of Kindergarten at Gullett elementary, my mother picked me up from school in the primer red Subaru she always drove. Though shabby inside, I hadn't noticed the tears in the vinyl or loose wires below the ignition cylinder. Somehow, on this day, my mother's demeanor shifted my own. She was solemn, eyes pacing as she drove. I followed her stares for the destination of her shifting gaze. In doing so I took in each loose end of seat fabric, wires, and peeling vinyl like a revelation. My new awareness of these conditions was the beginning of knowing what we didn't have and other things we'd always needed.
 
My mother turned into the driveway crackling through the gravel that collects near the curb. We walked into the house to see my father sitting silently uncomfortable on the couch. Beside him were a collection of things familiar. Some stuff was mine. Other things belonged to he and my sister. Each pile of items contained things pulled from their rightful place of familiarity. I wanted to return each pile and each item to its proper place. Yet, somehow I felt the impossible permanence of their fate. I ran to my room to seek out my most envious possession. Plucked from its string, the objectified symbol of my innocence was gone. Twisting in the breeze of the A/C vent above my bed, the nylon line that gave flight to my first great leap of faith streamed companion-less. I ,beyond all else, felt the sum total of my finite self shrink around me. There was no magic anymore, only the cold dusty air that dried my eyes as it escaped the slats of the vent. My father left that day. 

I have walked the sad and winding road back to my childhood faith. I have searched for reasons why I should go back.  I have searched for reasons why I shouldn't. I have screeched gutturally on my knees, wishing for something quicker and more permanent than death to remove my questioning. To call the missing piece God is too simple. This implies a seperation or an impossible void. As a man I've felt like the nylon string dangling companion-less from my ceiling.  The pain of living somehow holds up to the light all that we lack. Yet, I remember a boy who folded his view of the world into metaphors, gleaning magic from the novelty of what he imagined he could be. Maybe, I could again lay pleasantly restless in bed, searching the pungent noise of summer midnights gloating at the possibilities, just maybe.

"The Weight of Resiliency"

In the hardest moment, just before giving up, there exists a small and graceful silence. In its subtlety we miss it, like the hushing sound snow makes. Yet, in this instant comes the promise of new hope and a life less lived in vain.

Some carry this freight, inordinate and lumbering. They wear it in the creases below their eyes. They feel it in their necks, flinching with every danger. They believe this anticipation will save them from harm. Surviving seals the seams that crack the wanderers, stitch, stitch, stitching at one end, unraveling at the other. That which pulls the thread is the weight of resiliency.

"To Us"

How do you write the story of people like us? We are the sweaty, angry, more worked, less payed people of America. For us, love and money are hard earned. We are forced to prove our merit.

This myth of upward motion kills many of us. We stay quiet and turn inward. Some of us kill each other for opportunity. Others are the tools of industry, literal parts of a machine. We sway and bend in repetition. Our bodies hold the memories of our vocations.

Believing in a mission statement masks the pain of being nails, the fasteners that maintain the very structure that corrals us. This makes us, hate us. There are others that know this. They recognize this self hatred as a most effective tool. We are dependent on the spoon-fed opportunities of our caretakers.

What if we lived autonomously, no colonial beads in our pockets? Who would we be?
What would our cultures look like? Would we return to our homes and countries of origin? Who are we in our purest form, unclouded, independent of our roles in production? Who am I?

"To Kate and Katherine"

Brim of a lavender sky,
dancing lightly,
like a child's prayer.

Dove-like hands,
cradling each wish,
a simple joy returns.

Breathing again,
in minor chords,
small and sentient.

No less their blessing,
quiet morning brings.

Small ones wake,
new snow,
their proof of an amorous God.

"Facing the Inevitable"

Seeking closure,
small courage his shelter.

In time,
may peace be granted.

In acceptance,
may the restful escape.

Weeping nearby,
hiding tires the wanderer.

Though shaded,
vacant privacy self induced,
no loner can resolve.

A few simple wishes,
mutually telling,
bends close the wanderer's ear.

He remembers kind things,
traveling when he must,
an accommodation of regret.

"Lying In Vain"

Exquisite anger,
I savor slow.

Safety of destruction, 
lets loose the overachiever.

His depreciation,
further driven.

A perfectionist's revenge,
my end the aim.

"The Iceberg"

By the will to travel I walk the thinnest lines. I will risk all safety for the chance to claim the rare and hidden intricacies of love and all the fear invented in the process. Having set abroad, I deny myself the protection of conventional wisdom. The noise of regret dampens the memory of a suggestive mind. More vacant by its effect, an aloof bemusement consumes all I think could have been. In reality this superfluous deprecation erodes a useful existence.

No sentient life breaths free in the vacuous spaces that disconnect heart from hand.
Very few of us stand alone with the luxury of time. As others tenderly suffer the sacrifices we submit, they wait for the return of their sweet companion.

In the oceanic eyes of a patient child I am saved. This power drew me from the brink. I must honor her selflessness. She permits what I myself would not endure, a chance to return home.

There is, within us all, a need for the respite of family. They blunt the sharper edges of life's turmoil, forgiving what others cannot. They take us in tattered and threadbare, victims of our own natures. The kindest cut of all, they stroke our lowly heads when bowed in the salty mist of hindsight. Here in a passing instant I find reason to remember what once I found redeemable in myself. Blessed by circumstance, I lay again beside the morning window anew with the gratitude of homecoming.

"Parts of Parts"

To know me at all; there are things to tell of that few people have seen.  If they were to somehow see into what underwrites my demeanor, they might catch a glimpse of the tears I often dissuade. When I remember simple acts of relevant kindness my eyes show their palest watery blue. In the hidden distance of a stoic gaze I often touch my face to stop the coming flood like a parent comforts a child. This sobering caress brings my presence into the honor of her memory.

A few years ago I had a dear friend with terminal cancer. As her body was slipping away, she clung to the things she could still feel. Things like Ice on her fingertips and strawberries thinly sliced and placed on her tongue became her chosen indulgences. Her mother would stand over her holding a Dixie cup full of ice chips so Katherine could dangle her fingertips in the cold water. While friends and family martyred themselves in dramatic fashion, her mother held back her own grief until she was no longer needed. She was the center of solace amid the impossible pain of her daughter's finality. In the last week of my friend's life I sat beside her bed holding her hand. She could not speak. Slowly, in a plain voice, I began describing the painting that hung above her bed. As she squeezed my hand, I realized I had always wanted to hold hers. I wished I had told her before she got sick.

I see the bright spots of humanity move unknowingly with purpose in daily living. They dance at funerals and laugh during the eulogy, thus lifting sorrow. They make silly faces to the delight of frowning children. They sing to crying babies and joy in their calming. I have even seen strangers fall in love amidst the aftermath of car wrecks and other tragedies. Surprised by circumstance we glean something far greater than cause and condition. Our actions imply what even we don't understand. Each part we play has a corresponding counterpart.

As the sun climbs the wall of the world at dawn, its light wakes a living jigsaw puzzle. We fit together in each others lives perfectly mysterious until the puzzle is complete. In a hundred years or less, all of us here now will be gone. Yet, this century we shared in unison. Never again will these same circumstances arise. We each will appear in the autobiographies' of those around us as heroes, villains, lovers, and friends. We race toward one another like ripples in a pond never fully understanding who we touch or why. Moving toward us in ways we cannot foresee, our greatest teachers arrive in the moments of our greatest despair. We must promise to look and listen. To leave unsaid the truths of our stories, is like robbing the future of triumphs yet unwritten.

"Pressures of Normality"

The endless banter of a forced romance sours perfect passion.
 
I wish to raze the expected gifting of defined commitment. In the beginning two colliding fascinations meet to satisfy the other. These tell all moments , over time, become pragmatism. This struggling pace demands the death of emotionalism. Faint and hovering the slow and sulky exchange occurs. A barren remembrance displaces the seat of  torridity. Together, the wanting and the wanted die for the sake of what once saved them. 
We must reject the need to explain what is indefinable! Slow by instinct careful hands trace their lover's profile.  How do they know their destination, scaling every nerve without even a brushstroke?  They shift briefly toward the ether, trusting, just trusting. The distance traveled just before first embrace ,an aligning of sorts, feels like breathing in a minor key. 

There are no words or human expressions that relate the marrow of all things. First snow, in the minds of children, is their proof of an amorous God. They bless the night sky with words like prayers before they sleep, hoping for the white hush to come. I have myself stared in to the gleam of a sulfur street lamp begging the bluing clouds to kiss the orange light with more than a drizzle. 

In the still of me there has always been hope for no reason at all. There has always been passion for some missing piece. In the still of me remains a push to view the fringe that outlines some indeterminable self portrait. Be it good bad or indifferent, the truth is I don't know why and there is magic in that mystery. 

"Quiet Please!"

I pine for the power, 
praying despite disbelief.

An atheist temperament,
unjustly repositioned.

Please! I beg,
borrowing strength.

No shadow cast,
dirges celebrate,
love in twos.

Mourning but brief,
no man denies,
these elegies' swift escape.

No waste of joy can be,
more inside,
a softer noise rises.

Solace they offer,
new peace prompts the march.

This bends festive,
their powerful invocation,
no matter the outcome.

"In Black and White"

Mutually careful,
a quickening glance,
withheld in understanding.

A generous nature,
patient for reciprocity,
hinders haste.

This gift,
a restless knowing,
imperceptible by most.

For future's sake,
the treasured heart,
carefully cradled.

Slow and easy,
breaths the advance.

Worth more in stillness,
shines first embrace.

"Name of the Form"

Ethical order,
knows what wholeness,
soon must render.

Socrates' accusers,
once mistook,
religion for truth.

Blind opinions,
sheltered by politics.

Inmost Nature's way,
love and friendship,
none disinherit.

Pledged to truth,
Euthyphro offers escape!

Refused by his mentor,
an outcome of death,
chosen like a shield.

His legacy remains,
shaken free by time,
a charge-less truth,
its comfort shows.

"Returning Me"

More taken,
surrendered as due.

Disquietude's overture,
trims the purse of patience.

Unkempt by force,
dear colors fade.

Tender words,
come near slow,
like a dams trickle.

Cracked in turn,
a flood ahead,
finds the rip.

All gray taken,
water like fire,
regrows delicate.

As once was,
within me many,
the violets lush.