Patron Saint

When I was young,
I was called to my life's ambition.
I imagined this is what prophets felt like
speaking to a burning bush
or hearing God's voice from the heavens.

And I made the mistake
of sharing this guarded secret
with the world.

Their response made it seem
like I was crazy
like I was a heretic.

Some gave me tight smiles and platitudes
that somehow still told me
that I would change my mind.
Some told me outright
that I was too young to make this decision,
that I was too smart to squander my talents,
that they knew me better than I did.

I remained stubborn and sure
despite public opinion.

I tested the waters
and fell in love with the ocean,
so sure it wouldn't drown me.

I had mentors who were living my dream
who told me to change my mind,
not to follow their example.
I swallowed their bitterness in silence
but had no doubt that, in this,
they were wrong.

Years of hard work,
of blood, sweat, and tears,
I was finally able to answer my calling.

In all those years no one asked
where the call had come from.
The burning bush rested inside my chest
and spread like wildfire.

Now body, mind, and soul,
I am glowing with purpose.

The Passion of Victor Frankenstein

I fell into bad habits.

I tried to build a human being

inside my mind.

I chose hair and eye colors

like I was picking up fruit at the market.

I designed his likes and dislikes

so they would fit against mine.

I imagined a family and memories and a relationship

with someone who wouldn’t ever exist.

I picked out a sense of style,

a career,

a personality,

a smile,

cobbled from people who did exist.

In my mind,

I welded these pieces together,

breathed life into a fantasy,

and fell in love with an idea of a person.

Because real people are scary.

And I can barely look most of them in the eye,

let alone talk to them,

make a connection with them.

The idea inside my head,

that person I can’t touch

can’t touch me either.

But it’s not enough.

And it’s so easy to forget,
that even though we are faced with our imminent mortality,

weighted with this reality
the fingers of our gravity reach out.
And grab for wayside individuals
who - despite not saying so - want to accept,
because we are all afraid of our loneliness.

False Memories #924

“Do you ever wonder about us?”

I had imagined this so many times – this conversation – but somehow I hadn’t ever imagined it like this, without any fireworks or skywriting. Instead we stood outside a storefront of a bar, tipsy, with rain drizzling around us. I thought we’d be drunker or that we’d have cigarettes, this seemed like a conversation that could’ve been punctuated with well-timed exhalations of smoke. But we weren’t drunk enough to write this off and we weren’t the same dumb young people who thought cancer burning between their teeth meant we were interesting. We were older now, not much wiser. But wise enough for me to know that I’d been staring a beat too long and he was doing his nervous shuffle from foot to foot.

“All the time.” I exhaled and it was just cold enough that fog followed my words making it as dramatic as cigarette smoke.

He leveled me with a look of mild surprise, cheeks rosy with the alcohol or the chill it was hard to tell. This was one of those silences that could’ve benefitted from a quick puff of smoke from each of us, to fill the space.

“Me too.” He said, looking away and squinting into the distance.

Being a narrative type, I thought the moment was a tad anti-climactic, and I was reminded how devastatingly non-fictional I was. 

poetry

it took me so long to realize 

that i wrote

and i wrote

not only trying to get you out 

from under my skin

but also because

some part of me

hoped

that if i wrote enough

i'd become poetry too

Entropy

I tried to be predictable, 

to have smooth edges

and even color.

I tried to be two dimensional,

to fit between his pages

so he could fill me in.

But it's not the natural order of things.

I was supernatural in his world.

I took up space 

and blurred everything.

I couldn't lay flat.

I was the kind of chaos 

that the whole universe was trending towards,

the inevitable disorganization of all things.

I was something he couldn't control.

I think he liked it a little.

There was a small thrill to disorder,

to a little color outside of the lines.

Like a siren's call

chaos beckons.

But by the light of day 

he could recognize how I unravelled him.

How I frayed his edges

and I was out of place.

I could never fit inside his lines.

Phantoms

'Do you ever just get scared of losing people you used to know? Because they know everything you used to be. The good and the bad. I've changed. I know I have and sometimes I worry about what I am now. Who am I? So when I look into their eyes I know I've fallen short of what they know and have come to expect from me. Just like they have, they've changed too and it's obvious. It makes me wonder whether or not change is so obvious on me. Like as obvious as when you get a drastically new haircut or change your style of clothes. Sometimes I think these friends who knew me when I changed every week deserve to know the me that I am now. The one that sort of knows what I'm doing and sort of knows what I want with my life. We deserve to know each other when we at least appear to have our lives together. But sometimes I worry that who I am and who they are just don't fit together anymore. That those versions of ourselves were the ones who really knew each other. That our past selves barely exist in us anymore. Sometimes I wonder if it would be kinder to let them go. There's some part of me that wants to hold on to them because they knew who I used to be and I am afraid of not being that person anymore. You know? Do you ever think about that?'

'No, I really haven't.'

'Yeah, neither have I.'

Believe You Me

The day has come and gone

And I've been awake for it all

As soon as eyes are closed

The year has flown by as well

In that time I've tried to decide

If time goes faster or slower 

Without someone at your side

And every time I come up empty handed

'Cause it really doesn't matter

It's all the same to me

An emotion that remains unspoken

My bones, they ache

I can't remember a time they didn't

My muscles, they're weak

Everyday they get worse

And my skin, it's worn

Slipping at the edges

Sometimes I just want a break

But I'll see the sunset tonight

And I'll watch the sunrise again

Magistra

When I grow up
I want to be a teacher.
Bathing in a thankless world
of God-awful early mornings
and late nights grading papers.
I want to impart knowledge
and inspire young minds.
I yearn for all this trouble
for the smallest of rewards.
I was born for this,
for the front of the classroom
and white boards and textbooks.
I can't imagine doing anything else.
When I grow up
I want to be happy.
But sometimes,
I get this funny feeling
that I can't,
that growing up
means forsaking happiness.
But I'll try.
Starting with my meager dream,
my life's work.
Because I heard once
that if you choose a job you love,
you'll never have to work a day
in your life.

Silly Notions

Yesterday I fell in love with an idea,
with possibility and potential
and the back window of a truck
plastered with stickers.
I fell in love with supposed similarity
and a shared interest displayed
by a stranger with a foreign license plate.
I lingered for a glance
of a face to accompany my interest.
A silly notion, really,
I had nothing to say -
I wouldn't.
I liked the idea,
the possibility and potential
of meeting a new face
in a parking lot.
Like the plot from a movie
or book or television,
I forgot - this is life
so, I turned my radio up
and I drove away
still heady with what could've been,
what you could've been.
It wouldn't have been fair
because you're more than an idea,
a possibility or potential.

apophenia

a smile shared
an inside joke declared
embraces and all sorts of places
barely a moment spent apart
i had hoped it wasn't just me
who saw the lines
who made crude connections between the dots
i had hoped that we were on the same page
like we've always been

but maybe a smile
is just a smile
and an inside joke
just gets stale each time it's said
maybe i'm just making things up inside my head
but i had hoped it was something we both understood
now i'm not so sure
if i'm seeing meaningful patterns
between meaningless occurrences

when you look back
i thought you might see
the lines tying you to me
i thought maybe you as well
were making crude connections between the dots
tell me you do this too
even if it seems like there's few
tell me that you know we're on the same page
like we've always been

because i've always been able to convince myself i'm wrong
and just this once i'd like to be right
maybe you feel the same way
and we're not so off the mark
so tell me, i'm not just making it all up in my head
that you understand just what i mean
and you've seen all the things i've seen
tell me, you see meaningful patterns
in what seems like meaningless occurrences

you must see them too
the constellations between me and you
you see how they light up the night
telling stories bold and bright

tell me that you see it,
our story written across the sky

Apocalypse

If the world was ending today,
I'd want to be with you.
But tomorrow the sun
will still rise
and set again.
Another day gone
while I'm left with this.
The world isn't ending today
but it sure does feel like it.
It
would
be
kinder
if
it
was.

Radio Silence

Sounds like Top 40
and bands I don't know the names of,
it sounds like lyrics that don't make sense
and melodies that all sound the same.
Radio silence sounds like familiarity
and I turn it up when I'm alone,
when you're not there.
Sounds like summer days and winter nights,
like the season's change and the world's turn.
Maybe I'm burning up a sun for you,
a supernova of rhymes and reasons
and platitudes,
just read between the lines
and sing every sorry song.
Remember this burst of life and death,
of exhilaration and sorrow.
Sounds like you and me,
like beat up cars and long drives.
Like conversations deep and shallow,
muted words whispered between sighs and breaths.
I heard once:
"Some people pray, I turn up the radio."
Maybe you do too.
To drown out the noise of your own heartbeat,
to stop the ringing echo of loss.
Maybe it sounds like pop hits and rock ballads
and everything blends together
to fill the space.
Sounds like words unsaid,
like the texture of feeling.
Radio silence speaks volumes
in quiet minds.

being

you were as in love as you could be

for the time being
which wasn't saying much
given your wandering eyes
and tight-lipped mouth
but what would I know

what’s worse

is you didn’t bother to notice

that I’d fallen

you didn’t have the decency

to fall as well

I’ll forgive your lack of observation

because

for the time being

I’m as in love as I can be

Stars in Our Eyes

I’ve heard

that when you wish upon a star

it’s already gone,

millions of years ago, actually,

and we’re looking at something

that might not even be there anymore.

But it’s light still reaches us,

still gives us hope.

Hope

that we can change our station,

that we can do whatever we put our minds to,

that we can make the world a better place.

It gives us hope that there’s still time.

When we’re gone,

for millions of years after,

our light will be there to give hope.

Because we are made from stars.

Weights & Measures

I love you. It’s the only logical explanation. The chemistry of it is fairly simple. And no one is above its influence. It’s hard to be sure, if I love you. To be sure I’m in love with you. Apparently there’s a difference. Hindsight is certainly 20/20 but it’s only helpful in retrospect. Therefore, I think I’m in love with you. That’s the best I’ve got. I’m being flooded with hormones: epinephrine, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and vasopressin. That’s the science of it! The stuff that can be measured, with the right equipment. But it’s more than that, it’s the stuff of poems and songs and novels and the like. Brushed into every stroke of paint across a canvas, tuned into every note of a melody, written into every story line new and old. So I may wax poetic now but that doesn’t mean it’s for forever. That it’s real. But it’s real to me now, in this moment. So I may not love you, be in love with you, truly. Sorry. Life, while it’s the longest thing we’ll ever experience, is too short for second guesses. Since I can be sure of nothing else, I can be sure of how I feel. And this is how I feel now. I am in love with you. And there’s no use deciding if that’ll be true twenty years from now. But I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of knowing that I love you with my whole heart.

Remember

If I don’t see you soon

at least I’ll see you

when I’m dead and gone

and you’re dead and gone.

Is it wrong to hope that that is far off?

Even if it means, in this life,

we never meet again.

Go on living,

I’m surviving.

I will, I promise.

Just don’t forget.

Please, don’t.

I couldn’t bear it if you did.

Illusion

You are the moon and I am the Earth.
I caress your cratered brow

with reverence normally reserved for the sun.

Your radiance is borrowed

but I don’t mind,

and you’ve got a synchronous rotation,

forever showing your sunny disposition,

never really exposing everything.

Half of you is hidden from view

but I’ve seen glimpses of your dark side

and I’m not going anywhere.

I’m not going to be the cause of another crater

on your damaged façade, believe me.
I’ve seen you through every phase,
each full and new and beautiful.

You came ricocheting into my life,

molten and tumultuous as it was,

you put me right and, at my core,

I just don’t have the heart to let you go.

I blame it on my gravity

but, who am I kidding?

That’s just an illusion of the warped space-time,

you would agree if you knew what I meant.

I know all I appear to be,

nothing special really,

there has to be billions of me in billions of galaxies.

But I’m more than just rock,

look closely, you’ll find my exterior is flaking

and sometimes my humanity feels like it’s ruining me.

But, really, I enjoy the company because I’ve spent too many years alone

so, I’m sorry, I have to keep you close.

Don’t worry, there should be just enough distance

to appear like I wouldn’t care if you left,

like it wouldn’t throw me off my axis,

but the sea betrays me.

The tides extend themselves towards you,

hoping to get ever closer,

and they get sad and small when you’re distant.

These tendrils of my life are reaching for you

in a way that’s hard to deny.

Sometimes I don’t want to.

It’s so very cold out here and

I’ve reached the point in my years where I don’t like the loneliness

or the pressure, there are billions of me, but it seems

I’m the only one around.

Understanding

I wish I were a character,

out of a book,

whose journey was

dramatic and moving

or funny and intelligent.

I wish I said or did the right things,

and I wish someone else was writing it.

Hunched over a desk

writing away my life,

waxing poetic,

making me a hero.

I wish they would write

my lines and actions,

I wish they would write my fate.

I wish I were a protagonist,

in a fantasy land or reality,

battling villains both historical and modern.

I wish my story were relatable

and my personality palatable.

I wish I were timeless

and taught a thousand years from now

in English classes,

I wish my story would be good enough

to ignore and breathe confidence

into every procrastinating student.

I wish they would wing my test and get an ‘A’.

Because that would mean my story

was universal,

that it’s themes and metaphors

had already been done before.

Only then would I be understood.

A String of Maybes

Maybe you’d show up this time and I wouldn’t be left at the table downing a bottle of wine. Maybe you’d remember this time. Maybe this time I’d be important, or at least more important than whatever came up. Maybe this time was the time you’d finally decide to open your eyes and see what’s always been in front of you. Maybe this time you’ll realize we could be more. Maybe you’ll sit at the table waiting, sweating through your suit sipping scotch. Maybe this time it’ll be you fantasizing and not me. Maybe I’ll dress up. Maybe you won’t pick me up at my apartment, so I’ll walk and it’ll rain. Maybe on my way something comes up, someone. Maybe he shares his umbrella and a smile. Maybe I’m early like always so he and I grab a coffee. Maybe I get lost in his eyes and conversation. Maybe he looks just like you, only he doesn’t make me cry. Maybe this is the first time you sit at a table set for two, candles flickering out as you finish the champagne you bought for us. Maybe I’ve given up or let go or told myself for so long that friendship was enough. So maybe I marry Jason or Mark or Adam because he cooks and gives me the time of day. Maybe I settle into contentment because I feel appreciated. Maybe sometimes when I’m with him I forget he isn’t you.

All Will Be Well

Sometimes you just have to let yourself go
and fall in love with a stranger
who orders hot chocolate in the middle of summer,
or who writes poetic articles online dissecting life,
or who reads non-fiction so thick it could stopper a door.
Fall in love with someone who you think you know
because you know how they like their coffee
and who their favorite band is
and that they’re a dog person
but don’t know how many siblings they have
and if they’re allergic to shellfish
and who they went to prom with.
Fall in love for the sake of falling in love
but don’t, for a second, wonder if they love you back.
Sometimes you hit a wall,
looking back you forget how you got there
and how quickly everything you thought you would do fell apart
and how swiftly everything you thought you would be became a dream.
Everything that never happened never was because
you never tried,
or you didn’t have the means,
or you were paralyzed by fear of failure.
So, you told yourself to move on.
You trick yourself into believing that
you can’t miss what you never experienced.
Like lazy afternoons on a beach drinking mai-tais
listening to obscure indie rock bands
whose melodies are melancholy
and trying new foods spicy and foreign
from lands you’ve only dreamed of visiting.
Like buying a ticket for the next flight out
not knowing where you’re going
and who you’ll be with
because Canada or Australia, it doesn’t matter
anywhere is better than here.
But we never really vocalize
that we didn’t believe in our excuses to begin with
because it means facing the truth of our regrets
and that can get so overwhelming
that you can barely look at yourself some mornings,
thinking about where you’d be if you’d just taken a leap of faith.
So, sometimes we need to let go
and move to Scotland to open a café
and screw a college education
and fall in love with ourselves for the first time or all over again.
And it isn’t until we make this decision that we realize we’re happy.
We all do things were not proud of
and there are things we’ll never do
but somehow, someway
sometimes we end up exactly where we always wanted to be
even if we didn’t know it ourselves.

Letters

Some words are worth more than others
and I've weighed and counted and divided
them till my fingers bled and I wonder
if I've really said anything at all.
Using the words I do, I don't.
You would think that the absolute precious
quality of life, the tensile hold we have
would make it so courage was borne into
our very bones,
fortifying them and ourselves.
(But you'd be wrong.)
And my bones ache so very much
with everything unsaid.

Deeply Inept

I don’t know what it is you demand,
I don’t know if you’d understand
How pleased I am to have met you,
How I don’t know what to do.
I don’t need metaphors,
Just layman’s terms
To define the tightening in my chest,
My shallow breath.
Nothing could ever be said
To be its equal.
Perhaps you do know
What you’ve said without saying so,
That is all.

Methodology

I can’t help but cloak myself in multimedia
to make up for what I can’t verbalize
because [the only way I have learned to express myself
is through other people’s descriptions of life.]
And maybe that’s more than a little wrong,
but I’ll make my excuses
the truth is they’ve written everything I couldn’t
and better than I could’ve tried.
I can feel the music thrumming through my every nerve,
taunting me as I try and fail to learn to play.
Believe me, I’m all too aware of my own weaknesses
and I might be the only one,
but I feel like you’re watching and I want to do my best
to appear perfect and worthy because
[at this moment you mean everything.]
I’m being honest with other people’s words
and, at times, they taste like lies,
with a metallic-like falseness,
you know I’m only golden plated.
Anything I reference hasn’t gone platinum,
so their obscurity helps me hide,
but it’s when I’m alone that they call me like the sailors to sirens,
whispering, [I want to have control;
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul;
I want you to notice when I’m not around.]
I can feel their breath on the back of my neck -
I can recite the words, feel them on my tongue,
make them my own – you’d never know the difference.
If I’m honest I’m not clever, these words aren’t borrowed,
I know them with unusual certainty
because I breathe them, think them everyday
but they get lost between the constantly replaying
[I just want to feel alive for the first time in my life,
I just want to feel attractive today.]
And, if you were paying attention,
you’d notice my hesitation and lack of control
over every word that isn’t actually mine.

Who We Grew Up To Be

‘All for one and one for all.’
Hannah and Tony,
together we made the three musketeers
when our summers burned
brighter and hotter and shorter,
and we couldn’t get enough of the sun and rain.
And we were inseparable,
we were perfect friends
but we were young.
You and I, at the time, didn’t know
that you were my salvation,
the first friends I ever had.
Did you ever know?
Nah, you see we were restless,
we were children and maybe that was for the best.
Maybe our friendship was perfect
because it ended so abruptly,
maybe it was perfect
because we never got to see us grow up.
First, you, Hannah,
desperate for attention,
I remember liking your name because it’s a palindrome,
and that’s a big word for a six-year-old.
You didn’t know that when I met you
I’d already been to kindergarten once before,
you wouldn’t have discriminated anyway, right?
And second, you, Tony,
your parents own Bandidos and, as it happens,
you went to Carrboro too, do you remember me?
You were Prom King and I doubt you would’ve hung out with me
even if you did remember, did see me, you’d just walk past me.
I wondered if you remembered that day on the bus,
on our way home, you kissed me,
had we been older it would have destroyed our group
because we’re taught a boy can’t be friends with a girl.
Not really.
See, this was what was so great about our friendship.
We came before all the madness
and hormones, aren’t they just one in the same?
I remember swimming and playing pretend and playground runs,
but to be honest I don’t remember much
and I’m probably making half this stuff up.
I promise that, at the time, I treasured the friendship
I had with you but I didn’t have the words to express it.
But I do remember the day I knew I would never see you guys again,
in early June, I cried,
both of you were leaving our old school
and I was to be left behind.
On the cusp of the summer before second grade,
I lost my first friends and I learned the days
are actually longer, not shorter
especially when you have no company to share them with.
But sometimes I’m glad we didn’t grow up together,
we never saw the end of our friendship for real.
Because maybe you or I would’ve been disappointed
in the people we grew up to be.

thnks fr th mmrs

I'd like for once --
just this once --
to not write about
u and I
and all this melancholy.
I'd like to try this once
but as I look over these last few lines
I realize
I'll always make my excuses,
ransack my mind for another reason,
and this time it'll be because
we never learned
to write without
vowels.

So Much

She gets headaches and heartburn
from thinking and feeling too much.
She tries too hard
but she doesn’t know it.
She deserves the world
but hasn’t yet realized it.
I don’t know much
but I know these things.
Trust me.
She shakes under all the weight of the universe,
though
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her ask for help.
I’d gladly lend a shoulder
to help carry the burden.
We think too much,
we could go in one direction for all time
if it wasn’t for our minds.
I get the feeling
that it would be easier
to not feel but she tells me I’m wrong.
And she must be right,
she knows everything.
Believe me.

It was love at first sight.

I wasn't so sure. He liked to speak in low tones and chat about nothing and the universe. He gave me food for thought and asked if I understood. I just nodded my head. I wondered if I really did understand him. He liked coffee and non-fiction and running in the cold. I felt uninteresting. I felt like an adult. This was an adult conversation. He smiled at me and I knew I was in love. I felt like a teenager.

I wondered if I’d ever felt happy until this moment. I wondered why I needed him to be happy. I wondered a great many things until I gave myself up to the feeling. Love is like feeling alive. As if, before this moment, I was dead inside just moving along without any real concept of what it was like to live. It gave me reason. I hated it. With every fiber of my being, I hated that he was the one who made me feel this way. I know now it was love at first sight, yes, but I wasn’t happy about it.

The Red Shift

With time everything recedes
fading into the blended rosés and clarets
of a lifetime.
I have you written in intensity,
fingers pressed along the pulse
beating ferociously against the inevitably of
time’s ticking hands.
We tried to hide behind pleasantries
and a chorus of silence
to forget about the unseasonably hot weather,
or was it just me?
Anyway,
back then
everything was in fresh blues.
Approaching at the speed of light,
we would’ve never guessed how it might effect us,
we just woke everyday.
But slowly,
slowly but surely,
the warmth is ebbing from my fingertips --
you know, the extremities are the first to go --
and everything that was once in bloom
is frosting over,
and it’s harder to enjoy.

A Life Less than Ordinary

"Why are you here?"

Good question.

Why am I here? For all I know this could be a dream. The human experience could be completely unpurposed. Everything in life could be a massive coincidence. We're being cheated by our brains into thinking life is more than it is. Sensationalizing every encounter, memory, emotion, etc. all for naught. Perhaps nothing happens for a reason; perhaps the conception of good and bad is unfounded. Maybe the construction of right and wrong, as well, is baseless. Maybe we’ll never know.

Why am I here? In fact, why are all of us here on Earth? I might be here to change the world (For the better? Possibly.), or I might be here to make change for a dollar for the next person who asks. That might be all I'm good for. Maybe my kind act is nearly ineffectual but that's beside the point. We could all use a little change, right?

Why am I here? In order to conceive over 100 million sperm fight to fertilize the egg, but all of us living now are the one that won. 1 to 99999999 chances don't seem very promising and yet all of us beat the odds and we're here.

Why am I here? According to astronomers, 'Earth is neither central nor special; we inhabit no unique place in the universe.' However Earth is the only planet that can support life as far as we know. So, I guess that answers that.

At the moment, "I'm here for my 2 o'clock appointment."

Perceptions

I don't know if I trust my memories of you,
with each recollection they're rewritten.
Am I a slave to a perception of supposed perfection?
I have you painted in water colors,
faded and picturesque,
framed in what could be unhealthy
obsession to recreate you
in every moment.
A memory of a memory of you
has too much potential to ruin me.
As a result,
I can't trust me.
And, by association,
I don't think I can trust you.
Please,
(Stand still.)
I need to remember you
exactly as you are.

My voice has run out...

every noise is a cacophony
of broken chords
and off-beat melodies
with absolutely no cadence.
I’m just trying to string words together
in run-on sentences.
You’ll find no rhymes
in my work
because nine out of ten times
I’d end up writing about a hotel desk clerk
just to keep up the A-B-A-B rhyme scheme
and conform to this idea of poetry.
With each new line I lose the theme,
twisting it from what it could be.

Forgive me for the digression
my writing is
a stream of consciousness
that runs through my mind
divorcing imagination and reality
but who can really tell the difference anymore?
Flowing like a babbling brook
my hands can’t keep up with the words
as the current brings them through
English Dam, containing all
un-translated thoughts.
With each second new memories are formed,
facts collected and recollected,
and my brain is in overdrive.

Trying to write in time with the pulse of creativity
ideas fade with each passing minute,
and my voice cracks under the exhaustion
of completing every important thought
that eventually fall on deaf ears.
Until each unheard story – each best kept secret –
is relayed between pen and paper,
punctuated by silence.

beautiful mind

He has a beautiful mind
built like the Elysian Fields
impossibly green grass grows
from the wrinkles in his brain.
I am convinced this is where
the lion lies with the lamb.
Curled together in peace,
they are the dreams
he strives to remember
so he can value himself on a subliminal level.
He’s a hero tackling herculean thoughts,
unraveling the knot of the
universe
one string at a time.
He wants to achieve an understanding
of space and time,
of what it means to live.
However he has faced Death,
looked him in the eye,
for love.
Yet it is he who knows
it’s not his heart but his brain
entangled in these emotions.
Knowledge is not understanding,
but he can’t help but be forgetful
for he is only human
but his flaws are not observable
or measureable by any standard.
His imperfection is indeterminable,
his perfection is paradoxical.
He was created for stability,
to withstand a lifetime.
And when he’s gone,
he’ll leave a mark beyond his time
not in marble statue
but in photons
stuck in the solidarity of space.
He only moves in light-years
and I’m afraid what I’m seeing is
already gone.
Shadows of what once was
comforting mortals like myself.
He has a beautiful mind
built like Elysium,
and I am lightening-struck.

Writing False Memories #2

“You could die.”

“I know.” She said looking at me sideways, “Everyday I’m one step closer to death.”

“You’re going to tell us if it’s killing you, right?” I ask void of inflection.

“You’re killing me with this conversation.”

For a second I saw her not as she is, but possibly 10 years younger. Slim body, graceful, freckles, round face plastered with that mischievous smile. I blinked. She wasn’t that way. Time rushed back and I could see the pounds from all the medication. The hard lines of her face and the almost dullness to her eyes. I recognized my lost role as her protector. She’s taller than me. I suddenly felt extremely far away from her.

“That’s not funny.” I said indignantly.

Leaning back, slightly confused she spoke softly, “You can blink now. I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t help that I felt like I was losing her. She aged each time I blinked, I was like the deteriorating flash of the cameras snapping at the Guttenburg Bible.

“I love you.” I blurted out and a slow, creeping silence echoed between us.

“I know.” She repeated, “I’m not going to die right now.”

“Alright.” A long pause grew, as we contemplated what the other was thinking. Pulling at the threadbare couch.

“What would you do?”

“When?”

“If I died.”

“Truth? God,” Running a hand through my hair, “I don’t know – I honestly don’t know.”

SCIENCE V. RELIGION

Glory be to the father,
And to the son,
And to the holy spirit.
As it was in the beginning,
I believed that I belonged to an Old Boys Club.
My mind is where science meets religion,
And nature meets nurture.
Waiting for the condescension
In tone and pats on the head
That suggests that I think too much.
I live in my head
And truth be told it can’t tell the difference
Between these “Clubs”, these institutions of belief,
Requiring my card-carrying membership for their continuation;
They are not mutually exclusive.
These systems seem extremely limited to the right or left brain,
But I do not claim to be so arrogant,
I need the whole
To satisfy both my reason and logic.
And those on both sides are pressuring me to reconcile
Who I was brought up to be and who I think I am.
I believe in one God, the father, the Almighty,
And it’s easy for me to believe in Him.
I don’t find it hard to understand that he is a loving God
Despite all worldly disasters
Because he gave us free will.
Just like I don’t find it hard to understand Schrödinger’s cat
Is simultaneously alive and dead until you open the box.
What I have a problem with
Is the idea that I supposedly shouldn’t believe
That evolution is how humans came to be
And that the story of Adam and Eve is just that,
A story,
Explaining how we’ve all come from a common ancestor.
That these thoughts separate me from God,
Damning me to an eternity in the Hell
That I don’t even think exists
Because we have forgiveness.
Our humanly existence
Is now and ever shall be,
A mystery
In which both science and religion
Are endeavors in discovering
Our infinity,
Answering the questions:
What happens when we die?
An afterlife that is the incarnation of nothingness
Is no more appealing than living forever.
What is love?
Tell me it’s more than
Oxytocin synapses firing in the brain.
What is the meaning of life?
To reproduce offspring best fit to survive,
But tell me, what is surviving?
I do, however,
Find comfort in a man who hung on a cross for me,
Whose passion was so great he died so I could live
Without ridicule,
Without sin,
Without ignorance.
I revisit his gift every Sunday,
Imbibing in
The body and blood of our lord, Jesus Christ,
I am not worthy,
It’s scary how easily these words rise to my lips
Before the Eucharist,
Since second grade these words have been bred into me:
I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed.
It’s the people involved
That is the ivy strangling the roots of these associations,
Dividing faith and religion,
Science and the institution.
The parasitic relationship they’ve created in contentment
Because in the face of their enormous egos,
They’d rather not change.
You see,
I want to understand,
I want to believe in both,
I want to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
I’ll believe until my dying day,
And despite whatever’s thereafter
My faithful life will not –
Contrary to popular belief –
Have been a waste of time
In a
World without end,
Amen.

I am a Honey Bee

God gave the honey bee
just one chance to sting,
a forfeit of it's life
if used.

In Response

Dear Adam,

I know just how you feel,
for I am you and you are me.
There will always be Beths
who don't stick around
and we'll always feel left
without any ground.
I can't tell you
how many times,
I sat around and waited
for the clock's ticking chimes
to catch up to the promise
that died on their lips.
Lips that we can't express
how we long to kiss.
So, we sit in wait,
doling out gifts --
quirky little things
that make no sense.
Our way of showing affection.
What's nice about the night sky,
is you're likely to see the connection
of each constellation
that follows you, no matter the coast.
We might not show our emotion
through eye contact or
body language
but we deserve more,
and that's something to look for.
Because someday, Adam,
we'll find them
(or they will find us).
We're not alone in this endeavor,
for I am you and you are me.

Holy Matrimony

Professionals say that 41% of marriages end in divorce,
couples fight over furniture and children in court
instead of acknowledging the source of their separation.
Some believe it makes perfect sense
to prevent a vast majority of citizens from partaking in marital bliss.
All their defense lies between bible pages
and bigotry, marriage should not be defined by sexual orientation
or any other manner and affiliation.
"Love is patient, love is kind… it keeps no record of wrongs."
1 Corinthians 13:4 – 5.
I don’t think God meant to deprive
1 out of every 10 human beings of love
and the ultimate symbol of their love: marriage.
Is it not concise enough in that biblical adage?
There are nearly 1500 species expressing homosexuality
and it’s proven not to be a fatality.
Early Romans classified themselves within this sexual identity
yet we treat this as some sort of penalty,
when it’s shown up all throughout history
and literature and art.
Then this must not be some fortuitous coincidence,
being gay is not a choice,
no more than the color of your skin.
It is not a sin,
and neither is love - be it with a man or woman.
God made every human in his image
and with the hope we would not tear each other up in carnage.
And "Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so."
Believe me when I say
It’s absurd to convey that he did not include my sister.
Who finds comfort in a ‘miss’ rather than a ‘mister’,
I refuse to conform to the notion
that a man and woman is the only marital design
when I find that divorce rates are at an all time high
and we’re keeping same-sex couples from expressing their love.
It’s with a heavy heart that I heave and sigh
in a world that hopes my sister will get married to a guy.
That it’s only right if she does,
why do they wish for something that never was?
I hope I can stand next my sister on her wedding day
where she vows to a woman to honor and love and not betray.

Pavlov's Dogs

They'd slobber at the smallest, tinkling chime
for they knew better than anyone that it was dinnertime,
hurrying up those worn steps they'd climb -
empty stomachs were enough to compel -
but to hustle up this crowd it doesn't take a yell,
just the simple flexing of their master's wrist to ring the bell.

Tribute to MCS

You spent 4 years
at a 2 year college
and have nothing to show for it.
I whine about how
'the future freaks me out'.
And keep telling myself that
that everything's fine,
surely not convincing you.
I live vicariously,
rockin' to the beat
in my heart, it says:
Jay, I'm so proud.
And Betty, there's no one I'd
rather waste my time with.

Silent Insecurities

He woke me up at dawn,
his black tie like a snake coiled around his neck.

I looked up at him with dazed eyes,
a fog of sleep clouding my senses.

Black blazer draped over his briefcase.

He brushed a hand through his hair,
like a rake over autumn leaves.

Starkly contrasted with the innocent cream walls,
a jutting, imposing building in the distant skyline.

Leaning over he cupped my cheek,
goodbye he said, tasting bitterly of black coffee.

I’ll be waiting I responded,
with the obedience of a puppy,

a small smile tugged at his lips.

Turning, shrinking through the doorway,
though to believe this you’d have to accept

that he woke me up at all.

Once Again

The end of the world could come in flame
and all hell would freeze over.
Humans would look up to the heavens
the sky cleaving open
wide, in an insanely inviting gesture.
They'd pray fervidly,
the godless embracing god
and the religious abandoning him.
We can only hope
that when it ends
a new world will be created
once again.

Fire

When Prometheus brought fire
the sun hid behind the clouds.
And a mountaintop rang with
anguished screams.
Prometheus payed in flesh
for his fore thought.

Break

I've never heard a better fiddler
than the man on main street
who's cross-eyed.
Because of him,
I once tried to pick up the guitar
but it was too heavy and
my weak limbs screamed in protest.
I have better luck demagnetizing room keys,
anyway.
And getting locked out of
said hotel rooms.
That's how we met.
By then all you'd gotten from your
poli sci degree was a paper cut.
And that reminded you
startlingly of your mother.
And her constant instructions
to 'sit up straight!' and
unconsciously you corrected your
years of perfected bad posture.
You would hate when I'd slump
in my chair as if I was
trying to disappear
or at least hide.
Muttering 'I'm sorry'
for my barbaric
table manners and for
the heavy conversation that you
couldn't seem to carry.
But I know,
after all these years,
you still look up
at the moon
and think of me.
Just as I glance at
clocks and remember you.
But, we straighten up
and move on.

in the beginning

your smile fell.
microorganisms springing
from your teeth, your lips providing
the cushion of the earth, and that
tongue is the boundless ocean.
the world birthed from such
chaos.

The Fountain

I’m quite parched
and off mark.
I could be cured
with just one
sip from the
Fountain of Youth.
And de Leon would have
my head and I
would wish I wasn’t
young anymore.
Some say,
that youth is wasted
on the young.
And I've heard its possible
to grow up,
I've just never met
anyone
whose actually done it.
But
life seen through
these eyes
have more to say
than my lopsided mouth
could ever utter.
Between you and me
and our hands,
wrinkled with the years.

Runners.

Hot air rises from the concrete
in swift, promising ringlets.
The noon sun bearing down on
unsuspecting townsmen.
Runners take their ritual jog,
stealing through each trail in all their
paled, sweated, short-shorted glory.
Soft claps of conversation left in their wake,
only spoken between soles and dry Carolina clay.
Moistened breaths quickened and whispered,
living to quiet the air.
Slight ups-and-downs of chests
oxidizes blood cells and
gives the Earth reason to revolve once again.
Maybe if there was one skipped step
the world would cease to move.
And we would be sent tumbling
into the blazing sun,
bones incinerated into the body's
last action of that day.
Maybe.
But the jaunt is not slowed,
the step not skipped,
and these runners never still.

A Pair of Darwin's Finches

It’s almost ironic now to ponder evolution,
and even more to teach it.
A bored room of twenty-something
ninth graders with their hands
plastered to the sides of their faces,
sleeping.

You’ll come to mind.
Not because you believed it,
in fact you're in fervid opposition.
As I gesticulate its components,
I’ll smile.

You never knew
how I would think about us.
How everyone insisted we were the same,
but we knew that we were different,
and I, being the logical one,
thought of evolution.
Your caustic behavior reminds me
of punctuated equilibrium.
Your decisiveness and the way you spoke
like you write
and write how you feel.
No finesse - that you could do without.
And the way your emotions ran
quickly and slowly at the same time.
And there were even moments
when they’d flatten out and I’d
wonder where you’d gone.
‘Cause you certainly weren’t
the same person.

And I like gradualism.
Growing at a steady pace,
monotonous in my ways
and thoughts.

We’d butt heads and kick
up the dirt in anger.
But when the dust settled
we were always unscathed.

After my students have gone,
rushing out at the dismissals ring.
I’ll realize it’s been too long
since you’ve called
or I’ve called.

No matter how hard we resisted change,
speciation took its course
and we were isolated.
Separately.
I can't tell you when or how
just that we are.
Maybe it was inexorable;
maybe we brought it upon ourselves.

[the art of punctuation]

you are my question mark
the parentheses around my mouth
trap coordinated conjunctions
my lips stitched with
dashes of trepidation
it was in those moments
when you were gone
that i wished
i would never have to
wonder again
dots of pregnant pause
quaking readily between us
we probably make no sense
anyway
sometimes it’s hard to
tell what my brittle hands
have been feeling
they haven’t felt much
in the past three years
burned by the cold
arms that i once fell into
i know
it’s completely absurd to
think that they could speak
but it’s true
i’ve heard them whisper
they miss you
of course i never really
had you
still
they miss and type the
wrong things and touch
the wrong people
but it’s all because they miss
and you should have given
them a chance
they say
constant quotations
fray from my nails
as they scratch the air
but that’s beside the point
for once i was happy
with myself
i realized why
i could never convey
why you looked past me
you were my exclamation point
and i was just a comma