Independence Day

I had forgotten this
simplicity.
bare feet
belly laughs
warmth.

I've lived on the edges a long time
I know a million different words for
hunger
But today?
There's not enough language
to say "thank you"

I've grown up in a world of abandoned people. If I could put a finger on one thing that we, as humans are REALLY adept at doing to eachother-- its leaving. Parents leaving children, lovers walking away from one another, children and grandchildren leaving elderly family to live out the end of their days alone in a nursing home.

Because leaving, is easy.  Even when its hard, its easy. Its in our nature. Self preservation is a powerful thing.

I grew up always wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. When some man would leave my mother, or she would leave him. When my dad would decide we were worth sacrificing a weekend for. When we'd move again, and I'd uproot and leave behind four walls I had just grown accustom to.

So, is it really surprising that I still expect most people I love and care for to leave? To become fed up with me, and decide its not worth it? Even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary-- my blood still runs cold far too often. That panic that I really will end up alone in the world. Not what my family wants me to be, not who my friends thought I should be. Not---anything worth staying for.

salvation

I was taught to both have fear and faith
In that which I could not see
As if blindness could be both my downfall and my salvation
I knew from day one
I was full of sin
And would never
measure.
up.
So, no wonder I walk through my life
having never quite felt I was enough.
But I have pried open my own chest
Just to get a look
and I don't see where all that evil
Supposedly resides...
But you know what i don't trust?
Perfection.
Mirror images.
And anyone or anything that claims to have all the answers.
If you think you have all the answers
you  aren't asking enough of the right questions.

Regimes

I grew up in a world full of rules.
Every waking second of our tiny lives regulated by jesus, and mom and the clock. In that order.
I remember straining my six year old hand to make perfect letters, in perfectly straight lines, exactly one and a half inches from the border of the line-less printer paper we practiced our cursive on. My teacher literally measured with a ruler- our borders. Nuns have nothing  on bored Southern Baptist housewives entertaining classrooms full of tiny regimes of obedient children.


Needless to say, I wasn't one of those obedient ones. 

This morning the outside is still stormy
And mostly I was just hoping to find you in my bed.
Sleeping like you were waiting for me,
I guess I don't have any wishes saved up
I threw all my pennies in a wishing well
Just asking for the existence of you

And that
is perfect.

tuesday

Outside the rain and the sirens march into Tuesday
And I am in your bed
Thankful for this room that smells like you.
And while today we return to the life that calls us
I can think of no better way to say I love you
Than thank you.

Overheard while waiting for a bus:

Two men arguing about the price of a boat.
This boat,
anyone could see
Was a giant
piece of shit.
Rusted and peeling, clearly weather worn
This old man
Was so attached to this boat
beyond any reason
or excuse.
but while trying to ascertain its value
The young man said
"give me a ballpark"

A ballpark.
Give me a ballpark.
Something to gauge your value on.
Are you a pinch hitter
or a home run?

_______(in progress)

Last night a freight train rumbled through my midnight
Like it had a breakfast date with the sunrise
Like it was born pushing its self
toward that horizon line
and outside, the bull frogs
Are reminding me that its spring
That the whole world isn't dead
Just its life-lines are sleeping
And I
Have been sleeping.
Praying that universe would open me up
all the while keeping my hands over my eyes
trying to hold my eyes shut
And I guess the moral of the story is
Be careful what you wish for
I may have wished myself a window
But the gods have dreamed me a door
A starting point
A threshold
a place to
hold
onto me.

But

I don't believe in perfection
But I do believe in magic
I am no perfect man
I've got cracks down my ribcage
that would make the grand canyon jealous
And I believe that sometimes
hurt is endless
and healing comes when you least expect it.
I still pray everyday
But I stopped calling it god
And started calling it grace
Starting seeing all that I had been looking for
In a bottle of permission
A ritual
A rite
And face paint.

type

Last year I wrote a piece about my "types"

And its still not,

set in stone

But what I can say

Is if you have pain,

A place where the world has sucker punched you

Left you with a chipped tooth

and a crooked smile

If you can smirk at your own disaster

because there's nothing more beautiful

than the ability to rebuild.

Than I already love you

all of you.

I have loved women with sirens in their voices.

Who have wrapped their insides

In barbed wire

stood up straight and smiled a wicked smile.

And late at night

Or mid afternoon

You can see

The spots where that wire comes through

And maybe they'll let me in

And maybe they won't

But I loved them all the same.

Like a sucker with a puppy for a heart

He can't help his nature,

He's going to chase you

And like skinned knees,

Its probably gonna hurt.

Its the nature of things.

Or to the soldier who came back

with another armies metal in his legs,

But still had the strength to tell me

He's probably more queer

Than anybody knows.

And to say that was scarier

Than any war zone he'd ever seen.

I've never been afraid of the dark,public speaking or confrontation
I've walked through some of the worst neighborhoods in the country,unarmed and unafraid.
I'd gladly put myself in danger on a daily basis for a paycheck.

What am I afraid of? Not being enough.

You're favorite fruit is avocado

Just because a feeling has passed,
Doesn't change the ache in the deeper muscles of my chest.
Its like when I finally exhaled that final breath of you
A sigh of relief that cracked a rib or two.
A mark on my own bones
The way to tell I have breathed out the loss of you.

And I can't tell what hurts more
knowing that I'm there still, inked on your back
Or knowing that you have erased me from every other surface

I would have moved mountains to remain
Just, near enough to still hear the echoes of your songs, in the body of your guitar.
And though we were young, and making mistakes faster than we made friends
I still would not remove you.
I still feel as protective of you,
As the day I first called you my cub
A name, and title that ironically you still carry around.

You have erased our adventure
and who you are becoming is someone I don't recognize
Or respect,
but,
I still hold a tiny place inside of this temple
And send you love and light
Every time you float across my memory
Even though it pains me.

travel well, I hope sincerely that you find what you are looking for.

Perfect Gesture

The air was heavy and fragrant.
The sound of distant lawnmowers chugged along through the neighborhood.
People gathered in front yards, sweating beers clenched in their fists.
It was
Late September, small town

I knocked once.
Bite my thumbnail off in a flourish.
Knock again.

Footfalls
Reach threshold in record time.
And there, she stands.
Cigarette hanging from her mouth like cancerous punctuation
And
I swear the grin that spilled across her face could kill a man.
And if she had paused, removed her cigarette from her mouth
And asked
I would have cut out my own heart
For the sheer guilty pleasure of offering it to her.

Instead she hid her Cheshire grin and waved me inside.
She grabbed a crystal ashtray, and continued smoking as she sat
Cross legged on the coffee table six inches across from me.
And then the shift in the disguise. The persona softened, and what followed was Friendly, affable conversation…Recalling our shared childhood. Our current definition of faith, exotic places we wanted to travel.

She seemed- at the time the ancient age of almost 27, eons from where I was sitting. A roughed up kid that through medical miracles and sheer dumb luck had managed to survive being a loud mouthed heathen in a jesus lovin town. That’s the first thing we had in common.

She had already been to other countries, posed naked for more than one photo shoot and had a growing collection of tattoos depicting vintage erotica . She had a collection of finery that would make an antique shop blush, but spent most of her young adult life raising other peoples children. She was awash in contradictions

I was putty.
And she knew it.
And I knew that she knew it.




She stood up suddenly and took me by the hand, leading me through stacks of books, and papers and half-drank cups of herbal tea, to the back garden.


She informed me she would gather her dinner while she heard everything that I could possibly catch her up on in a short window.

I kicked off my shoes and sat in a warm patch of grass. She kicked off her shoes, and in one motion stripped of her t-shirt, exposing her shoulders to the last of summer. A perfect gesture. A woman unafraid.

I sat motionless, unable to speak momentarily. I did not live in a world where beautiful women disrobed so casually in front of me. Or maybe I did.

When I did look up, although not all the way- I was caught immediately. Eyes locked, guilty as sin.

And there was that Cheshire grin again. Albeit a little kinder
The tips of my ears went neon.

Sparing me momentarily, she turned to gathering her meal. I sighed silently, and began to tell the story of the previous four years- which reads pretty predictably, and when it was over, I sat, silent for a minute. Before I turned and asked “Where have you been?”

She rattled off the laundry list of countries, cities, adventures before heading into the house briefly and returning with two cold beers. I took it without question, and drank it without complaint. It was awful. And worth it. And when the shadows got long, I showed myself out, and she left me with a kiss burning into my forehead and a sincere “Love you kid.” A woman fully aware of her power, and knowing exactly when tenderness is more appropriate. The perfect gesture.

I heard recently, that people pay a lot of money for her company and advice. And somehow I knew the moment I heard that, she wasn’t a psychiatrist or a lawyer.
And suddenly everything made sense. Everyone is looking for that perfect gesture, and she, knows how to offer it.

Thirst.

I saw the flint and steel in your eyes first
And it started this
tiny, smoldering fire
In the back of my throat.
And I have carried you there,
Like a thirst.

The things we hide I

I used to write exclusively in spiral notebooks.
Skinny, portable and most importantly, easily edited by a page removed.

I did this so at a moments notice, I could edit my own story.

This never happened. This day. This moment, that girls smile. Gone, vanished. I lived like this, long after mother and I shared the same roof.

I lived, like an alley cat. My backpack snugly against my shoulder. Everything needed for survival in tow.
Clothes,
meds,
pens,
notebooks,
underwear,
toothbrush.
A map,
Some cliff bars.
Altered bus tickets.


I lived like this for years.
And once I had a sturdy roof, and a sometimes steady girlfriend,
my heart would still not sit down.
Always mirroring the exits,
It preferred the arm of the sofa,
thanks.
My journals laid open all over that first house
But it was the bottles I hid in the kitchen
behind the flour.
The flask in the stack of towels.