"Gamer."
"Nerd."
"Shut-in."
"Loner."
"Loser."

Synonyms to some people,
jokes for others,
but painful for most.

The kind of pain that sticks with you
not like a scalding or a stab-wound,
but like a little shadow
some small, slimy version of yourself
that blocks the way
whenever you turn to the mirror.

I’ve been followed around
by that monstrous little thing
wearing my face
who manages to whisper away
the few hours I would find in a day to be free
“You’re lazy.”
“Fat.”
“Useless.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Childish.”

I would be lying if I said I never believed what he told me.

But I realized something
about the word “Gamer,”
and “Nerd.”
“Shut-in.”
“Loner.”
even “Loser.”

I like them.

Because when someone else uses them
to turn me into a joke
they don’t understand why those insults
are really compliments.

When I reach for my controller
and turn on my TV,
it’s no different then opening a great book,
starting up that perfect song,
or staring at any marvelous canvas of acrylics or oils.

For a few hours
every few days,
I get to escape.
To fly away.
I’m no longer any version of myself
that I don’t want to be.

This world is mine.
I have no shadow here.

Video games don’t melt your brain,
they save it
if you need them too.

I’ve ticked away more late nights
and countless lazy Sundays
on dungeons and puzzles,
boss fights and battlegrounds
than I care to think.
But I needed to.

I got to be a hunter
an assassin
a superhero
and roam the open plains of alien worlds
when I was glued to my bed
for six weeks after surgery.

I got to laugh and shout
and curse and stop caring
after endless high school days
when I came home without a smile
feeling like nothing at all

I got to slay dragons,
wage wars,
and explore galaxies
on the worst days of my life.

I got to learn
that when you fail and fall
sometimes all you need to do
is “Press X to Respawn,”
and start over again.

I got to be a super soldier:
I was strong, charming, and indestructible
on the day my father died.

I have lived a million lives
with nothing more than a big TV
and a handheld piece of plastic.

And if the price of all those lives
all those adventures,
those galaxies,
those heroes,
and those conquests on those horrible days when I was starved of a smile
is to be a “Nerd,”
or a “Shut-in,
a “Loner,”
or a “Loser,”

that seems like one hell of a deal.

the world breaks everyone
and afterwards
many are strong
at the broken places

is something I heard

but I also heard that Kinsukuroi (keen-tsoo-koo-roy)

is the repairing of broken pottery
with gold and silver

                                                                        well it’s metal lacquer technically
and I thought that sounds
more honest

that we get broken
and don’t really get any stronger,
just repaired with something
that we never thought would be a part of us

I don’t think of scars as strong
but I do find them interesting,
like little splashes of gold and silver
                                                                              well metal lacquer technically
that happen to tell some story

and maybe we can’t read
other people’s stories
their gold and silver
                                                                                  or metal lacquer technically
because they’re very small
or deep beneath a coat of paint
that makes it look like part of the person
                                                                                             or the pottery, rather.

and honestly
                                                                                                                   or oddly
I’d rather be a broken piece of pottery
filled with hidden gold and silver
                                                                                       metal lacquer technically
still somewhat fragile
than get coarser and harder
                                                                                                          and duller too
whenever I was cracked.

You seem to be fading
tonight
even though I know that tomorrow
you will be back
brash and solid and blinding as ever

and I know
that this is just dream smoke,
some cloying cancer that creeps out
when I switch off the reactor and wait
for the core to cool

but what if one night it isn’t

what if I wake up
you wake up

in 5

10

15 years

and you’ve faded
an after image
that I can only imagine anymore

logic
or something
tells me that it wouldn’t happen like that
like a blackout or a bee sting or burnt toast
I thought was fine

but what if
keeps me awake
keeps me drinking dream smoke
keeps me dizzy
and nauseous
and full of acid
every night I pull the blankets up

what if
keeps me jumping awake in the early morning
checking to see what was broken

The starlings are sitting in the snow tonight,

but not on the poles and wires and rooftops where they are expected.

They litter the ground, the streets, and the park paths

in staggered formation.


Broken ranks.


A taxi driver splatters one

unaware that he has strewn the soft entrails of a galaxy child

onto the curb and down the storm drain,

unaware that he has mixed nebula residue with day old sewage,

unaware of his vile chemistry.


Nobody know this,

but the starlings are indeed sired by stars,

incubated in the frenetic furnace of the gas giants

and born in the wake of supernovas

they hurtle to our little Earth

and enjoy the serenity of unknown importance,

of sequestered vastness.


Truly listen

the next time you catch a starling song

and you will hear the tapestries of the cosmos,

the biographies of endless energy.

The rain came and we lost the trail
and I was soaked to the bone.
We were lost and hungry and my leg hurt
and all I could think about was that cute way you bite your lower lip

You threw your Iphone at my face
and broke that vase filled with purple marbles
the night we made out in the library
and you tasted like that peach liquor

I blacked out thinking that no one had ever taught me how to be a victim.

Down a scramble of broken boulders
and moldy trees filled with phosphorescent algae
was a whiskey bottle,
smoky and smelling of cheap cinnamon.
The alabaster glass split the sunbeams
into a cheap font like Comic Sans
onto a piece of pink granite.

I hate you.

Your text read when I woke up.

Then that night when the city died down you called me from the bar
and told me what you were wearing;
told me your roommate was at her parent’s place.
I could feel that smirk right then,
dripping with power,
a coiled cobra,
knowing the mouse is heading her way.

Knowing that I never rode the sea in my sleep
one more time.
I want the surge of the night waves
to rock me slowly,
to wake up to the sound of gulls,
and see the shore so far away.

There are a few things out there
magical enough
to keep my eyes open
even if they were supposed to shut.

I want to stand in the Piazza San Marco in Venice
and hear the songs of the gondoliers
go wafting by.

I want another day in Santorini;
half buried in the soft black sand,
hearing the sound of the ocean
and the market wash over each other.
I want to throw myself into the cool cerulean sea
and float for hours.

I want another bottle of scotch
celebrating its 18th birthday,
full of smoke and honey apple all to myself.
And then I want another, to share
with the best of friends, wherever the stars are shining
brightest.

I want to be called back to bed
on a rainy morning,
to smell rich, Ethiopian coffee
and then make love filled with laughter,
wrapped in the warm quilts.

I want to hear jazz at Yoshi’s again.

I want to stand on the deck of a small sea cabin
in Bodega Bay,
and breathe in
as much soft fog and ocean mist as I can.

Cross the Golden Gate bridge again.
Stroll the piers.
Climb the cliffs.
Lose the directions.

I want to sit in Central Park
and write
one more good poem.

But most of all I want to sleep,
I want to sleep like I slept as a boy,
when I woke up light as a feather,
with only the promise of daylight
in my heart.

Give me that.
Just one more time.
Because I won’t leave without it.

Losing myself in a field of graying burlap flecked with glowing screens
And the sound of fingers clacking like a thousand jabs in a featherweight bout
Dropped me down
From some old memory;
A fading dream of something
Else where I knew how to breathe
And the sun set slowly
Enough to see all its colors.
No one was taking pictures.

Looking at watches, computers, even donuts
And feeling fine.
Guilt forgotten
Like so many other things I don’t know why
I remembered in the first place.

A thousand things make me smile.
I am unsurprised but unentitled.

I start to dial my phone
But smash it on the ground,
Then turn and run some way I never knew
Sprinting and jogging, but not
Furious, or spiteful, or ashamed.
No complication or destination guiding my strides.

I just guide myself to a voice
I hope to never hear through a telephone again,
But only next to me
As I roll out of uninterrupted sleep,
Amazed that I was not the first to wake.

I laugh without walls, restrictions, or censorship,
Then collapse asleep again,
Reveling in my newfound power.

I wake up whenever
I cook and eat
As simple as that
No numbers, or pains, or seething shame
Just the savoring of coffee steam and buttered bread;
The pride of feeling full.

I step out onto some ledge where I see the ocean
And smell it
And could touch it if I wanted to

As if to break apart the swirling salt air,
I yell
With no subtext
Or direction,
No ceiling or floor, anger or doubt,
Just a pure burst of volume
To hear the echo telling me I’m alive.

A life
Chopped clean of all the measures, walls, and shadows I ever built.
I destroy a life’s work
And am overjoyed.