This girl I know
She's afraid to love
And to be loved
But she can't be alone
She cries into her pillow
Wishing some one
Would love her
She craves what she fears most
I see this girl every day
Fall out of bed
Alive but not living like she could be
Because of past trial and errors
Her heart is torn up
And shriveled dry
Like a desert before the sky cries
And she looks at this boy
With a love and passion
Stronger than fear
She just wants to love
And be loved
She desperately clings to the hope
That her demons will fly away
She wants him to water her heart
Clear out the tumble weeds
And make permanent residence
Where it matters most
And this girl stares back at me
With deep gray blue eyes
And her freckles litter her face
The girls lips full and round
The girl tells me I am pretty too
Even though I know I'm not
Because reflections are deceiving
Not even I can comfort myself
Zipped open my back pack before sunrise
To gray skies and gray thoughts
Counted them, shades of gray, fifty...three
The count appeared to be rising.
Shook all the reminders out, upside down, on the bed
A dozen paper bracelets that spelled out OVER TWENTY- ONE
Dried daisies, four leaf clovers, sea shells, smooth stones and some wrinkled notes
These penned thoughts began to soothe me like a lover's hand on rewind.
With both arms I clutched my empty pack
Picked up my list of things necessary for the cleanse
Going by water to a secluded island on the lake
Where the only gray that will rise
Will be the smoke from a thought consuming campfire.
and answers on Watauga Lake.
The coming of the light was disorienting at first, like the shimmer of the surface of the sea when viewed from beneath. Ossie Mae was swimming up to meet it head on with the fearlessness that only the children of the Great Depression possess. That stark light called out to her bones.
Ossie Mae could hear faint sounds of work: the crinkling of cellophane wrappers, muffled footsteps, and an incessant chatter of beeps nearby. She broke the water's surface and spied a silhouette moving gracefully around the room's only bed. The lights' intrusion subsided, and Ossie Mae was able to recognize hospital scrubs as the silhouette's garment of choice.
"Am I dead," Ossie Mae ventured feebly.
"I don't know," the silhouette responded. "Do you feel dead?"
"I don't know what dead feels like."
"Then how do you know you were ever alive?"
The question hung in the air for a moment while Ossie Mae gathered her wits. "I don't reckon it matters, does it? What happened? Where am I? What is your name?" Now the questions flowed like water over the falls.
"I am Nurse Cassandra. This is a hospital. You are here because you fell and broke your hip. You came in alone...is there anyone you would like me to call for you? Family? Friends?"
Ossie Mae's pupils dilated slightly, as if looking past Nurse Cassandra, searching. "No. My husband, Jack, passed away eight years ago. We never had children and the few friends I have are all in nursing homes or moved away to live with their babies and grand-babies, or to Florida. It's just me now...," Ossie Mae said, her voice slowly and steadily trailing off.
Nurse Cassandra, who looked to be a woman in her early fifties, set down the clipboard she had been scanning while Ossie Mae spoke. She sat down next to Ossie Mae and took her hand. Ossie Mae thought to herself that for such a young woman, Nurse Cassandra had old eyes. They were kind and gray, but seemed old and out of place.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Ossie Mae," Nurse Cassandra asked gently.
"Well...my daddy was a simple man, and he always told me 'Ossie Mae, you ain't got to know what you want in life, but it sure does help to know what you don't want.' I sure do miss Daddy...but I reckon what I don't want is to stay in this hospital any longer than I have to. Could you get me out of here? Please? I don't belong here no more."
"Are you sure? Really sure that is what you want, Ossie Mae?"
"Yes'ums. Yes ma'am." Flatly. Definitively.
"Then of course, Ossie Mae. I can help you with that." Nurse Cassandra stood up, reaching into the pocket of her scrubs. "One escape, coming right up."
Nurse Cassandra turned to Ossie Mae's I.V. drip, moving quickly with practiced hands, emptying the contents of the syringe into the port on the line.
And so it came to pass: Nurse Cassandra, Ossie Mae's Angel of Death, sent her home to Jack and Daddy.
i am still undecided if i should continue to pursue this genre....
Alone in every day
The darkness is my friend
An outcast some may say
All talk will soon descend
The sky plastered in gray
because the smiles were pretend
All the judges soon will pay
Because she wanted her life to end
Squeaky wheel chairs
And graying gray hairs
Walk hand in hand
Down hospital halls
Blinding white lights
And lonely black nights
We pay the cost
Beloved ones lost
Tiled white floors
And black numbered doors
Old painted walls
Line hospital halls
Waiting for doom
Wait in small rooms
And color TV’s
Lunches on trays
And flower displays
And everything’s clean
As I walk down these hospital halls
He did not wear a scarlet coat
But still my blood runs red
All my blood was on his hands
When they found him with the dead
The poor dead girl he hadn't loved
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Senior Class
In a polo shirt of gray
No hat was placed upon his head
But his step was light and gay
But never once did he think
To look wistfully at the day
Never did they see him look
With a sad or wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
That we dreamers call the sky
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by
I walked with no other souls in pain
From friendship ring to ring
And was wondering if anyone knew
What he had done to me
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"Is he dating her now? They're so cute together!"
Dear Christ! The very highschool walls
Suddenly seemed to reel
And the ceiling above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel
And though I was a soul in pain
My pain they did not feel
They did not know what hunted thought
Quickened my step and why
I looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye
He had killed who he said he loved
Yet he was not who died.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard
Some do it with a bitter look
Some with a flattering word
The coward does it with a kiss
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young
Some when they are old
Some strangle it with hands of Lust
Some with hands of gold
The kindest use a knife because
The dead so soon grows cold
Some love too little, some too long
Some sell and others buy
Some do the deed with many tears
Some without a sigh
For each man kills the thing he loves
But this man did not die.
It was I who died a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace
I wore the noose around my neck
But no cloth hid my face
They saw my pain the moment I dropped
Into an empty place
I waste away with noisy friends
Who gossip night and day
Who gossip when I try to weep
And when I try to pray
Who gossip lest I should forget
Who laughs at the end of the day
I wake at dawn each day to see
His face across the room
I hear his words, they hit my heart,
Like the brazen bells of doom.
And no one looks at me to see
My pallid air of gloom.
Each day, I rise in piteous haste
To put on convict clothes
So his foul-mouthed cohorts can gloat and note
Each new and nerve-twitched pose
As he taps his phone with little clicks
Like horrible hammer blows.
I know to whom he sends the texts
The girl who caught his eye
I can't help but think, "You're beautiful."
Was nothing but a lie.
So still I look to God above
With such a wistful eye.
It was he who kissed me on the lips
And sentenced me to die
His hand held my breaking heart
And said, "Please do not cry."
But a coward's kiss kills half as quick
As the hand that holds the knife.
But all men kill the thing they love
By all let this be heard
Some do it with a bitter look
Some with a flattering word
The coward does it with a kiss
The brave man with a sword!
Fog across the pathway
Ahead and behind me
I wipe sleep from my eyes
And shiver in the sharp
Chill of the gray morning.
Looking behind me
I can't tell if I came that way
It's vague like a dream
That slips away
Like leaves in
The sad autumn wind
When you wake up
To the real world
Seeing his face
And it's as unfamiliar
As the pathway behind me
And the pathway ahead
Is just as veiled.
Every step forward is a chance
Sometimes I can't tell
It might be a step back
But I'll take my chances in the fog
Until day breaks in full
And the sun burns the haze
Until I can see clearly
In every direction.
chasing the sun
i broke out in a run
i'm in a full out sprint
i'm in pursuit of the wind
the sun went away
the sky has turned gray
rain pours out of clouds
all there is is now
i have to be brave
break out of my chains
now is where it begins
now is where it ends
how the years have flown.
I’m blown away
by these few gray hairs
popping up on my head.
Does anybody care about
the loss of two of my best friends
or that I still have hair?
I do care about humanity,
my long lost dogs, and
my mind’s a bit foggy (sometimes),
but what do you expect?
I’ve been infected with love
a few times,
that makes you lose
bits and pieces
of your passionate-mind!
It seems the memories
grow like wild grass these days,
they flow like a strong stream,
but I have no regrets!
No, really I don’t!
No regrets, just more dreams!
Why won’t you believe me!?
Is it in my written word,
do you feel my angst,
breathe this loneliness?
Can you touch my broken heart,
do you have the same wanderlust?
O but I must write!
I’m driven to
get it all out,
a bit of a legacy!
O I know,
I’m not a William Wadsworth,
a Maya, an Edgar, an Emily
nor a Jack Kerouac!
In fact, I’m really a nobody.
I’m just your simple,
run-of-the-mill kindred spirit,
sojourning like you,
learning about the cold hard facts,
the facts of a life lived to the fullest.
And, I ain’t done yet!
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez room. It was not a heavy frost, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.
He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.
"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "Booze and Johnny Cash."
Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.
Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.
Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his ass would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.
Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.
Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.
"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.
Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"
"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.
"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.
"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.
"That's good, that's good."
"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.
"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, dirty dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.
"Take the dogs out to pee," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."
"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.
"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."
Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to pee. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.
"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.
Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.
A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.
On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.
There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.
After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."
He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.