I have lost my voice as of late,
feeling like prospero living in the island of my mind.
Here's an attempt to describe how I pass my time.*

there are moments when the ache overcomes the present
the scratching demon inside, selfish for something I can’t pronounce
and I find myself swallowing my tears over black coffee, hoping you don’t see.

I look into your hazel eyes and see the frustration with age.
you tell me, ‘I hate being old’
and I quietly tell you to embrace your wisdom
‘you’re only old once, nana’
you laugh and I find my place inside your sweet warble
as we look around for the keys that you just put in your purse.

the small girl within me reaches out and holds your shoulder lightly
guiding you in and out of the slow traffic swimming in southern humidity.
everything has slowed down in the past few months
the decaying town I grew up in is full of molasses minded folk,
and I only wish it was slower as you forget why we are here.
We walk into the the cool air and I tell you we needed to leave the house.
you’ve been folding the dishes and scrubbing the laundry while my grandfather yells about the TV and his inability to find his mind when they put another persons heart inside his chest.
we decide to leave behind the scene of you sobbing in the sink
and drink some black coffee.

You and I have sat so many times
wrapped in fits of laughter
defying the pain of the world.
I try to make simple jokes as an excuse to lose ourselves,
but my new silence has grown with the summer honeysuckle
and I have lost the desire to forget.
We sit side by side, watching the black water slide inside the creek.
You begin telling me how you finally feel relaxed.
I kiss your cheek and tell you I love you.
We smile, no longer needing to grasp for breathless laughter.
The ache becomes a part of every moment
and I breathe in the golden sadness of mortality,
knowing that I am learning the art of dying
in southern heat of the town I was born.

Have you wished someone dead?
Self doesn't count.
Terminally ill don't count,
In fact, that may be construed as kind.
No. Someone vibrant, strong,
Sure and vain, like:
The relentless bully,
The cop at your door,
The ridiculing teacher
Who made you the fool.
The betrayer and rumour monger,
Your prosecutors, some persecutors,
An ocassional critic.
The machine voice,
The government,
The ****** and child molester,
The boko haram (all terrorists)
Even some family members,
But never your children.
Some on your own list.
Close your eyes and pick one
With a pin.
You can't wait for the uncertainty
Of Karma or God,
Or them to go to the devil.
You can't depend on toilets falling from planes,
Tornados dropping houses.
It's not illegal: half of us do it.
Billions believe it possible.
I envision driving the final nail myself.
At certain times, it's true,
I regret the absence of hell
With its gnashing, its unquenchable fires,
That burn without consuming:
The smelly, curling, shrinking flesh,
The bubbling of fat through skin,
Because sudden death
Just doesn't cut it.

A gentleman once asked,-
'Why sail the infinite sea?

So torrential and torrid;
too much for me...

Encompassed by water;
no place to flea.

Incalculable harbors;
she hears no plea!'



I raised my face against the sun,
hearing him, but seeing none

Just to be, sir, just to be.

Alone in his dark apartment
black dog asleep
the sound of children playing
in the street outside his window-
children of color, his housekeeper says,
not quite seeing the distinction
only hearing happy voices-
an old jazz number on the radio
as he stands and dances slowly
with his cane tap, tap, tapping
to the beat and dreaming of a girl
he once read about named Helen
in a book of braille.

r ~ 6/6/14

I am sitting in front of a small coffee shop
listening to the birds chirp and smelling the rise
of cigarette smoke infiltrating my nostrils from
a barrista's hand.

random thoughts rise like smoke from my mind
as I sit and settle into myself and just take in
a everyday of this new city I arrived at last Wednesday.

The life of the urban jungle of D.C. seems far removed from
this sleepy quiet neighborhood.  No sirens every 30 minutes or sounds of construction in the distance.  

All this reflecting takes me further back and makes me muse about how I got from being an angry punk kid to now a 34 year old, who just bought a home with his wife and expecting a new baby.  I am grateful for everything that's been given to me, and especially for the ability to be grateful.

Maybe I don't really need to figure out how, but just here and now fully open to the present.

1.  Cultivate the garden of your soul
2.  Clear away the weeds by being honest
3. Stop playing God
4.  Ask for help, and find a community where you can be vulnerable.
5.  Find a safe space to grow, and where you can give and receive help.

It's unsafe for pedestrians
The need for speed is eminent
But I'm the only one who disagrees

We turn our backs to everyday
Adventure seems too far away
No gas money to spend among the trees

But oh, my dear,
Home is right here
In the sun, the sky
The fairyland of your childhood

The love remains
And when you come back it's not the same
As when you left
Give it a rest.

The garden is too bare today
All the seeds have blown away
But the bench you used to read in's standing here

You want to go to Paris, France
You'd fly away if you had the chance
Sorry benches in bare gardens don't compare

But oh, my sweet,
The barista still knows your order
And your books still wait
Collecting gray dust on the shelves

Your dreams of light
Aren't always as bright as you've known
Don't forget your home.

I used to think that summer was mean
A hot, sticky, mosquito-ridden season
With no reason to be here but to annoy me.
Maybe just because Michigan, but who knows.
I stuffed these discontentments in the back of my mind
As the summer began,
Letting them float to the surface on parade days.

Then after one of those torrential July rainstorms
Where the water falls straight down unless pushed by the wind
And thunder crackles with a static energy
I realized that as spring was clean
And as fall was crisp
And as winter was bracing
Summer was the only season
That I could sit on a blanket on a lawn
Bottle of Coke in hand
Watching a movie with friends.

according to the old & worn out dictionary i tossed away in the attic
to cry is to shed tears
to cry is to shout or scream 

the words in my dictionary are wrong 

crying is leaning against the wall at 1 in the morning
your hair messed up and
your shirt ruffled
the tears in your eyes build up until the world is just one big blur 

at 1:30 your tears are replaced with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands

at 2 in the morning you stare
right through the concrete wall and
all that runs through that twisted mind of yours is
what did i do to deserve
all this pain and heartache

you try to stand on your feet at 2:30
in the morning but your legs feel like they've been glued together and you sink right down back again

you are drowning and
you can't gasp for air
you'd do anything to breathe again
you would do anything for a touch of sunlight
but you realize you're not even underwater
you're drowning in all the pain
that happiness is far out of your reach 

that's what crying is
and maybe they should add that to the pages of my old and worn out dictionary