Getting up from the crumpled bed,
resurrected from the dead, once more,
he looks the world in the face, panicked,
he is back in to being from the land of  nothingness,
he was hardly aware of the non existence,
in the land of sleep, mysterious camouflage,
for war time secrets to be kept safe.

He doesn't have to pretend, to be a child again,
morning sows hopes, in vivid colours, he grows up
evening dissolves in loss, bleak darkness, finis.

What he gets in between becomes meaningless,
unless at least a smile gives wings
to the sad heart, to rejoice defying angst,
that swings between, life after life, day after day.

Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.

If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.

And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.

And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.

We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.

The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.

Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.

This soul you gave
Has lost its way.
It doesn't know who made
It anymore.

Hashem, this soul
Instead of purified
Is petrified,
And heavy and full.

This soul in me's got
A little identity crisis,
With matter and anger tugging war
With rightness.

Perhaps this soul
Is mean, unfaithful.
Created divine, it still can't find
The innocence to make it grateful.

This soul needs help to find it's way,
Restorer of essence to body from sleep,
Return essence to that godly piece,
Allow your presence within me to keep.

personal journal musings from last week...

Reading in my local coffeehouse last week
  a very large, urban place, always crowded
Well...reading, talking, and watching the human circus in action
  I go there a lot

Taking a standing break from my comfy chair
  one of several surrounding a fireplace
I turn around to view the street activity
  through the windows behind me

A girl I noticed walking by a bit earlier is seated at the window bar
  she catches my eye and lights up like a firework
Exploding from her seat with purpose
  she moves directly toward me with a sparkling trail of excitement

I race through the flash drive of my mind
  searching for a memory to go with the vaguely familiar face
It bothers me when someone recognizes me
  and I can't reciprocate and this appears to be an extreme case

No luck...so I go into my identification crisis default mode
  basically over-animation to distract and buy time
She's quickly in front of me and very close
  greeting me with the type of enthusiasm that leaves me breathless

We hug, or maybe not, unclear right now
  as I am lost in the sparkle of her intense eye contact
She is speaking fast and familiarly, but I don't catch much of it
  until she asks if there is room for us to sit together..."ummm sure"

She flies back to her seat to collect her things
  as I stand there stunned and pleasantly confused
My whole being warmed by our interaction
  feeling so beautifully interconnected

Returning with the same effusive energy
  she engages me with a huge, expectant smile
She lifts her hand so that its contents hover next to her beaming face
  exclaiming "I even brought you a red velvet cupcake!"

Well those words are the death knell for my improbable daydream
 now obvious that this is a rendezvous, probably an internet date
I apologize (more sorry than she could know*)
  relating that there must be some mistake

She asks whether my name is ...
  I reluctantly reply that it's not
Then her face takes on several shades of embarrassment
  as she glances past me to her actual date a few chairs away and she flees

It happens so fast that I don't even have time to thank her
  not that she'd appreciate the gratitude in her present state
I turn to see them immediately leaving
  likely, and understandably, a sudden change of plans

I hope to see her again if only to elevate her recollection
  of our shared experience, laugh about it together
I know this is a big city
  but a small world...I tell myself

Whenever I replay this film short of my life
  I may just edit out the scene after the cupcake presentation

  I so cherish red velvet greetings

I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.

You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.

I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?

I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.

I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.

Did that make me stand out?

To the all knowing Miser
I am far wiser for I have found a way to keep smiling
And though my clothes are ragged
Your edge is jagged
My will is of benevolence and teachings priceless
I wouldn't pay a penny for your thought
At the roots of all evil I'd call you Kenevil
but you wouldn't dare to spare heart
and while you loose all meaning as you dole your ill dealings
I'll observe with great seething
and pray that one day you'll fall from my ceiling
To haunt me no more

I need to address
five different people that
mean the world to me:*

        Teachers, I'm sorry
        for not listening to your
        wisdom and lessons.

Friends, I am sorry
for condescending remarks
and hypocrisy.

        Family, sorry
        for poor communication
        and cutting you off.

God, I am sorry
for failing to acknowledge
you and all your love.

        Self, I am sorry
        for hurting and neglecting
        you and your beauty.