part of me wants to forget
the feel of you against me,
skin-on-skin,
the scent of your hair,
and that little sigh you make.

part of me wants to wash it all away,
to move on like it never happened,
and pick up my life where i last left it,
as though we never met.

part of me wants to wrench my heart
out of my chest and leave it laying there,
pumping out the last reserves until
the beating finally fades and  tissue turns cold,
and my body falls next to it,
unseeing eyes absorbing the scene.

and part of me wants
to only go back to when things were good,
and my world with you made sense.
but this part - this last little part -
it grows smaller every day,
and i am afraid that it will be replaced
with empty bitterness.

part of me doesn't want that.
part of me does.

they said "alone is bad."
by myself i find peace.

too busy to write,
to think about the things i want,
those deep-down punch-the-gut
things i don't like to talk about at parties,
always making excuses,
apologies,
looking somewhere else because I have to
deal with this or that or the next -
never my time to do with what I want,
i need a 36-hour day,
just to do the wants,
but the minute they give it to me, you know
the Boss will want more, and the commitments will want more and everything will just **** my time away again,
and there will be none left for writing
about the things i want to write about.
and will they matter anyway - or is that my own delusion?

there are times when,
sitting alone in the peaceful garden of the mind,
a few words come together,
that seem to have no meaning,
until they are said out loud.
they form a phrase,
a mantra,
a code,
a philosophy -
a way of looking at things that suddenly makes sense,
and it's not always good - you have to look out for those ones.

but when it is good,
and the words drip from your tongue like fresh honey from the comb,
and it reaches in,
deeper than you thought it could,
and grabs the root of you,
holding fast and shaking with a rapturous violence
unlike anything you've ever felt,
you look on the page or screen
and know instantly
that it is beautiful,
and that it came from inside you.

i never understood his passion for it,
planning meticulously how many feet
it might take,
how much to put in the ground.
how far apart each row must be,
knowing just how much space the late-bloomers
needed, and when,
so he could remove the early ones before they were overwhelmed.
now, i understand -
when planting my first garden,
just what it was my father always did
and i took for granted.
my hands remember how,
after many long years of avoiding the work,
they remember how to plant a garden.

you can't play the pieces,
they only do what they're told,
moving along at the will of the mind behind,
the game isn't fought on the board,
in structures and traps,
deliberately visible - the true scene unseen.
you have to play the man,
mind racing to out-think you,
to see one move further down the fine line.
you have to understand the imagination -
in order to understand the art.

a notecard in a book,
bearing two words that bring to the fore
countless desires and longings,
secrets i tell no one,
not even in my prayers.

a simple phrase that reminds me
of a truth i learned long ago
and rarely allow myself to indulge -
i am allowed to dream.

possible wishes,
probable dreams,
attainable hopes,
life lived.

i said a prayer once before,
many years ago, when i was foolish,
and i saw the world unfold from a distance,
like the setting of the sun seen in a rear view mirror.
i was powerless,
and though i tried,
there was nothing i could do.
i asked God to take my life that night,
in lieu of hers.
i don't know why we were both spared.
maybe that's what it takes -
maybe we all need a martyr
to lay down their life in lieu of our own,
someone who loves us enough,
who shouts at the oncoming storm,
"TAKE ME AND LET THAT ONE ALONE!"
but i don't know which is worse -
both sides must deal with loss.

the man-machine rumbles,
precision of gears, chain, muscle and sweat,
a controlled breathing in step with cadence,
the count begins,
one, two, three -
which each revolution of the crank.

then it hits - that first sting
of wet that fell from too-heavy clouds
a thousand feet up -
it must have taken five minutes to get here,
to hit its mark.
the blood begins to pulse,
electric air crackles around as the instinct takes over,
and man and machine become fluid,
bound to one another as the second and third droplets hit,
their sound and feel the countdown to five,
when all will be loosed upon the road:
the fury of the storm matched by the fury of passion.

the fourth drop is quiet,
unremarkable,
this is when the racer draws breath.

then it hits,
and hell is released -
the flood of adrenaline has been prepped and is ready,
as legs piston and fingers tighten to white-knuckled ferocity,
the eyes narrow, and face extorts in a mixture of pain and effort,
legs extend and pull up,
body tucked as small as it can be,
the energy transferred to the pavement,
as arch-enemies collide:
as he races against the rain.

standing in the rain,
heavy drops pouring over my body
like so many tears
that have been shed
over pains real and imagined,
now washing away,
cleansing,
sanctifying the earth into which
they disappear,
and in that moment
i find the restful peace
i have been hunting.

they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.

give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.

eyes are blank,
staring through their surroundings,
no hope,
no faith,
no idea where to turn,
where to start,
how to go on from one moment to the next,
not sure if they even want to anymore.

when you understand it,
you begin to see why the easy way out looks appealing.
then, you remember you're worth more,
worth fighting for,
worth believing in,
worth trying for.

and you just want someone else to believe the same thing,
because you know it's still possible to get through it,
but it's easier with a partner.

on my commute there is a building.
facade worn and *****,
the brick needs to be replaced in places,
repointed in others,
but it's solid.

they've been working on it for months, now,
and today i finally saw
that they've been working from the inside out,
and now it's time to open the building,
and let the hard work be seen.

as i went by,
i was awed by the care they took,
to preserve the old brick that needs repointing,
because the outside is worth keeping -
when the work within shines forth,
augmenting the past,
renovating the future.

there is shouting in the street tonight,
and crying in the home,
someone's son is lying bleeding,
his body broken,
an inspiration to rage,
or to answer a call
to recognize in one another
ourselves.

at the corner of the old red barn,
on old pile of rocks,
taken from the garden every spring.
we'd walk behind, waiting for his big boots
to kick them up,
and pick them up in the white buckets that hurt my hand.
we added them to the pile,
they looked the same as the other rocks
encased in concrete that made the foundation.
the barn is gone, i think,
and the pile with it now,
but as i tilled the soil today for the first time,
my big shoes kicked up the stones,
and i began a new pile of rocks.

digging in the soil,
you find roots -
plants of all kinds,
trees and grasses, shrubs, vegetables and vines,
some you keep and tend,
some you throw away,
yanking them from the ground forcefully.

digging in the soil,
i found the root of me,
my beginning,
and from there i began to grow,
and will yield fruit yet.

i used to do it all the time,
as a child, i could not stop,
but had to move at a constant break-neck pace.
i would race my brother,
even though i knew he would win.
but i would run anyway.
somewhere, i gave up,
when i couldn't win,
was no longer the fastest,
and it became clear that i was built for other things.
now, i run to reclaim what i lost
so many years ago.
i run to stay in shape,
to avoid the fate of my father,
to feel the joy again, as i did when small,
of running for the sake of it.

the night closed in when i shut my eyes,
a blackness like none i know,
everything shut out,
a communion,
standing barefoot in the grass,
as the rains fell, baptizing me,
a marriage of soul -
mine with the universe -
confirming that which i knew in my heart,
a new holy order begun
as my path was set straight,
my past sickness anointed and blessed,
taken away
as i was reconciled to my God.

i greet the morning,
standing tall,
feet firm on the ground,
a slow great breath beginning deep inside,
releasing the dreamscape
as i bow gracefully to the waking sun.
breathe: in, then out,
slow and peaceful as the sun warms my body
and my hands meet the ground,
supporting my body as the blood begins to move
through my hips and into my legs again,
muscles becoming alive through simple movements,
then down and up,
my face worshiping the heavens
as my heart moves towards the sun,
offering the day,
receiving the welcome of the morning in return.

i look at my hands,
and i see the place where
the chisel slipped when i was a boy,
and countless other wounds
were wrought into my flesh,
from a life spent touching and working with
my hands,
and i know it is a life worth remembering,
a life of substance,
a life that changed those whom i have loved,
and each scar bears witness to that life,
so that when i am old,
i may recount the tales to young lives,
and lay my scars at their feet -
a challenge to live their own lives fully.

scene 1:
he enters down left,
looking confident and in charge,
sits down at bar stool up center,
orders a coke,
he is waiting,
sitting where he can see the door.
he sips his drink and concentrates,
fixes his posture,
shoulders back, gut ****** in,
checking his phone to look at the time.
she walks in down left,
looking around,
it's clear they've exchanged photos,
she smiles as their eyes meet,
crosses to up center.

begin.

there's the me i keep inside,
safe behind the walls i spent a lifetime building,
not to keep others out,
but just to keep safe
from the unintended assaults
that come from being near people.
they don't understand what they do,
and the more i try to fit in with them,
not care, not notice,
the more i feel my secret self becoming corrupted,
and the walls get built higher.
to break free from this fortress
will break hearts and minds
and shatter everything they know
and i don't know if they can take it -
but i have to do it,
because this lonely castle as yet has no roof -
i can still see out,
see the daylight and let it warm me,
soothe me, console and comfort -
i have to hurry before the roof is built
and i lose all that's left of me,
just to save them.

she is so many things
in my world
that to list them would fill
the great colosseums
to overflowing.
it is enough to say,
"she is woman"
and be content to not define her,
but let her define herself.

the ground screamed at me,
begged me,
implored me,
until finally it grew quiet,
and that is when i heard it -
so i took off my shoes and went outside,
greeting the earth with my feet unshod,
and it spoke to me,
as it likes to do.
i cried,
because i took so long to hear it.

watching the lovers,
the streetlights casting silhouettes against the concrete
while my mind and heart stray to another time,
another place where that was us,
finding in the other a passion deep and longing,
a thirst, need, and hunger to sample the unknown,
to revel in the timelessness of an embrace,
where clocks don't matter and
the rest of the world can vanish with a single electrifying touch.
i remember when we could experience that thrill,
before we took each other for granted,
and learned to hide what we were feeling under polite nods and grins.
it was pure, then,
uncomplicated, and driven by nothing other than the moment;
a silhouette there for a moment and gone when the lights go out.

his anxieties and fears,
his coping skills,
his strength,
his desires,
even his hands are mine -
all his failures are made manifest
and all my life,
i have been powerless to stop it.

my mind,
my beauty,
my passion and spirit,
my vision,
my talent,
in the hands of the son,
the sins of the father will be broken,
and a new beginning
will take the world by storm.

each little thing
goes up in flames
small things that don't matter,
but for the fact they've been held onto
for far too long.
each one
a small reclamation
of myself,
purging the old things,
making way for what is new and vibrant.

it sounds simple: to sit.
to remove the weight from one's legs,
and relax the body,
and enjoy the simple act of doing nothing
but sitting.
no phones,
no music,
no voices,
no books,
no activities.
just me and a bench in a park -
time to think,
time to reflect,
watch the people going by,
observe the birds flitting about,
see life unfold,
and understand -
what it means to sit.

there are the big moments -
those times of ultimate highs and lows,
the memories and photographs
by which we define our lives,
and that we recall instantly,
whether they were joyous or tragic.

then there are the small ones -
those times when you didn't shine brightly, but you still shone,
you were a little kind,
a little generous,
maybe a touch despondent, too.

we live for the large moments,
but in doing so,
we live in the small moments more.

silent giant clumps fall to the ground,
beautiful and deadly,
a look celebrated in december
and loathed in april,
when the crocuses are poking through
the first of the verdant grasses
and the birds are nesting in the
just-budding trees.
outside my window,
the world freezes as it turns today,
and i long for the warm thoughts
that come to me in dreams.

some people were not made to live safely,
to guard their hearts and their person closely,
to live small and simply,
to be content with living life unnoticed.

some people were not made to diminish,
or to do menial things and merely exist,
to just be,
and let others simply "be" as well.

when we encounter them, some people run,
some people hide,
some people put on a facade and pretend to face the world,
some people give up,
and some people die.

break me -
tear me down,
i don't want to know what an easy life is.
burn me -
char my insides,
who i am is not who i've been.

shake me -
knock me down,
i will get right back up again.
turn me -
inside out,
and we'll see how strong i really am.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

beat me -
till i'm bent and bruised,
just a shadow of all my hopes and dreams.
**** me-
leave me lyin' on the floor,
wondering what this hellish world means.

bleed me -
till there's nothing left to give,
and everything i have is all gone,
save me-
from the lies and abuse,
only then can i at last move on.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

break me, burn me,
shake me, turn me,
beat me, **** me,
bleed me -
save me.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

here we are - gathered today,
bearing witness to a new path
and a brand new way,
when love that's old has become love that's new.
smiling faces all around,
friends and family and good times
all abound,
when we said "i forever love you."

something old and something new,
something borrowed and something blue,
festive days and sacred nights,
dinners by candlelight,
when love was young
and still in bloom.

here we are - signing names,
looking back upon the memories we made,
love was new and has become love that's old.
angry words are all we hear,
thoughts of doubt, regret, and most of all -fear,
when we said, "i'm sorry.  goodbye."

what was blossoming
when it was young,
now is faded and undone.
lonely nights, days are cold,
when something new became something old.

sometimes,
i write long posts that i erase,
not because i'm embarrassed,
or they were bad,
or the thought that seemed clear became jumbled and lost,
but because i needed to write it,
to see the words on a page defining the author at the keyboard,
speaking plainly, simply,
there i am on the screen in front of me.
i used to think it meant i was a terrible writer,
that i lacked talent,
intelligence,
the ability to convey my thoughts and passions.
but it's simply this:
to know who i am is the greatest gift in the world,
and the world doesn't have to know it.
sometimes, i write just so i get to read it.

my head pounds.
thoughts drifting in and out,
forcing themselves upon me,
toying with my emotions
until i imagine things that aren't there,
poisoning my mind
with what ifs -
questions i can never hope of answering.
a torrent,
unceasing barrage against me,
beating and pushing me,
down, down again,
threatening to bury me,
secret me away from the reality,
and i'm tempted to let it win,
stop fighting upstream,
and be carried away to places i have never been....

and the still small voice whispers, "trust."

and the raging waters subside again.

strolling,
letting the not yet hot breezes of spring
blow 'round me,
i am taken somewhere else,
escaping on the perfume of blossoms
as on a magic carpet,
to a meadow lush and green,
where the heady breath of hyacinth
holds me close,
and i am a boy once more,
on adventures terrible and grand,
saving the world one day
and conquering it the next,
my wooden sword and imaginary allies
at my side,
as the breezes blow the blossom-petals,
a softer snow to surround me,
the stuff of legend
in an ordinary world like this,
where i simply went for a stroll.

there's nothing like the smell of a
fresh sweat
that i've worked up while cutting the grass
on a sunday in the early afternoon
of a warm spring day in early April.
i long for these days until
i spend the time outside,
and when i want to take advantage of the weather
i have to do work instead
and it feels like everything i want to do is supplanted
by the planting and needs to be done.

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimes in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

i wish i could stop it all -
the pains and slights we cause each other,
the struggles and the hurts
i see people enduring -
i would take it all upon myself without
hesitation,
carry the weight of the world,
bear it all,
if only because i can.
but even superman hurts,
and try though i might,
the world hurts too much for me to carry,
and i can only take so many cuts away from others before i bleed.
i must choose whom i can protect,
who needs it, when, and how,
and when to let them know that being superman hurts.

it hangs in the air,
a moment ahead of where i am,
forever  baiting me
to rise and become something more,
just a little bit further,
just out of reach to my grasping hand,
in the corner just where i cannot see it,
but always driving me,
pushing me,
egging me on,
dodging from me the moment i try and capture,
only to return again the moment i want to give up.

i know i can't -
giving up isn't an option,
and it's so close
that i reach once more,
no matter if i fall
because it's still there, taunting me with possibility.

some mornings
i see the sweeper-man,
doing his job quietly,
picking up the dirt the rains left behind.
and i am reminded of the simple truth:
there is a nobility in working,
in doing a task that must be done
but no one wants to do.
nobody says, 'thank-you' to him,
nobody stops to consider how the path they use
has been cleared by a man simply doing his job,
but he continues on,
sweeping away the dirt the rains left behind.

it begins with a single look,
at once beautiful and frightening,
drawing me in,
looking through me to my innermost desires,
sensing them,
knowing me as intimately as possible,
laying bare my soul
before there is even a touch.
and then,
simply,
she leans in, whispering in my ear,
"you are Mine."
and i am.

there's nothing like the wind at my back,
pushing me forward,
augmenting my strength,
decreasing my time
and building my power higher,
it's easy.
but it is the headwind
against which i become stronger,
faster and more able,
it is the resistance against which
i push, strive, hone my senses -
it is against struggle where i define myself.

i call,
we talk,
every week that's how it goes, right?
then i realize i call more often,
we talk about a few more things,
different things,
and i tell what i'm doing,
and i hear what you're doing,
projects,
creativity,
moving forward, starting something new.
the tone changes,
and it's more like talking to a friend,
then, a colleague,
and then you asked my opinion,
took the advice i gave,
and it worked, and it looked great.
and then you started something new,
and it was something i knew about.
you asked my advice,
how i solved that problem,
what i've run into,
what i've discovered.
and Dad,
i'm not sure i'm ready to be the adult here,
to be the font of wisdom,
the knower of things,
the source you look to when you have questions.
i guess you weren't sure you were ready, either,
but you did it anyway.
and so will i.

i love the way you know me,
what buttons to push,
and when,
and how i'll respond to each one,
to get the ultimate pleasure
out of every moment
of sweet blissful agony,
how i will barely be able to contain myself,
maybe resist making an unplanned trip to the bathroom -
maybe not,
my heart beating faster,
anticipation my new drug,
brought on by your quiet relentlessness,
touching my soul gently,
deftly,
ensuring my utmost attention
to your every word,
as my world expands and contracts at the same time,
guided by your unseen hand
as it plucks my mind,
stirring my imagination
and my *****.

everyone must be tested,
our words,
our bonds,
our vows,
our fears,
all our limitations must be tested,
to see if we have the strength,
to know our courage,
to believe in the impossible,
and to discover our purest selves.

he stares at me,
silently appraising my every feature,
critical glances along the lines of my body,
looking at every angle,
seeking the nuances of me,
giving me the once-over,
like i am a piece of meat
and he looks for the best cut
at the butcher's shop.
his gaze travels over me,
and i watch his eyes,
staring back at me,
boring into my very being,
until at last i am forced to look away
from the man in the mirror.

i saw a bear in the woods -
strong, powerful,
majestic, really.
and i longed to feel the confidence,
the security,
the sureness that he must feel -
he is simply, "bear."

then i looked closer,
and i saw he looked unsure,
doubtful,
skittish and frightened.

i realized the bear and i had so much more in common
than it appeared.

the message was clear and to the point:
it's like watching an excellent magician -
i actually do not want to know HOW you did it.  
But the end result is stunning, and the magic makes it so.

I am magic.

you can fill it with thoughts of another,
or perhaps love,
or any little thing you can imagine -
but when that little tiny place -
the one you go to when you're hurt
where no one can reach you until and unless you let them -
when that place is empty,
and the emptiness is so vast the little place expands
until you believe it will take over you completely
and all you'll be is an empty shell, going through the motions,
that is when you must realize the emptiness isn't really there -
it's filled with fear and doubt, jealousy and resentment.
that's why it feels so empty -
there's nothing good there.