There is an unsuspecting spot
on campus

A lone bench at
the intersection of several
paths, that holds
unforgiving memories.

As I sit here
now
I am self-conscious
of the bench

I move.

I realize that this bench
only has the meaning
of sadness and tears
for
me.

I move back.

This bench, in the dead of night,
was the place
where I realized
I couldn't save you

You had more
pain
anger
and
fear
in you than I thought possible

I cried.

Your words, covered in
shame
regret
and
grudges
angered me
saddened me
moved me to tears

I held your hands
as they shook
and we cried
and I knew
I felt
as if
I lost you

I've never known anything
as dark as that November
When blinding brightness
vanished
replaced by a creeping darkness
which infected
wherever I laid my
thoughts.

Except for maybe
that December
When as others were fighting for their
GPA
I was fighting to
Keep my head above
water

Christmas break came
and I went
home relieved to
have made it

As my friends went to
places of worship
parties
malls
I went to
doctor's offices
pharmacies
my bed.

The office with its leather
couch, friendly dog
and a sweater-loving doctor
who listened
and listened
and listened
but never spoke
as I talked
and cried
and yelled of
my fears
obsessions
doubts.

He never said much
But finally wrote for me
some numbers
and one complex name.

I was saved.

I've never known anything as
dark as that
November
and
December

Right now I need poetry. Right now, the gentle rock of music isn’t doing its usual job. Right now my heart feels as if it were an ocean adrift in an ocean, lost inwardly and outwardly. Its amazing how this is possible, this feeling, when we all know where the heart is: in the chest cavity. And unless you are a rare medical find, on the left side of the chest cavity, but surprisingly more to the middle than we normally think. I know my heart isn’t adrift; it is doing this crazy painful job of constantly beating. Constantly. Even when I rest, it doesn’t and while I don’t want it to stop, I feel bad, for the constant stress and strain it is under. And even as I write this, my heart still is beating, pumping, cycling, but this time with a bit of pain…a wave in the ocean within an ocean. I’m not a fan of poetry, they lyrical word confuses me. I prefer, long, arduous prose, to the lyrical word. But right now, something primal, animalistic in me, needs poetry in the worst way. It prospectively feels like Gatorade for my heart. Which may I mention is still beating. In one of those amazing moments of life where I realize how amazing something is, our heart is the most astonishing thing. It goes for years, with out stop, without rest. Without a break. It is an amazing thought. The only thing I will do for that long is live…Its just a weird thought. But honestly, this ocean within an ocean is killing me. I need poetry in the worst way.

Things during this time
Time of flux
Of growth
Of shrunk
Of 140 character thoughts
And emotions
Which once seemed endless and long
But became stunted to fit in a coded box
Do not rest easy on my mind

These things plague my mind
Forcing thoughts there that I do not wish to be
There as all I want is to float off to the 9th cloud
As I lay there breathing
As I lay dying
I just wish to meet, discuss, and submit to
The man from the desert, with sand in his pockets
But these flashes
There 140 character thoughts
Flash before my eyes
Making it almost impossible for
My dear, dear friend to visit
And for any true work to be accomplished

Looking out
Around
There is a generation
Not the one with angelheaded hipsters
That were laid infamously famous
But truly a generation that is its own

Cold, calculating, as they, we, must
Be now that there is everything
There is everything here but right now
As we are surrounded by the everything that
Makes up our filled lives, we concentrate on
The nothing.
So we, they, them, I all must be cold, calculating
Networking, meeting, greeting, cheering,
Pleading for work in the everything that is
Nothing.

And as I look out, through the window
Into our generation, my generation
There is a warmness
A kindness once
unfamiliar to coldness and calculating
Where despite distance, time, values, reasons
Nothing
everything
Bonds are made

Is it this cold networking, greeting, meeting that
Allows for the kindness that kindles the fire
That keeps our cheeks warm and glowing
A soft pink in the dead of night
As we stand by kegs, cups, tables, cops, cars, bars,
By girls vomiting on their own volition or not
By boys raising hell as their families admonish but
Their cultures praise

We, Them, I, They, Us, can not know
What we, them, I, They Us are doing
Just as others didn’t know what they
Were doing, and meaning and becoming maryters for
On a clear fall day, when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky
Yet turbulence filled the air, the nation and the world.

They, We, I, Us, Them, do not even
Consider their meaning as they ponder
Fake lives on interposed mediums
Or if they are Jackies,
Or Marilyns or
Audreys

Or if laying down somewhere
just as warm as it is cold
As they touch souls with others
Means anything more than nothing
If they can hold on as they try to let go
When an entire world begs them not to

But the teenage desire to rebel is strong
And the pull of the vast of emotions is stronger
And as we seem to be losing
In clusters
The We.
I.
Us.
They. Them
The fire never dims, and the warm pink glow never flickers
Off our cheeks
And the mix of cold calculations and
Pleasant beatitudes
Combine, like a nights plans
In a gin bucket

And the thought of importance, rarely is thought
Of aside from the few
The brave
Maybe a Marine, but mostly
Those who wish to cure things, change other things
Create things, build things, code things
Things Things Things Things.
T-H-I-N-G-S
For a future of nothing and everything
Everything and nothing

I’ve learned my lessons
To live boldly
To love fiercely
To never miss a dose

To never leave my chap stick
In the car on a
Sunny day in Texas

To do my hair while its wet
To not trust them when they say
“you’re beautiful”

To be the only one who holds my heart
To laugh at anything funny
To get enough sleep
And not procrastinate

Then tell me
If I have my lessons learned
Why am I still here

With sadness in my lungs
A missed dosage in my brain

Awake in the early morning that
Still could be called night

If my lessons are learned
Why am I here doing this
Listening to the silence
As my chap-stick sits
Abandoned in the car
Awaiting its imminent
Demise when the Texas sun
Will surly rise

If my lessons are learned
Why haven’t I learned?