I woke up contemplating bourbon and bitters.
Pu-Erh, with local honey, has always been more sensible.
It is warm and it heals a hoarse throat.

After two bags and a little Marquez, I sat at my desk staring at a spider in the opposite corner of my office.

I stared at it for a length of time that is too embarrassing to mention and never once had the inclination to smash it.
Not that it did not deserve it, I simply lacked the motivation.

It occurred to me that I would not trade a deep sleep under the sunlit blinds for a week's pay. How long can one get away with this?
For as long as one's wit will float them is my guess.

No one knows exactly how they want to be perceived when their ego barges into a room, but they know exactly how they do not want to be perceived.

But If I had the power, I would perceive being wanted.
To know I am here on purpose. What does that feel like?

If Hell is my fate for my living sins, then let me die in the arms of the woman that lit the fire within!

When I'm amongst the great race, brooding over my artisanal mug-of-joe, the constant chatter and open planning of the day becomes a spoken roar and I want to scream out, "Keep it down, I'm trying to plan my escape!"

What do I associate with happiness? My dad pouring M&M;'s into my mouth before a football game. Of course, I won't play, but one must be prepared!
The look on my mother's face when I sang well. Getting picked first in a game of pick-up. All the fellas whispering legends.

Ah, to be wanted!

Of late, the pain in my torso has become more persistent. I think of it and my imagination gives way to bouts of sheer panic.

And even this is not an excuse for concern and a peaceful night.
How about a kiss on my neck and chest for a change?
Must I always make you hot?
What if this is my last stand?
What if this is it?

In that final glimpse of consciousness, in my minds eye, all I make out is a faint light far above me and the brown soil and rock digging into my feet below.
What walls did I allow to be built all around me?

There is no courage in questions
We know someone will answer
Answers that take us nowhere
Informational fodder, answers that do not heal

There is no courage in questions
We know will leave our world intact
Answers that take us nowhere
Details that make a case, but do not heal

But what is the question we fear?

Do you love her?
Yes.
Do you still love me?
Yes.

My heart is oceanic
I move with the moon
Violent and dark my waves
At night I reach deep shores

My heart is an ocean
On which love can thrive
We value diamonds more
We value colored stones

What is all around us
What is essential, we take for granted
Red water on which love can survive
But, we value diamonds more

Even when a love does not belong
It still behaves as love
It still needs to be seen
Like a child playing dress-up

Try to ignore it
To boot it from your life
And it will wake you in the night
It will move from under your pressure
Like a syrup-filled capsule

Try to conceal it
And it will compel guilt to marry your soul
Even a small love
will clutch your heart with its needy eels

Draining you, taking from you what it wants
Until you acknowledge it
With touch or with gifts or with *****

There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash

I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream

She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.

Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.

No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.

Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.

Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.

Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.

But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.

And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.

What a guy I was!

But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.

Walter chased me into my house. I owed him five dollars I did not have and I thought I would trick him by getting out of his car quickly and into my house. I was fifteen years old.

Walter was quick too and when I turned to close the door and lock it, he was there to force the door open. I ran up the stairs and down the hall and into my room and Walter was just behind me, stride for stride.

I turned around and he slapped me.

I was small then, for fifteen. He was big for seventeen. I thought about what happened all night. What I should have done and why I did nothing. Mostly, I was ashamed.

I decided from that day forward, if I had an ***-kicking coming, I’d take it nose-to-nose. Better that than be chased into a corner like a dog that just ****** the carpet.

I learned from the Smiley brothers too. They would call my mother fat, and she was, but so was their mother and I’d let them know it right back. This always resulted in some fake pride and threats by the Brothers.

I came to understand that the weak take it, they don’t give it, and that I was The Weak. The Smiley Brothers knew it, Walter knew it, I knew it.

Time passed and I kept growing, bigger than the Smiley’s. Bigger than Walter.

I ran into Walter years later, as adults. He had the kind of defeated look that I assume a plantation owner would have after having done business as equals with a former slave.

But, I harbor no ill-will. I thank Walter and I carry our past with me today.
When I’m going to confront another man, Walter walks in the room, not me. When I make love, my amorous and mischievous sister is the lover.

Yes, she’s there, pushing my lovers, the way she pushed me, curious to find out what she can get them to do next. Oh, how good it is to be in control, to be the one with the whip, to be deliberate.

Like hyenas roaming the African plains, I too have come to understand leverage. But, I’d rather be the elephant than the lion. I consider myself fortunate.

After all, I’m a big guy that knows what it’s like to be small. I’ve been the tether ball and the pole. I’m gentle with my bigness and I’m good at feigning hurt for those that need to believe they have that power.

And as my path narrows, I find myself thanking Walter for the slap, thanking the Smiley Brothers for teaching me what’s worthy of a fight, and loving my sister. Above all.