At some point, you think you have the power to force time to move slowly, and at times, choke it by the neck until it stands still altogether. That is what I wish for you right now—total asphyxiation of time so that you can take in and enjoy these last strings of moments that harbor some semblance of normalcy. You deserve that, but I don’t have the power to give you what you deserve, so I’ll give you what I can—words from a place I don’t let people reach.

I don’t know if you know this, but I was only twelve when they told me my mother had cancer. It was an idea much bigger than anything my imagination could wrap itself around. There was a possibility that she would die from some stupid thing that I couldn’t even see with my eyes. The fact that there was even a small chance that our days together were numbered sent me plummeting into this eerie wonderland of anger and confusion. I didn’t recognize anything around me anymore as something on which I could depend, and the fear that I felt meticulously disguised itself as bitterness. All of that negativity stemmed only from a small possibility, not a promise, that she was leaving me. When you told me that your father only had as little as six months to live, I knew that was a promise—not a possibility. I imagined you falling down that same terrifying rabbit hole without a single shred of certainty that your feet will hit the ground. I didn’t even attempt to save you, because, I know, it’s an inevitable, unplanned trip that has to be made.

What makes your situation delicate is that you know what’s going to happen. It’s not a question with multiple choice answers. You can see it coming—standing on some railroad tracks out in the middle of a quiet nowhere—a small speck of light in the distance that doesn’t seem to be growing any larger at first. The day will come when that light swells into the size of a freight train, but you won’t know it’s there until it’s right in front of you. You won’t know until it’s too late and you’re unable to dodge it.

I can tell you that watching that train coming right for you twists my heart with an iron fist. It’s a helplessness for me that I can’t  crawl out of.  Your pain is personal, unique, and something that is unfathomable to anyone else. All I can do is sit back and selfishly hope that I’ll still be able to make you smile after the train has passed.

Our roots don’t run too deep, but they are strong. In the past six years that I’ve known you, I’d like to think an unspoken understanding that we mean quite a bit to one another has developed between us. Your family has treated me like one of their very own, and I will never forget the love and kindness that your mom and dad have always selflessly bestowed upon some weird little writing major that you befriended through work.  It’s clear where you’ve gotten that keen sense of compassion and empathetic nature—and I love them for being such creditable role models. As a result of all these treasured qualities, I want to wreck anything that causes you pain, heartache, or unhappiness.

But I cannot wreck this. I cannot get close enough to even touch this. So it goes.

Despite my childish wishing, I cannot give you what you deserve, but I can leave you with this: Just know that with the promise of losing your father comes the promise of these two arms and a surplus of hugs—a promise of an undying effort to make sure you’re supported in the days to come in whatever you do, wherever you go—a promise that I’ll be right where you left me, always.

Picked from a high shelf; me,
no stranger to quiet and dust.
Examine my spine
before you crack it.
Part my pages to
finger my words.
Messages and meanings
ravenously devoured—
syllables and syntax,
contentedly noshed.
Happy to have something
to hold; me,
just happy to be held.
Yet, no place was marked
when you snapped me shut
without warning or regard.
Back to the shelf I went,
unfinished and untold—
into the familiar dust; me,
never knowing just
how I end.

She is not folded in the crooks
of crooked grins
or enveloped in the yuks
that follow poorly executed jokes.
She pays no mind
as she singes the edges
of those brave enough
to approach her.
She spits on empathy
and disregards
the “what ifs” or “why nots.”
Rarely spoken aloud,
she is deafening
when confined to quiet corners,
and will lurk there,
unmentioned and unforgotten.

When permitted to surface,
she looks nothing like you’d expect—
badly disguised and undeniably
                        ugly,
with unforgiving features
that have been bent and twisted—
coated with
a sticky sugary sheen.
She demands to be considered,
as she slides, jagged and bitter,
off of the tongue
and into the light.

She’s always there,
regardless of any acknowledgement—
closer than we desired,
bigger than we imagined,
wiser than we hoped.
She, the *****
that we are forced
to shake hands with.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now—
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things  
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.

Can't stop loving her
She's the moon's direction
Suns reflection
In circular direction
I whirl around her
Lips

I’m the smell on your skin
after you’ve felt the sun
for hours—
the ache in your belly
when you’ve laughed yourself
into a fit of warm tears—
the give of the lid
on a stubborn pickle jar—
the freedom felt
at one-hundred miles per hour.
I am all
of the subtle reminders
that life is beyond measure,
and that 'time' was just
a theory conjured up
by someone
who couldn’t stand
his own happiness.

I have powers
beyond my wildest dreams.
Ambition that makes
a cup runneth over.
A voice that shakes
mountains to their peaks.
Words that demand
to be fashioned on paper.
Who knew
that my greatest power
was a still tongue
behind hushed lips,
and the willingness
to simply
                                      walk away?

Make me poor
I'm more rich
Being indigent.

why? why do you always see
me as a joke?

why does all my actions
speaks something of the other
to you?

in all your life
did you ever feel
that you're being bullied?

i on the other hand
has been,
always been
the center of
your foolish
jokes...

for several months
i treat you as a friend,
and yet i feel that
you treat me as your
puppet
to feed people as
your entertainer...

have you seen what i feel?
guess not,
i hide it too well
between my laughs
as if there funny
to me,
yet deep inside i
know something
is really wrong...

i wish you knew
how far i've
grown tired
of all the repeated
jokes...

someday
if I can't take it
anymore,
I'll explode
and be secluded
as far away from
your
group...

Barbecue is blowing in the breeze , the city of Jackson is "rolling up the streets " ..The old soldier guards the city square , thoughts turn to Saturday night , stripers at the lake and the devil-may-care ..
Shady southern avenues and picnics at Indian Springs , lazy Sunday afternoons and playful children on dead end streets* ...

Hushed, like a morning before sunrise, 
grace floods in without threat.
A sudden flutter of piano keys cues
a story to unravel onto something
so much more interesting
than pages of paper.
To eerie tunes and haunting hums,
she brushes, feather-like, across my eyes—
a pinnacle of innocence
that humbles me to the warmest tears.
She does not speak but tells me everything.
So beautifully, with pointed toes
and arms as weightless as summer clouds,
my imagination falls to her tiny mercy.
The little girl in the light blue dress,
who became
my favorite storyteller.