When I was little, we had a tree.
He carried himself like a social outcast;
spindly protrusions with stubby green needles
trying to pass as branches.

They jutted out,
perpendicular to his wiry trunk;
strategically separated,
like feuding relatives at a wedding reception.

My father named him Ralph.
He was neither tall nor short.

At Christmas time,
he was adorned with colored lights
and bright glass globes.

His wannabe branches drooped
under the comically heavy baubles,
as if decorated by Charlie Brown himself.

In his youth, Ralph’s
modest redwood container
buckled under the force of his ambition.

“I want more,”
he whispered from his suburban cell.
“A land of my own,
where I can stand among giants.”

One day, it became too much.
As hot days stacked
like dry pancakes,
brittle brown cracked through his veins.

Ralph was no more.
But he lived on,
because my father gave him a name.

I’d rather be in a starship
Visiting the stars
Than be a star.

Stars cannot retreat to remote asteroids
And turn out the lights.

Stars cannot drift loosely
among the constellations.

Stars cannot drink in
the uncertain darkness.

I gave birth to a star once.

He is a beacon
Attracting other celestial bodies
Into his orbit.

He grows brighter
With each ray
of admiration.

His admirers revel
in his cheery glow.

Sometimes he is blinded
By his own light.

He shrinks away
At the mention of shadows
Which must be eradicated
At all cost.

I offer him my hand,
Beckoning him to join me
In my starship.

He shakes his head, wordlessly.

I let go
And promise to meet him
Wherever he may be.

I met a hostage on the plane.

My gaze brushed his as I glanced up from my reading. Grinning, his ample chin jutted toward the vacant middle seat. Reluctantly, I stepped into the aisle as he jostled his carry-on into the overhead bin.

His glasses, slightly askew, were plotting their escape.
His thin short hairs stood in a half ring around his head, a defeated army ready to surrender to old age.

“You’re the only one here who appears to be thinking”, he proclaimed,
puncturing my last hope of solitude.

For the next four hours, words spilled out of the hostage’s mouth.
Sometimes they gushed and other times they trickled.
I received them with the grace of a child accepting Grandma’s hand-knitted sweater on Christmas morning.

His soliloquy was punctuated only by greedy gulps of premium airline Wifi.
After a few swallows, the stench of Fox News was hot on his breath.

“I hated law school”, said the hostage.
“I studied philosophy as an undergrad and absolutely loved it. All this legal stuff is so dry and boring.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I asked, simply.

“Because I’m afraid.”

I stepped off the plane with a silent hope:
that one day, he would be free.

I lay in bed
and tell myself how my day went.

Thoughts revolve slowly,
a galaxy
around an emotional black hole.

From the spiral I pluck a thought
and give it a name.

It sprouts wings
and flutters away.

Sooner or later, the lights flicker and dim.

My consciousness slips softly into the night.

Black. Black. Black.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
OK, now I’m riding ******* on a brown horse,
a kindred spirit,
hugging its mane.
Take me to that meeting tomorrow so that I can
make that guy understand.
After that, I need to work out. Should I go for a run?

No wait.

Black. Black. Black.
I’m floating in black nothingness.
Each muscle relaxes in sequence.
My mind is blank.
I am everything and nothing.
Nothing? Shoot, I forgot to fill out that 401(k) rollover form.
Don’t forget that. Must do.
Man, I’m so glad I don’t work there anymore.
That place was a piece of crap.
Speaking of crap, there’s that presentation I have to do Monday.
I bet there’s a good Dilbert cartoon to illustrate my point.
I should poke around for one.
That reminds me of this funny song by the Lonely Island
that I need to get. I wonder if iTunes has it?
Must check iTunes when I wake up so I can listen to it
on the way to work.

Tunes. Tunes.
OK Enya, do your stuff. Make my mind blank so that I can forget.
How much time do I have for this?
Ugh. 5:30. So just enough time to fall asleep before the alarm.
Since I’m looking at my phone, I might as well see if there are any emails.
Yikes! Stuff is broken.
OK. OK.
People are on it. It’s not my problem.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Beep! Beep! Beep!

I can be a waste of time,
electrons dripping into my veins
through my eye socket
assaulting my ear canal
directly into my brains.

When my purpose is stretched
between too many ambitions
it is easily punctured
by the buzz of inboxes,
and mindless online exhibitions.

I gorge on useless tips and viral videos
positioning my open mouth
below the gaping search box
as I pull the lever again and again
and my willpower goes south.

Each stray thought, each nagging question
is an excuse to trade concentration
for an immediate rush,
a canonical ******
of electronic validation.

I pull as hard as I can,
interrupting the current
feeding these diversions.
The network inside my brain lights up,
completing my inner circuit.

Each time we were together,
a new piece was added to the
elaborate porcelain vase.

One day, we saw each other no more
and the vase was thrown to the floor.

Pieces scattered in a mushroom cloud
and flew up to mock me in the face.
Silence rained down.

I solemnly took a broom and swept
the pieces into a trash bin,
which I set gently in a seldom-visited corner
of my mind.

Every once-in-a-while,
the trash bin is kicked over
and several pieces skate across
the smooth linoleum.

I pick them up, turning them over in my palm,
examining the memories,
and toss them carelessly back
into the bin.