I found an artifact from my
ancient life, filled with words
and drawings from before
I was your dad and it is with
some trepidation that I confess
it caused me to cast my mind
back to those days and look
upon them with fondness.
I used to be a different man.
Harder in many ways,
unhappy, lonely even.
I was, however, unburdened.
You'll know what I mean
someday.
On that day you'll have already
broken my heart by leaving
and by growing up
and by not needing me
to help you put your shoes on,
which we both agree now is a
pretty tricky thing to do.
And listen, I want you to
break my heart. I want so
much for you, my littlest man.
One day I'll find an old shoe
of yours, behind this or in that
storage box, and I'll remember
that once you could nap in the
palm of my hand.
You would throw your arms
out and demand, with a coy smile
lighting your eyes, to be carried.
To be held.
I wanted the world to be better
for you, bud, and it's not
and I'm so so sorry.
Someday you'll know what I mean.
But not yet Lil' guy. No need for
that just yet.
Not today

I heard your voice
turned through digital
lines and distance
into a hollow shadow of itself.
You screamed my name,
almost roared with that
wild lion power you've
never kept secret,
tonight, you'd say, tonight!
We're gonna fix you, man
and then we're gonna
save the world!
We're gonna burn our
faces on the surface
of the moon so big that
we'll be the advertisement
for Earth throughout the cosmos.
You and I, love, cosmic
ambassadors.
And we'll never feel alone
in the universe, my love,
because our faces will be
there together, for always.
Tonight, baby, we're gonna be
forever.

Royal blue floral patterns
painted in tight rings
on bone white china plates
on red and white checkered
tartan table covers.
White wild flowers growing
randomly in the dark green
grass of the lawn.
Clouds drift happy and high
in the smooth light blue
ocean of sky above the
dark brick fronted home.
A bicycle sits on its side
in the blue/gray gravel
driveway, its kickstand
never used, its front wheel
still spinning.
It would be bucolic
if not for the lifetime
of bloodshed.
It would be barncore
******* beautiful
if you could ignore all the screaming.

You sit nearing forty
doing nothing noteworthy,
doomscrolling and
wondering when the
wisdom comes.
Sure, you mocked
us when we broke against
the distant ground
because you had the
knowledge not to leap,
knew where to keep
planted firm with both feet.
But now you worry
at why we seem to know
why we move confident
you wonder at the secret
behind our success and your stall
and the truth is there
is knowledge not to leap
but wisdom comes from the fall.

Did you stop smiling
when they plucked
the stars from your eyes?
Did you cry out in pain
when you first began
to understand this life?
I hope so.
I hope you didn't just
let the moment pass
you by.
We learn to suffer
because to suffer is to learn
and we think that makes
it alright, but we never
get to hold the child we
were. We never get to
say goodbye.
We become cynics
born to burn away,
born to die.
Our innocence is borrowed
from the universe.
It's just on loan.
We have to give it back
when we're done with it.
When we're grown.
Knowing that we live
in mourning of
who we used to be.
Do you ever wonder
what became of you when
you stopped being me?
It's probably alright.
It's likely just fine.
Still, I hope you wonder
about it from time to time.

What if there was no moving on?
Once in our hearts and never gone?
What if the hurt was forever?
We always haunt our every endeavor?
The tears only ever seconds
from falling.
Our hearts moved one minute
and the next stalling.
What if that ******* song
must always be avoided?
And no matter how hard you try
you always feel exploited?
That bar open to the public
but forever closed to you?
And it always hurts too much to open
up and let in someone new?
What if, once we get broken,
we never get to be complete again?
What, seriously, what are we supposed
to do then?
Would we work harder?
Fight longer?
Or would we be more careful
with the words we say?
More open to seeing things
the other way?
Or would we lock ourselves away?
Why bother trying if it always
ends the same ******* way?
Better to lock ourselves behind
doors another day.
Better to be alone
than torn open and left on display.

He would open
The Amazing Spider-man
and climb inside.
Swinging the urban
canyons of Midtown
and never noticing that
it was much cleaner than
those same streets were
only hours earlier
when he walked fast
through them.
He fought the bad guys
and laughed at all
of Spidey's quips.
There was the constant
background drone of
screaming and the
constant threat of real
violence, undetected
even by Spider-man's
wonderful Spider sense.
He landed neatly next to
his hero and rescued the
poor, innocent New Yorker
and he prided himself on
the restraint he had to
never ask the only question
he ever had inside himself.
He never even said why.
He closed the book and
crawled into bed and curled
up, his eye on the space between
the edge of the door and
the doorjam, where the light
would be when it started.
His breath was shakey
his knuckles white.
Inside him he held the question
"Why won't anyone save me?"