This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose it.
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so it was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure it never left.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that it would be there when he woke and would sleep soundly through the night.
This tale of a shy quiet lad continued into his adulthood.
He kept doing this same thing with the coin.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket....
The shy boy, now a man, had married.
They had a son who grew to be successful and greedy.
The shy boy got older and his wife grew weak and fragile. She past one night in December at only 60 years of age. He was broken.
His son had since married and had children.
Three girls.
And finally a son.
The shy boy, lonely and still very shy, watched as his granddaughters grew into beautiful women.
They were eager, smart, cunning, social, and talented.
There was something different about his grandson.
He was quiet and kept to himself.
The shy boy looked at him one day. He was sitting in the garden reading a book. Two young boys came up to him and asked him to play football. He politely declined and went back to his book.
The shy boy smiled and thought. . . . .
This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose him
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so he was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure he was always with him.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that he was watching over him and would sleep soundly through the night.

Crying in the stall
Door shut, no one talks
Been in here long enough
Too long almost
Come out quietly
Like nothing's wrong
Fix my make up
Put on a brave face
Tell everyone that I'm ok
A bold faced lie
No one knows
I've hit rock bottom
Crying in a washroom stall

I can see tears in her eyes
as she looks down at her desk.
She's always smiling,
this is different-
a raw side of a random girl I barely know.
I write on a sticky note
"you ok? you seem sad,
what's wrong?"
I peel it off the pad
almost put it sideways on my textbook,
but instead, put it on my notebook
facing me.
she leaves for a second
i put it on my textbook
facing her.
she comes back-
i take it off,
put it back on my notebook
facing me.
a little later,
i pick it up
to put it back,
but instead
curl it up,
put it in my pocket



©Brandon Webb
2012

In the muddle and the mess that is my mind
I could do with some perspective
Someone else's perception
of this one-sided, two way conversation
that's been going on for hours
days
years
I can not be objective
about the very personal subject of
Me.

My life is clearly complicated
I am my self and all the rest of me
and we are a confused and cross-wired bunch

The answers lie inside
I try to dig them out
but when it comes right down to it
I lose the nerve
the will
the reason and I retreat
run back
to on-the-surface sanity
so as far as you can see, I'm happy
look at me!
I smile in all your snaps and photographs
and sometimes the twinkle is sincere
but what we have here
is a well-practised masking of emotion
Make me look more like the me I
imagine myself to be
so that, by the time I get there,
I can provide the fools with proof
that I was never afraid
never ashamed
never appalled or unsure or unsettled
never shattered
or shocked
never wrong, all right;
every night was my party -
and every place was my home.

who is to speak for the voiceless
     when their mutters make not a sound
who is to speak for the broken
     when their pieces cannot be found
Not I said the boy
     No one has spoken for me
so walking home
     he avoided cracked stone
          his eyes diverted down
and he saw no evil
     because he looked away
          until that very tragic day
               when it stood directly in his path
and he hadn't a clue what to do
he opened his mouth with a yelp
     but no one heard his cries
he was now the voiceless
     invisible to our eyes

Eyes popping
in distant stares
I wonder if a soul inhabits the pair
red hair, bombs,guns
and drugged?
The second killer nowhere to be found
but was seen yet disreguarded and most unaware
of the eye witness reporting
Why cover the details?
Something fishy lingers in the air
Something remains unshared
Motives so unclear
but I heard holmes had an obsession
with mind control
The neuroscience student
that spread so much pain and fear
conspiracy surrounds like a think cloud
like Sirhan Sirhan
The scenes shrouded in mystery
yet similiar
Ever heard of the illegal CIA human research program
Rockfeller Commission?
Did you know he had a Neuroscience University?
Fishy indeed

We spoke
like a light mist of rain
quenching the thirst of these grounds
and I reached out my hand
and dragged him away from the blood hounds
stripping away his ego
along with his clothes
which masked his vulnerability
I teach one to let go
he said I can't help this feeling
through his tears and mental exhaustion
with whispers of fear
the darkness had consumed him
and in a moment of clarity I spoke with honesty

he had decieved himself

everyone can help whatever feeling enraptures them
feeling down and out is a product of your own resolution
each thought we have can be chosen
and the world around you has no power over the mind
unless you allow it

Crawling on all fours, traffic drags its bleeding body forward.  
Men with collars of lipstick tap tap tap their fingers against steering wheels.  
Time slows, cars inch, passing hands find cigarettes, cigarettes find fire.  
Tap ash tap finds tap pavement.  
This is the unobserved hiatus of daily routines, the dreaded stretch of heaven that separates from and to.  
During such moments of inertia
thoughts drift through open windows
forming a cloud for bargains, regrets, wishes, doubts, prayers, and curses to perform cotillion upon.  
Faster, faster, so quickly now, oh, change partners, switch lanes, spin, oh baby spin, fasterfasterfaster, until differentiation is impossible, until drivers become one with this steel river, until minds make their essential switch that makes home a bearable punishment.  

Someone has broken down.  
Do Not Stop.
They are shunned from the sweeping mob of machinery.  Necks swivel in uniform towards this abomination, how dare they, how DARE they outshine our misery.  Perspiration works its way down backs and pools into leather cracks.  

Will it ever end?
Do we want it to?  

Finally,
regrettably,
the final exit, the last few feet of purgatory.  
We descend into the next inferno where we leap through fiery hoops of interrogation—
yes no it was fine yes okay.  
We are exhausted.  
If only we would have stopped.  
If only we would have hit the brakes and remained in our haven of anxiety and lust and confusion and endless searching.  
Our love affair with traffic can only last so long.
    So we make solemn promises to ourselves to appreciate tomorrow’s,
    to run our fingers along the satin thighs of the freeway,
    to plant a rubber kiss upon the ground.  

How tap long tap until tap five?