One day I broke down, I took the job.

"I just wanted to destroy something beautiful..."                    
     "Yeah, beautiful and toxic. what were you thinking?"
"who are you?"         
   "I'm your ******* muse, *******"
"no, no, no. just, please... leave me alone?"       
    "nope"    
"****"          
   "do you love me?"
"how could-  i mean, what...."          
   "touch me"
" god.   ******...."

A man once said, against his will,
that love has many names.
A woman nearby scoffed but, still,
She writhed within its flames.

Her  cries kept him awake at night,
He could not close his ears.
Resistance waned, and all his might,
Could not allay the fears.

He  called on favored demons,
Change is torture, all the same.
He called on angels, without reason,
Begging each by name.

It was, at once, surprise to none,
He kept the worst inside.
Surprise to all when it was done,
Her violent suicide.

Seventeen years old and troubled, I took walks in the woods to sort out my mind.  There were miles of it behind the old neighborhood.
I could meditate on thoughts and walk down paths, off paths, for miles if I wished.  My forest grew in semi-rural suburbia of my hometown, just a thirty minute drive east from Atlanta.
I'd like to think it grows there still...  

   One could walk a mile or two through untamed, mostly coniferous, forest but suddenly step out onto a clearing of uninterrupted rock, desolate and pocked like the surface of the moon.  A moonscape bounded by trees.  An anomalous break in the journey of green.  A massive plane of granite lies, apparently, beneath much of our state.  The woods in my area had this unique feature...  Patches where the granite was exposed to the surface.  Some were the size of a small city park.  Others were the size of multiple football fields.  Those accessible by bicycle were especially fun.  They would be explored thoroughly as I jostled and bounced my mountain-bike over the irregular surfaces.  Others lay deep in the woods.  I would walk as much as I could or just lie on the solidness of that ground and look at clouds.

   As pressures in my heart and mind increased, I would come to these woods angry and frustrated.  Pent-up emotions had few outlets.  Poetry was there, a kind of constant companion of the day,  but sometimes I just needed to run.
   Something felt primal and therapeutic about it.  One day, in a lot of frustration and anger, I made up this stupid game.   It was simple.
1: Run.  Immediately.  North.
2: Don't stop. Don't stop.  Don't stop.  Unless stopped involuntarily.

   I leapt off the trail and ran.  Though I felt despairing, the freedom was liberating.  Constantly, there were split-second decisions to make...  Over or under?  Left or right? More often than not, it just had to be "through" and, in my determination and stupid teen nihilism, I plowed through lots of tangles and thorns, scratching up my ankles in the process.  I didn't care and, stupidly, welcomed the blood until a stronger patch of thorns held fast to my ankle. My running speed slammed me to the ground.  I think I laughed, then, like a ******* crazy person.  I saw myself and felt foolish.  I laughed at the sad sight of this broody kid, breathless and bleeding on the forest floor, who actually had life pretty good.  My troubles aren't even worth recalling, they were that trivial, even in the moment.  I picked myself up as if I were happily helping a friend.  I was feeling pretty good and helped him walk, carefully, back south again.

I floated in the corner, and I waited for a sign,
From the place where visions come at cost,
Where three sharp eyes, two heads, inclined,
To see me where I stood and spoke,
Aloud, to no avail,
Some truth, some lies, some love, some hate,
Was then I felt the nail.
Two eyes spoke, but only then,
To ask that I had felt,
The flesh that held the nail I bore,
From up there where they knelt.
The single eye was silent, still!
She would not even cast,
Her monoscopic field of view on all this violence past.
If only she would turn her face,
And three eyes become four,
Then she might open for the one,
Come knocking on her door...

On the night that I dreamed you had died,
I didn't want them to see me crying in the kitchen,
But I did, and spoke only the truth for the day,
In honor of you.  I hope that it wasn't a dumb thing to do.
It probably was.

I didn't want to speak to people you knew,
But I did.  Told them how I knew you and, now,
With you gone...
-**** it, you wouldn't want this,
All this spewing of emotion, this lament of the flesh,
From which you're now gone.
I said I felt bad for loving you so much, but then I remembered your words,
I said I was wrong, I said I was weak, but then I remembered your words,
When you said,
"You are, but that's o.k."
It's the consolation of a friend, now gone, distilled to the essence,
Of what you needed to hear,
Exactly when you needed to hear it.

To some Holy Land, now, gather ye,
There, to spend the night in Gethsemane.
Entreat with the father or maybe the son,
Perhaps they can tell you when a war is won.

For another parent, another child,
Their once ancestral home defiled.
Did it help, the blood you spilled?
Your mark of Cain; your curse fulfilled?

Run to your God and pretend he hears,
Believe in lies and dark new fears,
Deny to others their right to live…
We saw what you did and will not forgive.

Where two or more are gathered,
The result is anyone’s game.
But make it many thousands,
And often it is just a shame,
How Gods remain suspiciously quiet,
When the killing is in their name.

the pain of holding back the flood.
only one way out and it's through.
face it.  be strong, it won't take you.
feel it, become it, trust that madness.
revel in it's starkness, it's truth.  it's own reality.
because when you come out the other side,
you may be bruised,
bloodied,
there will be parts, even, missing.
but you will survive improved,
intact,
lovable and beautiful.

My friend, My friend, Insomniac,
You're ******* crazy.
You asked me to stay up late again,
like every other visit.
We smoked and smoked, We kept sleep at bay,
Held it off with caffeine,
but tempted it with liquor,
and you awoke me in single digits, low ones,
and wanted me to hear that song.
As much as I care for you, I realized something that night...
I'm no insomniac! Just a pedestrian, a faker!
Honestly believing that the sleep deprivation and
Not the drugs, not the alcohol, or the company,
Were actually killing me in the morning hours,
and, mumbling incoherently, I could not appreciate
The thing you wanted me to hear or see.
It might have been both.
So, yeah.
Sorry about that.
You're the best in my book and always will be.
Thanks for some great nights.

If I told you I had seen it already,
You’d have told me I was full of ****.
The joy, the future for each of you,
And the secret that there was more to it.

In a vision, you held an infant child,
A happy but confusing sight.
Confusing in stillness , nothing said,
And happy because it was obviously right.

Another vision, and you were at risk,
I slept on your floor to keep you from harm.
Just a glance on waking, still nothing said,
A smile before leaving, as you touched my arm.

In one surreal vision, you actually killed me.
(I never really understood that one…)
I even loved you for what you had done,
Maybe it was some kind of metaphor,
Some kind of mercy?

I honestly couldn’t say and, trust me,
I love a good metaphor.

You know what was really frightening, though?
How clear the next vision was.
It was light and joy, it was love itself, fulfilled.
And it horrified me to see it,
Right in the palm of my hand.

An old familiar face looked down and laughed.
She told me, “they are all in trouble now…”
“Precarious balance, and one is in real danger…”
“Best not **** it up…!”
And she laughed so hard I thought she’d **** herself.
If those kind of creatures even do that…

I honestly couldn’t say and, trust me,
I’m not afraid to ask her.

But one vision shook me when it proved true.
So many visions from the smallest of clues.
I didn’t mean to get close, or look for connections,
I just wanted to learn and seek the reflection.
To know, and to laugh,
With someone like you.
Share a table, a cup,
and a secret or two.

But the seer would see how our lines became crossed,
She spoke much of love, of a life and it’s loss.
She spoke of how my role,
Would be monumental,
Expendable, Trivial, but still…
       Instrumental.

I grew angry at how she manipulates me,
One alien and his hard-won humanity.
But the seer was right, I would have to go,
Leave the scene and assure that
    No one could know.

I created the door that it may be sealed,
And retreated to the opposite side,
Where I would be hated or feared, maybe both,
And none could ever know,
How, quietly, I cried.

There has to be something to show the way,
In the fumbling flash of thoughts and just how,
As night draws us closer to each dawning day,
Where we plan for a future that grows out of now.

There has to be something to do or to say,
In a stumbling dash to prevent or allow,
The night that approaches to soothe a bright day,
Where the words resonate and the sound is just…
"wow..."

You think you have me figured out already,
don't you, Carol Lynn?
Well, I hope not, because it would mean the chances are good,
That you actually have.  This would be sad because it means,
there may be no intrigue remaining,
nothing new to discover,
and you might go away,
bored with me and the evil,
you must, inevitably find,
buried in my side like a stone.

There may come a day when you finally see,
Where this tension, releasing, comes from.
You said I was wound, unbound, like a spring.
The watch of my appeal always did have a short run.

So, a relationship moves toward it's end, right from the start.
Interest can wane, obscenities uncovered, doubt can enter,
and set up shop like it always does.  

What we should hope for instead is a slow burning ember,
nurtured each breath with whispers, with mindfulness,
and contentedly, casually, delay it's demise for just one more day.

"Wise as a serpent but gentle as a dove",
Was scripture you'd quote to me many a time,
And though your Faith would sustain you,
Through many dark storms,
You refused to insist
     That it should be mine.

You see, I had every chance to fall out of line,
A multitude of options, to shy or to shine,
And even though I may not have said it a lot-
I remembered your words,
             And made some of them mine.

So, when I reached the age,
That you were back then,
When you felt like you'd failed me,
And said so again,

I'm taking your hand now,
To place it in mine.
I'm smiling but, sighing,
I'm drawing the line.
No one's written the book yet, Mom,
You did just fine.

Listen.
This is good stuff that you need to know,
I’ve been writing it all in my head for a while.  
Because ever since we went toe to toe,
There are things that I now have to reconcile.

I recall...
I recall a camel-hair trench coat, green knit gloves and unfamiliar but smiling people. It was 1988.
I remember papers wind-strewn in a high school parking lot, oil and grit smudging the corners of awful artwork and poetry.  (I hope I thanked you for the ride home after missing the bus on my first day at a new school).

It was good to have met you in those formative years.  It was nothing magical, we just became friends and I needed one more than I could have known.

I learned…
I learned that a friend will nod patiently to interminable tales of obsession and unrequited love.  (You poor *******.  I thank you for this, if I never did before.)
I learned that a friend will patiently read your hack teenage poetry, advising sparingly.
(Thanks for that, too.)
I learned that someone might potentially be able to crash only “my side of the car”.
            ( I’m grateful that this "nuclear option" was never invoked!)
I learned about music bands that would become  the soundtrack for the best years in my young life.
(I still listen to pretty much anything by xtc, over 25 years later.)
I learned that a cast iron skillet may very well shatter if dropped onto concrete.
I learned that the best cornbread is a simple recipe and that you must pre-heat the pan.
(My wife insists that I prepare it anytime we make chili.)
1989, our senior year of high school…  I remember an overnight bike tour I took of our hometown. On a whim, I stopped by your house at 1AM. Unable to knock, I opted instead to get your attention by tapping at the window when I noticed you were awake and playing a computer game. ( sorry for the scare… )
1991.  I remember sitting, spellbound, to see “A Tour of Heaven and Hell” at the Center for Puppetry Arts.
(The first inspiration in a longer journey that would later have me working with it’s creator on five new shows.)
In college, I remember “our little ant farm”, the apartments across from our rental house on Milburn Avenue in Athens.
I remember climbing onto the roof to lounge, take photos and, of course,  leap off.
(Thanks for a Pulitzer-worthy freeze frame  of my youth in flight)
For that matter, thanks for some great camping excursions, a cast-iron pan cooking potatoes and, what-  onion?  on the fire.

This is how I come to realize: The darkness cannot outshine the light, since life will always throw reminders my way that when we were young, you were important to me.  I can not discard, too easily, that which is already an indelible part of me.

When misunderstandings flew every direction,
I tried to blame you, I gave it a shot.
But despite all the anger, resentment, correction,
Petty and cruel is something I'm not.

So it's time to step back,
Pull my head from the sand,
Outside of my self-absorbed ego, and stand...
Embrace the all,
and find it sufficient,
To still the mind and be with what is,
Pain and pleasure, in equal measure,
To God or Caesar, hers or his...

And on that June day, beside the black hearse,
I'll swear I caught sight of an eye or a mind.
Our new paths led to the first rehearsal.
The curtain opens and cold, we find,
We’re on the stage in a role reversal,
And though we may be deaf and blind,
     We hear a song,
            See a dance,
                 Universal.



#npminspire #forgiveness #taken #given

Condescending to humor my intimate muse,
You sought out her words in my writing.
I couldn't have guessed that you'd actually choose,
To tell her what you think is the source that I'm citing.

Get over yourselves, the drama and strife,
I can tell you’ve found something you wanted to see.
And, of course, held it up to the shape of your life,
And think you see secrets you once shared with me.

Forgive my intrusion throughout that December,
If that friendship seemed somehow untrue,
I won't try to persuade you, but you ought to remember,
Sometimes, unbelievably, it's not about you.

My task is obsessive, compulsion, expression,
I write the universal, the aggregate whole.
Never to betray or teach some grand lesson,
I’d rather enrich than to harm a good soul.

Emotions exposed and stories delivered may wound or dignify,
My job is to make it have life and clarity;
Give it weight enough to signify.

And, as then, when we meet,
Sour or sweet, 
Speaking our truth,
Silent secrets,
and feel…
The words that can wound,
Flatter,
Heal or conceal...
All of them wind to what our actions reveal.

Conditional, conventional, this heart,
And the tough thin cloak I wear.
I give it to the few friends I make,
With room and love, always, to spare.

I met you in the valley, but the evidence was there,
Your eyes hid the fear and weariness,
Deep within the fire of a stare.
Or retreated, free from scrutiny,
To hide behind the fall of your hair.

The secrets, however, weren't easy to guess,
And for your good, I would do my part.
So I know that your void is filled with less,
Than fits your past or your darkest art.
I've seen your anger, wrath, and need:
It was protecting a kind and generous heart.

Your friendship was a gift, you trusted in me,
I trusted in you, which was better, I felt,
Than calling out the humanity  I see,
Within the rotten hand you were dealt.

I hope that I brought to you something of use,
Listening was the only thing that I knew how to give.
If I brought you harm, or cause for alarm,
Then the shame would stay with me
                                    for as long as I live.

They say that friendship is a place we go,
When two, or more, are there, it is real.
I'm confused but trying to understand,
And I'm more than confident,
                     that you know how that feels.

Horrf, my friend, don't keep it in,
Horrf, the sound eternal !
For, soon, what once adorned your skin,
Shall be, once more,
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