You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

I take my wallet out of my pocket
as I get ready to pull the blanket over me and go to sleep
I take my wallet out of my pocket so that in my sleep
the razor blade I keep inside
for convenience
doesn't slip out and cut me up
more than I would like to be.

I let that little bit of leather rest in my hand
and stare at it in the light from the worn lamp with chipping black paint
that silently stands over my computer monitor
lighting this small corner of the living room
that I live in.

My wallet is lighter
and there is a bulge missing
the bulge that I always kept at the front
in the same slot as my razor
after the string unfurled and my neck started to ache.

Yes, that coin is gone
that little Moroccan good luck charm that you insisted was special
even though there was another handful of identical coins in your cupholder.

It's gone and so are you:
it is no longer rubbing against my thigh as I walk
or hitting that hollow spot in my breast bone every time I take a step
and the line of blisters that formed around it when I got sunburnt while wearing it is gone.

And your words are no longer ringing in my ears
my fingers are no longer aching to tap my thoughts into my phone to you,
I have no tears in my eyes as I set my wallet on the little makeshift table
that my computer monitor rests on,
that your phone would rest on.

I only smile as I look at the string curled around the feet of the clock that you found
on the other side of those boxes
last time you were here.

I smile at the string that once held that coin
that I was considering putting the little plastic coin
painted the color of your car
and carved with the words "Washington's Lottery"
to prove to myself that I am a winner
that I do not lose at every aspect of my life.

But I realized the other day I didn't need to
I didn't need that memory of my success
because I can flip off any car even remotely similar to yours and feel no shame
I can walk down the road and watch you turn around in a parking lot fifty feet in front of me
just to avoid me
and know that I have won freedom
from all the pain you caused me
because these nights I don't have tears frozen  in my eyes
and my legs don't bleed.

I let my wallet rest there in the lamplight
and turn off the lamp.
I pull the comforter over me and wrap myself in that fuzzy blue blanket
that I once said I preferred over you to keep me warm
laughing as the words rolled off my tongue
because we both knew it was a joke.

But it isn't a joke anymore
the prefer the slight warmth that gives me
over the artificial warmth of your skin
since what's hidden because pumps ice through your veins.

I curl up under that blanket in the darkness
on that couch we almost went all the way on
and would have if my aunt hadn't been twenty feet away.
I curl up under that blanket alone
and feel for my now-flat wallet
smiling as my palm rests on the leather
and I remember the bulge that is now on a chain in my sister's bedroom in Sequim.

You have left me
and I'm happy for that.
I bring my arm back to me
and tuck it under my body
smiling because I'm alone
and smiling because being away from you
being rid of you
makes me smile.

1.
outside;
the sky is dark blue
fading into black shadow
behind the Sequim Safeway.
raindrops are illuminated
momentarily in the half-light
lingering below the light pole
that rises above the window-line

2.
Some dance mix
of a Kenny G. song
echoes through the building
landing even here,
in this room inside a room.
the abandoned cup
of mountain dew
shakes suddenly and spills
on the Clallam county classified page
on top of the toilet paper holder.

3.
Ten steps
covers the empty monster can
held in dry hands
in a fine layer of dew.
headlights reveal
an ever-present purple tint
to the cloudless sky,
covered only slightly
by the exhaust
which dissipates quickly
in the warmer than usual
humid air.

4.
Twenty nine miles-
the lights of the city soon disappear
and only the houses with porch lights
even seek to confirm their existence.
fog covers the asphalt
halfway back,
the world twists at every turn,
bad eyes and old age to blame.

5.
Fifteen minutes later;
rain covered doors slam
and soon after, so does another door.
but the rain is not forgotten-
it lingers in dry pathways on the skin,
tasting less organic,
but comforting just as much

My sweet, Forever-Beautiful..

I am flying out to Port Angeles Washington  in a few weeks
to see my Mother  who is 92 years old and dying.
My middle sister and her husband live there.
My Mother is in Sequim, which is the next town over.
She has her own apartment but will be moving in with Elaine
by the time I get there.
She has been fighting cancer for almost 20 years now.

This is what I want to say to you, sweet-one..

My trip out there is where the rubber meets the road  within
all that I have been saying to you throughout the years..
and without what I know will happen there once I am with her..

       my love is not Awake and Alive,  
       but only the empty ramblings of a deranged man.

My father died suddenly in 2013 at 83,  but spoke to me  on the
phone for two hours just the day before he passed. It was one of
the most magical two hours I have ever experienced.
Most of his dying wishes were for myself and my sisters,
and all of his grandchildren.. that we all would be able
to carry on in peace..  free from the pain and chaos,  
which was all we knew when young. Momma needs to know
that not only is she forgiven,  
but that while she  remains here with us on Earth..
    she is the light and Joy of my life.
She is my Momma, sweet friend.  It hasn't been easy.
She (and my Father) no longer have a hold on me  
they once did years ago.  I am going to go out there
and kiss her  and my sisters  and thank them all for my life.
I am as a hero in the eyes of my three sisters, who have
not all been as fortunate in the overcoming process,
but have all done well in the process  of getting well
  and sometimes, in just trying to survive.

I love you, sweet Beautiful.  I always have.
You can do this, girl..  you can  feel and become  the freedom
of all of who you were placed here on Earth to be..
and you will become able to do it   fully and completely--
in full relationship with all of who it is that you are
within your own, beautiful self.
I came across you for a reason.  You were the most defiant
and mischievous of all, yet have turned out to be one
of the very best souls I have ever known.
I will never let you go from the place you hold in my heart
   and I will never stop believing in you.

       I'm gonna be with my Momma soon.  

I have never-ending  kisses for her.  She told me recently  
that I am the most special man she have ever known.
Those are much different words than the ones  I had hammered
into me when I was a little boy.. so many years ago.
You and I have much in common that way.

She's from Denmark. She would have truly loved you
within the magical aura that surrounds you wherever you go..
had you two ever met. She got into the 12-step process  after
her and my Dad split up when I was 13. By the time I was 25,
she was a completely rehabilitated person.  But even now
she carries that deep horrendous, soul-killing darkness in her.

                I have kisses for her.

I will gladly take that darkness on  so that she can feel..
even if for just one moment, what a world of peace
and freedom  truly  feels like.

   Darkness has no hold on me, beautiful girl.
   I am no longer that little boy.. who by her choice,  (to not)

         .. was made to wear it--  

         over.. and over.. and over again
         until I had become  completely broken..

                                                    -- Completely.

    When I was young, I unknowingly  carried  for her
                     what she, herself..  would not.
    Now that I am a grown man--  through volition alone,
               I will  gladly  for her, take that **** on
           so that she won't ever.. ever again,  have to.

                                     .. Gladly.


    I love you more than you may ever know. 🌾🌾xox

I sit here
drinking six bag Bengal Spice tea
listening to Pandora
while my brother eats his breakfast behind me.
The song changes and I recognize it,
a little too well;
One Saturday at the Sequim food bank,
the only week he ever had me man the meat freezer
and not the bread room or dairy room.
I had to sneeze
So I took the back hallway
to stand among the shelves of toilet paper and soap.
She was taking a load out front-
soap and cans from the canning room.
She was singing this song
didn't see me standing on the other side of that shelf.
She had been the reason I started volunteering here,
or half the reason;
I wanted to volunteer and do something fulfilling
but I also wanted to learn her name.

This is one of the only times in my life
where I acted on impulse-
I started singing too,
my deep bass and her soprano creating a melody
that makes me want to skip this song
because it isn't the same.
But I listen to remember her reaction-
instead of walking away, stopping or sighing-
she kept singing, laughing just a little bit
letting me hear the smile on her lips.

She finished grabbing what she needed
and walked away, still laughing
still smiling as she walked into the hallway
(which was the only lit place back here)
and kept singing, even as she sat back at the front desk.
I returned to my position a minute later-
15 feet from her.

In ten weeks of volunteering there
that was the most we ever spoke to each other
and I wouldn't wish it any other way.

There are ten of us-
Make that eleven-
Barreling down the highway at highway speeds;
two elderly thai women,
a middle aged man
with some sort of mental disability
his eyes hunting, hungrily for someone to listen to him,
three old men in the back
talking about cars, women and building houses
(while riding the bus on their own in old ripped clothing)
and the strange mix from my stop;
two women no older than my mother
that look older than my grandma
from an obvious history of hard drugs,
and elderly grandma-type woman
who could be a therapist,
engaged as she is in reading some sort of case study.

The driver keeps an engaged, concentrated look on his face
as we zip through sunlit countryside
that I have never seen this way.
It's only 9 AM
and I'm listening to Counting Crows, Sugar Ray and The Goo Goo Dolls.

The women who are older than they should be
get off at the casino.

The man with the disabilities clenches his seat
as we pass the," entering Sequim," sign.
The Thai women put their purses on their shoulders here
and I take my headphones off,
wrap the cord around them and put them away.

Two of the men in back are still talking,
the third has fallen asleep,
his head against the wall,
mouth pointed toward the ceiling.

The grandmotherly woman gets off at the co-op
the rest of us disembark at the bus station and go our separate ways.