It wasn’t supposed to end like this

poetry

It wasn’t supposed to end like this—
It was supposed to be a civil nod of the head
A conciliatory, halfhearted hug
And promises that we won’t forget—
because we won’t—
and that, in the end, it would all be OK.

Well-wishes for the next leg of the journey
with wistful smiles
and mutual respect—
Acting like the good people we both are.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this,
what sorrow.

Stories of Stability

poetry, life

When you woke up fifteen minutes early and sat down to a bowl of oatmeal and the morning paper,
noticed a chip in your favorite mug, and realized you liked it better that way
When traffic was slightly less horrible yesterday afternoon
and you saw a robin perched on the power line
When you got into bed with freshly-washed sheets,
and slept noiselessly, never getting too hot or too cold.When you laughed at the increasingly ridiculous tactics of telemarketers, and you told them how broke you were:

“Hello, is Robert there?”
“No, I think you have the wrong number”
“Oh, well maybe you can help me out; I’m calling from the fill-in-the-blank research foundation and we’re starting our annual drive…”
“I have zero monies”
End call.



When you finished all your reports and left work ten minutes early
When you listened to the silence of your still, unoccupied living room
and you found a popcorn kernel between the cushions.
When you decided that matching socks might be a good idea, and you matched them all.
When you smelled the potent, artificial meadow breeze of the fabric softener before you started that load.
When you sang along to classic disco hits on the way to your doctor’s appointment.
When you met your friend for coffee and struggled to find anything to talk about, so you both analyzed the complex body of your respective lattes.
When you took a walk around the block and waved hello to exactly three strangers.
When you watched a forty-minute eighth inning, accompanied by an cold coke.
When the ice on your windshield glinted in the morning light, and you remembered your gloves to scrape it all off.

When you finally called your sister and you took out the trash

When your parrot asked you earnestly, “Where Bu?”

And you watched her take a nap, before snoozing yourself.

Written for a Friend on the Eve of his Birthday

life

The body.

It decays, yet:

These houses of meat are but temporary things for our soul to reside in while we experience this world.

This version of reality and consciousness.

All of our souls chose this plane of existence for some reason.

It’s a class we’ve all enrolled in.

To learn things.

Soul things.

Like how to Love and have Compassion and to learn Acceptance—

this reality is an ultimate test in Acceptance.

This world has infinite ways to humble us again.

And again.

Whenever we think we know.

To show us what we must accept about others and ourselves.

We learn to yield our great capacity for knowledge and noise to our destiny of peace.

Of sweetest silence

and quietude.

The state from which we arise and to which we return.

And every moment our bodies persist is another moment to learn.

And wonder.

Every moment

is another opportunity for awe

And gratitude.

Dearest Friend,

you’ve persisted

and continue to persist—

these moments

this life

is a chance to find

new horizons of possibility for our souls

knowing that whatever we find

is what we’ve always been meant to see.

The weight of conclusions

and decisions

dissipates once we realize that the only way to live

is to live.

So,

as long as you’re alive

—knowing every moment is a reward that we’ve somehow earned—

—that has been mysteriously given—

please feel

blessed.

Please feel amazed

and unafraid.

There is nothing to fear,

these things,

they happen.

The body, it decays.

That is the world.

But you are a soul,

Dearest friend.

To Live Like This

life

If you’re going to live like this, there are some things you should know:

You are going to fuck up. Often. People are going to question you. Often.
You are going to take their advice with a grain of salt.
You are going to prove them right. Often.
And then
You are going to prove them wrong.
And all you need to do is prove them wrong once
to emerge a hero, with a tale, a lesson, an experience that they will covet.
That they will exalt. They will tell the tale far and wide,
even though they were on the sidelines, giving their warnings  and crying foul,
because you fuckin’ did it.
You will be remembered.

You will have to fight against instinct.
You will refuse to acknowledge fear.
There will be fear.
And it means nothing.

You will not live to be scared.
You will not live to be proper.
You will not live to be OK.
You will live for the journey.
You will live for the tragedy and the suspense and the miraculous and the uncomfortable and the astounding and the unanticipated and the glorious.
You will live for the best.
And you won’t be left wondering.

You might not live without regrets,
but you won’t regret regretting
because, damn,
it will be amazing.

The Life of a Siren

Uncategorized

The Life of a Siren

The siren is born with a song in her heart; it is as fundamental to her being as the very water she breathes. She is not a predator, but she is doomed to enchant. She sings her song because that is her purpose, her very existence. She is doomed to drown the enchanted. She may be the most splendid monster, but we should not judge her murderous enticements. After all, we do not judge the black widow for entangling and consuming her unfortunate partner… her actions are in-built and inevitable. And, like the black widow, the siren is doomed to loneliness.

Every sailor she’s captured should have known that oceans are vast and unforgiving. The sailor is advised not to listen to siren song, but he is helpless to hear. Every sailor, being human, has been endowed with sensory capacities: humans are born punctured with orifices, utterly susceptible to the penetration of loveliness. It is unavoidable that they will be victims of flavorful aroma, tuneful fragrance, and melodies both soft and delicious. Like the siren, humans are souls divided, and when they meet only one will survive. Survive on until the next tragic inevitability.

Memoirs of the Brain-Damaged

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I almost died.

Some people ask if I saw the light; if there was a tunnel?
No, not entirely. There were cracks through which the light shone and then became refracted in a dazzling confusion of color and pain-killers.
Probably purple. Possibly green.

I felt my childhood rupture along an artery… every summertime sprinkler cold on your skin. Every snow day that never ends. When letters were hieroglyphics and you wondered what they meant…

My ancestors were there to greet me. They waited patiently for two hours, ready to receive me in their myriad European tongues.
They dispersed when a surgical drill broke through my cranium.
Consciousness lost comprehension; rushed out of me in blood-cloudy spinal fluid. I can only recall the sun-warm sensation of the peachy pink twilights that you hope to remember.

Memory repeated until it unclotted itself.
My quiet repose was nearly absolute upon sterile sheets, undreaming a short lifetime of misunderstandings, when a cacophony of beeping machinery hearkened my immanent departure.

I was a precarious hovering, a mist threatening dispersion.
Verging on vanish, riding the faint vapor of a final breath, I briefly dissolved only to re-enter myself.
And I can’t tell you why or the hour of my assemblage, just that I know the color of nondescription.

I opened my eyes: light.

Nothing to Say

Uncategorized

When you’ve got nothing to say you’ve got yourself into a pretty difficult predicament. You’re becoming swallowed up by a paradox that is an impulse to produce some utterance that can only exist if it isn’t heard. To say nothing is not necessarily not to say. If someone could truly say nothing, then wouldn’t we all want to hear it? That thing that cannot be heard: nothing? If someone says they’ve got nothing to say, then I am all the more keen on listening… hoping that I will somehow hear the sound of a void. You’d think it’d be a whoosh, like a vacuous imploding. A quiet intake of breath? But the inhale is usually right on the precipice of saying something… would it be a pure moment of suspense? Anticipation made audible? The great silence that precedes creation? The moment right before the big bang?
Is it the profound quiet you hear when it snows and the whole world has been insulated and hushed?
Is it merely the tonal inflection of a question… abstracted from its words?
I’d say I’ve got nothing to say, but that seems like a pretty tall order.