I don't know what this is...

But it just happened so I am going to keep it around and see if it goes anywhere.

_________________

He didn't smell bad. Which isn't to say he smelled good either. Rather the olfactory messages he transmitted were distinct. Like a note passed before gym class with the unmistakable penmanship of a boy you had never really noticed.

Until now. The finger-snap "now" when everything changes. That summer we were indistinguishable-- as if we were gestating in the same womb. He fell somewhere in between the movie-ticket stubs and laser-tag, or was it roller-blading? South of swimming pools but north of tree climbing; and every where you went that summer you were sweating in a sweltering time-capsule of simultaneous "it will always be this way" and "it will never be this way again". It was the last summer any of us were still kids. And it is the story of how I came to hate the smell of pepper.

With Love, Codependant

I'm sorry I cannot "help" you
Cannot affix butterfly wings to the blades in your shoulders
that vibrate at frequencies
of chartreuse, maroon and mahogany
To sail you off the edge of the earth, over outer space
so you can shoot the shit with the stars
shrink yourself to match a matchbook
grow yourself to challenge dog-woods to dodge ball
An' all before breakfast, too.

Butterfly wings that make glass stained shades of saints jealous
so that you would always feel beautiful and know that you
are Divinity's descendant.
Turbo-boost wings so that you could out soar the dragons that you
can't seem to keep slain. Big,
seductive, easy-as-you please wings
quicker and more powerful then all the other wings given to you by those whose pockets grow fat to the tune of your gradual, self-inflicted death march--
passed off as bubblegum pop
Wings that carry you beyond the high
beyond your head and the lies that live there
past the meanings of words that little boys shouldn't have to say
to safely and soundly keep the bad men at bay, the zealots from extremes
a light in every dark place and all the in-betweens-

But I can't give you these butterfly wings.
they too will transform
into one more distraction from veracity.
And I can't be
another one of those
broken-promise pushers
pedaling my wares where one finds shortcut seekers.

If you wanna swim with the birds
and fly with the fishes
Baby, I'm sorry to tell you
the only way out
is through.

So here's what you do:
Find the the most scrupulous sword.
Drape yourself in iron-willed armor,
and bless your arrows so that they always hit their mark.
I will hold your hand
When even with all of these things
you still feel defeated

Assemble an infantry to storm the castle
of The Queen of Hearts that still chases you in your sleep-
Steal back your crown
replace it on your head to stop the aching.

Find rocks for slingshot
to shoot the voices hiding in
the mountains in your mind
so that they will finally stop talking
And you can start thinking.

I will rejoice with you
When all of these things are through
and sunlight seeps past your bedroom window
and onto your waking eyelids...

By then
it will have all seem to have just been a bad dream.
So, what do you say we skip the wings?

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Good news is:

My demands on stars, eyelashes and wishbones
Have been put to better use
Causes that actually stand a chance
Like, childhood prank wars revisited in adulthood
Or a speed boat made of ice cream


See, I awoke the other morning to find
That somehow in my sleep
I had opened the door to your cage
And you had flown out my bedroom window
Into the night
And onto
Whomever.
And I have never slept better.

Your name can now be found
Embedded in a grocery list of tasks
And call-backs
And pencil-ins
Instead of a flashing neon sign
On the tip of my tong
Or just in front of my always-shut eye-lids
Replacing rest
With restlessness
Robbing me of deep breaths…
And it can't be safe to have that much neon that close to your face for so long

Oh! And I got my truth back
I thought she had become so tired
Of living in the shadow
Of your presence
That she had evaporated into the clouds
To be carried off and dropped as rain
In Timbuktu or Kalamazoo
Or some other poetically over used place
Where she could get sunlight on her face
And earth between her toes
But I was wrong;
She was still waiting in the corner where I left her
Covered in dust but still beautiful.
And a little taller.

The Bad news is:
When we cared,
Communication was strained
We wringed dribblings of conversations
From ether-soaked rags
Shaped like lungs,
Threw curve-ball pleasantries
Around the lumps in our throats.
Words were pushed out of mouths
Like creeks from floorboards
Found in houses that sag with the weight
Of knowing better-
Each one loaded with
A technicolor epic
Of lemonade and train tracks and
Gentle. Men.
And sunsets slower than gimpy snails.

And we couldn’t share any of it.

The irreconcilable differences
In how we speak
Seeped into the groundwater
That nourished “us”.
Our roots desperately sucked every toxic particle
Until they drew their last drop.

Leaves began to turn
And fall as flies
Finding the ground
Like they were finally coming home.
Bare branches scratched the sky
As if the sun rays were escape routes
And as the sun set on this scene
It dawned on me:

You never fail to disappoint me.

The thought exploded my body into skyward bound microscopic pieces
Each one absorbed by a cloud

This time of year,
The weather
Is perfect
In Kalamazoo.