People are watching me

On the roads and highways
I glance over at the drivers
Around me.
And always they look right back
As if they are watching me.
As if they know me
And where I am going.
I look away quickly,
But every glance
Is met with a stare
And I don’t like
That so many people
Know so much about me.

increments

Have you ever seen
The end of a relationship
At its genesis?
What do you do?
I am dating a woman
I could love
Except for the fact
That she has told me
She doesn’t deserve a relationship
And that she will sabotage
Any relationship she is in.
So, time together
Is only a matter
Of the time apart
To come.
It would seem so simple.
Get out of the relationship.
But I care about this woman
Too much to give up.
I think that I could
make a difference.
But it’s a glacial process.
I show up
And we talk
And we drink
And we smoke.
It’s amazing
What a few glasses of wine
Will reveal.
I listen to the things
That have gone wrong
And think
That I understand.
But we see each other
So infrequently.
And I don’t know
That I can influence
A relationship
In such tiny increments.

The Supervisor

Jan looked at his watch. It was 2:55. His interview was at 3:00 and he was nervous. He wasn’t sure who would be interviewing him, but the interview itself was supposed to take three hours. He pulled the business card out of his pocket and checked it one more time. The HR person he had asked for was Crystal Tucker and the security desk had yet to get a hold of her.

He pulled out his laptop, fired it up, and checked his PowerPoint presentation one more time. It covered the basics of what he thought an Art Director’s position meant and linked to his supporting examples of work. He was a little worried that he didn’t have enough examples or maybe not the best examples to show. He had been in graphic design for 15 years, climbing from junior designer to creative director and although he knew he was over experienced for the job, there weren’t a lot of opportunities out there these days. That made this one pretty important.

He put his laptop in sleep mode and returned it to his messenger bag as a woman approached him. He rose from the designer leather chair and put his hand out. “You must be Crystal,” he said. She shook his hand and apologized for being out of contact. Apparently, the print side of the company was going through a round of layoffs and she had too many exit interviews to schedule.

“You’ll be meeting with three different groups,” she said. “The designers you would be managing, mid level management, and upper management. We should have you out of here by 6:00.” She walked him back by the security desk and had him sign in and wait for his visitor’s badge. Once he was through, Crystal took him to an elevator bank and pushed the up button.

When the elevator opened, several people filed out, whispering amongst themselves. Crystal led him into the empty elevator and asked him if he had any questions about the interviews ahead. “Well,” he said, “I’d like to know about the folks I’ll be interviewing with. What can you tell me about them?”

Crystal punched the button for the second floor and turned to face him. “The first interview is with the designers. There are nine of them, seven are focused primarily on ads and two are responsible for the actual design of the online pages for the newspaper.”

The Street Cleaner

What the fuck? Danny thought, looking at the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He quickly checked his speedometer. He was right on the speed limit and driving like a saint as far as he was concerned. He flipped his blinker on, slowed down, and pulled onto the left shoulder. He knew better than to reach for his registration until the cop asked for it. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and squinted when the cop pulled in behind him and turned his high beams on.

He sat there for ten or fifteen minutes while the cop ran his plates. He wasn’t worried. He had a perfect driving record, not even a speeding ticket. And he definitely didn’t have any warrants. His hands on the steering wheel were starting to fall asleep. He raised them where the cop could see and laced them together to pop his knuckles. He returned them to the wheel and jumped when the cop tapped his flashlight against his window.

He lowered the window and reached for his wallet. “Easy, son,” the cop said, drawing his gun.

“Jesus,” Danny said, quickly returning his hands to the wheel and staring straight ahead. The last thing he wanted to see was the business end of a gun.

“You wanna look at me, son?” the cop said. Danny slowly turned toward him and breathed a sigh of relief to see that the cop had holstered his weapon. He was standing close enough for Danny to smell his sweat. He wore the requisite dark glasses and wide brimmed tan hat of the DPS. It was already 9:00, well past dusk and well past any need for sunglasses. Hell, he thought, these pricks probably wear their sunglasses to bed.

“That must have been a pretty important call back there,” the cop said, shining his flashlight around the interior of the car.

The Killpill

Heavy with sweat from his long walk, Johnny stopped as he reached a bar door. He checked his cell for messages and his pocket for smokes. Empty of one and full of the other, he stepped out of the hot Houston sun into the cool dark bar. He looked around, watching the blackness dissolve into a gray mist as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. No one was sitting at the five or six tables between him and the darkness beyond. He saw what might be the bar and headed toward it.

The place was empty but for two men sitting at the end of the bar. A neon sign came to life as he sat down. “Heller’s” something or other, he saw. It blinked off before he could read the rest. He looked around the room again. There was one wall with nothing on it. No beer signs, no neon, no bad art in cheap frames, nothing. It was just crumbling black plaster over dark red bricks. It looked like the wall had been ripped open and instead of blood, red powder spilled from the crumbling squares and rectangles.

Another wall was completely covered in foot long square mirrors with some kind of abstract pattern running along them. They looked like they were supposed to be arranged in a particular way, but were installed by someone who just didn’t give a fuck. They were probably meant to make the room look bigger, but the odd pattern streaking across the mismatched squares made it seem more like another world than another room.

When Johnny turned his stool back to the bar, the bartender was standing patiently in front of him. “Whiskey, beer back,” Johnny said. The bartender nodded and walked off to get his order. He was a tall guy, not too big, but not too skinny. He was wearing a black cowboy hat and sunglasses which struck Johnny as strange for such a dark bar. He noticed tattoos on the bartender’s neck encircling his throat and disappearing below his collar. They were basically Celtic with some creative embellishments here and there. His arms reflected a variation of the same tattoos as his neck.

Angel of the Look Back

Dan stopped outside the shelter and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with heavy wet air. He watched as the leaves of the trees around him blew softly back and forth preparing for the stronger winds ahead. He hated the rain, had for a long time. Formative years spent on the streets were hard enough when it was bitter cold or depressively hot, but for those with no shelter rain made everything worse, unbearably humid in the summer and cold to the bone in the winter.

He shivered as he descended the stairs. It was cold now, probably in the fifties. When the rain came it would be colder. At least he would stay warm and dry tonight. He was lucky to have found a shelter with a free bed in this part of town. It wasn’t much, but it was a bed and a locker, better than living between two dumpster in an alley for the last year and a half.

He pulled his windbreaker tight around him and walked the ten blocks to the only diner in the neighborhood. He stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of the run down greasy spoon, scanning the pavement for errant coins. Pacing back and forth, he smiled as he caught sight of a quarter in the gutter near a parking meter.

My first fight

I was in sixth grade
At a school I didn’t understand.
I was in the magnet program,
Supposedly a gifted child.
But there were so many
Not in the program.
Not gifted.
I was white
And a minority.
The mornings before school
Gangs roamed
The schoolgrounds.
I tried to defend
A friend
Who was being pushed
By a much bigger
Hispanic kid
And found myself
Surrounded by his friends.
The same big kid
Who had attacked my friend
Came after me.
I was big for my age
And athletic.
I wasn’t afraid,
Merely surprised
At such aggression.
The kid swung at me
And missed.
I ducked in close
And hit him twice
In the face.
He stumbled back
And collected himself
As his friends roared
Around us.
He rushed me
Head down and wild.
I dropped low
And flipped him
Over my head.
He landed behind me
Disoriented.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t’ want to hurt him
So much as be finished
With this fight
I didn’t understand.
He scrambled to his feet
And rushed me again.
I realized then
That this fight would not end
Until I ended it.
I was 12.
I was big for my age
But I was not violent.
When he rushed me again
I simply moved to the side.
He fell in front of his friends
And grew even angrier.
He lost control
And swung at me.
I deflected is blow
And punched him
In the throat.
He fell, coughing
And crying.
His friends surrounded him
And I walked away.
Knowing the fight
Was over.

Music

I have always been drawn to music
As much or more so than literature.
As my moods have changed
From day to day
From hour to hour
I could always find comfort in song.
In high school I listened to
Led Zeppelin and The Gap Band.
A strange mix, but one
That carried me through anger,
Loss,
And rejuvenation.
In college I discovered
New Wave Music
And looked to The Cure
And Echo and The Bunnymen
For solace.
I was a DJ for while
And learned
About Techno.
It was stimulating,
But hollow.
Somewhere in between
I found Erasure
And Depeche Mode
And they spoke to me.
I grew angrier
As I grew older
And Ministry
Became a favorite.
I also listened to
The Revolting Cocks
And KMFDM
Which I heard stands for
Kill MotherFucking Depeche Mode.
Probably not,
But interesting nonetheless.
After graduation
I mellowed
And returned to the 70s.
I listened to Pink Floyd
And Iron Butterfly.
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Was a favorite
As was Comfortably Numb.
Years later I discovered
Some of the bands
That I listen to even now.
The Innocence Mission
With their beautiful
Melancholic music
And Over The Rhine,
So haunting
Yet approachable.
I had my angry moments
Even then
And Nine Inch Nails
And Filter
Carried me through.
The moments
And days changed
But the music connected them
And helped my life
Have meaning.
Now I listen to so many bands
So very different.
Every tiny thing I feel
Is explained by a song.
I have searched out
These songs
And these bands
And I spend more of my time
With them
Than I do
With anyone else.

Guilt

I met a woman today
Without meaning to.
We talked
And laughed.
It turned out
We had mutual friends
And we talked about them.
And friends in general.
We had such a great time
I felt guilty.
I’m dating a brilliant
Wonderful woman,
But we are not in love.
In fact, this woman
Has made it clear
That we will never be.
So I feel guilty
Enjoying the company
Of another woman,
But I have yearned for
Someone
I could love.

Umbrella

One of my favorite bands is
The Innocence Mission.
They have such beautiful
Lyrical music.
There is one song they have
Called Umbrella.
It is one of the most beautiful
Love songs I have ever heard.
In the song
A woman has had
A horrible, tragic car wreck.
Her umbrella is a painful
Metaphor for her accident.
She carries it every time
She goes out.
She remembers the pain
Of the wreck
And explains her fear
Of leaving her home.
How can people drive?
With all the possibilities
Of crashing?
Her husband
Or boyfriend
Takes the umbrella
From her
And dances around
The house with it.
He makes her laugh
And forget her pain.
He brings her back
To herself.
I think of this song
And I believe
I can dance
With the woman
Who needs to be
Brought back to herself.

Totally gorgeous foreign chick

I was in Milan.
In the Grand Galleria
Trying to take a picture
Of the amazing glass ceiling.
I stared up so long
That I lost my balance
And dizzy,
Fell.
I heard laughture around me
As the stars moved from my eyes.
I felt a hand on my shoulder
And I rose to my feet.
The most beautiful
Italian woman
Was standing by my side
And asking if I were ok.
I laughed at my fall
And thanked her
For her help.
She looked at me blankly
Obviously puzzled
By my language.
I started to walk away,
But thought better
And thanked her in Spanish.
She smiled and replied
In Spanish
That she was happy to help.
I asked her name
And she answered
Victoria Alanza Luzi.
I loved the lyrical sound
And felt diminished
Returning mine.
But she smiled
And asked where I was from.
I said Texas
And watched as her smile
Grew wider.
She said she had family
In Texas.
An uncle and his family
In San Antonio.
I smiled and said
I went to school in San Antonio.
At this point
Her two friends
Approached her and tried
To pull her away.
She resisted
And asked me if I had plans
For the day.
I didn’t
And she asked me to join
Her and her friends.
I accepted her gracious offer.
We went to a café
And drank wine
And smoked cigarettes.
Victoria peppered me with questions
About Texas
And the US in general.
I answered as many
As I could
And asked her about Milan
And Italy in general.
She talked about her home
In Lecco, outside of Milan.
It was mostly farm country,
But there was a beautiful lake
That she had grown up by.
Sometimes my Spanish
Was a little spotty
And I had to ask her to slow down.
She seemed so delighted
That I could speak a language
That she could
That she never seemed to mind
My mistakes.
Toward dusk
Her friends grew restless
And Victoria had to say goodbye.
I asked if I could see her again
And she smiled
And proposed to meet
At the same café the next day.
We hugged
And went our separate ways.
I returned to my hostel
And faded off to sleep
Wondering what Victoria’s
Lips might feel like.
I spent the morning at
The Santa Maria delle Grazie Church
Viewing DaVinci’s Last Supper.
I was amazed at how lifelike
The figures looked in the painting
And humbled by the sense of history
That I felt.
At noon, I abandoned the church
For the café
And waited for Victoria to appear.
I drank wine
And smoked
And whiled away the hours
In my travel journal.
By four o’clock
I realized she would not show.
I was disappointed,
But understood
That such a random encounter
Had no traction in real life.
Still I hoped.
I tore a page from my journal
And left a note for Victoria.
I wrote my name,
my email,
And my phone number
Back in the states.
I explained to the waitress
How important it was
For me to get this message through.
She looked at me knowingly,
Sadly,
And promised to deliver
the message
I flew out of Milan the next day.
My friends threw a party for me
Upon my return
And I showed my pictures
And annotated my trip
Until I came to Victoria.
When I saw her dark skin
And beautiful eyes,
I skipped over them,
But my friends cried fowl
And I had to back up
And tell them about her.
By the end of the night
I was happy
And tipsy.
As I drove home
I heard my cell phone ring
But didn’t touch it
Because I don’t answer my phone
While I’m driving.
When I got home
I checked the phone
And saw a number
I didn’t recognize.
I returned the call
Curious as to who it could be.
It rang and rang then I heard
Her voice.
Victoria’s voice.
She laughed and apologized
For missing me at the café.
She said she got my note
And was very happy to.
We talked awhile longer
Before hanging up.
I marveled that such a beautiful woman
Had made such an effort
To reach me.
And hoped that
She would reach me again.

friends of friends

A friend set us up.
Not the most auspicious
Of beginnings,
But a beginning none the less.
We were both cautious.
We played our cards
Close to our chest.
We talked.
We laughed.
And we slowly opened up.
We relaxed
but asked careful questions.
Our answers again
Made us laugh.
We still watched
The time
And considered leaving
At many points
During the evening.
Yet we stayed
And talked.
We made light fun
Of the ones
Who had brought us together.
We cited movies
And books
And tried to figure out
The sources.
we drank
perhaps too much.
We told more stories
And laughed
At their resolutions.
At the end of the evening
We paid our tabs
And exchanged numbers.
Days went by
With no communication.
Then a text brought us
Together again.
We talked
More careful than before
Wondering if we
Had enjoyed our meeting
As much as we thought.
Again we laughed
At our friends
Our stories
And ourselves.
When our time
Has run out
We hug
And plan our next meeting.
Making us believe
That maybe our friends
Were right.

On my own

There have been many days,
Parts of many years
Where I was alone.
Some of these times
I was happy
Some of these times
I was not.
I’ve never been comfortable
With being alone.
I have tried.
I have filled my life
With running
With working out
With volunteering
With friends
With books
With movies.
And I have always felt
Less than I could be.
I think
I am a good person.
I think I have
So much to offer
The woman
I have yet to meet.
I am calm
Cool
And compassionate.
But mostly
I am these things
On my own.

Wondering

Just one day.
I wish I could get outside
My mind
And my fears.
I walk through the house
And stop
Wondering where I was going
And what I meant to do.
I am thinking
Of the woman
I am seeing
And analyzing
Our every moment
Together.
They just don’t make sense
Yet I look for the sense
And am disappointed.
The older I get
It seems the less I understand
About women
And dating.
I like this woman
And I know
She likes me
But
The advances I make
Are turned away
And the time together
Seems less special.
There should be
A constant progression
In a relationship
Yet I feel déjà vu
Every time we are together.
Perhaps there is more
Just over the horizon,
But the horizon
Changes
And moves
Further away
Each time we are together.
I am stuck
In the now
The now that is moments
Moments talking
Moments kissing
Moments leaving.
I turn
When I reach my jeep
And wave
Wondering when
I will see her again.
Wondering
If I want to.
In this room
Wondering where I am
And what I meant to do
I think of this woman
And how much
I care
And how much
I fear.

A wonderful mistake

There was a very short time
When I made the mistake
Of thinking a certain girl
Liked me.
It was a wonderful mistake
That I played out in my mind
Every day and night.
I never approached her
To ask her out,
But we would talk
Every now and then
In the hallways
Or the elevator.
And she even called once
To ask me a question
About work.
I would see her from afar
When she couldn’t see me
And watch her.
She was beautiful.
Long blonde hair
And endless blue eyes.
But I realized my mistake
When she talked to me
Less and less.
And began to avoid me
In the hallways
And the elevator.
I don’t know what I did,
But I’m sure it’s just
The same thing
I do everytime.

Michael

Michael carefully pushed the walker a few feet ahead of him, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to inch his way toward it. Every step sent a bolt of pain shooting through his body from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. It was like walking on glass, no, it was more like rolling in glass. He pushed the walker forward again and repeated the torture.

It pissed him off that he was using a walker. He was 36 for fuck’s sake. He hadn’t always been like this. Two years ago he was a rising star at one of the most prestigious architectural firms in the city. He had a beautiful wife and a three year old boy who planned to play for the Cubs some day. He had a life.

He was driving when the wreck occurred. They were just outside of Chicago on their way to visit Claire’s parents. He hit a patch of ice and the SUV slid into oncoming traffic. That was the last thing he remembered. He woke up in the hospital with a broken back and a cracked skull. Seems like they put little metal pins just about everywhere they could.

A few hours after he woke, a doctor came in and started to ask him a bunch of questions. Do you know where you are? Can you tell me what happened to you? That kind of stuff. Michael interrupted him. “Where the hell are Claire and Ronnie? I want to see them right now.”

The doctor stopped and looked around as if there were other people in the room. “You mean no one told you? Your wife and son died in the automobile accident. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you.”

Michael screamed and tried to get out of bed. He couldn’t move his back and he could barely move his head without passing out so the doctor didn’t have to do much to restrain him. He moaned and blessedly passed out.

He slipped in and out of consciousness for ten days before he let himself into reality again. A grief counselor visited him at first, but he made it clear that he would grieve on his own and he would be just fine, damn it. After the counselor, a psychiatrist came to visit and talked about the signs and effects of depression. After losing his wife and son, depression was a real danger. He listened to her half heartedly, thinking that she looked a little like Claire.

Weeks later, a therapist came to take him to rehab. He hadn’t left his bed since waking up in it and he could not believe the amount of pain he felt just trying to roll out of bed. With a little help and a lot of pain, he managed to climb into a wheel chair. The therapist wheeled him to F wing where he entered the rehab unit and learned what real pain was all about.

First, the therapist helped him stand with the help of two rails about waist high on both sides of him. He managed to slowly drag his feet along the eight feet of floor below him and even turn around at the end before he passed out from the pain. He woke up in his bed again, hot, nauseas, and sure he was on fire. He pulled a water bottle off the tray next to him and poured water onto his face and head. It didn’t stop the burning sensation. Only unconsciousness seemed to do that.

He completed six weeks of rehabilitation and got to the point where he could walk again, but the pain never went away. His doctor ran an ungodly number of tests but could find no medical reason for Michael’s constant pain. He suggested very carefully that he might have developed a case of chronic pain brought on by his depression over the recent deaths of his wife and child. He explained what chronic pain was and how it affected the mind and body and it started to sound to Michael like the very thing that was torturing his every waking moment.

When he asked what they could do about it, the doctor did his little look around the room thing and even closed the door. As luck would have it, one of my colleagues is conducting a study right here at the hospital. If you’re interested, I can talk to him and probably get you in by the end of the week. With any luck, it may even be covered under your health plan. He smiled a little at that and then excused himself from the room.

the smell

He woke from a deep sleep surrounding a dark dream, unsure of the place or the time he found himself. His arms were extended and rigid before him. He could not for the life of him remember if he was pushing something away in his dream, or pulling something closer. He leaned to his right and felt for his watch on the table beside him. He pushed the little button that released the androgynous timekeeper and listened as the proclamation was made. “The time is (pause) three fifteen (pause) a.m.”

Conrad scratched his head and yawned. He heard the creak of the bed and felt the cold metal railing on his left. He remembered he was in the hospital and yawned again. He always had the strangest dreams. The one he was just having concerned a little girl in a room with hundreds of doors. Each door was a different size and color and there seemed to be some imperative in finding just the right door. The most interesting thing, of course, was that Conrad had never seen a room, a door, or a little girl. He had been blind since birth and was in the hospital for an operation that just might give him vision.

He decided to stretch his legs and take a walk around the hospital ward. At this time of night he wasn’t likely to run into anyone and would be free to move through the halls at his own pace which was usually slow. He tossed his watch back on the table and eased himself out of the bed. He felt around for his slippers, slipped them on, and shuffled his way across the room to the door. He wondered briefly how big the door might be and what color before opening it and stepping out into the hallway.

Conrad had been in and out of hospitals most of his life and the one thing that never seemed to change was the variety and commonality of the smells in these great institutions of healing. He was in the preop wing and the smells here consisted mainly of disinfectants and air fresheners. Every now and then he’d smell flowers in a room he passed. It was like smelling a warm spring day. It was nice and he smiled as he made his way down the hall to the nurses’ desk.

He could tell before he rounded the corner that no one was at the night desk. It was quiet as a morgue down there. The only sound he could hear was the soft whoosh of air blowing through the air conditioning vents. The nurses were probably making their rounds and the orderlies were probably smoking in the stairwell. That suited him fine. He liked the quiet and he liked being alone. He turned the corner to his right and moved into B wing.

St. DeAngelo Hospital was known for two main areas of expertise. They were the best in Boston when it came to working with burn victims and they were among the very best when it came to treating most kinds of cancer. No matter how many times he made his way by the burn unit, he was never truly ready for the smell. The first and worst of the smells was that of burnt human hair. It smelled like a thousand bad things sprinkled with sulfur and dipped in screams. It repulsed him and made him very sad at the same time.

The second wave to rape your nose was the smell of scorched human flesh and the puss and fluids that moved in and out of the flesh. It smelled like a hellish limbo where the spirits are ready to leave but remain trapped by the agony of mortality. Conrad made the sign of the cross and whispered a short prayer for the poor souls fighting for their lives or waiting for their deaths.

He moved on, knowing that the next wing would offer no respite. When he was seven, his father developed cancer. It started in his lungs and slowly spread throughout his body. Little by little, he began to smell different. At first, Conrad thought it was the medicines. Then he thought it might be the chemotherapy. In the last days, right before his father died, he realized it was his father’s spirit, corrupted and fatigued that smelled. In the beginning it smelled like fear and in the end, like love.

He couldn’t walk by the cancer ward without thinking of his father. But here at St. DeAngelo’s, at three o’clock in the morning, he didn’t smell love. He smelled sharp, savage waves of pain and dark dripping bits of unconsciousness. There was no hope here. These patients were terminal and not even flowers could mask the scent of death.

Conrad turned around and decided to head back to his room. The next ward was a cancer ward as well, for children and adolescents. The fourth and final ward was for HIV and AIDs victims. He just couldn’t bring himself to walk by those wings and smell the anguish he knew would be there. Instead, he walked slowly back to his room, kneeled on the floor and said a prayer for everyone who suffers. He climbed into bed and lay there with his thoughts until dawn when the clattering of trays and rising voices reminded him of the hope that comes with each new day. Hope he had for an operation that just might give him sight.

33

Tim was a gifted child. He started to walk at six months of age, talk at one year, and read and write by the age of three. Tim’s father was a graduate professor at the local college where he taught western religion and bible studies. Tim’s mother taught school and Sunday school at the neighborhood church they all attended.

Both Tim’s mother and father loved him very much and encouraged him in all his learning activities. They gave him children’s illustrated versions of the Old and New Testaments with children’s concordances as well as coloring books depicting the most popular parables. Tim got a gold star for every bible verse he memorized and by the time he was six years old, he could quote more than 150 verses.

Tim was seven years old the first time he heard the word of God. It was way past his bedtime on a Sunday night when a noise from his closet woke him up. He padded over to the closet and slowly pulled open the doors. At first he didn’t hear anything and figured he’d been dreaming. He started to pull the closet doors shut when he heard it again. This time it sounded like a muffled voice and it was coming from his toy box.

Very carefully, he lifted the toy box lid just enough for the light to come on and gazed through the crack at the contents inside. “Hello?” he whispered, scanning the contents for the source of the voice. Two of his Wild Thing stuffed animals moved and slid apart and right between them Tim’s Six Million Dollar Man doll stood up and waved. “Hi Tim,” it said. “Are you the Bionic Man?” Tim asked. “No, Tim. I’m God and we’ve got a lot to talk about.

Tim and God stayed up talking most of the night. At some point, Tim got one of his Big Chief tablets from the school supplies shelf on his bookcase and started to write down all the important things God said. He didn’t understand everything God said, even when he stopped him to ask questions. So he just made some notes or drew some pictures whenever he was confused. But he tried to write down as much as he could. He especially liked the songs God taught him.

When morning came and the very first streams of light began washing back the night, Tim excused himself from God. He closed the toy box and closet, returned his tablet to the bookcase, and slipped into bed. He was very excited to be talking to God, but he knew he needed to get some sleep before school.

Tim visited with God almost every night for the next seven years. He was very careful to write down as much as he could, asking questions often and sometimes scratching out one thing to add another. He drew pictures and added diagrams where it made sense. He continued to enjoy the songs that God taught him and learned to read and write music so he could add notes to the songs. Over the years Tim filled 40 Big Chief tablets with God’s words and songs.

In the year 2000, Tim’s Sunday school class teachers decided to bury a time capsule near the Sanctuary. They invited all the children to add their notes, stories, poems and pictures to a stainless steel sphere fashioned by members of the congregation. Tim added a few tablets a day over the course of a few days so no one would notice how much he was putting in the time capsule. God had told him to carefully add all his tablets because they would be very important later.

Finally, the sphere was sealed and buried near the cornerstone of the Sanctuary. A stone and metal sign was placed over the burial site with the day it was buried and the date to be opened written in big letters. Tim checked on it every Sunday to make sure no one opened it early.

Tim was 14 years old when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. After all the years of talking to himself and singing songs by himself, his parents finally started to worry and had him examined by a psychiatrist. The doctor visited with Tim over the course of a few weeks and decided that his case was exceptionally bad and that he needed to be admitted to a hospital. The last words that Tim spoke were, “He told me this might happen.”

Tim spent the rest of his life in one institution after another. He never spoke another word, but sometimes if you approached him quietly and carefully, you could hear him singing softly to himself. He carried the Six Million Dollar Man doll from hospital to hospital and sometimes drew pictures when he was given paper. He died when he was 33 years old from unknown circumstances. No foul play was suspected. It just seemed like it was his time to go.

Kla’ Tu was 33 when he found the stone ruins of old times. He was an elder of his tribe and spent most of his time exploring the areas around his village. He had been walking along the dead river bed for a day and a half when he saw the cross from afar. He climbed up the steep slope and hiked through overgrown fields and forest before he found the cross and the deteriorated walls that supported it. As he approached the tallest wall, he noticed a rock on the ground with a metal plate containing several lines of writing. His English was not good, but he could tell something was buried there and that made him curious.

He found strong branches and limbs for digging in the forest nearby. Expecting to dig for hours, he was pleasantly surprised when he struck something metal in less than an hour. It was a sphere of some kind and it had broken and shifted during its time in the ground. He was able to remove the lid and examine the contents inside. Many of the items were reduced to flimsy scraps of paper or dust, but there were red books in thick clear bags strewn throughout the sphere. When Kla’Tu had collected them all, he found himself holding a stack of 40 red books.

Slipping the first book out of the bag, he sat down and flipped through the pages. The book was written mostly in English, but there were many pictures and diagrams that he somehow faintly recognized. Perhaps his father or his father’s father had drawn diagrams like these. They had certainly drawn crosses and talked about a God from the old time that would return again someday. As he flipped through the notebooks, he recognized the words “God said.” They appeared many, many times. He knew these books were special and he very carefully packed them into his roll and started the long hike back to his village.

A Little Mania

Some days life is different.
It’s a little easier.
I’m a little faster
in thought, word, and deed.
There’s no guilt,
no doubt,
no second guessing
to hold me back.
They are distant memories at best.
I hear everything,
remember everything,
and have all at hand.
There are smiles,
acknowledgments that weren’t there before.
I’m brighter,
bolder.
Conversations are deeper.
I wait in silence, as others speak.
I take in all arguments
and deftly define my position.
A burgeoning respect surrounds me.
Suddenly I am followed
instead of following.
The day is brighter.
The night, more beautiful.
Scent is stronger.
Trails of cologne and perfume
inundate the hallways.
Work is easier.
Complicated tasks, grasped in moments.
Changes are anticipated,
Revisions are redundant.
A happy hour is a playground.
I move from pocket to pocket,
Listening, digesting, commenting,
and moving on.
Movement is key.
If i stay too long in one place
The thoughts build up,
The muscles twitch,
And I spin far past the crowd around.
A savvy speaker will recognize my trajectory
and burn me with an extended argument.
Movement around me
confines me
and leaves me frozen in place.
The brilliance of the day blinds me
and the night envelopes me.
A little manic is a great thing,
it magnifies the present.
Too much is a demon chef
who plates the past.

cyber dating

We met online
which is a crapshoot these days.
I liked your profile,
the things you were and wanted.
You were so pretty in your photos,
I wondered what you might look like
in person.
We emailed back and forth for days.
Even in black and white,
you were cute and funny.
On the day we were to meet,
you almost cancelled.
But you didn’t.
I reached the restaurant early
and sat writhing in anticipation.
You arrived late, but not too.
You walked through the door
in a bright sundress and a brighter smile.
Your photos did you no credit.
I was stunned by your beauty.
We sat and ordered drinks first.
I had a margarita, top shelf.
You ordered a gin and tonic
and I was bemused.
I knew you were from Connecticut
and Florida
and here you were,
ordering a southern belle drink.
We must have talked for an hour
before ordering anything to eat.
You wore your smile
like sunglasses on a bright day.
We talked about our family, friends, and history,
laughing all the time.
We tested each other with small jabs,
good natured and well placed.
You punctuated your stories
with a quick touch of my arm or hand,
sending a tingle through me each time.
I told you my safe stories first,
quickly slipping into virgin territory.
I never seemed to surprise you
and you listened to me
like I was the only one in the room.
I paid the bill
and walked you to your car.
We talked a little more
and I hugged you before turning
and walking away.
I knew I had made a friend
and hoped for more.

untouchable

You’re untouchable.
Your conversations are short
and impenetrable.
You wear your smile
like armament
and you never make eye contact
when you speak.
You arrive before me
and leave long after.
But I saw you crying softly
at your desk once
and wanted to comfort you.
When I approached,
you wiped your eyes
and glared at me
through glistening eyes.
I asked if you were ok
and you said, of course.
I turned away and wondered
what could have hurt you so badly,
to make you so very cold.

an impossible situation

Its just my luck
That the only woman I’ve asked out
In three years
Is 15 years younger than I am.
Embarrassing? Yes.
But she didn’t look 24.
I was hoping for late 20s
Or even more hopefully,
Early 30s.
But no, she is 24.
Of course, I should forget about her
Immediately.
But she is beautiful.
Blonde hair
And blue eyes
And a petite figure.
If she never spoke to me again
That would settle things.
But she asks me for this or that.
She probably considers me
A friend
Or a big brother
And that should be enough.
But even casual contact
Fuels the fires
of misplaced interest.
I can see the end
Already.
A thoughtless touch
Or even worse,
An attempted kiss.
It’s not that far away.
Perhaps we will work together
On a project
And spend hours together
Away from work
Where she is safe
From my advances.
She’ll ask me a question
And look up from her laptop.
Her brilliant blue eyes
Will connect with mine
And I will lose just one iota
Of discipline
And move closer to her.
She will draw back
And close her computer.
And tell me she can’t work with me.
She will walk out of the office
And out of the house
And I will say nothing.
Do nothing.
Because I have already seen this moment
Played out so many times
In my mind.

Your highway

I ask why and you say so.
It’s your way or the highway.
But your highway’s jacked
cause the traffic’s stacked
and no one gets anywhere fast.
Well I’ve got a fast car
with a full tank of gas
and I know the side roads.
I’m branching out on my own.
Top down, kissing the wind,
I’m going somewhere fast.
All the pain is disappearing
in my rearview mirror.
The stereo is singing to me
and I’m singing along,
watching the stars
as they speed past.
I’m gonna get there,
but I’m not in a hurry.
Sometimes I drive slow.
When I stop, it’s where I want.
And I just might smoke
or dance around and joke
just to hear myself laugh.
A sound I never heard
on your highway.
I’ve got a fast car
with a full tank of gas
and I know the side roads.
I never need to drive
your highway again.

The worst day of my life

When I was 22 and driving south down I-35,
I fell asleep behind the wheel
of my Toyota Forerunner.
My best friend was driving behind me
and saw me veer off the road
and strike a truck parked on the shoulder.
My Forerunner flipped end over end
and came to rest in the grassy median,
much smaller than it was before the crash.
I was helping a friend move
from Austin to San Antonio
and carried his 50 gallon aquarium
in the back of my car.
His aquarium struck me in the back
at 60 miles an hour and broke my shoulder.
I climbed out of the smoking wreckage,
clutching my useless shoulder
and stumbled toward the road.
My friend was the first to reach me
and made me sit down in the grass.
I think I passed out for awhile.
I awoke to paramedics checking me over.
They tried to raise my right arm
and I screamed and passed out again.
I woke up in the ambulance.
One of the paramedics gave me a shot
and I started to fade away again.
I remember hearing a helicopter
before the darkness came.
I woke again in the hospital.
I was on a table on my stomach
and a woman was telling me to
breathe into a mask.
I faded away again and woke in a room.
My shoulder hurt and a doctor was there.
He told me he had placed pins in my shoulder
and that it would heal in a few months.
My friend visited me soon after.
He was worried and looked very sad.
I told him I was going to be fine in time.
He said he was glad, but that there was more
to the situation than I knew.
The truck on the shoulder was there
because of a flat tire
and the driver and passenger
were standing in front of the truck
when my Forerunner hit it.
I stared at him, confused
and suddenly worried.
Were they ok, I asked,
remembering the sound of the helicopter.
My friend came to the bed
and grasped my good left hand.
The guy who owned the truck is fine.
He broke his wrist, but nothing else.
I looked him in the eyes and asked
about the other person.
He squeezed my hand and said
his girlfriend didn’t make it.
I felt my heart tear in half
and tears well up in my eyes.
I killed a girl, I said
and turned away from my friend.
How old was she, I choked.
I didn’t know why it mattered, but it did.
They were both 21, he said.
I thought about my girlfriend in San Antonio,
the one on her way to see me.
I asked my friend to leave.
He stood there for a few moments,
turned, and walked out of the room.
I cried like I had never cried before.
I pictured my girlfriend
standing in front of the truck
on the side of the road.
In my mind’s eye, I saw her
struck and flung into the air.
I saw her in a helicopter,
medics trying furiously to save her.
I saw her die and I think I screamed.
I wished with everything within me
that I had been the one to die.

The Scene of the Crime

I killed a man.
It was a bar fight
that got out of control.
We ended up in the parking lot,
apart from the eyes of the crowd.
He pulled a knife
and I danced back and forth,
avoiding the blade.
He rushed me
and I tackled him,
sending the blade scattering
across the asphalt.
We exchanged blows.
tit for tat.
I managed to knock him down
and reach the knife.
He rushed me again
and I brought the knife
up into his chest.
He reeled back and fell to the ground,
Bleeding and breathing heavily.
He died before me
and I dropped the blade
and rushed away
from the scene of my crime.

The journal

I heard a whisper this morning
from the dark side of my heart.
It was a question
that questioned everything.
I calmly explained why my life was good,
but the incessant questions broke me down.
I began to believe that I wasn’t good enough
or strong enough
and that my life’s trajectory
was downward.
I looked at myself in a mirror
and found myself wanting.
I listened too long to the dark whispers
and forgot myself.
I turned to my writing
and read about the dark conversations again.
I found answers I had forgotten
and the whispers stopped.
I stood there with my journal in hand
and cried
but learned about myself again.

The end

I’m going to write about you now.
because i have to.
Because my feelings are all over the place
And I’m going to settle them here.
I’m wondering if I love you.
Because I’ve never loved anyone before.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’ve been in love.
Hell, I’m 40 years old.
I hope I’ve been in love before.
But since no other love has lasted,
Either I haven’t really been in love
Or I just couldn’t handle it.
I feel a helluva lot of things for you.
I want to be with you all the time.
But your schedule is involved
And the time that we have together
Is measured in glasses of wine
And cigarettes.
I want to stay the night with you
And make love to you,
But there are complications.
And these complications
Are coming to define our relationship.
Don’t get me wrong.
There is no one else I want to be with.
But I’m with myself more than I’m with you.
And I find it hard to fill my time
Without thoughts of you.
So I ask myself, do I love you?
I’d never tell you I love you.
At least not right now.
I think it would be more of a burden
Than a boon
To your life.
I can see myself telling you I love you,
Maybe in a year or two.
But even then, I see the world
Exploding
When I tell you this.
So what am I doing?
Why am I scratching at your door
When I could pull back
And find other doors to pester?
Other doors that will open sooner.
I guess I love you.
And I am waiting to say it
Because i'm worried
that will begin
The end.

The attic

I pull the door in the ceiling
down
and drop the stairs.
I climb them carefully.
I’ve always hated stairs
and steps
and the way they grab
my feet and scare me.
I pull the string
that lights the single bulb
that illuminates the attic.
It is surprisingly full
of boxes and dust.
I see a plastic Christmas tree,
long forgotten.
And Christmas lights
wrapped around a rafter.
I plug in the lights
and they twinkle
and add more light
in short cycles.
First I see the boxes
for computers and TVs
and stereos.
So many over the years
and never one thrown out.
I push them aside
and look deeper into the recesses
of the attic.
I find two boxes
that my ex left behind
years ago.
In one I find clothes
and a journal.
I hesitate,
but my curiosity wins
and I take it out of the box.
It is only a composition book
and time has not been kind.
I open it carefully.
It begins before we met
and ends shortly after.
The pages between
are filled with her thoughts
and hopes.
She is so sad
and struggles so much,
more than I ever imagined.
Her last entry is tortured.
She writes that she loves me,
but doesn’t believe it will last.
I close the journal
and return it to the box
with the clothes
she didn’t want.
The second box is full
of pictures we took together
and gifts I gave her
over the years.
I pick through the contents,
choosing a photo.
Here we are in New Orleans,
smiling on Bourbon Street.
In another we stand before this house
I bought for our future together.
There are books I gave her
for anniversaries and birthdays.
Art and design books mostly.
She was an artist.
There is a small ironwood Buddah
I bought her in Austin.
I close the boxes
and move them toward the stairs.
Of course, they were left
years ago,
but my eyes blur
and wet.
I wonder if I can call her
and decide against.
I look around the attic
and see more boxes
I haven’t the heart
to open.

Robbed

Why is it
I was robbed
Of a normal life?
Whatever that is
I did not have it.
Depressed since birth,
Blissfully unaware for years.
Only to be mercilessly surprised
At the worst possible moment
With a force
That stopped my life.
Saved without asking
Embarrassed by the failure
Of taking my own life.
Years granted begrudgingly
Only to try again
And again.
So close to success each time.
Stopped by strangers,
Remorseless, duty bound.
Embarrassed by each failure,
hidden within each recovery.
This time will be the last.
Alone, secured, determined.
The noose is tight.
The night is warm.
I have said my goodbyes.
This time there is no chance.
No intervention.
I relax and the darkness comes.
No fear. No regret.
I am determined.
The darkness comes faster.
My vision is taken.
My breath is a memory.
The darkness surrounds
and comforts.
There is a moment
when I can save myself.
Full of remorse with no duty,
the moment passes.
My last thought
is thankful.
My life releases.

Recent History

After I left my Ex,
the woman I dated
for two and a half years,
the woman I was engaged to
for a year,
I dated two women.
One was gorgeous,
beautiful hair,
dark skin and eyes.
We had so much in common.
But we were never comfortable
with the idea of dating
each other.
Our dates
were just encounters.
The other was
beautiful
in the most classic way.
She was fair skinned
with dark hair
and a great smile.
But the connection
Wasn’t there.
We knew each other
years ago
and were both seeking
what we had in the past
We slowly drifted apart.
Alone again
with two more experiences
behind me,
I am wondering
just what it is
I am looking for.

My mistake

You are so much younger
than I thought.
Illegal?
No.
And that was a mean thing to say.
I laughed it off.
I said good bye.
Yet you call me.
Fix this.
Teach me this.
Why do you call me?
I entertain hope.
But you ignore me.
I want you to call.
I want you speak to me.
I lay down my heart
and you jump over it.
Why?
I’m too old for you.
You said this.
But you call me.
To help you.
To teach you.
I lay down my heart
and you avoid it.
Each time
I feel older.

My last memory of my mother

My last memory of my mother…
I close my eyes and think back.
Was by a car in front of a building
I had never seen before.
I believe I knew even at five
that I would never see her again.
My clothes were packed in a duffle bag.
My comics, in a brown paper bag.
She said I was going away for awhile,
but I knew better.
I had gone away before
for several months
and returned,
but this was different.
She was crying and reassuring me
that everything would be better
this time.
My little brother was in the backseat,
hands pressed against the window.
He was crying too and didn’t know why.
A man came out from the building
and said his name was George.
He picked up my bags
and returned to the building.
I told my mother not to cry,
that I would be ok.
I asked for a picture of us
so I could remember
and she cried harder.
She hugged me tight and said she was sorry.
She took my hand and led me
toward the building.

my life

I have secrets.
Things I can’t tell you
or anyone
lest I be judged.
My life has been different
than other lives you know.
I have killed.
and I have been spared.
There is no balance.
Nothing equals loss.
Nothing equals sacrifice.
They happen.
People move on.
There is no balance.
There are things
I would change,
but cannot.
I barely know my life.
How can I know the life
You think you know.

Have I ever been in love?

I wonder.
Christine at ten
Was so beautiful
And eventually,
So distant.
so many wasted tears.
Beatrice at sixteen
Was so beautiful
And eventually,
So different.
So many wasted poems.
Zoe at eighteen
Was so beautiful
And eventually,
So disappointing.
So many wasted moments.
Deb at twenty
Was so beautiful
And eventually,
So hurt.
So many wasted actions.
Karen at twenty four,
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So demanding.
So many wasted plans.
Minnie at twenty seven
Was so beautiful
And eventually,
So surprised.
So many wasted feelings.
Stacy at twenty nine,
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So erratic.
So many wasted emotions.
Stephanie at thirty two
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So decisive.
So many wasted compromises.
Rachel at thirty four
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So strange.
So many wasted opportunities.
Jesse at thirty six
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So mad.
So many wasted arguments.
Dana at thirty nine
Was so beautiful,
And eventually,
So young.
So many wasted advances.
Have I ever been in love?
No.

A love story?

I woke up one day
Determined
That this was my last day
On earth.
I cleaned my room
And the random rooms
Around the house.
I fed the dog and walked her.
Petting her profusely
And telling her I loved her.
I left for work
And drove the speed limit
All the way there.
I thought about the ways
I could die.
I didn’t have a gun,
But I had a rope
And that seemed sensible.
I entered my building
And walked to the coffee stand.
I ordered a small cup
And heard a noise behind me.
I wasn’t sure at first,
But the second sound was a gunshot.
I turned around and saw a man with a gun.
I thought about the gun I didn’t have
And the rope I did.
This seemed like another option.
I stepped in front of the woman behind me
And was shot in the shoulder.
The pain was magnificent.
It was one step
Toward my last day
On earth.
I pushed her down and ducked my head.
Running forward, left to right,
I reached the gunman
Just as he shot me in the stomach.
My momentum carried me into him
And I smashed his head
Into the marble floor.
I grabbed his gun and threw it
As far as I could.
I collapsed on top of him
As he left this earth.
I felt pain unimaginable
And blessedly slipped into darkness.
They say I died twice.
Once on the marble floor
And once on the operating table.
She was there when I awoke
In the ICU.
She thanked me and I passed
Back into the darkeness.
Every time I woke
She was there.
She looked like an angel
And I thought I had left this earth.
But I kept waking
And she was always there.
She held my hand
And told me I would improve.
I believed her.
When I was conscious
We talked
And I began to love her.
I knew she loved me,
But I wondered if she would
If I hadn’t died twice
To save her.
We talked for hours
But I didn’t improve.
I wanted more time
On this earth
To know her and love her.
But it wasn’t to be.
She held my hand
And told me I would improve,
But I died.

Cutting

I feel like hurting myself
Every day
And killing myself
Every other.
I don’t know why.
My life is good.
But somehow I don’t buy into it.
I feel pressure
From every side.
My life is broken down
Into moments.
Some ok.
Some good.
Some bad.
Some beyond
My grasp.
I can’t discuss this
With anyone.
No one would understand.
They would just say no,
Don’t do it.
And that’s not enough.
I have to change my mind
And my mind is set.
I’ve thought about cutting myself.
Somehow the idea appeals.
Perhaps the pressure
Could be released
If I just cut enough
And cleaned and bandaged
The wound.
The more disturbing thought
Is suicide.
I’ve always been able
To fight that thought off
By thinking of the people
I would hurt
By my death.
But I realize now
That death ends all.
All the thoughts of other people.
All the worries of the life
I leave behind.
I don’t want to be
So dramatic.
I want to love life
And feel inspired every day.
But that’s just not
The way I feel.

An old woman and a dog

Its funny to me
that I hang on
to this cruel, crazy world
for two things.
A 95 year old grandmother
and a 9 year old black lab.
Each could slip away
in a day.
I’ve even looked
at the end
while they are here.
And looked very closely,
but couldn’t close the deal
because of them.
I think if one went
I could go too,
but it would probably
take both leaving before me,
to free up that path
for myself.
I just don’t have the strength
to stay behind.
An old woman
and a dog
keep me alive.

A beautiful thought

There is a single
beautiful thought
in my life.
I have kept this thought,
nurtured it since genesis
and eased it into old age.
I have had this thought
all my life,
but cannot explain it.
I just know that
somewhere,
somehow,
I am loved.

Searching

I’m trying to remember
The last good year I had.
It’s not this one.
Even last year
Is hazy with pain and loss.
Two years ago
Brought madness that
Started the year before.
Perhaps three years ago
Was a good year.
I fell in love
And proposed
And the future looked so good.
But the madness
Was festering.
Four years ago
I met a woman
Who moved me
And business was good.
But there were cracks
Even then.
Pieces of my life that
set in motion
the loss of love.
And the taint
That bloomed
Into destruction.
Five years ago
I was cocky.
Business was good
And friends were ubiquitous.
Women were plentiful
And I was not selective.
No relationship lasted
Til the light of day.
But I was sane
Or so I remember
And money was easy.
Still I limped through
Parts of my life
And found no solace
In being alone.
I drank too much
And smoked too much
And spent my time in bars.
never in the arms
Of a woman who loved me.
Six years ago
Business was good.
And I traveled.
I visited the places
I had only seen on postcards.
Friends were fewer
But friendships, stronger.
I lost a person close to me
And that loss
Painted the year
A dark color
That I rarely saw through.
I was moody
And had flashes of the madness
Yet to come.
I had a friend
Sit me down
And ask me hard questions
That I answered carelessly.
I didn’t like myself.
Seven years ago
I started a business
And struggled every day
To make it work.
I relied on one person
Who betrayed me
During the madness to come.
We became fast friends
And I spent my time with him
Or alone.
I didn’t write then
Or read very much.
Women were plentiful
And easy.
I had no anchor in my life.
I tried to kill myself
For the third time
And woke alive
And alone.
Eight years ago
I worked for a company
That was young and inspired.
I made so many friends
That I have lost since then.
I enjoyed my work
And I was good at what I did.
I had a roommate
And he was a friend
He worried about me
And my drinking
And drugging.
We talked less and less
As I ventured down
Darker and darker alleys.
I pushed the night through
To the dawn
So many nights
And never thought
About the noise
And smells that travelled
Back to my roommate.
I was wrapped in the cocoon
Of my own life.
Nine years ago
I worked at the same company
With the same friends
and I met my roommate.
We were so similar
For so long
Before he began to grow older.
I lost a friend that year too
Only I celebrated his death
By living my life
As hard as I could.
I drank
Every night
And I experimented
With drugs
Whose names
I don’t even remember.
I began to explore
The bars and clubs
I could reach in moments.
I walked home many times
And stumbled home many more.
The people beginning to know me
Liked me
The ones who knew me wondered.
I bought a jeep and a dog
Both became the loves
Of my confused life.
And I have both still.
Ten years ago
I barely remember
But I worked for a different company
And I was good at what I did
But bored
I dated an artist
And appreciated her
Many years later.
I could almost see myself
Through her eyes
And they were much more forgiving
Than mine.
I lived in a small apartment
In a complex
With many interesting people
And seemed interesting
Myself.
I drank every night
And walked to bars
That were close to me
Where they knew me
And would continue to serve me
When they would have stopped
Any other patron.
I wrote some back then
And I read the poems now.
They make me sad
They were all so final.
I don’t remember
Eleven years ago.
I know I lost a friend even then
And my response was mixed
I cried some nights
And yelled at the blank walls
Of my apartment.
I don’t think I was happy.
And the fact that I can relate
Eleven years of my life
Without a sign of happiness
Makes me very sad
And desperate.
I wonder what it will take
This year,
To be happy.

The Angel

I was 24,
standing in a park in Austin,
looking at Town Lake at dusk.
The orange streaked sky
rippled across the water,
beckoning to me in gentle waves.
As I started to walk to the water,
A woman standing by the statue
of Stevie Ray Vaughn, called out to me.
I walked over and smiled.
She asked if I would join her for a smoke.
I smiled and accepted her offer.
She said her name was Ruth
and asked me mine
as she handed me a cigarette and lighter.
I told her and we stood there
smoking in silence.
She smiled and sat
on the base of the statue,
looking out at the water.
“Do you know
you have another name?” she asked.
Confused, I said no, not that I knew of.
“Your are also called David,
son of Jesse,” she said.
I wondered if I should walk away.
This woman seemed so strange.
“David was a fighter and a king,”
she said, lighting another cigarette.
“I know you came here to die,
but it’s not your time.”
Suddenly too weak to stand,
I sat down beside her.
“What happened was not your fault,” she said,
“and will never be held against you.”
I looked at her.
I was embarrassed to have come here
to kill myself
and shocked that she knew what she knew.
My life is what it is, I said.
And the fault that you allude to
was mine and mine alone.
“You have so much life ahead of you,” she said.
“I am only here to point the way.
The choice is up to you.”
Do you really know what happened? I asked.
Do you know the pain I’ve caused?
“I do,” she said.
“And the pain you will relieve
is much greater.”
I was spooked.
Who are you
and how do you know my life? I asked.
“I am your angel Ruth.
I’ve know you long before you were born
and I will know you long after you die.
You can walk to the shore
or you can walk away.
The choice is yours.”
If you’re my angel, I said.
You know what happened
and how she died.
And how my choice haunts me.
“Your choice was difficult
and the ones to come, will be no easier.
But God is in your heart
and you will be a king someday.”
With that, she walked away
and disappeared into the darkness.
I stood there
by the statue of Stevie Ray Vaughn
and thought about the life I have lived,
and the choices I have made
and the life that might be waiting.
I fell to my knees
and begged forgiveness.
I kneeled there by the water
for an eternity
and then
I turned away from the water
and began the long trek back to my apartment.