Good days

Good days are so hard
to come by.
They sneak up on you
like a message
slipped under your door.
This one started
with an alarm
going off on time
and rising from bed
without slaying
the snooze button.
A whole extra hour
to shower
and walk the dog.
To eat breakfast
and read Newsweek.
At work 15 minutes early.
My big boss on vacation.
Actual work laid out for me.
I tool the morning away.
Lunch at home.
Walk the dog again.
Is that sunshine?
Really?
The afternoon proves
Hilarious
as my big boss
chimes into email
a step behind
the work flow.
She throws out comments
without explanations
and I smile at her
vanity.
She’s only fueling the fire
of my exodus.
I spend the afternoon
working on a throwaway job
and not caring.
Home again,
I take the dog
for another walk.
As I approach my house
a strange man
stands at my door.
I let my dog loose
and she runs
to the stranger,
stopping to ferociously
lick him.
He is an old and dear friend
I haven’t seen in years.
We drink.
We smoke.
We talk.
So much has happened
and so little changed.
His job is the same
but different.
His hobbies
have grown
and become passions.
I catch him up
on three years
that must seem
like the last three
he knew me.
So much changes.
So much remains the same.
We laugh.
We hug.
We promise to see each other
soon.
Sometimes good days
sneak up on you
and you don’t know
how good they are
until they are over.

My 40th birthday

Sitting at the end
of three square tables
pushed together,
I look around at you
my friends for years.
I am blessed
to have eight busy lives
find time for mine tonight.
One life has crossed mine
for 33 years,
another for 24,
and a third for 22.
Years were lost between,
but always reunions
were met with smiles,
hugs, and kind words.
Even just a phone call
could lead to hours
of conversation.
And here we are tonight
for my 40th year on earth.
Drinks are served.
Toasts are made.
Stories are told
and oft denied,
followed with laughter.
Dinner is ordered.
Drinks are drunk.
And pictures are taken.
Not everyone
knows each other.
Couples split and turn
to new friends
for conversation.
I sit at the head
of these three tables,
these eight people,
and wish
this dinner
would never end.

The creepy girl

The creepy girl
in the cubicle next to me
has decided to ignore
my existence.
I say good morning
each morning without fail.
She mumbles Good Morning
if she says anything at all.
We were friends once
or at least beginning
to be.
I taught her how
to swing a bat
and she invited me to her church
where she promptly ignored me.
She invited me to
her bible study group
which I actually enjoyed
until the day
they condemned homosexuals to hell.
Homosexuality is a sin
they said
and she led the pack
with her enthusiastic hypocrisy.
And then I found out that
the mentally ill were also damned.
Now when I see her
I don’t think she is pretty
or funny
or interesting.
I just think of her
as a little blonde Hitler
waiting to exterminate
the homos
and the retards
and I remember why
I dislike some Christians
so very much.

I am not a rich person

I am not a rich person.
Far from wealthy,
I struggle to make two paychecks
meet.
I have insurance because
I have to these days.
The premiums are not cheap
but I make them.
My therapy is expensive.
My medicines are expensive.
But I need them.
I fill out the forms
and submit my claims
only to have them denied
out of hand.
Treatment not covered.
Deductible not met.
All of the sudden
two paychecks
cannot meet
and bills cannot
be paid.
I will lose my car.
I will lose my home.
I will lose my dignity.
I call the insurance company,
the customer service number
on the back of my card.
I listen to an automated voice
try to confuse me.
There are ten options
and only nine numbers on my phone.
I press the buttons,
determined to reach
a human voice.
When I do I am pleasant.
I ask for a name,
discuss the weather
and ask where
the call center is located.
A lilting female voice
laughs and tells me the weather
is better in Phoenix.
As I ask about my claims,
she sobers
and explains why they are denied.
I hang up and write down what I know.
Suzy in Phoenix.
The next day I search the web
and find the call center.
I gas up my car
which isn’t my car any longer.
I drive to Phoenix
because I cannot afford to fly.
I reach the call center
and park my car
in an immense lot.
I walk into the center,
to the service desk
and ask if I can speak
to Suzy.
A very helpful security person
calls Suzy and directs me
to a waiting area
near a bank of elevators.
I watch the extension ring
and hope that x1215
might be on the 12th floor.
I take an elevator to that floor
and step out into
a large open space
full of desks, people, and phones.
I slip the two Berettas I carry
from behind my back
and walk onto the floor.
I don't particularly care
if I kill Suzy.
I have 20 rounds in each pistol
and hope I can kill
30-40 customer service reps.
Perhaps that will send
a message
to the insurance company.

Perfect

I’ve been searching
for the perfect job
all my life.
I haven’t found it.
As if there is such a thing.
I look back across the span
of 22 years of searching.
My first jobs were in college.
I was a barback, a bartender,
and a DJ.
I enjoyed each.
I drank
and I smoked
and I did drugs,
but none were meant
for life
and none lasted
very long.
My first “real” job
came after college.
I worked as a catastrophe adjuster
for State Farm
for three years.
I traveled the country
from one disaster
to the next.
I met people,
always at their worst.
They hated me
because they believed
I was out to cheat them.
I met adjusters
from other cities
and they hated their jobs
because people hated them.
But we drank
and we smoked
every day after work
and we made it OK.
In the end I quit
because I hated my home.
Austin has never been
good to me.
I moved to Houston
and went to art school,
believing a creative job
would suit me better.
My first creative job
was print design
for a legal publishing company
and it wasn’t very creative.
There’s only so much
you can do
with two typefaces
and two colors.
The people were nice
and we drank
and we smoked
at the end of each day.
After three years
I left
to work as a web designer
for a web design company.
I ended up on an account
that used two typefaces,
but 22 colors.
Such freedom.
And at the end
of each day
the designers would drink
and we would smoke
and we would dream
of better jobs.
I was laid off
after a year
when the dot com extravagance
ended in the dot com crash.
Thousands of designers
poured into the market
looking for better jobs
and learned to settle
for available jobs.
I worked freelance
for two years
before starting my own company.
I did everything.
Account service.
Project management.
Design.
It was so hard,
but so rewarding.
At the peak
I employed six designers,
two copywriters,
an office manager,
and a programmer.
At the end of every day
we would drink.
We would smoke.
And we would plan
for the next day.
The next week.
The next month.
I know now
this was the best six years
of my life.
It was as close
as I have ever come
to the perfect job.
But people are greedy
and I was naïve.
My partners sabotaged me
to win a million dollar project
for themselves.
I left broken hearted
and floated for a year
before I found another job
as a designer
for a company smaller than mine.
After a year
I realized
I knew no one there.
I left because we didn’t drink
and we didn’t smoke
at the end of each day.
Since then I have worked
four jobs
in three years,
each worse than the last.
No one drank.
No one smoked.
No one cared.
I don’t feel creative
anymore.
I am thinking
I would like to be a barback,
or a bartender,
or a DJ.
I am thinking there is
no perfect job
and I just want to be happy,
not perfect.

The world

I want to scream
Until I hear the echoes
In this small apartment.
I want to throw myself
Against the walls
Until I feel.
Until I bleed.
I want to touch my blood,
Feel the warmth
And believe in life
For a moment.
I want to hurt the world
And make it feel.
Make it bleed.
But I am so small
And the world is so big.
My life won’t even
Leave a bruise.

A memory

Your name is still in my phone.
You are still a friend
on Facebook,
but you are gone.
I hope against hope
That you will somehow call
or text
or send me a message.
But you are gone.
Still I see your name
everyday.
I want to call you
or text you.
I want to send you a message.
But that window has closed,
never to be opened again.
I have memories.
Memories of you
and our conversations.
Your jokes
and your laugh.
You left on your own terms.
And soon I will follow.
I will be a name
on someone’s phone.
A friend on someone’s Facebook.
A memory.

Sitting

I sit by the window
watching the rain.
Patches of light
slip through the clouds
and paint the gray
with splashes of blue.
I stare at the gun
in my hands.
It is a revolver.
A six shooter.
I have two bullets loaded
in the cylinder.
I will probably only need
One.
But I am a careful person.
I marvel at the weight
and the balance.
Such a heavy piece of metal,
a small steel sculpture.
So easy to come by.
I’ve never owned a gun
for fear that I would use it.
And now, when I will use it
I am not afraid.
I watch the rain
reach the window
and slide down the pane.
Slide down the pain.
There is a pad of paper
on the table next to me
and a pen.
I’ve been sitting here
for hours.
I don’t know what to write.
I’m not sorry.
I won’t write that.
But I do want to say
Good-bye
to the people who have cared
about me
and cared so long.
In the end I write the names
of all of these people
and I do say I’m sorry.
I’m simply sorry
they have cared
and I have let them down.
But I also write
that I am happy.
Happier than I’ve been
in so long.
Happy to leave
pain behind.
Uncontrollable,
inconsolable
pain.
My death shouldn’t be sad.
It’s natural to die.
It’s noble to choose when.
I push the pad away
and cap the pen.
The rain has strengthened.
The light has retreated.
I raise the gun
hoping one bullet
will be all I need.

Cowards

There are those
Who hurt.
Who hurt others.
Who kill others.
There are those
Who cannot stave
The pain that fills them.
Those who hurt others,
Those who kill others,
Are cowards.
They cannot face the pain
They feel.
They cannot heal
And will not die.
I would spend my life
Finding these people
And killing them
If I were not one
Myself.

A strong moral compass

Sometimes I think there
Are bad things in me.
Things I would do
But for the fear
Of being caught.
I think in my life,
Especially,
Given my birth,
My formative years,
And my illness
I could be a very bad person.
I am intelligent.
I am careful.
I might get away
With things
That would spin
Any moral compass awry.
I could kill
For the simple pleasure
Of watching another life
Extinguish.
I could kill
With certaintude
With simultude.
With indiscretion.
I could live
On the periphery
And never look
To the center.
And my own moral compass,
Though strong now,
Is weakened each day.

Oxygen

I never thought
I would live this long
And I don’t hold out faith
That I will live
Much longer.
I have touched other lives
In small ways.
I have done good things
Sporadically.
I don’t believe in a reward
For living this way.
I have only done the things
That I hoped
Others would do for me.
Life laughs at you
When you think
You are entitled
To anything
More than oxygen.

Unfettered

I have anchors.
Anchors that hold me
Here in this town.
It is my choice
To let them
Weigh me down.
But I am measuring
Their weight
Against my desire
To leave here.
I can always visit.
And I can always call.
My family is here
And my grandmother is old.
But I am growing old
As well.
In this town.
I know there is opportunity
Beyond.
I just have to overcome
My fear
Of leaving my anchors.
Unfettered
I may well float away.

The fault

I’m trying very hard
to be myself
today.
But I don’t feel
like myself
today.
I feel
like myself
three years ago
when things were
very bad for me.
But I take my pills.
I keep my journal.
I do the things
they say to do.
And today
I am not myself.
Is it my fault
or theirs?

An astronaut

Some days are harder
than other days.
This was one.
I sat up in bed
before the alarm sounded.
Robbed of five minutes
of precious sleep,
I threw the comforter back
and swung my legs
over the side of the bed.
I sat there
trying to remember
what day it was.
Did it really matter?
I pulled on my jeans
and a clean shirt.
I wonder
how many people
really like their jobs.
I work in retail
so I hate mine.
People piss me off.
I should have been
something else.
An astronaut perhaps.
The thought
of the emptiness
of space
is comforting.
No shopping in space.
No people in space.
No refunds in space.
No sales.
No sales meetings.
I should have been
an astronaut.

A shit day

Its raining.
I can hear the drops
tap my window.
And I can feel the cold
hovering in the air
around my bed.
I set the wrong alarm
and I’m late.
No time for a shower.
No time for breakfast.
No time to walk the dog.
I can’t find my keys.
I’m home dammit.
The jeep is in the driveway.
The keys are here
somewhere.
Fuck it.
I call in sick
and go back to bed.
It was going to be
a shit day
anyway.

Old friends

Old friends are irreplaceable.
Some know me better
than I know myself.
I talk about my life
and they understand it
better than me.
They offer suggestions
or they don’t.
They listen.
They always listen.
Sometimes they are saddened
by what I say,
but you wouldn’t know it.
They smile
and they laugh
and they understand
all the things
that I don’t.

Riding the fence

So many days I wake up
not sure just how I am.
A little down.
A little up.
No strong feeling
until the first obstacle
of the day.
Do I take it in stride?
Wash around and above it?
Do I let it tackle me?
Beat me down
and drive me back?
Some days I don’t know
who I am
until I’m challenged.

The disenfranchised

Who do I write for?
I write for myself.
I write for everyone
who doesn’t have a home.
Who doesn’t have
an expensive car.
Who doesn’t have
a trust fund.
Who doesn’t have
a relationship.
Who doesn’t have
a friend.
Who doesn’t have
a family.
Who doesn’t have
a future.
Who do I write for?
I write for myself.
I write for the disenfranchised.

Texas weather

These days are crazy.
My mood changes
as quickly as the Texas weather.
Yesterday, cold and wet.
A struggle to wake.
A struggle to move.
One day lost
in the memories
of a hundred others.
Each cold and wet.
Each a struggle
somehow overcome.
Today, warm and dry.
Bouncing from bed,
focused on the present.
Happy to go to work.
Happy to work.
Happy.
Tomorrow, I don’t know.
But I hope it is warm and dry.

Man

I was hanging with my boy Russ
at the King Biscuit.
A girl walked by
and I watched her walk.
Striking.
She was striking.
No, stunning.
She was stunning.
Perfection in motion.
Beautiful short dark blonde hair,
and a figure Michelangelo would have envied.
As she walked by again
I heard someone call out her name.
Shannon.
I noticed a tattoo on the back of her neck.
It was a vertical line
of Chinese characters.
I recognized the first
as the symbol for man.
I wanted to ask her
what it meant,
but I didn’t want to seem like
I was hitting on her.
I watched her for the rest
of the night.
I’ll come back soon
and I’ll ask her about the tattoo
when the bar is empty
and she’s not so busy.

Curiosity

Curiosity killed our relationship.
I wondered what it would be like
to be with a woman
who actually read novels
and poetry.
You wondered when
American Idol was on.
I wondered what it was like
to date a woman who
enjoyed museum exhibits
and gallery openings.
You wondered which heels
made your legs look better.
I wondered who you were
and why we were together.
Curiosity killed our relationship.

How do you fight a feeling?

She says she feels like
you’re not telling her something.
You look at her perplexed.
There’s very little you haven’t
told this woman.
You’ve been very forthcoming
about your past and your illness.
You’ve talked about
your previous relationships
and their failings
and your part in each.
You’ve talked about your fighting
and your struggle
to control your anger.
You’ve talked about sex.
Your likes, dislikes, and hang ups.
You’ve talked about your family
and your friends
and how important they are.
You’ve talked about
your feelings for her
and your comfort around her.
Yet she has a feeling.
A completely baseless feeling
that says more about her
than it does about you.
How do you fight this feeling?
There is nothing you can say.
There is nothing you can do.
It’s just a feeling she has.
But it affects you.
and colors the way
you feel
about her.