Take Two

All she wanted to do was tell him "I love you."

Instead, she woke up, rolled over and just breathed, the exhale falling into rhythm with his. She couldn't bring herself to wake him.

But it seemed a very important thing to say so early in the morning, with the sun waking and the air in the room filtered by blankets and curtains. The real day seemed so very far away from this place. Hard to believe she hadn't been here forever.

She threaded her arm through his and rested her head in between his shoulder and neck. He never moved.
She lightly tapped the skin of his arm three times.

It was all she could do.

And she meant it.

Sidebar #3 - What she doesn't talk about much

You see, she was 27 or 26 years-old when she found out they don't like her all that much. And honestly, it's not really her fault. I mean, she could tone down the holier-than-thou education and word pronunciation, but that's not really a problem. It's her face. It's offensive.

I think it has something to do with that screwed up frown-smile, the one that is reminiscent of her mother and the way she holds a pen.

Besides, your family doesn't have to like you, right?
Love you, maybe, but not like you.

That's how I get through it whenever I can hear how she looks over the phone. You see, she only really discusses it with me.

I can see her over the phone, eyes squinched and the wrinkles lining up between her nose - especially that one over her right eye. Damn, that one's permanent now. I can hear the way her mouth is curling up on itself, puckered into a squooshed, lippy "oh" and shoved to the right. When she's not doing this, with her eyes rolled up in exasperation, I know she's smoking a cig.
I can hear the lighter on my end. She's fooling nobody.

I think what hurts me the most though, is that I know she's trying to be brave and tough about it. She's refusing to cry and I'm terrified that she's not feeling it the way other people would. Has it gotten that far?

I really don't know.
All I know is that I think she's amazing.
And she'll never get that - no one will tell her except me and the boy.
How far will that get her, I wonder? Does she know how important that is?

She's got a great wit and while she's ranting, she's really being funny which is my automatic tell-tale sign that she's on defense. The only other time it's apparent is when she doesn't talk at all...those are the scary moments, the times when her mind just folds in, over, once...twice...three times.

It's not her fault they don't like her. I wish I could make that okay.
That's all she's really wanted.
Is for people to notice without her having to be a complete asshole or a prodigy.

I think it's time she try being an asshole, because the super-human goals just aren't getting her there.

The Thing about Love Is...Part 2

The thing about Love

Is

That You

Just never Know.

When it will burn On

Change

Turn Grow Up

Or figure itself out
Into
Blossom.

It's not about

Flowers.

It's about

Endurance. Compassion.

Smelling good, yes.

But the Blossom part,

That's really something.

Character Profile: Randy Smoot

Randy Smoot is a retired General Electric employee. He spent years working in the Chicago district, wearing his nerves and fingertips to traceless emptiness.

On Saturday, Randy's son and daughter-in-law invited him to the Museum of Science and Industry. "We have tickets to the Harry Potter exhibit!" He could hear Sam squealing in the background as he listened to his son on the phone. Goddamn witches and wizards and froo-froo pansy stuff, thought Randy. They'll be sorry when that kid grows up wearing a skirt and a wig.

"I really don't know, son," he responded, "My knee's been killin' me this week and you know I play cards with the boys at 6 pm."

He didn't bother to tell him that the game had been canceled due to the church potluck. Randy wasn't going. He never went to church after Norma passed. For a moment, the thought of a schedule-less Saturday seemed appealing.

"Come on, dad," his son pressed, "It'd mean the world Sam."

"Okay."


On Saturday morning, he rode in front on the way to the museum. He liked riding in front especially when he couldn't drive. Sitting in back was horseshit if you are the man of the house and Randy was certain he wasn't going to endure that get-up Sam was in. "Why's the boy wearing a cloak like some pocket watch salesman?!" He'd asked his daughter-in-law. She had laughed at him.
"It's part of the fun," she responded.

Later, after the submarine exhibit and the coal mine, Randy and his family approached the entrance for the Harry Potter display. "On second thought, I think I'll meet you downstairs at the entrance. You know, near that train."

"But Dad!" his son protested.
Sam was already jumping and raising his hand to answer Potter quiz questions.
He wouldn't notice.

Randy reached the large train display and noticed a tour began in five minutes. He followed a group onto the historic vehicle and listened as the tour guide explained the train's speed, saying it was known to cut travel time in half from Chicago to Denver.

Time.
Something he didn't have a lot of, he felt, listening and stuffing his museum programs in the front of his jeans. He looked up and noticed a young blond woman looking at the bundle shoved halfway down his pants.

She looked concerned.
Probably thinks I'm too old or stupid to know not to put them there, he thought. Probably wants to tell me to shove 'em in my back pocket. His rationale for being able to keep track of the programs would be lost on her, he was certain.

So he smiled at her - a big toothy grin.
She'd think he was a lunatic, out for his last adventure before commitment.

The woman turned away, stifling a giggle.

As he stepped off the train, he noticed his family - Sam carrying a wand and waving it about. He couldn't wait to tell his grandpa about the tour.
Holding the arm rail to ease his way down from the platform, Randy smirked and then gave a "Whoot!" as he jumped the last step.

The pamphlets fell to the floor.
Straightening up a bit, Randy picked up the pamphlets and swatted his son playfully.

Startled, his family led him out of the museum and back to the car.
"Here's to livin'" was all he could keep saying.

Sidebar #2: The Blog

She still has the blog, the one she copied and pasted from the old Myspace page.
Just in case.
Just in case she should ever forget why she despises him - why she will never, ever return a call, a letter, a card, an email,...anything.

He had the balls to make her public.
She had the balls to keep it private and use it as a reminder to keep herself in check.

It wasn't that he was anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things; it was that she felt sorry for him - felt sorrier for maintaining the compassion a little too long, a little after it was likely decent.

She received a card once, the old-fashioned way. It read something like "Happy Birthday. Hope your life is better without me in it."

That was just like him.

Next time she sent a package of his stuff, she'd COD him.
By the way, her note would read: The shirt really was in the Dumpster.

Years later, she has no regrets and no longer wonders if he is okay. She imagines he is; off fighting his fight and writing down everything - using everyone as a character rather than living in the now.

Some people are like that, you know.
They move through life attracting friendships and suffering them long enough, thoroughly enough, to sit down later and write about it.

Sidebar #1 - Another letter unsent letter by Noodle

You,
I don't know how to tell you this, but you're not the only one who feels things. Listen, it'd be easier if I were a woman, I guess; I mean, you guys get to cry and carry on all the time anyway. It's all that 'weaker sex' bullshit they keep telling us to believe.

I have to hand it to you, you're not weak. I think I made a mistake in overprotecting your feelings because frankly, you scare the piss out of me with your stolid, icy way of dealing with all things weird.

I mean, who else could be you and still be, well-adjusted?
I don't know and the more I think about why I'm upset and the more I think about why I shouldn't be is making this letter just another psychotic rambling I need to drink myself under.

This piece of paper is going right into the garbage when I'm done.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I still want to talk to you and write to you, but I'm past being able to say "I'm sorry" all the time and I'm well past being able to deal with my guilt over it. I've numbed it down a little and I think I could function as your acquaintance once and awhile.

Maybe not.

You have every right to be angry with me over this. You have every right to be right and to die on that mountain of right and yet, I keep hoping you won't.
I hate that you're right.
I hate that you were right.
And I hate that you will probably prove me wrong again.

You're some kind of pent up, emotionally bound up martyr and I'm sick of that. When's the top going to blow, really? How much longer are we all going to wait on your public catastrophe?

Not enough fuel yet?

Smarter, more productive women owned up to 'bitch' a long time ago and honestly, I think they're happier than you are.

Yes, I said that. I wrote it. I meant it.

Try on a bad day for size. Crumple that up with a little pissed off, a little wound up rage, and fire.
See where that gets you.

I'd like to drink a beer with you and discuss this fatal flaw sometime, but I'm pretty certain you'd be unavailable for counsel. I've pushed you pretty far off and you'd be a glutton for hurt if you actually took me up on it.

You've started to not return my calls already.
Dammit. I thought you'd do that to everyone, but me.

I'm just saying to be you. And I know what you're gonna say 'this is me, this is who I am,' but we both know how angry you are and we both know how hurt you've been and you keep throwing yourself on some proverbial sword to save face.

Who cares about your face?

Guess I'm offering myself up.
Throw the first punch.
I'm ready.

N.

What the Body Says when She Refuses

Next time, when I design the map
It’s going to go a little something like this:

Alright, listen to me.
Feel what I am saying to you,
One who turns the blind eye to the fact
That I control just about everything
Around here,

The forgiveness must stop.
No more apology take back talk throughs –
They don’t do anything to protect
What is left in this green, yet cracked home
You and I built together.

Map of the Body –

*You get to choose:

Path number one: The torso

No, I don’t want salad-almond-faux-chocolate-paste-nutrition landfill. No, I will not have you on top this time. No, you do not get a say in this transmission. No, it is not just about the lime. No, taste my face once and realize it does only as it pleases. It is not concerned with you or any of your accouterments, regardless of how big they are. No, I am not impressed by the status of your death brain noodle education. No, it really is just about your green glass eye, shitass. I expected it to feel like the place between water and sand. It did not. And you knew this all along. No, I did not lose the forty and some odd moments that made me this slenderized, tenderized version who really could rotate your tired face and wash her hands of it.

Path number two: The extremities

Yes, I require more than a moment to intensify and do you justice. Yes, I really did work the body to peak position without panties. Yes, this is what I look like – all over, the place you keep saying is somewhere between imperfect and monsoon-white-light disaster. (I will have to look that up; I don’t think you are right about that one.) Yes, my thigh can meld you into the metal you were made of and then pour you out through the eyeglass of those nine months you said it would be okay and then took it back. You are an Indian giver and yes, I know that is not politically correct. Yes, I told her she had to wait a bit longer for my derailment. From my own mess, I came up green and smiling. Where were you? Someplace I imagine – the transition that exists between water and the steam of this mess.

Path number three: What is yet definable above the shoulders

I can only be one composition in this spectacle. Night blankets the discord as I – in my own mistake-trivial-pursuit-without-chocolate money – watch burning people burn on like they are only dipping-spoons in bread. I do not understand this smoldering. They always ask – what are you made of? I answer just this, because I have not found my way in the universe: I am blood orange and concrete with a sprig shooting up – always someplace searching for what is next on the earth. Did I mention to you that one time that my real eyes are green?

Throwing Stones

It is always much simpler, at first,
To throw stones -
Rather than,

Rather than -

Move the mountain...

To each his own, I suppose,

Though I don't suppose -

You could tell me the difference between
Weighing your pocket
With stone

And climbing the proverbial mountain?

Seems both would -
Could -

Bring you down
To
Death,

Or at least
Slow your movement
To the breaking point

Where you are no longer
Yourself

But part of something
Much larger than
Stone.

God and the Traffic Calming Device:

It seems she was running into God more often lately and this was particularly comforting for her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but He seemed to pop in and out of her everyday with his neatly pressed suit, his Starbucks coffee, and that beaming, yet quiet smile.

Today he wore blue jeans and was sitting cross-legged on a speed bump.

She wasn't quite sure that's what she saw at first either - but as she left the house, she noticed him sitting peacefully in the road next to the house, the yellow bump beneath him.

He was sitting close enough to her driveway that she feared backing into him, so she approached and asked his purpose for being there.

"This is a comfy spot," He remarked as she got nearer, "Did you know they call them 'traffic calming devices?'

"I did not," she responded, "Why are you here?"

"I didn't want you to miss me today," He said. "The city is very busy and I was not sure you could see me in all that traffic. Thought this was a better idea. May I have a sip of your coffee?"

"Sure," she replied, handing him her mug. "You are commenting on my road rage, I suppose," she added.

"Just wanted you to know I'm around in case you need to talk about anything - well that and that I'm likely nearby all the time, even in the most annoying places."

"Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it."

He stood up, brushed his jeans off and headed back down the street.

It was then she realized, they were becoming friends.

Campfire Song

Come here, Boy.
Sit next to my skins
And play the string a bit louder.
I cannot remember myself
Without the tune.

Wear that earthiness
We know so well
And fear not the dampening reeds
Around the pit -

Growing wider and threatening
To put out the fire of summer
And last minute love stories.

I know not the camp of our youth
Anymore.
Anymore, I cannot remember my morning
Or the one before that -

One night when you brushed
My hair aside
And told me it'd be another year
Before we met again.

Tangent #10 - Lovers

Sitting on the porch, cigarette in hand, he looks out into the 3 AM street. Alone in the porch light, drinking a beer and coming down from a 12 AM buzz, he simply couldn't sleep. All the party-goers crashed by 2 AM and honestly, this moment alone felt good. Really good.

He'd stolen the cigarette from a buddy passed out on the living room floor. He'll never miss it. The smoky coils calmed him a bit as he transitioned back to himself.

"I can't believe this is my life," he muttered to himself, sipping the beer.
When it came right down to it, he didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be anywhere. He didn't know himself in these shoes or the ones before or the ones before that. The last time he recognized himself was at fifteen or sixteen years old.

So few and yet so much time had gone by.

Now he was here, stationed on the porch, smoking alone and wondering again who the hell he thought he was.

He hated that he felt unnaturally timid and hesitant in this place; hated that he couldn't open up about the money and the literature stashed in a hole in the wall and covered with a poster. He hated that he had to hide his quiet, sentimental side for permission in bed. He hated that he didn't go to bed much anymore.


When he was fifteen, he fell in love the first time. She wasn't particularly beautiful, but she had blonde, spiky hair and an attitude of "let's just f*ck this place and leave" that he couldn't resist. She wore hemp necklaces and tight jeans with sneakers. She always colored her sneakers and drew curlicues on her hands, arms, and legs. "I want a tattoo," she'd told him in class, "but you have to be 18."

He would sit in algebra watching her tattoo herself and snap peppermint gum. He could smell the mint on her breath if she turned toward him and could smell the hint of more of it on her wrist whenever she reached for a piece of paper, pencil, or book. She had a peppermint cool about her.

Gina, that was her name.

Right before his sixteenth birthday, a Thursday, she turned to him in class. "Hey, I'm cutting biology at the end of the day. Wanna cut with me?"

He looked at her, astonished. Gina rarely even spoke to him at all.

"Come on," she persisted, "I'll give you a cigarette or two. It'll be fun."

He nodded. "Sure."


Six months later, she broke things off with him, turned 18, and finally got a tattoo. She chose a cherry tree, small, on her upper arm. He couldn't stop staring at the newly inked spot as she explained her reasons, her needs.

"I just can't do this anymore, ya know? I mean, I'm just not feeling it anymore."

Standing at the edge of the lake where they first smoked and drank a six pack during seventh period, he stood fixed to the spot. All he could think about was how much he wanted her, how much he could not just not feel her anymore.
She was fresh, intriguing, smart, pretty, and hell on fire. At sixteen, he swore he'd never meet a woman like this again.
Ever.

Weakly, he met her gaze and responded, "But, it's not been that long. I love you."
There - he said it. He felt like a child, a hopeless, desperate child.

Images of laughing, drinking, hiking, love-making, biking, studying, ditching class, listening to music, going to the mall to lift trinkets from the novelty store, actually looking at porn together,...growing up with her flooded him.

And now she wanted to just...go? Where?

"Where are you going to go?" he asked.
"Nowhere," she responded, "We're breaking up. That doesn't mean I leave town or some shit like that."

She lit a cigarette.

He reached out for her hand or for a hug, he now can't remember. She let him hold her.
She felt like wind.
And smelled like peppermint.

He kissed her neck. Lingered. Pulled away.

Two weeks later, she was gone. She left town with her family or a friend and never answered his calls or messages.

A year later, she sent him an email.

"Dude, you won't believe where I am. I came home. It's not the same and it is all at once. I have to tell you this, crazy man, but I love you too."

Gina.


He finished his cigarette and looked out into the street. Maybe his life didn't stop at sixteen, but he felt no older or wiser since then.

And he was still in love.

Tangent #9: God tells her not to worry

He has another coffee in his right hand and is sitting rather comfortably on a park bench. He loves to watch the ducks and geese when the weather outside is fine.

"You can't live your life worrying out it," he said quite directly. She was on the ground cross-legged, picking at the nail beds on her right hand.

She needed to quit doing that someday. Some childhood habits die hard.
And leave scars.

"You have wounded yourself badly," he commented dryly.

"I can't seem to stop. I know it's a terrible, ugly habit," she responded. "My mother says..."

"You're too old for it - for all of it," he reminded.

In that moment, she couldn't decide if he was talking about her, her mother, her mutilated fingertips or hell, life in general. She stared at him. He had a nice smile.

"You're never going to know everything," he told her. "You have to believe me. You have to believe him too. He tells you what he knows. You should believe her too."

"But," she began...

"That was almost ten years ago. I promise you, that's not what will happen to you again. After all, I should know."

She had nothing to say to this. How does one really argue with God anyway? Technically, you can't. He always wins.

"This coffee is delicious," he remarked.

They never spoke of her fingers again.

Spring Memory #1

In real life, it takes less than five minutes to send an email. It seems everyone has access to the big red button on the executive desk. It makes it easier, much easier, to lower the boom.

I really don't have anything to say. Honestly, I think it is best for us to maintain a professional relationship at work and leave it at that. Basically, I'm not convinced your original email was not at least sub-consciously malicious, if not as a result of my party, then something else. I really don't think there is anything that can be done about that. That had a significant negative effect on me at work, and I have yet to receive at least an apology for the effect, even if nothing negative was intended. On a strictly professional level, that's fine, but as a friend, it's hurtful, particularly after everything we have gone through together. I do wish you all the best and am very sad at how things have turned out between us personally. The past few weeks have been very difficult for me. I will of course always continue to be cordial, I just can't bear any more personal relationships that lack trust. And whether or not it's warranted from your perspective, at this point my trust is gone.

The era to break up over coffee or dinner is over, my friend. The John Dear letter died officially when phones went from bags to pockets. (Some believe it died in the 80s, but this is not true.)

Human emotion is now digital. It is high speed.

I think it's true, what they say. The robots are winning.

And I don't know what to do about that.

Insert emoticon.

Profile: Ms. Burgess the Court Recorder

One more down, wrapped up and sealed away, she thought as she collected her belongings. The Weedgrass trial had seemed interminable and her hands were achy from constant typing. That woman never seemed to shut up.

She checked her watch. It was nearly 5 pm and she needed to get home before the rest of the family. It was rare that she ever got peace and quiet anymore. It seemed there was just enough time to transcribe the trial file and take her own copy home.

Ms. Burgess is a young woman, taking college classes in hopes of one day becoming a paralegal or with good fortune, a lawyer. "It's damn near insulting to have to be a court recorder when all the yuppies are making twice as much doing less work and they don't even know how difficult life really is," she often was heard muttering.

She took this job about six months ago. She started keeping her own copies of court proceedings two months in - to be in the know. She only wanted to learn things, after all.

As she exited the courthouse, Ms. Burgess glanced across the street and noticed the woman who had been wearing the hat in court. A sense of familiarity struck her. "I know that woman," she breathed.

Frustration and irritation seemed to flood over her senses as she watched the skirt and heels smoothly glide away from the courthouse. She wanted to follow her, check her out, but stood motionless with the shock of having seen her nemesis right here in her home town.

Gripping her files and recorder, she started for her car, hoping to follow her down the block. She had to know where she was going and why she was again in the picture.

It Happened - Mrs. Weedgrass is free

"Not Guilty."

It echoed inside the court room and collectively a segment of the audience sighed. She was free to live out the rest of her life.

Mrs. Weedgrass clutched her purse, running her fingers over the leather binding, feeling for the Bible she kept inside. Surely this was her redemption. She could retire now without guilt.



She watched as the now elderly, vindicated Mrs. Weedgrass slowly walked away from the court and into the lobby. Her sunglasses warm and likely leaving a mark on her disguised face. She would find no solace, no comfort here.

She walked outside into the sun. Checked both sides of the street, and moved forward.

Secrets

It is incredibly significant - the things we don't say - and the reasons for it.

It is much like all things intangible - love, passion, sadness, grief, strength, perserverence, and all things that can be deafeningly quiet on the surface.

But the reasons...they make us whole and remind us of what is genuinely important about the world in which we live and those who orbit around and inside us.

Begin with the roots, friend, and work your way up, outward, and back around again.

This is you.

This is life.

The thing about love is...

You never quite believe it. It seems too easy, too perfect, when everything else in the world is going to hell.

I mean, who can honestly see the future and tell if it isn't some mirage, some fantastic vision obstructing reality for a period of time.


The thing about love is...

You never get all the answers.



That's the only way you can know.

Tangent #8 - Jokes

"You ever hear that one about the priest and the painted lady?" he asked.

"Nope," the other responded.

The deadpan look stopped the punchline in place and what would have been some crass anecdote died right there in the kitchen.

"Look man, I warned you about this in the beginning."

The other nodded and stared back at his book without responding. It wasn't like him to just...not talk.

"Listen dude, it's not a big deal. Okay? I just didn't know what to say to you about it and then I forgot, and you know."

"Yeah."

Weight filled the room in some inexplicable way. The air felt tepid and full of cotton. Hangovers aside, something felt foreign to the body, like that ache that begins right before a hard flu season.

"Seriously man, you gotta get over stuff like this. I told you, it's not a big deal."

"I told you, I get it."

And it hit him. Not like a Mack truck or a brick, but the truth plummeted down from some transcendental place and a quiet note in his head whispered "It's never going to be okay after this."

And the first looked at his friend, sitting quietly reading a book, and felt for the first time, the gravity of cowardice. The season of casually hurting people was over.

Tangent #7: She runs into God again.

He is still wearing a very nice suit.
This time, he is drinking a cup of coffee. It looked like it was from Starbucks.

She wondered if it was a mocha, a cafe latte, or straight brew.
There isn't a bracelet saying "WWGD" (what would God drink).

"Good morning," He said.
"Hello."

"You seem very pleasant today, happy even. You enjoying this life?" he asked.

"I am," she responded, turning her head to look for the coffee shop from which he came.

"This is good news," he said.


She looked at his cup curiously.


He smiled.




"It's a daily brew. Grande. Sometimes it's the very simple things that make life seem harmoniously perfect, don't you agree?" He said lightly, smile radiating.

Tangent #6: Choosing Discord

"If I had to describe it, it's much like buying tampons or going for your annual exam. It's not that you loathe it or hate it so much, but the necessity of it is just uncomfortable enough to make you acutely aware whenever you gotta do it. It's well, vital discomfort."

"I don't know," she replied. "I really loathe the exam part."

"True, but you do it anyway. You lose a percentage of your health awareness if you don't go. Right?"

"I suppose," she replied.

"There comes a time when you have to define who's worth it anymore and who is ultimately worth fighting for. It's the decision that feels the worst, not the actions that follow. You gotta protect yourself or in time, you won't recognize what you're preserving anymore."

Tangent 5 - Second attempt

This city doesn't make much sense to me sometimes. All the curvatures and craters in the pavement distract me from what could be a relatively beautiful place, I think.

Beautiful, if it weren't so horribly cold and windy.

Christ, you'd think this was Chicago.

But it's not.

When no one is around, I sing inside my car while driving. It protects me from the city and from the thought that my voice will just drop into the hollow atmosphere somewhere.

Here, no one knows my voice trembles on every soft note.

What drives us to keep secrets? What motivates us to sing softly, bury the heavy stuff, or tell outright falsehoods to others we meet on the street of this town?

It's protection from the wind, my friend.

Side step - Inside the Artist

Lost Settlement

Cement steps are more brittle
On the southern side of Oak Street.
Denim against pasty skin,
Icy even in late summer sunsets.

You know how it feels when you put your clothes on too early,
That “cling and stick” because you’re still wet?

You see, everything is cooler here
In this broke down place.
They’ll mark your tomb with historic curlicues.
“Here laid one warm body.”

Everyone lives to die here,
In this middle finger of this land.

We don’t pay for movies,
But waste around the back door,
Communing together – with broken pavement,
Crackle scratch of dead leaves.

We burn on with tapped cigarette
While paper curls and chill ash falls to stone.
We all smoke when we’re drinking.
Honestly, we smoke all the time.

Buzzed hard as the sun drops,
We forget – we forget – about the money
We all don’t have.

There’s not much work,
But lots of labors,
In this town.

That’s okay with us.
Dragging, drinking, puffing;
Bound together in one smoke ring,
Waiting to die.

Years from now, when they scroll up our tombstones,
Children will honor the cracks in the cement
Arms linked in the haze and scratch of leaves,
Clinging to the chilled bones of this town.

Lemon Head

The truth is, I don’t really like you
All
That much.

Catastrophic yellow vapor
Is poison and slowly
Pushes a little bit of acid
Around me,

You, like a semi-precious weapon,
So beautiful, so intangible, so tart,
Like a glass elephant in a china shop,
Bring this blunt force trauma.

My mother told me not to eat
Lemonhead candy –
That pretty powder enveloped in sour.

I mean,
No one is very beautiful with her lips
Pursed shut –

Up. You go on.
And the truth is,
Had you a real voice
I may like you a bit more,
Lemon head.

Rainbow Tree

Rainbow tree, can you see her?
When you shook, her fruit fell –
Not far
From where your roots
Stretch –

Beneath the earth,
You could hear her a little
If you tried.

When the autumn came,
Your leaves were so lovely, so wide
Embracing all that surround you
And spreading your tenderness

Around.
She could not call your name,
But felt you coming.

Rainbow tree, do you see her?
Do you feel her down there?

Beneath the solace and solitude?
Beneath,
Beneath everything in history
And the now-and-then?

When it withered and the ice fell
Not far from your roots,
Did you feel her dying too?
Perhaps she did just a little,
Leaving a piece behind,
Taking the red part of you with her.

Rainbow tree, when spring comes
And you can no longer see her,
No longer know her, her scent, or her touch,
You will weep beneath your broad leaves
Wet tears of joy.

Organ Donor to Do List

One: Read all of it first,
Even the fine print,
Or else the leftover
Will seep out into light
And do significant harm
To the recipient.

*Note – If the latter occurs, you may experience some discomfort.

Two: The guideline, source, and outcome
Are all subjects to change
At the request,
Or even an uneven gesture,
Made by the recipient.

*Note – You may experience nausea, increased anxiety, or depression depending on your hereditary predisposition.

Three: The procedure is not quick.
In fact, it requires profound patience
And site must be clean,
Packed tightly from the outside in.

*Note – If hole seeps, you may experience tenderness or fits of shuddering.
Green ooze is indicative of infection.

Four: Bear the hole.
You are now without.
Recipient claims all rights of disposal
Or promulgation.

*Note – You may experience suicidal thoughts or just sympathy pains.


Disclaimer:
Rights and details not for the public.
Copyright the brain.

Profile: Mr. Kevin Jeffries, Attorney

Damn, it's hot in here today. I haven't seen this many people in Vere's court in years. This Weedgrass lady apparently knows a lot of people or the back section is filled to capacity with the Ladies' Church League. Whatever, I really don't care. I want to gain some good ground today before 4 pm so we can knock off early and I can hit the bar before going back to the office.

I really hate the law, actually. It's not all that fair. I got here because of my propensity for hair-splitting. That's all the law is really, splitting hairs and public service announcements. It's only here where we separate life and vitality from paper and call it a day.

Or at least, this is how I feel today. I'm pissed off and too hot in this stupid, pin-stripped suit. I look like a gigolo and feel like my pants are too tight. I might as well be wearing a fedora and a pocket watch.
Dammit.

Maybe I'd feel better if Katherine hadn't canceled on me already. Our last real date was two weeks ago and ever since I made a legitimate pass at her, it's been "I'm sorry, but tonight's not gonna work out...." Blah blah.

Women.

She's a lawyer too, but frankly, we never cross paths except for that one, clumsy night at the prosecutor's Christmas party. I only went for the free booze and McCormick's new paralegal.

The truth is, I like Katherine. She's smart, pretty, and knows the law. She can put a few back too which is nice so I don't always feel like an alcoholic around her. I mean, I have a few drinks now and then, but I'm no addict.
I can't say I regret trying to take her home that night, but she was pretty pissed off when she realized I like her for her mind and......all that other stuff.

I should probably forget about her. Focus on work. Bang a few beers or broads or something. But I'm not that guy anymore, I don't think. It's not the same and my posse of buddies is dwindling. All these weddings and babies and crap.


Damn, it's hot in here. And now Weedgrass is pulling on her hair and wringing her hands. What the hell is this? Now all of a sudden she's nervous? I better check my notes again. If this woman lied about the boy's history, I'm gonna blow a gasket.

I don't need that right now. It's too warm in here, the beer at Bill's Pub is cold, and I can call Katherine one last time. It wouldn't hurt.

Mrs. Weedgrass in Court

The air in the room was stifling and smelled of used up deodorant, stale coffee, and cigarettes. Seems every person to testify before her was a smoker. Damn smokers and their addiction to filth, she thought condescendingly.

Delicately she adjusted herself in the withering wooden chair having just promised God, the lawyers, and all these - people - that she'd tell the absolute truth.
People. God's people. Someone's people.

Her son had been people too and he'd done terrible, egregious things. But that wasn't her fault. She told him to go to church. She told him to watch his diet and to be kind. Apparently his path was one of brimstone and fire. She'd lived her life by the book so this trial should be her moment of truth, her moment to prove herself.

Mrs. Weedgrass looked around the room and in the back, saw a door slowly open. She showed. She was wearing black and large sunglasses. In the smothering heat, she looked like a spector not a person.

That God-forsaken victim-woman had shown up for this. Her presence made Mrs. Weedgrass suddenly nervous and perspiration whetted the foundation around her temples.

"Mrs. Weedgrass," started Mr. Jeffries, her attorney, would you tell me what it was like raising your son? What the doctors told you when he was a child? They'd recommend a strict regimine, diet, exercise...how did you feel about that?"

Sighing, Mrs. Weedgrass glanced at her hands and squeezed them tightly. Her body tensed at the sight of her flesh wringing together in a mesh of skin, the layers of pink turning white with pressure. It was then that her mind flashed back and she suddenly didn't want to testify on her own behalf.

She forgets about the yellow tulip sometimes...

It's been months and she hasn't checked her patio to see if the tulip was still in the vase. Surely it hadn't survived the winter. Too much going on - interviews, meetings, work - the kind of blase, local small town celebrity kept her from glancing much at the tulip anymore.

The winter had been.....hard. Ice ruined many things and the snow hurt the rest. On the first warm day since November, she stepped out in the morning with her mug and looked to the corner.

The tulip was gone. So was the bud vase it came in.
She had expected the flower to die - even disintegrate with the weather, but not the vase.
Someone took it.
Or it shattered.

Did it matter after all?

She couldn't decide. She let the aroma of her coffee waft slowly upwards and breathed in the reality of a handful of months, even years, gone.
She had new worries, new joys, and news to share.

And she still had her half of the note.
She always saves her notes.
Even though she doesn't know why. Perhaps she forgot parts of her reason, her rationale in the accident. She wasn't sure.

What she did know was this -

When the winter comes, and even the prettiest, most fragile things die, life continues and perseveres.

This made her happy - everyday.

Turn the Page

The year, as I know it, is over.
Somewhere between wrecking everything and falling in love, the year turned over on itself.
And here I am.

Ever crashed through hell long and hard enough to wind up on the other side of life?
Ever seen the grass on both sides of the fence only to realize your new hell is something entirely different?
Your new passion has a different face?

I'm there.

Or at least that's where I place myself having turned the page on something wicked, destructive, and ultimately a side of me I can't tolerate to admit anymore.

It often starts with "Happiness is..." and ends someplace between a cold shower and a curled up sob.
But the year has just started and I can't anticipate that catastrophy anymore.
I am resolved to hope.

Perhaps it's the season, or the fact that I'm sleeping more in my old age, but honestly, this body has perservered and isn't quite done with the good yet.
Here's to hope.
Here's to faith.
Here's to not-taking-it-laying-down.
Here's to love.
Here's to joy.
Here's to...

Peace.

Goodnight ghosts and nightmares.
Goodbye old friends and phantoms.

Hello to the new day and a promise -
To never again be the same.