Thursday, October 8, 2015

B is for The Haunting October

I first felt it in the shower. Nostalgia. Creeping up my leg and resting on my shoulder. Bony fingers caresses in that sickeningly sweet way nostalgia often does. It was the end of September or the beginning of October... That night in the shower when I remembered an old October, reading poetry at a wine factory; with sandwiches as big as your face. And I remembered two tables. Friends and a girl. And it was October. The sealing of fate. 2008.
Days passed but not before the memory of darkness and a knife. The surgery that changed me... And it was October. October or go to Heaven. 2007.
Time passed and so did my expectations. Fluctuations in blood flow in the head causes heart to flutter for another. Infatuation of the highest order. The beginning of tears and sighs of  "it's not fair" and the wandering nature of soul; I'm done, turn me over. And it was October. All my queries I vowed to shelve. 2012.
And Sunday. When I threw the scroll and claimed I was done, setting up the mind for anything to come. It happened here, in October. Where you try to decide what you mean... 2015. 
And there it is, the truth, in the end.
The strangest numbness calls me, friend. And all I could think, all I could muster is that truly this is the haunting month, October.

Friday, May 8, 2015

B is for Holding Hands

Do people still hold hands?
Does anyone even crave to be touched any more?
To casually brush up on fingers
Like the wind herself wanted yours and theirs to meet
To find some excuse to touch
In a way that doesn't find you paying a fine for the things that we do in the bedroom...
Or on carnival day.

Do people still hold hands?
Hands clasped tightly in prayer to a god reflected in each other's eyes.
Pray to me, he says
Pray to me, she says
Pray that fingers ache when eight hour shifts separate us.
Pray that they never find a keyboard enough.
Enough? ... Enough.

The whispers of a dreamer is all that remains
A pen twirling between fingers that should be twirling strands...
Twirling hands.
Twirling. Wondering. Pondering if... if... 

If maybe somewhere, in this age of independents, people even bother to hold hands.


Sunday, March 1, 2015

B is for Racy Heart

I placed the pillow over my chest...
In an attempt to drown out the noise...
Didn't work...
Didn't take.
I could hear the scream and mauling anger beating against my rib cage yet when it finally got to my throat... hollow. I took the pillow from my chest and stuffed it in my mouth; month old saline gripped my tongue yet when I opened my mouth... nothing. None. No scream. No mauling anger. No rage escaped. No evil fled. Instead, I got the nurse saying my pressure was high. A state I often pondered on.

I figured, "since you won't come up, I'll send something down..." To drown your arse. Four shots, five wines, three schnapps, one rum punch; the bottle not the glass. Still, BANG BANG BANG BANG... (one) BANG BANG BANG BANG... (two) BANG BANG BANG BANG (three) The pounding of racy heart on rib cage continued.

"Would you please shut up?!" I say to my chest. Deep breaths; in and out and in and out of this hellish mindset, or heartset. It won't come out and I won't get down. ...

Maybe it wants to dance. Maybe the angry, racy beatings were the echoes of a song long forgotten. TOUGH, I want to sleep. And the last time I cavorted with my rage, the pipe broke. Not metaphorically; the old, near rusted over pipes that held the hose together, broke.

"Get some sleeeeeeep!" I groaned, punching the pillow on my chest to rest.
"Give us Youtube."
"I'll stick a tube down your throat!"
"Give us YouTube. YouTube has music. Music soothes the savage so the town can sleep."
Who was I kidding, it wasn't coming up today.

I cued up our truce. One day I'm gonna scream the feelings out. For now, Coldplay. Lyric video... And sleep. Rest from a racy heart.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

B is for The First Bang....

The first bang.
I didn't realize it then, but the feeling I had upon seeing the first explosion of light; the first act of creation, that was love. It made me catch my breath. My ears rang out for HOURS! Maybe days. Even now, when I take my mind back there, to the first bang, I feel... No, I know that THAT was love. I didn't know it then. All I knew was that I had to touch it. I had to touch that light. I had to touch that sound. I had to touch what my eyes knew to be a miracle (this was BEFORE the word got overused and under-known). I felt love. Even if I'd be sucked into it; even if my head shattered on every passing 'streroid.... Even if.... Because at that moment, at the first bang, THERE was something magical. I pulled back or else my hand was pulled back. "Let the noise form first", the hero said. The one who made this.... Noise to begin with. So I waited and waited and eventually settled on this blue green rock, waiting for that noise to form. The humans here, they're made of star dust; celestial materials. Things that were there at the Bang. I waited for that touch, that one touch that mirrored what I reached out for; love that didn't have a name till now; that Bang... That's why I walked away and alone. Stardust. Stardust from the beginning. Something that echoes the first ringing in my ears. Something not yet formed. Something like... well, First love.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

B is for True Believer

“You ever thought of getting a trial separation from God?”
The question was unexpected given the nature of the evening but I immediately knew exactly where he was going with it. Nevertheless, I played along.
“Maybe, so you can see other people.”
He was starting to sound like the American TV drama we were watching. Drama is relative; more like a soap opera.
“That’ll never work.” I said
“Yes. I forgot. Jesus is the only boy you could be in a long term relationship with. Irony abounds.”
I shot him a dirty look. It would have been more powerful if I had long flowing locks. And was Farrah Fawcett.
“What. Don’t give me that ‘Satan-be-gone’ look. I’m serious.”

I stopped pouring the Pringles and turned to him proper.

“HE is not the problem. That’s not…” three pages of retort swam in my head with no actual direction. “And that’s not irony okay that’s….” still, no actual direction. I graduated top of my class in English Language and Lit; I can debate the merits of everything; I live for philosophy…. I have no idea what to say next. “Can’t we just watch the damn marathon in peace?” I whispered.

He took the bowl back to the sofa with all the other heartburn inducing foods. I wiped my hands free of the Pringles for maybe five minutes. The Pringles was fine. I wasn’t.
“You’re not happy.” He said
 “Well it’s not because of HIM,” I rolled my eyes to Heaven, “or… them.” arms outstretched to the world.
“I’m not happy because I’m not happy. I’m twenty-six, I’m allowed.”
It was his turn to roll his eyes; accompanied by a long, laborious sigh.
A woman has just been wheeled into the E.R. A steel spike has gone through her leg and blood is everywhere. Doctors are scrambling because she is anemic. All eyes are glued to the screen but I know our conversation is nowhere near over. God bless DVR.

“It’s just that…. Look honestly, I’m not a true believer.”
“A what?” he almost choked on his Pilsner (he drinks Pilsner. I couldn't script this even if I tried)
“A true believer. I mean, I could turn this on and off anytime I wanted to. And right now I… off. So…”
He arched himself on the couch in full interrogator mode.

“For all of FIVE minutes, dude.”
“I had a crush on him in lower six; except he was a very skinny Indian girl so... no.”
“Okay.” He set himself up for a kill and with a sardonic smile said, “Merlyn”
Merlyn was the shatter point. Merlyn was the reason I knew, nothing made sense. Not this life, not the next, not anything. His actual name wasn’t Merlyn, we just called him that because… well, he had magic in his tongue.
“Merlyn is proof. I’m not a true believer. I just… live for fleeting moments.” I chuckled sadly. Strains of George Michael’s ‘Fast Love’ floats in my mind. There are days I hate my brain.
He reached over, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Freelancers welcomed.”
Now some doctor just walked in on two other doctors in a supply closet. We laughed. This always happens in this show and it’s always funny that the each new character always seems surprised that people need to come and go in the sex supply closet. People are funny.

“And what does Religion have to do with anything? You know me better than that.”
He said nothing for a while.
“There’s this party. A house party in the West. Next Thursday night I think. You coming?”
“No, I got choir practice, Thursday.”

He reached for another Pilsner. 

[Thus ends the trilogy]