Dreaming on Park Benches

Picture credited to Steven Smith

Sometimes I have dreams of you;
they seem to be the only ones I remember.
I was lost and sleeping on a bench
on your front porch.

You left your vehicle and looked down at me.
I rubbed the sun from my eyes long enough
to watch you walk right past.
When I awoke I could still feel you leaving.

The depth I felt between us was wider
than the empty space between us on the blanket
on the hill, at the concert you bought us tickets for.
It's the sadness I felt writing a letter

telling you: I Love You.  There is so much space
between your laugh, and my smile, and your
Son, and my Nephew.  I can no longer connect
the dots between us.

But I miss you.  Waiting on park benches,
waiting in my dreams: I miss you.

The Road Home (Baptism revision 2)

Here I was baptizing myself in the throes of others’ misery, wanting nothing but to remember how it felt when the pang of life was so full it overflowed up and out each orifice. I felt the presence of gravity on tears that, for once, seemed natural. To fight the uncontrollable convulsion of face muscles, and the lack of will to direct where my identity would find itself—alive, or flat faced, dying slowly, breathing its’ last fleeting gulp of air.

I felt sick. My heart squeezed harder as I attempted to understand how I should feel about what I'd just seen. Nothing made sense—I buried myself in a book while the chatter of co-workers clamored in the background, and I suddenly felt annoyed, angry—indifferent. Nothing mattered anymore—I felt lighter, as if a piece of me had been carved out, or a burden lifted.

My actions were impulsive and the impersonal droning from phone calls were enough to make the wounds seem real. I held the façade, focusing my attention on tiny holes in the ceiling and what they meant.  One cluster looked like a cloud—I imagined myself a part of it, lost in a shroud without direction.

Despite hasty driving, the ride home was long. The rain washed through me like a feverless sickness and brake lights began to blur together. I made it just one street from home, stopped at the stop-sign, and felt that pang for once, wanting to escape—I let it.

In the Deep

I have been anesthetized by the deep,
like you, and here under a starless sky
I've found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep.  No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek to greet
with unquiet praise - instead the wretched
soulless wraiths have gathered round
with hauteur flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter's breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so much, it's strange, the lending of a foreign hand.

Dreams

Dreams rarely come at night.
Fight for them in waking hours,
burden comes during light.

So sudden the mind shifts its pose,
claiming all powers—
during night the mind forgoes.

An arm around her slips;
circles, swarms, and forlorn—
aches for pressure of hips.

They'll wait for midnight hours;
for the presence of her lips.

Empty Space

Lets travel around the Sun
and the Moon and the stars,
but is that really where
you want to be, when you
find yourself on Mars.

Don't look back--there's no
going back.  You've committed,
and you're on track. Where
are you though, is it really
where you wanted to go?

So now you feel lost amongst
the empty space, how fitting,
you're familiar with this place.
It's a shame you say,
what a wasted day.

Baptism - 09.15.2011

Here I was baptizing myself in the throes of others’ misery, wanting nothing but to remember how it felt when the pang of life was so full it overflowed up and out each orifice. To feel the presence of gravity on tears that, for once, seemed natural. To fight the uncontrollable convulsion of face muscles, and the lack of will to direct where my identity would find itself—alive, or flat faced, dying slowly, breathing its’ last fleeting gulp of air.

It startled me when after half a year of submerging my desire to search, I found her in a photo, a blue flowing dress taut around her now womanly figure. Her family members boasting large smiles while one by one placing their hands on her pregnant stomach to turn in pose for the camera.

I felt sick. My heart seemed to squeeze a little harder while I attempted to understand how I should feel about what I'd just seen. Nothing made sense—I buried myself in a book while the chatter of co-workers clamored in the background and I suddenly felt annoyed, angry—indifferent. Nothing mattered anymore—I felt lighter, as if a piece of me had just been carved out, or a burden lifted.

My actions were impulsive and my demeanor became less than gravitational. It was time to leave and I was glad for that—eleven hours of playing polite to people who could care less about my feelings was enough for one day.

Despite my hasty driving, the ride home was long. It started raining and the thoughts in my head were whirling about. The brake lights from cars I was passing started to blur together. I made it just one street from home, stopped at the stop-sign, and I felt that pang for once, wanting to escape—I let it.

Amnesia

Picture credited to Shannon Freer

My spine is where I held myself together;
it kept my memories in its tendrils
to remind me where I'd been.  Identity—
they stole my memory.