THE LONG SHADOW
How many days will I have until he is not a boy anymore? How many days until he asks me questions I cannot answer? Or if I can answer them will I have strength, or the wherewithal, or the desire to respond as a father should, as a father might if he knows?
Will he wonder at my failures as a boy or man? At the time I caved in by the trees and yelled “Fuck you!” at the top of my lungs to escape a headlock by a boy with brown snuff spit dripping down the back of my shirt, staining the nape of my neck and the blue shirt I’d gotten for my birthday? Will he know about the time I held a boy over the chimney rocks, dangled him like a rag doll but made of people stuffing, and threatened to drop him like a rock, on the rocks, to prove that I could?
Will he know what kind of a friend or husband I’d been or failed to be? A father? Will he one day cast a glance at me judging me cruel and indifferent for not witnessing the day he first used his own hands to tie the belt around his waist or the day he discovered that my patience had been taken up in the hot sun and made into a cloud that would never rain on his mother’s garden again?
Will he know my shadow is longer than the one I cast on the ridge by the Roman Tower in March? There, the wind only speaks with the voice of fish crows and ravens and the ear’s edge susurrus of a trout run below.
How many days will he have until I am gone, until neither of us can ask or answer questions face to face? Will he wonder at his own failures as boy and man? Friend or husband? As father? Will he cast a cold glare at himself for his inequities? Will he know his shadow, embrace it, and name it his name?
The blankets are tidy on the bed. I arranged the books in a fan. My hands made the marble run’s branching tower so he can hear the roll and click upon arrival. His blue stool, barely size enough for a cat to perch on, casts a shallow shadow across the floor creaking beneath my feet. The closed door quickly echoes in the long hall.
Happiness
A punishment for doing well
Another drink after a nice talk
Another tumble after a nice lay
Forgiveness instead of learning
Happiness, guilty of mediocrity.
Nice wallowing to be had in the well of bliss..
We flee from Sadness like she's a spider,
We Stomp her, leave her behind.
Shut her off.
She only wanted to help.
Cereal
Cereal: a spoonful here, a spoonful there
For when you are cheap or when you just don't care
Used in time of hunger and in time of haste
It's a bowl filled with color, texture, and taste
Add a splash of milk or add a pile of fruit
Combine different brands, whatever you suit
Eat it for breakfast, lunch... whenever you dare
Cereal: a spoonful here, a spoonful there
The French roller coaster I was forced to ride
I was born
with an enchantress
living inside my brain.
She could turn me
from girl
to beast
whenever she pleased,
yet she waited until I was 15
and unwillingly
opened the door.
She controlled my
seratonin and dopamine levels
as easily as
turning off the lights
inside my castle.
She turned the lights
on and
off so
many times
I am
shocked no
one had
a seizure.
Though I was a beast
I never took any one hostage
and I didn't threaten to kill anyone
(but myself)
I wasn't all bad.
I had good days
weeks
months if I was lucky.
When I told
the King and Queen
about the enchantress,
they didn't believe me.
So they sent me to the
Maison de Lunes
where someone would.
They gave me
10 milligrams of the Wardrobe
which kept me up
so many nights,
I hallucinated
dancing plates and
singing silverware.
25 milligrams of Cogsworth
made me so anxious,
I didn't know how
to start anything.
50 milligrams of Feather Duster
and I was hornier
than a porn star
on her period.
75 milligrams of Mrs. Potts
made me sweat so much
I was constantly swimming.
100 milligrams of Lumiere
burned me
so badly,
I didn't know how to feel.
But 200 milligrams of Belle
was beautiful.
She taught me
to read
the signs of the enchantress,
to care
for my self-esteem,
and to not turn away from
what I saw in the mirror.
She taught me not to hate
the beast inside me.
For who could learn
to love a bipolar?
I am trying.
Be Lost in the Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: O prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you've never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ass?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.