I Am

I Am


As I lay down in feathered sheets and mossy pillows,
I lie awake and stare, just stare out the window watching
the blistering moon count sapphire stars, and as Jupiter
winks at Mars, I am aware that I'm still alive. The heart
beats -- pa dump, pa dump -- and my arms and festering
legs respond as I wiggle my fingers and toes.

I wasn't supposed to be here, the sly virus having raided
innocent T4 cells, who were supposed to respond in kind,
but instead died maliciously by the raging sickness within.
Six months, the doctors had said, and I had nodded, stunned
into silence, watching the woolen world melt away
into sunless days and starless nights, as silken soil
was poured upon my sullen carcass, unmoving, unmoving.
I fade into reality as the polite physician tells me about nutrition,
the value of vitamins and minerals that would extend
my tremulous life for a short while. Maybe I should take
up smoking, I think unflinching.

There is no cure, still no cure, but twenty-four yearning
years later, I am still here. I won't kid you by saying
the journey was completely worth the brittle moments
and bitter tantrums, but parts of it have been beautiful.
I came out about this viligent virus to my parents,
my palpable fear overwhelming me, so afraid of raging
rejection. The truth is, in the end, we became closer.
Dad, now gone, was the first to be told the news, followed
by my weeping mother who called me as I remained solid,
informing her that the new cocktail would change
Western medicine. She stopped crying. Relief flooded me.

The gift I was granted, that I earned, was the be here,
be present, and to remain grateful. I try this for moments
of time, and sometimes succeed. When I do, I feel proud.
I'm alive; I'm here. A special thanks to my therapist,
who helps dismantle the nonsense layer by layer by layer.
It's not the luscious life I had planned, but it is the life
that unfolded like a budding daffodil in Spring,
and the journey is the journey, a jungle amidst solid concrete,
a way to unravel unsavory misconceptions, to heal,
to take my rightful place among the living.

I am alone, always alone, but I stand amongst others
who also feel alone, not lonely, following their pomegranate
paths, to a ripe, fruitful future. I am. I am. I am.

Meeting Debbie Shelton

Meeting Debbie Shelton

She was like a lovely monarch, floating from flower to flower. That's how she remains in my memory to this day. My first and only meeting with her was when I was seven years old. My neighbor, Whitney Webb's family was having a barbecue in her honor -- Debbie Shelton. Her banner read Miss Virginia USA, while she sweetly talked about patriotism, the Vietnam war, and women's rights, as she nibbled on some peach cobbler, while wearing a bubblegum pink halter and bell bottomed jeans. This memory, this faded memory, is somewhat foggy, but her face is stuck indelibly in my memory bank.

I was quite shy as I watched her dazzle her guests. Of course, it wasn't technically her party, but she was the hostess for sure, and besides, no one minded while being in the presence of royalty. She had raven black hair down to her waist, and sky blue eyes, almost like marble, and a long, regal neck, and on a table set up in her honor was the tiara she was presented with when she won her title. I know I was young, but I still wondered what a rhinestone crown had to do with the war. But she was graceful and gracious, impeccably mannered, and her smile was warm and inviting., not like Cynthia Shoemaker at school who pinched my arm at every opportunity.

Whitney finally introduced me to Debbie, and I was literally starstruck. I felt faint. If I had known what smelling salts were, I would have asked for them. I seriously needed to splash my face with icy, cold water. After Whitney officially introduced us -- "and this is my cousin, Debbie Shelton, Miss Virginia" -- Debbie turned to me and said:

"Why aren;t you the cutest and sweetest little boy". My face flushed scarlet.

And then she picked me up and sat me on her lap. I remember feeling embarrassed, I mean, I was seven years old, but I was also the shortest boy in my class next to Arnold Plymale, who somehow looked and sounded like he was destined to be a dentist -- thick black glasses, shiny big teeth, and shocking red hair. I was small enough to be confused with a kindergartener.

"How old are you?" Debbie cooed.

"Seven...um...er...your majesty."

Debbie laughed really hard at that remark, and my face went from scarlet to plum.

"What's your favorite subject in school?"

"Geography,"I replied, "and I can name all the states and state capitals in alphabetical order," I said suddenly feeling humiliated at my awkward remark, and lack of social skills, even for a seven year old.

"How adorable," Debbie said. "Can you name them for me right now?" Oh crap, I thought after being placed on the spot. I looked over at Whitney who smirked at me. "Show off," she mouthed at me. My face took on an odd blue hue as I felt like a trapped rat backed into a corner by dozens of cats.

"Montgomery, Alabama. Juneau, Alaska..." I began, and as I continued, Debbie would clap, and pretty soon, the rest of the guests were clapping too. Whitney looked like a pent up prisoner with a shiv in her hand. My face turned an atrocious green.

Afterward, Debbie kissed me on the cheek, and after being coaxed by her relatives and guests, she put on that tiara and looked every bit like a beauty queen at a car show. She waved for her guests. It's a day I will never forget, and no one has ever remained so beautiful in my mind's eyes

Debbie went on to win Miss USA that year, the second time in succession for the state of Virginia, and she seemed destined to win Miss Universe, until she was robbed of the title by Miss Puerto Rico, who looked like a sheep herder's daughter with a poodle's haircut. The winner would go on to oblivion as far as the public knew, while Debbie ended up securing a role as Mandy in the television series "Dallas".

I will always wonder if she remembers that shy awkward boy who was so memorized by her warmth and beauty. Certainly many men over the course of her years were as mesmerized as I had been. But, the barbecue caused me to watch her on television at Miss Universe that year, where tears streamed down my cheeks as she was announced first runner-up. I rubbed mt eyes and looked at my mother. "It isn't fair," I said. "It just isn't fair."

"Oh hush honeybun," my mother replied. "Yes, she was the fairest of them all, by FAR, but she is going to do just fine, She be just fine. Wait. You'll see I'm right."

And while people ,ay not know she played the body double in the film "Body Double", or that she was working on the highest rated television show of its era, one thing my mother was right about. Debbie had done just fine. Just fine. And she had only herself to credit.

Rainbow

This is my response to I'd Pick More Daisies


Rainbows



If I had to live my life over, I would live with fewer regrets,
respond to others with more grace and forgiveness,
and manage to forgive myself for just being human.

If I had to live my life over, I would travel more to misty lands,
absorb creamy cultures, and observe the commonality
in us all. I would eat new things, try on and wear new
adventures, and listen and learn from newly made friends.

I'd allow others in more than I do now, live authentically
more frequently, and whisper sweet secrets in return.
I'd stop and smell the roses, watch a spider spin her web,
walk barefoot on the beach as often as possible,
not like I do now. I'd kiss more babies, read more of the classics,
even modern, and understand the backlight of human experiences.

If I had to live my life over, I'd know sooner what I learned
later, and express my gratitude for skinning my knees
and bruising my ego, even when it really hurt. I'd enjoy
the present, what is, not what was, or even what will be,
as we are constantly changing, evolving.

If I had to live my life over, I would allow myself to become
a sponge, absorb the lessons life has taught. I would handle
the big misfortunes, and I would worry less about the things
I cannot change.

I'd treat my body with more respect, walk taller,
become more confident in my very own essence
in this moment, this very moment. I'd pet more dogs,
hug more trees, listen to the crashing waves,
comprehending its canter and language, as I watched
the tide rob sand from the shore.

If I had to live my life over, I'd be a better friend, a better
listener, and a better partner. I'd love unconditionally.
I'd count more stars in the sky, know more constellations
and ride the tail of a comet and let it take me wherever
it intended to go.

I'd soar over fields of tulips, rest in beds of heather.
I'd hug others more. I'd plant more seeds and sit back
and watch things grow, and smile at a world full of miracles.
I'd chase more rainbows.

Speak To Me

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally as you smile, touch
my arm, blush, and it's not so much what you say
as it is the nature of the flirt. I find myself nodding
at you, you with the mocha eyes, and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm, the kind smile,
whispering raspberry kisses.

I think of our first date, how knee knocking nervous
I was, how the conversation felt forced, my inner critic
seeking to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking if I was as nervous as you were, and I relaxed,
and melted a little as our minds melded, stopping
time for just a fraction. I can smell your toffee whispers
from that night, and I accidentally leaned against
the inside gate, ringing apartments 10 and 12 by mistake,
how my neighbor called out “who's ringing the bell”,
as we both hid in shadow and giggled, full of warmth,
full of connection.

So here we are again, and you are talking, and the words
don't matter, but they do, but they don't. You are
the ultimate poem. Your words have a rhythm in time
and space that speak to all parts of me, from within
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking and cooing, Speak to me.
I will smile and hopefully you will melt, as our arms
brush against each other, and I will shiver
ever so slightly. Speak to me. Speak to me.
Speak only to me.