Glue

Glue


The three of us make quite a pair,
me, the third wheel and the glue
that solidifies this treacherous partnership.
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share
a private moment,all the while Lloyd stares
at me, as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey.
He wants to carve my wings, stuff me,
only I keep him at arm’s length,
his sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck,
suck my blood: that little parasite.
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state
of confusion and betrayal, unable to free
themselves of their death grip.

I come along. I am the glue.
I hold everything together
with delicate balancing,
gracefully managing the balance beam
with a double round off, and a perfect dismount.
It’s a secret Chase and I share;
he’s loyal and kind, aware of Lloyd’s deceits
and insecurities, endangering trust
by taking, taking, always taking,
forging new bonds, he thinks, with someone
like me, or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever.

Alliances are tricky, but I am the glue.
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful
distance, for respect is a two way street,
and he is unaware how cheap and disposable
he makes me feel, like a newspaper barely read,
facts unremembered, thrown into the trash.
I do not internalize this. I clearly state
what I think of him outright, teasingly,
loathing and enjoying him simultaneously
because I am the glue. He’s stuck
to me, and still I push his paws away.

I pledge allegiance to Chase, with forbidden kisses,
later feeling ashamed, with only slight regret.
Sometimes, I cannot even meet his eyes,
fearing disloyalty I have already committed,
carelessly hurt. See, he cares about mysterious,
subconscious feelings: metaphysical, alluring.

Yet, it’s Lloyd and Chase bonded
in their seething hostility and love,
neither one trusting the other,
both loyal to me, undeservedly.

I am the glue.
I know the full story,
keeping their not so secret desires
and platitudes within
under lock and key.

Fool

Fool

I can see through sapphire dreams,
crystal clear oceans,
crimson sunsets
into the fool's paradise
the forbidden garden
where the centaur lives
feeding on sweet nectar,
and bittersweet strawberries,
whispering to unknown ears:
"You don't know me, but I know you!" --
as if the ruby eyes forget
to peer back, intrinsically
studying, all the while softly suggesting:
"I know you too, possibly
even better than you know yourself!"…
for words need not be voiced
to understand,
to communicate,
to observe.
The truth is as it is,
not what is imagined,
but what is valid,
and you are the centaur --
me, the eyes,
and you have spoken,
while I have listened,
giving yourself.
without protective shields.
I sit patiently, and silently absorb,
and what you know of me
are the observations of a clown,
performing for an audience of one:
you, the one who recognizes
in such a way,
that you can't know me,
for you foolishly reveal yourself
while I just sit and watch,
sit and watch.

Therapy (Revision)

Therapy

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then catch your gaze, as tears begin
to well up. My face burns as
I taste salt and I blush:
embarrassment,
shame,
humiliation.

The cat is out of the bag.
Somehow I feel at least
five pounds lighter.
Your steely look:
is that concern?
Do you really care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
filling the room with complex adjectives.
Thank God there is no mirror;
I must look a mess -
self-conscious and nervous.

I return to your stare as a soft
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected.
It isn't my imagination.
Dark fantasies have taken flight,
fleeing my mind like rats
from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I said it again.
“He hurt me.”

That Space Between

That Space Between

You live in that space between
scarlet cynicism and cerulean inclination,
courageous yet vulnerable,
one minute exposing dormant desire,
the next slamming a trap door,
and then all at once
providing me with love and acceptance.

I yearn for your cherished liquid lavender
kisses on downy fields of clover,
soft and sumptuous,
and then you freeze me out
again, when I unknowingly brushed
against your raw awareness.
Your ability to remain calm
even in monstrous moments
fools everyone, fools yourself,
the product of being functioning
despite the disarray around you.
You can push moon beams away,
stolen from the angels at dawn's glow
into honeysuckle lands expansive,
allowing me to believe that anything
is possible. Even this. This polarized
space between.

But then you become clumsy and careless,
trapped in the wells of death,
lacking the freedom, or holding yourself
back to choose your own fate,
a burden you place upon yourself,
permitting success to be your nemesis,
living in your own horror and confusion,
the voices that lead you to no where.

I so desperately want to help,
but the well is too steep
to climb down and pull you up
out of harm's way. I wonder
why people have to suffer the emotional
breakdown, the continuous mind game.
Or is suffering a choice just like any other,
that place you choose between,
causing you to spiral down, down, down
into madness, the great abyss,
unstable on that slippery slope,
falling into damp, darkened caves
where bears hibernate and spiders
prey, because getting caught in choices,
prolonging the agony, rather than allowing
yourself to just be, just be.

The choices have already been made,
and you are the puppet in your own show,
manipulating the strings that hold
you up, but things could turn out differently,
if you allow the opportunity to arise,
and seize the moment, make it
your own, the talented man
who helps others heal, commits
random acts of kindness.

This is all you.
Allow yourself to internalize this, please
but you are not ready yet,
and it's a damn shame,
because all I can do is watch.
It's a damn shame.
A damn shame.

The White Elephant

The White Elephant


Check this out!
I am the white elephant
sitting in the room full of forbidden squabblers.
They will ignore me of course, invisible
to the naked eye, but a pregnant pause
in each of their hearts persists
despite their seemingly oblivious affect.
Bless them!

"Let's discuss your trip!"
"Wasn't the symphony divine last night?"
"Miss Mary looks so much better since she shed that unwanted weight!"

What about her unmarried, pregnant daughter? Or the wife
of the philandering husband? The unspoken son
who has AIDS? The mistress who is sitting
next to her lover's spouse. Or the confidante to all parties
present -- a kleptomaniac.

They weren't stupid. They saw me as I filled the room
with palpable tension, the aberration in their midst,
just left of their glances. Gossip seethingly brews,
but for now under control for this scene
of pleasantries, strained. This grouping,
these friendships. Wait until they depart
to their respective corners,
back to their overly significant
lives and self-righteous platitudes.

"I couldn't believe the gall, when she sat next to her!"
"Her son had over a thousand lovers!"
"I heard he was on drugs."
"Do you think she will forgive his cheating?"
"How much was the jewelry she stole?"

The elephant emerges,
roars its approval.
No more secrets!

Forgiven, Not Forgotten

Forgiven Not Forgotten

Lingering hope that he would take her back
She would forgive him of course
Telling him, "Shhhhh! It's okay. It's over now."
He would bring flowers along with his sob story
Feeling guilty like a child who teases a pet
He knew he was wrong, but that did not matter to her
What she wanted is his love and affection
Apologies, champagne, and Madagascar chocolate
Something he denied her when he beat her
And walked out that door without his belt
Coach suitcase with clothes unfolded and his sleek briefcase
He was going to "her", that wench who came between them
Her best friend and confidante!
She had bided her time like a spider waiting for its prey
Venom piercing his veins and her heart
Paralyzing their sallow souls
She should have kept a better eye on her
Confiding dirty, paltry secrets
Her friend understood, so she said, even encouraged her
Manipulating, causing a chasm between the seemingly happy lovers
He would soon find out the truth
This toxin wears off after a while
Bouncing back, he would realize the treason committed
Making deals with the devil only means eternal damnation
Judgment Day would come and he would have no answers
Just tired excuses weak in their expression
Feeling sheepish, ashamed, wounded
The family he deserted – six month old Timothy, and Sarah, three
The worst kind of evil imagined
Yes, he would return
Rules would be established
A set of laws governed by her
"You won't run very far next time", she mused
An electronic monitoring ankle bracelet
Yes, he would be forgiven, but not forgotten
She exists only in her fantasy
Twisted and sobering
That was enough for her

Clouds

Clouds


There was a shift somewhere in the night, a pause, where I melted
into you, coffee kissing caramel, and for just one moment, a slight hesitation,
I swear I could hear the clouds. I was wrapped in your stealthy embrace,
hand clasping hand, the gentle caress of two pulses synchronized,
conjoined, as one, and it dawned on me for the first time in many cranberry
moons and sweltering summers, that I felt safe, appreciated, joyful –
could it be that I felt loved? – and, as we lay, I prayed and forgave sullen
secrets and betrayals ago, betrayals that had feasted on blanket fear
and palpable pain. I forgave me, you, irony, and destiny, established faith
in feeling human, whole, for all its riches, glories, and pratfalls.
I saw that little boy, that sweet soul, and rather than cover my eyes blind,
or bend and ear towards self-loathing, I completed him, just as I felt
the wind rush past sticky lies, just as I heard sparrows strum in sycamore
trees. The clouds, the clouds – I swear I could hear the clouds, feel your breath,
allowing the tension in swollen muscles and cynical bones to finally relax.

I have no illusions that there will be eternal sunshine in silken shadows,
but there is no doubt I have been changed, transformed, and if tonight delays
tomorrow, if yesterday yearns to haunt, there will be an unspoken truth
that will remain in just three words, foolish words perhaps, but words
I desperately seek, nourish, and covet:

What about today?

Legacy

Legacy

As a boy, I used to watch my Aunt Moira
apply cream blush to the apples of her cheeks,
warming the brush, pressing it in, curious
at the ritual as she applied powder afterward,
slipping cinnamon gloss onto her lips
as she prepared for ungrateful guests
at our family’s reunion. The ritual prepared
her to smile widely, and mentally, to look
ready as she crumbled, just slightly, under
mossy pressure, the weight of arguing
third cousins, the ungracious criticism
of people she barely knew odious.

“When will the burgers be ready?”
“Who’s going to organize the picnic tables?”
And once again.
“When will the burgers be ready?”

“You’re stronger than you know!”
I would say admiringly, unsure of precisely
what I meant, but meaning it wholeheartedly.

My admiration multiplied as I watched Moira
do it all: make potato salad, bake a lemon
chess pie, preparing her famous marinated
eggplant, flipping those perfect burgers
on that late, hot, August afternoon, causing
me to reflect on all the burger makers
that came before her: Grandma Ruth,
Aunt Allie-Beth, and Grandpa Houston. I’d
yell – “Stand tall guru!” -- as she would slip
me a smile along with a coy wink, meant
for just us two, only, serving the masses:
grumpy folks who had nothing in common
except distant bloodlines, and stories
of Uncle Ray, who could complete a back flip
and land on his feet at fifty-one years old,
to the delight of misty children. It was in these moments,
that I’d marvel and be in awe of her salty determination
and cornflower sass, and melt into a world
of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies,
as this crystal clear memory floats into my current
consciousness of years past.

Aunt Moira passed when I was twelve years old.
We stopped going to family reunions after that,
Instead visiting my Grandma Ruth’s dairy farm
on gentle spring weekends, the smell
of cornfields palpable, but Moira’s indelible
footprints left me dazzled and speechless,
a true pioneer among women living
in moldy small towns, emerging victorious
without even a bat of a false eyelash.

Written at the High Desert Retreat, October 2010

Father

Father

He was born in a pin striped suit
with hair slicked back like Dracula.
I would tease and he would chuckle.
He was quiet, sincere:
a gentleman’s gentleman.

That was just his nature I suppose.
Not that he spoke a lot in shadowed crowds,
but in sunflower moments,
and crystalline rain clouds, thoughts illuminate,
and he would open like a bright white lily,
and tell of incredible tales: how he dodged
the Korean War, how he reeled in the blue swordfish
now mounted in his conference room at work,
or about his commitment to community,
to service, to a life fulfilled.

For a man who said very little,
it’s beautiful really, and revealing.
That tall man with the deep voice
whose ominous presence challenged you,
how his piercing blue eyes, your eyes,
looked directly into your own
was just a man. Just a man.
Like anyone else I guess, with stories
to be told, sharing his heart, baring all, spinning
tales of fear, honor, and privilege,
how he grew up in a small town,
or how he secured his master’s degree
after attending college on the GI bill,
or how he played the lead role
in “I Never Sang For My Father,”
still hiding behind that suit,
which assumes an assuming man,
but underneath were just cotton pillows,
painted deserts, liquid dreams,
and the plain desire to be human.
Just human.
To find connection.
To be like everyone else.

Integration by Pablo Neruda

I did not write this poem, but had to share the beautiful words by Chilean poet P. Neruda.

Intregrations

After everything, I will love you as if it were always before, as if after so much waiting, not seeing you and you not coming, you were breathing close to me forever.


Close to me with your habits with your color and your guitar just as countries unite in schoolroom lectures and two regions become blurred and there is a river near a river and two volcanoes grow together.

Close to you is close to me and your absence is far from everything and the moon is the color of clay in the night of quaking earth when, in terror of the earth, all the roots join together and silence is heard ringing with the music of fright. Fear is also a street. And among its terrifying stones tenderness somehow is able to march with four feet and four lips.

Since, without leaving the present that is a fragile ring, we touch the sand of yesterday and on the sea, love reveals a repeated fury.

---------- Whoever loved as we did? Let us hunt for the ancient cinders of a heart that burned and make our kisses fall one by one, till that empty flower rises again. Let us love the love that consumed its fruit and went down, its image and its power, into the earth: you and I are the light that endures, its irrevocable delicate thorn. Bring to that love, entombed by so much cold time, by snow and spring, by oblivion and autumn, the light of a new apple, light of a freshness opened by a new wound, like that ancient love that passes in silence through an eternity of buried mouths.

---------- Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without your moving, lulcing the moon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we'll be.

by Pablo Neruda