to say we were lost boys would be cliché
but clichés have ways
of cementing truths into language
like hard red suns that scorched West Philly & warm beers we guzzled ‘till we couldn’t walk straight & time went missing like a thief
who stole my innocence
& we packed into an old sedan on a road to nowhere &
perhaps, if time is not linear, this had to happen &
if free will is a myth, we had no choice in the matter,
merely swigging, smoking, fighting in adolescent wastelands
For my father
in the dining room, action figures were imprisoned in a green vase, and you returned from prison with my uncle, looking slimmer
from pushups in sunbaked yards
mustache and dazed look gone, down on one knee, arms open wide & smiling with teeth I learned were fakes
I thought you were fake, too
unrecognizable, a stranger from a blurred past we no longer spoke of, only at grandma’s house, when we opened letters decorated by your brother with cut-outs from Marvel comics
& were told you were away on business –
in solitude I come to know myself –
chatter of others stripped away, me stripped
of creature comforts, a creature without
a haven, thoughts bang & jangle
in a brain that has gone insane –
I recently got some bad news that a friend of mine from recovery suddenly passed away. He was only 32 years old. As these dark pandemic days drag on, I felt I needed to write this post to process my emotions.
We say grace before meals, give thanks to God
for food in the fridge + what’s set before us
knowing not everyone is as fortunate +
there are some, right here in this city,
who are starving + scraping by –
God, thank you for our daily bread +
nourish those not at our table.
(Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash)
I was a mess in college.
Two years before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was enrolled at a university in New York with somewhat of a life trajectory, a moral compass, and many good qualities.
We’ve been together for two years
and it keeps getting better –
I know you well, but will I ever know you completely?
Your essence, sense of self, the core of you
that’s hidden and accessible only to you and God
but as the days go by, more is revealed
and it keeps getting better.
What happened to the woman who
was nearly stoned to death?
Jesus said to not sin again,
but if she’s like me, she was
back in sweaty sheets later that day,
engaged in sinful acts – it’s a fact that
we’re far from saints + sainthood is
a hatred of humanity
but Jesus was half-God,
so it’s not so odd to believe
He died for me + whether I sin today
or tomorrow doesn’t matter much
because grace is free
(Photo by Laura Allen on Unsplash)
When I die, I want to go quietly – free from the miseries
of my body breaking down, organs sickened,
cutting off life as drift away.
When I die, I want to wake in a better world,
away from earth’s torments + the adverse emotions
gurus say we must bear.
You think God has left you, that perhaps
you’ve outgrown Him –
we all want to be gods now, in control of the things
that spin around us.