Ziplock Bags
Seeking hope and sharing peace. Or is it the other way around? I mostly forget, but here is where I remember.Ziplock Bags
And we will head out into oblivion
With our eyes closed and fists raised.
We will need no light and the TeleVision will not be on:
“The revolution will not be televised.”
We will forget to lock the door but not for lack of trying.
Days will be hazy but memories will be sealed
in a plastic ziplock bag keeping them fresh in time for spring.
We might get lost along the way but we’ll always find our way back
(I found a compass on the side of the road.
The Stray compass that found us as much as we found it
And in it’s wisdom guides us along the journey)
I’ll let you know when its time to sleep and you’ll tell me that I need to eat
because that is what friends do for each other.
We can tell each other stories as we walk along the road
and reminisce on our childhood days when
we cared far less than we did about all this useless shit,
and we will remember that we will always be Jr. High
no matter what we believe.
(Along the way we met Gratch.
The stray dog that found us, just as much as we found him.
And in his wisdom he guides us along the journey)
I’ll come to discover how much you despised your older brother
and how you wish now that he was still alive.
And you will know that I never knew my mother
And that I would do anything to see what color her eyes were.
To pass the days we can make up our own language
And learn how to communicate through noise, retelling each others stories
In our made up tongue.
The Road gets weary,
As we begin to tire under the monotony of the days.
Roads will get repetitive our food will get stale
and we will run out of interesting stories to tell each other.
Our feet will be too tired to walk,
and our backs will ache with road sores.
The ziplock bag will tear open losing its seal
and our memories will get spoiled well before we make it into spring.
(Gratch will die from the lack of nutrition
and we will bury him along the road with a memorial; Here lies Gratch)
Our created language transforms into obscenities
and it will be heard as bitterness in the diction of our voices
(Our Compass will break as we circle around the only place we actually need to be)
Then when we feel we can’t take it anymore and our patience is at its end
we will go back home, turn on the TV to discover:
“The television has been revolutionized”
And that will be all we need to remember:
And soon enough you will find us there;
making new plans
restocking our old bags
and getting back on the road. Because that is what lovers do.
Only this time we will make sure to bring a sturdier ziplock.
Through the Looking Glass
through the looking glass.
imagination’s are ignited.
goodnight or goodmorning.
dreams come to us nevertheless.
Unfinished photographs that tell truth in the midst of lies.
But this we know for sure,
good friends are hard to come by,
So let us always remember that the lies we tell are only figments of our imagination
hoping to believe in the beauty we see as more than just dreams through a looking glass.
I have always had these dreams
In dreams we learn to
build forts for lost clouds to hide
in case skies turn gray.
In dreams we dance with
Our fear, to the rhythm of
clouds walking in step
In dreams we believe
Found Haikus.
[Like a Hummingbird]
remember to re:
member me standing still in
your past floating fast.
[No Cars Go]
We know a place where
No planes go, We know a place
Where no Ships go (HEY!)
Knit Wounds Actually Matter.
[Knit Wounds]
This is who we are.
Broken strands of loose fragments
sprawled across layers
[Where]
Scars remember wounds
In places memories can’t
And lies dare not go
[So Instead]
We pretend to heal
Sewing scars into our skin
with needles of hope
{and}
knitting patches
where patches go
to keep fear from
places it shouldn’t.
[Believing]
If we had a chance
To be all of who we are
We could finally
[Be ourselves,]
The broken strand of
Loose fragments sprawled across the
only layers that
[Actually Matter]
Phobia and Spinal Tap.
Phobia: A fear, horror, strong dislike, or aversion; esp. an extreme or irrational fear or dread aroused by a particular object or circumstance.
Spinal tap: Also known as a lumbar puncture or “LP”, a spinal tap is a procedure whereby spinal fluid is removed from the spinal canal for the purpose of diagnostic testing.
1.
Ever since I was 6 years old, (which is as far back as I can remember) I have been deathly afraid of needles. I never knew the reason for my phobia until years later. Once my fear was affirmed as a rational fear, (which my soon to be told anecdote should confirm) I felt a little more at ease with the tension that would rise into my veins every time I was in the presence of a needle that I knew was inevitably going to puncture my flesh and enter into my body.
2.
I was 6 years old. This being my first summer after my first year of institutionalized “life” training, I remember the feeling of being free, of not caring about anything at all, and most importantly, wanting to be like just like my grandpa. It was a perfect day to follow my grandfather around the house and do everything he did, and apparently my older cousin had the same idea.
3.
It was afternoon, Lol had just made us some rice and soup in the classic Lolo manner; with another bowl ready made for when we would want seconds. We finish up our food and he calls us to him into the backyard to join him for some yard work. And there right before our eyes appears the shiny thing that grabs the attention of young darty eyes, a hammer.
Let me use the hammer!” I screamed.
“I grabbed it first Japes!
“No you didnt, I did!”
On and on it goes as we both hold the hammer in tension between our two tiny child-like grips like ignorant kids waiting for a hammer to come crashing down directly into a tiny skull. Fortunately it couldn’t possibly happen to the both of us. Unfortunately it definitely happened to one of us.
4.
Fade to black…..
5.
The next moment in brown hazy shades I can remember waking up on my brothers bed, throwing up the rice and soup I had for lunch, and puzzle pieces not intact. I had no recollection of what had happened, or why my head had hurt and all I knew is that I wanted to be cool just like my grandpa.
6.
“What is your favorite cartoon?” The stranger in weird white clothes asks.
“G.I. Joe! The REAL American Hero.” I reply.
I think he was trying to avert my attention from the unfamiliar contraption that I was slowly being strapped into taking me into that I had absolutely no point of reference for. Perhaps he believed that cartoons would somehow throw me off the scent. But I was in complete shock. I had to fight with everything that I had, the feeling of wanting to pee right there on the stretcher. I mustered up all my G.I Joe strength just to keep my pants dry and my courage high.
“And knowing is half the battle.” I kept whispering to myself. “Knowing is half the battle.” And I had no idea where or what I was going into, or what was going to happen to me when I got out. I wasn’t told that ignorance was the other half of the battle. So inevitably I would lose.
7.
This is the moment where you wish that somehow you could block it all out of your mind. Subconsciously, you have accomplished your goal, yet somewhere in the deep crevices of your being, this memory lurks in the shadows, laughing at you every time you wet your pants in the presence of a needle.
8.
I don’t remember what happened next, but I know for sure, that this is why I hate needles. My father can testify, he was in the room next door, helpless to my screams and cries. My tears run down my face as I secretly hope that they would trickle down and make a river to the next room just to alert my father of my pain, and maybe he could scoop it up and drink it. If my screams weren’t loud enough, my tears would testify forever.
Forget what the movies tell you. My dad told me otherwise.
This is spinal tap.
9.
…..
Patriotism
For the first time in my life, I felt what it was like to feel it. I knew what it was with a certain sense of clarity and pride. It was the feeling of rebirth and renewal as we washed away the remnants of an old epoch, setting into motion a new one to be conceived in our imaginations and in our hope. Perhaps it was the way that the words “change”, “hope”, and “progress” truly became symbols that finally stood above us as beacons of light shining its red, white, and blue into the skies washing away the blood that stained our previous canvass, effortlessly sinking their way into the deepest parts of ourselves, parts of ourselves we thought were reserved only for our deepest cynicism and pain.
It stood bright in front of our eyes, making us believe that we can, speaking forth that we could, and prophesying that someday we will.
For so long I felt disenchanted with the country I called myself a citizen of. For so long I felt cynical towards its policies and arrogance, It’s greed and selfishness. It was so easy to get swept up in the anti-establishment of what our country bore unto itself with its love of war, racism, sexism, and the pride that usually acts as precursor to the end of every empire before us. In this lack of memory a callous began to develop into our collective consciousness, a sort of despair rising over us like a dark cloud shielding us from the ability to hope, to believe, to live. Lost in the confusion we somehow believed we were the ones trying to cure the world, that we no longer felt the throbbing pain of a sick world trying to tell us that we were the very illness that it needed to be cured of.
And yet on that night, when the world witnessed the beginning stages of what could be something different, it broke through into our imaginations, found its way into our consciousness, and took hold of a belief that we knew to be there all along, we just couldn’t find a way to access it. The belief that if we work together, we will build bridges across a broken land, that if we speak together we will break though the silence, that if we strive for peace we will no longer be enslaved by fear. That night, we were given a glimmer of hope to believe if we were to chose to take it.
It also came upon me in a heap of weight. In a heaviness that bore its weight upon our shoulders, as we realized that we were no longer exempt from bearing its meaning and its manifestations, no longer free to believe it stood for nothing. No longer able to fool ourselves into apathy. It yelled into our ears, shouting its past achievements, begging us to remember its former reincarnations; Lincoln, MLK, JFK, Bobby Kennedy, and many more that were martyrs to be remembered on this night. That night, It made us remember and we remembered.
That night, as we became history, we were given the chance to rewrite our own. To move into action, making right the things that have gone wrong. Our story is still being written, and we are only at the beginning of a new chapter.
Favorite Grandchildren.
Love or loath?
Her days are soon coming to an end, as we realize that she is definitely in the twilight of her years. I would be remiss if I did not begin to recognize the mortality of those I love. You may say that this is a morbid fascination, I must respond in kind, it is simply a recognition of harsh reality. Although I must admit that I do not fancy myself on the subject of death, I face it now in hopes that as it comes I could alleviate some of its pain.
I know in the least that I hold a distinct place in her heart. Whether that means I am her favorite grandchild, or her most loathed, I do not know, at the moment I cannot distinguish the difference. I hope that someday I will know, but I doubt that she will ever admit to either proposition. I simply know that there is a distinction that exists. Perhaps if I told you the stories from which I draw upon to arrive at this rather ambiguous conclusion you would understand.
“Riley Wake UP!” are the words that I hear that break my slumber. One moment I’m flying simply by the power of my mind, the next I am grounded into soft pillows and stale blankets, by the power of her word, I fall hard.
“Wake UP! Drive me to the grocery store.”
“For Goodness sake granny…what time is it?” I ask, as I slowly attempt to align myself once again with reality. I swear in my head that it cannot be past 7:30. After convincing myself that my grandma would wake me at such an ungodly hour, disturbing my peaceful slumber. I mumble the words to the effect of, “why do you need to go this early!?” although I am confident it comes out sounding completely different.
“It’s 11:30″ she replies matter of factly.
“Oh….well uh what about Kennedy? Can’t she take you?!”
“She is sleeping” granny replies.
“Well so was I!”
“Well, now your awake.”
“yes I am, thank you very much.” I concede.
Realizing the futility of weaseling my way out of this one, I grogituitously get out of bed, hop in the shower, put on some clothes and get into the car. As I am driving and still trying to wipe the sleep out of my eyes, I begin to wonder why she always does this to me. What process does she use in her mind to determine what grandchild she is going to ask to drive her to her destination.Why me? With about 13 of them at her disposal, (ok, well 4 live 40 miles away, the other 5 about 10, one of whom still does not have her license, 2 others that live 6 miles away, 1 of which has a child to take care of, and 2 that live under the same roof as her) how is it that she happens to choose me every time!
As the options run through my head, it boils down to only two possible reasons. She either loves me, or loathes me. The consensus around the household is that I am her least favorite grandchild. I can see the points that they make, and concede that they may very well be adequate. For starters, I am probably the messiest of the grandchildren. No doubt, most of her daily chores revolve around cleaning up my mess. But before you get it twisted, recognize that I do not ask her to clean my mess, she just refuses to live in a home that would allow such pigotry to exist. (I should probably start locking my door) Second, I imagine that I used up all the grandparently good graces with my grandfather. She was convinced (as am I, but none of the rest of the family is) (sensing a pattern here?) that I was my grandfather’s favorite grandchild. (more stories later on this) Perhaps because I was my grampa’s favorite, the good graces where not spread evenly amongst the grankids. Maybe she is just trying to balance both sides, trying to make it even for all. So the only reasonable way to do so would be for me to incur her wrath. Balance the scales. Understood. Point well taken.
But as I continually find that I am ushered into service by my grandma time after time, awoken from my slumber as my sister sleeps peacefully in the next room, I am starting to believe that maybe that first choice is not so clear cut anymore. Am I really loathed by my granny that she would employ me to do her bidding as a form of wrath or punishment? Is she trying to balance the scales almost to the point of unbalancing them once again, only this time no grandpa to even them out for me? How can I accuse this woman of being so malicious? There must be another answer. Am I really that loathed? Or can it be, that I am simply her favorite grandchild as to whom she would not entrust her life and time with any other grandchild more, than yours truly? Could it be that when she goes to the doctor she wants me to be there with her as she hears the prognosis? Perhaps I must get her medicine all the time because she is so proud of her grandson, and wants the pharmacist we all know as “Candy” to see her most “guapo” of them all. Maybe she just wants me to visit my grandpa at his grave the most, because she knew that I was his favorite, and she feels a duty to bring me to him every once in awhile.
I begin to mull over the thoughts, justify her actions, and reevaluate the arguments. So many good answers, maybe I am just thinking about this a little too much. Soon enough I come to realize, what foolish thoughts I have entertained. The answer at this point becomes irrelevant. I am not any different from the rest of my cousins, there really is no distinction, we are all simply beloved by this amazing woman. Each day I am given new opportunity to spend time with a woman of strength and courage, a woman that gives life to those around her with her touch, her hospitality, and most of all her heart of compassion, that refuses to let anyone she loves go cold, hungry, or lonely. Perhaps she knows that I long for companionship, maybe she sees deeply into my soul and past the masks of smiles, and knows that I am lonely. Maybe it is her nurturing spirit that intuitively forces me to wake up each morning, and spend time with her. Maybe she is lonely as well, and in the moments that she misses her beloved husband, she sees a little bit of him in his favorite grandchild. Maybe we both exist as kindred spirits, the matriarch of our family, our symbol of strength and love. Maybe she knows as well as we do that her time is soon coming to an end and as her hearing slowly detoriates, she makes sure that I hear her words, her story, her life. As her strength slowly dwindles, she is sure to impart her strength to the young, through her touch and through her words. Maybe as she sees the end near, she gives us a new beginning, a new hope of life in the midst of entropy.
Maybe I just need to recognize the reality that soon awaits us. We will all die soon enough. Even the ones we love, the ones that seem invincible, even if well into old age. Soon, the day will arrive when her gift of life will return to the earth, and imparted into our memories, maybe she hopes to leave that gift with us, so that we can learn most inportantly to give the gift to others; Love, compassion, and the ability to serve others at the cost of our selves.
Perhaps she understands servanthood so well, she simply wants to give me the chance to learn it myself, and if i do not learn how to serve my own flesh and blood, how much more my neighbor. Maybe she is teaching me a lesson, forcing me to see my own ability to serve, as she does for us. One that I need to learn before she dies. Maybe that is her gift to me, whether she realizes it or not.
Soon farewell
a soon farewell
The toothpaste on the sink is beginning to harden
slowly transforming into a mint for a rainy day
I’ll pick it up on the way out.
Besides, I have no cigars.
I move inconspicuosly each moment
hoping not to draw attention to myself
Each movement is calculated, contrived and convincing.
Too many movements and their eyes will surely be on me.
Fading into the background like a chameleon
Has always been my specialty, if only to get away quietly
Not to catch my prey. Simply to pray audaciously.
Road trips to portland and back.
I fancy adventure, broken tires and rain.
The lines on the road playing musical chairs with your brain.
If you stare long enough into the deep abyss, Nietzsche says
It will stare back at you. The road is the abyss.
So here is to farwells, and goodbyes to bid adieu.
If I look back it will be for moments like these
when somehow I pretend that I am happy with life.
But maybe the toothpaste will harden in my other lifetimes too
We’ve never listened to Jazz at the tavern before
We’ve never listened to jazz at the tavern before
Blues bleed improvisation into our inebriated veins
and its spontaneity feels like too much for us to handle.
davis
gillespie
coltrane
Jukebox plays as we stroll
Leaving our pride at the entrance
Along with the fags in
the bucket of
Sand by the door.
Fitzgerald
Holiday
Minnie
Fifty Cents a song makes perfect non-sense
(Worth every lack of penny)
Old men stare
Fake Id’s expire
And red ash trays are given away as
Tokens of non-compliance with the law.
carrabba
mayer
matthews band
Maybe we are just trying to find our souls.
Catching the tune of cigarettes
With our hands tied behind our backs
Drunken promises being sealed
By shady proposals
weezer
greenday
cranberries
An intentionally
unintended Polaroid could not save us
Haikus commit seppuku
On broken bushido
And before you know it.
We are gone.
Crossing walks.
Racing home.
(If we are lucky there is a soundtrack)
Hoping to find some solace
under the familiarity of
darklightspictureswordspamphletsletterssalvation=marijuana
And a yellow triangle.
(where things seem to be as they should
A lot like listening to Jazz at a tavern)
