Face

I want to use my bathroom
with the lights on
but I'm scared of the ugly in my reflection.
Even I'm succumbing
to the law
that you're only worth looking at
when the magazines say so

Do We Always Have a Choice?

In light of recent and pretty terrible events, I've been mulling over this question in my head. I told my best friend (and I do believe this to the fullest) that it's not about what's right, or what's fair, but what's necessary. However, another very dear friend of mine said that she disagreed, and that the word "necessary" implied to her that we were without the ability to determine our own fate in certain circumstances. Basically, that we always have a choice, so how do we determine what we want to do? I used to believe that I never had a choice, it was just doing what needed to be done and nothing else. I realize now: I'm not trapped, I'm decisive. We do always have a choice and I'm so comfortable in myself that I can make that choice without hesitation. That was freeing beyond words and I owe her greatly for that. It's like a weight has been lifted knowing that I do what I CHOOSE, not what I'm MADE to do. Almost like my worth isn't defined by the people I have the help but the choices I made and make to help them. What do you think?

9.5.2010

Dear Journal,

When you make a promise, who does it belong to? And isn't it hilarious how one little thing can be the catalyst for so much? We always have a choice. We simply choose to ignore it. But we ALWAYS have it. Next time you're cornered, remember that. Love.

Michiko and the Thousand Paper Cranes

I want to be unfolded
into a perfect square of construction
crisp around the corners; cut me to pieces
and the beauty of your imagination
will break my wings.

There's something about origami
that reminds me of struggle,
and hands that are to big to grasp
some of the details
are always destined to view the big picture
but never fly.

There's an old superstition
that says 1000 paper cranes
can save you
but I don't know if my fingers
are that elegant,
if the blood from papercuts taints the fortune
or if you get credit for trying.

Some of the wings are lopsided,
some of the corners are torn
but these are the beauties of imperfections.
And I want to make them out of tissue paper
in honor of your thinning hair
but I'm afraid of breaking you
like I've broken
1000 things
that I love.

So I will make them
rugged as your exoskeleton
a folded masterpiece too beautiful
for tumors. And radiation may hurt but always remember -
Hiroshima survived chemotherapy.
And I'll keep folding
until I've loved you
1000 times over
into the only Japanese words I really know -
kibou, hope.
origami, paper folding.
yatta
We did it.

I sometimes feel bad that I mix personal stuff with writing-related stuff here. Then I realize nobody reads this anyway. Just wanted to drop in and say:

It's a good thing you're not going to stand here and wait for a hero. Because fuck you, I'm going on vacation. Leave your complaints on my office door.

Brandon's Lullaby

Ghost prisoner dances in an old window.

The girl dies when the music stops

and this house has been quiet for years now,

with footsteps echoing through the cracks in the attic floor

but never reaching the bottom of the stairs

I wonder how many haunting are self-imposed.

Don’t cry tonight, my baby. . .

Last week, I saw something I thought I’d never witness.

Saw a man’s stone façade falter

alternate between guilt and sadness

the now and the then

the past and the present

but now. . .I can see the spirit fading from his eyes

tell he is human for the first time

and see he is not a polished rock flowing from the river of family photos

my father is no stone.

He’s simply a trucker.

And in the sleeper of a semi it’s nothing but him

his radio and his memories

dancing in the swaying of curtains and sounds like

similes when you’re trying to write a poem

always present but just out of reach

so he captures them in homemade music boxes.

Don’t cry, you’ll always be loved. . .

And ‘always’ is always longer when you make a decision you can’t take back,

so he finds solace in songs and sheet music

jagged and smudged like the signature across the bottom of a release form.

My brother

passes through these walls like a phantom, fast as a haiku like

a stranger to me.

Often wonder if our eyes

are the same color.

He dances in that window

a captive my father cannot let go

waiting for the day that 15-year old feet

bounce off the bottom of the landing

and out the door

to rebel against him

bring back a report card, a trophy, a girl, a mistake

but that sound never comes

when my father’s memory is only lit by that window

and I wonder how much harder it is to abort a child

when you can look him in the eyes.

Now I realize why he always tells me

to appreciate the beauty of the little things.

Knowing that even though his blood runs through that boy’s veins

he’ll never be there to keep Brandon warm again

knowing he held a masterpiece in the palm of his hand

and let it free for the “better life” he was promised

giving up on the music he made with a lover

I’ve judged without truly knowing.

Nothing I could say could make the music box gears spin

I could cry moment but that them up again

and the silence in my father’s house is deafening.

Maybe that’s why I left.

I could make him proud

I could make him smile

But I’m only one son.

And even when I have the audacity to wonder

how often he dreams of Brahm’s lullaby

or days playing in the Colorado snow –

I know there is no poem

that can bring Brandon back but please poppa

if you can listen to the music instead of just making it.

Ready.Steady.GO!

Sorry I've been so slack on updates, whomever may be reading this. Just wanted to drop in right quick (God how I love the south and our idioms) and say that this week has rocked HARD. I feel on top of the world and no force is going to stop that. I think this video about sums it up:

Seal - Waiting for you
Uploaded by foxysoul. - See the latest featured music videos.

I have been waiting, I have been waiting for you. . .

until next time, dear reader.