disclaimer: this is a very very old and loooooong piece that i had written back when i was in high school. it is not very good at all & is in MAJOR need of editing. hell, i don't even know if it's finished yet. i wasn't really sure where i was going with it when i first started writing it & i sure as hell don't know where it would go if i started to work on it again. some people who have read it think that it's a good ending where it is but who knows? i doubt many people will read this one because it is so long (& possibly quite boring) but if you do, feedback/critique is very welcomed. i figured i'd post it up here just for the hell of it. cm.
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72399
He sat across from me and stared, making the silliest face I had ever seen on him. I couldn’t quite make out what must have been going on inside of that enormous head of his. I’m not sure if he was shocked, confused, happy or even upset. I was wondering if he was even breathing. I tried not to focus on his face too much though. It wasn’t the silence that was awkward. I was more uncomfortable with the fact that the salt and pepper shakers were not completely in line with the center piece of sugar packets, menus, and miscellaneous avenue advertisements which were arranged there on the table.
I decided to grasp my old black ink pen once again in my left hand and get back to trying to compose that letter to my old friend in Virginia which I had been putting off now for over two weeks. Procrastination is actually one of the areas in which I excel. Maybe it’s because I work well under pressure or perhaps it’s because I am a Pisces. Honestly, I blame my own lack of self-motivation. There are too many distractions.
My pen slid under my fingertips when I felt the table move. My ink was shaky and I lifted my eyes to see Drew who had just then made the decision to move. He sipped his beverage and lightly wiped the moisture off his lips before he took another breath and spoke.
“So, what are you doing tonight?” These were Drew’s most famous words. That’s about as far into the future as Drew ever thinks.
I stared back at him in complete amazement for he knew exactly what my plans for the evening would be. But I could see the anticipation in his eyes and so I sighed and I responded, “Probably just hanging out and surfing the net or something.”
“Your computer! That’s all you ever do anymore,” he snapped as he quickly grabbed my pen out of my hand.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Kerri, you’ve turned your computer into your entire life,” Drew said in a “listen to me, I’m your best friend. You’re pathetic and need help” sort of tone.
I couldn’t help the burst of laughter that exploded from my chest just then. Drew looked towards me with disgust. “Look who’s talking! Drew, what exactly is it that you’re doing right now, huh?”
“That’s not the point!” he shouted. He ran his hand through this messy blue hair, which has been looking much better since he took a dip in the swimming pool down the shore. It wasn’t as bright. Drew always tries his best to be different and unique, but what he fails to realize is that deep down inside, he is probably just like me.
“Well help me out here. What exactly is the point you’re trying to make Drew?” I questioned without much hesitation. His eyes became very sympathetic. He pointed the pen towards me and leaned into my direction.
“Do you do what you do because you want to be your father or is it what he makes you do?” his whisper was so soft but the rage inside of me was so loud. “You’re a lot like him in many ways, Kerri.”
How dare he say what he’s saying to me right now! How dare he? Who does he think he is to insult me like that? My teeth were clenched so tightly that I could hardly even speak.
“What is that suppose to mean?”
“Nothing, forget it.” Yes, forget it, I thought to myself. But don’t forget I have a grip like my father too, punk. I leaned forward and grabbed my pen back from Drew’s tightly clenched fingers. I think I caught him by surprise. He backed up against the booth and raised his hands to surrender. “I’m out of here.”
He reached into his pocket and placed a ten-dollar bill on the table, grabbed his bag and coat, and left the diner. I watched him through the window as he crossed the crowded street and then became lost in the rushing people and noisy traffic that flew by.
It took me a while to move from where I was sitting in that booth. I felt like all my energy had been drained from my body and I was left there for dead. Yes, left to die in that diner. Along with the greasy burgers, cigarette smoke, and coffee stains. The clinking silverware, and dirty dishes. Mashed potatoes that globbed and hung off of those old plates. I could just wait until the last person leaves, which will probably only be some old man who is just trying to escape the nags of his wife for at least a few hours out of the fifty years they had been married. I could wait until the busboy finishes cleaning the last booth and “Flo” grabs her coat, turns out the lights and locks up leaving me to slowly die in the spotlight of the silly sign out front that reads the hours and I finally notice, “Open: 24 hours.”
We are never alone. As much as we feel it or as much as we want it, no one will ever be alone. We are lonely but never alone. I realized that as I packed my bag and left the diner that Wednesday night. I roamed the city streets aimlessly. Aimlessly? No, I was going home. That’s right. Home.
There is always someone watching us. They are making sure we are keeping busy and just when you get yourself down so low, you can always count on that same person to leave their footprint on your face as they kick you down even further. But we know the routine by now.
It’s amazing how repetition can make things lose their meaning. A word of compassion, a kiss, a smile. But I think those things are fake to begin with anyway. Actors and conartists surround us. And I am guilty as well. Those artificial things come in handy. Most people see a smile and assume everything is O.K. and the dangerous thing is that the victim actually starts to really believe that everything is O.K. but still, there’s always someone else to take the blame. God Bless cause and effect!
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I try to forget about the time I fell in love. It seems like it was so long ago. I knew what it was when it was here, no matter what any of the older people say. But me, I just agree. It’s easier for them that way. I smile, and then I turn my face away, fearing to meet anyone’s eyes ever again--afraid that all my secrets would just spill out. Or Heaven Forbid, I should fall again.
But that’s in the past now and that’s where it will stay. The secrets, the love and all…
I made my way home safely that night. The building stood as tall as it always had did. You can never see any real stars in the city. I often spend time on my walks home wishing on street lamps, headlights, or lit windows in tall buildings…anything that gives a little hope.
I made my way through the house and up the stairs into my bedroom. I placed my hunter green army bag on the floor and undressed. My nightly ritual always included a quick change into my plaid boxers and a tank top. I wanted to leave no time in between for fear that I might catch a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror. It was a sight that always disgusted me for some reason. I mean I wasn’t obese and I wasn’t exactly ugly. But I guess I was a bit self-conscious just like any other stereotypical female.
I didn’t have enough energy to walk into the bathroom and wash my face so I just laid down in my bed and stared into the darkness. My eyes were beginning to adjust and I could just make out the glowing of my cherry wood headboard that shone off of my ceiling.
The ceiling. Sometimes it seems as if all the answers lay there, doesn’t it? Nothing.
Unless your eyes allow you to see deeper, there is nothing really there. However, I usually see so many things trapped inside of the “nothingness” of the ceiling, such as the shadow of my window’s blinds creating transparent cell bars across my ceiling from the moonlight. My gaze rests upon the crack in the white paint that has been longer than I have been. The ceiling fan shifts the breeze that could almost feel as soft as the wind would feel on the beach if I could just close my eyes. Instead, my glazed stare focuses straight upwards and I am surrounded by the glorious tint of a lavender haze from the glow of the four walls that encircle the island of my bed. And I hear the man across the alleyway play his piano. A gentle melody performed only for me. He composes only for the ears of such a passionate soul as himself. We are not alone.
The cars screech, the glass bottles break, the stereo systems blare and vibrate, the sirens scream, the dogs bark, the babies cry and the ice cream truck sings in the distance, but all I hear is the beautiful instrument though the dimly lit window. My own private concert. And the sounds of Mr. Piano Man cause me to drift. And I slowly nod into a dream.
And then the morning comes.
A refreshing new day! I have yet to discover the refreshment though. The sights, sounds and smells are exactly the same as the night before. Nothing original. Nothing creative.
I suppose it could be own damn fault. It’s so difficult to find creativity even in my own raging soul these days. Do souls vacation too? If so, I wonder where they go. Of all people, I would think I would be able to find the answer to this question first hand. All I’d have to do is ask one of my clients…
“Excuse me, Mr. Artman. Where is your soul off to now?” I giggled, feeling slightly silly as I stood staring down at the corpse lying in front of me. I grew up unafraid of death. It’s part of life…the final part. It’s going to come when it comes and there is nothing we can do about it. Day in and day out, I would fix up these bodies, attempting to make them look better than they ever did when they were alive. It’s amazing how most of the time, I couldn’t even tell the difference—if they were dead or alive. Most of the time, I felt as if the people that walked and breathed around me were deader than the ones that I made to look so radiant. Yes, my father ran such a quaint little funeral home in the middle of our city.
I touched Mr. Artman’s cold flesh. I ran my fingers across his wrinkled cheeks. His skin was very rough and coarse. He had been many places during his life. I could tell. He had cute little freckles along his neck that kept his presence youthful yet experienced. He was writing a letter to his daughter a few minutes before he passed away. His paper cut on his left fore finger could not have fully healed yet. I never covered those marks of life with make up. They were part of Mr. William Artman and deserved to be seen.
Is it morbid to say that the dead somehow inspired me? If I was ever creative, it was when I was with a lifeless hunk of flesh. But they never seemed so lifeless to me. Maybe they only appear that way to people who knew them when they were alive, but it didn’t seem as if their spirit had completely left yet to me. Maybe they were screaming to me, “This is what I have done in my life and I am so proud! Make me look the best I have ever appeared!” Maybe it really was their souls speaking to me. And so, I began to keep journals and sketches of these amazing moments. I would keep them secret and hidden in the closet. It’s amazing how much can be created in years worth of fifteen minute breaks. And I was grateful.
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I began to realize that most of my time was often spent alone. I didn’t mind it much myself. I was more concerned with what other people must have thought of my isolation. Isolation? Perhaps “solitude” is a better word. I often couldn’t tell the difference anyway. Is it possible to be isolated in a loving family environment? I suppose so. Isolation in front of a television, isolation at a computer monitor, isolation in a den…I’m sure all of these things are possible.
Have you ever bought or found a new pen and think to yourself, “Wow, this pen really kicks ass!” and then you want to write something completely brilliant with it just because of the simple fact that the pen rocks? This was the case for me Friday afternoon. I had picked up a new purple Marvy GT-700 for 88 cents in the local Wal-Mart while waiting in line to pay for my other miscellaneous items which included a stack of writing paper, hairspray, natural beige cover up and a box of tampons. I could tell Drew felt awkward standing beside me. I don’t understand what the big thing is. A woman’s menstruation cycle is just as natural as a man’s daily erection. But for some reason, that just isn’t as awkward.
We walked from Wal-Mart to the diner and sat in our usual booth. The routine aggravated both of us but there wasn’t much we could do about it right now.
The famous question was uttered. “What are you doing tonight?”
I sighed but decided to release my frustration as I exhaled and saw the anticipation in his eyes once again. I figured I should answer more carefully this time. “I’m not exactly sure, Drew. What about you?”
He rolled his eyes and brushed his hand through his hair. He seemed more nervous today than usual. “Probably just cruisin’ down South Street with Theo and Jay.”
“Cool.” I was beginning to think Drew and I felt the same about some things. But what was the difference? What was the difference between the way Drew decided to handle it and the way I did? We both did things to distract ourselves, but what was the difference? There had to be a difference. We are different.
Later that night while I was laying in bed and writing, I decided to put down my new kick ass pen and meet up with Drew and some of our other friends down on South Street. I quickly combed my hair and grabbed my jacket. I made my way though the sewage steams and artificial bodies glowing in the gross colored lights of the sex shops and music stores. I sometimes wondered if I was the only one who saw the beauty in street lamps.
I made my way finally to the corner of Fourth and South and that’s when I saw him. I saw them all, but my eyes could only focus on him. I saw him with his lips wrapped around hers and his hands rubbing her thighs. Their bodies looked as though they belonged together. And I stood there, frozen. I had never seen my two best friends kiss like that before. You see, the object of his affection was Paige, my best friend since the age of four. We always knew they were meant for each other, but they had never admitted it until this past year. Yes, Paige and Drew were both stubborn mules. I was happy for them, but now the idea was so concrete and tangible, I still had to get use to it.
In a way, I guess I was jealous too. I remember what Paige had said to me when she began to feel she was in love with Drew. She said she really didn’t want it to happen. It’s not like her character to be a hopeless romantic. “That’s you, Kerri,” she said to me with a sympathetic sigh through the telephone wires.
Yep, that’s just like me. A hopeless romantic. But to whom? I always kill the interest before he even becomes interested. And I can’t help it. I wish I could but I can’t. It seemed the closer and more intimate Paige and Drew got, the further I was pushed away. They said nothing would change and I could always nod my head and agree, but what they didn’t understand was, a lot had changed. If only they could walk around in my shoes for just one day. Not even a day. One hour is all they would need.
Paige had noticed my distance a few weeks ago. She said I spent so much time in isolation. Isolation. There’s that word again. She thinks I have been spending too much time alone as well on the Internet. She fears I’m going to fall in love with some AOL Romeo in California only because I like the attention. And I say, so what if I do? He gives me more attention than anyone does around here. And the best part is I don’t ever have to face him or look into his eyes. I would only kill him eventually anyway just like all the rest, so what’s the difference?
I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to stand there much longer and watch them suck face anymore. They have to realize how uncomfortable it makes me. But it isn’t about me. It’s about two lovers expressing their affection towards each other in public. I turned and walked away.
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I never said I was a strong person nor has the thought ever crossed my mind. I am fragile and sensitive, but very rough and indifferent on the outside. My father raised me to be very agreeable and I never caused him any trouble. In school, the teachers always liked me and I usually received academic honors. I was a typical bookworm geek. I never really hung out with the “in crowd” and I was never popular with the cute guys. It never really bothered me much though. I was beyond high hair, name brand labels and cheap cosmetics in elementary school.
I learned to be happy with whatever I was given. I agreed with whatever anyone said to me and kept my opinions and feelings to myself. But I wasn’t bothered by it. It’s just the way things were.
What exactly was I feeling though?
*
I decided to take the backstreets home that night. I walked through the small inner city homes, which included the projects and illegal squats. I had to watch my step. I couldn’t allow the corner drug gangs, lovers panting, babies crying or the odor of piss distract my concentration on dodging homeless people and dog shit. These are the streets that most people fear, including myself. But sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. These people are obviously doing just that and I have two legs that can run if I need them to.
These streets have more venders than local carnivals or even the stadium parking lots after a concert. Survival means selling. The selling of everything you have from drugs, car parts, condoms, shoes, guns, your own body, someone else’s body, and children. YES, children. That’s just the way it works around here.
My heart pounded with fear and my blood rushed through my body as I walked through those streets. Sometimes your mind just makes you do things before your bones and skins are even able to agree. I stumbled over bottles and I could feel a piece of broken glass had penetrated through the sole of my right shoe. As I walked further, I could feel it pierce my skin and a puddle of blood began to form at the bottom of my shoe.
I limped to the corner and thought, “Only eleven more blocks home. I can make it.” The pain was excruciating. I began to sweat and my mouth was so dry. I had to endure the rest of this midnight stroll. I know I tend to exaggerate, but I feared bleeding to death. I am such a baby about some things. “Toughen up, sissy. Walk it off!” I thought to myself. “Now is not the time to be a drama queen.” Just when I thought the wells in my eyes were about to burst, I felt myself lose my balance as I fell to the ground over a broken body by the corner.
“Hey! Watch where you’re goin’ bitch!” I heard the harsh voice scream. I stood up again and brushed myself off. I was speechless. I continued to make my way down the noisy and crowded streets. They were so stuffy, I thought I was going to suffocate. I began to feel sick to my stomach. The knots and curls in my gut were twisting every way around and I could feel chunks of vomit build up in my throat.
I flinched when the woman touched my arm. “Are you ok?” she squealed as I pushed her away. I was trembling terribly and I could feel the tingly sensations crawling around beneath my clothes.
My whole right leg was becoming numb. The pins and needles sensation was beginning to take place in my left. I pulled my sleeves of my jacket down over my hands in an attempt to fight the chills. My nose was running. I was ugly. I fit right in.
And just then, I had felt it. I wanted to run and hide in an alleyway or perhaps a dumpster somewhere. But I couldn’t. My stomach then hurled back and I gagged. At first I could hear the laughter of some children, but it only lasted a few seconds until I had released everything and I dropped to my knees in a puddle of my own vomit. My own waste. Right there in the middle of the street. And the people just kept on walking right by me. No one had noticed. The zombies continued on and had shown no signs of disgust. And had I become one of them? I sat there and I felt no shame.
I leaned against the brick, graffiti stained wall and rested my ass on the hard concrete with my vomit steaming before me. And I felt no shame. Once I caught my breath, I stood and limped back home.
*
I sat on my bathroom floor when I got home. I took off my shoe and cringed. I could never stand the sight of blood. I carefully removed the sock that was soaked with blood and trembled with pain at what I had seen. I never had medical training and knew very little of first aid, which is bad, I know. I figured removing the glass was most important and so I did. I carefully slid the sharp object through my skin and writhed with intense pain. My muscles tightened up and I could feel small droplets of perspiration emerge from my forehead and slowly drip down my cheeks. It was agony. I didn’t cry.
I washed my cut and feared infection. After I applied pressure and wrapped the bandage around my wound, I noticed the trails of blood on my bathroom floor. The fear of what my father would do if he saw motivated me to wash the tiles. But I had to move quickly for I needed more than anything to just lay down in the comfort of my own bed.
Finally, I laid down and I was at peace. I sighed deeply and began to relax. Except…I couldn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t the loud traffic and honking horns that kept me awake. Nor was it the sirens or dogs barking. Hell, it wasn’t even the piano across the alleyway. It was my own racing thoughts that kept me from my much-needed slumber.
Something had happened back there. Something beyond just me puking all over the sidewalk or getting a piece of glass lodged between the skin of my foot. Yes, it was something much beyond the physical. What had made me go from complete and utter sympathy for these dirty street dwellers to becoming one of them? Was it when my right leg became so numb, I could hardly walk, and I suddenly thought I would have to spend the rest of my life shivering on the ground in puddles of vomit, piss and dog shit? Was it when, for only a short second, I tried to seek somewhere to spew in private so I wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of someone seeing me in my lowest and weakest moment of my life? Why is it that I have more shame looking my loved ones straight in the eyes than becoming sick in front of strangers I have never met? Is it because those strangers don’t care? They will never care. Why do I fear what other people will think all the time? If I’m just doing what comes naturally, should I never feel shame? No matter how many people tell me I’m wrong? Am I living my life for me or am I living my life for everyone else? Why should I fear falling in love? Why should I feel ashamed of our geographical distance? Why should I be shameful of our lack of knowledge of who we are in the physical sense? Why should I deny the nature of what I’m feeling? Can’t I live my life the way it naturally comes to me before I end up cold and in a box in the ground like Mr. Artman or even my own mother? Isn’t life natural? And isn’t falling in love just as natural as vomiting in the street? What is the difference?
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The morning came quickly and unexpectedly. I slept well from exhaustion and I must have overslept because my father was shaking my sheets and yelling about how he was falling behind. I awoke apologizing and not quite moving really. My voice was groggy and my eyes were like slits. Everything was so blurry. I wiped the eye bugs away and I stepped out of bed.
I quickly washed and dressed and ran downstairs to see the one thing I always hated to see here. She stood with my father as he embraced her. He always remained strong for the families. I stood silently on the stairsteps and watched the tears streaming down her face. She sobbed loudly and uncontrollably as her baby daughter buried herself in her mother’s leg. She broke away from my father and they moved over to his desk where they both sat on each end.
Her two children followed. Her baby girl still buried in her leg and her son staring in the background. He was a young adolescent boy. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen years. I could tell he was the “strong one” because he had shown absolutely no emotion. And his eyes were dry and wide as if he had not slept or even cried in days.
I watched as she and my father discussed her husband’s funeral arrangements. His name was Paul and he had suffered from a heart attack as unexpected as this morning had come to me. Paul’s son watched his mother and baby sister weep bitterly. I wished I could have embraced the boy. I wanted to show him it was O.K. I wanted to show him I could empathize. I know how it feels to lose a parent especially to something so sudden.
My mother had died while giving birth to my baby brother. Soon after, my brother didn’t make it either. So it has just been my father and I ever since. I remember feeling to blame. I couldn’t understand exactly why I should have been blamed but I also couldn’t understand why she had to go. Just like when children blame themselves for their parents’ divorce—it’s because they don’t understand. And I remembered being so pissed off that God would take away my brother without him even being able to live yet. I never knew him, he never knew me. He couldn’t hold my hand at my mother’s funeral because he was in a box of his own!
I don’t remember seeing my father cry either. Why did he have to be the strong one? He had lost his lover, his best friend, his soul mate, mother of his children and his only son. Why wasn’t he allowed to cry? Isn’t death and crying natural? Aren’t they part of life? Why then was Paul’s only son ashamed to cry? Why must he be the strong one? Why don’t boys ever cry?
*
I dressed Paul in his police uniform that his wife had left for him. He was an honorable man. His sandy hair was just beginning to show signs of gray. I remember his son had eyes and a nose just like him. They also shared the same kind of skin complexion. They both had the type of fair skin that usually burned easily in the sun.
I thought about what their family trips to the beach must have been like. I pictured his baby’s eyes squinting at the sun. Paul probably built sandcastles with his son and dove into the salty waves of the ocean with him also. Guys always do silly things in the ocean. But then again, one doesn’t have much of a choice of what they do in the ocean, do they? The ocean tides are always so great and tend to gain control over a body easily. An ocean can be many things from a serene body of water to a raging, monstrous tyrant. It’s nature.
Drew, Paige and I took a road trip to the beach once. Eric came too. We were a foursome ever since freshmen year of high school. We were inseparable and unstoppable. We were best friends. We’ve shared many fun times. I remember how silly we must have looked running all over the beach like little children at eighteen years of age. We had a blast throwing each other into the ocean. I had bruises up and down my arms for weeks after our little excursion. Maybe I should visit the beach again sometime.
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Tuesday, January 20, 2009
that hug guy....
just another story i'd like to share from when i use to do case management in the city.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
That hug guy....
So the other day I had to go with a client to an appointment that she had with her psychiatrist. The place we went to is a place where many consumers receive their mental health treatment, and also have the opportunity to participate in groups and programs. The appointment was in the early afternoon and we had to take public transportation to get there. The morning was pretty rushed for me, including normal client-drama, a call to the paramedics for an unresponsive resident in his room, and on top of all that, it was rent day. So needless to say, people were lined up outside of my office door and I was quickly taking care of everything that was coming my way.
When I was finally able to break free, my client and I began our journey. Upon arrival to our destination, we scurried amongst the mass of people gathered outside the entrance to the building. It's one of those deals where everyone is rushing around, you are aware that people are around you, and you only acknowledge their presence if you happen to make eye contact with a quick "hey" or "hi, how ya doin?" as you brush by them, not expecting a real answer. As I tried to make it through the door, an elderly man was making his way out the door. I held open the door for him and his eyes met mine--so I just smiled and said hello...without any thought really. Immediately, he came at me--
---pushing me away from the door outside again on the street...
"Yea Hey. My name is Walter. How are you?"
"I am well," I told him. "How about yourself?"
"I'm lousy and horrible. What is your name?"
"Colleen," I answer. Now my client is looking at me like I'M crazy. "I'm sorry that you are lousy and horrible."
"Yea well nobody ever wants to shake my hand."
It's weird how that prompted me to immediately extend my hand to him, "Oh I'm sorry, how's it going?"
"That's a forced and chiseled hand-shake. That doesn't count. I don't want that.....I'll shake with someone who WANTS to shake my hand."
Dag.
"ok then. Sorry. We don't need to shake hands." I say as I immediately pull my hand away.
This is when Walter positions himself directly beside me and begins his rant...
"....No one ever shakes my hand. You know I stood out here in front of everyone all morning and not once did anyone say hello. No one ever says hello to me. And I don't need another person out here to ask me for spare change or a cigarette or a light. That's all anyone ever speaks to me for. This is a horrible, awful day. It's always a horrible, awful day. All these people want out here is some change or a light. And I don't need another wrong number either. People call wrong numbers to my phone. My phone rings and rings and it's never even for me. The other day I had phone calls asking for Lucy and Roger--those people are not me. I told the people on the phone to dial more carefully next time because I don't need it anymore. I really don't..."
"wow, well. It sounds like you are having a bad day. I hope it gets better," I say.
"It won't. It won't ever get better. Nobody says hello."
"Hm, well that sucks then. I guess that's just the way of the world nowadays."
A silent stare.
So I ask, "Have you noticed a difference in how people are over the years?"
He had the saddest face. "No. Nobody ever says hello."
And then that awkward silence.
"Well. I hope your day gets better. I have to get inside. Take care and see you later."
"Maybe you won't!"
Too true I think to myself as I make my way into the building again.
I go to my meeting, which lasts about an hour. My client and I leave. As we approach the doorway, I can see him standing outside the door still in the same spot he was when I went in. My client turns to me and says "He stands out there every single day."
"So you know him?" I ask my client.
The look on her face was of obvious disgust, "No."
I push the door open and manage to put my hand on his shoulder as I make my way through. "Alright, Walter," I say. "It was nice meeting you. I hope you're day gets better."
"It won't. It's been horrible already--"
I keep walking. The crowds begin filling in the gap between us. But I can still hear his miserable voice behind me. Soon I feel his hand on my shoulder.
"Were you the one I was talking to earlier about not getting a handshake?"
I stop and turn around. "yea, you mentioned it."
"Well I just got my very first handshake of the whole day while you were inside." His face displayed excitement and amazement.
"Wow really? That's great!"
That quickly, his miserable face returned. "No it's not. It's terrible."
"Why is it terrible??"
"Because I stood out here for THREE HOURS and it took THAT long for someone to finally shake my hand."
"Well...I'm glad that someone finally did," I respond.
His look of excitement returned. "I wish you liked to be hugged," he said.
My client gasped in shocked.
"Well," I said. "If I hugged you now, you would say it's a 'forced or chiseled' hug and you say that's no good."
The shape of a smile formed across his face. His arms spread out and raised slightly.
What did I just get myself into, is what I should've been thinking to myself. It's what I normally would have been thinking to myself. But something in me just drove me to smile and embrace him.
It was a very friendly and gentle hug...
...shared by two strangers....in the middle of a busy city street...in the middle of the afternoon....
...so simple,
yet...it's something I'll never forget.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
That hug guy....
So the other day I had to go with a client to an appointment that she had with her psychiatrist. The place we went to is a place where many consumers receive their mental health treatment, and also have the opportunity to participate in groups and programs. The appointment was in the early afternoon and we had to take public transportation to get there. The morning was pretty rushed for me, including normal client-drama, a call to the paramedics for an unresponsive resident in his room, and on top of all that, it was rent day. So needless to say, people were lined up outside of my office door and I was quickly taking care of everything that was coming my way.
When I was finally able to break free, my client and I began our journey. Upon arrival to our destination, we scurried amongst the mass of people gathered outside the entrance to the building. It's one of those deals where everyone is rushing around, you are aware that people are around you, and you only acknowledge their presence if you happen to make eye contact with a quick "hey" or "hi, how ya doin?" as you brush by them, not expecting a real answer. As I tried to make it through the door, an elderly man was making his way out the door. I held open the door for him and his eyes met mine--so I just smiled and said hello...without any thought really. Immediately, he came at me--
---pushing me away from the door outside again on the street...
"Yea Hey. My name is Walter. How are you?"
"I am well," I told him. "How about yourself?"
"I'm lousy and horrible. What is your name?"
"Colleen," I answer. Now my client is looking at me like I'M crazy. "I'm sorry that you are lousy and horrible."
"Yea well nobody ever wants to shake my hand."
It's weird how that prompted me to immediately extend my hand to him, "Oh I'm sorry, how's it going?"
"That's a forced and chiseled hand-shake. That doesn't count. I don't want that.....I'll shake with someone who WANTS to shake my hand."
Dag.
"ok then. Sorry. We don't need to shake hands." I say as I immediately pull my hand away.
This is when Walter positions himself directly beside me and begins his rant...
"....No one ever shakes my hand. You know I stood out here in front of everyone all morning and not once did anyone say hello. No one ever says hello to me. And I don't need another person out here to ask me for spare change or a cigarette or a light. That's all anyone ever speaks to me for. This is a horrible, awful day. It's always a horrible, awful day. All these people want out here is some change or a light. And I don't need another wrong number either. People call wrong numbers to my phone. My phone rings and rings and it's never even for me. The other day I had phone calls asking for Lucy and Roger--those people are not me. I told the people on the phone to dial more carefully next time because I don't need it anymore. I really don't..."
"wow, well. It sounds like you are having a bad day. I hope it gets better," I say.
"It won't. It won't ever get better. Nobody says hello."
"Hm, well that sucks then. I guess that's just the way of the world nowadays."
A silent stare.
So I ask, "Have you noticed a difference in how people are over the years?"
He had the saddest face. "No. Nobody ever says hello."
And then that awkward silence.
"Well. I hope your day gets better. I have to get inside. Take care and see you later."
"Maybe you won't!"
Too true I think to myself as I make my way into the building again.
I go to my meeting, which lasts about an hour. My client and I leave. As we approach the doorway, I can see him standing outside the door still in the same spot he was when I went in. My client turns to me and says "He stands out there every single day."
"So you know him?" I ask my client.
The look on her face was of obvious disgust, "No."
I push the door open and manage to put my hand on his shoulder as I make my way through. "Alright, Walter," I say. "It was nice meeting you. I hope you're day gets better."
"It won't. It's been horrible already--"
I keep walking. The crowds begin filling in the gap between us. But I can still hear his miserable voice behind me. Soon I feel his hand on my shoulder.
"Were you the one I was talking to earlier about not getting a handshake?"
I stop and turn around. "yea, you mentioned it."
"Well I just got my very first handshake of the whole day while you were inside." His face displayed excitement and amazement.
"Wow really? That's great!"
That quickly, his miserable face returned. "No it's not. It's terrible."
"Why is it terrible??"
"Because I stood out here for THREE HOURS and it took THAT long for someone to finally shake my hand."
"Well...I'm glad that someone finally did," I respond.
His look of excitement returned. "I wish you liked to be hugged," he said.
My client gasped in shocked.
"Well," I said. "If I hugged you now, you would say it's a 'forced or chiseled' hug and you say that's no good."
The shape of a smile formed across his face. His arms spread out and raised slightly.
What did I just get myself into, is what I should've been thinking to myself. It's what I normally would have been thinking to myself. But something in me just drove me to smile and embrace him.
It was a very friendly and gentle hug...
...shared by two strangers....in the middle of a busy city street...in the middle of the afternoon....
...so simple,
yet...it's something I'll never forget.
this took a while
just wanted to share a story that is very special to me about my grandmother who passed away in may of 2005.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
this took a while....
My grandmother (mom-mom) died on May 10, 2005. It took me a whole year to write this entry. I'm not sure if the reason it's taken me so long is conscious, subconscious emotional restraint, or just never taking the time to actually do it, though, it's been on my mind to do since that date.
Mom-mom was not like my second mother, she WAS my second mother. It's difficult to even describe relationships you have with close people because of the fact that their being is totally ingrained and meshed with your own. There were times in my youth when I lived with my grandparents. There were times when they practically lived with my immediate family. Listing my memories of mom-mom would take the amount of time it took to live them. The love she shared with the family is immeasurable.
She grew up on Hope Street in Fishtown and dated a boy with no car back in the 1940's. Mom-mom said he was cute and came from a good family. This boy would treat mom-mom to dates - movies & ice cream. His best friend would help out by driving him and mom-mom on their dates. On one particular date, his friend's car got a flat tire. Mom-mom's date, being the gentleman he was, got out of the car to help his friend with the flat tire. Mom-mom waited alone in the backseat until suddenly, her date's friend slid into the seat with her. He told her to dump the zero and get with the hero. Mom-mom quickly considered the situation and knew the guy with the car was a much better choice. It wasn't long after that, the two eloped and started their lives of sixty-one years together.
Shortly after their marriage, my grandfather was stationed in Fairbanks, Alaska during the Korean War. He moved there and a few weeks later, mom-mom took a small jet plane to meet him there. She was scared to death. She had never been off of Hope St! My grandparents lived in Alaska for a few years and it was there that their oldest son (Katie's dad) was born.
Mom-mom wrote about her time in Alaska. She wrote about how the town they lived in was only two blocks long and how the temp would get so low that her hand had once frozen to a doorknob. She also wrote about the house fire they survived and the moose their friends had hunted and eaten. (She had pictures to prove it!)
Soon enough, the new family moved back to Philadelphia and created a large family of five children and nine grandchildren.
In the later years, mom-mom developed a viscious cough and was diagnosed with emphasema. In the summer of 2004, she developed lung cancer, shortly after my grandparents finally moved out of Oxford Circle, where they spent many many years, and into Fox Chase.
In October of 2004, mom-mom began to experience symptoms of the cancer, like weakness, and began treatments. A few weeks before that, she had begun to pack suitcases full of clean undergarments and socks, and stock the freezer with prepared meals. She had always handled the money and bills so she taught my grandfather how to write checks and cook a few meals. I still wonder if she knew.
It was a rough few months up until Christmas. My family had spent Thanksgiving at the nursing home with her. Even then, mom-mom said she was too young to be there.
At Christmas, she seemed to be getting better and was able to spend the holiday in her new home with her family. The first few months of the year, she was fairly stable. Around the end of February, her health began to go downhill with back to back hospital stays. By the end of April, mom-mom was beginning to "lose it."
She wasn't recognizing people. She referred to herself by her maiden name. She denied being married and cried out for her "daddy" to help her. It was heart-breaking. She was tearing off her clothes with extreme agitation.
Last year, Mother's Day was on May 8. That was the last day I saw her alive. About a week before, she finally entered hospice care. There was nothing more doctors could do and so the goal was to just make her "comfortable."
I remember seeing her that day. I've never seen anyone so sick. She laid there, totally non-responsive. Her breathing was slow and shallow. Her eyes were closed.
At the hospice, they give youa pamphlet to read about the stages of death. Everything I was reading, I had been seeing in front of my eyes with my grandmother.
My whole family visited her that day. She didn't respond or move for anyone. We were all just waiting.
At one point, I had an opportunity to be alone with mom-mom, along with my pop and his sister. I grabbed mom-mom's hands and told her I loved her. At that moment, her lips started to move a bit. Her hand pulled away from mine, and she managed to point to her heart and then to me. Then she lifted her arm and motioned for me to come close to her. I lowered my body into her arms and we embraced. I knew in that moment that she recognized me -- maybe not as myself -- but she recognized me as family, as love.
I've experienced a lot of people's death around me: friends, clients, family - but mom-mom is the first death of someone close to me that I've experienced in my adult life and that moment to say goodbye is one I will always cherish.
Upon leaving the hospice on Mother's Day last year, my family and I had dinner together. After dinner, my grandfather received a call from the hospice nurse basically saying, "this is it. you should come back as soon as you can." And that is what my entire family did, except for myself and my parents and brother. We had said our goodbyes and saw no point in belaboring that.
After spending that entire night and following day at the hospice with mom-mom, my family was physically and emotionally drained. The doctors were concerned, stating, "She's ready to die. Why isn't she? What is she waiting for?" She was able to see all her children and grandchildren. She heard from her son and his family in Florida on the phone. What else could it be?
Katie called me from the hospice to update me on the situation. No one in the family had been to sleep yet or left the hospice. I know mom-mom would never miss a family function. Could it be that she didn't want to die with her whole family around her? Katie and I agreed on this and suggested that the family go home, try to get comfortable, and rest. It was tough, but everyone took the suggestion, even pop.
Sure enough, at 5:00am on the morning of May 10, mom-mom passed.
What terrible pain it is to watch and wait for someone you love to die.
Two of my good friends watched their mother die this past Mother's Day. It was unexpected and shocking, yet still just as painful and traumatic to watch someone die over a time period of a few months.
It's also a similar feeling I get when thinking about the loss of my own mother. Of course, this is difficult for me to explain and even more difficult for others to understand because she is not dead. She is very much alive and she is still my mother and my father's wife. But after her stroke, she and my family have experienced such a loss that we deal with everyday. Things will NEVER be the same again and we grieve every day.
On the day before mom-mom passed, pop turned to us all and said...
"I know that when you look at your mother/grandmother, you see a very old and sick lady - bald and dying in that bed. But that's not how I see her. When I look at her, I see that beautiful young girl I took off of Hope Street. That same one that got off that plane in Alaska, and I knew I was the happiest man in the world."
Things did change a lot in their lifetime. Bad times, good times. Healthy times, sick times. Fun times, dull times. Their bodies changed. Their abilities to do things changed. Their health changed. But their feelings never did. If anything, they grew stronger. Even...through it all.
I pray to God everyday to give me this strength, to be grateful for what is here, to help me recover in times of loss, and to maintain in times of change and struggle. I pray for the strength to forgive and to be sorry. I pray for the patience to live the way it is and the courage to live the way it is meant to be.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
this took a while....
My grandmother (mom-mom) died on May 10, 2005. It took me a whole year to write this entry. I'm not sure if the reason it's taken me so long is conscious, subconscious emotional restraint, or just never taking the time to actually do it, though, it's been on my mind to do since that date.
Mom-mom was not like my second mother, she WAS my second mother. It's difficult to even describe relationships you have with close people because of the fact that their being is totally ingrained and meshed with your own. There were times in my youth when I lived with my grandparents. There were times when they practically lived with my immediate family. Listing my memories of mom-mom would take the amount of time it took to live them. The love she shared with the family is immeasurable.
She grew up on Hope Street in Fishtown and dated a boy with no car back in the 1940's. Mom-mom said he was cute and came from a good family. This boy would treat mom-mom to dates - movies & ice cream. His best friend would help out by driving him and mom-mom on their dates. On one particular date, his friend's car got a flat tire. Mom-mom's date, being the gentleman he was, got out of the car to help his friend with the flat tire. Mom-mom waited alone in the backseat until suddenly, her date's friend slid into the seat with her. He told her to dump the zero and get with the hero. Mom-mom quickly considered the situation and knew the guy with the car was a much better choice. It wasn't long after that, the two eloped and started their lives of sixty-one years together.
Shortly after their marriage, my grandfather was stationed in Fairbanks, Alaska during the Korean War. He moved there and a few weeks later, mom-mom took a small jet plane to meet him there. She was scared to death. She had never been off of Hope St! My grandparents lived in Alaska for a few years and it was there that their oldest son (Katie's dad) was born.
Mom-mom wrote about her time in Alaska. She wrote about how the town they lived in was only two blocks long and how the temp would get so low that her hand had once frozen to a doorknob. She also wrote about the house fire they survived and the moose their friends had hunted and eaten. (She had pictures to prove it!)
Soon enough, the new family moved back to Philadelphia and created a large family of five children and nine grandchildren.
In the later years, mom-mom developed a viscious cough and was diagnosed with emphasema. In the summer of 2004, she developed lung cancer, shortly after my grandparents finally moved out of Oxford Circle, where they spent many many years, and into Fox Chase.
In October of 2004, mom-mom began to experience symptoms of the cancer, like weakness, and began treatments. A few weeks before that, she had begun to pack suitcases full of clean undergarments and socks, and stock the freezer with prepared meals. She had always handled the money and bills so she taught my grandfather how to write checks and cook a few meals. I still wonder if she knew.
It was a rough few months up until Christmas. My family had spent Thanksgiving at the nursing home with her. Even then, mom-mom said she was too young to be there.
At Christmas, she seemed to be getting better and was able to spend the holiday in her new home with her family. The first few months of the year, she was fairly stable. Around the end of February, her health began to go downhill with back to back hospital stays. By the end of April, mom-mom was beginning to "lose it."
She wasn't recognizing people. She referred to herself by her maiden name. She denied being married and cried out for her "daddy" to help her. It was heart-breaking. She was tearing off her clothes with extreme agitation.
Last year, Mother's Day was on May 8. That was the last day I saw her alive. About a week before, she finally entered hospice care. There was nothing more doctors could do and so the goal was to just make her "comfortable."
I remember seeing her that day. I've never seen anyone so sick. She laid there, totally non-responsive. Her breathing was slow and shallow. Her eyes were closed.
At the hospice, they give youa pamphlet to read about the stages of death. Everything I was reading, I had been seeing in front of my eyes with my grandmother.
My whole family visited her that day. She didn't respond or move for anyone. We were all just waiting.
At one point, I had an opportunity to be alone with mom-mom, along with my pop and his sister. I grabbed mom-mom's hands and told her I loved her. At that moment, her lips started to move a bit. Her hand pulled away from mine, and she managed to point to her heart and then to me. Then she lifted her arm and motioned for me to come close to her. I lowered my body into her arms and we embraced. I knew in that moment that she recognized me -- maybe not as myself -- but she recognized me as family, as love.
I've experienced a lot of people's death around me: friends, clients, family - but mom-mom is the first death of someone close to me that I've experienced in my adult life and that moment to say goodbye is one I will always cherish.
Upon leaving the hospice on Mother's Day last year, my family and I had dinner together. After dinner, my grandfather received a call from the hospice nurse basically saying, "this is it. you should come back as soon as you can." And that is what my entire family did, except for myself and my parents and brother. We had said our goodbyes and saw no point in belaboring that.
After spending that entire night and following day at the hospice with mom-mom, my family was physically and emotionally drained. The doctors were concerned, stating, "She's ready to die. Why isn't she? What is she waiting for?" She was able to see all her children and grandchildren. She heard from her son and his family in Florida on the phone. What else could it be?
Katie called me from the hospice to update me on the situation. No one in the family had been to sleep yet or left the hospice. I know mom-mom would never miss a family function. Could it be that she didn't want to die with her whole family around her? Katie and I agreed on this and suggested that the family go home, try to get comfortable, and rest. It was tough, but everyone took the suggestion, even pop.
Sure enough, at 5:00am on the morning of May 10, mom-mom passed.
What terrible pain it is to watch and wait for someone you love to die.
Two of my good friends watched their mother die this past Mother's Day. It was unexpected and shocking, yet still just as painful and traumatic to watch someone die over a time period of a few months.
It's also a similar feeling I get when thinking about the loss of my own mother. Of course, this is difficult for me to explain and even more difficult for others to understand because she is not dead. She is very much alive and she is still my mother and my father's wife. But after her stroke, she and my family have experienced such a loss that we deal with everyday. Things will NEVER be the same again and we grieve every day.
On the day before mom-mom passed, pop turned to us all and said...
"I know that when you look at your mother/grandmother, you see a very old and sick lady - bald and dying in that bed. But that's not how I see her. When I look at her, I see that beautiful young girl I took off of Hope Street. That same one that got off that plane in Alaska, and I knew I was the happiest man in the world."
Things did change a lot in their lifetime. Bad times, good times. Healthy times, sick times. Fun times, dull times. Their bodies changed. Their abilities to do things changed. Their health changed. But their feelings never did. If anything, they grew stronger. Even...through it all.
I pray to God everyday to give me this strength, to be grateful for what is here, to help me recover in times of loss, and to maintain in times of change and struggle. I pray for the strength to forgive and to be sorry. I pray for the patience to live the way it is and the courage to live the way it is meant to be.
Grace.
this is just a little blog i wrote after spending a night working at the Grace Cafe back in the winter of 2006.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Grace.
Over the weekend, I had the humbling experience of working at a newly set-up "night-time drop-in center" for the homeless in our city.
It is simply a place for homeless folks who are, for one reason or another, not ready to come into shelter. It is a place only open during the winter months and it serves as a safe haven for folks to come in and get warm.
Needless to say, these folks may not the be most stable of individuals. These are people who are newly-homeless and may not be aware of or ready to accept the services that are available to them, or they are homeless "old-timers," who may still be too mentally unhealthy to accept treatment and services.
The other night was a "Code Blue" and there were nearly 100 people that had either passed through for some warmth or found a place to lie down on the floor amongst a room of crowded people in an attempt to sleep somewhere "safe and warm" for the few hours a night the place is open.
I encountered many people that night. Some who wanted to talk to me all night and others who didn't want to even look at me, let alone say one word.
Most times, in my regular day job, it's easy to pass through the day and not take one thing out of it to make it all worth while. Some days, it's just a job. I work with people who were formerly homeless, and most likely have come from similar life situations as those I encountered at the safe haven. Too many details (some necessary details) get in the way. The people with whom I am very close to these days have some understanding of my struggles - both personally and professionally.
As part of my ongoing life lesson of taking things along with me and letting go, this experience comes to mind.
After a long needed retreat that I took with my coworkers, I had learned that the phrase, "Be not afraid" is written in the Bible 365 times. There are 365 days in a year.
When closing up the safe haven on Sunday morning, was when I witnessed first hand, a huge group of people that really didn't have a plan of where they could go next. It was breakfast time, and they didn't even know what they were going to eat or where they were going to find food. Luckily, a few of the folks knew about a church that distributes breakfast to the homeless on Sunday mornings and they happily spread the word. A few others approached me and asked, "Where should I go? Where can I go?"
Of course, I refered them to Outreach. I grabbed some pieces of paper and a pen and began to write down the address and the phone number for Project H.O.M.E. And that was when one woman approached me again. She handed me the small piece of paper that I had just written some information on for her and turned it over. Printed on the back was a prompt to write your own prayer for the day.
"Write a prayer for me today," she says to me.
"Write a prayer for you today?" I respond.
"Yes ma'am. Write a prayer for me to have with me today. Write something about being scared."
I was caught offguard. With my experience as a social worker, I realize that this is one of those "ethical conflicts" that we are suppose to redirect clients back to setting their own goals as per their own beliefs.
But I was moved. I took the pen and wrote on her paper.
I wrote, "Be not afraid."
I shared with her what I learned. She smiled.
I think that's just what we both needed right then and there.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Grace.
Over the weekend, I had the humbling experience of working at a newly set-up "night-time drop-in center" for the homeless in our city.
It is simply a place for homeless folks who are, for one reason or another, not ready to come into shelter. It is a place only open during the winter months and it serves as a safe haven for folks to come in and get warm.
Needless to say, these folks may not the be most stable of individuals. These are people who are newly-homeless and may not be aware of or ready to accept the services that are available to them, or they are homeless "old-timers," who may still be too mentally unhealthy to accept treatment and services.
The other night was a "Code Blue" and there were nearly 100 people that had either passed through for some warmth or found a place to lie down on the floor amongst a room of crowded people in an attempt to sleep somewhere "safe and warm" for the few hours a night the place is open.
I encountered many people that night. Some who wanted to talk to me all night and others who didn't want to even look at me, let alone say one word.
Most times, in my regular day job, it's easy to pass through the day and not take one thing out of it to make it all worth while. Some days, it's just a job. I work with people who were formerly homeless, and most likely have come from similar life situations as those I encountered at the safe haven. Too many details (some necessary details) get in the way. The people with whom I am very close to these days have some understanding of my struggles - both personally and professionally.
As part of my ongoing life lesson of taking things along with me and letting go, this experience comes to mind.
After a long needed retreat that I took with my coworkers, I had learned that the phrase, "Be not afraid" is written in the Bible 365 times. There are 365 days in a year.
When closing up the safe haven on Sunday morning, was when I witnessed first hand, a huge group of people that really didn't have a plan of where they could go next. It was breakfast time, and they didn't even know what they were going to eat or where they were going to find food. Luckily, a few of the folks knew about a church that distributes breakfast to the homeless on Sunday mornings and they happily spread the word. A few others approached me and asked, "Where should I go? Where can I go?"
Of course, I refered them to Outreach. I grabbed some pieces of paper and a pen and began to write down the address and the phone number for Project H.O.M.E. And that was when one woman approached me again. She handed me the small piece of paper that I had just written some information on for her and turned it over. Printed on the back was a prompt to write your own prayer for the day.
"Write a prayer for me today," she says to me.
"Write a prayer for you today?" I respond.
"Yes ma'am. Write a prayer for me to have with me today. Write something about being scared."
I was caught offguard. With my experience as a social worker, I realize that this is one of those "ethical conflicts" that we are suppose to redirect clients back to setting their own goals as per their own beliefs.
But I was moved. I took the pen and wrote on her paper.
I wrote, "Be not afraid."
I shared with her what I learned. She smiled.
I think that's just what we both needed right then and there.
two weeks of accentuating the evil
2weeks
everything else is now null and void now that there is undeniable circumstance
trusting illusions holds inevitable consequence
recklessly riding waves between hopelessness and desperation
hopefully anticipating empowerment and liberation
emotional debts may never be reconciled
as nuclear attack approaches the miracle mile
running after love while standing in place
perhaps it's not to create
but only to appreciate
desperately praying for you to reciprocate.
june07
everything else is now null and void now that there is undeniable circumstance
trusting illusions holds inevitable consequence
recklessly riding waves between hopelessness and desperation
hopefully anticipating empowerment and liberation
emotional debts may never be reconciled
as nuclear attack approaches the miracle mile
running after love while standing in place
perhaps it's not to create
but only to appreciate
desperately praying for you to reciprocate.
june07
we made trips to towers....
We made trips to towers….
Freak status was never good enough inside a head that’s filled with dust and nicotine dreams. Routine fits. What design must he live in when he’ll just be miserable anyway? Or I guess until he finds company that loves misery. or childish passion in eyes that challenge his gaze towards gigantic bright red antenna towers off of 76. fuck those routine fits. So start going to meetings and lectures and classes with scores and scales that learn to lose and gain fair pasty skin and a nice ass to go with some jeans and we’re
Dreaming still…
….until 2:30am when the phone rings yet more distant in your ear than in mine so of course I’m startled and shaken by the feeling of a heart randomly skipping beats.
Godblessyou.
But I must pay attention now. Stay focused. Time goes by so much faster when I do things like this. But slower still. Slow. What a fucked up way of thinking?
Way of doing?
To tease a word that’s just a word you heard from little drunken birds, but in the same context you arrange that word in time with live jazz and road trips and company that challenges misery. And in the true sense of your karma and energy, there are no plans.
There’s only moonraker & toll booths. Incense, green faeries, Red Bank, Apple Pie Firetower. Sweat lodges, wicca. The Phoenix Sun & the Cherokee. Your scent. Morphine. Was the initial plan to kill me?
I guess it didn’t work.
2001.
Freak status was never good enough inside a head that’s filled with dust and nicotine dreams. Routine fits. What design must he live in when he’ll just be miserable anyway? Or I guess until he finds company that loves misery. or childish passion in eyes that challenge his gaze towards gigantic bright red antenna towers off of 76. fuck those routine fits. So start going to meetings and lectures and classes with scores and scales that learn to lose and gain fair pasty skin and a nice ass to go with some jeans and we’re
Dreaming still…
….until 2:30am when the phone rings yet more distant in your ear than in mine so of course I’m startled and shaken by the feeling of a heart randomly skipping beats.
Godblessyou.
But I must pay attention now. Stay focused. Time goes by so much faster when I do things like this. But slower still. Slow. What a fucked up way of thinking?
Way of doing?
To tease a word that’s just a word you heard from little drunken birds, but in the same context you arrange that word in time with live jazz and road trips and company that challenges misery. And in the true sense of your karma and energy, there are no plans.
There’s only moonraker & toll booths. Incense, green faeries, Red Bank, Apple Pie Firetower. Sweat lodges, wicca. The Phoenix Sun & the Cherokee. Your scent. Morphine. Was the initial plan to kill me?
I guess it didn’t work.
2001.
valentine's day.
.valentines day.
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” he cries. Screaming and shaking. Jumping and schizing. Can’t you see me? I can’t see!
Right in front of my eyes, I must be able to see but I hear and I don’t see.
But I feel. Like I can’t see this knot in my neck. Lower back I can feel. I can feel. Fast.
Like the pulse of a beating drum. Attractive. Sweet. Jazz. Drummer. I can’t see tho. I feel. I can feel. Feel the frustration. But me? I’m a bitch.
A frustrated girl is a bitch but what is a frustrated boy? A hard penis teased by some bitch?
Hormonal harmony!!
We feel. Despair. Like we are not allowed. Who can feel? Certainly not us. Smog. Like this glamour. Attractive bodies. Hair. Breasts. What an attractive mess! I feel anxious. Nervous. As eyes wander. Paranoia. Over my shoulder to the blond. The red head. The 2 tall slender legs. Anyone. Who is behind me. In distance. In age.
That shit is HEAVY
Heavy like heavy circus rings under eyes that can’t see because we don’t see.
Like
I could not see that his eyes were blinded by what he feared.
“it’s only water, babe. It’s not gonna hurt you.” Tell me what you feel.
You must feel.
Feel the knot in my neck. Feel the neck of the bottle of Yuengling. The Black and tan. To wish you were a man. An irish man?
Then Tell your wife how you won medals down in flanders. And then Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away or how I made you run away.
Have you felt your own jaw. Face lately. I can’t see but you can feel that pain.
He is only gripping it by the neck? Isn’t that the pain I thought he felt before?
And he will always do it anyway.
He is Timidity disguised by alcohol breath.
021402-cmchale
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” he cries. Screaming and shaking. Jumping and schizing. Can’t you see me? I can’t see!
Right in front of my eyes, I must be able to see but I hear and I don’t see.
But I feel. Like I can’t see this knot in my neck. Lower back I can feel. I can feel. Fast.
Like the pulse of a beating drum. Attractive. Sweet. Jazz. Drummer. I can’t see tho. I feel. I can feel. Feel the frustration. But me? I’m a bitch.
A frustrated girl is a bitch but what is a frustrated boy? A hard penis teased by some bitch?
Hormonal harmony!!
We feel. Despair. Like we are not allowed. Who can feel? Certainly not us. Smog. Like this glamour. Attractive bodies. Hair. Breasts. What an attractive mess! I feel anxious. Nervous. As eyes wander. Paranoia. Over my shoulder to the blond. The red head. The 2 tall slender legs. Anyone. Who is behind me. In distance. In age.
That shit is HEAVY
Heavy like heavy circus rings under eyes that can’t see because we don’t see.
Like
I could not see that his eyes were blinded by what he feared.
“it’s only water, babe. It’s not gonna hurt you.” Tell me what you feel.
You must feel.
Feel the knot in my neck. Feel the neck of the bottle of Yuengling. The Black and tan. To wish you were a man. An irish man?
Then Tell your wife how you won medals down in flanders. And then Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away or how I made you run away.
Have you felt your own jaw. Face lately. I can’t see but you can feel that pain.
He is only gripping it by the neck? Isn’t that the pain I thought he felt before?
And he will always do it anyway.
He is Timidity disguised by alcohol breath.
021402-cmchale
this
.this.
…and I’m not sure what’s become of this. I feel like this is continuing from another part. As soon as I get myself back on track, this thing comes back again and starts breaking my heart. I thought I got away from the bastard of the moon and into the light of the new day. But then the phone rings and I hear his voice and somehow this is all back in my face.
I didn’t mean to reference again
I didn’t mean to fall back to when…this was all I needed.
I didn’t mean to hear this again.
I didn’t mean to see you again….
…and I’m not sure what to do about all this. I don’t really want to weight it all on just one more kiss. You don’t thrill me anymore. But still if you’re near me, this heart keeps on beating til it’s tired and sore. So I won’t reference anymore. I’ll return your bottle when I get up to your car door. And I won’t slam it anymore. So you won’t hear it. And I won’t hear it again….and we won’t fall back to when…
…this was all we needed
I’m not crying anymore tears. I have new songs to hear. I’m not tripping anymore. I’m tired of falling and landing face down on your floor. There are colors in the air that are flimsy and must be handled with care. I leave the house and my ears are filled with sound. It moves me to drive home past the place where all the plans come down. The earth looks so spooky where there is so much empty space. So I imagine his face.
And then we have …this.
2003.
…and I’m not sure what’s become of this. I feel like this is continuing from another part. As soon as I get myself back on track, this thing comes back again and starts breaking my heart. I thought I got away from the bastard of the moon and into the light of the new day. But then the phone rings and I hear his voice and somehow this is all back in my face.
I didn’t mean to reference again
I didn’t mean to fall back to when…this was all I needed.
I didn’t mean to hear this again.
I didn’t mean to see you again….
…and I’m not sure what to do about all this. I don’t really want to weight it all on just one more kiss. You don’t thrill me anymore. But still if you’re near me, this heart keeps on beating til it’s tired and sore. So I won’t reference anymore. I’ll return your bottle when I get up to your car door. And I won’t slam it anymore. So you won’t hear it. And I won’t hear it again….and we won’t fall back to when…
…this was all we needed
I’m not crying anymore tears. I have new songs to hear. I’m not tripping anymore. I’m tired of falling and landing face down on your floor. There are colors in the air that are flimsy and must be handled with care. I leave the house and my ears are filled with sound. It moves me to drive home past the place where all the plans come down. The earth looks so spooky where there is so much empty space. So I imagine his face.
And then we have …this.
2003.
she
“she”
(5699)
she has provoked me to do this
she makes all these words come out wrong
she makes me put on a smile and dance
she makes me sing this song
she screams through my silence
she gets lost in the light
and me, I pretend not to notice
her endless circles around me each night!
who the hell taught her that she is a palace?
she has been missing the point
maybe she could only be a temple
or at least a fast food joint
she has been twisting my arms
she has been beating my face red
she perspires excessively
staining the lavender sheets on my bed
she wishes I was dead
she clings to every hour
she pisses in the shower
she sucks all the glory and power
out of me
(not that I had any
to begin…)
So sin!
she provoked me to do this
her energy swings my fists
she has my legs spread to his lies
she watches him devour my soul
and a side order of french fries
and she makes me cry his name out loud in my sleep!
she tangles me up in my sheets!
she kisses my feet?
she has provoked me to do this
she thinks its time you know
she’ll give him one last kiss
before it’s time for me to go……
(5699)
she has provoked me to do this
she makes all these words come out wrong
she makes me put on a smile and dance
she makes me sing this song
she screams through my silence
she gets lost in the light
and me, I pretend not to notice
her endless circles around me each night!
who the hell taught her that she is a palace?
she has been missing the point
maybe she could only be a temple
or at least a fast food joint
she has been twisting my arms
she has been beating my face red
she perspires excessively
staining the lavender sheets on my bed
she wishes I was dead
she clings to every hour
she pisses in the shower
she sucks all the glory and power
out of me
(not that I had any
to begin…)
So sin!
she provoked me to do this
her energy swings my fists
she has my legs spread to his lies
she watches him devour my soul
and a side order of french fries
and she makes me cry his name out loud in my sleep!
she tangles me up in my sheets!
she kisses my feet?
she has provoked me to do this
she thinks its time you know
she’ll give him one last kiss
before it’s time for me to go……
a stupid habit.
i had promised not to reference but i notice it still tends to happen when i have no patience. when i'm nervous to not have a fresh verse resting on the surface or on the verge of any conscious place or state or Providence that lacks confidence--or even residence. in an absence of innocence, i rely on lyrical precedence. that past i am to leave behind as a road unwinds but in the mind, i know it continues. i'm reminded each time i glance into the rearview....
anti-body
Anti-body.
interesting young lady.
you're a very sick girl.
those silly antibodies
are totally off the wall.
we can't believe you're this young
experiencing this situation
you've already run yourself through nine lives
and still you have not yet died.
cm41906
interesting young lady.
you're a very sick girl.
those silly antibodies
are totally off the wall.
we can't believe you're this young
experiencing this situation
you've already run yourself through nine lives
and still you have not yet died.
cm41906
pocket.
I dreamt of your rolling eyes as my call sunk back into your pocket
Mom always said what one does behind the backs of others is what they do to you
There was nothing I could do and there was nothing I could say
Even though I was dreaming during the day. And dreaming while I was wide awake.
Mom always said what one does behind the backs of others is what they do to you
There was nothing I could do and there was nothing I could say
Even though I was dreaming during the day. And dreaming while I was wide awake.
shake
shake.
he's as broke
as your heart
your mind won't
work right either
save your graces
and baby please,
don't go back on your word
shake
your brain and hear what's inside for this year's july
though
you know he can't find you
you live by what you heard
tap to the beat of your turn signal and drive away.
it's his mud slide
and to your surprise
it's your shot too
you are there for all his repairs
but he won't take a bullet for you
shake
your fist and get pissed now
you're gonna fight for him to live again
though you know he won't mind you
you shield your eyes
from his view
tap to the beat of your turn signal and drive away.
071506
he's as broke
as your heart
your mind won't
work right either
save your graces
and baby please,
don't go back on your word
shake
your brain and hear what's inside for this year's july
though
you know he can't find you
you live by what you heard
tap to the beat of your turn signal and drive away.
it's his mud slide
and to your surprise
it's your shot too
you are there for all his repairs
but he won't take a bullet for you
shake
your fist and get pissed now
you're gonna fight for him to live again
though you know he won't mind you
you shield your eyes
from his view
tap to the beat of your turn signal and drive away.
071506
serenity
Life reminds me of the trauma.
every shower.
every footstep on cement.
every cut and bruise.
avoid triggers.
avoid people.
avoid places.
avoid things.
God,
grant me serenity.
And change those things
i cannot
And accept me into the arms of Wisdom.
What's the difference?
In these times, those words don't inspire me.
They spoil me.
They feed me
everyday
What comes too easily?
Certainly not prayer,
......or hair.
What strength do we have left?
cm031206
every shower.
every footstep on cement.
every cut and bruise.
avoid triggers.
avoid people.
avoid places.
avoid things.
God,
grant me serenity.
And change those things
i cannot
And accept me into the arms of Wisdom.
What's the difference?
In these times, those words don't inspire me.
They spoil me.
They feed me
everyday
What comes too easily?
Certainly not prayer,
......or hair.
What strength do we have left?
cm031206
passenger side
Picture the skyline
Alongside the highway
While I’m driving home
From your place early Sunday
Morning
Picture the sweet sin
We engaged in while hearing the wind
Creeping in through the passenger side
Window
Picking you part so we never come together
Picking me apart so we never stay together
Today your tie is straight
Today your hands won’t shake
And you’ll hide those eyes
You’ll hide those eyes from me this Sunday.
2007
Alongside the highway
While I’m driving home
From your place early Sunday
Morning
Picture the sweet sin
We engaged in while hearing the wind
Creeping in through the passenger side
Window
Picking you part so we never come together
Picking me apart so we never stay together
Today your tie is straight
Today your hands won’t shake
And you’ll hide those eyes
You’ll hide those eyes from me this Sunday.
2007
Mom-Mom
"Mom-Mom is Home"
It was made clear what I didn't understand
when I stood by your side and held onto your hand
No spoken words or lengthy conversation
Just a feeling of comfort and pure inspiration
Like the hands of an artist, you created a home
And over the years, your creation has grown
Passed along through your every action
And rooted deeply in our every tradition
Home was found as powdered sugar in your purse
When we didn't feel well, you were our favorite nurse
You laid in our beds with us so we could get some rest
Your cheesecake has been voted to be the very best
Home is found in holidays and family videos
Trips to "Dis" and the Wildwood bungalo
Home is in your pixie dolls and in your gentle voice we heard
When we read your faithful birthday cards that underline every word
Home is found in late night TV and crossword puzzle books
Sunday outings and dinner at the Golden Eagle that "maybe wasn't good."
Home is in your dedication even when the times were tough
And how you took the time to touch each and every one of us
Now there is no more struggle and you are finally peaceful
Each of us continue to follow your example
And we remember in everything we do
That our home is always in you....
In Loving Memory of Elizabeth M. Strunk
May 10, 2005
by cmchale05112005
It was made clear what I didn't understand
when I stood by your side and held onto your hand
No spoken words or lengthy conversation
Just a feeling of comfort and pure inspiration
Like the hands of an artist, you created a home
And over the years, your creation has grown
Passed along through your every action
And rooted deeply in our every tradition
Home was found as powdered sugar in your purse
When we didn't feel well, you were our favorite nurse
You laid in our beds with us so we could get some rest
Your cheesecake has been voted to be the very best
Home is found in holidays and family videos
Trips to "Dis" and the Wildwood bungalo
Home is in your pixie dolls and in your gentle voice we heard
When we read your faithful birthday cards that underline every word
Home is found in late night TV and crossword puzzle books
Sunday outings and dinner at the Golden Eagle that "maybe wasn't good."
Home is in your dedication even when the times were tough
And how you took the time to touch each and every one of us
Now there is no more struggle and you are finally peaceful
Each of us continue to follow your example
And we remember in everything we do
That our home is always in you....
In Loving Memory of Elizabeth M. Strunk
May 10, 2005
by cmchale05112005
Loose Change
Loose change.
ever have the urge to say something
anything
a sentence continuously playing inside your mind?
you would say it to someone
anyone
just to know that you said something at the right time
I’ll change him.
yesterdays bad news headlines chase me down an alleyway of desire
a concrete valley cradling a shadow of a telephone wire
that doesn’t spread far enough for our words
to reach a body let alone a heart
when does the time apart start?
I’ll change it.
our skin reflects differently under a neon light
I wish I never had to say something
I wish I never had to point that out
maybe you’re confused
maybe we’re both just misunderstood (I could be so right for you.)
maybe you look at me and have a loss for words
maybe you really do care
but why must I always check my leg to make sure your hand is still there?
I better check my pockets for my change.
my change.
2001
ever have the urge to say something
anything
a sentence continuously playing inside your mind?
you would say it to someone
anyone
just to know that you said something at the right time
I’ll change him.
yesterdays bad news headlines chase me down an alleyway of desire
a concrete valley cradling a shadow of a telephone wire
that doesn’t spread far enough for our words
to reach a body let alone a heart
when does the time apart start?
I’ll change it.
our skin reflects differently under a neon light
I wish I never had to say something
I wish I never had to point that out
maybe you’re confused
maybe we’re both just misunderstood (I could be so right for you.)
maybe you look at me and have a loss for words
maybe you really do care
but why must I always check my leg to make sure your hand is still there?
I better check my pockets for my change.
my change.
2001
hungry
A hand brushed across my leg tonight,
so it's alright to not say or do all those things your chivalry tells you to.
it's clear i'm still here.
the sensation becomes enough to feed the hungry belly
i compromise for a portion that is dime-sized,
like a pill that makes me ill
because there is no coating.
there is no lining
to keep all secure and safe. the insides ache and my heartbeat shakes until i regurgitate
all that's me. sweet relief.
a man of many words
that taste so heavenly
and speechless action leaving one malnutured and unhealthy.
unwritten laws are flawed.
so it's alright to not say or do all those things your chivalry tells you to.
it's clear i'm still here.
the sensation becomes enough to feed the hungry belly
i compromise for a portion that is dime-sized,
like a pill that makes me ill
because there is no coating.
there is no lining
to keep all secure and safe. the insides ache and my heartbeat shakes until i regurgitate
all that's me. sweet relief.
a man of many words
that taste so heavenly
and speechless action leaving one malnutured and unhealthy.
unwritten laws are flawed.
hairless rapunzel
saturday, July 15, 2006
hairless rapunzel.
painting monet out of my window
and i fix my hair a different way today
to compliment the jumbled humming
of the public shuttle carrying folks to their graves
the red giraffe-like facade to my kingdom
tracing the crack from his veins
to my bedroom wall
the breeze from the ceiling fan shifts movement
to it's bed on the cement
after a two-story free fall
staring over my glasses, i watch him get into his car
spraying my perfume and spreading lotion onto my skin
speakers in his backseat and beside him his guitar
how could i ever mistake the love he's been in?
painting chagall on my window with my breath against the glass
i pull down the blinds to resist the skyline and the smoke
i wish i might on his falling ash, the questions i didn't ask
i'm a hairless rapunzel trapped on the second floor of a philly row-home
searching for escape routes in the mornings, while his slumber crowds the day
my lips are fixed on the emptiness between our words that fill the love that we make
those airy words are my poetry and his endearment is my sleep
painting picasso over my reflection on his glasses
nothing is where it's suppose to be
hairless rapunzel.
painting monet out of my window
and i fix my hair a different way today
to compliment the jumbled humming
of the public shuttle carrying folks to their graves
the red giraffe-like facade to my kingdom
tracing the crack from his veins
to my bedroom wall
the breeze from the ceiling fan shifts movement
to it's bed on the cement
after a two-story free fall
staring over my glasses, i watch him get into his car
spraying my perfume and spreading lotion onto my skin
speakers in his backseat and beside him his guitar
how could i ever mistake the love he's been in?
painting chagall on my window with my breath against the glass
i pull down the blinds to resist the skyline and the smoke
i wish i might on his falling ash, the questions i didn't ask
i'm a hairless rapunzel trapped on the second floor of a philly row-home
searching for escape routes in the mornings, while his slumber crowds the day
my lips are fixed on the emptiness between our words that fill the love that we make
those airy words are my poetry and his endearment is my sleep
painting picasso over my reflection on his glasses
nothing is where it's suppose to be
Monday, January 19, 2009
december steam
December steam.
Today is a pretty eyes day. She stands up to tell her whole story and I listen intensely on the edge of the swinging bench on her porch, shivering in pain from the cold breath pouring from the December sky. It’s like steam. I only relax when she sits again next to me confused about why she stood up in the first place. Well, we’re all still confused about the first place. That made her stay with him. Within the heat of a tight fist. Sweaty. Aching. Palms. We. Have. Tears. Within our hearts collecting from December steam and I still dream about not having a belly to bulge over my jeans? Today is still a pretty eyes day. Although 2 men. 2 bruised men. 2 bruised fag men. It seems crazy but they exist. Behind my eyes. In this room. In my mindspace. Cluttering it up with their shit. Tiny flames dangling from my ears and hair pushed on the ground. Stay put I breathe. “STAY PUT!” he screams. Why do we stay put? Stay put in happiness. Stay put in anger. Stay put in December steam. On a swinging porch bench. Thinking of Christmas lights reflecting off of the trees across from the alleyway where she’s down on her knees. We still stay put. And they stay put in their daily routines of walking and walking on busy city concrete while I scream and resist his black snotty kiss and grip on my breast. They stay put in a circular stare while fists and elbows stay put in her eyes while she cries on her pretty eyes day.
So, on another day, long before, he told me any man who didn’t want to sleep in bed beside me is crazy. Why must I only have pretty eyes to all the wrong guys?
Cmchale.122003
Today is a pretty eyes day. She stands up to tell her whole story and I listen intensely on the edge of the swinging bench on her porch, shivering in pain from the cold breath pouring from the December sky. It’s like steam. I only relax when she sits again next to me confused about why she stood up in the first place. Well, we’re all still confused about the first place. That made her stay with him. Within the heat of a tight fist. Sweaty. Aching. Palms. We. Have. Tears. Within our hearts collecting from December steam and I still dream about not having a belly to bulge over my jeans? Today is still a pretty eyes day. Although 2 men. 2 bruised men. 2 bruised fag men. It seems crazy but they exist. Behind my eyes. In this room. In my mindspace. Cluttering it up with their shit. Tiny flames dangling from my ears and hair pushed on the ground. Stay put I breathe. “STAY PUT!” he screams. Why do we stay put? Stay put in happiness. Stay put in anger. Stay put in December steam. On a swinging porch bench. Thinking of Christmas lights reflecting off of the trees across from the alleyway where she’s down on her knees. We still stay put. And they stay put in their daily routines of walking and walking on busy city concrete while I scream and resist his black snotty kiss and grip on my breast. They stay put in a circular stare while fists and elbows stay put in her eyes while she cries on her pretty eyes day.
So, on another day, long before, he told me any man who didn’t want to sleep in bed beside me is crazy. Why must I only have pretty eyes to all the wrong guys?
Cmchale.122003
dawson street
“dawson street.”
There is a neon sign reflecting on the window
My mind is moving fast but I’m driving so slow
Past the police car that’s speeding by the stop sign
Just to stop me one more time
From trying to get to the tiny room
That’s almost just out of sight
Except you can hear those innocent disciples
Who sing to the sinners through the smoky cheap colored Christmas lights.
I don’t know what’s worse.
Her denim ass straddling my leg or her pool stick in my face?
I just know of someone to give my last cigarette to in hopes of spreading that cancer just so that he can have a taste
Of sweet nicotine that runs so sweetly through his veins
But That’s horrible because he doesn’t even smoke
So I take that back
Even though my feelings are still the same.
Each set sails by
covered by the mouths of sinners in the rain
Occasionally the fluid movements pass through
An original piece of driftwood
But then we sin again – listening for teardrops
Drip, dripping from the leaky sky onto the hood of his van
Each drip & each tear, we hear
Is as beautiful as the graffiti on the back room walls
So dark that we cannot even feel our names
Sinners envious & curious to share their worst originals
And we applaud just the same.
.
c.mchale.081503
There is a neon sign reflecting on the window
My mind is moving fast but I’m driving so slow
Past the police car that’s speeding by the stop sign
Just to stop me one more time
From trying to get to the tiny room
That’s almost just out of sight
Except you can hear those innocent disciples
Who sing to the sinners through the smoky cheap colored Christmas lights.
I don’t know what’s worse.
Her denim ass straddling my leg or her pool stick in my face?
I just know of someone to give my last cigarette to in hopes of spreading that cancer just so that he can have a taste
Of sweet nicotine that runs so sweetly through his veins
But That’s horrible because he doesn’t even smoke
So I take that back
Even though my feelings are still the same.
Each set sails by
covered by the mouths of sinners in the rain
Occasionally the fluid movements pass through
An original piece of driftwood
But then we sin again – listening for teardrops
Drip, dripping from the leaky sky onto the hood of his van
Each drip & each tear, we hear
Is as beautiful as the graffiti on the back room walls
So dark that we cannot even feel our names
Sinners envious & curious to share their worst originals
And we applaud just the same.
.
c.mchale.081503
behind me.
52700
“Behind Me”
It’s the first drag and now, I’m waiting for the smoke to clear
She dropped off your coffee and left, but you’re still here
These precious moments alone are comfortably few
Leaving open opportunities for me to ask you…
Do you love me?
I was just wondering how much you care
And if I felt the same, would you still be sitting right there?
A hot ceramic mug keeps my voice silent
And tonight, I’ve never heard the kitchen so violent
Even the smoke is yearning for you to understand
But I ignore the both of you and cradle a napkin in my hand
I wonder if it feels me
The same way I can feel it brush against my skin
But we both know we haven’t known each other long enough
To let the other
In
So I crunch it into a ball of confusion
Volleying it from hand
to hand
right to left
left to right
two more sips and one more drag before we
take off into the night
hand in hand
Your body is mellow and mine is peaceful too
But curiosity begs me to ask you
Do you love me?
I guess I was just wondering how much you care
And if you couldn’t say what I’d like to hear
Would you be too afraid to still be standing right there?
Beside me
Before me
Behind me
I noticed in the morning, our skin reflects a different sort of hue
And inspired by this discovery, I long to ask you….
Do you love me?
I wonder how much you care
and even if you don’t respond, I’ll still be lying down right there
Beside you
Before you
Behind you…
“Behind Me”
It’s the first drag and now, I’m waiting for the smoke to clear
She dropped off your coffee and left, but you’re still here
These precious moments alone are comfortably few
Leaving open opportunities for me to ask you…
Do you love me?
I was just wondering how much you care
And if I felt the same, would you still be sitting right there?
A hot ceramic mug keeps my voice silent
And tonight, I’ve never heard the kitchen so violent
Even the smoke is yearning for you to understand
But I ignore the both of you and cradle a napkin in my hand
I wonder if it feels me
The same way I can feel it brush against my skin
But we both know we haven’t known each other long enough
To let the other
In
So I crunch it into a ball of confusion
Volleying it from hand
to hand
right to left
left to right
two more sips and one more drag before we
take off into the night
hand in hand
Your body is mellow and mine is peaceful too
But curiosity begs me to ask you
Do you love me?
I guess I was just wondering how much you care
And if you couldn’t say what I’d like to hear
Would you be too afraid to still be standing right there?
Beside me
Before me
Behind me
I noticed in the morning, our skin reflects a different sort of hue
And inspired by this discovery, I long to ask you….
Do you love me?
I wonder how much you care
and even if you don’t respond, I’ll still be lying down right there
Beside you
Before you
Behind you…
beautiful night.
.beautiful night.
She bought a book today
It’s already resting on the shelf
It’s time to start from the beginning
Now it’s time to start with herself
She draws out her map
Landmarks of her history in her head
These use to be her stops
But now she can drive past them instead
And she knows it’s alright…
…it’s a beautiful night.
Baptized by the same rain that falls on the sinners,
She takes shelter amongst them
Eyes stinging from the smoke-lights, dry tongue
From consuming them too often
The bass beats on their bones
A one piece symphony melts and covers her soul
While the hoods, flowers, and princetons
Are outside smoking a bowl
It just makes you think…
…what a beautiful night.
The ocean sin reflects onto a cloudy sky that is becoming clearer
When she realizes the only face she needs beside her is the one she sees in the mirror
…and she loved her all along
Even when she is living here in this life, pulled over on an empty roadside
Loving her beautiful night.
Cmchale.11.20.02
She bought a book today
It’s already resting on the shelf
It’s time to start from the beginning
Now it’s time to start with herself
She draws out her map
Landmarks of her history in her head
These use to be her stops
But now she can drive past them instead
And she knows it’s alright…
…it’s a beautiful night.
Baptized by the same rain that falls on the sinners,
She takes shelter amongst them
Eyes stinging from the smoke-lights, dry tongue
From consuming them too often
The bass beats on their bones
A one piece symphony melts and covers her soul
While the hoods, flowers, and princetons
Are outside smoking a bowl
It just makes you think…
…what a beautiful night.
The ocean sin reflects onto a cloudy sky that is becoming clearer
When she realizes the only face she needs beside her is the one she sees in the mirror
…and she loved her all along
Even when she is living here in this life, pulled over on an empty roadside
Loving her beautiful night.
Cmchale.11.20.02
backseat passenger
Backseat
Backseat passenger
her gaze lays silently straight ahead
his big hazel eyes
and thick dark eyebrows
focus steadily toward the road
through
the rearview mirror
backseat passenger
feels the chill of air outside and landscapes
as she passes by
and she is hesitant
to speak Up
and tell him
he had missed her stop
miles back
she knows he could never let her go…
she’s searched
and met those same eyes for approval
she’s praised
those same dark eyebrows for achievement
she’s feared
for a crack in the rearview mirror in anger
and punishment
but she never looked toward them for freedom
how come?
He’s given nothing
but love
to her
she’s learned to give back
she’s learned to have patience as the
Backseat passenger
Always…
staring into the rearview mirror
she yearns for him to notice her
he’s been choosing the safe roads for her for
years
why can’t he gently place the keys into her hand?
he needs to understand
Backseat passenger…
watches yellow lines carefully as thick borders between states smear and disappear into a dirt road and she notices a new backseat passenger
Smiling…
(53099)
Backseat passenger
her gaze lays silently straight ahead
his big hazel eyes
and thick dark eyebrows
focus steadily toward the road
through
the rearview mirror
backseat passenger
feels the chill of air outside and landscapes
as she passes by
and she is hesitant
to speak Up
and tell him
he had missed her stop
miles back
she knows he could never let her go…
she’s searched
and met those same eyes for approval
she’s praised
those same dark eyebrows for achievement
she’s feared
for a crack in the rearview mirror in anger
and punishment
but she never looked toward them for freedom
how come?
He’s given nothing
but love
to her
she’s learned to give back
she’s learned to have patience as the
Backseat passenger
Always…
staring into the rearview mirror
she yearns for him to notice her
he’s been choosing the safe roads for her for
years
why can’t he gently place the keys into her hand?
he needs to understand
Backseat passenger…
watches yellow lines carefully as thick borders between states smear and disappear into a dirt road and she notices a new backseat passenger
Smiling…
(53099)
Agape.
Agape.
Agapanthus. Purple and blue.
That’s me
Just me, without a thought of you
To chase me away from me in some
White rabbit frantic
Searching for a missing planet
Pictured on a recent milky way carton
That at one time wrestled so viciously with the earth’s blanket
Saul says “what have you bought into? And how much will it cost to buy you out?
Buying freedom like rhythm. We’re in them.
We’re in every American dream!
When all of America is dreaming or blaspheming
In some angel’s deal to keep the unreal, real
And make the cool, real cool
When old skool was new skool and that was reality
An anti-jazz conspiracy?
Nah, I don’t buy it.
But how much will you give me to keep quiet?
Because You can’t cash in
Through my loud cries of passion
In this age of cable and Socrates
Coolin’ and high like dope fiends on philosophies
Tell me to leave
But I won’t
I won’t because I’m fascinated by the buttons on his coat
And I won’t because that feather peeking through the side of his hat won’t fly away
So when I’m peaking, why should I go away?
Agape.
I stay.
Whoring and gorging like vultures
Over an old rotting culture
Yet to be realized and theorized
Not to mention, baptized
By cute young front men and back men with body guard guitars in small corner bars
An all night speak easy. Easy speak oven baking
Open spoken rhymes
And dough that will rise
Ghetto slum drum beats and funky basslines
Smokin’ spoken vocals with A tight family of locals.
Give us this day our daily bread
Tip money and to wake up in our own beds
Two working hands and bellies well-fed
A roof over our heads. Comfort when all is said
Rock star parking instead
And one night of unforgettable sex!
…and agape.
A self love. A god love. With no sun, there is no gravity.
So I grip on tightly to my dignity. My liberty.
My sweet inner Dali…
…that would make anyone else nervous
When they don’t understand it’s purpose
So before we make this purchase, we must be cautious
Of the cold wars
That tend to occur
In the liver. I’m so sorry you had to leave her
In my eyes. So far behind
But would you mind?
Would you mind if I just touch my…?
Would you mind if I just touch myself?
Would you mind if I just put my hand right on my….
…MY OH MY….
My mind.
A foolish mind is only handled by a fool. So silly fool, keep those hands to your self.
Perhaps in the position of how they would be used to pray.
A prayer for your day
And my day
And agape.
C.McHale.010803
Agapanthus. Purple and blue.
That’s me
Just me, without a thought of you
To chase me away from me in some
White rabbit frantic
Searching for a missing planet
Pictured on a recent milky way carton
That at one time wrestled so viciously with the earth’s blanket
Saul says “what have you bought into? And how much will it cost to buy you out?
Buying freedom like rhythm. We’re in them.
We’re in every American dream!
When all of America is dreaming or blaspheming
In some angel’s deal to keep the unreal, real
And make the cool, real cool
When old skool was new skool and that was reality
An anti-jazz conspiracy?
Nah, I don’t buy it.
But how much will you give me to keep quiet?
Because You can’t cash in
Through my loud cries of passion
In this age of cable and Socrates
Coolin’ and high like dope fiends on philosophies
Tell me to leave
But I won’t
I won’t because I’m fascinated by the buttons on his coat
And I won’t because that feather peeking through the side of his hat won’t fly away
So when I’m peaking, why should I go away?
Agape.
I stay.
Whoring and gorging like vultures
Over an old rotting culture
Yet to be realized and theorized
Not to mention, baptized
By cute young front men and back men with body guard guitars in small corner bars
An all night speak easy. Easy speak oven baking
Open spoken rhymes
And dough that will rise
Ghetto slum drum beats and funky basslines
Smokin’ spoken vocals with A tight family of locals.
Give us this day our daily bread
Tip money and to wake up in our own beds
Two working hands and bellies well-fed
A roof over our heads. Comfort when all is said
Rock star parking instead
And one night of unforgettable sex!
…and agape.
A self love. A god love. With no sun, there is no gravity.
So I grip on tightly to my dignity. My liberty.
My sweet inner Dali…
…that would make anyone else nervous
When they don’t understand it’s purpose
So before we make this purchase, we must be cautious
Of the cold wars
That tend to occur
In the liver. I’m so sorry you had to leave her
In my eyes. So far behind
But would you mind?
Would you mind if I just touch my…?
Would you mind if I just touch myself?
Would you mind if I just put my hand right on my….
…MY OH MY….
My mind.
A foolish mind is only handled by a fool. So silly fool, keep those hands to your self.
Perhaps in the position of how they would be used to pray.
A prayer for your day
And my day
And agape.
C.McHale.010803
veteran
somebody
somebody heard
somebody heard bad news today
she’s out on the front porch
I don’t know what’s worse
all dressed up for church on Sunday
those millions are lost
but you have a name
those millions wander astray
but you still remain
and you’re all torn up
all messed up
all screwed up
at least that’s what they say
missing in action
leaving you motionless
time is trapped in a bottle
it still moves, I guess
vintage has won
new has been swept away
our flag is still waving
and you’ll come back one day
all torn up
you’re all messed up
you’re all screwed up
at least that’s what they say
heroes lay down
and cover a wall
“all gave some
and some gave all”
horribly rejecting
the ones who return
guilt and shame
and the years still burn
minds
still
burn
here…
july 30 1999
somebody heard
somebody heard bad news today
she’s out on the front porch
I don’t know what’s worse
all dressed up for church on Sunday
those millions are lost
but you have a name
those millions wander astray
but you still remain
and you’re all torn up
all messed up
all screwed up
at least that’s what they say
missing in action
leaving you motionless
time is trapped in a bottle
it still moves, I guess
vintage has won
new has been swept away
our flag is still waving
and you’ll come back one day
all torn up
you’re all messed up
you’re all screwed up
at least that’s what they say
heroes lay down
and cover a wall
“all gave some
and some gave all”
horribly rejecting
the ones who return
guilt and shame
and the years still burn
minds
still
burn
here…
july 30 1999
break
Break.
“break.”—is this how you break a man? Magical toothless smiles and eyes like his. Is this how you break a man from the world he knows into what he will become? Is this how you break a man? Graceful figure forming and clumsy tears. Is this how you break a man from circles of denial into knowing what is his? Is this how you break a man? Soft low tones and fits of laughter. Is this how you break a man from clinging so tightly onto himself and seeing someone new? Is this how you break a man? Protruding mounds of tender flesh. Is this how you break a man from wet dreams and magazines? Is this how you break a man? Midnight walks home past curfew and a virgin scent. Is this how you break a man from copper zippers, denim, and cloth? Is this how you break a man? Loud cries and strong lungs gasping for breath. Is this how you break a man from being a young boy? Is this how you break a man? Belly bruises, cinderblocks, and fire. Is this how you break a man from child’s play, video games and rock bands? Is this how you break a man? Confusion and fear and un-called for tears. Is this how you break a man of dirty habits like a musty closet. Is this how you break a man? Soft underground kisses and sensual touches. Is this how you break a man’s heart?
c.mchale.080102
Monday, January 5, 2009
Shell.
Shell
I'm sure those cinderblocks were heavy
When you removed them from your chest
Dripping sweat, taking longer & deeper breaths
As our witch hunt has finally come to rest
& you've been found Not Guilty because,
In all actuality, you have never been Found.
in Fact – no one has ever even looked for you.
Not even in my mind. No one would ever even know you were there.
That you existed.
Crammed beneath cobwebs &
Phone numbers, vocabulary defintions &
Pill dust, the pledge of allegiance & words
To my favorite songs.
in Fact, nowadays, I don't even see you there.
you could probably leave now.
Go back home. I'm sure they miss you there.
I've learned to breathe again –
& drive a car, use a computer & dry my tears.
The city blocks have grown wider around me & I've walked side by side with trees while trading superior smiles & glances with many differently colored skies from the rooftop of my heart.
So…if you want to leave now, I won't be mad.
nobody knows where you are so
I think you'll be safe
you won't have to worry.
I used the light from your fire on my ears to Bravedance.
& you've been my dance partner now for all these years, so
i'm sure you must know all these moves by now.
Right?
I hope that now we have learned Peace.
& how to love without Force.
love out loud
using our bodies as our Voice.
because our Souls have been
too quiet for too long now
as you've been shoved into the background with disgrace
I hope you can learn to be happy in your new place
Where I am finally free of your face
Of your brother
Of your words &
Your fire
Your weight & your hair
i hope your storage boxes have been emptied of my
My guilt, my shame
Your basement
My embarrassment
My shell -
and i hope that we can use Forgiveness now
to place these cinderblocks at the foundations of Hell
So that perhaps we can learn from our mistakes
Or at least have a story to tell.
Cmchale 122508
manhunt
"1-2-3 you're my man – no safety locks!"
He held his prisoner firmly by the top of his arm.
A tiny ten year old bicep trapped gently as all four feet skipped cracks on the concrete.
Their footsteps, light & quick – just like the beats of my heart as I listened from my hiding spot behind the mean neighbor's driver's side rear car tire.
Well, it was a bronco.
A black & silver bronco parked strategically four row-houses away from our jail stoop guarded by the prisoner's sister.
She could not run very fast, which is why she played the jailer every time.
I could not run very fast as well, but I was good at hiding.
Hiding behind mailboxes,
Cubbies in the alley,
Bronco tires,
And mom's house – even though that was against the rules.
We all need a break sometimes
For a push-up pop
A pee break
A sneak peak at what the grown-ups are watching on TV
We'll understand when we get older.
Just go back outside & play.
Cmchale 122508
broken down
your car
is always breaking down
and you ask me for a ride
the next day you get towed again
all the way to the other side
of my life
of my life
you
could turn around so easily
'cuz you know that it's best
but you don't
because that won't
make your life a damn mess
soft skin, she has
worn out, she says
"it's time i need to call a cab"
you open up.
worn out, she says
"it's time i need to call a cab"
you open up.
*cmchale053108
faded.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
 | faded i'm feeling faded today |
confine
i recall when i use to write this way. flowing freestyle, no worries of form or rhyme. unsure of how it would read aloud or even fit on this page's lines. this is not like riding a bicycle. i'm peddling slowly and i'm falling weary. this page is so bright, like the sun with no shades and nothing can be seen too clearly.
so where do i go from me? writing nonsense alone in the dark. in the discomfort of my bed due to the work-morning i dread - i'd rather be parked in my car instead. just to get this all out so it's not in my head. and when i drive further down this pike and the dirt trails unwind, all of these words will just refill my mind. it was silly for me to want them to leave. it's their home in my space. on this page - between these light blue cell bars, if they ever make it this far...
...again.
cm050508
so where do i go from me? writing nonsense alone in the dark. in the discomfort of my bed due to the work-morning i dread - i'd rather be parked in my car instead. just to get this all out so it's not in my head. and when i drive further down this pike and the dirt trails unwind, all of these words will just refill my mind. it was silly for me to want them to leave. it's their home in my space. on this page - between these light blue cell bars, if they ever make it this far...
...again.
cm050508
roadside assistance
buzzing, gently irritating
the softs of my cheeks
the bends of my ear
i can't wait for that light to finally kill you
attractive, autumn anticipating
the softs of my neck
the bends of my breast
i pulled over in the middle of the night just to tell you
it's heavenly.
the softs of my cheeks
the bends of my ear
i can't wait for that light to finally kill you
attractive, autumn anticipating
the softs of my neck
the bends of my breast
i pulled over in the middle of the night just to tell you
it's heavenly.
hell
Lying here
i smell like my mother
when she doesn't shower
when she doesn't shower
i have never heard a sound
so sad
as the voice announcing:
"visiting hours are over"
"visiting hours are over"
accompanied by the endless ticking & clicking of needles pricking the surface of my being
vital small talk distracts the veins through
the latex
practice of blood thievery...
rest in peace
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
| r.i.p. the day finally came. july07 |
black winter
with tears in my eyes, i must apologize.
i'm not really myself tonight.
i'm in so deep.
but maybe it's that i'm more
myself than ever before
and it terrifies me.
i can't see my own face as it's frozen in place
when my hand is on the trigger.
and i can't feel the wind as it brushes my skin
so enter black winter...
let's make love under the unsettled dust of our history
envious of flirtatious mystery
catching my tongue then
from paper to pen
i'd rather have brick walls in
that's where i could not hear the sounds of my freedom
when it echoed in constant rhythm
i held it in and
just kept breathing it in
suffocated by steam that december brings -
thinning my blood but clogging my veins,
invading my spring....
with tears in my eyes, he apologized
as i returned
black winter draws near to a former frontier
and it terrifies me.
let's make love under the incipient skyline of
while the dark chill embraces dreams of
what energy it brings when diamond records spin
around the urban masquerade ball
not quite settled as those rouge, crunchy petals
they've been dead for weeks,
they are still beautiful...
2007
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