Bad Instructions

People like telling you what to do.

it's true.

they like to give excellent advice to you,

so excellent that they won't follow it themselves. 

and we like hearing advice!

well, to a point.

no one likes to be left on their own in a world that doesn't make sense

at least, not without some instructions.

so we drink them in.

we're so thirsty for them...

we're so thirsty that we don't even test these directions,

we don't take a moment to look where they're directing us,

we just head off in hopes that once we get where we go

we wont want to keep on going.

when i was told my mother had cancer

i was very young.

old enough where i knew it was bad,

but young enough where that was the best negative descriptive word i knew.

i can't remember the advice i was given,

but i remember being given a lot of it.

"let out your feelings, 

let us know what you want."

stuff like that.

these were bad instructions.

i didn't know what i wanted, 

and now i know that most people don't in the first place.

i wanted her to wake me up in the morning when i went to school

to come say good night to me when i went to bed,

and to make the best god damn sheppards pie in the world

every once in a while..

i was eight,

i didn't know you could want for someone to get better,

to beat cancer,

i didn't know you could want that. 

i wanted her there, and she was, cancer could suck it,

i didn't know it could be so violent.

it was just a word in the dictionary.

nothing in life really prepares a family for that,

and equally nothing really prepares a family for what happens next,

when she beats it.

it's as if Gandhi just beat Muhammad Ali in a boxing match,

everyone goes crazy in wild celebration afterwards,

and there are more noises and sounds than one can exclaim,

and it's wonderful

but it settles down

something can only hold the limelight of people's exciting lives for so long.

GANDHI JUST BEAT MOTHER FUCKING MUHAMMAD ALI.

there's no time appropriate for settling down,

there's no time appropriate for self conscious composure,

it's time for dancing,

time for singing,

time to forget everything you do in life 

everything that's meant to keep you or someone else happy,

alive.

it should be put on the back burner in favour of celebration.

because this is what everything you do in life is for,

this is what your savings is for, so SPEND IT.

this is why you were racking up those vacation days, so USE THEM.

but i was still pretty young.

and all i was told was "you should be happy"

happy?

this was a very bad instruction.

i should have been happy i got tucked in at night,

that when i forgot to make my lunch that one would get to me at school,

i should have been happy like having been given a new book.

and i was.

but happy doesn't cut it,

i should have been fucking ecstatic. 

ecstatic in that it was my mom tucking me in,

that those lunches always had the taste of extra care

i should have been ecstatic like being given the world's library 

and should never have put a book down.

but i was happy.

because someone told me to be.

...god damn directions...

when i was a bit older my father was told he had cancer,

then we were told.

"spend as much time with him as you can"

was something i heard more times than i care to remember.

this may have been pretty good advice

i'm not sure why i didn't listen to it, 

but i'm certain it was because his life was what was cancerous.

to me at least.

so i stayed away from that as much as i could

because i was old enough to realize cancer's not something you want. 

i didn't want it.

he didn't want it.

but hearing "spend as much time with him as you can"

from family and friends

is much different from hearing

"you only have this much time to spend with him"

from his doctor.

that rattled me. 

but it should have picked me up and shook me

like an ice cream hungry 8 year old and their piggy bank,

shaking loose every bone in my body 

and breaking the ties i had to anything else that would take up my time.

his time.

he faded.

physically.

but i had never been more proud of him 

as when he showed how bright and open he had become.

i couldn't spend enough time with him then.

he was more my father then,

weak, frail, sleepless and vulnerable,

because he was being strong,

he was being brave,

and he wasn't scared.

the last time i saw him he couldn't speak

he couldn't open his eyes

but they said he could hear.

i know he could hear me.

but i'll be damned if i remember

the exact words that were my last to him.

i didn't hug him.

i don't know why.

instead i grabbed his hand,

grabbed his hand like i was grabbing for my life.

i was grabbing for a large part of it afterall.

a part that was about to leave forever.

but then he grabbed mine.

and it wasn't a hand shake

even though we were both holding on so tight that that's what it turned into.

there were no words to go with this.

i couldn't speak either.

there was a pathway between rows of roses

right outside his door, that he liked to walk.

this only started near the end.

but it made him happy, even then.

the last piece of advice he gave me

he gave to everyone.

and while he couldn't speak,

during that last handshake i could hear his voice 

from time and time before,

saying "stop and smell the roses."

it seems easy enough to understand but until then it never stood out to me.

then i got it.

Stop.

and smell the roses.

and right then, the last time i ever saw him, 

the last time i ever held his hand

a few hours before he would take his last breath with his parents beside him

he did something no one else had done to me

and something no one has done since.

I had

finally

been given a good instruction.

Undeniable

If i could hear the colour of your hair,

i bet it would smolder...

if i could see the passion in your voice, 

i bet it would flicker and glow...

your whole being is an inferno,

intense, infectious, sweeping,

and undeniably present.

making use of what's given,

and making new beginnings at every turn.

uncontrollable, unquenchable,

this world is not enough

and you could swallow it whole,

igniting every inch,

smiling while you watch it burn.

you

are an inferno.

you set all things ablaze

with just a touch.

you

are an inferno.

searching for someone who won't fall to ash,

someone to burn with.

Remember Me by This

"Remember me by this"

is what you said

as you bequeathed what you bequothe to me

from within your hand upon to mine,

a locket you yourself had made

and just a day before,

with the very hands that grazed mine then;

the only ones to touch my core.

i was shook and shaken

full of fear

and also anger too

but you did what you had done

and one last time you disappeared. 

that locket in my hands,

the hands that yours had touched too soon before,

those hands then clenched so tight

the clasp your hands had made with so much care

was stuck sealed solid for four more years.

not a word did i speak to you

nor would i had i found you.

not a single sound then passed these lips upon this face,

this face of mine you used to kiss,

not a single sound was meant for you

or either of your ears.

not until that seal stuck solid gave way

and brought back your disappearing day

did i ever say a word,

a word which what was wished to whisper passed your thoughts

and echo off the walls that you had built inside your heart,

the walls s that you yourself had built

with those very hands,

the walls which never kept me out

but which had never let me in.

stuck solid seals give way in such a fashion 

that the clasp is then just more decay,

and upon mine eyes gazing at that locket

which you yourself had made

with the very hands you hold

holding someone else's to this day,

i did not see what i had seen each day before.

for those four years it was your golden face,

a face that stopped one's heart at but a glance

then made it quicken pace.

your golden face inside that locket,

with a smile only god could make,

with the very hands which he must hold,

which must have made the rest of you,

but this was not the case.

within that locket which you gave to me

with words telling, that this, the only way must be

how i remember you,

i did not find your golden face,

nor silver smile,

but instead a picture of myself

grinning like a child.

i do remember the occasion though i know it's not important,

you wished to be remembered- not in physical attraction

but in how you let me love you

and from your every silver smile

my school boy reaction.

the words i then did whisper

from my lips to yours,

words i doubt you noticed

as we are far from each our doors,

these words whispered something that i feared,

something that i feared so deeply

i had never said before

but yes i mean them now

and do i ever mean them truly

-

I am sorry. 

Stargazing

the other day as was laying on the floor

laying, looking at the stars

that we had stuck up on the ceiling

i awoke from a place that wasn't sleep

a place where things were real but only there

a place where we used to visit long.

i awoke as i was missing you

eyes closed enough to stop the world

but not enough to stop the stars

from leaving scars in my eyes.

i had closed my eyes

looking, as is natural,

at the backs of my own eyelids,

noticing how infinitely close they are,

as close as anything could be.

then i thought of you

and as you crossed my mind

there you did appear

on the backs of those same eyelids

just as close as tears.

there you were

and there you stood

alone save for yourself,

the two of you 

not even inches away

seen as one

The March

i will walk until i feed the soil with my bones

and i will not stop for food or water

as i do not need these things for where i aim to go.

i will not look back at who i leave behind,

at who will age and crumble where they stand

as these statues do not line the halls of where i aim to rest.

the years will pass beneath my feet like dreams within my sleep,

and names will fade from faces and those faces to the distance.

of all the places they will haunt not one will be my thoughts. 

my soul will ware with each dessert crossed

leaving pieces of myself at every corner turned

until i walk on bruised and bloody heels leaving crimson prints behind.

the heat will bake my skin, the rain will wash the dust,

and this coat of skin hanging on these bones will fall;

i will be then just my core, only bones outside an empty husk

bones are brittle and will break, marrow staining resting rocks.

this last effigy will fail, falling forward with momentum

pointing in direction one last time at where i aim to go.

i will then be free.

Plastic Little Pirate Sword

staring at this glass i'm holding in my hand 

i wonder why they serve it with a plastic little pirate sword 

and a storm starts brewing in the sky, up above 

then CRACK like a lightening bolt from in the sky, up above 

...up above. 

sword in hand i am the captain here of my ship 

and staring at my drink i see the waves that break upon the rocks 

I see new horizons every time i'm turning keel 

and every time i'm turnin i see new sunsets a'burnin 

...sunsets are burning. 

bounce off the rocks for a drink or two, all night through, 

not really sure where i'm going to, don't have a clue, 

...maybe i'll find a way. 

but hey bartender, mister Poseidon now, 

the tide's gone out, 

i've beached my ship. 

and when i look around i see this ain't the place i wanna be 

so top me up 

and set my sails, 

i know you know that i just want to be free. 

sword in hand i am the captain here of my ship, 

it's not called drinking when you're sailing to another land. 

no no, thank you, i've never used a crew before 

and i'll drift like this for days if i need to. 

...and i need to.

I want to bleed.

A breathing machine
is what i've become
no engine to rev in anger

a tower of bones
with hands to shake hands
but no strength to hold onto purpose

these feet making tracks,
they don't fill big shoes
and the shadow i cast will not make the news.

and the direction that i'm going,
with the perfection insisted...
feels like i've been here, oh, ten thousand times before.
looking in a mirror
every single time
i go to open the door.

every place i go
people are always leaving
grieving about the greener grass they thought they'd found before.
why's there no place that i've heard of
where the locals long to stay?
why are dreams always found in the places far away?

i'm done with doors, it's time for bricks thrown through the windows,
no more handshakes, only elbows in chest cavities.
i want to bleed, to bleed,
to stain more lives than i could ever cast in shadow.
you can't see the scars i have so i'll earn the ones you can,
i want to bleed, to bleed,
to bleed.

who really needs an engine to rev up after all?
with gas prices so high anger's not cost effective
and who needs a heart to beat with passion
when blood makes people sick?
who needs a heart to beat at all
when it won't beat back the dreams
of far away places,
both heaven and obscene.

as long as i'm not giving up
then i'm not giving in
and my dying breath will fan
the fire that's within.

i'm done with doors, it's time for bricks thrown through the windows,
no more handshakes, only elbows in chest cavities.
i want to bleed, to bleed,
to stain more lives than i could ever cast in shadow.
you can't see the scars i have so i'll earn the ones you can,
i want to be, to be,
to be.

Unavailable

When i look around the room i see that everything inside

is meant for someone else.

the pictures on the wall

the extra chair meant for a guest

the ashtray sitting there so silently 

now just an ugly paperweight

i never got to earn them

i could have but didn't see

now i sit here suffering

their availability

two cups to share the joe

a dresser meant for her clothes

an extra chair that wont stop screaming

it's the only thing i hear

everything here is meant for someone else

for a couple or a family but not for me

well i think it's time i changed that

it's my responsibility

i've got to stop this suffering

this availability

the coffee calms my nerves

a torn up sheet to make the rope

a dresser to write this letter on

the ashtray can hold the ring

the pictures on the wall

make for an okay final scene

this extra chair will stop it's screaming

when i kick it to the floor

oh yeah

whoa yeah

nothing in this room is meant for anybody now

not the letter, the story,

or the golden ring

and definitely not the body on the floor

oh yeah

whoa yeah

nothing in this room is meant for anybody else

not

any more.

Paper Mache Talk

She has dandelion hair

and when the wind blows

I already have my wish

All the clouds were crying

as stars fell from her dress

her roots grew bird houses for hollow skeletons,

shells to hold shells to hold promises made.

Her skin was polaroid 

tanned stained sepia toned

broken boned and dancing.

Empty quiver hunting trips

tangled in her own antlers

spider webs connecting dots 

of her scattered constellations.

Inside

Inside you

A melody

And if I press my ear

Against your chest

I can hear it sing

A sad song

A swan song

The final chorus

Of the angel inside you.