The Secret Room

There was a hidden room
once upon a time
A small, forgotten place
in one of her father’s mansions

It may once have been
servant’s quarters
or maybe a storage area
She didn’t know

But she claimed it as her own

She covered the walls
with song lyrics
from her favorite songs
Writing them in English
not the graceful Arabic script
that her father preferred

She would often linger there
alone, or sometimes with her sisters
sharing private thoughts
and doing forbidden things

It was her secret room

One day it was discovered
and it was taken away
The walls were painted over
and she was told
to never enter it again

But the secret room is not gone

It is still here, with me
In my memory, and in my heart
Still unpainted
and undiscovered

And it still exists
in a black and white picture
of a beautiful woman
with a delicate smile

Still Life

I’m unable to sleep.

My eyes ache, and are heavy. My shoulders and neck throb with fatigue; lingering side effects from a car accident over a decade ago. I lie on my bed; my body exhausted but my mind resisting sleep.

I'm kept awake by thoughts of mortality and longing, of life and love. And the haunting echoes of a little girl, who I love as my own, practicing for her piano recital.

Arpeggiated chords
Slowly, with feeling
Mezzo piano, then piano
Minor, then major
Ascending and descending

Reverberating in the well of my memory.

Unmarked Grave

“I have loved only two men in my life,” she said. “One is six feet under, and the other is a million miles away”.

I did not tell her that both men were dead. The man that she knew, that she fell in love with from a million miles away, died when he found out that he couldn't be with her.

Now only I remain.

Broke

I sit at my desk, staring at my computer screen.

Checking account balance: $25.33.

Didn’t I just get paid yesterday?

I mentally go over my financial activity for the previous twenty-four hours. Health insurance payment, Visa card payment, BMG Music order payment… that car insurance payment that I originally thought could wait until next paycheck… my physical therapy session yesterday… my Chi Kung class this morning… that small bag of groceries I picked up this afternoon… the little bit of gas that I put in my car on the way home….

I guess $25.33 sounds about right. Wonderful. And only two more weeks until payday.

I decide to double-check my savings account balance.

$5.13.

As I sit there trying to take this all in, I notice the message light flashing on my phone. I pick it up and hit the correct sequence of buttons to get into my voice mail. I hear an unexpected voice.

“Hey Brian, Tom here. I’m calling to tell you that the party was moved up to tonight instead of next Saturday night. Did I tell you about the party when you came out last time? Yeah, I think I did. Anyway, we’d love to see you here. Things kick off around seven -- I hope you can make it.”

I suddenly remember that the last time I saw Tom he had invited me to a party at his house sometime in January. I’d forgotten all about it though, much less the date that it was supposed to happen.

I delete the message and hang up the phone.

I first met Tom over twenty years ago, through my best friend Greg. I have known Tom for a long time, but I rarely get messages from him. In fact, I hardly talk to him at all outside of his job. Tom runs sound for a prominent local band (not to mention a few other projects on the side), and the few days that he has off from work he typically spends with his wife. In other words, the only time I get to see Tom is when I go out to see the band.

For some reason I find a great deal of humor in my situation. Let’s see… I have no money, less than a ¼ tank of gas in my car, it’s two weeks until payday, and hey -- I’m invited to a party!

I’d planned on staying home tonight, and maybe going through my closet and getting rid of some stuff that I don’t need anymore. I really have to do that before school starts up again. But man, I could sure use a party right about now.

I probably should go.

But wait a minute. I can’t just show up empty handed. I haven’t been to one of Tom and Alicia’s parties since they moved into their new house. I really should bring a bottle of wine or something. And even though I’m sure Tom will have plenty of booze to go around, I’d prefer to bring my own beer. I’m trying to keep a handle on my carbohydrate intake, and I’ve already pushed it with my diet the last few days. I could drink hard liquor but the mix usually tears my stomach up these days. Yeah, I need to bring my own beer.

So let’s see… how can I swing this?

What about my credit card? I know that it was close to being maxed out, but I just made a payment so I should have some money to play with there. I log in to my credit card website.

Available balance: -$26.00.

Son of a bitch! I should not be over my limit right now. Close, yes, but not over!

I check my recent activity and see at least one thing that doesn’t look right. A quick phone call later I find out that my Internet service provider has charged me $10.62 for some “value-added services” that I never requested. Yes, I told the guy on the phone a few weeks ago that he could send me a link to what they were offering, but I never even opened the e-mail and I certainly didn’t agree to any extra services. It didn’t take long for the stern tone in my voice to convince them to refund the charges, but that still didn’t explain why I was over my limit.

With the next phone call I find out that the recent payment that I made to my credit card company would take three working days to process. I thank the nice lady and hang up the phone.

Now I’m going to that party for sure.

Okay, I have $25.33 in my checking account. What the hell -- you can’t take it with you.

I take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and head out the door. My first stop is the liquor store. I find a decent (but reasonably-priced) bottle of wine and grab a 12-pack of my beer. Total: $20.58.

Tom lives on the opposite side of town, so to be safe I stop at the gas station across the street and top off my gas tank with $3 worth of gas. I then head out to the freeway and to the party.

When I get there I knock on the door, but nobody answers. As I start to walk in Tom himself walks up from the basement to open the door. After we greet each other he comments on my offerings. I hold up the wine in my left hand. “This is for the host," I say. I then hold up the beer in my other hand. “And this is for me." Rather than the chuckle I expected, Tom says “Thanks! I’ll give them to the bartender."

Bartender?

I follow Tom into the kitchen, and after I greet a few people I walk through it and into the spacious three-season “porch”. I put porch in parenthesis because it has a vaulted wooden ceiling with skylights, an Italian tile floor, and a flat screen TV on the wall. As I walk in I see an impromptu bar – with two bartenders – set up in the far corner. There is a tub with at least fifteen different bottles of wine chilling in it, and in front of that is a nice display of the seven different beers they are offering for the evening. Behind the bartenders is a table full of every kind of booze you can imagine – and about ten others that you couldn’t imagine if you thought about it all day.

Within a few moments I notice that my beer is now being offered on the “list”. After retrieving one of them from the bartender I make my rounds and greet all of the familiar faces.

Ten minutes later I’m in the dining room, in a conversation with some guy who does some kind of educational consulting for Microsoft. I think his name is Eric. I meet his wife too, and she is nice. As we’re talking I notice somebody walking by with one of my beers.

Twenty minutes after that I’m watching the football game on the flat screen TV on the porch, along with a bunch of other guys who are far more interested in the outcome of the game than I am. Jacksonville has recently kicked a field goal to put them ahead by two points with thirty-seven seconds left in the game, and Pittsburgh has just returned the ball. People around the room begin making predictions about what will happen. My friend Brad is standing next to me.

“I bet they end up kicking a fifty-two yard field goal to win it," he says. “I bet they turn it over," I say. “Too much pressure.” Basically I’m just talking out my ass. The next play - their first of the drive – Roethlisberger fumbles the ball and Jacksonville recovers. The room erupts with admiration for my undeniable psychic ability.

A half-hour after that I’m in the basement playing “Name That Tune”, with my buddy Greg manning the keyboard in Tom’s recording studio. After easily winning the game (it helps to be familiar with Greg’s repertoire), we all head back upstairs. I notice at least two empty bottles of my brand of beer in the living room as I walk through it.

As I walk back out to the porch for another beer, the female bartender sees me coming and has a bottle ready to go by the time I get there. She continues to do this for the rest of the night. That, my friends, is a true professional.

Forty-five minutes later I’m in a political discussion (a rare occurrence) in the kitchen with Greg’s wife Sandy, eyeing the homemade ravioli but too involved in the conversation to actually dish some up and eat it. Fifteen minutes after that I’m laughing (along with the rest of the room) at how Tom’s dog keeps pouncing on the light reflections from Sandy’s wine glass on the kitchen floor. We entertain ourselves with this show for at least ten minutes.

While standing there, I notice three or four empty bottles of the brand of beer that I brought to the party sitting around the kitchen. After doing some quick math in my head I finally realize that somebody else must have brought the same brand, or they already had it in stock but they hadn’t put a bottle out for display until after I got there. If I had been the only one to bring it, it would have run out a long time ago.

Forty minutes after that I’m back on the porch, having a discussion with two guys that I’ve never met about the merits of Payton Manning as a guest host on Saturday Night Live. The sound is off on the TV, but we don’t seem to need it for our evaluation. Before we are able to reach a consensus we are distracted by a few of the wives standing around in a circle and squeezing each other’s boobs for some unknown reason. This brings our conversation to an abrupt end, and we never reach an agreement.

Hey, we’re guys. What can I say?

An hour after that I find myself regretting a joke that I've made about the size of Tom’s penis. I really didn't need to see that, and especially right next to the food table.

And I still haven’t tried the ravioli.

In spite of some of the silliness, by midnight things are already winding down. Most of the people at the party have kids at home with baby sitters, or have work obligations in the morning. A few of us are still standing around on the porch when Tom comes out with a huge box of ice cream sandwiches. I think it was a twenty-four pack, and I'm pretty sure he bought them at Sam's Club.

It soon becomes apparent that I’ve missed some inside joke about the ice cream sandwiches.

Later, after standing in the kitchen with my jacket on for forty minutes saying goodbye to people, I finally head for the door. Tom stops me in the entryway. “Do you need an ice cream sandwich for the road?” he asks. “Well, I don’t NEED one...” I say, letting my answer hang in the air. Tom slaps one in my hand.

You have to love a party where they give you an ice cream sandwich for the road.

At the doorway I run into a few other guys who are leaving at the same time. When I tell them where I live one of them says, “That has to be at least forty-five minutes away." “Thirty-five,” I predict, “and that is factoring in the road construction at 694 and 35E.” I hadn’t paid attention to the clock on the way up at all, so I really have no idea how long it will take. But I don’t let that stop me from talking out my ass once again.

I wolf down the ice cream sandwich while my car warms up. As I pull away from Tom’s house I check the clock in my car. It is 1:04 am. I pull in my parking lot at 1:38 am - only one minute off from my prediction.

As I sit there staring at my dashboard, once again reveling in my uncanny ability to predict the future, I see an obnoxious yellow light come on. It says “low fuel”.

It’s going to be a long two weeks.

Mud

Or?

Or am I?

or rising?
Am I sinking

or a lotus?
Am I a rock

Blinding my eyes
Plugging my ears
Clogging my nose

.

Clogging my nose
Plugging my ears
Blinding my eyes

Am I a rock
or a lotus?

Am I sinking
or rising?

Or am I?

Or?

Another Night

It is 4 am.

I glance over at the stack of paperwork on my side desk, and then back to my monitor where I have a rousing game of Mah Jhong in progress. I contemplate closing the game and actually doing something productive. Something involving that stack of paperwork.

Instead I reach for two Vicodin that I have left over from my appendectomy and I pop them into my mouth. The dry capsules fuse to my wet tongue as the coating begins to dissolve, but I quickly wash them down my throat with yet another can of Michelob Ultra that I take from the freezer section of the mini-fridge that sits next to my desk. The ice-cold liquid burns my throat as it goes down. I look at my desk and count six empty cans, all lined up in a nice, tidy row.

I take the Vicodin to numb the pain, but not the sharp pain of surgery. I hope, vainly, that along with the beer it will help numb the constant dull emotional pain that is the foundation of my life these days. No matter where I go or what I do, I walk upon this foundation of pain with every step. I can’t seem to escape it.

I close the game anyway because I’m bored. I surf a few websites and check my e-mail, and then I get up and use the bathroom. On the way back I walk over to my closet and take out my electric guitar. The guitar is very nice, and it cost me almost $2,000 when I bought it brand new. These days it just collects dust in the closet. I set the case on my bed, popping it open and taking the guitar out. I sit on the edge of the bed and strum a few chords, and then I play some blues. Four minutes later the guitar goes back in the case and the case returns to the closet.

I head towards the computer to do some more surfing, but then I remember the laundry that I have in the dryer. It probably needs another cycle so I walk down the hallway, past the kitchen and the living room, to the TV room and the laundry closet. My feet drag the carpet as I go, making the only sound to be heard in my quiet apartment. I turn on the light and walk into the large closet. I spin the dryer knob and press the button, and then I leave the closet and close the door behind me. I flick off the light and turn around.

The remote for the television is sitting on the arm of a chair right next to where I’m standing. On a whim I pick it up and turn the TV on. I walk over and flop on the couch.

As I bury my bare feet under the folds of an Afghan blanket that is bunched up on the other end of the couch I see the blue uniform of Mr. Spock on my TV screen. An episode of the classic Star Trek series has just begun, and I let the remote drop to the floor as I lie back on the couch and rest my head on the armrest. I reach down and pull the Afghan up to cover my bare legs.

It seems that the Enterprise has picked up a band of intergalactic “hippies” who are on a quest in search of the mythical planet of Eden. But Captain Kirk has orders to take them to the nearest starbase, so you can already see the conflict beginning to arise when the hippies insist that he take them to Eden instead. I sense an attempt to take over the Enterprise in the near future. In fact, I can guarantee it.

One commercial break later I find out that Spock has a certain amount of sympathy for the hippies; himself no stranger to feeling like an outsider in his chosen career on the human-dominated Enterprise. At one point he decides to join their impromptu jam session of love and harmony, playing an odd Vulcan instrument that somewhat resembles a harp. I feel a smile slowly creep across my face as I listen to the dated lyrics that they sing. There can be no doubt that this show was created in the late 1960’s.

In my mind I wonder if Spock will join the hippies - before coming to his senses, of course.

The pills and the beer begin to give me a comfortable feeling, and the colors of the various Star Trek uniforms become more vivid with each passing moment. I find Mr. Spock’s monotone voice soothing. His dialogue lulls my mind to sleep, and my body soon follows.

When I wake up the show is over, and an episode of Little House On The Prairie is on instead. I guess I’ll never know the final fate of the Intergalactic Hippies. I notice the sunlight peeking in through the blinds on the window. Looking at the clock I decide that it is time to go to bed. I shut the TV off and walk back down the hallway to my bedroom. I’ll take the clothes out of the dryer when I wake up.

Everything there is just as I left it. I turn the computer off, turn off all the lights but the reading light next to my bed, and then crawl under the covers. I lie there on my back for a moment with my hands under my head, my elbows splayed out to the side.

I know that things will change soon. They have to change soon.

I wonder when?

I reach over and turn off the light.

Vulnerable

My heart is unsettled
with thoughts of her

Fire
Ice

I wish I could express them
but I can’t

They are too jumbled
They are too intense
They are too painful

I wonder if she realizes
that she holds my heart
in the palm of her hand?

A single squeeze
and I will perish

Defiance

My heart is not broken

it is shredded

Ripped apart by serrated steel talons
strings left clinging to the blades
as the rest is left to dry and harden
in the sun
on the side of the road

And yet

in spite of the pain
I will nurse it back to health
Patiently, though reluctantly
For I am not finished with love

Not now

and not ever

Untitled

A broken branch, hanging on by a thread
Twists and turns in the wind and the rain
I watch it fall on a calm, sunny day

-----------------------------------------

Sitting in my car at a downtown intersection,
without a tree in sight
Suddenly, a shower of golden leaves

Butterfly

From the corner of my eye, a butterfly floats in my window. As she drifts past my view her iridescent jade, indigo, and ochre wings instantly mesmerize me. She is so beautiful, so delicate, as she dances on the currents in my room.

I instantly want to reach up and take her. I want to study her, to know her, to make her mine.

No. She is for another butterfly; she is not for me. I will only stain her wings.

Wanting to keep her near, I speak. “Where did you come from?” I ask. “From across the water,” she replies, and languidly begins to circle my head.

Delighted, I continue.

“Which water? The ocean, or a lake?” “I do not know,” she answers. “The water.”

“Surely you must know the difference," I say, and I notice a barely perceptible twitch of her antennae. “Water is water,” she responds, in a mildly dismissive manner.

“It must be nice to be so whimsical and free," I say.

Suddenly annoyed with my ignorance, she whirls away. “What do you know of a butterfly? My mind is continually occupied, analyzing the world and planning my future. I have no time for your questions or your speculations.”

Pondering this for a moment, I concede her point. “Forgive me. I am indeed ignorant of a butterfly’s mind. I hope I have not angered you.”

As she speaks again, I hear a smile in her voice.

"It is nothing," she calls back, as she gently sails out my window and into the world again.

I stand at the windowsill and watch her flutter away, hoping that she will return again.

Natural Light

I am the sun.

At night I walk under the stars and I think of her, swimming in her pool in the daylight. I want to be the sun, kissing her eyes with my light and warming her body with my touch. I want to illuminate her soul and to blaze in her heart. I want to know her daily routine as I know my own. I am the sun, and she is a bright, radiant sunflower.

I am the moon.

As I drive down the highway with the sun on my arms, I think of her sleeping in her bed. I want to be the moon, my pale light framing her naked shoulder through her bedroom window. I want to guide her way through the darkness, and for my shining face to be the brightest light in her sky. I want to know the secrets that she has in the night. I am the moon, and she is a clear, tranquil lake.

Silly Girl

She is silly tonight, and I like it.

She has been silly before, but not like this. Tonight she is relaxed, spontaneous, and incredibly cute. I find my guard lowering against my will. I like the fact that she can be this way with me, and I laugh as each new thing she says surprises me more than the last. The smile never leaves my face.

I wish I could give her a playful shove, or mess up her hair, or tickle her.

Or touch her shoulder.

Or kiss her lips.

But I can’t. I’ve never even met her, and I probably never will.

It feels good though, laughing and smiling and not noticing the time at all. I knew I’d been lonely, but I didn’t realize how lonely until tonight. Her playfulness implies a certain level of intimacy, and it reminds me that I once had somebody that I could be silly and stupid with long ago.

I don’t have that anymore, and I don’t really even have it tonight with her. But right now that doesn’t matter.

She is silly tonight, and I like it. And I don’t want it to end.

And I’m late for work.

Interlude in the Library

The fingers of my right hand were splayed open on her stomach, my palm resting there gently. Long strands of her dark hair were running through the crooks of the fingers on my other hand. Smiling softly, I bent my head down and kissed her lips.

Pulling back, I slowly dragged my fingers across her belly. She began to laugh.

“Ticklish?” I asked. “Yes,” she admitted.

I held my hand steady, letting it rise and fall with her breath. After a moment, she began to laugh again.

“What?” I protested. “I’m not even moving it!”

“It isn’t that,” she said.

“Then what is it?”

“At last, you are caressing me like your guitar.”

I remembered her feigned jealousy of my instrument when I had sent her the picture long ago. Unable to stop myself, I began laughing with her.

After a few seconds, our laughter spent, I gazed into her dark eyes.

“But your music is far sweeter to me,” I said, smirking at the cliché.

And leaning down, I began kissing her lips again.

Returning

I put my car into park, and I roll up the windows. I turn the engine off, and get out of the car -- locking the doors behind me. I am standing in a small gravel parking lot, at the end of a long gravel road. There is a large sign in front of my car that displays the flora that can be found in the area. There are some woods off to my left, and open fields on the other three sides of the lot. Some small sand dunes can be seen poking through the tall grass on the crest of a low hill beyond the sign, about three hundred feet away.

Around twenty-five years ago I sat here in the back of a pickup truck, waiting to start my work day. It was my first real job, working on a vegetable farm for a local farmer. In the mornings we would ride in the back of his pickup truck to this very spot, and then wait while he warmed up the tractor so we could begin picking vegetables for the day. Back then the field to my right was full of cucumbers.

Now the land is overgrown, having been reclaimed by the county as a nature preserve for prairie wildlife. When I worked here I had always wondered what lay over the ridge towards the river, but I never actually took the time to find out. Now I know. I walk over to the corner of the parking lot, and follow a small path through the grass. In the dry mud I notice the tracks of a wild turkey, a few deer, and a large dog. I follow it along the edge of the woods to the crest of the hill, where it turns back to the right again. After walking a short distance the path brings me to the sand dunes.

I walk over to the tallest dune and sit down. The sky is overcast, and even darker clouds threaten from the south. In defiance of the coming rain, I open my pocket copy of "The Zen Teaching of Huang Po" and begin reading. Small gnats buzz around my head, and the dry grass pricks into my back. As I try to read the gnats became more aggressive. I remember a Haiku by the Zen master Taigi:

Zazen:

fat mosquitoes

everywhere.

You have to admire the dedication of a man who can meditate while mosquitoes continuously bite him. But I am not a Zen master, nor am I really even a student of Zen. I’m just a normal guy looking for some wisdom and guidance, and I’m getting eaten alive by these damned gnats. I soon realize that I will be unable to enjoy my reading, not only from physical discomfort but also from the mental unrest that I haven't been able to shake all day. I close the tiny book, shove it in my pocket, and stand up. I walk over to the crest of the ridge.

Below me, at the bottom of a long, grassy hill, is a set of train tracks. About another half mile or so beyond that flows the Mississippi River. Tall trees obscure my view of the near shore. On the other side of the river, way back on the horizon, is a refinery. The steam from the various chimneys rises up until it blends with the low clouds hanging above. Far away to my right I can make out one hole of the new golf course. The gnats are not so bad here, as the breeze on the crest of the hill seems to be keeping them at bay.

After taking in the view for a moment I close my eyes. I clear my mind and focus on my breathing.

In… out… in… out... in… out….

Somewhere in the distance I hear a flock of crows. From the woods I hear songbirds, singing as though it was a bright sunny day rather than minutes from a thunderstorm. I admire their dedication as much as Taigi's. Crickets chirp in the grass all around me. I hear a voice calling out from the golf course, but I am unable to make out what it is saying. I return my focus to my breathing, and I let the sounds around me flow through my mind and out again.

I will not obtain any solutions to my problems today, but for a short while I am truly in the moment.

For a short while, I have returned.

Rainy Day Dream

Come to me, in the rain

Come to my room
Lie on my bed, next to me

Talk to me

Let me hear your voice
Your breath, your whisper

Look at me

Let me see your face
Your eyes, your lips

Lie with me

Let me feel your body
Your warmth, your touch

I wait for you

Come to me, in the rain

Momentary Fantasy

This afternoon I saw somebody that looked like you. She was walking towards me on the sidewalk, and when I saw her I imagined it was really you walking towards me. Maybe it was a chance encounter, or maybe we were meeting to go out to lunch. I wondered what it would be like.

Would I smile as soon as I recognized you, or would I wait until you saw me first? Would you keep walking at the same pace, or would you slow down and wait for me to reach you? What would you be noticing about me as I walked towards you? Would I say "hello" as soon as you could hear me, or would I wait until I was closer to make it more intimate? Would I even say "hello" at all? Maybe my smile would be enough. Or perhaps I would try to say something charming or funny instead?

Would your eyes stay with mine as I approached, or would my obvious appreciation for your beauty make you blush and look away? Would we lean in close as we greeted each other? Would we touch? Hug? If we did hug, what would you smell like? Shampoo? Lotion? Perfume?

How close would you walk next to me as we left?

I’ll never know, because it wasn’t really you.

Unrequited Thoughts

I thought about you.

I thought about what you were like when you were younger, and the people and experiences that have made you who you are today.

I thought about the glimpses of sweetness and vulnerability that I occasionally see through the cracks in your stone walls.

I wondered what your dreams might be, and what you want in a lover, a husband, and a friend.

I thought about the things that turn you on, and I wondered what others are yet to be discovered.

And I thought about how you deserve to be so happy and content that you wake up every day thinking that you're in a dream.

Then I thought about how my thoughts don’t touch your world at all, and how you never think of me the same way that I think of you. And I realized that I shouldn't be thinking about you as much as I do.

But after that, I thought about you some more.

Hole

There is a hole in the floor of my soul, and it has been there since the day I was born. It leads to darkness, to emptiness, to the unknown. It is an opening to the other side.

I can cover it up, but I cannot close it.

Even though it is covered, a cold wind occasionally blows up through the cracks between the boards. Usually it is just a passing draft, but sometimes it blows steadily enough that it fills my entire soul with its chill. When that happens no arms can warm me, no words can comfort me, and nobody can reach me.

It is times like that when I am most alone.

Often I forget about it. Sometimes the wind doesn’t blow for a long time, and I forget that it is even there. And yet -- even then -- I am still reminded of it from time to time, by the hollow thump that my footsteps make when I wander in that corner of my soul.

And every once in a while, on nights like tonight, I lift up the boards up and I peer inside.

I know that one day I will pass through. But tonight, I simply stare.

Today I Saw Eve Wading

I have a part-time job working with my cousin, who is developmentally disabled. Her name is Judy and she has Prader-Willi Syndrome. Yes, I know… you’ve never heard of it. Unless somebody you know has it, you probably never will. I wouldn’t have heard of it either if I didn’t know Judy.

In spite of her challenges, Judy is very easy to get along with. Part of our routine is for me to take her to the local YMCA so she can get her exercise. She does stretches for her back (she has Scoliosis and Hyperkyphosis, not to mention Osteoporosis), and she usually walks 20 – 45 minutes on the treadmill. Today we got to the “Y” around noon, and we went back to get a treadmill right away. The place was empty, so Judy had her pick of the machines. She chose her favorite treadmill (treadmill #1), and she was soon off and walking.

I usually stand nearby and read a magazine while she does this, and today was no exception. I began reading a copy of People magazine until I realized it was a Spanish Edition. I can read a little Spanish, but an entire magazine of it is pretty worthless to me as far as reading material goes. After scanning over the pictures I traded it for a copy of Newsweek. I opened it on a window ledge, leaned forward, and began reading.

The window looks out the back of the building, where they have a large outdoor swimming pool. Trees surround it, and it is a rather nice and secluded area. Nobody was out there, which was a bit unusual since it was noon on a Saturday and almost 90 degrees outside. The pool is usually packed under such conditions.

Soon after I began reading I noticed a rather attractive woman walk out and head towards a lawn chair by the pool. “Cool," I thought, “A little something to spice up the view”. She began to disrobe from her street clothes, and it was then that I noticed that she was pregnant.

This put a bit of a damper on my “sightseeing” attitude. It isn’t that pregnant women can’t be sexy or beautiful, because they certainly can. But when a woman is carrying somebody else’s child, it usually takes away any desire that I have to feel lustful towards her. Call it guilt or call it respect, I don’t know. Either way, my initial reaction was quickly tempered by this revelation to create a more respectful appreciation for her physical appearance.

I watched as this beautiful woman walked over to the pool and began lowering herself in slowly, allowing time to adjust to the water as she did so. In between snippets of magazine I would glance up and note her progress towards the center of the pool as she gradually waded out in the shallow end.

It was during one such glance that I noticed the expression of pure serenity on her face. Her eyes were closed, and her face was lifted slightly towards the sun. A gentle smile was on her lips, and her fingers dragged along the top of the water as she slowly glided through it. She was completely content, and I imagined how nice it must feel for her to have the pressure on her lower back eased by the buoyancy of her stomach in the water.

I suddenly became entranced by this voyeuristic vision of motherhood.

Although the scene did not physically change, in my mind it transformed entirely. I saw the first woman -- call her Eve or call her Lucy - I don’t care -- wading in a crystal clear pool at the dawn of humankind. Trees were surrounding her, a waterfall was behind her, and small rocks and reeds lined the shore. She was casually wading in the water; no fear or knowledge of death, no sense of loss or need, and no hatred or anger of any kind. The only thoughts in her mind were that she carried a child, that she would soon be a mother, and that all was right in the world.

Her expression literally brought this image to my mind in an instant.

I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even notice my friend John, who works at the club, walk up next to me and lean into the window to say hello. I was instantly snapped back to reality, and I began to make casual conversation with him. Shortly after that, Judy’s time on the treadmill was up and I went over to help her down. As the two of us headed over to the mats to do her stretches, I took one last glance out the window.

She was still there, and she was still radiant in the sunlight.

Futility

My words
cannot give justice
to my thoughts

My thoughts
cannot give justice
to my feelings

My feelings
cannot give justice
to my existence

And so I put down my pen
and write nothing at all

Requiem

His dark, flashing eyes
Burn holes through the mirror
And expose the universe beyond

Their intensity and fire
Give life to the shell
Of the weakened body below

A body drained of energy
By a deep, unquenchable longing
For intimacy and love

And all the while
Fingers slide over the fretboard
Bending and teasing the notes

Later, plugging his ears
He heard his heart stop
And he awaited the sparkling darkness

Tree

Glancing out my window
Tall, majestic tree
Dancing in the wind
Bending in the breeze

Memories of childhood
Lying on the grass
Noisy, rustling leaves
Clouds drifting past

Days at the pond
Water sparkling bright
Evenings in the neighborhood
Running in the night

Longing for my past
And wishing things the same
But the view out my window
Is all that remains

Dream Lover

I had a dream about you again.

We were on a beach, swinging on a swing set as a distant storm was rolling in from the ocean. I let go at the top of a swing and flew through the air, landing on the ground much harder than I had expected. As I laid there on the sand we laughed at how foolish I was, and how I was probably too old to be doing that sort of thing. Then, mindless of the approaching storm and the increasingly agitated ocean, we talked about our childhood dreams. You sat there on your swing, dangling your legs in front of you and kicking a hole in the sand, and you were beautiful.

I wish I knew who you were.

Bacon

He always had his preferred brand of bacon, with one or two backup options if needed. Never Hormel though.

I remember how he would go through every single package in the store, looking for the one with the most meat and the least fat. Often he would select two or three packages as likely candidates, and then ask my opinion as to which one was the best. Unless money was tight, he would usually buy two of them at a time. When he got home he would put one in the freezer, and then trim the fat off the other one and put it in his Tupperware container in the refrigerator.

He always loved bacon, and breakfast was his favorite meal. Toast, sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns... he loved them all. "The most important meal of the day," he would say. He would get a headache if he didn’t eat something shortly after he woke up.

I found the bacon in the freezer, just where he left it. Not wanting it to go to waste, I thawed it out and I’ve been eating it.

Today I finished it.

I've come to realize that there is a hole inside me that will never be filled now that he is gone. A part of me that has been with me since before I even knew who I was is missing, and it will never be replaced.

He is gone, and now his bacon is gone too.

And I will never be the same again.

Tormented

The feel of a hand
So worn and strong

A final exhale, impossibly long

Words left unsaid
At a hospital bed

Too late, the moment is gone

Two brothers cock fists
At each other’s face
Crossing a line
That cannot be erased

And me, an old man
Full of unfulfilled dreams
Wasted potential
And silent screams

The Car Ride

She reclines in the back of the car
Trapped by a destiny that she freely embraces
Submitting to that which she cannot avoid
Chained to both her future and her past

She stares at the faces that pass by
Endless wraiths that drift past her view
Protected from them by the veil on her face
And the veil that covers her heart

Sinking further into her seat
She stares at her reflection in the window
Tracing lines that are familiar to her eye
But foreign to her vision

In her mind she beats the window with her fists
She opens the door and throws herself out
Set free by the pain of release
As her arms and legs scrape the gravel road

But she is immune to such images now
Numb to them from the repetition of use
Silently they beg her for a rest from their work
But she forces them into motion again and again

Later, she arrives at her destination
And she slips smoothly into her role
A consummate actress, playing her part
For a completely unsympathetic audience

Seasons

As I stand here alone at the end of the summer of my life, I find my thoughts turning to you. I think of you, still in the spring where everything is fresh and green, and I long to be there with you.

I turn my thoughts again, gazing forward to the fall where the colors are glorious as they progress towards the inevitable winter slumber.

Glancing back and forth, I see the progression of my life and a feeling of melancholy comes over me.

But then I remember one of the great truths that I have learned in my years: There is positive and negative in everything, so it is your focus that determines your reality.

The past, where time was plentiful but experience was limited. The future, where time is dwindling but the possibilities are limitless and unwritten.

Suddenly I know where I need to be.

I gaze at the fading light of the late summer sky. I close my eyes, and my nostrils flare as I breathe in the cool evening air. Filling my lungs, I tilt my head to the sky and exhale. There is only now.

There is only now.

Dominance

I want to crush you in my arms
And steal your breath with my eyes
Throw your body to the floor
And cover you with my hot mouth

I want to possess you

Undress you
Unhinge you
Unwind you
Unleash you

I want to fill you with my body
Take control from inside
Bring you to the edge
Before taking it all away

Beg me
Before I fill you again
Over and over
Until you lose your identity

Until you are mine

Then, and only then
I will surrender to you