teasing on my fingertips slipping from my grasp words betray me mystify me scatter like flies buzzing laughter as i grope mocking my impotence i hate my words those blunt and clumsy things tools too heavy for my hands a cripple with a brush a toddler with a gun my thoughts, arrows with no bow beauty, pain, hope love trapped by brick and mortar walls inside my mind

I wandered downstairs and commented that I wanted to see a talent show where they have to demonstrate carpentry skills, the ability to field-strip an AK-47, and proficiency with one of the major UNIX shells. Not likely, but it's fun to think about Miss Iowa grepping for the crown.

i took ten minutes or so to critique the various coin-op games set up, and dad listened with good humor. "Look at this. Everything's poly-based," i said. "Is the ability to hand-craft a pixel sprite a skill that's passing out of our generation? Will it be a lost art soon? I'm disillusioned." Then I saw a lone sprite-based game sitting in the corner. It looked like playing tekken with paper dolls. Maybe it's not such a bad idea...

when i write i am free. there are no constraints, and the world is as i wish it were... or as i fear it may be. i can shape, mold, create, consume, communicate.

i press my pen to the page, but it is only my imagination -- fingers tap keys, and words refresh at a smooth 75 cycles per second. no ink stains fiber, but the spirit is the same.

i remember my grandmother not as a person so much as a modifier to my own existance. I suppose that i never really did get to know *her* -- Mrs Jones, rather than Grandma Jones. then again, I was young... how often does a six-year old scratch beneath the surface?

i remember sitting around her kitchen table, at the extravagantly late hour of 9:00. I could sit at the table and listen as she and the other relatives talked and drank "spootnicky" -- alcohol of some kind; I don't know what the name was, but that's how i pronounced it. I could crunch away on my planters cheese puffs, and she even LISTENED when my opinionated, 7-year old voice piped in and added its two bits to the discussion.

I was her last grandchild, the baby that she could pamper with open favoritism. toys, gifts, snacks, attention... I truly was spoiled by her. But what I treasured most, even then, of all the things I received, was her attention. Her smile, her playing War (the card game, not the military conflict) with me at the kitchen table over 7-up (for me) and liquor of some sort (for her). Both of us had shot glasses -- I thought that they were ever-so adult and sophisticated. When I was at her house, I would want nothing else to drink my soda pop in.

we would talk while we played cards, pretending to be high-society elite, discussing diamond mines, the stock market, the economy. I would take one of her cut glassware cups from the shelf and say it was made of diamonds, and she would make wide eyes and say, "Oh, my!"

I don't know what would happen if she were alive now. If I would still be able to touch hearts with her... I think I would; she cared about ME, I believe, and our relationship would have grown with the years. I don't know, though... I would be a different person than I am now. I don't know who that person would be.

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[carpool : transcendence] bright weightless fingers brush my skin i smile eyes closed as i drink the touch warm tingling wind whistling by the smell of autumn and diesel is a shawl

i lie on the rough wood floor, sawdust crunching underneath my sleeping bag as I talk to jason and elisa. above and beyond, stars dot the sky... cows moo in the darkness. as we talk about life, love, pain, fear, joy... i can't see my own hands in the inky black. there is no noise 'cept our voices... and the cows. no cars, no whole-house air filters or water filters or furnaces... no traffic or radios blaring blocks away. just gentle breeze to accompany the twining of souls. laughter, invisible smiles. on the floor, in the center of a ring of sleeping bags, sits a puddle of wax and a blunt stub of candle. half-burnt marshmallows, skittles, and corn-nuts surround it, evidence of a night of not-quite-wild abandon. ben, leah, and kellen are asleep, the moonlight barely tracing their outlines... what is so special about this place, this time? I don't know.

"I would say that the thing that has most profoundly affected me was a revelation of the fact that God is not distant. That sounds hideously cliched, and I cringe to say it. But the knowledge that He is /not/ the stereotype that I'd alwas hated is something that affected me profoundly. I suppose one experience that goes hand in hand with that -- the aesthetic paired with the spiritual... would be a morning sunrise on a hill in the middle of kansas farmland... no buildings or people for miles; just five friends and i, and a few backpacks full of food and pillows and what not.

We spent the entire night looking at the stars, beautiful and crystaline above us, no city lights to mar them... we talked to each other about our dreams, fears, about God and love and each other... and then, finally, the sun rose as we talked and mist filled the shallow valleys of wheat and the sun -- red tinged -- rose above the trees on the horizon. We were soaked with dew and wonder. It was amazing. It still is."

i'm sitting at work
typing about surgery and
postop
peter gabriel
is playing on the speakers
in
your
eyes
is the most
beautiful song
that i have ever heard
has anyone
ever told you that
melodrama
is my greatest strength?

smooth stone in my hand
as i glare into the sky
why does it have to be like this
i ask myself
hoping for an answer
and getting none
throw it hard
wait to hear the drop
rub my shoulder, take a breath
and take a walk again

the open air of farmland
rocky paths and trees
lit by bloodless moon and
scattered stars
is too close for me
no one walking with me
no traffic at my side
no noise
no excuses
how long does it take
to see the problem
is in me

if only i were strong
if only i were wise
if only hearts were made of stone
platitudes are simple
and drifting is a snap
carried by the waves of friends
well-wishers and tip-givers
living for a moment
or at least until next week

if only i could make my words jump from the page capture eyes set fire to souls give meaning to my thoughts if only i could pen a perfect word or two then life would fall into place just like the stories say but perfect words are quite rare they cost time and sleep and always tears that last one, tears i don't think i want to pay that much

Some of my most vivid Christmas memories are associated with my grandparents' rather small house in Elkhart, Indiana... a 'built in the 30's' sort of house with peeling paint and light switches worn smooth-edged by decades of fingers. My grandmother was an amazingly outgoing, active woman... hosted an grand Christmas celebration for the family every year, packing the place with three generations of presents and present-givers. We were very close; I was the youngest of any of the grandchildren and the one she could spoil, lavishing both gifts of things and of /herself/ -- her time and attention, which I treasured more than any toy. Christmas was a chance for the little 6-year-old boy to share in the excitement not just of the season, but her preparations and the buzz of activity surrounding the festivities. She made the most delicious cherry squares; sinfully sweet and delicious. I've never tasted anything like them in my life. After we'd all eaten and the adults had settled in for conversation before opening presents, I would sneak another of the squares and she wouldn't mind. Then I would slip in and listen in with fidgety eagerness and wait until the paper-tearing moments... the nights usually stretched from late afternoon to the wee hours. The memories are treasures.

my wallet is a secret place
it holds pieces of my life
not the cards or cash
or pocketfulls of change
but other things
tucked into deeper crevices
a slip of paper torn and burned
a poem i once wrote
discarded then retrieved
i carried it for weeks
a tribute to young love
and to its edge i touched a flame
but it refused to burn
so from my pocket to the wallet
it found its cramped new home
another poem, this one dark
rests next to it
more confession than the first
a cartoon here bus token there
phone numbers of my friends
so many things that i forget
they were important once
the faded line of leather
worn thinner by some pressure
marks the spot i hid a note
i was afraid to send
i wrote it on a hill
sitting next to the recipient
the intended one, at least
but simpler worlds prevailed that day
and the bit of verse was kept
i sat on it, quite literally
a seven of hearts, my favorite card
is where i.d. should go
i don't know why i put it there
its corner bent its face now curved
but it's become familiar
perfect love, the seven of hearts
ready when i need it
a punch line scratched on napkin
a late night joke with friends
recorded for posterity
evenings at denny's still preserved
sometimes, i think
i'll clean my wallet
toss all the old small things
they clutter it
they're cumbersome
but every one
is me

--

Friday night, Dave and I drove out to see Ben play an accoustic set at a coffeehouse. When we got there, the owner hadn't shown up and Ben was playing out on the sidewalk for a crowd of friends. We edged over and listened intently, inhaling the smell of coffee, cigarettes and comraderie.

"I've never heard any of Ben's songs," Dave whispered to me carefully. "I don't think he wanted me to hear them. Kind of a brother thing, I guess..."

I nodded silently and looked back to the small crowd. Ten, perhaps fifteen people. After a few more songs -- and taco bell for the gang -- everyone broke up and started chatting. Lighting up smokes and talking about concerts and clubs and the latest gossip. A jaded looking blond with a lacy black tank top and a kanji tattoo on her shoulder was telling Jason about his sign. I wandered over and commented that if the pull of a star can seal your fate at birth, then the nurse who helped deliver you has even more effect. Jason and the girl blinked and squinted at me, facing into the sunset.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We shouldn't be checking dates. We should be weighing nurses." Behind me, Dave chuckled and I shrugged. A few minutes later she asked if we had any piercings. I noped, and asked what her tattoo meant.

"Love," she answered, twisting to show me her shoulder, flicking ash from a lucky strike. She smiled.

"What's it mean, though?"

She looked back, puzzled for a moment by the repeated question, then got my point. "Something everyone spends their life looking for, and not many people find." She smirked at me and lifted a shoulder. Shrugged.

"Any luck so far?"

She paused, thinking about it instead of tossing out a sharp comback. "Not so far." A sad smile, and she turned, looking for someone's lighter.

I hear a song and close my eyes feel a picture in my blood ear too dull to catch a tune hand too clumsy to hold a brush my face, my canvas my words, my brush they're all I have to touch your heart i hope that they're enough