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Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Una Poema de Amor

Cuando me despierto
Me imagino su cara
El amor está en mí
Te quiero desesperadamente
Te necesito
Mi amor, tienes mi corazón
Tú eres la princesa de mi vida
Tú felicidad vale todo para mí
Te quiero
No hay nadie más en el mundo
Somos los ultimos con vida
Por favor me querrás como yo te quiero?
Así cuando me duerma
Mi amor, tú cara no estará en mi imaginación
Pero en mi realidad
Para siempre

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Just Muddle Through

you ever feel like we’re too connected?
like everything is so crowded and jammed up that we don’t notice each other
the little things, the stop to smell the roses moments pass us by
and we are rushing from here to there
to and fro
ants in an ant farm
squished unknowingly up against the glass

the sun glares down
like a hungry beast
we scurry into our holes and hideouts
communicating in ones and zeros
but always missing the point

we seek meaning and passion and excitement
but complain we have no courage
our lives move and move like rafts on the Mississippi
But I had better things to do than read Huck Finn

hours of mindless entertainment
and then no inspiration
endless desert of desperation and depression
hop from one city to the next
no end in sight

run from problems
hide from anything that could make life exponentially better
callous and fearless and crude
joking about life and death to cope with grief

take everything for granted
burn bridges, never let them see you cry
let the status quo control you
go to college, get a job
don’t be a burnout, dropout, failure

let them define happiness
and let them measure my success

living in a garage
if that’s not success
I don’t know what is
the adolescent american dreaming of easy money
can’t even drive a car

I need glasses and new pants
bought running shoes
but I’m only running from my problems

bury my anger and depression
nervous laughing
crack a joke, as long as you don’t crack
you’re fine

talk about your goals
but only half-heartedly pursue them
like a cop who wants the donuts more than the punks he chases

I want a wife, a life, of happiness with kids and a house
a degree and income
talk about religion and philosophy
read books, but never bother to finish

inconsistent, and never complete
talk when you don’t know what you’re saying
never admit “I don’t know”

count your friends on one hand
but don’t let it know what the other hand’s doing
my mind has a mind of its own
I never bother to follow through
like a tree that is uprooted by the storm
struck with wanderlust I fly away

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Story Time Thursday 2

Trace and Chris

       Chris sat behind the wheel of his old truck, his fingers drumming the steering wheel to the beat of some pop song. He was probably speeding, but at two in the morning, in the middle of the night, that was the furthest thing from his mind. He had been driving for nearly ten straight hours, only stopping to pee and fill up the tank one time. His mind was racing.
    He punched the dash, but his heart was not in it. He rolled down the window, his sore right hand still tapping to the beat.  The air was cold, but not that wintery, crisp cold. It was a muggy, night time cold. The stars all seemed to be leering down, blurring together, and laughing at him. Chris’s small lips were pursed.
    “What the hell do I do now?” he screamed into the night.
    He had been dating Tracy since their sophomore year. He always told her that he would wait until she was ready. And he had, but he realized now that maybe he had focused too much on Tracy being ready and not enough on himself.
    The first Friday in April had been the Spring Fling dance, and he took her. It was a great dance as far as school dances go. Hors d'oeuvres and songs everybody could sing along to. Tracy loved that stuff. And he loved her. So he would go to the things. They ended kind of early anyway; there was still a lot of Friday night left after eleven.
    She wore a dress she made herself. They always talked about getting out of the small town world they both knew. She wanted to be a designer and he wanted to be wherever she was. That was the plan. She got into a small art college on the west coast that had a design school program. She had even started a little web-based business selling her original clothes.
    He remembered the dress so acutely; blue and purple and floating and shimmering. It was beautiful. She was always beautiful. Even in the poor lighting in the parking lot outside the high school gym.
    They walked, hand in hand, the excited light still in their eyes from the dance. When they got to his truck, more rust colored than the original white, he opened her door, “Your carriage, m’dear.”
    She laughed and got inside. “Such a dork, I dunno how you ever got me, Chris.” she joked as he shut her door.
    As he walked around to his door, he was humming and smiling to himself. When he got into his seat, he leaned over and kissed her. “Yeah, it is a mystery to everyone.”  He pulled away and added, “Where to now?”
    “Well.” She hesitated, “I was thinking maybe we could go to the lake.”
    “Sure thing, sweetness.” He replied as he started the car and shifted it into reverse.
    The drive was not long at all, a song and a half on the radio. The whole way there they said almost nothing, but when they got there, he parked, looking her way, “So what’s the plan?”
    Having reassured herself the whole way here, she gazed at him, smiling. “I’m ready, Chris”
    “Ready? Ready for wha- oh. Ready. Ok.” He laughed.
    “You want to do it here?” he asked.
    “You are ridiculous, Christopher Seth Michaels. Yes, I love you. And I want to show you how much.”
    Seven minutes later, they were silent again. Their clothes in a heap on the floor in the back, they just sat.
    Sometime after midnight he said, “Well. Now what?”
    She didn’t meet his eyes. “I think we should break up.”
    “What the fuck, Tracy? This was your idea.”
    “Yeah. Can you please take me home?” she said as she reached back to get her dress.
    They clothed themselves, but each felt naked still. “Yeah. I’ll drive you home. I love you, and I don’t get this. But I’ll take you home.”
    “Thanks. I love you, too. But Chris, I won’t drag you with me to some school. I will be in dorms and you would have to get an apartment and work a shitty job. And, and it’s just not fair to you.”
    He wondered how he arrived here, in this place of despair.  He should be getting ready to graduate high school, not dealing with a baby.
He turned the key in the ignition. His eyes snapped into focus. He saw the little neon sign in the window that said to him, “We are open for business.”  
    He had been driving for twelve hours and he finally felt hunger that he couldn’t ignore. “I need twenty bucks worth of gas, and these chips, and an orange soda please.” he said to the old lady behind the counter.
She took his money and handed him the change and a receipt. She put the drink and chips in a plastic bag with the store’s logo on it. As she handed over the bag she said, “Son, you look like shit. You need to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep. I have been driving since yesterday. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going.” He said, on the verge of tears.
“You are standing in a mini-mart at a gas station. That’s where you are. What’s your name?”
“Well, Chris, you remind me of my son. He is much older than you now, mind you, but he used to be something like you. When he left home, I never really recovered, and I missed him for sixteen years. When he finally did come home, I did not yell or cry. I just hugged him and said, ‘I love you.’ Because I did love him and I do and I always will. I don’t know what your problems are, and I can’t tell you how to live your life, but find the ones who love you, and do all you can to love them.”
By the end of her little speech, he was crying a little bit.
“Thanks.” He walked out of the store. He wiped his eyes and pumped the gas. He ate as he drove, the radio still bumping. He was not crying anymore, but he couldn’t smile quite yet either.  


I am not saying Rest In Peace. But Bobby Mansueto will surely be missed by friends and family.
And whatever happens to his soul, I am surely saddened by his passing.

I am tired.
I am up late listening to sad songs.
Death never comes easily.
There's something surreal about seeing somebody one day
and the next they are gone.

Life is fragile and complex.
It makes me sad,
and I can't sleep
because I am sitting and thinking.
I am tired.
I am so tired of the death.
I am tired of the confusion and anguish,
and I am tired of only having answers that I don't like much.

I wish there was something to be done,
but I can only sit and be sad.
I can let the music, the movies, the food  drown out
my fears and sadness.
I eat and entertain my feelings away.  

Death is so ominous and it is inevitable.
I say I do not fear it.
But I do not live that way.
So I will either be fearless
or I will be silent
because I want to speak truly.
I am tired.
I am so tired of being scared.
I am tired the pain and lies we live with,
and I am tired of not liking the answers I have.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Story Time Thursday

Curiouser George: The Collected Stories Furious George

George was sleeping soundly in his little bed. He was dreaming of the island home he had left when he was young. Bam! Suddenly, a loud noise woke George up. From where he was, he saw a man in a black mask, holding a gun. George was curious what the man in the black mask was doing in his house. He stayed still and quiet. The gun was very frightening. The man in the black mask picked up the TV and walked out of the apartment. He didn’t even stop to shut the door. George wondered why the man was in such a hurry. George got out of bed and went into the living room. He jumped up and hit the light switch. Then he saw the man with the yellow hat. “Why is he not moving?”, thought George, “and why he is bleeding? Oh no, the man in the black mask shot him.” George realized the man in the yellow hat was dead. George was furious.

Serious George

George was sad. It was a cold day in New York. He was not alone; there were a lot of other people who missed the man in the yellow hat. There were his neighbors, and coworkers, and family. All sorts of people were gathered in the cemetery. The man with the yellow hat was a well loved man. Another man was speaking to the crowd. It seemed like he was reading from his big book. Everybody was crying, but George did not want to cry. He had no idea what he would do without the man with the yellow hat. George just stood there, shivering, and wishing his friend was not dead. After the man in the yellow hat was buried, a man from the zoo took George by the hand and led him to a limousine. They drove him back to the apartment. “George, we are here for you. But we are going to let you keep the apartment. Be safe.” George knew this was very serious. And then he was alone.

Delirious George

It was two weeks after the funeral, and George was still sad. He went to the store and bought some wine. The man in the yellow hat sometimes used to drink wine. George missed his friend so much. He opened up the bottle and took a sip. It tasted like juice, but made him a little dizzy. That night, George drank three bottles. He did not feel sad anymore. The next morning, George woke up. He felt sick. He threw up, but he was sad again. So, George walked to the store again. He bought some aspirin and some more wine. He liked wine. And he knew that the man with the yellow hat used to take aspirin when he had a headache. And George had a headache. That night George drank three more bottles of wine and swallowed half a bottle of pills. George was delirious. He just wanted to be with his friend.  

Friday, April 27, 2012

Home again, Home again

I want to go home. So badly.
"I gotta get out of this place
 If it's the last thing we ever do."
SO that is what I am gonna do.
This summer I am going to work on getting healthier; mind, body, and soul.
Going to a therapist, eating better, exercising, finding good discipleship.
And then I am going to college in the fall.
My life was not derailed, or detoured. I have been exactly where I ought to be.
But where I ought to be is now changing. I need to be home. I need education.
I have finally seen where I am going. I finally have a plan. 19 years of being unsure,
and I am finally ready to work toward a certain vision.
My goals are 4 fold: Get a degree, get married, start a church, publish a book. (Not necessarily in that order)
That is my new vision.
That is what I will be working toward.
And God will work with me.
And if he is with me, who can stop me?

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

X2, 8, 27, 32, 44, 67 (out of 80)

I started this in May 2011, but I am back.
"There are 80 journal prompts I found while stumbling. I decided to answer them. The only rules are that I have to answer them. I may use poetry, prose, stories, lists, ranting, or any form of written media to get my point across.  I figured I might as well explain what I am doing even if it is a few posts in. Enjoy."

My last food craving was this afternoon. I love Mexican food. I love, love, love Mexican food. I wanted a quesadilla with sour cream and guacamole. I could almost see the golden brown tortilla, bubbling up in the pan. Mmmm. And I wanted chips with fresh, homemade pico de gallo. I did not have any of that, but I will soon. Maybe sunday.

Tomorrow is the last day of By The Hand Kid’s Club until April 10th. And thank God. The children have gone crazy; they are worse than normal.. Probably because it has gotten really hot. They will have their huge Club Bucks party, get really hyper, and then be out of my hair for 2 full weeks. Don’t get me wrong, I love the kids. And I love my job, but Spring Break is so very needed. And I will probably read; I have a book to finish before Monday.

I am not afraid of the dark. Not anymore. As a kid, I had to sleep with the door cracked and a light in the hall. I believed in monsters, under the bed, in the closet, and they were out to get me. I used to have vivid nightmares all the time. My parents gave me a random little bag and dubbed it the “monster pack” which was supposed to protect me from all the things going bump in the night. And it helped, but I was probably 13 or 14 before I could sleep with the door closed. I used to stay up at night, and read for hours. I dreaded sleep; I guess now I love it. And the dark does not bother me, not at all.

My study habits are pretty awful. I never take notes.  Often I slept in classes. I mostly did the bare minimum to get by. And honestly, it worked. Even in college, if I listened to a lecture I could remember everything. I don’t do most assigned reading; I am busy with other books. I spend my time doodling and writing my own poetry and stories and ideas. I once missed a week of school in my junior high days, and when I returned it was the day of the weekly vocab test. My teacher offered to let me study and take it the next day, but after she reviewed the words with the class once before the test, I decided to just take it then. One person got 100%, and yes, that was me. The very same teacher did not believe I had read and understood Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling before 6th grade. Well, as she got to know me, she found out I had the reading comprehension of a high school graduate, and it had been so since I was 9. I do value education, and I wish I had learned to study and take notes. But my life is not awful as it is. I regret nothing.

1993, the year I was born.

Ghana became a country.
Bill Clinton began his Presidency.
Rodney King testifies in court against LA police officers.
One of the top 10 worst nuclear disasters takes place in Tomsk, Russia.
Spielberg’s Jurassic Park comes out.
I was born..