Bridges

Between us sits a river,

too deep to walk across,

and too polluted to swim in.

________________________

In the waking world,

the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,

Impressions murky as Willamette water.

Even in dreams,

you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,

and you're as distant as she.

________________________

Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,

neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.

The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,

with your family witnessing our every glance.

_______________________

Our paths cross often, but never meet,

never join.

Defining a Man

Why must a man skip the shower,

and then scratch his butt, and belch?

Why must he smile as he kills the moment,

thrashing  it with his hairy hands?

Why must he want a body and not a heart?

Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,

and widened eyes?

When he can have the hold that makes him

whole.

A Voter Defined

I am neither red nor blue;
I am varying shades of purple.

I am not a forgetful giant;
I am not an ass.

I don't regurgitate;
I choose.

A Drive Down Kuebler Boulevard

I see flowers and a cross on the side of the road.
Why isn't there a flower and a cross my mom's hospital room?
Why aren't there flowers streaming
down the halls,
down the walls,
for the people the doctors couldn't save,
who they wouldn't save?

Journal of a Band Geek: Day 2 Knowing the Drill

Today in band camp I met the returning band members. Some I recognized from middle school, but here they act different. Remember that suck-up oboe player who was awkward around everyone? Now she plays saxophone and is the star sophomore section leader. I've already heard rumors that she's in line to be drum major next year. Two years after that and she'll be on a full-ride at some prestigious university, majoring in music education. Gag me with a spoon!

Of course we never talk. I can't march backwards to save my life, let alone memorize a bunch of random coordinates on drill sheets. (What do I look like, a TomTom?) This sets me at the bottom of the totem pole. The only other people in band who get less respect are the other flute players in my section, and of course, the guys in color guard.

Nobody's real sure about the color guard guys. Most years, there's never more than two. Any guy who joins color guard instantaneously loses his man card. What straight guy would dance with purple flags with girly choreography in those gay costumes? At least, we all hope they're gay. It would just be...gag worthy on those practices in the hot sun, with girls more than comfortable cooling off in as little coverage as they're allowed.

Journal of a Band Geek Day I: 'Fun'deblock

Okay, maybe 'fun' isn't the right word. My legs are still sore and my skin is still burnt redder than a lobster. Actually, it's not that bad, not as bad as Mike's. He actually has blisters, yes, you heard me, blisters, on his shoulders. He put on sunscreen too. Unfortunately, they don't make sunscreen strong enough for people like us. No sunscreen is made strong enough for long practices in the sun. I think the shiny (so far) instruments make it worse. They're like the reflectors valley girls used to tan, before they all got skin cancer.

Anyway, we started out by learning how to turn. Toe-heel-toe-heel. It actually seems pretty simple, simple enough to get your hopes up. Then they get everyone one in your section in a line, and they march, yes, march to mark off the distance between each freshman. Then they teach you how to march to the beat, and no matter how many times you try, you can't seem to get it right. Unless of course, your one of the  lucky kids that went to the other middle school. There they at least teach you how to march in a parade. By the end of a hot-stinky-two-mile-long death march, you'd definitely know how to step on beat.

I'd whine more, but I have to get up bright and freakin' early for my second day of band camp. Someone please shoot me.

Hey you, move.

Get out of my way. In fact, you should get out my way quick. I really can't stand you.

I can't stand your blue eyes, blue as the water in the pool you lifeguard every day. I especially can't stand the shape of your legs, but I'd hate them even if you let yourself go. So don't.

I want you to quit. I want you to leave without giving your notice. You're possibly the worst person I've ever worked with. But if you do quit, I'm afraid I'll have to make you quit your next job so our boss could hire you back. I'd miss you.

Seriously though, move. I've have work to do.

I suck at building bridges, but I'm oh so good at burning them

Years ago we could walk across the planks together.

Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.

Perhaps I lost you first,

several steps back,

and it's your voice I hear

calling me from below.

I'd reach out,

reach down,

reach up, even,

if I knew how.

It's nothing personal.

Family Consciousness

“Any idea why we’re having this dinner?” Tom complained as he sat down. The plastic red-checkered table cloth beamed up at him. He glanced back at it with disgust.

“No. Not even sure why we had to have it here of all places.” Susan sighed tiredly fiddling with her menu. Smokin’ Hogs Diner filled the top half of the menu cover in gaudy patriotic colors. None of the menu items had low fat or reduced cholesterol. She couldn’t even tell if they were organic.

"They’re even fifteen minutes late.” Tom glanced at his watch, holding the menu at arm’s length. His cuff-linked sleeves peeked out from the satin suit coat. He took a moment to adjust the folds of his collar.

“You look over-dressed.” She said with a snicker.

“What about you? The bus boy seems interested in that necklace of yours.”

“He’s probably just staring at my chest.” Susan rolled her eyes. Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling when she heard a conversation drawing closer behind her.

“Oh look honey! There they are!” A sweet, melancholy voice chimed. Flowery sleeves of a blouse materialized into the candle light a moment later.

Both Tom and Susan fought the urge to sag in disappointment. “Hello mom.”

“What about me?” A lower voice came from the shadows.

“Hello dad.”

Their parents sat down and opened their menus, humming tunes discordant with one another. Each gave their orders to the waitress.

“I’ll have the shrimp—“ Their father began.

“You sure honey? The shrimp will give you—“ Their mother interrupted.

“Ahem! I’ll have the shrimp gumbo, with or without gas.”

Both Tom and Susan gave their orders without event. The waiter evaporated into the shadows, carrying the menus with him.

Their mother was the first to speak. “So…you’re probably wondering why we’re eating together again."

Her grown children nodded. She glanced at the man she married with somewhat sad eyes.

He spoke up next. “We’re getting a divorce.”

“Finally.”

Things You Don't Say to an Officer

He had an apologetic tone to his voice as he leaned toward the driver's side window.

(I didn't afford him the dignity of the view in my eyes.

I hid them behind my sunglasses:

my only weapons stashed in that car.)

"I believe you officer when

you say tailgating is the number one cause

of accidents in this area,

but trains and driving too

slowly are the number one causes of being

late to class."

The green in the grass laughed.

Candy, Hearts, Roses and All That

Within a week of asking her out,

He spoke to me twice as much.

Then he sent a note with chocolate,

Saying he's fallen for another girl.

I’ll write back, with a bottle of vanilla extract,

And say:

I am not your back up,

Your trump card,

Or Your booby prize.

Best of luck to your relationship,

You'll be needing luck when she dumps you

for the next one.

The Three Unwise Men

"I think we should've turned right three palm trees ago." The sand rustled along the hooves, and two of the riders tightened the cloths covering their mouths.

"Three, huh."

"Yeah, three. That one by that mountain."

"You call that a mountain? That was more like a foothill!"

"Um...I think my cammel needs to pee."

The others glanced at him, their turbans billowing in the dessert wind. Still, they didn't stop just yet.

One sighed, the narrow band of gold circling his turban glinting in the moonlight. "I suppose he didn't need to when we were at that oasis not to long ago."

"Not at all." The second answered, scrutinizing his robes of fine scarlet while his skin tried to match their hue.

"Hm, well, we could always try the next one." The third added optimistically, trying to juggle his star chart and his looking glass.

"I'm sure there won't be one for another few days. You should've checked your camel while you had the chance."

"I did! I swear, no signs at all of any... potential leakage."

"You sure we couldn't just take a break? I'm feeling a little tired myself."

"We can't. That camel will be doing its business until the moon wanes at this rate. We're already late."

"Oh come on. That child has waited for over a year now, it's not like he's still waiting in some manger for our gifts."

"I don't know..this myrrh might spoil, or that frankincense. It's not like gold, you know."

Child's Play

“I opened my eyes and looked up at the rain

And it dripped into my head,

And flowed into my brain.”

Shel Silverstein

Every step sounds like a waterfall.

Every stop a crashing shoreline.

I feel like I need a towel

every time I nod,

and a bucket every time I shake my head.

So, don’t ask me another yes or no question,

or end this twenty question game.

Truth or Dare, then?

I’ll tell you the truth,

I’ll never look up at the rain again.

Salt in the Wound

Something cathartic would help:

A little candy-coated sympathy,

A drop of tough love  cough syrup, or

A constructively criticizing get-well gift.

I need more than a hand to hold mine,

I need an arm to lean on to, and

A footstep to follow with mine.

I don't need salting gossip.

I don't need frying publicity.

I don't need a journalist for a nurse,

So send in a clown instead.

(At least he can make me laugh.)

Plot can be a rather cruel master

How could you!?

All these moments past,

Pages turned,

And thoughts tightly wound up in such a story...

And you give me this!?

I thought we had something, you and I,

A relationship at most,

A trusting appeasement at least.

I gave you my time, my mental energy,

Heck, even my imagination.

The least you could do is not kill off my favorite character.

I'd end what's left of our friendship,

But I haven't finished the book yet.

Objection

I do confess, I felt tired that day,

Barely able to keep my eyelids from falling,

Even as they sentenced my cousin in court.

I suppose it was bad form, to open my mouth

When the judge was busy opening his.

Maybe it was a bad idea to let that yawn take its course

And allow my diaphragm to do it's solemn (and dynamic) duty.

But six months in jail?

For yawning?

With Ketchup

Slaying dragons really isn't all it's cracked up to be. First off, they smell terrible. Just one whiff of dragon's breath makes my stomach do somersaults and my head feel funny. It's difficult to even approach them, because their skin does little to block the heat burning inside.

They're difficult to reach too. Dragons tend to chose nests at the bottom of canyons, at the fard end of caves, or my least favorite: mountain tops. By the time I reach the dragon, I'm nearly too exhausted to fight. But at that point, it's kind of too late to turn back. And so I entered the 'dragon's lair', as it were.

Did I mention they're mind readers? I never dare think of anything but the dragon and its scales. If I thought about my fair maiden, the dragon would surely attack her when he'd finished with me. If I thought too much about the fight itself, surely the dragon would know my attacks before I made them. But I should avoid not thinking at all...for that would have surely lead to my certain death.

As for the reward, I'll just call it awkward. I mean...I'll call her awkward. Marrying the princess sounded like a wonderful idea...until I married her.

Big Brother

I read her diaries,

Her journals with pink ink,

Looking for something a bit more red and sinister.

I tapped her phone calls about boys and toys,

Listening for terrorists and attacks.

I suppose I'm a bit paranoid,

Storing her favorite candies, canned foods, and soda in the cellar,

And isulating the room with concrete.

But she'll thank me one day,

When disaster finally strikes this 'burb in the middle of nothing important,

and she'll finally remove the restraining order.

Filler

(Inspired by a Blindside Song)

Is there anybody less empty than me?

Is there anybody less empty without being full of themselves?

I always see hearts filled with green bills and silver coins,

Wedding rings and bridal gowns,

Contracts and high-rise offices,

Photographs with possessive smiles.

But I also see the insecure cracks,

The doubting holes,

The gaps gasping for air.

Is anyone full?

Is anyone fulfilled?

Fluency

I speak the language

Of nodding heads,

Snapping fingers,

Tapping toes,

Raised eyebrows,

Coughs in crowded elevators,

Frowns in cheerful songs,

Tapping fingers on empty counters,

Persistent gazes past distracted conversations.

If only you could understand it as fluently.