Inspiration vs. Inception

You know why I'm sad?

I'm sad because I haven't forgotten

how to take the elevator down to level 18,

to  face my fear every chance I get,

to talk to her while she sharpens knives.

Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,

to help my shoot

my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before

she stabs me in the heart.

My friend, before she leaves,

is there to tell me to go back,

to wake up,

to move on.

To Mrs. McGinnis

You look like a sponge squeezed.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.

You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.

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?

A Love Song to Stumptown at 1 AM

Who would've thought,
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.

Snapshot

Aunt Flo never married, though she kept a house of two cats. In a drawer of hers she has a snapshot, the only one that's never been put in a scrapbook, photo album, or picture frame. It's black and white, if not a bit grainy, and careful fingerprints grace its corners.

A man in an army uniform, with his hat off, sits at a coffee shop somewhere in Europe, toying with his lighter and ignoring his coffee. No one joins him at the table, and in fact only a few human shapes are visible in the background. It's dim, in the morning, between the time residents go to work and the time they return for lunch and tea.

On the back Flo wrote a date, and possibly a name, but she later scratched it out without saying why.

Post Card

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

I hope you are doing well. I've been really busy with my new friends. They took me to Silver Falls last week, and yesterday they took me up to the Governor's office while he was away. My friends said that Mr. Governor would be honored if I sat in his office chair. And so I did! My friends took pictures, and they helped me paper clip it to the back of this letter.

I miss you a lot, and I promise to come home someday, but I wanna see more of the world before I stand in your front lawn and watch cars go by.

Love,

Your Garden Gnome Ithamar

Sunday Best

In Italy, in San Lorezno,

I found three options for Sunday devotion.

__________________

Some went to Sancto Laurentio

in their Sunday finest,

entering the wine colored doors

in orderly fashion

to quietly take their wafers and wine sips.

___________________

Others went to Bar Martins,

dressed to meet their finest friends.

They slipped under the roof

with laughter on their faces

and songs on their chests,

to drink anything and throw darts.

__________________

I sat on a bench near the fountain,

a scarf around my neck,

a Bible and notebook on my lap,

listening to living water and chewing words.

Child in a Blender

Rebecca and Heidi

each  like their hair long,

one ginger, the other cinnamon.

Both like sports fields

and shopping malls.

__________

Diana likes her hair short,

but she likes her hours long,

spent in a cubicle or an office.

She also likes a distance of 26.6 miles.

________

Jim learns to like his hair gray, then white.

He finds his home behind the microphone,

on a church stage,

or in a box at a basketball game.

_________

Dad likes his hair clipped twice a month

and he loves a couch in front of a tv.

Mom liked her hair the way we liked it,

and she loved places to put her feet up.

_________

I like my hair red and long

as the sun is warm,

as I follow its rays across the sky.

To be buried in a sea of tears

Note: Yes, I know this contains references to a certain filmed owned by a mouse with big, round ears. Tell him he can consider it free advertising, like he needs any. The film you ask? Pirates of the Caribbean, of course.

All your life you did as

your pain, your family, your friends

commanded you, the sickness too.

Death regularly visited

your bedside like an unrepentant

suitor, but you turned him away

with your pistol.

He left in a longboat,

but he always turned his head back

with a smirk. He knew.

One day he'd come back for the heart you took

and kept safe inside your chest.

He knew you'd rather stab the heart than give it back;

he knew you needed it more, but he wanted the heart.

That day he sent a monster to do his bidding,

a poison that slowly killed you from the inside out,

until it oozed out your pores and swelled

the whites in your eyes.

Then you knew.

You knew it was time to evacuate your torn and battered ship,

and say your goodbyes.

I watched you face that beastie with tears in both our eyes,

but you laid there proud and courageous as you always had,

this time with a sword in hand instead of a pistol.

Others have left this world not knowing the face of Death,

because they were too afraid to turn their head,

but you did.

I still miss you, and I think I will until

I board the Flying Dutchman myself,

but know this,

know this:

I would sail past the end of the earth and end of the seas,

if I could bring you back.

I know it would be for naught,

for I know you've found your peace.

A Gift for Mum

I would drive as far as my gas tank would take me,

and then I would run the rest of the way,

until I reached the shores of Victoria.

I would gather each plant, each flower,

each piece of the Old World,

each rock, each government building,

each lamp, each iron-wrought lamp,

each cup of tea, each cube of sugar,

each drop of cream, each foreign accent,

each wink, each photo, each sigh,

every bewildered stare,

and gather them up in a bag,

just to see her smile again.

Is this what Penelope felt like?

Though she's not my husband, nor even my lover,

she's an heir to a special part of my heart.

I know she's alive,

but the distance that separates us is an ocean,

and it takes far too long to sail home.

My suitors are not but worries, anxieties, fears

that visit me every morning and every evening.

I know the moment she comes home they'll flee

like dust in the four winds.

I fear she faces many trials and monsters harm in women's clothing,

and that she will come home one day,

but I want her home today.

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."

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Inspired by Clement Clarke Moore's classic poem, also titled “A Visit from St. Nicholas"

Twas the Night Before Christmas

When all through the flat,

Not a creature was stirring,

Not even the cat.

The stockings were hung by the heater with care,

Lighting the filthy fireplace we wouldn't dare.

The parents were snuggled and warm in their beds

While visions of school-buses drove in their heads.

My mother in her pjs and dad in his shirt

Had just dozed off, to sleep off dessert.

When out on the street there rose such a racket,

I sprang from my desk and threw on my jacket.

Away to the window I zipped like the Flash,

Looking outside, expecting a car crash.

I saw street lights reflected on fresh-fallen rain,

Damp moss, slick roads, and rusted road drains.

And what, to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a hovering motor home and eight hybrid reindeer.

With a weighty old driver, yet so lively and slick,

I knew in a moment he thought himself Saint Nick.

More wild than bikers on their cycles he came,

And his sleeves held more tricks than a cheating card game!

"Oh darn it, oh darn it. I think it's broken."

He swore. "the shop'll be closed in the mornin'."

He glanced at the house, at the door, and the top of the wall,

and spotted the tools for an overhaul.

As burglars check for cameras before they break in,

"Santa" checked the perimeter with a flick of his chin.

So up to the front door quietly he sneaked,

Except for when the floorboards creaked.

And then in the rustling I heard at the door,

The scratching and grinding of jams and bores.

As I grabbed Dad's gun, and was turning around,

Through the front door Santa came in a bound.

He was dressed in dark red,  from his head to his boot,

And his clothes were all trashed with grease and soot.

A bag of plunder he slung on his back,

And he looked just like a beggar, just opening his sack.

His eyes, they darkened, his wrinkles were sinister.

His cheeks were like canyons, his nose like a mountain.

His thin lips were creased like paper,

And the beard of his chin was ashen like slush.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

Smoke poked my throat like thorns in a wreath.

He had a small face and a bouncing round belly,

That shook when he laughed, and he made the room smelly.

He was chubby and fat, a right creepy old fart,

And I hacked when I saw him, and it gave him a start.

A wink of his eyes, and a twist of his head,

Soon told me to know I had everything to dread.

He said not a word, and set to his work,

and ate the milk and cookies, the old jerk!

Stepping too close to the sensors beside his nose,

He set the alarms blaring, in mid-bite he froze!

He sprang out the door, wrapped tool box in hand,

and tried the engine to get out of this land.

But I heard the sirens, and smirked as he stood in plain sight,

and watched them arrest him on that cold winter night.

To Sand We Shall Return

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched to the oracle;

We marched to take her down;

We marched to cast her into the sand;

We marched to bury her body  in the sand,

to the place we would all return.

_________________

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched for the son of Cyrus;

We marched for the King of Persia;

We marched to make him and his advisors proud;

We marched to be remembered above all Persian armies;

We marched to be remembered beyond the sand,

the place we would soon return.

______________

We marched to be lost;

We marched to be found;

We marched to leave arrowheads and silver bracelets;

We marched to leave a thousand skulls grinning at the sky;

We marched into the sand;

We marched into the sand,

and to sand we returned.

Last Name

My ancestors journeyed over an ocean,

to what they saw as a new world,

but I think they became new,

like new pronunciation,

new religion,

a new neighborhood,

a new language,

A new identity.

___________

My mother and her sisters

wouldn't have known that their distant

cousins wore stars of David

on their sleeves,

a few years before my mother's birth,

or that fifth-cousins-three times-removed

wanted a neighborhood of their own,

without imposing walls or armored tanks on the other side.

__________

She wouldn't have known that her relatives wanted their own national identity.

_________

She wouldn't have known,

if someone had not said:

"You're Jacob's,

Are you Jewish?"

What I Would Do

If my best friend died,

I would run to the other end of town

and back, until the soles of my shoes

became my feet and my shirt melted into my skin.

I would burn every calorie of every piece of

chocolate I ever ate while discussing

PMS with him.

 

I would go to Gov Cup and order a chai tea

and try every flavor in single shots in different cups.

I would flirt with the barista as if to

cheat on our relationship that never happened because

we would end up killing each other.

 

I would write a poem where every line was an inside joke,

and all the words would be five syllables long

and only be found in the OED.

I would shout utterly vulgar phrases from the bus stop,

(but only in Greek, Spanish, and Russian.)

 

I would stay up late with his other best friend and say

absolutely nothing.

Because my ashen clothing,

my decreasing chocolate supply,

my counter-top full of espresso shots,

my affair with the barista,

my tirade at the bus stop,

even my inside joke of a poem

would fail him.

"Forecast Calls for Overcast Skies and a Shower of Business Men"

The windows thought they knew what rain sounded like,

They did not know it sounded like men falling from the sky,

Quiet men in trench coats, ties, and bowler hats,

Standing straight up like pins,

So they'd fall that much harder,

Staring off into space as if falling from the sky

Was a perfectly normal way to go to work.

Traffic

A complete stop on the freeway,

An ironic twist along the way,

As I was driving home one day

My hand digging into the carryout tray,

Asking my friends 'yay' or 'nay'

To change lanes, if I may,

As I came to a complete stop on the Freeway.

To Heidi Kline

It didn't matter if I was a

Kitty, a Hippie Chick, in the Mafia (or the card one), or just a 6th grader,

When we rode in a van to the beach,

Probably going a little too fast, and growing a little too fast,

As we blasted surfer rock from the stereo,

And songs about breakfast.

It didn't matter what our moms said about too much candy,

You'd let us eat it all in the backseat, and smile when we got carsick,

Instead of saying "I told you so."

I only knew you as a mentor for 12 months or so,

But those twelve months changed every month after

And taught me to be weird for a smile and a laugh

I guess I wrote these lines, to thank you for being weird for 12 months at least,

And I hope your kid ends up weirder than me.

A Walk Through East Jerusalem

The tour bus rolled to a stop but didn't open its doors quite yet. Shadows rustled behind shaded windows, eagerly anticipating the stop. Meanwhile the engines whined and hissed, before finally settling into silence. A hawk cried through the sky as it glided on drafts of air. On the streets below vendors displayed their wares for all potential customers to see. Finally the doors opened, and the rustling increased.

First out came the tour guide, a short woman with curly hair, sunned skin and a crooked nose. After her streamed a single file line of men and women glancing about with their eyes and their camera lenses. The line collapsed into a swarm of eager eyes and chittering mouths. They half-listened with their ears while they half-watched the world around them through the lenses of their cameras.

I on the other hand, ate my fallafal and pita bread as I tried to shut out the noise. With my feet planted on the sidewalk, my eyes took in the two streets, the alley way on across the street, and the door two booths away. Even when on vacation I couldn't help but identify all the possible exits. Glancing at my makeshift meal, I tried to block out what had become instinct.

One bite of the crunchy treat and I wondered if someone had poisoned it.Sighing, I tossed my meal in the trash and pulled out my camera. I snapped a few pictures before I realized I had been searching for evidence. Evidence of what? A stray cat sitting by the bus? The man with the hair gelled so heavily I could snap needles off of it? The girl with a bomb strapped to her chest? ....

So much for a vacation.

Basically, when you encounter a suicide bomber, you have one of three options. You can run, you can scream, or you can try to stop the bomber, all of which will makes the girl to pull the trigger. You could shoot her hand off, but there's no guarantee that one shot will take out both hands at the same time, and it only takes one hand to trigger the bomb.

If you have rifle loaded with disruptor shells, you can hit the trigger with a casing filled with water and avoid igniting the explosives. Though, if you're on vacation overseas, airport security usually removes this option , and you'll be lucky to even make it to your destination. Liquid nitrogen could be used to freeze the wires, and disable the triggering system, but good luck finding that in a street market. You could put pressure on her coratid artery, but you might have trouble getting close enough to her neck.

In some cases the bomber will choose to use a wireless trigger because they allow more subtlety before the blast. This counts in your favor because a wireless signal is a lot easier to disrupt than a wired one. You could call a bomb squad, but that takes too much time. Thankfully, when vacationing in a tourist trap, satellite dishes with strong broadcast signals aren't too hard to come by. All a spy has to do is call the nearest TV news station, and wait for the reporters to take the bait.

Within a couple minutes they'll come roaring through in her van, eager to broadcast the news first. They'll park their van, bust out the cameras, and turn on their satelite router. The actual difficult part is getting the trigger from the bomber's hand before the news crews leave. I prefer the subtle approach. Simply sneak up on her using the reporters as body shields, and grab the trigger.

Of course, if the mob of reporters knock you into her, things get a bit more complicated. You'll have to move quickly to knock the trigger away from her hands as you tumble to the ground. And once the press vultures get close enough, they'll likely send the trigger skittering into a mob of tourists, allowing you to disable the bomb.

And once you can get away from the reporters, and the wannabe bomber, you can enjoy a fresh serving of fallafal, and hope it isn't poisioned.