In which I say no to drug use

Let me be completely honest with you: I don't do drugs.  Well, maybe only caffeine occasionally.  So occasionally that I don't write that word, and I actually spelled it wrong.  And sugar.  Because that is definitely a drug.  So I am oblivious when it comes to, oh, say, paraphernalia, which word I also didn't know how to spell.  So oblivious that I didn't know that "bud" was a drug-related term, so when my friend and I were vacationing in northern CA last week and an old man we had seen on the beach drove by and offered us, instead of a ride in his car, "a bud from his garden", which he assured us was organic, I thought he wanted to give us flowers.  Oh my.  We had to google image search the phrase, and sure enough came up with the correct answer.  It was indeed fragrant, but of course I couldn't place the smell, either.  Guess what got flushed down the hotel toilet, unused but highly educational?  Oh yes, you are correct. 

I'm telling you

I'm telling you, I saw it! I'm telling you right now!  This is what I saw! I saw the guy in the backseat of the police car, handcuffed, breaking legs with his steel toed boots. I saw his eyes spit in the dark. I heard his breath and breathed his stench. I felt his crazy emanating from the vehicle. 

I went out for coffee yesterday, brought my book, and stared absently out of the window at the cherry blossoms.  Heard a guy talking with his pastor or something, just a normal sort of conversation, about looking for jobs, restoring family relationships, starting fresh again every day.  I thought, this guy sounds alive, ready, just down for anything, charactered, seasoned, and earnest.  I glanced over, my spirit stirring, and saw the steel toed boots.  And his parole officer. 

I don't know if he just got back on his meds, or if his family finally decided to show up and support the guy, or if he'd always been that eager, sincere, and alive, and just got exploited by substances or circumstances or chemicals in the brain gone mad.  But now I wonder.  I accept.  I hope as never before.  And I'm frankly terrified.  I am terrified of myself and of humanity and of the thing that burrows inside the hole in my pain.  I don't want to be reminded of what lurks beneath the new walmart jeans and thrift store shirt, the jail haircut and the strangely calm eyes.  I know that place in me, and I hate it.  It's so easy to hate him, the pariah, the abuser, the other that is too close for comfort. 

Will I mourn for him?  Will I allow him to mourn for me? 
But his hope terrifies me the more. If he can start, and feel, and rest, and work, and breathe, and know, and believe, what does that mean for my end, my death, my delusion, my disillusion?  Where's my escape?  What happens when I outlive my end, when I overextend my resources and find I'm still here, working, trusting, breathing along with him?  What if the same thing that gnaws at me gnaws at him, this hope that points and directs and shapes? 

Will I let it in?  Will I let him in?

Sam Cooke

Sam Cooke came over during lunch and we took a walk through the back alleys at work.  November and the sun followed us along, asked us to stay a minute longer, took us to the edge of town and wouldn't let us back in.  And we were sittin' in the sun, counting those greenbacks on the trees.  Sam sang Someday, Somewhere, like I'll never forget.  That's where it's at.

spider journal

journal entry 10-16-12:
A giant four-legger poked my web with a tree today.  Some of the architecture damaged but the main structure remains intact.  I think I scared him off by waving all my legs in his general direction.  Eight always beats four.  Especially when the competition can only walk with two of them.  So silly.  Even if they are bigger.

how we are friends

Once upon a time, I know your name.  I write you a letter.  I move into the neighborhood.  I see your faces.  I talk to you.  I come in to your house without knocking.  You help me move.  You get me started again.  You come to my parties.  You play me songs.  We become friends. 

Next, I call you a pretentious jerk.  You flake on a hang out or two.  I am a pretentious jerk. 

You call me out on it and I cry to be kind.  I invite you back again, and again you come.  You are kind.

I ask you questions.  You tell me stories.  I get defensive when I drive.  You are surprised.

We don't know what to do with one another.

So we eat together.

We share our food like brothers and sisters.

You let me sip your beer.

I let you eat half my hamburger.

Then we buy brownies and ice cream.

Thank God for everything that is not kosher, and everything that is.

Thank God for brownies and ice cream.

kyle, jimi, and resurrection

And what if you came to life
the same day that Jimi did?
And what if you came to my house
with him to play guitar?
And with what careening careful turns
would your motorcycle fly
on bygone paths
carrying your lady-love
your little sister
your family friends
an entire audience
free, breathless

it's new every morning

tea and paper clips
Christmas colored leaves
outside my window
at work
a new live possum
downstairs this time,
mercifully,
memorial service
and grief
things i can count on
being surprised by