Rain

Today I learned what an angiogram is.

The rain started lightly
with small drops and ringlets
like the ones
my mug leaves at the
computer desk.

Anger takes over, and the sky is
crying. I don't know why.
There is not but a handspan in
all of the sky but that
there is an angel bowing,
prostrating, singing the praises
of it's Lord.

There was light
and thunder. I heard it
over the sound of the shower-
cucumber and green tea.
I counted how long
it took me to hear the thunder:
immediate. My hands shake.

-

A stranger prays in my home
while strangers wait
in hospitals for loved ones
with hopes of recovery
and continuation of life. The smell of hospitals.
Strangers stand at microphones
and talk,
pass judgement on
a stranger's mind.

A friend. My dad said this man is like
a mountain of gold. How can we lose mountains of gold?

A stranger cries in a hospital,
a soul is unshackled.

Loss is relative-
the storm ceases. Puddles and
small circles of memories remain.

Rebound

I thought it was over:
the rebound of my mind
from West to East and back
again. I haven't prayed since
then, since they left.

I haven't stood my ground since then -
I've been awkward. I was there
when the waves hit too hard.
Yet it comes to an end before
I was ever ready. Before I could
review my words and actions.

My heart rebounds in a manner
not befitting to my pride. My heart has no say
when my words are edited.

The Exterior can wait to be melted.
But the interior -
it's already gone.

half stop

I wonder if it will ever go away. That itch that plagues my mind when I read or laugh or make petty conversation - it doesn't go away. Memories of it taint my every cell, my every moment breathing and living. I read her archives today and I didn't like them. There are no skeletons in her closet - she's got them right out there, a parade. And he was there, watching.

It's funny. I remember him every time I look at the rug in my living room. It's not so special, not so colourful or different. But there's something about it, something that catches my eye. And even when I'm not home, I know the patterns on my rug as if they were embedded in the palm of my hand.

Do I wonder what could have been? Yes. But what was and what will be are a greater mytery than he ever was.

i dare not go

Lined up my books
on the shelf in a row.
I store all my texts -
the ones I agree with
and the ones I don't.

Lined up my thoughts
from normal to sane
and right to left down
where the watermelons grow.

I dare not go.

Lined up my family
like ducks in a row
bound and gagged
til soldiers came
and misaligned us.

Lined up my soul
that I sold to the devil
with souls of other men who
took their patience and
traded it for hard cash.

looking for answers

I'm waiting for her to leave. Waiting - maybe then I'll get some inspiration. Maybe then, after my family is gone and I am left alone will I know where I should be standing.

The future is muddled, uncertain. Trust is fluid, trust does not really exist beyond thoughts. It does not extend into action. Where is my one knot, the one that will tie together all my loose ends? The peace of mind knot.

And stagnancy is relative. If I know it means nothing and that it will end, then it is not stagnant - it is constant motion. But, tell me how can one constantly be in motion but not be moving forward? Time's my car, though. I don't push myself forward, I am pushed forward.

He never asked me if he could leave.

Strainer

We always laugh at his suggestions and at how he picks them out by the way they walk or pray or smile. Or maybe the length of their beards - not painted on. He makes me laugh more than anyone else I think. Because he says what he intends while others coat their mediocre words with sweetness.

So now categories are formed and people are documented and narrowed down. Too much, maybe. But that's how it rolls. And not very many are good enough. He really makes me wonder. My dad, the strainer.