Monday, November 25, 2002



Fear is the fiery-eyed dragon
Perched on the shoulder of my inner thoughts,
Taunting me to stay away.

Fear’s mammoth hand
Shoves me to the ground,
Grinding my face into the mud.

Fear’s searing breath
Hisses dark secrets in my ears,
Drawing me closer to it.

A voluntary captive of this evil beast
Tugging at me from the pit of my stomach,
Encircling my wrists with doubt,
Polluting my brain with Novocain.

Fear infects every fiber of my body,
Saturates every pore of my skin,
Dictates the exertion of every muscle.

Gaunt phantom of myself,
Obedient marionette to the sinister being inside.
Imprisoned in a dungeon of darkness,
Lined with insomnia and insecurity.

If only for a moment-
When fear blinks its watchful eye,
I could shiver,
Shake this snare upon me,
And fear would be no more.



We are like two actors in the matinee of life,
Both of us pretending
That I don’t know you better than anyone in this place.
I watch you bear your image
Not making eye contact with anyone,
Quiet, but definitely too cool for everyone else.

But I know
What’s really inside that skin that opens for no one.
Because that summer,
You opened it for me--
And I saw things so unbelievably wonderful
That you had taken such care to mask from the rest of the world.

That’s what I remember most about you:
The real you
That I found that summer.
The caring, sensitive, funny guy
That won my stubborn heart with such ease.

So many nights,
Under the balmy moon--
We talked for hours
About your cowboy antenna ball “Dewayne” we bought at Wal*Mart,
How sunburned we both were from goofing around at the pool all day,
And me heading off to college in less than a month.

All the while knowing
When we finally crept home in those wee hours,
That I would have to face the crossed arms of my mother in that navy bathrobe,
And you would only get three hours of sleep.

I see you in this new town,
With these new people
I think about you,
And often wonder how you are really doing.
I wonder how it is possible
That we can be such strangers to each other now.
And then…

I can’t help but miss you a little.



Flock of suns
Crowded atop the rickety wooden cart.
Each one sealed
Under the dimples of its globular skin,
Blinding rays
Capturing the attention of passersby.
Tangy gas
Floods their nostrils, dissolves taste buds to puddles.

who to eat turkey with.

"Who To Eat Turkey With"

Green pine branches,
Glassy red ornaments,
Twinkling white star lights,
And mysterious packages wrapped in silver and gold
All capture my attention as
I walk into a house that is so familiar
For its spicy cinnamon smells,
And Crackling fireplace,
Looking for my mom’s big welcome home hug
And my family chattering away in the kitchen;
Since I only come home once or twice a year now,
It’s so easy to forget that my parent’s house
Is not so lively anymore- -
That they finally decided that not speaking to each other
For two years
Was not accomplishing anything,
And now my brother and I must decide
Who’s house to go to,
Who to eat turkey with,
And how we’re ever going to get to hang out
Together anymore.

me and dylan.

Me and Dylan

We were four and seven
And could almost have been twins
With our sandy hair
And ocean eyes
That saw a jungle in our front yard.

The jungle was our home,
We were raised by smelly apes
And got as dirty as we wanted
Because we were savages.

Sometimes the jungle
Was a grocery store instead,
With leafy lettuce platters
Worm noodles
And chocolaty mud pies

All for the giant feast in our castle.
Of course I was the princess of the kingdom
And you were the funny little jester
Or the woodsman that hunted bugs.

Mom always grew impatient
Having to use our middle names,
Crossing her arms,
And furrowing her brow;
Trying to get us to come in
From our cul-de-sac play.

Covered in dirt,
Red with laughter,
Full of the memories that will last a lifetime
And tie us together,
Even if we are miles apart,
And miles away from the jungle of our childhood.



I’m used to the silence.
Even the scraping of forks is torturous.
Sitting at the dinner table
Staring at the same white plates with red rims
That I’ve been eating off of for the last twenty years,
Chewing without tasting the green beans in my mouth.
Pretending that there really is just
Nothing to say,
Or all four of us are tired,
Instead of the fact that my parents just don’t talk
At all anymore.

counting days.

"Counting Days"

Today is the 5th,
A month since we celebrated
Your birthday with homemade brownies,
And fourteen days since you have called.
The rumble of every diesel truck I hear
Turns my head,
And I can’t help but look
At the driver of every maroon F-250
I see on the roads.
I check my machine like clockwork
When I get home,
And remember to carry my cell phone
Even to the bathroom.
I’m lying awake in bed
Again tonight.
The phone lies quiet
Beside my pillow.
Today is the 6th,
And fifteen days since you have called.

santa fe.

"Santa Fe"

The musty medley
Of Old Spice cologne,
Blue Listerine,
And Wintergreen Copenhagen
Invades my nostrils
And stings at my tear ducts
As I push open
The dingy metal door of the 1970’s,
southwestern décor hotel room.

Inside the cab of your
Navy pick-up is the only place
I have smelled this combination before.

You would have liked the ridiculously large
Cowboy painting hanging crooked
Over the burly wooden headboard,
With its cliché sunset
And pensive cowboy
Mounted on his trusty steed
Staring off into the horizon.

My bags squeak the over-used
Springs of the bed,
Its lopsided mattress makes me
Disappointed I will be
Sleeping alone.
No one to roll into the slump with.

Santa Fe is not supposed to remind me of you.