Frankie and Jane/Thunder and Rain

Put your shoes on Frances,
It's time to go.
We're running late.
She wails like thunder.
She cries like rain.
I hold her tight. 
"I'm not letting you go.
I'm right here.
I love you so.
I feel the same."
She wails like thunder.
She cries like rain.

Behind the bench,
Jane hides from the pain.
Peeking through the planks.
Wondering if she feels the same.
Watching Dada tame
And absorb the hurricane,
As tears stream down his face.

Shoes on, doors closed.
Drive down the lane.
Wind still, 
trees in frame, 
time froze in place.
Behind the front seat,
Jane hides from the pain.
Peeking through glass panes.
Wondering if she feels the same.

Level 4 parking lot
Goodbye for now
I'll see you soon.
Go to you Mama.
I'll talk to you today.
I drive away.
I wail like thunder.
I cry like rain.

I walk through the house, 
Sit on the back porch,
And look up clouds,
As they light up like a torch. 
They wail like thunder
The sky she cries like rain.
Looking down on us. 
Wondering if she feels the same.

The storm it breaks.
The streets they steam.
Exhaling all of those tears.
Into the airstream.
And all of a sudden I'm alone. 
No family.  No home. 
No children. No daughters. 
Nothing left of me
Not even a father. 
I wail like thunder.
I cry like rain. 
I hide behind the pain. 
My eyes are closed. 
Wonder if I'll ever feel the same. 

I hope you find what you're so angry at. I haven't.  And at this point, I don't think I will. So I've started looking for other things. Because the only angry thing I've found, is myself.

I hope it's not weird, but I think we've always existed. And, we grow up battling if it was a true existence.
Or, I guess, a worthy existence.

Ressurection

It's the first day of Spring. The Easter of the planet.
I woke up too late to go to an assembly.
It's about starting over. It's about finding the truth of what Jesus did. Coming back from the dead.
I look around my apartment.
A destroyed tomb.
An assembly of regret, mistakes, hate, bitterness, of rage, of dismembered bodies of booze, discordant decorations of dead plants and purged bills.
The "cat room"; the symbol of where it began and where it ended. An array of notebooks, photographs, college textbooks, rusty bed frames, grocery bags, litter boxes.
Littered with memories of the mistake I made for five years.

You left this shit. It was easy for you. I was left to clean up.
To make a difference of the after-life.
To grow something from this garden of garbage.

I took me this long
to organize; to put away; to deal with it;
to not be over-whelmed with the person I was,
and maybe still am.

I want to cremate this grave.
I want to bury the regrets alive.
But I cannot incinerate myself,
I cannot bury myself alive
.
I must dig a grave full of fantastic, unfulfilled and funeralistic findings.

Each shoveled scoop brings up the good; brings up the bad.
Each handful of letters, photos, and drawings,
demands a dissention of the negative.

Each grasp grants a guaranteed goal:
My resurrection.

Shalom.

Mistakes

You couldn't be anymore.
So, you lost yourself.
Giving any other reason
To hold, to run, to scream.
You will look back,
Look down,
And collapse.
But you will never forget,
The perfect storm
Of these mishaps.

shalom.

Hurting others

The hardest part about hurting others 
is that you won't ever hurt as much as they do,
 and so you try and try to, 
yet you're not quite there, 
so you try some more.
Annihilate yourself. 
Breathe. 
Then... 
Try some more.




shalom.

Heart Break

You're heart will break,
That's a fact.
But who is in charge
Of keeping it intact?
Breathe. Pause. Look back. 
Cry.
You've had your chance.
You have your life.

shalom.

Listen to me. Don't listen to me.
Get uncomfortable with my comfort.
Get comfortable with my discomfort.
Here, my opinion.
Hear my opinion.
My opinion sucks,
but my mistakes?
My mistakes are a beauty above the rest.

I am a sloppily-built card tower.
When one card is plucked,
the entire tower topples upon itself.

I am a frayed knot.
Tying all of my problems together,
then later using my teeth to separate them.

I am a newspaper collection.
Strike a match to one remembrance,
then the whole library is on fire.

I am stumbling around the corner.
I am crying on the porch.
I am listening for God.
I am sleeping on the couch.
I am talking to myself.
I am screaming curses out.

I am justifying, mystifying, and lying to myself.
I am blaming, maiming, and taming myself.
I am blinding, binding, and finding myself.
I am alive.
And it hurts.

Shalom.

There is a hidden forest
within a hidden vale
hidden within the fog
with a hidden wall 
with hidden door 
with a hidden knob 
with hidden latch 
which I can't see 
with hidden eyes,
yet try to open 
with a hidden key
with hidden hands
bound securely.
That's where you've hidden Thee.






shalom.