how dare you

I tied my shoes like rabbits ears.  It was the best a mother could do. 
I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I found myself in thought of you.  Where did you go?  What did I do wrong?  I kicked and scratched the messenger.  How dare you, mom. 

Fast forward because you were forgotten as I had been by you.  Page 43, February, your name resurfaces in an obituary, whats your son to do?  Dead, a heartless man.  The empathetic son says, how dare you.


And mom, puts on this gentle face; one I've never seen her wear.  With clenched fists, the tears stream down, fighters aren't supposed to care.  Slam my door, tune out the noise, so this misplaced sorrow is never heard.  Back I go into my own thoughts, so I'm not disturbed.  Did you hate me while I loved you?  All these questions pouring through.  I forgive you this one time as God knows, that bitterness is never an alibi.  Never mind, I cannot lie.  how dare you.


All grown up, nowhere to go; a new family moves me in.  Cocaine dreams up in smoke, laughing with my friends.  This won't end well, it never does.  What am I to do?  Brother takes one drink; it all begins.  This complicated comradeship ends with you.  With lifeless limbs and a bleeding tongue, the end of an era sets in.  Gone is my family; the only one I knew.  As the choir sings, I sing how dare you.

All is well I tell myself before these lights go out.  Grab a pen, pen my thoughts, and think of what went wrong.  Father is now just a shell as he mumbles how dare you, son. 

With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I'm learning to swim again. 


Fast forward because it's easy to, I'll make the time to rewind at a later date.  Slam my door, tune out the noise.  Into my own thoughts, escape.  Did I not do enough?  Was my silence the final nail?  With sturdy arms and a steady pulse, I flail.  And wait for this dead horse to exhale.


How dare you leave us like this.  No words. No reason exists. 


Fast forward to the day we finally meet again.  Something tells me, you'll explain yourself but I'll no longer care.  The other side is so much brighter, I will understand why in haste you left for there.  You'll look at me like you used to always do and say how dare you.


Now, I'm left to wonder other things.  Like who is left to love me.  With vulnerability fully exposed, how dare you to stop thinking of me.  I doubt she will ever know that I am trudging slowly towards her. 

I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I find myself searching for her.  What am I to do?  Every story has a perfect ending....

how dare you.

The Death of Wonder

We used to look up and wonder.  Now, we know all the answers.  

We would dream of the moon and beyond.  Now, we argue over dinosaurs.  And these old bones would marvel in the miracle we call life.  I suppose somewhere between the dinosaurs and the heavens, arrogance sits on some throne as we look to crown ourselves rulers of each others lives.  Because the self absorbed cannot govern.  They exist to merely be anointed.   Once upon a time, no one wanted to be king.

We used to pray before our meals and before sleep would settle in.  Now, we talk to ourselves as if strangers are in our clothes.  And the emperor remains naked yet no one dares to tell him so.  I suppose somewhere between the vanity lies a creature cloaked in self loathing. 

Once upon a time, we would lend the shirt off our back to the man standing in the cold.  Now, that shirt has a price tag and in red ink it's marked our soul.

We used to look straight ahead and wonder.  Now, we are frozen in our fear.
We would dream about tomorrow.  Now, we argue how we got here. 

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought I missed the train.  And that woman who once loved me bought a ticket away from here.  I suppose the blind are leading the myopic while all the phony superlatives have become hypnotic.  And I wait in the pouring rain for another train to deliver her back to me.  But I know, tomorrow will leave me wondering where exactly could she be.

We used to talk about the weather as a form of courtesy.  Now, we awkwardly stare in silence as we drown in our own thoughts.  Ideas have been replaced by theories from the lost.  And these old bones are wandering in a desert of self doubt.  Because famine to the unloved is merely writers block.  I suppose this world is all a stage for the actors to meander about.  Somewhere behind the applause is an audience thirsty from this drought.  Because all original thought has been cannibalized in a mutiny so to speak.  Gone is all our wonder.  Gone is all the mystique.

And these old bones are tired; these old bones are weak.

We used to wonder about those stars and our place in the universe.   Now, we're staring down at dirt; dwelling on all that hurts.  I suppose we don't know all the answers and dinosaurs aren't extinct.  Not until, someone tells us exactly what to think.

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought she missed the train.  I will keep on waiting for her to return back to me. 

The end of all that's good is always preceded by the death of curiosity.

Happy Birthday to a Ghost

Have you ever said happy birthday to a ghost?

Memory Lane has a hit a road block.  Let's call it time.  Today was your day, now it's mine.  I used to talk to you.  Now, I talk at you.  Conversations with a mime.

Wake up, guilt sets in.  It's not because of what happened.  Or didn't happen.  I'm merely sorry for all those things I am forgetting.  Like those road trips.  Our little talks.  Sobriety.  Conversations during future walks.  I suppose, you're still an uncle.  And still my friend.  I suppose, one year from now, I'll be back here again.  Without a cake.  Without your stories.  Of all your hopes drowning in your past glories.  Despite the irony, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost.

I can forgive cancer.  I can forgive God.  I can't forgive you.

Let it go, they said.  Try walking with this supposition.  Oh, I know.  I'm the one talking at an apparition.  I'm alright.  All is good.  Nothing could be better nor more misunderstood.  A dose of venom in my blasphemy, never mind.  Sooner or later, we're all out of time.  Speaking metaphorically, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost. 

Do you really believe in the other side?  Is it possible it's something we created as a coping mechanism?  Like some self serving dose of optimism. 

Conversations with a ghost always lead to skepticism. 

But yes, I do believe.

I can forgive unintended consequences and all our failed interventions.  But I can't forgive you.

Not today. 

Despite my righteous indignation, here's a toast.
Happy Birthday to a ghost.

The Problem

The problem with logic is that it's limited. 

Those words you speak, I deflect with clarity as I reflect on the ones you once spoke with regularity.  Maybe, I became more unlovable or just maybe, I was your charity.

The problem with love is that it should be uninhibited.


Such a shame, the road we chose.  It was bound to happen, I suppose.  Wrap your arms around my chest and dig your nails into my back.  Leave your mark before you go.  We'll take turns shooting the elephant. 

The problem with truth is it never seems to be relevant.

I'm in love with a shark, said the swimmer at sea as he found himself out of his element.  Drop your anchor and drown this elephant, said the shark cautiously.  Such a shame, this predicament.  Both of them wishing it was all different.

The problem with pride is it becomes belligerent. 


Say it, I told you so.  Disappointment cloaked in benevolence.  Sweet sweet you, choking on your perseverance.  Wrap your hands around my neck.  Shake loose the screws of my intellect.  Say it, you're skeptical.

The problem with hope is it's hypothetical.

Such a shame, this spectacle. 

Round and round, we go.  You love me, you told me so.  Should I cling to those words from long ago? 

I'm in love with a woman, said the man on a cross.  Her indifference is his albatross.  Wrap you arms around that man.  Dig your nails into his back.  Leave your mark before you go and crucify that elephant. 

The problem with indifference is it becomes self-evident.

Such a shame, that all is good; eventually becomes corrupt as all those riches leave us bankrupt.

The problem with love is it is never convenient.