The Calm
beckons us
to soak up sunne
and grow
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she walks away from me
after saying this:
“You wait right here.
I’ll be right back. I promise.”
one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore
how many more times
will we reunite
here in this life–
I ask myself tonight
one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore
her return today means
separation will come
just as my present breath
assures my final one
one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore
one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore
no one’s waiting anymore
Mohammed, the man I killed, wakes me.
“It is quiet, Johnny,” he says.
“So?” I look at his eyes,
the only bright spot on his body.
“Much too quiet.”
Mohammed is hard to understand but
I can see his thoughts.
He’s worried that something
is about to explode.
“Insha’Allah,” he says, “things are changing.”
“Like Allah will make us less dead?”
Mohammed’s been in denial since we got here.
“May Allah give us more to see than fighting and
killing when we look upon the earth,” he says.
“Don’t count on it,” I tell him; “there will always
be another war somewhere to watch.”
His expression withers so I ask him, “What
could make this infernal watching bearable?”
“Hassan’s face,” he replies with a broad smile.
“Wouldn’t that make you more miserable?”
“No, Johnny, no. When I see Hassan, then
somehow, I will make my son hear me.”
“What good will that do?”
“I will tell him I am fine.”
“Fine? Mohammed, you’re fucking dead.”
He places his hand over his heart.
“I will tell him I love him.” Again he looks
hopeful. “We should be friends, Johnny.”
“Why?”
“Because for eternity you may be the only
person in Paradise for me to talk to.”
“Getting chummy won’t change anything.”
“Yes, but for Hassan I must put hatred
aside and become a better man.”
“By forgiving me for killing you?”
This man is incredible.
Mohammed shrugs. “You shoot me,
I shoot you. We both die. Friends now?”
“Why the hell not,” I say to stop him from praying.
“Do not make fun of me, Johnny.”
“Look at my thoughts if you don’t believe me.”
Mohammed protests, “Never would I
“violate you in that way.”
“For Christ’s sake, why not?”
“Is it not wrong to take your
Lord’s name in vain?”
A fool and his sermons.
And Mohammed thinks this is paradise.
“Johnny,” Mohammed pulls on my arm.
“Look, down there.”
Soldiers pour from their tanks, shouting,
Women emerge, laughing and singing,
coaxing the soldiers to dance.
Mohammed waves wildly at a boy
who is looking straight at us.
An officer raises his fist as he calls out,
“It’s over.”
“Thank God,” I cry as I grab Mohammed.
“I am a fool my friend,” he says, “but praise
Allah you are not the infidel you try to be.”
What would happen to
the squirrels
if they languished
each time
they misplaced a buried nut?
You’re my Lemon boy,
you know.
although we met when you were a flower.
We grew close when nature turned you to a weed.
but the thing is,
dandelions are still weeds.
You were always a flower.
forced to become a weed.
and I love you and you’re story,
always will.
A rose prick you,
made everyone look at you like a weed.
but I was pricked by the same rose.
I know.
I understand.
I trust you.
But my favorite part of our story,
After the fact we survived the same rose
only making us closer,
it’s that I felt a calling to you
the day you felt alone.
When everyone left you,
I got the privilege to be the one to come to you.
I didn’t even know it at the time,
I hadn’t heard the rumors.
And once I was told them by that rose,
I immediately went to you.
but it’s funny in a way.
I was pricked by the same rose with different thorns,
but pricked with the same thorns by a different rose.
it’s funny how interlinked out roots are.
then I discovered more of your story.
parts you rarely tell people.
it made us closer,
it made me trust you.
it’s was easy for me to get attached,
hard to gain my trust.
But I trust you more than anything now.
But another one of my favorite parts of our story was recent.
It happened years ago for you,
but it just happened to me.
we were loved wrongly,
touched callously.
but I firmly believe everything happens for a reason.
I now connect with you on an even deeper level,
I went to you for help first,
because I know
You knew.
You understood.
You trusted me.
I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve done,
even if I spent the rest of my life trying.
but then comes the fertilizer.
then comes the clouds and rain.
Every single day I fear I’ll hurt you.
I fear losing you.
It happens to me all the time.
one after another I lose and lose and lose people,
people I’ve given everything to.
people close that I tried everything
and I always get pushed away.
I cried today just thinking about you walking away,
wondering if you feel the same.
but no matter what,
I love you.
Always will.
It’s over.
The bank account is empty.
The tires are bald and flat.
A wheeze punctuates my breakfast In the cold gray of January morn.
The fullness is now lank.
The dog is asleep, hibernating.
The wealth has whittled way to penury,
Bit by bit
Morsel on the lapel
Brushed away in distraction.
I like this emptiness
This meanness.
Not much left to lose.
It is the rich tonal depth of a tube amp and Fender tele.
Hollow, bright, insouciant of itself.
I am that tone
At my best.
When the direction of the gods becomes me
A glowing conduit for electric movement
That takes
Me,
Us,
All,
Unaware and something happens,
Magic.
A joke.
A misguided fastball lifted over the fence
Or a career.
The start of the friendship with The Goddess I share in my life.
An incidental interaction
On the street
Gone like a trifle but In accordance with a greater design than mine.
Footsteps crunching in the snow
Such a lovely sound in twelve degree
Dry January hangover
