Or we could kill them

Let me make this sane
even though I am freaking out.



I met my idol today.
A man of magic.
Neil Gaiman.

From senior year Catholic school,
the sixteen year old atheist tried to find something to hold to
and nothing was working.
Until my friend (turned best friend)  threw me a book,
told me to read it, and thank him later.

Eschewing school work for a day, I devoured American Gods
and found solace in words again. It was sorely missed after the isolation because of a high reading level in middle school.

I read all I could of his work and then other fantasy works
and then literary works when not preached setting for the fifteenth time.

Hello English major.

Then a poem, "Instructions"
showed me how universal stories are
that help everyone on their journey.

Hello MFA
writing
my life.

So I journeyed with my best friend--post a commune and an hour sweating
in summer's sunny glare,
we ran to the front like a rock concert.
Sat front row, nearly on top of each other
with my sister and other friend in tow.
Talk and drink for a few hours in blessed AC
with other people touched by words.

Applause, introduction of a personal nature,
a story of how stories are made
birthed into creation and sold on the market.

Then, a band starts next door. We could ignore them
or we could kill them.

We choose ignore, but there was an undertone of rage--swept away in story.

A Q&A about doors, writing, and creativity.
A story of fatherhood and a story for fathers.

Stand around, and try to let all of the words sink in
realize this is not the highlight of his life, except for the staring of stories.
Stories and stories en masse cannot be fun, how rough it must be to make a personal connection--
to be the face of magic for everyone, yet drain away days that could be meant for creating.

Yet, with a broken pen, we spoke for a few minutes of dragon's blood and stories.

A delight for my July and for 2013.

And my friend watched,
as he always has, from afar
while I let emotion and words carry me
knowing he'll never have to pick up as many shattered pieces
and disjointed crazy like in high school
even though my deathlist is shorter.

And as always, ticking off miles in conversation and silence
towards home.

July

With heat
childhood jealousy issues (really mean nothing
now)
and hospital visits of years' past summers
ending, always, in coffins,
makes my Julys a game of tolerance.

But this year, something to look forward to
(less or more than a country across the sea)
of meeting my hero
art-master
magic-maker.

Seriously, one brief encounter to cause so much hope
                 (will end in disappointment)
but still better than remembering the rain and cobblestone,
stoop of people,
feeling infinite
staring out into the north sea.
Streets of disinterested yet pleasant people,
cafes older than my whole world until that point.
I lived in antiquity
enjoying the 44,600 minutes spent in Scotland,


oh too willing to throw a future away in waves.
Though, I never crossed that barbed wire.


I'll never get that moment back,
yet the 11th will still be magical