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

& then

there are nights with life
long friends

work on a project
to watch a movie

reflect on high school
and keep going
for one more week

Making it easy

I shouldn't have to defend not wanting [to be with] someone.

Same that people don't have to defend wanting [craving?] a relationship

or even someone for a night. 

                  How is that so hard for people to understand?

Like a playground,

kids frolicking with balls and objectives,

    enjoying their game

and interaction. 

Note the girl in the shade,

near the building and hidden from windows, 

reading

and loving that adventure

with no one around. 

                                                                 Hopefully that's better

and okay. 

Who knows? Maybe it is all just detachment

[from being human] to engaging with strangers. 

"Books are better than other people anyway."

Huzzah for childhood fantasy memories and books of magic. 

Neverland

Degree came--
call me master
as I throw pizzas into an oven
and ask you to give me your location
                       so I can feed you
                       [after you pay]

Cross that off the life affirming/ death list

and then
meeting my artistic idol in less than a month
cross that off
                                 [note to self: be charismatic that day]

I did not mean for this to be about ends,
but somewhere in the middle,
wandering around without a full moon to see by
or moss to guide you.

I just hope I don't trip
or if I do, learning and more than just hurt and blood.

But for now, I'll pretend to be someone else
and play with dice
like a child, never wanting to grow up
though I desperately do,
yet trapped by magic and stubborn wishes.

Your last chance has arrived [mayhaps]

Funeral today.

Ending to a life--which is just silly how it all happened.
The ending, not the life.

For a man who joked about everything
wanting laughter in almost every moment in life
to have such a somber departing was the worst.

Don't stare at me, old lady, for laughing at some of the silliest arm motions he did all the time. 

Tears flowed, and people chained smoked
when they saw the open coffin
for a wrecked body.
                                                                 All the while, precious harp melodies tugged at your fragile heart.


So here,
take this:

I want people to laugh when I die. Endings are so depressing, and people shouldn't be sad.
                                                                        [I really just want to go on another adventure]

There should be awesome music to make people want to live
             because what's the point in dying if you don't enjoy life
                                or strike that
reverse it.

Personal space bubbles become nothing when tears are involved.
Is this hug to help me or you
or both of us
saying 'we're together'
for once.


                                                        Oh, connections.

Funerals for recognizing the dead and placing them as other,
raising them up
fully separates them from us. [At least, it is supposed to]

The unspoken last words to a puttied corpse, and we are supposed to move on
                  nothing to see here, folks.
But, even if you broke off a finger, carried it around your neck and whispered sweet nothings to it,
they wouldn't be back and you don't want to really do that. So take those few hours, say nothing to mean everything, and go back to living tomorrow.

Another beginning, however different this chapter is.

Maybe, I haven't been paying attention

Friday--
end of work-week, and this week
my manager died.
The one to give me a job--means of living
the first to invite me to hang out and be social outside of work--a reason to live.

Car wreck.
Dead on arrival.


They say it comes in threes

and grandpa was one in July
now this.

What's next?

And corporate keeps telling us it will all be okay

not for my co-worker/friend who was his best friend
who found Colin's car
saw his body bagged
                    like being dead is something to hide away

Don't want to imagine saying "That's my friend"
with their blood on the ground
and windshield.

Funeral should be soon,
and funerals are interesting. More on that later [promise]