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.

Writing

I am told to write
by my friends and professors
by all the institutions I find myself bound to
but I write for the child in me still playing barbies.

Sorry if you take part in my stories. Aliases will ensue.
I'm not asking for a how or a why, but a simple what.
I understand some detachment but
not speaking without talking.
What happened to conversations?
Maybe they are just toxic.

Perhaps I'll run away to Canada to work as a late night cook in some town.
That would make me happy for a week or two.
Travel is strange; I always take too much baggage.

I may look back and laugh, but I doubt my parody of life is that comical.
Too much time alone with only a digital friendship is probably worse than cabin fever.

You told me to write for others, but perhaps this blog is free therapy.
I suppose that makes you my lab rats?

I was never good at science, pardon theoretical physics.

I want to write to make sense
to include others in a private life, getting out of a modern mindset
to fill a void made in humanity
understanding my prayers to symbols


Perhaps next time we will dance, but for now I have stare at the future in the splinters of my bed.