Garden

--------------------

I have been thinking about the path

the path to her garden

wondering who laid the stones
wondering who might have helped her
a little girl so far from home

I have been thinking about the flowers
the flowers that grow wild and free
I have been craving the flowers she holds
the ones I never have seen

and I have been thinking about the journey
wondering what hope I have found
hoping the bags filled with memories
will feed me and not weigh me down

and I have been weeping for the fearful
the fearful I left at the gate
quietly hoping their darkness
their darkness won't cloud my way

and god knows I need to believe in something

and god knows that I believe in you

but god never really mattered

when it came to following through

---------------

Septembers

-----------------

once a year
I would imagine the
first day of school

I never imagined the teachers
or the classes I would inevitably fail
I would imagine her

she was from out of town
smart but so shy
that she had no friends

she was always cute but not
beautiful
not so beautiful that she was out of place

some years she would see my Star Wars
or Jaws shirt and
she would open her jacket
and show me that she was wearing the same one

other years she would trip and
I would help her up
she would touch my hand and fall for me

once I spotted her out of the window of
class
struggling with too many books
I left class and we ditched school
to go to the pier and look at sand sharks

I would wait for her for a few weeks
but, of course
she didn't come

next year

next year, I thought

she would come

--------------------

Aunts and Uncles

-------------

I think
that aunts and uncles are
nicer than
kids at school

Kids at school
call me weird
in loud voices

Aunts and uncles
only ask my mom
in whispered tones
if I'm normal

While I sit
and listen
on
the top step
of the stairs

----------

Cranbrook part one

-------------------

On Cranbrook avenue...

It happened almost every weekend. The boy who lived across the street would run out of his door, down his driveway and onto the sidewalk. Sometimes in his underwear, sometimes in his pajamas. But always with tears streaming down his face and a look of terror in his eyes. He was around 9 just like I was.

His fat fuck of a father would bust out the door shortly after the boy did. Sometimes he had his belt in his hands, sometimes he was drawing it out of his pants like an obese Knight.

I hated the thought of the father as a knight. I dreamt of being a Knight. I drew Knights in my schoolbooks. The Knights I drew rode horses and didn't have piss stained shirts bursting out with years of shitty food turned to layers of fat.

The father never caught him, but always seemed to give a genuine effort.

When I would see it happen, I always did the same thing. I would drop my bike, skateboard or scooter onto our dead lawn and stare across the street at the father with my fists involuntarily clenched. He was a good two feet taller than I stood, and he frightened me. But I wanted him to know that I was watching him, and that someday I would be powerful enough to walk across that street and kill him.

One day while he huffed back to his house, he stopped and he stared back at me He yelled, "I'll kick the shit out of you too." I felt tears well up, but I stood my ground. He made a quick move toward me and I flinched, flicking tears from my cheeks onto the warm sidewalk. I wanted to keep my head down and watch the wet marks slowly disappear, but instead, I looked back up at him. He laughed, turned, and went inside to wait for the boy to return home.

The next time he yelled at me was a mistake. My brother (who one year later would be sent to prison for unrelated reasons) happened to be home. He heard the father threaten me and without a word bolted across the street, knocked the father onto his back, and punched him until he bled. My brother was small, strong and knew how to use his fists.

I remember wanting my brother to kill him, but feeling sick inside my stomach every time Daves fist landed a blow on the fat fuck's face.

Sometimes I thought I should make friends with the boy. I lived there for at least two years, but never did.

And... I never went back to Cranbrook avenue to kill his father.

But I still want to.

---------------------------

Jesse is dead.

---------------------------



Jesse is dead.

I thought that by writing those words, the words you just read,
    I would somehow feel closer to him.

I thought that by scarring my arm with his name,
    I would always know where to look for guidance.

I thought that by closing my eyes on a windy night,
    I would sometimes hear his deep voice in my ears.

I thought that by driving past the house where we lived,
    I would somehow feel his arms around me.

I thought that by playing his guitar,
    I would feel him over my shoulder,
    his strong hands moving mine to the right chords.

I thought that by walking to the ocean where my mom cast his ashes,
    I would sense some of the light he brought to my world.

I thought that by saying his name aloud every day,
   He would hear me.


I was right.


--------------------------------