Jack

My favorite thing to do when I'm sad is to pick up Jack and tell him I love him.
He sees the worry in my eyes and acts brave.
Like everything is okay.
He grabs my chin and turns my face so he can look me in the eye.
Then he babbles something important to me.
That's the part where I tear up.

Today a Gummy Worm

So today I gave my child a gummy worm. Soft and colourful was this worm, happy even. It's only one I told myself. But this harmless looking slobbered on candy was more than I bargained for. He only ate half the worm the rest wiggled free of his grasp and found its way into the crumb grave yard. For those who do not have children or are obsessively clean, the crumb graveyard is the mess underneath a child's car seat. Dried milk, cheerios, and plenty of remnants. This is where the rest of the gummy worm landed; unsalvageable. Of course he was distraught. So today I gave my child a grumpy worm.

The Scent of Love and Hate

If you like me it's because I smell like bacon. Maybe this is the whole trick? I don't know why I like you so much; you eat broccoli? But then when I spied on you I found out you eat a lot of bacon and this is why you are important. I care not about the deceit surrounding the false eating of broccoli just that you eat bacon is enough. I met a man the other day whom I wish I'd never met. The handshake, the glazed look in his eye and the thick greasy words from his tongue shed all together made me ill. He was all kinds of wrong with a smattering of queasy. "Why," I said, this man has done no wrong? He had though; unbeknownst to me he had recently consumed a large bowl of potato salad and was on his way to purchase more. It was in this act which laid the rub. How did I find out? Well, let me tell you. Actually, it doesn't matter. So when you find someone you hate is it the bean salad in their life? If you fall in love is it the scent of bacon and feta cheese? I cannot fully answer this...these things are a mystery.

Words

Capture words. Round them up. Make them yours. I placed them in this order and now they are mine. We used to respect words and revere them. Now we fear them lest we infringe or plagiarize. Free the words once again, let them mean something. If I tell you I love you, will you believe me? Are not these words of books? If I told you that frogs croak your praise when you hold aloft your fist and shout? Would you let me know that you heard it in a movie once? Would I care? No! I will not care, it only matters that we understand each other and love can move freely. How can I be quiet when the words given to us, to express have been bought. I never sold them. Let me speak them. They will pour from my mind. Some of them may be yours but i will not claim ownership. Can we intoxicate our minds once again with words and not look over our shoulder?

No Friend of Mine

Fear has always taken so much from me. How can I take from it? It has left me cold. It has bashed my skull in and left me for the sun and insects. Over and over again it has had its way with me. I would love to shout out, 'No More!' This would only amount to screaming out two words that lack the ability to back themselves up. No, what I want is to make fear pay! Give back every scrap of dignity. How? Vulnerability will only expose fear in others. So I trade my freedom for another's; then what is to become of them? Brutal honesty will only be what it says it is, brutal. If I pin fear down and search it's pockets, they will be empty. Of this I am sure. You are wasteful with what is most precious. You spend it foolishly and have nothing to show except rows of tombstones. Fear you are no friend of mine. So don't knock on my door I don't want to go for coffee.

Pressing Matters

The only relief from this space in time is the cold from my window pane. Face, forehead, ears and cheeks all wishing to simultaneously enjoy the press of the cool glass.

Rain

As I stare out onto the wet road through dirty glass; I cannot help but think my ship has run a ground. So hard to put into words the complexities of this problem. The thoughts flow over my mind like the rain on the dead end street. I suppose you would dare to call me hopeless. I guess I am a bit. How hard is it to think otherwise? Very, when the rain never stops.