Leftovers are a let-down.
Picking up the pieces
Of my broken heart.
Left not right,
Caught in the middle.
Ideologies and rumors,
Hearsay and politics.
Wondering what to do,
After it’s all been said and done.
Get out the bread and butter.
Stir up the soup of the day.
Mow the lawn and be happy.
Such an excuse to be gay.
Do you know the secret
To making peace in this time?
Mine is slowly seeping
Into a bed of roses.
Was it something I said?
Or is it something about me
That causes you to doubt yourself?
Some kind of honesty
That penetrates your facade?
Some truth that echoes
In the halls of your heart and mind,
Calling you out of your slumber,
To accountability and renewal?
Is it the low blows and cheap shots
That I’ve taken at you over time,
Coming back to roost?
Is our relationship that fragile?
Are the bonds of our love that weak?
Is our relationship that disposable?
Not from my side, never fear.
When you’re ready to be mature,
To talk things out and make up,
To declare peace over this war torn
Battlefield,
To move on from this stagnation,
I’m ready to go.
Don’t remember much about you,
From growing up.
Don’t know if we didn’t have many
Meaningful conversations,
Or if we didn’t emotionally connect,
Or if you just weren’t around.
I see you in the few pictures
We still have left.
That’s proof! I shout,
To nobody in particular.
You were there.
You came to my games,
To my concerts,
To my awards ceremonies.
But did you say anything to me?
Anything memorable?
Anything impressionable?
Anything teachable?
Why don’t I remember you?
I know you were proud of me.
I felt your support when I knew
You were there.
But what did it mean?
What was our relationship like?
Did we ever talk about things?
And why didn’t I ever go to you
For help, when I got into the many
Conflicts, arguments and problems
With family or friends?
If you were there, if you were around,
Why didn’t I take advantage of it?
Maybe you weren’t the problem.
Maybe I just didn’t know
What to say, how to ask,
How to express myself.
Maybe I didn’t quite understand
What families and friends are
All about?
I didn’t know how to safely
Navigate those potentially perilous
Waters, without asking questions
From someone more experienced,
Someone wise, someone loving,
Someone who cares.
And maybe that’s why I have
Such a hard time believing in God,
Believing he’s there for me,
Offering grace, tenderness, mercy,
Forgiveness, wisdom and guidance.
I don’t have a relationship that
Means something because
I don’t know how to connect,
How to ask for help,
How to express my thankfulness.
I don’t even sense his quiet support,
His delight in his child.
Scurrying about,
In the midnight hours,
Like a little mouse,
Searching for a piece of cheese;
But you are up to much more,
As those wild emotions
Race through your mind,
And those dips of depression,
Fuel the fire of sadness and anger,
You break out the vacuum cleaner,
And do a few loads of laundry.
Good channeling for my sake,
Better than the belt,
Or a wicked rage,
Accompanied by fists
And insults galore,
Not constructive criticism,
But damning put-downs
Reserved for closed doors.
Match test play summer games friend
Spend time together fishing bike solo
Tease buddies crash now you will sit
Stop rowdy catch break something
Fragile sharp cut bleed yell help must
House linger terror above lake apple
Round red seeds bite crunch chew
Swallow spit man that tasted good
Another bite and again sit by me now
Run catch belt swell sting never again
It’s a part of me,
My personality,
My sexuality,
Individuality.
I am unique,
The way God made me,
The way my parents raised me,
The things I’ve discovered
Along the bumpy way.
There’s no shame
In being this way—
Just because it was
Never mentioned in church,
Or school,
Or at home.
Even the basics
Were not taught.
Trial and error
Was my only way
To discover my body,
To find out
What it means
To be human.
To experiment
Inside and out,
To pop those bubbles
Of misconception,
Perversion of religion,
Crucifixion.
…
I was about twelve years old when my parents divorced. I was an angry teenager, and my mom, whom I lived with, was quite depressed. I used to send her into a rage on a regular basis. Although she was never tested or diagnosed, I think she has bipolar disorder, like me.
…
One night, I said something that enraged her. I ran to the front door, unlocked it, and ran outside. I was in socks with no shoes, and it was raining. I kept running down the sidewalk for several blocks, crossing streets and running through intersections. Finally, I arrived at my friend Curt’s house.
…
Curt was a police officer who lived next door to a close friend of mine, Brian, and his family. Curt was a severe alcoholic, who liked to listen to rock music well into the evening, blasting away on his stereo, and smoking his Marlboro menthol lights. He also had pornographic magazines underneath his sink in the guest bathroom.
…
Curt never locked his front door. So, when I came running up to his house, soak and wet, I just went right in. Curt was sitting naked on his couch, drinking beer. He only wore clothes at home occasionally. It was Miami, Florida, so the weather was hot. Curt had his sliding glass back door open, so his dog, Noel, could come back and forth to his backyard.
…
I told Curt what happened, crying. He hugged me and held me, and told me “You’re okay, you’re right here.” Curt always kept Pepsi in his fridge, ice cream and chocolate in his freezer, and barbecue Fritos on the kitchen counter. I helped myself, and soon I was feeling better.
…
Curt let me calm down and listen to music for a while, then he gently suggested I call my mom to let her know where I was. My mom would usually scream and yell over the phone at us, demanding for me to come home immediately. Curt would then put on some clothes and drive me home.
…
Curt was raised in the Catholic Church, and served as an alter boy when he was little. His father was violently abusive, and when he was a teenager, one night, after watching his father beat up his mom, Curt threw him out of the house. Curt looked after his two younger brothers and his mom until he and his brothers moved out, one of his brothers, Mike, serving in Vietnam.
…
Curt married his wife, Linda, but one day Curt came home from work to an empty house. Linda had left him and took everything. My friend Brian’s family helped him with a mattress to sleep on until he could get some furniture. Curt used to pay me to mow his lawn when I was in middle school. I spent many hours sitting in his living room, listening to rock music on his stereo.
…
I eventually went to Florida State University in Tallahassee for college. Curt’s brother Mike had moved to Tallahassee for work, so Curt came up to visit. Curt decided that when he retired, he would have a house built in Wakulla, just south of Tallahassee. Curt moved up here, and settled in. Curt and Mike attended an art and poetry exhibit that I had in the student union.
…
When Curt was a police officer, he fell off a roof, and he fell down a flight of stairs. He hurt his back and his knees. Curt didn’t believe in doctors much, and he couldn’t afford surgery, so he took Advil all day long, every day. When he got older, his back or knees would occasionally go out, and he’d be bedridden. I’d take him food, go grocery shopping for him, and nurse him back to health. It was very meaningful for me to get to care for Curt, after he had helped me so much.
…
Curt didn’t have much to say about God. He didn’t like churches or pastors, and he believed the Bible was just a book written by people, like any other book. He knew I always went to church, as did my friend Brian and his family, so he didn’t say much about it. One time the Vienna Boys Choir came to a Tallahassee church to perform, and Curt went with me and my wife, Jackie, to see them. He really liked it. He had always wanted to have children. It just didn’t work out for him.
…
One day I hadn’t heard from Curt and he wasn’t answering his phone. I asked Jackie to ride down to his house with me, and sure enough, Curt had passed away. I had no regrets about Curt. He was always supportive of me and hospitable to me and my family. I saw him as a good person who had a rough life and just didn’t fit in.
…
I don’t know if Curt went to heaven, but he was more loving than most church people I know. I think his heart was in the right place, and he is in some type of everlasting peace. He may have lived as mostly an agnostic, but I like to think he went to be with Jesus.
…
Saying the truth.
Is it so hard?
Why does everything
Have to come out backwards
Or in double speak?
Why all the games?
Maybe it’s because many people
Don’t want the truth.
They’d rather be told lie after lie.
Maybe many people would rather
Live in a fantasy land,
Where everything they’re afraid of
Is exaggerated and twisted,
And everything they yearn for
Is offered free and easy.
Just offer your mind, body and soul,
And we’ll give you what you want.
Later that same week, on Sunday, Amy and her family headed to church, like they always did. When Amy’s Dad drove their car into the parking lot, there weren’t a lot of cars there, so Amy could see most people as they walked into the church. Amy was shocked to see one particular person getting out of his car. It was the man she saw in her neighborhood on Tuesday morning. He said, “Good morning,” to Amy’s Dad, with a smile. “I’m afraid I gave a scare to your daughter the other day,” he said to Amy’s Dad. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize.”
“My name’s Bradley Coulder,” he said, with an outstretched hand. Amy’s Dad put out his hand and offered a smile. “I’m Darren Green,” he said. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding,” Mr. Green said, smiling at Bradley, then at Amy. Amy was mortified. How could her Dad so easily accept this guy? She looked down and walked into the church, not looking back. Amy wasn’t going to reject her instincts on this man, even if her Dsd liked him. Amy’s family usually sat towards the front of the sanctuary, in the second or third pew on the right. Amy sat there, refusing to give in to her curiosity about Bradley, who seemed to have taken a seat towards the back of the church.
Stumbling along the sidewalk 