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.
What I’ve said in anger
Cannot be taken back.
People I’ve blamed for others’
Misfortunes
May have taken it personally.
Pressure I feel on my neck—
The bait from enemies waiting
For me to fall.
And so I wonder:
Is having my silly say
In politics or religion
Worth alienating my
Brothers and sisters?
Maybe a little temperance
Could go a long way.
Maybe if I hold my tongue
When I’m tempted to
Jump into the fray
Might win me
A different kind of victory.
One that lasts.
One that builds up,
Instead of tearing down.
One that reconciles.
One for the kingdom.
A place to be
Is pleasing when
There is a person
To be with—
Someone strong,
Someone fun,
Someone loving—
Come get some!
In the park,
I toss a ball
With my father;
Spring and summer
Sunny weather
Covers our faces
With warmth and never
Makes us uncomfortable.
So, we go swimming
In the lake.
We ride a boat
Across the water.
We dive in and feel
Refreshed.
Oh, what a day
To be with family.
What a time
To dream dreams,
To enjoy each other’s
Company.
To live in the freedom
Paid in blood
By our forefathers,
And our military
Today.
Please remember
When you drink your beer
And eat your hot dog.
A price was paid.
Happy go freaky,
Style for a mile.
Ambulance mind,
So fine.
Go fetch your dream,
Get to it!
Place your hands
On the balance beam
Of life expression,
And make your moves.
Chase that vision,
That holy mission,
For you alone.
Never turn back.
No regrets.
Sail on!
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.
Distance grows
In the reflection of sunsets,
Deep in the pupils of your eyes.
Around your bright blue irises,
The once clear white
Is streaked with bloodshot,
And the skin on your cheek
Sags with the gravity of age,
And the weight of worries,
Long forgotten,
Though carried still.
What happened
To the happy-go-lucky girl
That I married,
Experimenting and experiencing
Life to the fullest,
Young and fresh and free?
Oh, those were the days:
Going on long walks together,
Holding hands.
Staying up late at night
And into the morning,
Just talking.
Intoxicated with each other.
Yes, that girl is gone,
But in her place is a woman,
Stronger, braver and wiser.
A more confident and courageous
Caretaker and leader,
Someone who takes risks.
Weathered by suffering and loss,
But soft and loving to the end.
A much improved confidante,
A loyal partner,
A treasured friend.
…
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.
…
Life flowing from my heart
Is cut down by rivers of doubt.
The rushing water wears down
My early oaths and affirmations,
Slowing my faith to a halt.
My simple plan to ditch the man of the gospels,
Runs into blockades along the way.
Nests of love, peace and grace
Call me away from my solitary journey.
I sometimes fight the current,
Or allow myself to rest,
But naturally I am carried away
By the fantasies and delusions
Of my silly imagination.
With a battering ram strapped to my forehead,
I push through the glistening walls of the great cathedral.
But for what?
Has this victory won me anything of value?
After all, the war has already been won by my adversary,
And this stub in the toe is no big loss to him.
My screams in the darkness win me no favors,
Gain me no pity, although he may shed a tear.
Shall I continue to throw stones through stained glass windows,
Knowing I am only hurting those I love and who love me?
Whom am I fighting, anyway, if not myself?
Stumbling along the sidewalk 