A Man's Religion

Lights off. Gear in park. The car smelled like dust and french fries. There was something sticky in the cup holder.

He closed his eyes in the silence and cursed at the ceiling of the vehicle. God was the sound of the kids being at his mother’s house. God was the off function of his cell phone. God was an empty garage. God was the person you yell “FUCK” to when everything is sticky and smells like french fries.

The keys hit the kitchen counter and slid until they hit a half-eaten apple. He watched the apple roll, readying itself for a dive. It slapped into his hand and was safe until he sent it to rest in the trash can. The black bag peeled from the left corner as if to cringe. He didn’t fix it.

There was a candle on the table filling the room with the odor of a burning crayon. And dinner was waiting for him, staring at him in the dark. His jacket hugged a chair, any chair. He traced a finger along his own jaw. Scratched his neck, smiled.

“Laura,” he whispered at first, with all the tranquility a man could muster from a frantic Thursday evening. Another smile. “Laura.” His voice cracked through the air a little louder now. The candle flickered.

“Laura,” a pause, “I’m home!” He could hear himself, a voice that had suddenly grown older. It whipped through the room and back at him like a boomerang. Perfect quiet, then water. From the upstairs bathroom. He closed his eyes, imagining her bathing her aging skin. For a few seconds more, he watched her red curls spring up from the water. His eyes opened. Another flicker from the candle.

A splinter from the stair rail planted itself into his thumb. The third step squeaked its greeting at him like it always did, as if politely begging him to lose a few pounds. He counted the steps. God was a terribly sarcastic family portrait hanging clumsily on a lemon-colored wall.

His shoe clapped against a wet floor. The bathroom light peeked at him shyly from under the door. “Lor?” he asked the door. Two knuckles tapped against the wood. Perfect quiet, then water.

The brass knob was cold and turned easily. Light hugged him as the door pushed away. Her smell, sandalwood and cotton. It jabbed at him, playfully, like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. God was that smell.

He followed the water from his shoes across the floor and up and over the edge of a yellowed bathtub. A hand, draped like a careful decoration over the rim. She never painted her fingernails.

“Lor,” he spoke, a tiny earthquake in his chest.

The water danced over her face and raced onto the floor. It took with it all of her smells and thoughts and secrets. He wanted to chase after it and take it all back. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t chase after the smells and thoughts and secrets. Because God was the thief.

Her red curls sprung up from the water and weaved through his fingers. Her hand was cold and small. Her eyes were closed and her face was perfect. He thought he saw her smile. He thought he heard her laugh. No. It was the water taking that from her, too.

She was weightless-- like something from his imagination. He closed his eyes. God was in her hair. God was that face, those lips. God was those breasts. God was that hand, now draped in his like a careful decoration.

His eyes opened. The candle flickered.

Perfect quiet, then a giggling squeak from the third step. He glanced at the trash can. The bag was still cringing. His keys were on the counter. Sandalwood and cotton rushed through his nostrils and made him dizzy.

She walked into the dim room like a beacon. A smile tickled her lips. He watched her remove her hair from a white towel. Those red curls fell and bounced against her shoulders. He buried his hands in them. She gave him one half-hearted kiss. God was the second kiss.

She leaned over the chair where his jacket slept and blew out the crayon candle.

“The kids are with my mother,” he whispered.

“Thank God,” she replied.

The Meaning of Life

Shepherds lead their lambs to slaughter
Someone's kissing the preacher's daughter

Dealers are making deals under the table
"Dad" is the first word coo'd from the cradle

The sun slides down and the mood glides up
Golden laced water boils over your cup

The earth shifts, cracks, kills, and quakes
The corners get sharper as your heart breaks

Your emptiness grows as you grow colder
Your hands become twisted as you become older

The ticking gets louder as time marches on
Fear, at its strongest right before it is gone

The wind whispers swiftly through her yellow hair
The cuts in his sleeves will deepen and tear

All you desperately need is to be okay
As you get up and go down, day after day

The taste of love comes and leaves its mark
It lingers with you as a light in the dark

The moon slides down as the sun glides up
And you're once again left with a half-empty cup

Loving a Man

He was hiding under the bed,
my little pet shark
He was shivering and trembling,
afraid of the dark

I pulled him out and held him close
my little pet snake
He poisoned me in his usual panic
and I began to shake

He flew away to the cupboard
my little pet wasp
When I got there, he stung me
and then wouldn't stop

I learned quickly to forgive
my little pet bear
But it was not the kind of feeling
he was willing to share

There is a sad price to pay,
for loving a man
Who's soul purpose is to be
as cruel as he can

Alphabetical Bullets

I have never had a way with men, or women for that matter. I've never had a way with keeping appointments or making time. I have never had a way with acting on stage, dancing in groups, singing in front of strangers, or cooking for boyfriends. In fact, in every way possible, I've never had a front-way, back-way, side-way, this or that way with anything. Except words.

I'd like to think I have a way with words-- a way that could stop time or stop war, a way with words that could make some one's heart go flying out of their chest or sink into the bottom their stomach at any given moment. In my own way, I'd like to think I have the power to turn words into tiny nuclear bombs, morphine tablets, x-rays, time machines, rocket launchers, or defibrillators. In my way, my words can make you or break you.

Most people spit words at the floor, wasting them like scraps left over from an old project. Most people use and abuse words with the air of a one-night stand. But I use words to suggest, to imply, to try, to insist, to demand, to lie. I leave bullet holes you can't wash away. I can pull the trigger of my tongue and hit you square in the chest. I can shoot you with a poison so potent that it slithers through your blood stream like an endless nightmare and then swirls around forever in your head.

Verses, syllables, vowels, consonants, epigrams, ballads, paragraphs, sentences - they're all components of the most powerful machine any person could hope to control. And I know exactly how to create it, I know how to maintain it. Wouldn't you like to know?

When you see me, you'll think I'm small. You'll think I'm insignificant. You'll think I'm quaint. You'll think I'm meek. You'll have me predetermined until I open my mouth to speak. And at that very moment of new-found clarity, you will come to understand that I've never had a way with anything.

Except words.

Under My Bed

There are countless ideas
that drift through my head,
A legion of thoughts
that will dance 'til I'm dead

Thought Twelve fights with Four
over topics so vain,
like breats and vocation,
property and pain

Idea Three likes to scream
in the middle of the night,
pondering whether Six
is fallicious or right

From sun up to down,
Two remains truly askew
She nags in opposition
to all that I do

I put faces to numbers,
and count them like sheep
in the desperate hope
that I'll get some sleep

Their comings and goings,
I always meet with grim dread
I wish to box them all up,
and keep them under my bed

But they still whisper, argue,
and drift through my head...
A legion of thoughts
that will dance 'til I'm dead

Trace's Poem (Written by Trace)

Pickle,
Trickle trickle,
Trickle,
Pickle,
Trickle...

Her Hips [Written... some time ago]

It must have been the shape of her hips
that made you want to melt away
It must have been the taste of her lips
to make you fall on your knees, to pray

It must have been the velvet in your hair
that made you seem so very divine
It must have been that cologne you wear
that made me wish you were mine

It must have been the perk of her breasts
that made her a better catch than I
Time could tell there was no contest
to prove that she gave you a better high

But it must have been your sneaky smiles
that made me continue to fight for you
It must have been how you drove me miles
and made me hold on like tacky glue

But still she had the riper thighs,
which drew in your attention so
That I could sing celestial lullabies
and you would only hear the crows

It must have been the gold in her sweet locks
that made your heart pound like rocks
It must have been her love-lightening shocks
that leave me, lost behind in the stocks

And still it is her blueberry eyes
which draw in your attention so
That I will sing celestial lullabies
and you will only hear the crows