Tucked away in a corner, lay a wooden ruler blending in with the past. Flat as a floorboard and weathered as a dock. There are layers of built-up ink, graphite, marker and paint along one of its long  edges—the side with the incrementation, naturally. As though differentiation demands to be marked. Deep, erratic gouges from the seven and three-quarters to eleven inch mark suggest a moment of frustration—perhaps a project under the gun or a predisposition to flying off the handle. On its back are ten “safety rules” geared towards teaching children how to avoid dangerous missteps with strangers. Things like: “Never Hitchhike—NEVER!”, or “Never Tell Callers That You’re Home Alone” and “Never Accept Toys, Candy, Rides, Money or Medicine From Strangers”. However well-intentioned this small piece of wood may have been, the owner used a thick, black marker to write “MEGhan’s ruler” across them and actually painted over two rules with it—namely: “Always Play or Walk With Friends” and “Never Give Your Name or Address To A Stranger”. Additionally, there is a line etched through the safety in “safety rules” as well as the same blacked-out treatment given to the other end with the two rules. This person was clearly a child and, most probably, was more worried about other kids taking her stuff than getting kidnapped by a stranger. Yet here lies the ruler with no account of Meghan’s current whereabouts or condition. Needless to say, one cannot rule out the intervention of a stranger in her life at some point. On the other hand, maybe she just got tired of measuring things.

I remember the way they used to hang their art so proudly with me. Messy crayon drawings of pure imagination. I saw them sneak popsicles from the freezer when no one was looking. I watched the plants on the windowsill grow, reaching for a sky on the other side of the pane. They cooked meals in that room and stained me with the flavor of bubbling tomato sauce, baked sourdough, and the gentle simmer of potpourri. There was magic sometimes, in the youthful grins over candles and the silent wishes they made. There were evenings of sharp, acidic vinegar and boiling eggs they dyed for Easter.  There were arguments: yelling, screaming and crying—the growing pains of a family. There was violence too, tempers flaring, heads butting, and holes in the walls like black holes swallowing the light. There was a garden through the windows that grew with them—wild yet cultivated. This house was filled with their problems, with their love, with their lives. But, eventually, it emptied of them. Slowly, like an ancient lake dried up by the sun, they learned how to change to move on. They spread out like clouds across the sky and put me in a box. Now, I can’t help but wonder from my resting place: where have they drifted to, and how have they had to change to keep going?

Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings  
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
becoming the horizon
and the sun setting through the fog of memory.
That star burns in our mother tonight,
the mystery growing in the womb
of tomorrow.
“Come,” she says,
“the dawn breaks…for you.”

Ecstatic in the sea breeze,
a magnanimous moment of
interloper pride ******* the day.
Uncoil—my heart, my chin,
my unglamorous abstinence
enforced by fear.
This is no lapse, but fury
and fortitude forging me
in the crucible of love.
Yet again I am up against it—
the stage of floating eyes and
overcooked feelings pawing
at my attention like
squids in a pool.
Ink and jelly in a room temperature soup
swirling and sloshing under
the authority of a rented room.
By gods, this time I’ll make it work—
plant leaves and blunderbusses
leaning against teal paint,
the sun really is on a fishhook.
Stand apart from me then and
judge the waters for what they are—
a storm too small to surface
in a sky too big to swallow.
I’m sweating in it
and the alarm clock is going off.
bleet
   bleet
      bleet
Too deep to turn back.
Too tired to go on.
This is where the end begins,
in the middle of it
with no ground at all.

If I stare at a wall
long enough,
I lose track of
what it’s for.

Penguins in the abyss
return with fish
to feed their chicks.

Kiss me
before you remember
what I do
for a living.

Wake me for love
when it buries itself
in dirt.

Love me in pieces
like I’m meant
to be shredded.

Let’s go away
to never remember
ourselves and
forget to return.

Someday, I’m going to
let go of
this guy,
brittle leaves and
pancake batter.

If you ever
meet me,
make a fellowship of knuckles
to pay for the party.

Time’s up.
Make nice
and roll over—
Death’s dancing
with you tonight,
darling.

And the rivulets spun through tapestries of golden guilt, aligning themselves with the magnetic regrets of my life path. There’s a rage in me from everything that hasn’t worked out. A tendency toward pity and self-flagellation. A poor, little wretch who has come to believe that he deserves life’s beatings. But I’m a nice guy, so instead of directing that anger outward, I direct it at myself—a victim-martyr caught in a loop of self-punishment to save the world from myself. I want to wake up and feel love and purpose, but instead I just feel like I’m surviving—clawing my way back to feeling lost and uncertain only to fall back asleep and do it all over again. The child in me is scared. He’s crying in a dark room clutching his knees to his chest. I guess I’m waiting. Waiting for that fabled moment of clarity. Waiting for a beautiful woman to save me. Waiting for the path to reveal itself. Waiting for something outside of myself to make the choice for me. Waiting for life to happen instead of choosing it. I’m scared too. Scared I’ll make the wrong choice. Scared I’ll always be alone. Scared I’ll go the wrong way. But I’m more scared of waiting here forever and never knowing who I could’ve become. Yes, there are burdens in my life, pressures and darkness, but they are not the end—they are the forging. Without them I would never reach, I would never become something more. So I bless these days of darkness, these challenges in my life for blessing me with strength, wisdom and the opportunity for immense growth. Thank you.

sent forth on a path of destruction,
the prince of war is parading  
through orange tides of
burning torches—
the funeral rites of
the dead king.

the engine of entropy spits out little
agents of chaos like bees from a hive.

they will sow
in time for the harvest
and when the sun rises to adorn
their naked, furry bodies
with golden dew,
they will shiver
in the remnants
of every dead star
before this one ends again.

a banshee from the ages
arrives as a missile of
determined suffering
set to detonate in close
proximity to the loose reins
of my forgotten destiny.

she wears a crown of roses
and embraces me with
her thorns
in the realm of Nature’s
loveless fawn—
a birthed, forgotten creature
gilded in silver linings
only to melt at
the feet of
God’s love.

I have cried rivers of tears
for people that have left
and all it does is drown
the land in a flood
of never memories
that keep me  
isolated in stagnancy.

the wet magic in my
blood is vaporizing from
my fingertips now,
the crackle of split
lightning spins through
my skyless eyes.

abbreviated life spans
chunked into pieces
of lives I never wanted to
live, yet helped form
me.

I see violence in the periphery—
muted and out of
focus.

oil-spitting broken android
smashing through houses
looking for his heart
before powering
down.

“I am clipped,”
she whispers.

“my wings don't lift me
anymore.

I am a trophy in a
cage.

I am atrophy in a
cage.

singing about the world
beyond these bars.

set me free—
I see the
window!

my flight feathers
will grow back
and I will leave you—
yes,
but I might return
and sing
to you about
that world beyond
the window.

I am not yours
to keep—
set me free!”

she commanded my heart,
so I did—

I set her free.

and she flew away
into the world
and left me
with a parting gift—

an open window
and a devastating song of silence
that echoes in my ribcage forever.