Don't dwell on what has been lost

but rather think on what you have to gain.

Thus

The story is endless. 

It has always been thus, 

and thus, 

will always be. 

The Trouble with Trouble

The trouble with trouble is that it's always coming by

to say ring the door bell and ask for your time and attention.

They come in, track mud on your clean, white carpet,

which you just had cleaned, and then immediately 

goes to your refrigerator to grab a drink and food

without bothering to ask or say a word.

Trouble doesn't see the big deal. Trouble thinks 

this is perfectly normal. Trouble thinks you need to chill.

You can't. You can't chill, not with that goddamn attitude.

You try and calm yourself down and breathe but that 

will only go so far. The problem isn't you. It's trouble.

You tell trouble to get out. Trouble turns it's head 

and looks at you as if you had just defecated in their coffee.

Just for that, trouble punches your flat screen television

and one of the support screws flies out from the wall.

You've had it! You walk right up to trouble, get in their face

and tell them to get the fuck out of your house! Trouble 

doesn't move right away. It stands there for a minute.

Trouble turns to walk out. They stick their arms out and 

knock everything off your tables and counters. 

They walk out and say, "See you soon."

The Hollows

 There is nothing to fear. He thought about it for a moment. It wasn't the first time he had heard that phrase ,or a variation of it. Why did it come to mind now? It was mid-morning. He was in no rush for anything, and he hadn't had to work in years. When he worked, he would usually get up early, just before dawn most of the time. He enjoyed the smell of coffee spreading from the kitchen. His wife was alive back then. He used to let her sleep in a little so he'd have some time to himself and give her some extra rest. That was all in the past. Her clothes were still in the closet and drawers. He'd never had the strength to get rid of her. Some part of him still wanted to imagine he'd walk into another room and see her. It never happened. He never thought he'd be a widower. 

When Ophelia passed everyone had him in their thoughts and prayers. Everyone wanted him to know that if needed absolutely anything, to just ask. They all meant well. He just wanted her back. He wanted to be left alone. He got that, eventually. People reached out, wanted to be in touch, but he never reached back, and eventually, they stopped altogether.

He looked out the kitchen window and saw that it was shaping up to be a very beautiful day. "Maybe I'll take a walk later", he thought to himself. 

After his simple oatmeal breakfast and tea he sat in their living room to read one of the books he'd checked out from the library. It was a book about an Earth where people had developed a cheap and easy technology that allowed them to travel to parallel Earths that were largely free of people. "Just imagine", he thought, "...if this were real." He knew what would happen if it existed. It would be the Wild West all over again on an unprecedented scale. People and companies racing to lay claim and strip the resources of these worlds for the benefit of this one. That's what we've done. That's what we've always done. 

Ding-dong. The doorbell rang in that classic way that everyone has heard. It was unusual. Jim Grey, the mailman, never rang, even if he had a large package to deliver. He'd just leave it on the doorstep. He never got solicitors, it was too out of the way to be worth their time. Who was it?

He looked through the keyhole. He was just as surprised at who it was as he was at hearing the door bell. It was Melanie. He opened the door and immediately heard her voice for the first time in a few years."Oh my God! Elliot! I'm so happy to see you!" She reached in and hugged him. It took him a few seconds but he put his arms around her and squeezed. 

After he invited her in he fixed her up a cup of Earl Grey tea with a lump of sugar and just a splash of cream, just how she always liked it. He set the cup in front of her. She looked at him and said, "You still remember." He smiled. "Of course I do."

"I'll be honest, Elliot, I didn't think you'd answer. I haven't heard from you in so long. No one has." That simple fact hung in the air. A pause. A declarative. "You know, Mel, when Ophelia passed away I just didn't know what to do. I didn't want anything. I didn't want anyone around. Everyone was so kind but I couldn't deal with everyone else's expectations of my grief." He took a long breath in and let it out slowly. "I didn't mean to shut everyone out the way I did. It just happened. I don't blame anyone for giving up on me." She picked up the cup from the saucer and took a sip. He never ceased to be amazed at the grace in even the smallest things Mel did. It's just how she'd always been as long he had known her. 

"Elliot. Frank died two years ago. I don't know if you'd heard. So yes, I understand." His stomach dropped. Frank had once been one of his best friends. "It was cancer. When the doctors found it it was already at stage four. They told him with treatment he could have another six to eight months. He didn't go for it. He wanted to live out the days he had left at home with me. They gave him medications for the pain and sent him on his way." This was the price of his sorrow. 

"I'm so sorry, Mel." He reached out for her hand and held it in his. She placed her other hand over his. "I've made peace with Frank's passing. The hardest part was getting rid of his old clothes. I donated most of them to the Goodwill. I did keep a few small things for me, like a couple of his favorite hoodies. You know how he would never go anywhere without wearing one of those damn things." She laughed, just a little bit, saying those words out loud. 

"You know, I've never been able to bring myself to get rid of any of Ophelia's clothes. I've left them in the closet and drawers." She looked at him with compassion, "Oh, Elliot". He thought for a moment. "Would you like to see the closet?" She nodded. Ophelia had a keen eye for always picking out clothes that would look great on her. They weren't necessarily expensive designer pieces, though she had a couple, but they fit her well and suited her personality. He led her to the bedroom and opened the walk-in closet. 

Melanie had always admired Ophelia. She did her best to make sure that she and Frank were there for Elliot after she had passed. Elliot eventually let the waves wash him out to sea. 

He watched Mel as she walked into the closet. Her hand fell upon the red dress that Ophelia had worn at the twentieth anniversary party they had thrown for themselves. Mel remembered feeling just a little envious that night as she watched them dancing across the floor. How could someone so happy in their own marriage feel this way?

"If you want to try any of her clothes on you're more than welcome to. She always thought the world of you." His words hung between them. "Are you sure? Wouldn't that be a little weird for you?" He thought for a moment. "Sometimes it feels like I've been living with her ghost longer than she was alive. I know that's not true, but if you want to see if anything fits then you're more than welcome to try anything on. I wouldn't mind seeing a little part of her being around." She nodded at him and he closed the door behind him.

He sat on the couch and picked up yesterday's newspaper. He hadn't finished reading the article about the current state of the public schools in the state. He always admired Mel's beauty. She didn't like to use much make-up, just enough to highlight her features. 

He heard the doorknob turn as the hinges on the door creaked slightly. Her footsteps were light John the hardwood floor. She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. The dress fit her just so. The corners of his mouth turned up. "You look just as wonderful as Ophelia did when she wore that at our anniversary party." She tugged at her hips. "I feel like I just barely fit into this dress. She had such a great fashion sense. I always admired that about her."

Mel sat down next to Elliot on the couch. "I don't think I've ever stopped mourning her. When I got home from the service I just didn't feel right being alone at home but I didn't have anywhere else to go, and I really didn't want to be a bother to anyone."

"When Frank died I was besides myself with grief. Everywhere I looked he was there. I had to give my grief it's own space. It carved out a space in me. It carved and carved until I felt like a shell. If it had carved anymore I would have collapsed. you know what I did, Elliot? I started to fill that space up bit by bit. I had to keep living. Frank wouldn't have wanted me to mourn forever. He wanted me to keep living. To find new joy. To do more because I could. It was hard. It was so hard. I was crying my eyes out when I bagged up all his clothes and donated them. But I did." 

"If I had known, I would have reached out, Mel. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Don't be. just don't" He could see the rivers of tears that had flowed down her face.

"I wanted to see you because I wanted you to know. I only regret it took me so long to get here. I know you understand."

"I remember the night of our anniversary party she told me how much you loved the dress. I think you should have it. She would have wanted to see it out in the world and not just sitting in the closet."

"You sure?" she said.

"Yes." A wave of silence sat between them. An understanding that needed no language and could fill all the hollows.

11/18/22

A People's History

 He loved finding books. The weight of them in his hands, the way they opened, the delicate pages turned by his hand, or wind. They felt so mysterious as his eyes moved from line to line. Most of the time the pages had become dry and brittle. Occasionally they would flake into the air. A gust of wind touched his worn clothes. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his mother's face. She had been beautiful. Her smile, the memory of it, made him smile. Her voice, what did her voice sound like? It once sang him to sleep. When had he last heard it? He felt a tear forming at the corner of his eye, wanting to escape and weave down the slopes of his cheeks. There were no memories of his father. He let the book fall from his hands. It was no good to him, even if he had known what it said. His stomach rumbled. Soon, it would be insistent. He walked down the cracked and over grown highway, towards a state that no longer existed, in a country that was only a memory. 

Close The Door On The Way In

 The clock on his desk read 9:55a.m. The work day was young and the hours were many. What was it about the work day that made the hours go by so slow? The slowness, was, of course, and illusion. 9:57a.m. stared back. He craned his head and saw everyone else in their cubicles, hunched over, typing, reading emails, talking on the phone, or otherwise pretending to work. He grabbed his chipped red coffee mug and went to the break room. No on noticed him on his walk. He was thankful for that. He walked into the break room and was greeted by beige malaise. The break room table was was a little dirty and had rings of dried coffee on it. The microwave looked like a holdover from the final years of the Cold War. The coffee maker sat next to it. The pot was empty, or course. He found a paper filter and scooped the needed grounds into it. He rinsed off the pitcher next to the sink and used it to fill up the machine. When it was all set, he turned it on and heard the familiar sound of brewing alertness. 

Coffee began to percolate and drip. The smell was always pleasing. When the last drop fell he grabbed the pot by the handle and filled the chipped red mug. He took a small packet of artificial sweetener from his pocket, tore it open, and poured it in. He walked to the fridge and hoped his cartoon of creamer was still there. The fridge was full of lunches. Some in plastic shopping bags, a few in the traditional brown paper bags, and a few in very nice lunch boxes. He grabbed the carton of creamer and saw that it would expire tomorrow. From the weight of it, there was just enough left for this cup. He opened the pointed mouth of the carton and poured it in. He stirred his drink with his right index finger, no sense getting a spoon dirty. 

No one paid any attention to him on the way back to his desk either. Good. Good. He opened an email from the regional director. Production needed to be increased for the impending war time effort. Great. Where would this one be? As soon as the thought passed through his head he realized he didn't care. He hadn't cared in a long time. It was nothing but news stories in places he would never know. He knew people would die directly because of his government, and indirectly because of his work. It wasn't here. It would never be here. They were safe.

"Knock, knock." said Janet from H.R. "Mr. Banks wants to know if you're free after lunch for your quarterly review?' Before he had a chance to answer they heard it. The sound of an explosion tearing through a building. The shudder and shake of an unnatural earthquake. Wordless screaming was everywhere. The next explosion exposed a a blue sky being infected by smoke and debris. He could feel himself falling, the red cup still in his hand.

11/17/22

The Hunter in the Light

 This world has been cruel and unkind. Why is anyone surprised, that we, her children, are very much the same? I have never meant to take, though, I have. It has been a mercy each time. Liberation from suffering. Liberation from need, from want. Utter, utter, freedom.

When I am asked if I dream, I respond that I don't. Why dream when this is the life of my choosing?

In the darkness of the Earth, in the soil, in the cisterns, in the caves, what is hidden lives. It is never eradicated. It digs deeper. It seeks to survive.

I do not hide. I am no coward. I thrive in plain sight. Our decadence is everywhere. I am that decadence writ in flesh. I am the symptom of the disease. 

You have seen me. You know me. I am.  

On Urgency

The day still began early but the urgency

of the routine was gone.

Coffee was still made, shower still taken,

breakfast still made with care.

There was no rush out the door

wearing coat, scarf, and hat,

to get to work on time.

There was no cold walk from car

to the staff lounge and the time clock.

Instead, lazing about, observing the snow,

eating scrambled eggs made with 

a little bit of butter and milk

whisked in to make them into

edible yellow puffs of clouds.

So much needless rush.

What is the alternative,

people ask. Anything we wish 

if we had the conviction

of unrelenting time.

Snow has melted

though some still remains.

How long will the line hold?

Open Door

How long has the door been open?

Had it been a few minutes,

a few hours, days?

Leaves have scattered 

through the living room,

a sparrow at the fireplace.

No harm has come.

Why shut it close?

There are reasons, yes,

there are reasons.

I'll wait, just a little longer,

and close it only when

truly needed.

Dusting

If I didn't laugh

I couldn't live

My wife reminds me

every day

to not be so serious

to smile   for her

This morning

a dusting of snow

Standing on the deck

in sandals

She takes a picture

Looking away but

smiling

Tree Fingers

Every day I must learn 

how to breathe again

Sitting here

Sunlight reaching in

Tree fingers outstretched

in prayer

Asking

Receiving

Waiting for Sunrise

The world is still dreaming

at 5:43 in the morning.

Most don't know just how soon

the dream will end

and the first rays of day

will burst through 

the windows.

Is that frost 

caked outside

or the first snow

of the season?

Waiting for sunrise.

Any moment now.

The Box

 The story doesn't begin where you think it should. It begins twelve years ago in the middle of the night during a dream by a boy named Josef. He wakes up at 3:27a.m., disturbed by what he's seen and unable to sleep. He remains awake and sees the sunrise. He writes the dream down on a piece of paper and puts it in the box on the shelf in his closet. He falls asleep for an hour before his mom comes to wake him up. It's Saturday morning. "Wake up, Sleepyhead." His eyes open just enough to see his mother is wearing a green sweater, the same one that once belonged to his Grandmother. "Did you sleep well last night?" He looks toward the closet and his eyes pause there for a moment. "Yes, Mom." That's how it all began.

The years went by and it would feel like he had forgotten all about the dream. In that lull of memory, it would race back like a wave crashing onto the shore. He would close his eyes, focus his breathing, and try to move on. On and on it went this way for many years. The box moved with him when he left his parent's house and went to college in a neighboring state. It would move to his first apartment the city over from his parents at his first real job after graduation. In his thirties he married Marcia. The box moved in, too.

Marcia and Josef had two children, Jane, and Eberly. The girls were as joyous and full of life as they could have hoped for. They had all the usual fears The box, as much as he wished to forget it, he could not. He couldn't bear the thought of his wife and daughters reading the page in the box and destroying everything. The fear grew like the grey hairs in his hair and beard.

The cursed dream had haunted him for most of his life. He had never burdened another soul with the knowledge on the page. 

One week Marcia asked him if it would be ok for her to take the girl's for the weekend to her aunt's house in Brighton. He agreed, but only on the condition he stay home that weekend to work on repairs around the house he'd been meaning to get to. She grudgingly agreed.

That Friday, as Marcia, Jane, and Eberly, were about to leave, he hugged them tighter than usual, told them just how much he loved them. He kissed Marcia with a tenderness she hadn't felt since they first started dating. She looked into his eyes and said, "It's only the weekend. We'll be home before you know it. The girls took turns saying "Bye, Daddy" as he hugged them.

He watched the car drive down the street beneath a sky so deeply orange that it could have been another color.

He slept fitfully that first night and dreamt. In bed, the room dark like a moonless midnight, a crushing weight bore down on his chest. He couldn't breath. He couldn't open his mouth to cry out. He could feel its eyes in the void, gazing down at him, laughing, mocking him in a language no man has heard.

It was a dream. It was a bad dream. It was a very bad dream. That's all it was. He told himself that over and over when he woke up, until he was ready to get out of bed and do the work. 

Marcia called midday to check in. The girls said hi to their Daddy and just how much they missed him at their aunt's house. He told Marcia he loved her. She told him she loved him back. When they got off the phone she could feel a knot growing in her belly. 

Later that Saturday afternoon, after having replaced the burned out bulbs in the recessed lighting, mowed the lawn with old mower, and pulled the weeks, he decided to have lunch on the back deck with a beer and a couple of slices of leftover pizza from two nights ago. The clouds had grown a dark pregnant grey and appeared to be growing darker. After just a couple of minutes, the first heavy drops began to fall with pummeling splats. He went inside and latched the sliding door shut. He turned on the lights in the living room and sat to finish his meal.

It was strange for such a heavy rain to fall. The forecast hadn't said anything about rain. What must have rain been like on a tropical and ancient earth, he wondered? Was it anything like this? 

He wasn't sure if it was the peal of thunder he heard first, or the bolt of lightning scarring the horizon he noticed first. The lights flickered and steadied. "It's ok", he thought, though he had his doubts.

Suddenly, the house shook, and the lights flickered into darkness. He wanted to run, but where? He knew he could not escape. He grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen and went to the garage. He stood before the box, while the sound of the pelting rain filled the world outside. Was it reading his thoughts? His body began to feel electric, the hairs raising all over his skin. Finally, finality.

The firefighters told Marcia it was a million to one shot that the lightning would strike him in the garage. Almost everything had been charred except for a couple of boxes.

Eve of Birth

Following through the darkness

Trust must be the crumbs I follow

Adventure or foolishness

How much of this life is one 

or the other

Startled into consciousness

It is early morning 

I lay my head 

See if sleep still roams

Wandering down 

to the brown leaves

wishing to rise again

We're carried off

by wind again

Reading the leaves

Finding phrases

Deciphering meaning