Why not so tall?

Some nights when I am not feeling well I want to be six again.  I want to be wrapped up in blankets and snuggled with pillows.  I want the weight of someone beside me on the bed or couch and hear their voice as they tell me a story.

I always seem to want this the most when I am alone.  My cat only talks so much.

I would like to hear a story of someone small who grew very very tall.  Thin as can be they, bow and sway with each breeze.  I like the rhyme and rhythm.  Their cadence would be melodic and softly dramatic when needed so I can drift off into sleep.

Small pointed feet dug sharply into the ground so the swaying limbs would not give way.  Long strong hands held on to the gables of the house the child had grown too tall for.

"Can you fold up small?"  Called the child's aunt as the mother lay weeping in the door way.

"Why would I be small, when I can be so tall?" Asked the child in confusion.

Word Disco

I fell asleep reading last night.  Which is highly unusual. The best way normally to keep me from sleeping is reading.  I am currently reading one of those books that seems to have a larger introduction then it does actual book.  I didn't make it through the intro, but I did dream.

Words danced in my head last night. Shimmying around and gyrating their vowels. There was an old fashioned disco in my head with a square patterned floor that lit up when the spindly word feet hit them.  There was a disco ball spinning above, but I was informed that it was actually a period.  There were also disco exclamation points, commas, semi-colons and a question mark.  The question mark kept moving mysteriously about the ceiling.  Randomly appearing brightly lit and flashing neon.  Everybody grooved with anybody. I bebopped alone while you stared longingly at we. 

In my head, I danced with words.  Shimmying and gyrating we moved around the lit up floor as the music gave us a iambic pentameter beat.  I watched myself dissolve from human flesh to written type.  I tumbled apart into all the words that make me up.  My name, desires, wants, needs, fears, memories and anything that I have touched.  I flooded that dance floor with me.  It was packed tight and we danced on.  Falling apart never felt so good.

I woke up this morning sore and cotton mouthed.  I can hear pieces of myself still rattling around in my head.  The bits that haven't woken up yet.  Still lost in the post-dance sleep of exhaustion.  I brushed my teeth extra carefully, so I didn't accidentally wash bits of me out.  They will wake up, find their spaces and fit themselves back in.  The puzzle that is me will be complete again. 

Cloud Singer

What happens to the people we don't see?  The ones society pretends doesn't exist. 

Today I saw another homeless man on the street. He had such a jaunty way of walking and seemed to be talking into a cell phone.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his jaunt was due to a wheeled bag stuffed full of fabric, treasures and wrapped up in torn plastic.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his head was cocked to help support his arm that held another bag over his shoulder.  Not to speak into a phone.  He was singing though.  That didn't change.  He had on a good coat and a good pair of shoes.  I wonder how lucky he saw himself to have such.  I wonder how unlucky anyone around me on their morning commute saw him, if they saw him.  Did they see him as I did at first and then dismiss him?  Just another guy crusing down the street jawin' away to someone else. I wondered as I always do, what his story was.

How did he get here?  Where did he come from?  Is he a jazz inspired, Kerouac lovin' throwback to the hitchhiking 50's?  Is he a man, who can create sculptures out of air and has followed his muse to a state with copious amounts of wide open air space to work in.  Maybe he is the creater of the gorgeous clouds that keep me sane in this state. He sings them into being.  The air condensing and forming at his notes.  His voice caresses them into shapes.  Cloud Singer has no fear of the Arizona heat, he calls the moisture to him and revels in the bit of shade he can afford.  He shares with those around him, and leans under trees whenever he can find one.  This is the only man I've seen who walks under a cloud of his own making and he is at peace.

Maybe that jaunty walk is not due to the wheeled bag, maybe that is due to him finding a place so perfectly suited to his talents.  A place where he can sing of his joy and the clouds slowly trundle after him in the sky.

Welcome Home

I am a day late.  I am always late, but usually only by twenty minutes or so.  I’ve got my bag leaning against my leg and am twisting my scarf in my hands.  Standing in front of the porch just looking at the door and I admit I am hoping that somebody will spontaneously come outside, but it is late into the evening and I don’t really expect that to happen.  I gather up my courage and my bag.  Shouldering it, I begin up the steps towards the door.  It seems huge and extremely well locked.  The unwanted question rises in my head.  Will they still want me?  Of course they will want me, I tell myself.  Big breath, of course they want me.  I lift my hand to knock and a flurry of activity sounds from behind the door.  I was right about the door being well locked.  Soon the door creaked open and Ann peaked out from behind it.

“It is you!  I knew it would be you!  Harold said to check the peephole, but I knew!” She crowed stamping her feet like a child.

“Hi Ann, I’ve missed you.” I smiled at the diminutive woman whose voice is much larger then her physical presence.

“Come in, come, it is chilly out there! She practically shouted at me in her excitement.

“Thank you so much for having me. I am sorry about being so late.”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it, you are the nomad of the family.  We understand your time schedule may not be as exact as one would expect.  Enough of that, we got dinner for you.”  Ann waved towards the table by the door. “Just dump your bag there for now and we will get some good food in you.”

I felt a bit of guilt at the nomad comment.  If they only knew how true it was. I attempted to keep at least some sort of a semblance of a balanced life for them.  I laughed at myself, no to be honest, the things I do for me.  The portrayal is for me so I won’t feel guiltier about my strangeness, my inability to commit to even an address.  Thank goodness for friends with permanent addresses and post office boxes.

As we walked back to the kitchen, I was seeped in childhood memories.  The grandfather clock that was my best friend still kept time in the living room.  The time showed as 7:30pm.  It wasn’t as late as I thought.  The clock chimed out the ½ hr gong and I paused savoring its dulcet tones.  It wasn’t as loud as I remember, but living in a city will deaden your ears to most noise.

“Hey Ann, quick question for you?”

She turned in the doorway of the kitchen.  “Yes?”

“How did you know I was at the door?  I didn’t get a chance to knock yet.”

“Oh,” she laughed “Marge called from across the street to let us know that there was an “unknown” standing in front of our house.”

She winked at me. “She is new in town so she wouldn’t remember you.”   

I smiled at Ann “I had forgotten what it was like to be in a small town.”

“Yes, well welcome back, Treat.”  She grinned again and said “Come on, food is getting cold and I am sure Harold is quite impatient to see you.

I haven’t been called Treat for years.  When I first came to live with Ann & Harold, Ann would hug me spontaneously and tell me what a treat I was.  Eventually Harold started calling me Ann’s Favorite Treat and that was quickly shortened to Treat.

Pushing through the kitchen door, I was assaulted by the warm smell of Thanksgiving.

“Wait, what?”  I stuttered.

“Well, you’ve missed a few holidays and we know how much you loved your Thanksgiving dishes.  So we decided to make a few.”  Harold smiled as he spread his arms over the bounty of food on the table.

“A few, hmm?  Seems like you can feed an army here?”

“Oh, no” Said Ann, “Not a whole army, maybe the football team though.”

She turned and hugged me. “Oh honey, we’ve missed you so.”

Harold turned and wheeled away from the table.  I kept myself from starting.  I knew he was in a wheelchair now, but I hadn’t seen him since the accident.  He came over and I hugged him.  His arms wrapped around me felt as strong as they did 20 years ago when he would protect me from the ghosts in the closet and the monster in the bathroom.

“Missed you Treat, glad you’ve come home for a bit.”

“Missed you both terribly, I am sorry I stayed away for so long.”

“It’s alright, we still love you’” Harold rumpled my hair and gave me one last squeeze.  “Come on and eat or I will give the football team a call.”

I laughed and sat down.

The Saxophone Player

The man on the corner has been there for days, possibly months.  It’s hard for me to keep track.  He is always in the same bright yellow zoot suit.  Pressed to perfection and his matching hat pulled low over his brow.  I have never seen his face.  He stands in the shadow reflected by the streetlamp, a jar at his feet.  The saxophone he holds in his hands gleams brighter then his suit ever could.  And the low mournful sounds that are drawn out of it cause the passersby to drop coins, then shiver as they walk away pulling their coats tighter around them.  As the night passes, his songs recede to a more breathy cry then music.  I watch as he packs his instrument and picks up his jar to head for where ever he pretends is home.

He is waiting for someone, I know it.  I wonder who she is.  Is she the perfect girlmatch to his zoot suit slickness?  With bow topped heels and a polka dotted dress?  Hair done up in curls and bright red lipstick to mark his cheek with?  Will she waltz up one day and take him by the hand?  Will I get to watch them dance off into the night, see him toss his head back in delight at a whispered comment.  Finally see his face without shadow.

Maybe it isn’t a woman.  Maybe it is a man.  Or a family member or a long lost friend, who he has spend the last few years searching for and now simply hopes the call of his saxophone will bring them home.

For days I ponder this, creating scenario after scenario.  Then one evening, I notice the silence.  His spot in the lamplight is empty.  

River Styx

"Don't forget to pay the ferryman."

"Geez, Mom.  Cut me a break won't you?"

"Pay attention, Samuel!  This is the first trip you are undertaking on your own.  I need you to listen and do as I say when the time comes."

"Mom, it is not that difficult. I am almost a grown man."

"You are nothing, but a tall boy.  You hear me, just a tall child."

"Look, it is not as if I am traveling by myself.  There will be others.  I am sure if something comes up that I am not ready for, I can ask for their help."

"You just can't trust everyone around you.  That is why you are leaving, remember?"

"Yes, I remember, but you need to remember that not everyone is horrible. There are good people, Mom.  I swear it."

"It doesn't feel like it.  It is not fair you having to go."

"Who's the tall child, now?"

"Don't talk like that to your mother!"

"Yes, ma'am.  It will be alright, when I am gone.  You know that don't you?"

"Samuel, it will take time, it must take time."

"Just have hope."

"Agh, enough of this nonsense."  Do you have everything you need?  Do you feel sick at all?  Any strange pains?"

"Yes, no and no.  It will be alright, Mom."

"Fine, fine, fine.  Here are your coins, don't forget to pay the ferryman!"

"Sure Mom, and if I get a chance I will try to let you know I made it safely."

"I know you will honey.  Remember, oh always remember. I love you Samuel."

"I love you too, Mom."

Burnt Out

I have been vacated, sign around my neck.  Love lives here, but she is broken and worn down.  Looking like a cheap hooker in a bad wig and busted heels.  Hoping against all reality, that one day she will be saved.  Resurrected. 


How does one dress up their broken love?  Is there rehab for this?  Or do you give up, take her out back and shoot her.  Bury her corpse in the bottom of your heart. 


I am tired.  Too tired to dig a grave, too tired to even raise my arm to shoot.  So we sit here in this squalid motel room that used to be a heart and stare at each other.  What if there is no her, what if that slinky pose of kicked back on the grimy bed, propped up by her elbows, legs crossed at the ankles is me?  Am I just staring in the mirror?  How did I let this happen?  Looking at my feet I see the broken heels, the frayed straps.  I kick them off and pull off all the clothes.  I pile everything in the middle of that awful bed and set it on fire.  Yank the wig off my head and toss it into the flame.  


I burn my heart clear of this debris.   I will save me.  I will save me.