College Assignments Dude

He and I

He is waking up on Christmas morning without a gift,

 without decorations, without stockings stuffed, without cookies fractured.

 He is an empty tree, with empty branches; nothing but a single strand of popcorn wrapped around his arms­­—

I hate popcorn.

            I am a new puppy.

 I will follow where you walk, big brown eyes fixed.

 I am anxious and excited about every small thing: every car window, every open door, every scrap from the dinner table,

 every time you come home.

He is a big red bow. I am tugging at the ends.

 He is an empty box. I am still hopeful.

            We are a mountain filled with hot lava and our past is that of Pompeii.

I try to justify the damage by building a city on the ruins and using the old name, but the demolition has yet to lay dormant. 

I wonder if the city was just a beautiful way to see destruction meet hard work.

We erupted. 

When the ash clouded our eyes we must have mistook vacancy for a vaccination. How did we believe the doctor’s empty offices and excellent service fell hand in hand? How did we decide the red matter was no longer toxic in our relationship?

He was all kinds of red, but his red wasn’t just the lava, wasn’t just a bow; his red was how I filled in the pictures. It laced my thoughts and controlled my time. I watched Wizard of Oz and hoped if I clicked his red and my heels together we could find a way home.

 But he was more poison and I was more granny smith.

 His red was always his.

            I waited a hundred years for a safe place to build. He waited a mere two before he found his way back to the city.

 Looking back I can see the fences and the warning signs, the radio alerts and the way the history books were supposed to make you afraid.

 I never believed such a small mountain could be hiding such terrible things. I just wanted to build.

  He is a million lights hung just before the first snow, but one by one he will burn out in the cold.

 He is candy canes that taste like black licorice and he will tell you he tastes like sugarplum.

 He is cheap glue at the family gingerbread party and he is always one gum drop too short.

            I am too young to know better and too new to understand.

 I will make a mess of your carpet and I won’t learn the rules until the third scolding.

 I will be left behind for family vacations, soccer games;

 I will be put away for birthday parties, fancy dinners, movie nights; 

but I will show you the same love as our very first day every single time you pick me up.

  I do not wish to fit so easily behind a fence, or behave so poorly in front of your new friends. 

He does not wish to be remembered as the wrong shades of red.

 We do not wish to numb the city, but we know nothing better.

Dreaming

Pearly white gates of the airport, the last place I thought I'd be standing with you. 

He takes my clenched hands, unfolding them in his. Our eyes are sending signals and I knew I should have learned morse code before this moment. But it's too late. 

It's too late and he feels the weight of those words. He wraps his newly stiff arms around my back and begs my heart to lighten up if only for a moment. 

"But darling, I'm just flying south for the winter."  He whispers, "Come June the snow will melt and the flowers will stick their pretty little faces out of the gloom and I'll be running off a plane to get back to you."

He squeezed me in for one last moment. One last sign. One last glimmer of hope to make the snow worth it. He tapped his lips to my forehead in the shortest show of affection, to place the softest kiss on my trembling nerves. 

and all at once his suit coat was trailing behind a mass of people in bright colors and nice shoes. All rolling their dues to escape the same world. 

"Take care of him" I try to whisper but only mouth, "he's one of the good ones."

Find it.

Your Art Matters.

   Whatever is brewing beneath your veins

the clock hands that make only you tick

The secret talent you have yet to tell your mother about

It matters.

The shine in your eyes when you present your masterpiece

The music that shakes below your bloodstream--that gets your worn out legs out of bed in the morning
 the ideas that keep your heart racing at night--

and you eyes gasping at night--and your soul grasping at night

they matter.

They are your heartbeats put on display as passion.

They are the sunshine that will go down in history next to your name

forget the yearbook

this is so the little boy who wants to be something thinks of you.

So the curly pigtails walking down the 2nd grade hall right now has dreams for tomorrow.

You'll be on billboards and magazines and those stupid posters in the library where celebrities pretend to read

Because you gave a voice to something that matters
Because you showed the reality TV shows that the earthquakes in the way we feel are universal,

and history will forever be grateful.

You, are the modern day Monet.

The dance the sky does when you've made the perfect play

or created the perfect concoction

the bubbly you feel in your fingertips when you hold a pen

or a ball or the strings.

The sheet music that lives on the inside of your forehead

The recipe that is bursting from your taste buds

The floor plan your feet are anxious to walk

The greasy engine your fingertips are tinkering to tinker with

the turns your calloused feet are itching to sway

the heights your shoulders are panting to reach.

they matter.

they make you, you.
they are your DNA in the universe
the perfect way to shout your fears and your hopes and your anger out
 to stop you from drowning in the abyss of what feels like an ocean.
Your art is what makes these hallways bearable, those long days wearable, it is the only tunnel that escapes the terrible. 

There will be friends, and teenagers on the edge, and crowds of people just looking to feel something

there will be dark corners to crawl out of 

and lonely winters to melt out of

and isolated mountain tops to fall down from

and your art will do that. 

I was once told lonely is healing if you  make it that way.

and you will.

The philosophies and the things that make your brain turn

and the help you give and the words you share

the pieces of your heart that you scatter on anyone who will listen

they're like shelters

and laughter for the masses

they're like umbrellas and golden grilled cheese sandwiches on a rainy day

they make    a difference.

You will be the poster child for courage

and the PSA for passion

and the little girl with pigtails will ask you to sign the picture she puts on her wall.

Your art matters.

Your poetry, whether you are spilling secrets or perfecting grammar

whether you are the Rothko or the Ruben or the Rembrant

Your poetry,  whether it comes out of your feet or your hands or your eyes-

whatever way you decide to photograph your soul-

You putting your heart into something besides your claustrophobic rib cage,
it matters.

Heaven in the air

Its days like today that get me sentimental 

The mountains disappear into the clouds and I imagine heaven is touching down on earth for a few brief moments

Like a train stop for everyone who has ever passed, like a snow-globe-peek into our world.

"Last call for earth, last ticket call!"

And our loved ones file one by one out of the white,
coming on a day long excursion to spend a little time with the lives they don't get to live in.
It's why on rainy days I like to be on my best behavior,
What if they're comparing the past they remember with the present they're observing?
I never want them to feel I've gotten lost without them.
Like I was a distant responsibility they could never dimension right.

And they're not supposed to take souvenirs 

But some angels can't let go of the things they left behind
So I'll leave out a cold can of Pepsi and pull up basketball stats on my idle computer while I blast Elton John from all angles of the house.
    and I think it's okay because we get keepsakes and journal entries and prized possessions,
and all they get are rainy afternoons, one season of the year.


And before we know it the last flight home will drop its weight across the horizon.

It's can't be time to go already..
The sky is dumping its anguish, the clouds are darker than we appreciate and the air is brushing by fast and cold as we lose our guardians to the only ride home.
because God can't give them back. No matter how badly we want him to.


Regardless of our shooting star wishes and our desperation prayers and the silent eye pleas we try to hide on rainy days.
God can't give them back. No matter how badly they want him to.