A Pulse

Beams of light engulf.
Booze, laughs, mingling in city.
Thud. There is a pulse.

The Timeless Letter

My mother wrote me a letter.

Then she folded it into two and then again. It was sealed in an envelope and all that was said couldn't be undone.

I read it before school, letting her firm instructions guide me; her reassurance embrace me.

I read it before camp. She warned me about mosquitoes, alcohol, pot, and unruly kids. She told me, even if I did get into those things, it would be for a while, and she would still love me.

I read it before that first kiss, it said good luck sweetie.

I read it before college. My mother warned me of unmanageable roommates, peer pressures, and loss. She told me I'd have fun.

I read it before my first funeral. It said to not cry unless you must, to wear black, and to be in silence. It said to make sure not to fall in.

I read it before my first shot. The letter questioned my judgment, strength, integrity.

I read it before my V card's time was up. It said be gentle.

I didn't read that letter for my second, third or fourth drinks.

No.

It had been more drinks than I could count.

I hadn't read the letter.

I read it before my girlfriend broke up with me.

I read it before I lost my job.

I read it before I went to rehab.

Mama, I can still smell the perfume you were using on the day you wrote it, and I can still see your eyes.

How do you know what to say at the right time?

I must have read that letter a million times and

I'll read it before I die.

An Instant

The snapping of an aperture.

The blinding flood of light.

That one second in time is gone, but it will always be remembered. 

Think about that.

Nothing is permanent, it can only be documented.

A lady jogging, ipod strapped to her arm, head cocked to one side. Maybe she'll quit exercise tomorrow.

A baby being born, the blood, screaming, and sheer joy. They are reminiscent and fresh in every parent's memory, yet only a picture can describe exactly what life was at that moment. 

An old man laughing; perhaps, for the last time.

Click.

I lived in the slums. 

There was no running water, no supermarket, smiles, or sadness.

Only survival. 

Life in that part of town was not life.

Even when I tried to look at the blooming lilies, their beauty escaped me.

Even the slim, buxom, or curvy woman's grace and lustful elegance seemed to dip quickly from my psyche. 

Not water, nor food; birds or stars would fancy my eye.

Why?

Because my children wouldn't see it, and I wouldn't see it again.

It was lost in time.

We're all lost in time.

There was an old man that lived not far from me, in the alleyway across and back from my flat.

He didn't have a name.

When I first asked him, he smiled toothlessly, and said, "Em names show ownership. Don belong to nobody, now, I guess."

He always wore a crimson scarf. It was the brightest crimson I had ever seen.

I was the brightest color, the only color, I had seen in my years here.

Or maybe in all my years.

I honestly can't remember.

He took pictures. 

Wonderful pictures.

He found beauty in my trash, in dirt, and spiders, and spoiled milk. 

He was in awe of crumpled notebook paper, rubber bands, and pizza boxes.

I would have never looked twice at these things.

Yet, somehow those pictures were the most amazing, wonderous, beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

One day, he gave me his camera. It was an old one, probably from the beginning of the camera. 

He told me this.

Everthing is temporary.

Them leaves grow from nothin to crisp and green and ripe, then they die and crumple and get yellow. Then it starts over again. We can't be too upset about things we can't change. Like the dyin of leaves and human and whatnot. We can change how we remember them. That's why there's this.

He handed me the camera.

As he walked down that alley for the last time, I held the crumbling frame up to my face, and snapped a shot of him from the back. Weeks later, after the film was developed, he was not in the picture.

After taking my first picture, I whirled around to see a world bursting with color and life.

But only for an instant.

Click.

 

Lightening

A boy sat on his stoop and watched as the world said what it may. With purple roaring energy, and rapid cracks of strength, and without rain; the world was silent. Purple was the boy's favorite color.
Crack!
It rang so clear.
So loud.
So bright.


So, he took himself by the hand, and the boy got up. 
He was just above the waves of mountains that rushed toward the lightening. He turned and walked the other way. He ran into the house, and pulled the screen shut behind him. He rushed upstairs with him head down, and his gears turning. 
He needed to get to this lightening.


So, he found the keys to his mother's car, a sedan, and jumped in the driver's seat.
The car had been parked outside, and he started it. He drove all the way to the lightening.
When he got to the lightening, he saw something strange. It was not purple at all, but whiteish. 
He wondered...


The boy wondered if the closer you got to the lightening, the more white it would appear. So he just stood there, in the middle of life, and looked the lightening straight in the eye and said softly, but sternly, "You lied to me. I came here to see purple, not white." 


I can tell you one thing. That boy saw a whole lotta white. 


A boy sat on his stoop and watched as the world said what it may. With purple roaring energy, and rapid cracks of strength, and without rain; the world was silent. Purple was the boy's favorite color. This time, it was just a different stoop.

Ode to Summer

Like a soft wind,
laced with lilac aroma,
and freshly trimmed grass,
summer breezes in quietly,
yet she captives everything one.
Summer means lazy hours
on the hammock keeping a lax vigil
on the cardinal's nest
in the adjacent tree.
She drags me to the beach,
and we sit until the sky's bottom falls out,
and we get sucked into the vast sky.
The cool sand under foot, and the
black waves beckon.
We just lie there; head to head on the sand, gazing up.

Summer brings life to the world.
In summer, flowers are found
in brown bowls; such simplicity
inspires us.
Summer is like a perfectly crisp apple.
Holding its waxy skin,
stalling that first, immaculate bite.
Just as the first ray of sun
 brushes your face. It is an invitation
from nature to come and play.

Summer is a beautiful woman with
long, blonde hair and a naughty smirk.
The whole world seems to melt around her.
Yet, she makes the world look so much
better than it really is.
She runs up to you, not
saying a word but jumps
into an embrace.
A surreal day in the Shopping
District, and night at the beach.
She leaves you all too soon, without a
goodbye, only a kissed skin to remember her by.

Summer is the bridge between life
and death; green, bursting buds and crisp
yellow leaves. She is life.
The feeling of looking at the calendar
and seeing more than half the summer
still ahead is summer itself.
To going barefoot.
To ice cream trucks.
To pink lemonade stands.
To lazy days.
To pleasure.
To summer.