Bruise again

You touched my arm and it stayed
I wear it now, hidden springs
of black water flowing underneath
my icy river's crust of skin.

If I just wait here long enough
It will come to me.
The reason why I let this happen.

I step out and it creaks and sings
Under my weight. Black feet
body, ice. fear.

I would open my mouth to speak,
But you have taken my tongue.
My lips move and spasm,
But my breath is also in your pocket.

That which is my own stretched
Naked on that bridge between now
And then.  Wet and dry.  Dry and dead.
It is as foolish to clutch at ice
As it is to swim below.

Tuesday

the longings arrived again with a new snow
that pressed the edges of my sight line
and cozied in with a winter's wind,
white and cold and northwesterly.

they pressed in on the corners of my perceptions,
like a sullied and drowsy clown
like a cornered cage fighter
like a monopoly tycoon,
the absence of light closing quickly.

the longings arrived afresh in the morning
that culled confusion from my thought lines
as we waited patiently for sunlight
white and warm and southern.

they shout out now in my ears,
like a catholic bell at Christ Mass
like a feverishly hungry child
like a fish fallen out of the stream,

"Where are you?"

Part 2

Jack’s brain felt as though it were floating in a warm blue liquid. Everything was calm. His eyes were closed, and in the darkness he heard no sound, felt nothing of his body, knew nothing of his surroundings.

Jack’s forehead had directly struck the concrete. Hard. He laid their motionless on the train platform. Some witnesses fled, fearing the supernatural, while others came closer, either intrigued by the impossible or hoping to help the mysterious bleeding man.

As his eyes opened he saw blurry shapes crowding his field of vision from all directions. He heard dull, distant voices.

Jack’s eyes began to focus on the faces staring down at him. He heard unfamiliar voices. “Is he okay?” “Who is he?” “What did he just do?” The questions came from every direction.

A large man in a red sweatshirt knelt over him. “Sir?” He looked straight down into Jack’s eyes. “Sir? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Sir?”

Jack couldn’t respond. He couldn’t quite connect the dots just yet. He could, however, feel a dull, throbbing pressure coming from the right side of his forehead.

“Jack?” Finally he recognized one voice. “Jack, are you okay? Jack!” Emma was there. She was afraid.

It was difficult, but Jack concentrated and pieced together two words. “I am.”

“Ma’am, you’re with him?” asked the man in the red sweatshirt.

“He’s my husband.”

“My name is Evan. I’m a doctor.” The man in the red sweatshirt was direct and calm. “The way your husband hit his head, I would bet he’s got a concussion. He should be fine to get up in a few minutes, but for now--”

“Emma.” Jack wanted to tell her he felt fine, that he wasn’t even in pain, so he couldn’t have a concussion. His forehead just felt a little sore. He wanted to ask why he was on his back, and why all of these people seemed so concerned for him. He couldn’t quite piece together the words to ask these questions. He remembered that they had been at the stadium. That they had come out of the gates. That they had stood in line for a while. That he had tried to see--

Then it all flooded in at once. He remembered trying to see over this man, the doctor in the red sweatshirt. He remembered jumping. He remembered shrieks and horror and confusion. He remembered a crowd backing away from him. Now that same crowd closed in on him.

“Jack, my name is Evan. You just hit your head on the sidewalk. I need you to relax, ok?” Jack was not paying attention. His mind was replaying the impossible scene from only moments before. “Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?”

He did.

Frantically, Jack reached for Emma’s shoulder but missed. She grabbed his arm to steady him as he flopped onto his side. “We have to go. We have to go.” It was a struggle to put words together, one after another, but now his adrenaline surged and gave him focus. “We have to get out of here.” The confusion. The closeness of the strangers, pressing in. Jack had to escape.

With his palms on the concrete and Emma steadying him by the arm, Jack struggled to stand. “Sir” the doctor sounded concerned and reached for his other arm. “Jack, you need to lie down, you’ve got a concussion, Jack, I need you to stay here, ok? “

Jack got one foot under himself and tried to stand. He fell into Emma who was crouched next to him. “We have to go!” He hoisted himself upwards using Emma’s shoulder. She stood with him, unsure of herself, but not knowing what else to do.

Jack gained his balance and looked up. He was looking into a crowd of faces, a sea of eyes that had seen the whole thing. Some backed away like before. A few stepped forward to help steady him.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack could see to the back of the platform, where the streetlights of the train station ended. It was dark there, down below at ground level, and the street seemed mostly empty. His heart was racing. He had to get out of the light, off of the platform, out of the center of this mass of strangers. He lurched forward.

Jack pushed and pulled at the shoulders of those who boxed him in. Frightened, they made a path, one by one stepping back to make way. Some still held up cell phones, recording Jack’s primal struggle to escape. Emma rushed to keep him from toppling over.

Fans continued to pour out of the stadium and onto the back of the train platform. These people, these newcomers to the scene, had no idea what Jack had just done as he painstakingly fought his way between them, against the flow, bleeding from his forehead and tripping over himself. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving as his momentum carried him unsteadily forward, passing by each curious face with determination.

His progress was abruptly halted when he ran directly into a heavy-set man with a backwards cap and a large soda. ”Whoa! You okay there?” The man could see that Jack was unsteady. He grabbed his arm to help.

As soon as Jack felt the man’s hand grasp his arm, all of Jack’s fear and panic mixed with urgency and confusion, and within an instant, Jack exploded.

He punched the man in the face, just below the left eye. It was a sloppy punch, the punch of a dizzy fighter still reeling from a hard blow to the head, but the surprise of the blow sent the man stumbling backward, spilling his drink on the shoes of others in the crowd. The man put his free hand over his face, sputtering a muffled “what the f---!“.

Emma, too, covered her mouth. She was stunned. She stared at her husband with fear in her eyes.

Jack’s head was pounding now as he saw single drops of blood fall down in front of one eye. He stood, dizzy and in pain, as more onlookers stepped back, tripping over each other, but never taking their eyes off of him.

The way they looked at him…

He started to run. He was desperate and anxious. He made his way as directly as he could toward the stairs that led down to the ground level behind the platform.

He turned back at the top of the stairs and saw Emma directly behind him. She was weeping and trying to keep up. He reached back and took her hand frantically as they descended the stairs that led down six feet to a shadowed sidewalk.

Jack couldn’t stop. They ran down the block, Jack stumbling now and again, Emma keeping him from falling completely. He had to escape, to get out of sight. He heard one or two shouts from behind, but kept running.

They had made their way three and a half blocks when Jack, unable to take the dizziness and the pain, finally ducked into a darkened alleyway. He fell forward onto his knees next to a huge wet dumpster. Emma knelt beside him, sobbing and out of breath.

Jack pulled Emma close, held her tear-streaked face in his hands, and desperately pleaded, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was quiet and weak.

Jack swayed. He fell sideways against the dumpster, dropped to the ground, and vomited.

My Tree

MY TREE.

-->

My tree is old.

Old and dead.

My tree has been cut down.

Carved up.

Mashed about… Pulverized!

Smeared.

Stained.

My tree is bound with cords.

Fettered

Crammed tight, used, abused…

And loved.

Poured over. 

Brings light,

Brings laughter,

Brings life.

Hope in the darkness? 

A friend to these lonely days.

Wise old days to those without days.

Young days to the old and bent.

My tree has the hearts of generations inscribed on its trunk.

My tree lifts me up and holds me, brings me down and makes me question myself, and opens the world before me like a book…

bradley

will we ever go
to that island on
lake michigan

off the coast
and far away

and this is not a chance
and not a change of pace
or a time to die
in that quiet place

damn it
you're far too young
to waste away

you've still got four kids
and three wedding days

and now we'll never go
to that island in the sand
that we passed months ago
when you were a better man

and if i'm alone, then you're alone
and if i'm afraid, then you're afraid

My Feet Hurt

I’m simply too tired to write. I’m too exhausted to think of any new ideas; to paint any new pictures that would be worth noting or exciting to read. Sure I've got pleasant ideas boiling, and that kettle is about to sing but tonight is not the night. Tonight is for trying to keep my eyes open and lips moving to make conversation, and to seem like an interesting individual.

I've spent the better part of the last week with my feet glued to the floor of a job I don’t like. I guess I stick around because I care too damn much about my co workers to turn tail and run. I care too much about the well being of the owner of the company to back down. I've come in on my days off.  I’ve given up glorious plans of social revelry. I've told myself it’s in the name of helping out another. I wonder if this is a lie and I've only done these things in pursuit of that almighty dollar. The dollar. You know, at the end of the two weeks it isn't that mighty. It’s pretty weak. God knows I hope this isn't true.

On top of that my sister has come to town. It’ll be good to spend the holiday with some family. I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like, but that’s only because that dollar won’t stretch no matter how I pull. I could write about how much it means to me to have family here, and how it brings forward all the thoughts of my past and who I have been. I could write it. But I won’t; not tonight. It would be forced and really not from the heart, though the sentiment is true enough.

I read recently that the difference between a hack and a professional writer is that a professional writes regardless, and a hack writes only when inspired. I guess that makes me the latter, and tonight I’ll take it knowing that it won’t always be this way. Tomorrow I hope to be thankful to even have the desire and ability to sometimes writes something worthwhile. I wonder if there is any beer in the fridge...

Paint

Brittle boneyard of my soul.

Bleached and quiet.

Full of vacated moments.

I alone have time to examine
our
bruises.
Yesterdays clouts painted on my arm
forced into now with a touch.
Time-travel violence.

I write to keep the fear outside.
My pen locks the door,
the paper
hides the key.
I sing the way I hurt inside.
Bruises of dark cursive on your ears.