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A Prayer Before Sleep
Jack searched the neighborhood as if he’d lost something.
Looking up and down the street, crossing sidewalks, he meandered auspiciously as if he’d forgotten where he was going.
Jack found himself in a state of neither here nor there.
The chill of February hung round his shoulders like a thin shawl.
It was his morning walk but to what ends—to what means?
Tires squealed in the distance.
Birds began their daily routine.
Automatic lights turned themselves off.
And what emerged from the tree line? Sure enough, as it had so many times before, the sun.
Jack knew that it would be long before the sun warmed his chapped fingers but at least it shed some light on his path.
Nothing was right or wrong, indeed, it was too early for such nonsense.
But still Jack did all he could to remember what he was looking for and why he’d been so eager to rise this morning before his alarm clock could shout obscenities to his ear.
It was the reflection of the sun off an old car window which caused him to touch his brow, where when removed, his hand revealed a thin layer of blood.
He couldn’t remember how or when he’d received such a gash, which the window now showed, laughingly.
Realizing where he was, he’d found what he’d been looking for, though it was as fragmented, cracked, and littered as the sidewalk that led him home.
Before entering the thought of knocking crossed his mind, but why? He lived here. This was his home.
The house was silent except for Jack.
He laid in bed as if it were the evening and since he wasn’t a praying man, he sang softly to himself.
It was more or less what praying had done for any other man before him, and would do for anyone else who’d find him thereafter.
It was then he turned off his alarm clock and shut his eyes.
THE END.
still as the evening air
For some reason, people
just keep on sticking around—
no matter how I push them away.
And God knows I’ve tried, yet
still as the evening air
they remain, willing and shifty
to see me from my darkness
onward, till dawn.
Insomnia: A Short Story
The television’s on.
It’s freezing in here.
I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.
It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.
Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.
In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.
I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…
Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.
I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.
It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.
If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.
The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.
Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?
It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.
The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.
Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.
It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.
Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.
This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.
At least I’m writing again. That’s good.
Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.
And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.
At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.
My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.
Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.
Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.
Breathe
To breathe is a gift we often overlook
though each day we are granted this ability.
Today, breathe deeply, fully
and accept that you are worthy,
to breathe.
Be the air of peace we’re all capable of breathing.
I recently came across a post stating, “this is a bad year.”
Though I don’t disagree that bad things have happened this year, I can’t fully commit to such a bold statement as the entire year being bad.
Or perhaps, I’m just looking at it from a more critical standpoint?
A protest for example, is a collaborative effort between cultures standing together for justice.
The police force has made efforts, though not always headline news, to reinforce their code of conduct: to protect and serve.
Most citizens are respecting the rights of others, choosing to wear masks, in the fight against COVID-19.
The government is making attempts to sustain our American way of life through relief programs and continued unemployment benefits—even though at times it may feel like not enough—granting enough security to survive.
I’ve seen a number of portable facilities spring up in mainly homeless areas of Los Angeles, which does not solve the issue, but certainly shows hope.
What I am getting at is even in our darkest times, there are signs of hope.
Hope which we can and should not disregard as a complete and utter bad year.
If anything, I’d say, there is an awakening taking place.
What I see from an observers eye is an awakening of people who, regardless of the hardships, struggle, and inability to make concrete sense of all the senseless acts that have been occurring, realize a need for change and progression forward as a human race.
We are all struggling, regardless of another’s grass, I repeat,
we are all struggling.
But with struggle comes realizations. And with realization comes understanding. And with understanding comes progress.
Through common ground and communication I know there is hope, for you, and I, and the suffering on all sides.
It struck me odd today when a friend told me they envy my ability to travel where in turn I assured them, not everything is as it may seem, and that I too am struggling, only I choose a different point in which to view my current state of awareness.
You don’t have to travel far to climb a mountain or swim in a lake, or wake to see the most beautiful sunrise, or even lend a hand to someone less fortunate, because these are natural and always there waiting for you to take action.
Rather than saying, “this year is a bad year,” I suggest taking a deeper look and the time to realize that progress is happening.
And though progress may seem difficult, remain hopeful, my friends.
Be honest with yourself and your loved ones.
Greet a stranger as he were your family, with arms stretched wide in abundance.
Be the light at the end of the tunnel, the light which shines even in our darkest of times.
Be the air of peace in which we’re all capable of breathing.
Be courageous. Be kind. And be hopeful.
Eating edibles by the ocean
Her sun kissed skin
My wind swept hair
Eating edibles by the ocean
So happy we’re here
I’m sorry my friend.
I wanted to help you
but hurt you instead.
The least I can say is
I’m sorry my friend.
The most I can do is
tell you I’m here,
no matter the distance
though waters aren’t clear,
it’s times like these—
a balloon in the air—
to let yourself go completely
and live not in fear.
You’re worth more than you know
I know this my friend
so follow your heart, and
try to understand.
I wanted to help you
but hurt you instead.
The least I can say is
I’m sorry my friend.
the air of my ancestors
I fill my lungs
with the air of my ancestors
knowing my purpose
is their peace.
Artistic illusions
Make my bed
Spread the sheets
They are white
They are clean
There’s a nestle of bird
Who sing softly and sweet
There are bills
To be paid
Overdrafts
To be made
But I’m conscious today
Knowing that rot can wait
I have given enough love, I’ve wrestled with the thought
Spared quarters like rain to a cynical saint
I’ve got no time to spare
All this death in the air
Has me feeling quite good, transcendentally great
Forgive me but truth is
Artistic illusions
I’ve no cross to bear climbing trees and it’s clear
That I
start to see past
The sun and moon
The sky opens up
There’s nothing left to do
This closure’s my mantra to you.
Wash my face
Clean my teeth
Knock on wood
Once a week
There’s a pub inn Philly
Where I dug my own grave
Comb the depths
Of your hair
Try and act
Like you care
I’ve been watching your play
Mixing tonic with pain
You have given enough love, so much work to be done
Put your suitcases down, for a while and remain
Like a park bench in autumn
Or leaves that have fallen
I’ve got proof there’s a cure, you just gotta find yours
Forgive me but truth is
Artistic illusions
It’s a tale to be told, when you’re young and your bold
And now I’ve
Got to go back
To the way I was before
And now you’ve
Got to go back
To the way you were before
This closure’s my mantra to you.
Words Of An Average White Male 