April 2013 Issue!
To the Readers,
Today, I’d like to share a writing prompt. Find a dark and quiet room. Then, as best you can, think of nothing. Don’t think of a sound, a taste in your mouth, homework, or that you are thinking about nothing. I’m sure this is not truly possible, so after a few minutes of thinking about “nothing,” write about what leaked through into your thoughts.
A man who wanders down the rugged road,
And focuses on what he cannot know
Will lose himself along the way.
He stays, he stays, until he cannot stay.
Despite his right to move into the light,
He’s stuck outside himself with nothing that
Will help him find a reason to decide
Whether or not he wants to be alive.
He searches for the everlasting light,
But darkness rules over his lonely life
Taking away his sensation of sight,
So hesitation weighs much more than strife.
An Unbusted Membrane
So, Doctor. I’m here out of a need for frankness with myself, so I’ll tell you like it is. I’m not going for any of that sugary dancy-dance stuff that you do to sidestep the issue, no no. There’s enough of that to go around, these days. I’ve filled my ass with it up to here and I’m ripping at the seams. This shit isn’t going anywhere but out, so I better flush it here, fast—before it eats at me anymore. I think it’s finally time I talked with somebody who knows what to do with this kind of baggage, Doctor. I haven’t been well and this is my express attempt to—you know—drop the bags, heh. Nevermind, it’s—nothing. Anyway, right. I guess I’ll start off for you then, you know, to uh, use this time. And thanks again for seeing me—I wanted to thank you when we talked over the telephone, but I had to wait to tell you in person, I really—it means a lot. You know, you get it. It’s your job. Anyway.
buzz through my brain
buried in Babeldom
as they beg to be listened to
Bury your precautions
Boil off your trepidations
Banish your doubts
Beat that which begins to stop you
Believe what cannot be
Before it is too late
The only ones I know are summer afternoons of lakeshore goodbyes,
of heavy traffic around the bay; and
winter mornings of squirming in the pews of a hall
with stale hymns in foreign tongues
and heavy, ancient eyes.
Sundays at the lake are too far gone to remember how to get there--
a million miles of years since I’ve grown a foot
and lost the magic of my bare feet thumping on the splintery wooden dock
as I reel in a big one,
since I’ve failed to reconcile the waters into which I dive to those of Genesis.
It’s not a day I’ve yet stopped searching for--
it’s every Sunday,
seized automatically by anticipation
for a two hour highway drive in a hot van with an iced tea
or to make-believe I know a Father who didn’t tuck me in the night before.