Facing death is like riding any
spinning ride. You are flung out from
the center toward the edge. Death is waiting
for you in that void.
Then there is the centripetal pause
when you are no longer
spinning and you can make eye contact with
people waiting in line
until you are spun back to the middle
to life as you knew it.
Some people love this.
They yell to spin faster
to go farther into the void
before returning. Always faster.
Always farther.
Me? I just throw up.
“I don’t have all the answers, but I’m learning to ask good questions.”
–Pamela Consear
I am searching for the non-answer
For the I don’t know
For the mystery I will die with
When I was younger I was a good boy
Paid attention in school
Mostly listened to my parents
Generally likable
Even witty and cute at times
But I got there because
I was good at answers
Followed the advice
Took down notes
Turned in assignments on time
Knew when to talk
And when to be quiet
But now I am looking for
The white space
The crooked margins
The fog that gradually creeps in
The sound or color or emotion
That no one can quite define
I am looking for a God that is a possibility
Not for a God that is an answer
I will search and search
And hopefully
Never find
She starts by explaining
The difference between
Loneliness and Alone
She is crying
I don’t know what to do
With my hands
When she trails off
Lost in her own contradictions
I want to add
Something about serendipity
And purpose
But the air is too heavy
With my nerves
And her denial
I have known her loneliness
And I have been alone
And neither helps me now
I, too, am crying
And I still don’t know what to do
With my hands
She sips her coffee
I sip my tea
We do not make eye contact
But I feel less alone
I don’t normally remember my dreams
Fleeting images that fade
Before my legs swing to the floor
But last night I danced
Naked
In the rain
And I woke up proud
His clothes don’t quite fit him right.
He is waiting until he loses weight
Before updating his wardrobe.
That’s been the plan for the last 15 months.
He changes his name when ordering his coffee.
He goes in alphabetical order.
Today he is Gloria.
Tomorrow he will be Hieronymus.
The baristas know him and usually just write Bob.
He actually likes clowns and spiders.
His father taught him to never lie about facts.
Only about feelings.
He drops pennies from his pockets
Hoping little kids will find them
And believe in luck.
He used to believe in luck.
Now he believes in foggy days.
His mother no longer understands him.
He prays most days,
Creaky knees bent and hands together,
But he spends the entire time
Apologizing to God
For not believing in Him.
Yet he still believes in foggy days.
When he sings in the park
On his daily walks
He hopes a random stranger
Will join in and write his biography.
Today’s song is Seasons of Love.
when did I start writing
more about death
than about love?
notice the waves
leaving the shore
instead of breaking at my feet?
when did I give power to fear
instead of hope?
feel my breath escaping
instead of filling me?
when did I start counting the silences
between my heart beats?
look toward the shadow
rather than toward the sun?
will I ever let
Spring come again?
Today
I watched a woman
Dressed in jeans
A lavender blouse
And black flats
Walk straight into the ocean waves.
She did not hesitate nor flinch
Until she stopped when the waves
Peaked at her shoulders.
She dipped her head under a wave
Then flipped her wet hair back.
She stood and stared at the undulating horizon.
After two or three minutes
She turned around and walked back to shore
Never hesitating nor flinching.
As she walked past me sitting alone in the sand
Her wet hair dripped down her back.
She had lost her shoes.
