Things to Remember as I Burn Out

I am in control.
I need to believe this with mind heart and soul,
I need to understand that this will take its toll,
I need to work and work and work towards this goal,
I need to find the diamond hidden in the coal,
I need to push and push and push and make this rock roll.
and maybe it will roll back.
and maybe I will crack
and maybe I'll let this world run me through,
let the weights and fates determine that I didnt do enough,
that I was simply too invested in this bluff,
that I wasn't really that tough,
that I shoulda called it quits when the going went past rough,
and hit that critical point of no return.
where I was too stubborn to learn,
where I was too determined to have any concern,
for the things that creep slowly up and start to burn,
and even as the flames began to lick up around my ears,
I was too proud to extinguish them with tears,
had no time for the warnings of seers ,
was too bold to recognize my fears,
too optimistic waiting for that second when the smoke clears.
When the world would open up before me,
where the arch of the universe bends and I can see,
over mountains and across the sea,
and all the futures there could be,
every accidental opportunity ,
that point between my idealism and rationality,
the imposition of my dreams over reality,
the cut off between desires and morality,
where everything could click with the lightest touch of intentionality.
but here is the problem.
the clearing of smoke is actually rather rare,
and maybe it's true; the cliche that life just isnt fair,
and maybe we will be engulfed in more than our share,
of internal infernos that burn until our bones are laid bare,
leaving us exposed for the world to stare,
at charred skeletons who couldnt stop to care,
about repercussions and conclusions,
who left behind flesh marred by contusions,
and plans that were lost in the midst countless confusions,
in the pursuit of that one perfect solution,
that would grant us a touch of absolution.
for all that we desire is there,
that were we to reach out and take it,
something might change.
but not us.
we who once made our way down to the river,
who waded in without a shiver,
and screamed until the world began to quiver,
until the birds flew off in fright and the trees began to wither.
We who would shout and make demands  of Heaven!
who would call for compensation of seventy times seven,
who look upon burgeoning clouds,
and are not satisfied until the floodgates are pulled back,
who take up the title of rain maker,
who seek to be chain breakers,
who could be called earth shakers,
whose voices will cut through smoke and make it clear.
And maybe I will burn out.
But it will not be in silence.
I am in control.
I walk out from underneath rocks which would roll,
tread on diamonds that were once coal
and even if all that is left is a charred skeleton,
I was told that every skull has its grin,
and Yorick and I are in on this joke,
I will cough but will not choke,
as I step through this smoke
and change the world.

The Sounds of Summer

I have had a long term love hate relationship with summer,
between the whale like blubber that I need to get through the long winter months,
and my propensity for sweating when I do anything more active than lounging,
that period of May through September gets a little hard for me.
That being said I love swimming, and playing outside,
I am somewhere between a Labrador retriever and a 5 year old,
in terms of my enthusiasm for bouncing off of walls
and then out of the house
For a time summer meant
crashing through the perennially broken screen door,
Out into sunshine and scraped knees
Out into all the bruises and bumps that are part of growing up,
The loudest thing from my childhood was for a long time the sound of that screen door slamming.

Until it wasn't.

I don't remember how old I was the first time I heard a gun shot echo off the buildings in my city.
I don't remember at what age I became able to determine between fireworks and firearms.
nor do I recall exactly when the impulse to duck became second nature.
but eventually it did.
Flinching and twitching,
 dodging my way through the world,
I could never tell if it was the ADD acting up again
Or if my body was simply dodging bullets that weren't there.
I grew to hate silence,
if for no other reason than that it shatters
With edges like broken glass
So I wear sounds like they are a second skin
I surround myself in constant din
and I will never let the quiet in.
I sleep soundly through both sirens and thunder
but even then I have to wonder
because even dreams can be torn asunder.
and I fear being cut apart by broken peaces
of temporary twilight truces

Summers are scary.
There is a direct correlation between ice cream sales and gun violence
This is a reflection of an awful urban lesson
City kids grow up learning a sick sense of duality
It is a rather warped reality
to relish the vacation like every other kid
but keep in the back of the mind,
the knowledge that long summer shadows
hide many things
like bullets
like silence
and both of them scare me.
And I don't know what's worse.
The silence of peers
or the sounds of their screams?
I grasp at my ears
and they burst at the seams,
It's just how it be, That's just what I see, It's just as it seems.
And what worse than a bullet,
is the hand the sends it
malignant muscle memory
 and it's impact on the senses
bullets cross border and cultures,
 and bridges and fences.
Tell me why they can't mark that on the census?

So we sleep through the night when we can,
and we roam the streets when we cant.
Wish it were that only the gods own thunder
could wrench the sky and disturb my slumber
but right now, the cops and their kind got my city down under.

And even though my home is as quiet as it has ever been,
for the first time in my life I can't sleep past ten
and my alarm doesnt come from a phone or clock
My sleep isn't killed by guns on the block
but by badges in the street
and pain in my feet
and the point in my brain
where my shame and my pride meet.
We march because we hurt,
We fight because it works.
We lose because our curse.
Our wounds will never be as deep as Uncle Sam's purse.
Our ride will never be as smooth as the graveman's hearse
We will never be they who come first
Because that's America at its worst
patriotism nationalism and pseudofacism,
Secure in our faith that the State wont come for us
That the hands of fate dont lust for us
That our family has trusted us
enough to know our secrets and failures,
enough to know that we're in hell here,
enough that they would never send us to the counselor.
That's the trick ain't it?
everybody's broken
there pride in their silence,
their demons unspoken,
the violence of choking
their fire slow smoking
they'll say theyre just joking,
but they dont understand
 the coals theyre stoking

I don't have any answers,
I dont sleep easy,
I might get cancer,
I might like yeezy,
I'm as dumb as rock,
and mute as stone,
But if you come round my block,
you can see I'm not alone.

Compulsive Masculinity

In the era of unrealistic standards for women,
With the plastic precision  of barbie dolls,
and the physically impossible bust to waist ratio of Laura Croft
where the only thing that mirrors the warped results of a first attempt at photoshop
is the very standard that editing is trying to match.
We cannot ignore the corner that women in our society are literally being painted into,
but we also cannot ignore the reciprocal for our young men.
For every scantly clad, computer generated model on the cover of a magazine
there is an action figure being placed into the hands of a little boy.
That action figure has hands that are forever closed fists
that action figure comes complete with kung-fu kicks
that action figure is telling that little boy the exact opposite
of everything I have ever been taught to tell kids
See my kids have mantras that they echo around the classroom
"Hands are not for hitting"
"You can't just take that from me"
"I need help please"
That action figure, and the movies that spawned him
they tell kids that asking for help is for the weak,
they tell kids that the quickest way to solve the problem
is a combination closed fists, bullets and explosives,
and you can be damn sure whatever you want is always for the taking

I want us to remember and weep
for every little boy whose dreams are stained red
by the bloody myth of redemptive violence
whose games are permeated by deus ex machina guns
whose bullets only penetrate the bad guys.
I want to tell these kids bad guys only exist in nightmares
and political campaign speeches
but then I would have to explain to them what politics are
and there are rules about using filthy language around kids.
I want us to remember and weep
because damnit, it is OK to cry sometimes
Despite every movie, every adult, every cultural representation of MAN
that tells us boys dont cry
that tells us boys are meant to fight
that tells us boys are meant to chase down women or objects
that tells us boys are meant not to know the difference between the two
that tells us boys are all biceps and bravado
and it makes me sad that at age four,
I can already see boys looking at their hands and forgetting what they're for
so I want to remind them:
Guys, hands are not for hitting even when it seems like your heart is just for hurting,
they're for holding and writing and making
and even though you'll never see a Michelangelo action figure
with realistic brush stroke action,
or an MLK video game where players hold signs while marching and write speeches
that change a country
you can know that your hands are not molded into plastic fists
I want to remind them:
Guys, they can't just take it from you, your innocence and believe me they're coming for it,
they want to take it from you, replace it with extra helpings of testosterone and misogyny
but you can't let them.
Hold onto your hope,
because even though no one wakes up thinking:
"today I will tell a boy that manning up means hiding behind guns and knuckles
and forgetting any kind of empathy"
that seems to be the lesson the world has to offer
I want to remind them:
Guys, it's OK to ask for help, if we are helped when we need it and help when we are needed this whole world thing works, and I dont know of any obstacle that isn't lighter with an extra pair of hands.

But I can't say these things to four year olds,
I can only say them to you.
We've been sold on this definition of MAN for far too long
it's about time we asked for our money back
it's about time we canceled our societal subscription to compulsive masculinity.

Patchwork

I couldn't count on fingers, toes and teeth
the number of times she's crossed my mind
or the number of times that I have played blind
like I didn't notice her the second she walked in
like the lights didn't suddenly go dim
like my mouth wasn't suddenly filled to the brim
with every single not worth her time pick up line
that I held back, with a stupid grin to hide behind
cause for once in my life,
I'm too scared or to scarred to say anything.
Nowadays I am just a remnant.
I am the eraser shavings and smudged ink of every love story I've ever been written out of
I am the discarded candy wrappers of every sweet nothing I have ever whispered in someones ear
I am the shadow of every bruise left by a bad idea that got the better of me
I am one third the man I was when I met her
One third the man I wish I was when I met her
One third the man I have been trying to be since I met her
and for some reason in spite of every math class I've ever slept through,
all those parts haven't added up to a whole
somehow I am the remainder of one too many long divisions
far too many bad decisions
six or seven off the cuff clumsy incisions
cutting myself apart to get out of everyday awkward positions
that I, unlike most folks cant get a grip on,
the stuff people walk over, I'm more likely to trip on
but I'm bottoms up on on what the rest wont even sip on
my shoulders hold just enough weight, theres no space to put a chip on
and still I'm no good at tying knots, so I'll stick to the clip on
but still.
I am catching myself getting caught on of the corners of her smile
I am letting myself get lost at the edges of her laughter
She's got me think about everything before and after
and everything in between
and somehow it would seem
and I am just now starting to dream
that she is interested in things that are less than whole
that maybe she is waiting with love for a patchwork soul

These Were Yours

1. The little wooden box you gave me, so small it could fit in a preschooler's pocket, but you said it was bigger on the inside and could hold all your kisses. I'm sorry if it smells bad, I kept it with me and I think the kisses expired. Were those meant to be refrigerated? Because clearly I am not cool enough for you.

2. This is a bag filled with dust that gathered on top of the two letters you sent me. I ended up collecting a lot because no new letters ever arrived to displace it, and if you open that bag you'll catch the scent of staleness, like something that has been waiting for anything.

3. This is a box filled with all my gift ideas. If you move aside those flowers you can look on the bottom for the ones I put a lot of thought into. I had us planned straight through valentines day. Actually wait... maybe I'll hold on to these and distribute them to our mutual friends because part of me still thinks you deserve nice things.

4. Here is a thimble. I filled it with all my anger packed it in tight and now I wont have to yell at you. I wont have to scream you how unfair it is to treat someone this way. Keep your thumb over that one real tight, otherwise some unorthodox language might leak out and offend passersby.

5. Here are the transcripts from every conversation I had with cousins, aunt, uncles, telling them how great you were, how happy we were and how sometime soon you'd come back east and meet all of them.

6. Here is the bottle of shame from having to go back to those cousins, aunts and uncles and explain that maybe we werent as happy as I had thought, yea you were pretty great but no you're not coming back east anytime soon. I know it looks like an empty whiskey bottle filled with vinegar and rubbing alcohol, but hey I'm a cheapskate. I use the materials that surround me, and I'm not going to a store to by a bottle that will cork nicely and sit on a shelf, because this is not fermented embarrassment that I will hold on to for years until I pull it from an emotional cellar one day and say "man 2013, that was a good vintage, a good year for looking like a fool." This is gas station shame, 200 proof that I will throw back at a party and make some bad decisions with.

7. Now this one is squirmy so hold on to it really tight, it's all of our nicknames, inside jokes and secrets. I kept them. Even though a small part of me wanted to release them into the wild, and by the wild I mean facebook, I decided that I'm better than that. I can be better than that.

8. These are all my questions, they're mostly why's, "why did you do it?" "why did you do it over the phone?", "why did you do it over the phone at midnight?" "why didn't I see this coming?"  "why couldn't you wait and make eye contact with me?" A few 'Whats' "What were you thinking?" "What could I have done?" "What should I have thought?" "What will happen next?" some whens: "When will this stop hurting?" "When will I be able to look at you without the coal in my stomach heating up?" "Since when is ok to treat someone this way?" "when will I be alright?" there are two 'wheres' "Where were you when you decided i wasn't good enough for you?" And "where will hide now?" oh I didnt even notice all these 'hows' "how could you?""HOW COULD YOU?" "how...could you?" oh wait no there arent that many, just that same one in different sizes. Finally, and I dont want to admit I have been asking this because I like to think I know you better...but there's one who. "Who is he, and is he bigger than me? cause I could probably totally kick his ass!"

9. This is a bookshelf. It has a dictionary, a thesaurus, a set of encyclopedias anthologies of poetry by Neruda, By frost, By Atwood, by every slam poet I asked you to watch with me while I said things like "THAT RIGHT THERE IS HOW I FEEL AND IT IS NOT RIGHT OR WRONG IT JUST IS!" There is a set of Shakespearean tragedies for perspective on bad relationships, there is a lecture my dad gave me on the weight of words, and somewhere in this mix there is a manual on how to hug just tight enough. I want you go through that shelf slowly. Go through it all. Because we threw "I love you" around and I'm not sure you get the concept and that is not your fault, there is a learning curve.

10. Finally, here is a plastic smile. I have one just like it and when we're in public we can wear them and match. No one will have to no how I'm dying inside. You might not need this, you have a pretty good one you used with me.

Calling Home

I called Mom on a Tuesday night and said,
"Hey ma, how are things back home?"
She said "well you know your dad is hurt,
and of course he is, he always has some ache in brain or bone
he likes to believe he is indestructible, made from stone
your brother still talks is that broken glass tone,
and every time I look away you and him are a little to grown
and sometimes I scared that I'll be alone."
And its funny, cause as cheerful as that all sounds, it's exactly where I want to be,
and my Mom knows it.
Mom can hear in silence, like bats see in the dark and she asks me what's wrong
and I start to sing her the same old song,
Classes are fine, I am managing time and my friends and I all get along.
But my mouth has a mind of its own and before I can stop I say:
"I'm sick ma, I've got a fever and it's bad,
I can't see the sun cause the clouds in my head are so damn sad,
and I cant even get out of bed without feeling so mad."
And being the Mom she was always meant to be
she speaks a special remedy
she says "Listen that's not a fever, youre just sweating the small stuff,
And as for the clouds, theyre an invitation to quit when the going gets tough,
and the only reason you cant get out of bed is that you're not dreaming enough."
She says here talk to your dad,
and before I can say no his voice pours over the phone
"Listen pal I know your anxious, but God knew that too,
so he left a reminder in our blood to B+,
if youre ever unsure enter into the interrogative,
with someone who lives of their own prerogative,
cause they're the folks who show you how to live."
I listen to the man who taught me how to throw a baseball
like he was some type of guru with answers to it all
as if from damn near 1000 miles away he could reach through a call
and catch me just as I am about to fall
but then I remember that is not dad's style
this is the main who taught me to ride a bike by pushing me down a hill
I stayed balanced but couldnt figure the brakes
thats part of the way dad teaches he shows me my mistakes
he points them out with labels like bandaids on all my scrapes
and then I speak up "Dad I cant deal with these people there all fakes!"
"No kid, they're not, they're doing what you should, whatever it takes."
I know he's right
I know for just about everyone, every day is a fight
and that most people might
if they could, say "listen kid it'll be alright"
Over the static on the phone I hear my dog barking
I can hear the broken glass yelling
and dad sighing
he's hurt
of course he's hurt he always has some ache in brain or bone
he is accident prone
but dad is responsible
he remembers his accidents even when they call on the phone

Am(en)

When I tell people how to say my name,
I have a script,
and I hand it out like a favorite page of the Bible I ripped.
"It's Ammon.
sounds like someone yelling back to the pastor
and I'm a religion major so it works."
What I dont say is:
I am the legs put to my parents my parents prayers,
When I walk hallways, hallelujahs echo in my footsteps,
and when I scream for help, Hosanna haunts the back of my throat
and I have always screamed.
See I was a colic baby .
that means I screamed for at least three hours a day,
three days a week
for at least three weeks
in the first month of my life.
Ma says it because I had a voice before I knew how to speak,
so when I grew up in churches of yelling
of liberation
of "free me from my chains oh LORD!"
It was a language I was already fluent in.
I am bilingual.
I speak English well,
but my first language is pissed off child of God.
That dialect is not available on google translate
and every poem I write is first spoken in my native tongue
so when my lines
dont rhyme
or dont keep time
be aware that this is not how they were first sung.

Left out of every introduction is the fact that:
I am the accidental testamental  that Ma and Pop put out there
I am the unexpected blessing, no less loved as a surprise
I am mom's sense of humor with dad's fire in the eyes
I am the heir to the legacy
of there is no time to wait and see,
I am the younger brother to give 'em hell for me
I am steeped in all kinds of prophecy
like promises that I'm going nowhere with that degree

I guess what is left out when I tell people I study religion,
Is the fact there is no irony
that my name sounds like it belongs at the end of Our Fathers and Hail Marys
my name is the weight I have carried
my name is the light that will not be buried
my name is the one man revolution
my name is the celtic knot in the mystic tradition
my name is all the defiance and lack of inhibition.

My name is Amen.