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.

Silent Language

There's something I need to say,
Words spoken in the language of silence
sighs that slip into unspoken soliloquies
that carry me to the edge of a stage
 that might as well be a cliff
and I cling to every 'if'
like a man fearing death clenches his crucifix
or a junkie on the corner clutches his fix,
I'm like the child of revolution raising my fist
my gesture says more than any single speech ever could
and I swear my heart bleeds more than I ever said it would
I let it lead more times than I should,
and I want to let my head take control,
but the heart holds the soul,
which defies reason
and like the changing of the season
it never stays cold,
but does once wither and freeze,
and I'm begging you please,
see past the ice and wait for the thaw
and now that even the unruled heart obeys one law:
that it must change.
and even though right now I am at the wrong end of this shooting range
I might yet turn a new page
and I know you're feeling a bit forsaken
you've been left by friends
that promised ends
but had not the means to hold them to the bitter finale
and if you're keeping track in your tally
the dashes and slashes
have turned into stabs and slices
from a blade that was made
with a goodbye bade
while a farewell was never proffered in trade
because some fires simply don't fade
but grow,
fanned by sighs holding soliloquies
and breaths that deny the heart its intentions.
So listen to this language of silence,
of forlorn fingers
and looks that linger
and know
your heart holds a home in mine.


Poet's Note:
I wrote this over a year ago, posted it in a video of poor quality and thought that was enough. So here is the written version

A Recipe For Start

From grades 6 to 12 I was always familiar with the administration,
and trust me it was not because they wanted to show appreciation,
generally I was faced with aggravation
or poorly disguised attempts at intimidation
which I could always shrug off without the least bit trepidation,
because by 13 the lie I told was an easy one:
"I'm sorry."
I often came home to the line "You know, you're teacher called today."
and went to bed to the line "You always have something to say."
It was ironic criticism coming from professional activists'
who would always say after shutting the door "we did name him for an anarchist..."

By 15 I could identify and diagnose a mark at 30 yards,
they usually had me pegged at 50,
They knew I was the kid that never learned he should be seen and not heard,
They knew I was the kid that didn't get beaten for back talk,
Because for every smart mouth wise crack, mom had a come back word
or two, or three,
So it went that, every figure of authority,
Pegged down a a part of me
There were those that knew I was a trouble maker,
but also an instigator,
on top of that a procrastinator,
and thus they tried to run me like a dictator.
and wouldn't give me the time of day,
but would throw it like a knife,
yelling "ABOUT DAMN TIME TO GET A WATCH!"
Then there were those that let me play the role of entertainer
like a solid comic that they kept on retainer
and for me it was a no brainer,
I liked the laughs, with jokes all things are better.
But my best teachers knew what to expect.
They never had to demand respect,
That they earned, only yelling to be direct,
These were the ones who would scratch out
"Trouble" on tests and write in "difference maker"
gave me the tools to preach peace with Mennonites and Quakers
Recognized I came from a long line of movers and shakers
Like my ma, they taught don't give up but meet halfway with takers
They took me off using labels like "haters"
Pointed out people are just needers
those who help them are leaders
those who prey upon them? conflict breeders
and if you care enough to be an interceder
then get in on their behalf,
gave encouragement to use my gifts and make 'em laugh
they were honest saying:
"sometimes you'll get the shaft.
but never, never stop giving what you have,
the truth. Not all of it, not even most of it, a small part
but with that, a steady heart
a touch of art
you can go and fill your shopping cart
get all your favorite ingredients
 because you've got what you need
to make a start."

Weeds

Growing up my neighbors had a perfectly manicured lawn.

No scratch that.

My Neighbors had Mani-Pedi day at the salon type lawn.

With grass so green it hurt to look at it,

Mowed so precisely it would cut your feet to walk on it.

My lawn growing up was not so.

My front yard was characterized by a tree, a couple flower beds, patches of dirt and most importantly dandelions

I loved our dandelions, they were wishes, countless wishes, which would ride winds, to find new homes and grow into the world.

They were hope incarnate,

Sticky chocolate cheeks puffed out,

A lung full of desire

And a mouthful of promise

And enough naiveté to think that a breath could speak wants into existence.

I still blow on dandelions.

In a world where wishes are rejected by realists

Where neighbors yell about flowers blown onto their lawn

Where people say “get real” but instead of it being encouragement to will wishes into reality  it is a condemnation saying settle for mediocrity

People tell me “Those are weeds, not flowers”

What defines a weed?

It grows when unwanted,

It’s tough to kill

And if you want to fit in, they’ve got to go

But if I cared about fitting in, this would be a poem about puzzles not dandelions

So let me tell you, I will blow on dandelions until age steals the breath I have

And will not only abstain from weed killers,

But will cultivate wishes for my kids

And if I look into it I will sip the wine of fermented wishes

Get drunk on possibility

And run out at night

Stage an assault on normalcy and conformity

And blow dreams and desires on to manicured lawns

And when yellow hopes blossom in emerald deserts

Someone will say “Man, those things turn up everywhere”

Blinded

There’s an old urban myth I know

Apparently, if you looks through a telescope at the sun

It blinds you.

Someone told me that when I was little,

And like many things one hears at a young age,

It became truth whether or not it is factual.

Sometimes, on days when the sun rises like a balloon

 that someone trusted a toddler to hold on to,

not knowing kids believe in the liberty of yellow latex,

and want nothing more than proof that things can fly,

I steal glances at the sun.

And when I look away, the sun is still printed on my vision.

So I think

If it’s true

That the sun doesn’t steal your sight if you look at it

It is simply so beautiful that looking at it so closely

Means your eyes will never want to see again.

It makes me think about you.

How after I hold your hand my fingers seem to stop working

Almost like ten digits are protesting

Telling me that they’ve found a home.

Or how food tastes like ashes in the wake of your lips

And my lungs are sanctioning oxygen since breathing you in.

And how my feet have a mind of their own,

and I can’t walk anywhere without first taking a few steps towards wherever you are

I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since looking in your eyes

But I’m saying I have found a movie I never want to stop watching there

I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since playing connect the dots with the constellations of your freckles,

But, I’m saying I’ve found a game that I will always win

I haven’t gone deaf since I heard you laugh

But I’m saying I’ve found a song with a melody that always changes and unfamiliar lyrics that I want to learn

I’m saying that ever since I saw you light up

I’ve been watching

Because I believe in the liberty of yellow latex

And proof that things can fly

And every since I started stealing glances at you

You’ve been imprinted on my eyes.

Sublimation

Sublimation describes the process in which a substance goes from a solid state to a gaseous one, without first melting and becoming liquid.
Think dry ice--
but dont because it's far too cold.
Think of something less scientific,
like stock in gold!
It's shining, beautiful solid but not really.
You can hold it  with finger tips,
and let it go with computer clicks
It's the idea of something precious,,
but you are not something to be bought or sold.
I know I must sound silly,
and this is me, no really,
this is me coming to terms that you are not mine to hold.
Not in that our relationship is ending
more in that it changing,
where once it sat in the midst of hands holding
fingers twining, boy bands whining,
now it travels in letters ill be sending
and in hopes ill be lending
to you
in case you get a little hopeless
but note those are not for keeps ill need them back
at some point along the way
not tomorrow nor the next day
but eventually.
Cause I get a little hopeless sometimes.
Im sorry that this will be joining a long line
of overused overlapping rhymes
that use pretty similar combinations of the words:
"smile" and "mile" and "see you in a while"
all to convey the same message:
You're far away, and I still love you.
You're disappearing like dry ice,
but less cold,
think sunshine on reddish blonde hair.
and lets take a second to appreciate the fact
that the phrase the world coined was strawberry blonde
because the other option was cherry.
I fucking hate cherries.
I much prefer strawberries,
My dad thought I was nutrient deficient so I had strawberries almost every morning.
I was an obstinent kid and would always resist.
When I complained my dad would sprinkle sugar on them,
like he could make strawberries sweeter.
And I cant wait till he meets you
because he was preparing me for something that is sweeter
sweeter than southern ice tea
sweeter than  the scent of summer pine trees
sweeter than syrup spread generously
sweeter than hive robbing fingers covered in honey
sweeter than light blue cotton candy
like he was telling me:
listen pal one day you'll meet her,
the girl sweeter than strawberries,
she'll taste like this.
Sublimation describes the process in which a substance goes from a solid state to a gaseous one with out first melting and becoming a liquid.
Think a beautiful girl.
Who is sweeter than strawberries.
Who is slipping through my fingers.