The Bank Dance

I have a bad case of writer's block right now.

But this video is worth watching.  

This Is Not A Victory March.

"It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."
--Leonard Cohen


This is going to be funny.
This is going to make you cry.
This will make you want to go out and volunteer at a soup kitchen.
This will change the world.
This is everything you wish you were.
And everything you wish you weren't.

This is everything.
This is nothing.

This is never knowing what the square root of negative pi is.
This is cat sitting for someone who only has dogs.
This is eating a hamburger in front of a vegetarian.
This is a vegetarian asking for a bite.
And this is a cow that kills a vegetarian.

This is what darkness brings with creaking floor boards and stuffy attics.
This is what the inside of a brain looks like after rehab and what happens after a hangover, and all the things you wish you said.

This is your favorite song on the radio with the car roof down and the freeway unlimited.

But this is not a love song.

This is a punch in the face and a bucket of cold water on your head.
This is walking outside to find the ground covered by snow in the middle of June.
This is a crack on the last thing your dad gave you.
A crack on the one thing you saved from the fire.

And this is a fire.
And this is what started the fire.
And this is what told the fire that it was fire and that fire is not anybody's friend.
And this is what the fire destroyed.

This... this is your mom taking a trip to Canada and never coming back.
This is waiting for your dad to get out of bed.  
This is using your Christmas bonus to buy your little sister shoes that don't rip.
This is becoming an adult way before you were supposed to.

And I know this wasn't funny.
And this didn't make you cry.
And this didn't even come close to changing the world.


But this is everything I am.
And this is all I'll ever know.

What Doesn't Fit In A Tweet @Peter

Come to me, darling, 

And live so far from here.

And don't forget 

That I'm always willing

To bring you the moon.

I don't know what it feels like to be here.  And really here.  

I can tell from your 140 character message that you're doing just fine without me.  And I want to reply and say I'm doing just fine also, but I can't seem to make it short enough.

But that's okay.  Because I have this hole in my chest.  He's like an old friend.  And when he leaves, I wonder why even he finds me to be a bore. 

And I know I'm not good enough.  I know it because when I face myself in the mirror every morning, my reflection is ashamed of me.  And she looks like she's trying to escape... except she is me.  And you can't escape yourself.

So maybe I'm not doing just fine.  But it's not like I could fit that in a 140 character message either.  Not that you'd care.

Because I've been hungry since birth, and just as lost.  And I wouldn't expect you to understand.  You with your tables and your maps.  And all the other things you never let me touch.

Still, from now until dusk, I'll count the hours until I sleep with my feet on your lap and your breath on my cheek.  And that's what worries me.

Winter Days

I think that I could fly if given wings.
I'd leave behind the cement and this jailhouse of thieves.
And the gatekeeper would tip his hat, like a real gentleman would. He'd ask me what my plans are, and I'd just say "who knows."

Except here I am.  Waiting with myself into the longest night of the year, and hoping that I'll find some source of artificial light.  Because I'm tired of the sun that burns the obsolete.  So I'm ready to become someone who doesn't live for the promise of warmth and the promise of heat.

But the night passes.
Even though we haven't.
And despite all that, I'll be glad if you ask me to stay a bit.
Because in due time, you'll forget all that has happened.
As winter brings new days...

When the snow falls thick and all will die away.
And when we stand around the fire, I'll never forget your face all lit up despite the storm.

You'll say, "Happy Christmas, darling.  Glad tidings of good cheer.  I'll see you next time, when it's a new year."

Back to those winter days.
They're beautiful, but heartless. 
And that's why they all remind me of you.

But for now, I'll just hold my own hands and wish me gone, and sing my sorry little song.

"It's getting cold outside

 The frost is keeping me out

 It gives me reason to hide

 But I won't come back."

If you want to listen to the song:
click here

Untitled

"There's a secret," you say, "a secret that'll change everything."

And you hand me a roll of silvery paper.  You tell me to wrap it around the places that leak.

So I put it on my eyes.  And I put it on my chest.

And all of a sudden the salt won't come out anymore.

But the holes are still there...

I can feel them.

All I can say now is that duct tape doesn't fix everything.

But it does stifle the pain a bit.

And if that's what I get, that's what I'll take.

Was It The Chicken Or The Egg?

"What about me?"

"Well, what about you?"

"Are you taking me with you?"

"No.  No I'm not."

"Why?"  

"Because you're just not alive."

And the dust on the closed blinds mock me.  And the piles of clothes on the floor betray me.  And the unchanged light bulbs in the bathroom tell me I'm trapped.

But it's not my fault.

Because something is different now.  It's like I'm putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable of every word.  It's like I'm wearing my socks on the outside of my shoes.  It's like the snow won't stick.

Except I'm not worried about that anymore.  Because waiting for things to be right is like waiting for Jesus.  Literally.  I'm waiting for Jesus to come and make things right again.  Like when I was strange but no one cared, when the only F-word we knew was "fair." When eggs were just eggs and daddies liked to smile.  

And maybe, just maybe, I'd like to smile once in a while, too.  But that opportunity left when you did.  Or did you leave because I never smile?  I can't remember.  It's just another chicken/egg situation, I guess. 

But I don't know, really.  
I don't know a lot of things.  
I don't know why my back hurts after seizures or why ice cream tastes better when you're crying.  I don't know why pigs like mud or why mustard is sour or why I can't seem to turn on a light.  I don't know why you think it's alright to tell me I'm not alive.  Because I have hundreds of cells and and liters of blood and a heart that feels more than a burning sensation after eating too much ginger.  I have ideas and holes and hearts and bones.  

And bones...
Maybe that's what is wrong.
My bones. 

Because My bones don't care about other people or even other people's pets.  My bones want the world on a platter--all sliced up in neat cubes and arranged in a semi-circle, garnished with cilantro and respect.  

And my head wants my bones to shut up.  My head wants facts and reason.  My head wants a list full of numbers and letters, a clear and wide eyed response as to why we're so messed up. 

So why can't I say I'm done?  Why can't I say I'm done with heads and bones?  Because neither can tell me what's right and neither can compromise or sacrifice or realize that some things are more important than silly arguments.

Silly arguments like chicken and eggs and smiling.

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Things I Shouldn't Have Overheard, But Did Anyway

"Well, if I'm not the father, then who is?"

"Daddy, that really hurt."

"I'm out of booze."

"I don't know what happened after that, I was unconscious."

"You've got some nerve."
"I think I took too many pills this time."

"I hate your mother."

"He can't ever know I did that while he was away for the weekend."

"I don't know how to stop."

"LIAR."
"DADDY, YOU'RE HURTING ME."

"I've forgotten what that feels like."
"I can't wait to see her cry."
"You weren't what you said you were."
"You really hurt me this time.  In a way that can't be undone."
"Get out.  Get out and never come back."

"You think you deserve that?"
"I will never forgive you."
"Sometimes I just wish..."

And I do sometimes wish.  I sometimes wish all the time.  What an anticipated disappointment.  What a wonderful world.