Jimmy Stewart's Voice

If snow ever fell down ever-so-gently and landed on the tip of my nose, you know, like it does in holiday movies, I would probably never move from that spot. I would close my eyes, wish, pray, will it to happen again. But, it wouldn’t. Because snow never falls on the same nose in the same spot twice. It’s like lightning striking. You’d better enjoy it the first time, buddy. And so I would walk back into the house and unwrap the striped scarf from around my neck and stand in the foyer just long enough to overhear my mother and aunt talking about how I should cut my hair. And I would walk into the room just as they are moving on to another topic, so I don’t make them uncomfortable. Because I would need a haircut and because these two women are in charge of the food.
I would walk past my little brother’s bedroom to find him sitting on the floor, playing video games and I would sit down beside him and listen to the artificial bleeps and bloops until I would decide that perhaps this is not a good time for a brotherly conversation and I would move on. I would stop by my little sister’s room, which would, no doubt, contain my little sister, my niece, and their twenty or so dolls all sitting at a tea party. I would have one small cup of invisible tea and then ask, politely and in a British accent, to be excused.
My father and uncle would be sitting in the living room, one on the couch, one in a recliner, and they would both be watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.” And I would sit on the floor next to the fireplace and watch as an angel, who looks quite non-angelic in black and white with a beer belly, gets his wings. And I would close my eyes and wait for it. Wait for that voice that trumps Bing Crosby’s and Frank Sinatra’s and Elvis Presley’s. And then it would sound, echoing through the dimly-lit living room, bouncing off the million-lighted Christmas tree, tunneling through the stocking-clad fireplace. “Attaboy, Clarence,” he says.

Storage and Other Poems

Storage

I wish I could save you onto a flash drive that dangles from my key chain
And plug you into any computer I come across
And you’d be there
With me
In all of your glory
And I’d ask you if you’d like some music
And you’d say
Why yes I’d love some music
And I’d download Sufjan Stevens songs into your brain
And we’d hum Chicago while I work on my portfolio at a coffee shop
And pretend to be more important than everyone else
And when I make a typo you would stop me and say something like
Hey, now, you know better than that mister
And I’d laugh
And you’d laugh
And then I’d threaten to delete you
Because that’s the sort of games we’d play
If you were on my flash drive
And I was in complete control
But you know
And I know
That I would never delete you
That it’s just a joke
Because that’s what we do
And how we are
We joke about being deleted
And I joke about downloading porn onto your flash drive
And you don’t laugh like I expect you to
And one day I open up a Word document that you’ve created
And it reads as follows:
Dear you, I think that porn joke was very inappropriate and I’d appreciate it if you’d just go ahead and cut and paste me into an email and send me to one of your more attractive friends who doesn’t use his sense of humor to make people feel uncomfortable so often.
And I’d secretly make a copy of you for old time’s sake
And send you to Phil.
Phil is a stand up guy.
And he has a Mac.
And I don’t’ think you’re compatible with that format.





Atlas

I can see my house from here
And I smell crayons
And Teddy Ruxpin
And thick plastic that you can’t bend or break
And there’s a Lego in my nose
And my brother’s G.I. Joes are all over the floor
And my mom is screaming
And my dad is drunk
And it’s my house,
I can see it
Clear as day.
I can draw it on a map
With scented markers that don’t smell like any chocolate I’ve ever smelled
And I can send it to you with a pigeon from my pirate ship.

Frame

I took a photograph once
Of some people in a cold mist
In Canada
Where they speak French
Some of them I mean
And I came home
And blew it up
And went to frame it
And it wouldn’t fit
In the frame I’d bought
So I gingerly opened the window
In my bedroom
And threw the frame toward my car
And it hit the pavement just next to the passenger seat
And I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Pastry

Coffee shop boy
If you heat up my fucking blueberry scone
Without asking me first
Just one more time
I’m going to subtly walk behind the counter
When you aren’t looking
When you’re probably telling the coffee shop girl about
Your lame ass art school project
Or your stupid arm tattoos that someone told you were clever
And I am going to steam a small bit of milk
Walk up to you
Grab the plastic hipster glasses off your face
And blind you with a Café au Lait
Venti.

Lost

It was in a shopping mall
When I was two or three
That my mother and I
Misplaced my asshole brother
And I remember
Calling his name aloud in the parking lot
And in stores
One by one
And I wonder
What would have happened if he never turned up
If our neighbor hadn’t happened across him
In a clothing aisle
I wonder if I’d still think what I think about people
In general
If I hadn’t been told
Everyday
That I was a loser
If we’d just gotten in the car
And driven home
And ignored the empty seat.


Breakfast

When I tell someone that I didn’t have breakfast
And they reply by saying
‘It’s the most important meal of the day’
I think briefly about what might happen
If I grabbed the nearest chair
Or barstool
And slammed it against their fucking head.
I wonder if they’d say it to me again
I wonder if they’d try to tell me what’s important again
Because maybe I can’t wake up in time for an omelet
Maybe I have things to do all night
And I can’t go to sleep on time
And I have to make myself even eat lunch the next day
Because the thought of nourishing a body
That doesn’t work for me anymore
Is depressing.

Progeria

It was raining the day they told me he died. But by that day he'd been gone for well over a week. So for all I know, the day he went was sunny. Perhaps it was bright, and the air was warm and not a cloud was in the sky. Maybe that day was perfect. Maybe nature rejoiced in the newness of spring and the gentle March breezes and the tiny pink buds on our tulip tree. Maybe I made dinner and I went for a walk and the frogs and crickets sang at dusk. I imagine I may have been happy, but I cannot be sure because I do not even know the exact day that he died. I imagine many were happy that day because they did not know, like I, could not know, that such a small piece of the world was missing. I wonder if he'd have remembered me the way I remember him. For I am not unique as he was. I am normal, unmemorable, like everyone else. Our lives just crossed for a year, but he is easily someone you do not forget. I cry for him now, for the things that he'll miss; for a life lived so little, for a lifetime so short. I hope that though he was small, the life that he lived was big. I hope that there were people in his life unlike me. People who didn't float in and fade out. I hope that there were people who loved him; who made sure he wasn't lost in a world so much larger than he. I hope there were people who made even his short life a full one. I wish I had known not days after the fact that this someone so special was gone. I wish I could shake the sadness I feel for this someone I hardly knew. I wish I could say that on the day I found out he died it didn't seem right that it rained.
I wish I knew why and didn't feel it unfair, that though he grew old-- he will never grow up.

The Green Shoes

When one is slipping on a pair of green shoes with one hand while the other hand is skillfully holding a cell phone, keys, a wallet, and a granola bar against his chest, his body is somewhat bent and contorted in a way that he knows his orthopedic specialist would frown upon, if not warn against altogether. Green shoes on, he shuts the door firmly behind him, wiggles the handle to assure proper locking, and walks toward his car.
The concrete seems to scrape and pull at the faded black rubber soles, but this is nothing new. Not their first time being abused by the habits of man, being exposed to the elements, left to fend for themselves, only ever noticed in second glances and when selfish Sam happens to cross his legs on the subway before work. This particular attempt to cross his legs got selfish Sam into quite the awkward situation.
“You just put your dirty ass shoe on my dress,” she says loudly, drawing the attention of all around.
“My mistake. Won’t happen again. Sorry.”
“I’ll have to take this to the cleaners now. What did you step in? This is bullshit. And right before work. Damn it,” she swats furiously at the black scuff. It remained. Taunting and ever-present.
“Listen, take down my number, send me the bill. Completely my problem.”
An accident, thought the green shoes. A simple misunderstanding perpetuated both by an uptight woman’s bitchery and their owner’s codependent sissy-hood.
“That will not work. I have a meeting today. In fifteen minutes I have a very important meeting. With important people. Do you know any important people. You look like you don’t. Some of us have jobs.”
“I have a job. I’m going there now.”
“With important people? Do important people who have important meetings come into your place of work. Do they regularly come in and order pizza or whatever crummy food you serve?”
“I’m a writer,” he says, “and sometimes they do.”
As he jotted his number down nervously, but still smiling, the shoes tapped over and over on the metallic floor. One down, they thought, 6,658,246,550 to go.

Shoes Left Lonely

They lie next to the nightstand as though they are waiting for her to return. One of them points an expectant toe at the bedroom door. The other is upturned, loose laces draped over its side. They were no doubt tossed there by careless, weary feet who took it for granted they would don them again. A new pair of shoes enters the room and the feet within them pause to gaze sullenly on this hapless duo in the middle of the floor with their own feet conspicuously absent. His entrance feels intrusive to the wearer of the new shoes. The room is so fresh, so haphazard, so lived-in. At any moment it seems that she should trot through the door and slip on these shoes. But, she will not and this room must be emptied for someone who will. He begins at one end and works his way through, boxing up books, folding up clothes. And the shoes just look on; they watch every move. They do not change, because they cannot know. It takes less time than he anticipated to pack up her life and when the task is complete he feels exhausted- not in his body, but somewhere deep in his soul. He kneels down next to the shoes, the only two remaining objects still unboxed. They are so arbitrary, he thinks, yet so poignantly indicative of the way that he feels, for he, too, continues to exists now just the way she left him; nothing superficial about him has changed. But like the shoes he is empty; what once filled him is gone. He hesitates and sits simply breathing and watching the shoes. For a moment he considers leaving them there. To move them seems so final. To pack them away is to remove all of her from the room and to admit forever that she will not be coming back for them. He tips the fallen shoe so that it sits upright. He ties both shoe laces in neat, symmetrical bows. He lingers over them and clenches his jaw, fighting tears. Finally, he picks them up together and sets them in the top of an open box. They no longer look lonesome, he thinks as he lifts the box to carry it downstairs. They look prepared to move on- to wait for someone new.*

We Were

We were alive and it was good. We woke up, went to work, paid our bills, and did this everyday save for when we took breaks to pray and eat big meals and talk about the past. And you and your family did the same. And you liked it, even in the times when you thought you didn’t. And in desperate hours, usually right between midnight and three a.m., we gazed up at the empty ceiling and wondered if others were doing the same. And they were. Because we all did this together. Worried and argued and laughed and emptied packets of synthetic powder into expensive coffee.

A Rumination on Crying

I am crying and he is watching me.
"It bothers me the way you just let tears run all down your face, down your neck, into your shirt and your hair..." He says finally. Without looking at him I wipe some of the tears away with my hand. I smile.
"It bothers you?"
He looks at me sideways.
"It makes me itch." he says. I laugh at this and wipe away the rest of my tears. He has a way of ruining pivotal or emotional movie moments with random comments like this. He has never, however, commented specifically on the way I cry and I wonder for the first time what other observations he has made about me, but has yet to comment on. I do not bother to explain why I seldom thwart the flow of tears when I cry, not just because doing so would interrupt the remainder of this movie we are watching, but more so because I don't think he truly cares to know. When our relationship was newer, if ever he caught me crying he would look into my face intently and say in mock surprise, "Bud- you're leaking!" I find that if ever I am moved to tears I do, in fact, "leak" profusely and this is something that not only do I not mind, but that I've come to appreciate...even enjoy in a way. I've come to embrace intense emotion on the whole. It is so uniquely human to feel something deeply. How curious it is that extreme sadness, pain and happiness can all induce the same response- tears. In high school I wrote an expose on tears and why they are clear, in which I pose the hypothesis that tears are clear so that we can see through them to move on. This idea has no bearing on my current pondering about why I do not wipe away my tears. I think I don't wipe them away because doing so would render the emotional response incomplete and therefore unfulfilling. I believe weeping should be therapeutic, if not comforting, or the act becomes wholly arbitrary and a messy waste of water. I feel that tears should always be warranted, never random. They should result from some inner passion that can be released no other way; a feeling that bubbles up and overflows in the form of tears. That feeling, however painful, is also an exhilarating reminder of humanity, of the powerful presence, burden and privilege of a soul. I do not brush away my tears because I believe them to be more than just an outward expression of simply feeling. They are an expulsion of some sentiment which cannot otherwise be contained. It is like being bathed in warmth, swathed in a tangible form of extreme emotion, then relieved of it slowly as it flows down and away. The beauty of it all is that tears are as infinite as the soul, endless as the feelings they embody. Crying is something so rarely embraced and so often stifled its significance goes greatly underestimated, but it is something beautiful, something simply extraordinary, when the windows of the soul spring a leak.