Drunk.

My favorite part of being drunk
is not the new found enthusiasm for life,
it is not feeling the weight melt
from my shoulders and my mind,
it is not forgetting,
no.
It is how the lights seem to dim,
yet brighten around me at the same time.
How they seem to blend,
all shades,
all hues,
all contrasts;
how they seem to blend.
It is how I feel consumed.
And while consumed, I can feel emotion again.
I feel how I feel I should feel,
I can process how I should process,
and now
I can be human for a while.

And time stops...

My Fixation With Hair

I remember when I was young
and my mother would watch over me
because she was too scared
to send me to a public kindergarten.
Naptime would come along
and I would never be able to sleep.
She, though, would lay and rest,
having been so overwhelmed with exhaustion.

It had been a pattern in my early years
that instead of napping,
they’d leave me to find a way
to keep myself occupied.
So I found solace in playing with her hair
to keep from being lonely,
and to be closer to the churchwoman
who would disappear for years at a time.

I would burrow tunnels, foxholes,
for my army toys to hide in.
Tie tight knots for bunkers, sandbags,
and engage in a full-out war reenactment.

I would brush her hair with gentle strokes;
the texture still lives on in my fingers.
I would distress, and still do, on occasion
at how I never had hair that soft and perfect.

I would make patterns and design,
pulling and laying her hair
in every-which direction.
Until my father came in to remove me
for being a brat, he would say,
and for being a nuisance.

But no matter how many times
I would tug, tie, dig, twist, and tangle,
no matter how many times I woke her,
accidentally hurt her,
leaving her hair ugly and mangled;
the very next day she would let it down
and let me roam free in my
favorite childhood playground.

Hands

I was staring at my hands,

imagining them fifteen years ago

and how small they used to be,

and how small they seem now.

How I used to compare them

to my father’s hands,

and how I would hope to never have his

fat, sausage-like, hairy fingers.

I think, in a way, my hands have

ended up shockingly similar,

depressingly disfigured.

I hope my hands are never

as uncomfortable to hold as his.

I remember holding mine into his,

comparing size and width;

secretly cursing him and his hands

while he smiled down at how cute

my curiosity in his palm was.

I feel that I will regret

having this memory one day.

Why I Love The Smell Of Cigarettes

I remember when I was young
my mother would go to bars
and sell flowers to make extra money
for groceries and presents.
She would be out until late in the night,
and I would lie in my bed and wait.

She was a church legend back in her day,
a top fundraiser,
and a truly God-gifted woman.
Now what is left?
What was left was a woman
using this old “blessing”
to scrape together little money
so we could have food and holidays.

What is left is my hero,
putting up, living with, and loving
her beast of a husband.
Still she has room left in her heart
to care for, and unconditionally love,
all of her children,
not showing a sign until later years
that she was ever affected.

She would come home in the A.M’s
stinking head to toe
with an exotic mixture
of wonderful smokes.
The fumes resided on her vest jacket,
one of my most fond memories
within the realm of scent.

The smell was so curious,
such a pungent combination
of different cigarettes, cigars, and marijuana.
There would be a different dominating smell every night
depending on where she went to sell,
but it would all collect on that vest jacket
and combine into a smell I fell in love with.

The smell meant she was home,
the smell meant the defender,
the hero,
had finally returned.
I could tell her of my day,
I could tell her of all the good and bad,
I could tell her what that bastard
had done not so long earlier.

I feel bad now.
She was tired.
She was slowly wearing thin of this.
Yet she still loves,
still, to this day
none-the-less,
so truly unconditional.

Some things got better,
some got worse.
More things better,
but as happy as I am
that she doesn’t need
to sell flowers anymore
to make ends meet,
I miss that smoke-smothered jacket.