For John

Whether by the whim of a fool
Or the consideration of a wise man,
I come to you in search of truth,
And you, with all the joy of a fool
And all the wisdom of a wise man
Say to me, "I love you."
And I must reply, "I love you, too."

The Monster

Corey Stone had spent his entire life taking the easy way out, and because of this he eventually had to live the hardest life imaginable. As a child, he had displayed a temperate disposition, and his mother, who was a tough, bighearted women with an un-discerning mind, nicknamed him “Angel.” In fact, Corey had spent those formative years observing his environment with nothing but deviance in regards to how he would come to dominate it. His first friends were so afraid of him they complained when their mothers forced them to play with him. He would break and steal their toys, hit them and manipulate them. To his mother he could do no wrong, however, and he was rarely punished for anything, and even when he was, he knew that in the end the reward for his suffering would greatly outweigh it in the end.

            His father was a drunk, and barely spent any time with him. Corey often witnessed how his father would argue with his mother, and, because he feared her deep down, would leave in the middle of the argument in a fever. What he did not know is that when he left, he would go to the bar, or a friend’s, to get plastered. As Corey grew, he developed more of a relationship with his father. From the time he was seven or eight years old they would often go fishing together. During these fishing trips, father and son would get plastered together. His mother knew what went on during these trips, but felt powerless to stop it. She could only harbor further resentment towards her husband and bad-mouth him to her son. But Corey held his mother’s warnings in little regard. He decided that his father was a great man, and believed everything he said to him. “Women are no good use to a man if she’s not making him money, food, or children,” he’d say. And then, changing his mind he’d continue: “Or, should I say, not making him children!” And he’d let out a horrible laugh.

            As soon as Corey entered adolescence, his sole objective became to take advantage of as many girls as he could, and he was highly successful in his exploits. Girls that had once despised him for the cruel jokes he had played now gave themselves to him with no hesitation. And, in fact, as Corey found, the more they had hated him the more desperate they were to give him their virginity. Corey developed a reputation among his peers. The other boys envied him, and feared him; and the girls feared him, and loved him. He developed a small gang of boys who revered him, and together, they rebelled against the system. They’d skip school to go drinking by the river, where, with whatever girl Corey was after at the moment, they would engage in lewd acts. Corey felt generous by giving his friends the chance to partake in these acts, and certainly his friends were grateful to him.

            It did not matter that these girls were left feeling humiliated and used. Most often, they couldn’t even bring themselves to talk about what had happened with their friends, so their friends never knew any better than to get involved with Corey.

            One of these girls, when Corey was sixteen, became pregnant by him. The girl dropped out of school and had the baby, and Corey, out of sheer luck, was let off unscathed. He continued with his exploits, though now he was more careful, and did not have a repeat incident while he was in high school.

            When he graduated, which he was only able to do because he was naturally very intelligent, he joined the army, where he spent two years stationed at a base in Mexico. There, he engaged in twice the amount of debauchery he had done his entire time in high school. When he came back, he was a full-fledged alcoholic. The money he received from the army was enough to pay for his rent in a shabby one-room apartment, and his addiction. He spent his twenties whoring and drinking, and soon developed a new addiction—crack. This wasted his funds, and in his mid thirties, he was evicted from his apartment and became homeless. No longer able to afford both drink and crack, he stuck to the latter, and continued paying for sex.

            By the time he was in his late fifties, his body was wasted. His chest constantly hurt, as did his liver. Most likely he suffered from multiple diseases, but they were all undiagnosed as he had avoided doctors and managed to stay out of the emergency room. He had, after all, always been very tough, and though he was in constant pain, if you met him you’d think he was exceptionally healthy.

            He spent most of his time in the park, watching the beautiful women pass by. Some of them he knew. They would avoid his gaze, remembering the past with bitterness and regret. Most of these women had husbands, and Corey hadn’t the courage to call out to them and incite the wrath of their significant others.

            One evening, a woman was walking through the park on her way home from work when she noticed Corey on the ground, convulsing. She approached and immediately recognized the face. She hesitated for a moment, but then, taking pity on the man, pulled out her phone and called 911.

            The woman, upon following the ambulance to the hospital, waited in the waiting room. A nurse came out and approached. She informed the woman that Corey had had a stroke and was now in a coma. He wouldn’t last long, she said.

            The woman was brought into the room where Corey lay. He was attached by tubes to several machines. She approached.

            “I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said, “I don’t even know if you’d remember me even if you could. It’s Sarah, the girl you knocked up in high school. I’m sure you’ve knocked up plenty of girls since and it doesn’t even matter to you. But you should know, I am fine. Your son, on the other hand, I have no idea. He left to go out west when he was sixteen. For all I know he’s living on the streets, like you. You destroyed my life. But that doesn’t matter. Look at you now. Maybe when you die, you’ll finally understand what it means to be a man. But probably not. Hell must be full of children—children like you. I suppose I should feel bad for you. You were like a boat that never left the dock. The only difference is that you had a choice.”

            At that moment, Corey’s pulse quickened, and his eyes began to open and close very rapidly. He was coming back to life. A nurse entered, and quickly left again to call the doctor. Corey’s eyes then opened, he turned his head to face Sarah, and began to mutter something desperately. Sarah stood amazed. She watched as the lines on the pulse monitor rose and fell rapidly, and his hand pounded the side of the bed. Before the doctor could make it into the room, Corey was dead.

           

The Messiah

It was a Saturday afternoon in early spring and Mary had brought her young son, Zachary, to the park. They were strolling together hand in hand down the walkway, gazing at the beautiful scenery and watching the people, some of whom were engaged in playful activities, some of whom were lying in the sun or reading on park benches. They passed a group of girls jumping rope, young men throwing a football in a field, and an old man doing tai chi. They passed several young men smoking cigarettes, a woman running with her dog, and a man with a black felt wide-brimmed hat playing the trumpet. It seemed all the world was gathered in the park, and the sun overhead seemed to bless everyone with its warm rays of yellow light.

            They also passed an old man seated on a bench feeding the birds. He was dressed in a long tan coat that was in tatters and very dirty. His hair was long and gray and also looked dirty. Zachary, who was fascinated by the mass of birds, pulled Mary’s arm and told her he wanted to visit them. Mary looked at the old man, and felt somewhat dubious, but she decided her worries were irrational and prejudicial, and therefore felt a vague sense of altruism when she let go of her son’s hand and followed him, smiling, as he ran over to where the man was seated.

            He approached the birds slowly, gazing on them curiously, and with a certain amount of fear. The old man looked at Zachary, also with curiosity, but instead of fear there was pure delight in the old man’s face, which shone at that moment more childlike than the child’s. “Would you like to feed the birds?” the old man asked. Zachary nodded. “Come over here,” said the old man, “Take some birdseed.” The old man held up his hand, which was full of birdseed that shone bright and yellow under the sun.

            Zachary carefully walked through the mass of birds, which stepped aside for him without the least bit of curiosity or annoyance, and they continued pecking mindlessly at the seed at their feet, showing no joy or appreciation for the one feeding them. “Here,” said the old man to the boy, “Hold out your hand.”

            The old man slowly poured the seed into Zachary’s small hand, and Zachary gazed intently into the old man’s eyes, deliberating. Then, recognizing him as a friend, he smiled. “Now go ahead,” said the old man, also smiling. “Pour it slowly,” he said. “Like this.” The old man proceeded to shake his hand slightly but vigorously, so that the birdseed fell from the edges of his hand in thin zigzagging waves. Zachary tried to copy his motion, but too much birdseed came out of his hand, so that small piles formed beneath him. “That’s OK. Try again,” the old man said. “This time, keep your hand level, like this.” He showed the boy again how to do it. Zachary watched carefully, smiled, then, with a determined look, tried again. This time, he succeeded. “Good job!” said the old man. “You’re a fast learner.”

            Mary, who had been watching this scene with much delight, felt it was now her obligation to strike up a conversation with the old man. “Do you come here every day?” she asked.

            “Most every day,” he said. “The birds know me well, as you can see.”

            Mary smiled and said that she could.

            “Well, Zachary,” she said, “I think we’d better get going. This nice man needs his private time with the birds.”

            The old man laughed. “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t mind him at all.”

            Mary smiled and said that she knew, but that Zachary had to get back home for his midday nap.

            “Come on, Zachary,” she said, pulling him along. Zachary finished pouring the birdseed out of his hand, and went along with his mother. “Goodbye!” cried Mary to the old man. “Have a good rest of your day!”

            “You too, ma’am. And you take care, little one!”

           

            A week passed and Zachary was anxious to return to the park to see the birds and the old man. This time, as it was a cloudy day, they brought their umbrellas just in case. When they were nearing the spot where they had met the old man, Zachary perked up and began to search for him. Sure enough, he was seated on the bench, feeding the birds. He looked up and saw them approaching. Suddenly, as if in sheer amazement, he stood up and began gazing at the boy with intensity and befuddlement. “It’s you!” he cried. He ran through the pile of birds at his feet, which scattered about him as if they were leaves and he were a heavy gust of wind. He approached the mother and son, who stood looking at him, aghast. “It’s you!” he continued. “Your son! Your son...It’s you!”

            He was in a feverish frenzy, sweeping the air with his arms, and his face, which had already had the appearance of being crooked, was now contorted so that it barely looked like a face at all. “Last week,” he began, “after your son left, the most amazing thing happened! The birds...they began to sing in the voice of angels, and a halo appeared over your son’s head!”

Mary wanted to run, but with her son, that would have been impossible. She began to look around for someone to help her.

“Don’t you see?” the old man continued. “Your son is the Messiah!”

“Are you serious?” Mary asked.

“Of course I’m serious!” cried the old man.

“Thank you,” said Mary. “We must get going.”

“Oh, but of course,” said the old man. “Of course. Bless you! God bless you! Thank the Heavens!”

As Mary and Zach began walking away, the old man continued praising the Heavens. When Mary looked back, he was on the ground, his arms stretched out in front of him in obeisance.

Later that night, when Mary was putting Zachary to bed, Zachary asked, “Mommy, what is the Messiah?”

“Well,” said Mary, “some people believe that the Messiah is a person that will one day come and bring peace and happiness to the entire world.”

“Am I the Messiah, mommy?”

“No, sweetheart.”

Zachary looked crestfallen. His mother felt a pang of anguish at the pit of her soul. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to be like Him,” she said.

Zachary smiled. Mary took his hand, squeezed it, and kissed his forehead.

The Bat

My family and I had just arrived home from our annual summer beach vacation. It was late in the evening, and we had been driving for over ten hours straight and were very tired. Begrudgingly, I carried my bag onto the porch, and waited for my father to unlock the door. It always seemed to take such a long time for my parents to unlock the door, especially now when I was holding a heavy suitcase. Finally, my father found the right key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.

            When we walked in, we heard an unfamiliar sound—a loud flapping coming from the ceiling near the stairwell. We looked up and saw, like a three-dimensional shadow, a black mass gone mad, a large, terrifying bat violently flapping its wings. Our cat, Lucky, stood transfixed on the floor, watching the bat as it circled the ceiling.

            My sister, a girl of highly delicate sensibilities, let out a loud, piercing scream and ran back through the door.

            My mother, who was trailing behind with extra luggage, walked in. “What’s the commotion?” she said. Seeing the bat, her jaw dropped.

            My father, knowing exactly how to diffuse the situation, turned to my mother with a wry smile. “I didn’t know your mother was coming to visit,” he said. My mother laughed. She had a terrific laugh. It was warm and rich and high and knowing, a laugh of wisdom and understanding, and always, no matter what the situation, when you heard it, you knew my father had everything under control.

            My father said he needed a broom, a bucket, and a large lid, so my little brother, who was always eager to help, went to the kitchen to grab them. While he was gone, my mother began telling my father that a bucket would not be large enough. My father, ever defensive, insisted that it would be. “It’s not a cave,” my mother said. “It’s not just going to fly into it as if it were.”

My brother came back and handed the bucket and broom to my father. The lid he gave to my mother. With one hand, my father began swiping at the bat with the end of the broom, and with the other, as the bat slightly lowered itself, he tried to capture it in the bucket, or at least direct it toward the open door.

“Careful!” my mother shouted as my dad nearly struck the stained glass window with the broom.

Then, the bat, obviously frightened, began flapping its way all around us, and my mother began to scream and ran outside.

“If you’re too scared, give Daniel the lid,” my father called after her. My mother crept back in warily, and handed me the lid. My father turned to me after she had gone back outside. “That’s one thing about women,” he said. “They can eat a full grown man for breakfast, but when it comes to a tiny bat, they’re completely impotent.”

            My father continued to swipe at the bat with the broom. I stood by watching, thinking to myself that the probability that my father’s plan would work was about the same as if the bat would suddenly turn into Count Dracula himself. “Dad,” I said. “Let me go grab a sheet.”

            “A sheet? What...why?”

            “You’ll see.”

            I handed the lid to my brother, ran upstairs (ducking to keep from running into the circling bat), went to the linen closet, and grabbed a sheet. When I came back downstairs, my father was still futilely swiping at the bat, my brother watching keenly, ready to help at any point. I unfolded the sheet. “Here,” I said, handing one end of the sheet to my father. “Now, we can surround it.”

            My father again swiped at the bat with the broom and it flew down just enough for us to capture the bat between the sheet and the wall. We quickly wadded up the sheet around the bat, carried the gyrating bundle to the door, stepped outside, and unwrapped the sheet. The bat flew off, my sister cowering behind the porch swing, the rest of us watching as it twirled its way into the night sky.

            My father gave me a pat on the back. “Good thinking, Daniel.”

            As I stood there watching my father watch the bat disappear into the darkness, I had a vague premonition of a time when my father would no longer be by my side, when I would be forced to make every decision on my own, and as this premonition occurred, I had the feeling that I would be ready for the time when it came.

Ice Cream

Ever since I can remember, my parents forbade the consumption of sweets. They even went so far as to undergo surprise weekly inspections of my room to make sure I wasn’t hoarding anything. They said it was for my own good, that when I grew up I would thank them for it. Naturally, I resisted. Sometimes, as a young boy, I would go with my friends after school to the ice cream parlor to spend my weekly allowance. When my mother found a receipt from the parlor in my pant pocket while doing laundry one weekend, she and my father began to demand that I come home directly from school every day. I was irate, but eventually, I had no choice but to concede.

            Summers, however, I was given more freedom, and I was occasionally able to buy sweets and consume them. Once, when I was about eleven years old, I spent the night at a friend's, and after dinner, the two of us walked to the ice cream parlor. I remember on the way I was telling him just how ridiculous it was for my parents to keep expecting me to follow their ridiculous rule. We laughed as I recounted all the various sweets I had consumed without their knowing it, and my friend, who was a little bit older, assured me that soon my parents would give way, as his parents had regarding many of their own little foibles.

            We reached the corner where the ice cream parlor was situated. It was a Friday night, and it seemed the whole town was out and about. I looked through the glass into the parlor. It was thronged. Men and women in dressy attire stood smiling holding their ice cream cones, carefully craning their necks to lick or take bites from them. Then, I noticed two figures at the counter. They were dressed in familiar clothes. It was my parents. I could not believe it. It had never once crossed my mind that my parents could be hypocrites. In fact, at the time, I was completely unaware of the term, or the concept, of hypocrisy. I bolted into the parlor, leaving my friend, who stood aghast, behind. I walked up to my parents, who had their backs to me, and I cleared my throat loudly. They turned around.

            They looked at me, stunned. I stood, my arms crossed, tapping my foot, as if waiting for an explanation. My parents, however, seemed to think one wasn’t necessary. My father, usually a very reserved, quiet man, smiled brightly. “Jason!” he cried. “What a surprise! Are you out with your friend? Where is he?”

            My friend, who had entered the parlor but was watching from a distance, stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Davis.”

            “Out for some ice cream, boys?” my mother said, giving her cone a lick. “Care to try some of this, Jason? It’s pistachio. Delicious.”

            She held out the cone to me. I stared past it intently into her face.

            “Well,” she said, “it’s a rather exotic flavor. Not for everyone, I suppose. Perhaps you’d care to try some of your father’s? His is chocolate chip.”

            My father put the ice cream to his lips, and took a large bite from it, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes in an expression of unabashed delight. A shudder of complete disgust ran through me, and I was on the verge of exploding. My father removed the cone away from his face, and held it out to me. “Go ahead, Jason,” he said. “Take as big of a bite as you can.”

            I looked again at my father. It seemed that he was waiting on the edge of his nerve for me to act, as if my decision would determine his eternal fate. I looked at my friend, who merely shrugged, then at the ice cream cone. “No thank you,” I said, surprised at the coldness in my voice. “I’ve lost my appetite."
My parents frowned, I turned and walked out of the parlor, my friend trailing behind me. Still, to this day, I cannot even look at ice cream without feeling the need to wretch.

Victor

Because of his fierce gaze, his short, stocky but powerful build, his large Germanic nose, and the long tan overcoat with its two pointed tails that he always wore, my siblings and I nicknamed him “The Penguin,” after the famous Batman villain. It was said he often beat his large, white, wolf-like dog with a cane, and that he had once beat his mother with his fists during an argument in the house they lived in down the street from us. Once, we had asked him the name of his dog as he walked by on the sidewalk across the street. “Socrates,” he said. We began skipping along the sidewalk, repeating in a singsong voice: “Soc-ra-tes! Soc-ra-tes!” He simply barreled onward, eyes to the ground, letting his head lead him along. One could sense from this man that he had been inflicted with a great psychological strain, and that he now used his overly developed intellect to compensate for that strain. Actually, as I learned from a neighbor of mine, he was a retired college philosophy professor, and his name was Victor—appropriate, I thought, comparing him to the famous scientist from literature of the same name.

            My family and I often talked of him when I was young, as he seemed to be ubiquitous in our neighborhood and was always engaging in the strangest behaviors. Often, he stood near the movie theatre, casting furtive glances at the passers-by. Sometimes, he had outrageous outbursts that clearly displayed his antagonism towards his fellow man. Once, he spit on the ground derisively as my father walked past him. Another time, as I was leaving the theatre with my parents, he yelled at a group of patrons: “Bourgeois Nazis!” And, another time, as he was crossing in front of my car as I was driving down my street, he stopped, held up his arm toward me like a crossing guard, and proceeded to remain standing there, glaring at me, so that I had to drive around him.

            It wasn’t until my family had moved to a new neighborhood when I was in my early to mid twenties that I had the chance to meet him. I was visiting the old neighborhood, walking past the theater and I noticed that he was glaring at me. Perhaps on any other day I would have let this go, but today I was especially irritable. I glared back at him as I passed. “Insidious torturer!” I cried out to him. “I’ve got my eye on you!”

            “It’s good that you have your eye on something,” he said in a calm voice. “That’s more than most people can say.”

            I stopped, and turned around, amazed. “Perhaps you’re right,” I said. “And what, pray tell, do you have your eye on?”

            “Currently,” he said, “I have an eye on a curious and obviously intellectually vibrant young man, who is just a bit confused.”

            “Confused?” I said. “What am I confused about?”

            “For one, mostly everything. And secondarily, you are confused as to why your insult didn’t spur a more pugnacious response from me.”

            I smiled. He had set my mind at ease.

            “You sound like a philosopher,” I said. “There’s a richness to your voice.”

            “I am a philosopher,” he said, “But that has nothing to do with the richness in my voice. That comes from experience, or, perhaps I should say, difficult experience.”

            I thought to myself, for a man who acts so irrationally, it’s strange that his words should be so rational. But it occurred to me that perhaps he saw something of himself in me—perhaps it was my intellect, perhaps my sensitive nature—and that this was what was causing him to let his guard down.

            “You are also a poet, perhaps?” I asked him.

            “I am, particularly when the moon is full.”

            I laughed, but his face remained stolid and expressionless.

            “I’m a poet myself,” I told him. “Do you ever share your work?”

            “I’ve found that sharing my poetry only causes distress, both in myself and the one I’m sharing it with. The world can only accept what they are prepared to accept, and when one is living a step ahead, the world can never accept him. Or perhaps I should say, a half step ahead.”

            “I don’t see that there’s much of a difference,” I said.

            “A person living a step ahead has no relationship whatsoever with his contemporaries. A person a half-step ahead, though on the verge of breaking away completely, does have a relationship with his contemporaries, but, either because he is struggling for whatever reason to break away completely but can’t, or, because his natural disposition is to move beyond them but is somewhat afraid to break away completely, remains partially in line with his contemporaries, communicating with them, being educated and pushed by them.”

            “So which type are you?”

            “It is my fear of being forgotten that keeps me in line. So, the latter.”

            I laughed. “I wouldn’t say you are in line—not by the way I have seen you behave.”

            “Behavior is incidental. Thought is not.”

            Again, I laughed. “You certainly are rather queer. Maybe in fact you are a full step ahead.”

            He sighed. “Perhaps when I am dead they will say so.”

            I nodded my head. I too had often wondered what people would say about me when I was dead. Perhaps it was only people like me and this strange man that thought about such things. Had we turned our back on life? And if so, for what? Merely posterity? Or was there something more mystical at work here?

            “If you’d ever be willing,” I said, “I’d like you to at least read some of my work, if you wouldn’t be willing to share any of your own.”

            “Perhaps,” he said. “But don’t expect any great insight from me. Or even any interest, for that matter.”

            I left, bidding him a good day. That night, I told my father about our meeting. I told him that he seemed to be a very intelligent man. “Why?” my father protested. “Because he takes himself seriously? In my experience, those are the people who are most lacking in any real, meaningful intelligence.” This statement angered me, but I did not argue with my father.

            The next time I saw Victor, he was again in front of the theatre, but he was obviously distressed. He was pacing back and forth, and pulling at his long, thinning, cherry blonde hair. “Victor,” I said, “Are you OK?”

            He looked at me with wild, bloodshot eyes. “I’m fine. It’s the world that is a mess.”

            I looked at him, thinking of what my father had said, trying to reach some sort of conclusion about this man that was not a shallow dismissal.

            “It’s people, you see. They...try my nerves. At least, institutionalized people do.” He kept looking around, as if he suspected someone nearby was mocking him maliciously.

            “Institutionalized people?” I asked. “But doesn’t that include everyone?”

            “No,” he said. “Some people’s specific purpose in life is to propagate the institution. It’s only the rare few that work to change it.”

            “What institution are we talking about?”

            “Particularly?”

            “Yes, particularly.”

            “Well, I can see that your curiosity hasn’t been completely blunted, not like most of these cogs.” He smiled slightly as he said this. It felt like he was rationalizing things to himself. It was unsettling to witness it. “If you must know,” he said, “It’s the psychiatric institution.”     

            As he said this, it was as if he was completing my thought. I could have guessed it.

            “What do you have against psychiatry?”

            “They are propagating lies,” he said, vindictively, as if this were a very personal grudge. “They say that psychiatric disorders, as they call them, are caused by abnormal brain chemistry. But many recent studies prove that this is not true. You see,” he said, after a brief pause, “I have this...problem. People, they make me...nervous. I get anxious, you see.”

            “I understand. That’s not uncommon.”

            “Of course it’s not uncommon. People have a right to be nervous of other people. They’re mostly savages.” He said this so passionately, with such assurance, I got a new sense of just how bitter and lonely this man must have been. “Anyway,” he continued, “these psychiatrists say I should take these anti-anxiety pills. What were they called...Lorazepam! But I know,” he said, raising his voice, “I know the damage that can be done with these pills. Many studies have proven that the only real problems with brain chemistry begin once someone has started taking pills. It’s all a matter of propagating the institution, feeding the money making machine that is the American healthcare system. But I won’t feed into it. I won’t be made a guinea pig!”

            “You know,” I said, “I take pills. Not for anxiety, for psychosis.”

            “Psychosis?” He seemed stunned. “Really? That is very interesting. And you don’t feel that there are other ways that you could cure this problem? Through therapy? Through creative expression?”
            “Madness is a bottomless pit,” I said. “I don’t think any amount of therapy or creative channeling could assuage it. Sometimes, drugs are the only option.”

            He looked at me, scrutinizing me with his wide, dark, pulsating eyes. “So you, too, are part of the institution!”

            “Yes, I’d say I am. But then, really, if you look at things honestly, you are just as much a part of an institution.”

            He looked incredulous.

            “Wouldn’t you say you are an academic?” I asked.

            “No,” he said. “I left academia years ago, for much the same reason that I refuse to take prescription pills.”

            “Yes, but, you were trained to become a philosopher through academia.”

            “Yes, but...”

            “So...you are a product of an institution, which makes you part of it.”

            “No, no, you’re wrong! You don’t understand, an institution...”

            “Is merely a part of society, a society which we ourselves are a part of, whether we like it or not.”

            He was silent for a moment. He turned his head and looked down the street, which was currently thronged. It was a Friday night. People had been passing us by—young people, old people, beautiful people, ugly people, people of all shapes and sizes, people with their own philosophies and values and agendas. And here we were, Victor and I, on the precipice, searching for a reason to stay a part of it all.

            “You might be right about that,” said Victor, “but I have a responsibility to myself and to others to continue fighting, to continue suffering for the sake of progress. And you do, too.”
            I held out my hand. “I wish you all the luck,” I said. He grasped my hand and shook it. His hand was large and his grip was powerful.

            He looked at me from under his wide, furrowed brow. “I wish the same for you,” he said, turned, and walked down the street. I watched him till the gathering darkness consumed him, and he disappeared. We never spoke again.

Fire

Neglect the fire in your heart
And it will consume you.
Your eyes will weep and your lungs
Will strain for air and blacken,
And your flesh will become soft like ash,
Disintegrating from a mere touch--
Even the touch of one who loves you.
One must instead learn to think with fire,
Gaze with fire, speak with fire,
Live with fire.
One must learn to become fire,
And then, with just as much ease,
Be water, be air.

The Stinging Bees

All the anger in the world
Cannot destroy that which you created,
That which you love,
That which you cherish.
All the anger in the world
Is but a misplaced desire
For your wisdom, for your truth,
For your love.

That which I have seen
Has made me less my own
And more yours to deliver as you choose.
Such have I grown,
Aware of this presence,
Beneficent to my fellows
Because of this presence,
Always true,
Always in love with its own inevitable reclamation
Of the truth that lay scattered
Like pieces of broken glass
Over this wondrous place
We call home.

The nectar in our bodies
Needs the presence of the stinging bees
To spread itself from lonely soul
To lonely soul.
Welcome the sting.
Breathe into the light.
Become that which you must become
In order to arise
Newer than what you were
When you first entered this world.

Hookah Lounge

The smoke you inhale inhales you...
All your once proud thoughts
Waft and disappear in the yellow light

All your words,
Like dissipating dreams,
Pass, unheeded
Except by the smoky portions of her brain.

Her eyes, like two foggy mirrors,
Won't show you the truth
Despite all your polishing.
Love's all guesswork,
Anyway.

Your dreams will be smoke-filled
Tonight, you think
As another couple enters
Letting in a breath of crisp, cool night air.

Judgment Day

The strangest thing happened in church last Sunday.
The priest was giving a sermon on the importance
Of tradition when, to everyone's surprise,
The power went out and the church went dark.
After the initial shock, everyone was silent.
Then, to our surprise, a spotlight shone
On the crucifix, and the statue of Jesus
Came to life. He looked up, smiling,
And then a loud, thumping hip-hop beat
Started to play, making the pews vibrate
And the stained-glass windows rattle.
Jesus removed himself from the cross,
Stepped onto the podium,
And began clapping his hands to the beat.
We all followed his lead.
Then Jesus began to dance.
He did back flips, pop-and-locks,
And moonwalked across the stage.
The priest, amazed, had to scoot out of his way.
Then, Jesus grabbed the collection plate.
He started throwing money over his shoulder,
The way the great rappers do.
Then he started throwing money into the crowd,
But this was too much.
The priest and several altar boys
Grabbed him, and, against his will
Replaced him on the cross.
The music stopped, the lights came on,
And the priest, though visibly shaken,
Resumed the sermon as if nothing had happened.

The Cross

A twilight sky of teal, pink, yellow and mauve
And milky white wisps of spongy cloud
Presides like a dome over this,
Our strange yet familiar world
Full of life, and sound, and objects whose purpose
I will never know.
Like the gold cross on the church spire
Reflecting the sun.
Is it meant to inspire fear, awe, reverence,
Or hope? Is it asking me
To enter the church?
Or go off and commit some selfless act?
Or, perhaps, it wants me to stand here awhile,
Gazing up at it--to recognize its beauty, as it is--
Two gold intersecting bars
Beneath an awe-inspiring sky.