Every night, we fantasize about going away
We dream about Key West, Sedona, San Diego, St. Simons
We look at hotels, motels and beeandbees
We check flights, we check ratings, we check our bank account
Every night, we talk about where we’d rather be
Where we’d drive, what we’d see
We travel in our discussions
We travel in our sleep
And rather than saying “fuck it”
We say “book it”.
The Old Library
I swallowed hard.
It had been years since I was in a library
I’d forgotten the Dewey Decimal System, and couldn’t find the big cabinets full of cards
For crying out loud, I only wanted to find a book on 14th century Italian fashion –
How hard could this be?
I would have had better luck looking on Amazon, but Nooooooo… I had to make things difficult
BY GOING TO THE LIBRARY!
I better apply for my AARP card…
Empty bottles clutter my apartment
Empty pints, fifths, and liters
Hollow noises race through my intestines
Hollow eye sockets stare at the TV
Twitching fingers jab at the remote
Twitching nerves keep me awake
Carving letters into the baseboards
Carving designs in my skin
Lying in pools of sweat
Lying crying dying
The Mountain Story
Although it wasn’t a sad tale,
Or a story of someone being cheated,
It caused her to cry, reading of the upward battle,
And ultimate victory
Over the mountain.
Although she wasn’t overly weepy,
Nor was she mentally fragile,
Her emotions often got the best of her,
As it was here.
As it was now.
And though her friends laughed at her,
She felt alive,
And sought refuge in knowing that she was living her life to the fullest.
Lightning slashed as the rain poured against the roof of our cabin in the woods.
We sat on the porch, breathing the smell of the rain deep into our lungs.
We would share a laugh, but mostly sat in silence, staring out into the forest, thinking of mostly nothing.
We lazily rocked and sipped our Lynchburg lemonade,
While thunder echoed across the valleys.
Inside my head, the world moved in slow motion.
The glow of the stage, the heat of the bodies, the buzz of the crowd mesmerized me.
I felt dizzy and clear-headed at the same time.
My heart rate pumped at 110 beats per minute.
I moved my mouth, but no sound escaped – and that was fine with me. Fine with me. Fine with me.
Dump-pump-chucka, dump-pump-chucka, the sound, the thunder, the screaming sexy beat.
I was never so alive. I was never so warm. I was never so out of my head, yet completely under control.
The night lasted forever in a blink of an eye.
And I slept so deeply, and dreamed so hard while the thunder droned and the rain washed away the meaningless details that I’d never forget.
I never truly sang until that Saturday.
Sitting in the Rynearson Auditorium in Nashville, listening to the gospel choirs sing their glory, I sat mesmerized.
All day long they sang, like angels dancing in the air.
My ankles grew tired from tapping my feet, and my hands were sore from clapping out the rhythm.
In my head, I heard the tunes, but was so afraid that my voice would betray the genius in my ears.
I felt a movement in my throat – strange but not uncomfortable.
It started vibrating up to my mouth, and when my lips parted, I screamed with wicked abandon.
The rollicking chorus had us up and dancing, and while I cried, my heart poured through song that came from my soul.
The release was outrageously overdue, and when we stepped outside into the warm, wilty night air, I was drenched with sweat and I felt powerful and strong.
Nothing like the early morning sunrise
From behind a steamy cup of coffee
As I sit in the comfy chair on the screened in porch
I breathe in the cool misty air
And listen to the birds merrily chirp
I close my eyes to imprint this moment on my brain
And promise myself to meet here again